by Chris Ryan
'He's getting his half-million back, plus a tidy wedge of interest,' Matt said sharply. 'He's a businessman. He knows that sometimes you have to protect an asset. Right now that's me.'
Pointer rang the bell, and they waited while a guard walked to the door. The man looked at them through a spyhole, then started unlocking the heavy bolts.
Matt heaved the bags on to his shoulders and stepped inside. Reid carried Emily, Jane was holding Jack in her arms. Matt had only been here once before, for a party Kazanov had held one New Year's Eve, back when he still counted as part of the nouveau riche set on the Marbella coastline. A plane load of Natashas and Ivanas seemed to have been flown in for the event: if Matt had ever before seen so many stunning girls gathered in one place, it could only have been in a dream. What they were like to talk to, he'd never discovered. Gill had hung on to his arm all evening, and the only people he'd got to speak to all night were some local property developers and some oil prospectors from the Caspian Sea.
'Nice place,' Jane whispered, stepping across the black and white marble floor of the hallway. 'It's a big improvement on that lodge in Derbyshire.'
Reid hadn't told her what was happening. For all Jane knew, they were simply staying there a few days while Matt and Reid sorted out some business, and Damien had gone to collect some money. Better to keep it that way. If Jane had any idea what had been happening, chances where she'd lose it completely.
'I'll show you to your rooms,' said Pointer.
Reid and Jane started walking up the stairs, the two sleeping children still in their arms. Matt took their bags in his arms and followed. His limbs were aching with tiredness, and he needed to get some rest.
About ten hours' sleep, some breakfast and a five-mile jog. Then I can start thinking straight again.
'A drink!' boomed a voice from the bottom of the stairs. 'I can't let you go to bed without at least one vodka.'
Matt turned round to see Kazanov standing in the hallway, waving him down. Even at two in the morning he was still wearing a suit and tie. He was a man who took his grooming seriously. He was never seen looking anything less than immaculate. Say what you like about the KGB, Matt reflected, but it certainly taught its operatives how to present themselves.
Matt followed him through to the front of the house. A huge log fire was burning in the fireplace, its light filling the room. A long window stretched across one wall, overlooking the Mediterranean. The moon was almost full now, casting deep shadows across the bay.
Last time I saw a moon like that, I was using its light to kill six men.
'Say hello, Irina,' said Kazanov. 'This is my friend Matt.'
The girl was draped over the sofa. She was about six feet tall, with a perfect figure and long brown hair, and the high, wide cheekbones common among Slavic women. She was wearing a tiny black dress, a pair of diamond earrings, and a single black stiletto. The other shoe had fallen off.
'Hello,' she said, glancing up from a magazine.
'Thanks for letting me stay,' Matt said.
'You're paying me in four days,' said Kazanov. 'Personally I don't care if you five or die — but I know I'm not going to collect my money from a dead man. What was it Lenin once said? The debts of the Tsar died with the Tsar.' He laughed, a huge booming racket that filled the room.
Matt took the glass of vodka Kazanov was offering him.
'A couple of weeks ago you were flat broke,' said Kazanov. 'Now you say you can pay me back half a million in a few days' time. Yet you also want somewhere to hide.' He paused, taking a sip of his drink. 'I don't know what you've done, but it must be very bad. I'm interested.'
Matt took a hit of vodka, throwing it against the back of his throat. He had avoided a drink on the plane, but he needed one now. Maybe it's him, he thought, his blood suddenly chilling. Maybe it's Kazanov who's been after us all along, just as I first suspected.
And I've walked right into a trap.
'I took some money.'
'You — a thief? Surely not,' Kazanov said. 'I always thought you were one of us. A soldier, an honourable man.'
'My conscience is clear.'
Kazanov nodded. 'But now they want it back?'
'Somebody wants it,' said Matt.
'I've been on both sides of the law, Matt,' Kazanov said. 'I've been KGB, and what in Russia we call a businessman. It's not so different, just buying and selling. People and secrets or oil and aluminium, there is always a trade in every kind of commodity.' He paused, walking forwards and resting a hand on Matt's shoulder. 'Remember this — trust no one. Absolutely no one.'
* * *
Matt wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel and walked back into the house. A run makes a man feel better, he reflected. It washes all the poison out of your system. Today it wasn't working, though. He felt just as bad as when he'd started.
Matt had risen just after eight. Jane and the children were already awake — he'd found her fiddling with the satellite box, trying to find some cartoon channels in English, but finally settling on Bob the Builder in German. It seemed to keep the kids happy.
Matt had taken himself off for a run while Jane fixed some breakfast, and spent the time attempting to put the events of the past few days into perspective. The moment he dreaded most was telling Gill her brother had been killed.
In the house he showered, then located Reid, who was to assist him with a review of the security. They'd have the house to themselves for the next four days, and nobody would disturb them. There was enough food to last them a week or more. That was the way Matt wanted it. They could trust nobody, and they would rely on nobody but themselves.
A perimeter fence stretched around the borders of the estate. The wire rose to seven feet, supported by thick concrete and metal pillars. The fence was electrified, and fitted with sensors that would trigger an alarm in the house should anyone try to cut it. Matt and Reid walked the length of the fence, making sure there were no breaks and no weak points. It had been well designed, Matt judged. Even the trees surrounding the estate had been cut down so no one could use them to vault their way in. And the ground around it had been fitted with sensors as well, so tunnelling in would be impossible.
'Could you get past that?' said Matt.
Reid shook his head. 'I think you'd have to blast your way through then storm the place,' he replied. 'Or else drop in by parachute or helicopter. But there's no way you could sneak in undetected. It's too well protected.'
They walked up towards the main gate. They both knew that no matter how well guarded a property was, the way in was the most vulnerable point. That's why burglars use the front door, Reid pointed out as they walked up the driveway.
'Not this one,' said Matt.
They were standing next to the two black metal doors that were the entrance to the compound. Each was made of eight-inch-thick steel reinforced with tungsten. It was, Matt noted, the same material tanks are made from, and, like an armoured military vehicle, the gate was designed to withstand a rocket attack. There was an electronic keypad with a four digit code for opening the entrance: make one mistake in entering the code and a pair of heavy steel bolts shot across the doors, which remained shut for three hours. 'Short of heavy, sustained shelling, there's no way anyone is getting through this gate,' Matt said.
They walked back to the house. To the side of the building, past the kitchen, was a security control room. In total, there were fifty cameras slotted around the perimeter of the estate, and another fifty throughout the house. A hundred monitors were permanently active within the control room. Just about every square inch of the place was recorded twenty-four hours a day. Infrared sensors laced the property at night, meaning that the guard on duty would be alerted to any sudden movements. During the day, computers were programmed to monitor any suspicious movements: anybody running suddenly, or crawling across the ground, would immediately set off an alarm.
'Fancy set-up,' said Reid, surveying the screens and computer equipment.
'Kazanov is a
rich man, and a lot of people would like to take a slice of his cake,' said Matt. 'Without this lot he'd probably have been dead a long time ago.'
The two men walked downstairs. From the control room, a single metal staircase led down into a concrete bunker. Matt punched in the four-digit code Pointer had given him for the door, which slid open, and they stepped inside. Matt flicked a switch. 'The armoury,' he said, glancing across at Reid.
It was an impressive display. Across one wall there was a rack of single- and double-barrelled shotguns. Next to it were stored ten high-precision rifles, twenty semi-automatic sub-machine guns, five full machine-guns, twenty-five boxes of ammunition, five crates of hand grenades, five crates of mortar shells, ten crates of explosives, twenty-five landmines, a selection of knives, ropes and flares, and two flame throwers.
'Christ,' said Reid. 'He's better stocked than the Regiment.'
Matt took one of the rifles from the wall, a Russian-made Kalashnikov — not the familiar AK47, but the more modern AK74M, built for the Russian infantry. Matt weighed up the weapon in his arms: the AK74M was made from a glass-filled polyamide material, making it much stronger and lighter than the older AK47 with its polished wooden furniture. But it's not really the quality of the weapons that matters, Matt knew. It's the quality of the man trying to kill you.
He tried to put that thought out of his mind. 'You could defend yourself against an infantry division with this lot,' he said.
'More likely to be one or two men, not a division,' said Reid. 'Whatever it is that comes after us, we won't be expecting it.'
Matt looked across at Reid. Maybe it is you, he considered. A Regiment man who's gone bad, overwhelmed by greed, driven mad by the thought of too much easy money. After all, a couple of weeks ago you were dossing down in a farm because you were too frightened to admit to your wife you weren't earning anything. Maybe all that alcohol you've been putting in your bloodstream has started chewing into your brain. How well do I know you?
Maybe it's you.
* * *
It was in the tone of her voice. He could tell she was not going to forgive him. The words stuck in the back of her throat, as if she was reluctant to let them emerge from her lips. 'Say it isn't true,' she muttered into the phone.
'I can't,' answered Matt. 'Nobody wishes that more than me — but it is true.'
There had been no choice but to tell her, and no simple way of breaking the news. Every instinct within him had told him that he should take the risk, get out of the house and go tell her in person. To tell the woman you loved over the phone that her brother was dead was monstrous. News as grave as that deserved to be delivered eyeball to eyeball. But it was too risky. Get Gill to come to the house, and she could easily be followed. All of them would be slaughtered. For him to go outside would be too dangerous as well. If Gill was being watched — and he had to assume that she was — that would be the opportunity for the assassin to move in and make his strike. The first rule of hiding was don't reveal your position to anyone, ever. No matter how desperate the situation.
He had used a rented mobile phone he'd picked up at the airport, since he wanted to make sure nobody could trace the call. He'd just make the one call, then destroy it. It was Saturday, and he knew he would find her at home. There was no point in small talk. One lesson he had learnt from officers in the Regiment was that, when you had to deliver bad news, it was best done quick and straight. There was nothing to be gained by trying to soften the blow. Damien was dead, he told her, his tone flat, drained of emotion.
'I'm so sorry,' Matt continued. 'If I could have done anything to prevent it, I would have done.'
'What happened to him?' said Gill, her voice cold and distant.
Matt had dealt with bereavement before. He had been to see the wives and sisters and parents of men in the Regiment who had died in action alongside him. He knew that when you lost someone precious you always wanted to know the precise circumstances of the death. Some people were angry, some disbelieving, some suspicious.
I'll tell her the truth. That's the least she deserves.
'He was on a mission for the government, with me and some other guys,' said Matt softly. 'It was MI5 sponsored, but off the books. We hit an al-Qaeda boat for a lot of money and we get to keep it. Damien joined because he wanted the money, and we needed someone to fence the stuff.' He hesitated. 'It's gone wrong. I think one of the gang is betraying us one by one. First a guy called Cooksley's got killed, then Damien. Reid or I could be next.'
'His body,' said Gill. 'What's happened to his body?' She sniffed, wiping a tear away from her eyes. 'I'll have to organise a funeral.'
'I don't know,' said Matt. He hesitated before continuing: there was only so much truth you should subject a woman to, even one you loved. 'I think the police will recover it soon.'
Gill paused. Even though he couldn't see her, Matt could imagine that the tears were starting to flow. 'I'm going to hang up now,' she said. 'It's over, Matt. I don't want to see you again.'
Matt could hear something different in her voice now. Not the rage and anger he was used to with Gill, but the quiet determination of a woman who has made her decision, and plans to stick with it.
She's leaving me.
'Stop,' he said. 'We can… I need you Gill.'
Gill choked, her voice full of anger. 'It's too late, you idiot,' she said, spitting the words out of her mouth. 'I've had enough of your soldier games. It was bad enough when you ran around the world trying to get yourself killed. Now it's my brother as well.' She hesitated, fighting back the sobs. 'You couldn't even come and see me. You had to tell me on the phone. I'm through with it. I don't want to be around when you get yourself killed on some stupid job. I don't want to be the widow weeping at some stupid graveside. That's not a life, and I'm not going to take it any more.'
'This is the last one, trust me,' Matt said, his voice starting to crack. 'This was about making enough money to get out of the game for ever. So we could be with each other. It was about us.'
'About us?' said Gill, her voice rising. 'It's never about us, it's always about you. There's always another job, another mission, another war. You don't get it, do you? I don't need you to be a hero or a millionaire, or any of the rest of it.' She took a deep breath. 'All I wanted was for you to be an ordinary guy who cared about me.'
The line went dead. Matt stood in the room, staring out across the sea, the phone still hanging in his hand. He put it down, and put his face in his hands. He had wanted to speak, but the words were choked in his throat. Gill had been angry with him before — they had shouted at each other hundreds of times. But this time felt different. She had just said goodbye.
* * *
Joe Reiss looked like a typical Five agent, decided Matt, as he opened the door. He was just under six feet tall, well built, with a rugby player's upper torso. About thirty, with thick black hair, and wearing chinos and a tweed jacket, he had minor public school written all over him.
Nothing like Alison. Nothing like as smart.
'Headquarters suggested I swing by,' Reiss said breezily at the door, 'to help with the security.'
Matt showed him around. Reiss said he was stationed in Malaga — he had been posted in Madrid, but MI5 already had a man on the southern Spanish coast, and Reiss had been sent down to join him. The area was swarming with drug dealers, gun runners, gangsters and terrorists. 'So they figured it was worth having their own man on the spot, getting plugged into the local network, seeing what he could pick up,' Reiss added. 'That's me.'
I can't imagine a twit like you getting plugged into anything but the toaster.
The tour took fifteen minutes — around the perimeter defences, into the control room, and down into the armoury. Matt could tell that Reiss was surprised by the extent and sophistication of the weapons and surveillance systems on display. Whatever piece of ground he'd been keeping his ear to, Matt decided, it obviously hadn't told him that Kazanov was a man with this sort of money and munitions at his dis
posal. 'So, you see, we're pretty well defended,' said Matt.
'Five wanted to put in a couple of extra tweaks,' said Reiss, 'if that's OK.'
'A couple of battalions of Gurkhas would be good,' replied Matt.
Reiss grinned. 'I was thinking more of a video link,' he said. 'We can just fix up the electronics so that all the video surveillance gets beamed straight back to headquarters. Anything starts happening, we can send some guys to help you out.'
'The cavalry?'
'That's the thing,' Reiss nodded enthusiastically.
'You'll be able to help clear up the bodies, then,' said Matt. 'Always good to have somebody to wash away the blood.'
Reiss looked hurt. 'We're just trying to help, Mr Browning. It's rare for MI5 to do this for anyone.'
'It's rare that Five does anything for anyone,' said Matt. He turned to walk away. 'Fix up your wires. We'll use all the help we can get.'
* * *
Reid was sitting upstairs, drinking a beer on the balcony. A sniper could get you from there easily thought Matt. You don't look nearly as frightened of dying as you should be. Matt walked slowly towards him, listening intently as he crossed the stone floor. Over the past couple of days he had grown used to watching every shadow, every nerve in his body switched to full alert, ready for an assault. He had also learnt the first lesson any target learns: when an attack comes, you may not see it, you may not feel it, but you will always hear it. It's like fighting in the jungle, Matt thought, where the thick trees and leaves stop you from seeing more than a few feet in any direction. A tiger's ears are its greatest weapon — they are ours too.
'The man from Five,' he said. 'He's connecting the video cameras to base. So they can send reinforcements if anyone comes to get us. Kazanov is going to go crazy. We'll have to get rid of it all before we leave.'
