Greed mb-1

by Chris Ryan

  'And the beauty of gold and diamonds is that they are both the world's oldest, most internationally accepted currency,' Perky interrupted. 'You can walk into any jewellery shop in the world and get cash for either. Instantly. No questions asked.'

  'Al-Qaeda can keep their money safe for when they really need it,' Perky continued. 'And there's nothing we or the CIA or anyone else can do to touch it. The Moroccans or the Iranians aren't exactly going to let us go in and start searching around for it.'

  'Thanks for the lesson in global economics and financing terrorism,' said Matt. 'But where do I come in?'

  Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Matt knew the answer. Alison turned to look at him, brushing away a lock of blonde hair that had fallen across her face. 'We want you to steal their money.'

  * * *

  The coffee tasted good. Matt swilled it down quickly, keen for the caffeine to kick into his bloodstream. He looked towards the window. In the distance he could see the Thames winding eastwards, a barge chugging slowly through the fading light of the afternoon. Across the road he watched a young couple emerging from B&Q with tins of paint under their arms. Ordinary suburban life. Just what he'd been planning.

  There must be lots of honest, safe ways of making a living. It's just that none of them seem to suit me.

  Alison had suggested they take a ten-minute break. Matt had walked back down to the lobby and bought himself a coffee from the bar. He needed a few minutes to himself. What he thought of the proposition, he couldn't yet say.

  Whatever I decide, one thing is for sure — this time is the last time. The pay-off will have to be good enough that I'm out of this game for ever.

  He swilled back the last of the coffee and took the lift back up to the second floor. Alison was already waiting in the room with Pinky and Perky. Matt looked directly towards her. 'So what's in it for me?' he said.

  'We want to cut off the money to al-Qaeda,' she replied. 'It's the most effective way to hurt them. They can plot all they like, but any really big terrorist spectacles are always going to be expensive. Without money they are nothing, just angry Arabs waving placards.'

  Pinky looked up and scrutinised Matt's face, perhaps searching for signs of weakness or indecision. 'We have flows of intelligence reports coming through,' he said. 'We could identify one of the boats shipping the gold and the diamonds across the Med. Our proposition is this: we put together a small group of men, highly trained men like yourself. We give them the information, the practice and the equipment. They go out and hit the boat.'

  'Our sources tell us that each boat contains at least thirty million dollars,' Perky said. 'They travel across the Med from Italy, usually with a crew of about six al-Qaeda men on board. They are always armed, but they aren't trained to special forces standard. Nothing you couldn't handle. Five would give the team all the technical training necessary to take out the boat, and all the specialist equipment. You'd get all the logistical help you needed.'

  'When the job is done, you'd get to keep the money.' Pinky cleared his throat. 'No questions asked. Our interest is not in collecting al-Qaeda's money, and we don't care what happens to it. We just want to make sure it's not under their control any more. The thirty million is your pay-off for the mission. Even after it's fenced, that's got to be worth ten million or so. Ten million dollars between five men. You can do the maths yourself. Not bad for a week's work.'

  'Think about it.' Alison took a step closer to where Matt was sitting. Her eyes locked on to his, peering down at him, the expression hovering between sympathy and a challenge. 'It's the perfect crime. Lucrative and patriotic.'

  FIVE

  Matt slammed the door shut on the Boxster and dropped the keys in his pocket. He walked swiftly towards the doors of the Novotel Hammersmith. Another day, another anonymous hotel — those Five boys should think of a new trick sometime.

  Matt's head was bowed as he walked, the lines of his forehead creased. Before stepping inside he glanced up towards the sky. Sunshine was breaking through the clouds, sending a shaft of light down on to the traffic snarling its way across the flyover. 'Room 662,' he told the receptionist. 'They're expecting me.'

  'Sixth floor,' she said. 'The lifts are over there.' Matt walked purposefully. The decision had been easier than he might have imagined. After the meeting with Alison and her two stooges he had gone back to the flat by himself. She had suggested coming with him but that hadn't felt right: this was a decision he needed to make by himself. There were plenty of friends in London he could have gone to see — his parents, schoolmates, even Gill's brother Damien — but it was a conversation he needed to have with himself. It was his choice. Nobody else could make it for him.

  He went out for a curry and a beer. One thing the Regiment had taught him was that you shouldn't fight on an empty stomach — and you can't think straight if you're hungry. After a chicken jalfrezi and two bottles of Cobra, Matt reckoned the calculations had been made and the odds stacked neatly into place.

  He could say no. Nobody was forcing him, he could just walk away. From somewhere, somehow, he'd then have to find a lot of money very quickly. Either that, or disappear somewhere where Kazanov and his thugs would never find him. Tempting, but there were two problems. What would happen to Gill? And how much of a fife would that be? You can hide for a while, if you have to. But for the rest of your life? Never see your mates or your family again? Never walk through the streets you played football in as a kid? Never admit who you really were? That wasn't any kind of life worth living.

  Or he could say yes. The mission would take a month at most. It was a lot of money, enough to pay off all his debts and set up himself and Gill with a new life. It was the fresh start he needed. It would be dangerous, sure, but he didn't mind that. He had risked death before. One more trip around that carousel wouldn't make any difference. He'd take his chances, the same way he always had in the past. One boat raid, then they'd be home. They would have surprise on their side, they would have the right gear, and they would be trained. Al-Qaeda were good, hardy fighters, and he would never underestimate them. But he fancied the odds, they were plenty good enough to roll with. There was just one problem: he had to trust Alison, and he had to trust the people he was working for. His fate was going to be in their hands.

  Trouble was, the Regiment had been full of stories of missions for Five going wrong. They looked after their own people, but when it came to soldiers they were reckless, they took chances. They reckoned that's what soldiers were there for. Spies were for thinking. Soldiers for dying.

  Matt added that up as two problems with saying no, and one with saying yes. When you laid it out like that, it wasn't much of a choice at all. He'd do it. Whatever the risks.

  The door of the lift shut as Matt pressed the button for the sixth floor. A door closes, a door opens, he reflected to himself. If I take these next few steps I'm committed, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.

  Just like the marriage I backed out of.

  Alison was sitting in the bedroom, her legs neatly crossed. She was wearing a black skirt that stopped just short of her knee, over a pair of black, patterned tights. Her shoes were black and pointed like daggers, and her blue jumper clung tightly to her breasts and her waist. A professional smile was drawn across her lips.

  She knows, thought Matt, looking into her eyes. This is a woman who knows plenty about men, and how they react. She already knows what I'm going to say. Probably even knows the tone of voice in which I'll say it.

  'Where are Pinky and Perky?'

  'Who?' she asked.

  'You know, the two squeaky pigs.'

  'They're waiting down the corridor,' said Alison. 'I wanted to talk to you first. To hear your decision.'

  'One question first,' said Matt. 'Why me?'

  'You're a good man, with a good record of service. You might not have been officer material, but that's no mark of disrespect. A lot of the best soldiers aren't. For this mission we need someone t
rained to SAS standards. And we need someone who needs cash.'

  Matt moved across the room; he didn't want to feel her eyes upon him. 'I was a screw-up as a share trader,' he said. 'I thought I could make money, and I couldn't. I probably didn't have the brains, and I certainly didn't have the training. But one piece of advice from that has stayed with me. Whenever you were looking at a company or a trade, if it looks too good to be true, then it probably is.' He turned around, looking right at her. 'That's my problem. This looks too good to be true.'

  'Cynicism is OK, Matt,' Alison replied sharply. 'We don't want you to be too trusting. But I don't understand what you mean. In what way is it too good, exactly?'

  Matt spread his arms in front of him. 'Here I am, a washed up SAS man, hardly employable, then this good-looking blonde comes along and says I can make two million dollars for a few weeks' work,' said Matt, his tone hardening. He paused, looking towards the window. 'So I'm just wondering, aren't there some rats scurrying around somewhere, and shouldn't I start smelling them? Why an ex-SAS man, for example? Why not just give the details of the boats to the Regiment, let them take them out. Even better, tell our American friends about it. Delta Force would love to have a crack at those guys. I don't see why you want someone like me to do it. It complicates the mission. What don't I know?'

  Alison stood up and stepped closer to Matt. 'Listen,' she said. 'I like you, I think you can tell that. I'm not going to try and smart-talk you into anything. You're too clever. The reason we're not using the Regiment, or Delta Force, or anyone like that, is very simple. The mission is off the books, Matt. Unofficial. Anything goes wrong, we have complete deniability. Think of the possible consequences if this was an official Regiment mission. British soldiers storming a boat in another country's territorial waters? Killing some men our enemies would claim were just innocent Arab businessmen — stealing from them?' She brushed a hand across his cheek, her skin delicate against the stubble on his face. 'So, I'm sorry, if anything goes wrong, then the view of the British government is this: it's just a bunch of former soldiers who've turned themselves into gangsters. Nothing to do with us.'

  Matt pushed her hand aside, but not roughly. There would be plenty of time for touching later. Her story was good enough. In the twisted world of Five it was convenient for them to use men who were completely expendable. Back in the Regiment bar, MI5 was an organisation known mainly for its arse-covering and back-stabbing.

  But Matt's mind was already made up, and he had heard nothing to make him change it. He needed a second chance, and this was the only one on offer.

  You make your decision and you go with it. You hang up your doubts with your coat at the door.

  'OK, I'll do it,' he said firmly. 'Where do we start?'

  Alison drew away, the hint of a laugh in her eyes. She was, Matt judged, a woman who was used to getting what she wanted from men — and he was no exception. He was doing what she wanted. She'd known he would.

  'I'll get Pinky and Perky,' she said.

  * * *

  Matt could have used a beer, but mineral water was all there was. He took a sip and looked across the desk. Pinky and Perky were sitting on chairs on either side, their ties straight and their legs crossed. Alison perched on the side of the bed. It feels right to get back to work, Matt decided. This is what I'm good at.

  'Five men,' Pinky said. 'That's the number we'll need for the mission.'

  'Why five?' Matt asked.

  'Pirates,' said Pinky. 'That's basically what you'll be. You'll be raiding a boat and stealing everything on board. Our calculations are that you'll need a small dinghy to approach the boat, and one man to steer that, and you'll need four men to hit the boat. That makes five.'

  Matt nodded. 'All ex-SAS?'

  'Maybe, maybe not,' said Alison. 'We've got some guys in mind already.'

  'Who are they?'

  Perky turned towards the laptop on his desk and pulled up a file. 'MI5 keeps records of all you SAS boys, as you may know,' he said. 'The taxpayer went to a lot of trouble to turn you into killers. We like to know where you all are, and what you're up to.'

  'We know,' said Matt. 'And don't think we like it either. We've served our time; we're free to do whatever we like.'

  'Within the law,' Pinky said archly.

  No point in arguing now, thought Matt. 'So who have you got?'

  'When you look at the qualifications,' Pinky said, 'the field starts to narrow down. We want men only recently out of the Regiment. Much more than three years as civilians and they'll be too flabby. We want men who need money and need it badly. But at the same time, we don't want complete drunks, cokeheads or psychopaths. That rules out a few as well.'

  'There's always Regiment guys who need money,' said Matt. 'It's not like we get big pay-offs when we leave.'

  'Exactly. Here are two names,' said Perky. 'We'd like you to approach both men.'

  Alison moved closer to where Matt was standing. 'With the SAS men, it would be better if you make the approach,' she said. 'It'll come better from you.'

  Matt looked down at the piece of paper. Two names were printed in small black lettering: Joe Cooksley and Alan Reid. He knew both men quite well but they had not been close friends. He had served alongside them both in Bosnia in the 1990s. They hadn't been in the same squadron, but they had worked together on the assassination of Janos Biktier, one of the local warlords who'd thrived under Milosevic's patronage, and whose men had been raping and killing their way through Kosovo. An evil bastard. Matt had enjoyed that mission: Biktier richly deserved the bullet he'd left in his skull. Cooksley and Reid had been in a team that had proved itself under fire, providing Matt with the cover he needed as he moved in for the final kill. He had been happy to trust them with his fife then. He would be happy enough to do so again now.

  Poor bastards. I wonder what kind of messes they're in to qualify them to make it on to this list?

  'Any particular reason for these two?'

  'We've asked around,' said Pinky. 'We hear they're good men, and for different reasons they might need money. We think you should talk to them. If they don't want to, there are more names we can give you.'

  'There's a regimental get-together tomorrow night in Hereford,' said Perky. 'You should go. Get talking to them.'

  Matt nodded. 'That makes three, if they agree. Who else?'

  'You'll need some specialist help,' said Alison. 'This is stealing. The gold and the diamonds in the boat will almost certainly be in a safe, so we'll need someone who knows about cracking those open. I've got someone in mind. And once you've got the stuff, you'll need someone to fence it. You can't just walk into Ratner's and offer them thirty million dollars' worth of gold and jewels. I know someone who can help you with that too.'

  'So do I,' said Matt.

  Damien. Damien will know the right people to deal with.

  Alison, Pinky and Perky exchanged glances. They are saying something, Matt realised. But not out loud. Not so I can hear it.

  'It would be better if I chose the gang members,' said Alison.

  'Better for you, maybe,' Matt said swiftly. He could see her face turning to stone and some words starting to form on her lips, and he could tell they were likely to be harsh. He relaxed, flashing her a grin — he could be manipulative too. 'Listen,' he said. 'The guy I have in mind is good, and I can trust him for reasons of my own. But if you don't like him, he's not in. OK?'

  'Maybe,' said Alison.

  'Meanwhile, I'll start talking to these guys.'

  'It has to be secret,' said Perky. 'Any leaks will cost lives.'

  'Hey,' said Matt, 'anything goes wrong, I'm the one who's getting his balls blown off.'

  Alison looked towards Matt, her eyelashes dropping coyly, and her red, painted fingernails brushed the edge of his wrist. 'Mr Browning,' she said softly, 'thanks for accepting the mission. I'm sure it will be a pleasure for us to work together.'

  * * *

  The bar was hot and crowded, the smell of beer already th
ick in the air. Matt stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the scent of the place fill his nostrils. It wasn't a scent you could put in a shop. Nobody was ever going to bottle it and sell it as aftershave, but to him, it was as sweet as any cologne. It smelt like home.

  He walked slowly through the room. The sergeants' mess was open every evening, and although it usually catered for only serving members, it was the venue for every reunion. Tonight, the class of 1990 — the year Matt had joined up — was meeting. That was one of the things Matt admired most: the spirit and camaraderie of the Regiment. You could leave it, but it never left you.

  On the walls were photographs, paintings and captured weapons from past campaigns. Matt glanced to the left. Up there was a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, the model used by the IRA for the bulk of its assassinations of British soldiers. Matt had been on the team that captured that weapon from a Provo sniper in 1993, and the sight of it now stirred proud memories. Next to it was an AK-47 captured during the battle of Mirbat in Oman in 1972.

  He caught the eye of one of a group of lads standing close to the bar. Young men, maybe twenty-six to twenty-eight. There was a look of hunger in their eyes. Like looking in a mirror, thought Matt, but one that returns a reflection of how you looked a decade ago. They might look like boys to him, but they were already battle-hardened sergeants. It reminded Matt of how he had aged over the past decade.

  The Regiment teaches us how to do amazing things, he realised as he took his first sip of beer. Fantastic feats of endurance, physical stamina and bravery. But they don't teach us the lesson we most need: how to survive on the outside.