Greed mb-1

by Chris Ryan

  Reid took a swig from his beer bottle. 'And where are they going to come from? London?'

  'They probably won't come at all,' said Matt, sitting down next to him.

  'It's not about helping us,' said Reid. 'It's about watching us.'

  * * *

  Matt picked up the mobile phone and walked back into the kitchen. Jane was upstairs, struggling to get the children off to sleep. Some paella was cooking on top of the stove, Reid stirring it occasionally, and a jazz channel was playing on the radio. A bottle of rose wine was uncorked on the table. Just a nice English family on holiday in Spain, thought Matt. Except someone is trying to kill us.

  'Yes,' Matt said into the phone.

  'Anton Heuhle here.'

  Matt snapped to attention: this was the fence Damien had been using. 'The deal's on,' he said flatly. 'We'll meet you as arranged.'

  There was a pause on the line. 'Has something gone wrong?' said Heuhle.

  He must have heard something in my voice.

  'Nothing's wrong,' said Matt firmly. 'The gear's worth thirty million, and we're selling it to you for ten. That's all you need to know. But it will be me making the pick-up, not Damien.'

  Matt cut the call. He walked across the room to where Reid was standing. 'That was Anton Heuhle,' said Matt. 'He's the fence that Damien was going to use.'

  'How did he know how to find you?'

  'Damien gave him my mobile number, told him to get in touch with me if he didn't hear anything. He sent me a text message, and I texted him back with the new number.'

  'Anyone with surveillance could have picked all that up.'

  'I know,' said Matt. 'But we have to get on with getting the money.'

  'Maybe they'll wait until we make the collection,' said Reid, 'take us then.'

  Matt sighed. Reid was right, there was nothing safe about this mission. 'If we want the cash, we'll have to take our chances.' He paused. 'You and me, tomorrow night. You coming?'

  'Who says we need to go and pick up the money?' said Reid. 'Why not get the fence to stash it away for us, wait until we've smoked out this assassin, then go get it?'

  Matt shook his head. 'That's crazy,' he replied crisply. 'We have to be there when the boat gets in. I'm going, whether you come or not.'

  Reid walked out towards the balcony. A wind was starting to blow in from the sea, whistling up through the rocks. 'I can't leave Jane and the kids, not at a moment like this. And I can't take them with me. It's too dangerous.'

  'Then I go,' said Matt. 'I collect the money from Heuhle. I'll take the money to the cache we agreed back in Bideford. Once we decide it's OK for the family to travel, you come over and we split up the money.'

  'And Ivan?'

  'I reckon he'll be waiting for me,' said Matt. 'I'll be there to collect the money, and maybe he'll be there to finish me off, and take the money for himself

  'And what'll you do then?'

  'I'll kill him.' He turned around, looking at Reid. 'You OK with that?'

  As he posed the question, he could see Reid's eyes start to change shape. 'You're bloody keen to get us all killed, aren't you. Maybe it's you,' Reid said, drawing out the words. 'Maybe it's you, Matt.'

  Matt stood perfectly still, as if he had been frozen in a block of ice. The words rattled through his brain. 'What do you mean?'

  Reid moved a step back. 'It all seems to be working out very neatly, doesn't it?' he said, his voice edged with menace. 'Too neatly. You set up the mission with five guys, you're in charge. You're the one person who organises everything, who pulls all the strings. Cooksley's dead, Damien's dead, and you're about to kill Ivan. I'm left alone in the house of your friend.'

  The back of Matt's hand collided with Reid's cheek, sending him reefing sideways. Reid staggered backwards, holding his hand to his face where the blow had struck. 'Don't accuse me of that!' Matt shouted, his voice raw with anger. 'Those men were my friends.'

  Reid charged forward, his fist ramming into Matt's stomach. Matt doubled up in pain, choking on his own breath. Pulling himself upright, Matt swung his fist backwards. He clenched his knuckles, ready to strike, watching as Reid backed away.

  'Stop it!' shouted Jane, appearing from the doorway to the balcony. 'Stop it, you idiots! What are you fighting about?'

  Matt looked at Reid. 'Take it back.'

  'Prove it isn't true. You weren't in the hotel when Cooksley got killed. You weren't with me when Damien got killed. Looks bloody obvious to me.'

  'Don't be bloody ridiculous,' Matt snapped. 'If I was going to kill you I'd have done it by now.'

  Reid took a step forward. 'I don't care,' he said, putting his arm around Jane. 'You and me stay here together,' he said to her. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight.' A sullen grin started to play on his lips. 'But I tell you, Matt Browning, I'll be watching your every move. And if you try to get away or double-cross me, that precious nursery teacher of yours is dead flesh.' He ran his finger across his neck, mimicking the movement of a knife. 'She goes straight to the slaughterhouse. You understand me?'

  SEVENTEEN

  The train twisted slowly through the Dutch countryside. Matt sat by himself, in a smoking carriage towards the back of the train. He was sipping slowly on a cup of stale coffee, a biscuit lying half eaten at its side. He watched the flat fields stretch out into the distance, reflecting on how far he had travelled in the past two weeks, and how far he still had to go.

  When a team starts breaking up, it stays broke. It's part of the iron law of screw-ups.

  The KLM plane had left Malaga at ten past eight that morning, touching down at Amsterdam's Schipol airport just before eleven local time. He'd paid cash for the ticket, which had caused some consternation among the girls at the check-in desk. Not using a credit card marked you out as some kind of criminal these days, Matt realised. Only men with something to hide used old-fashioned paper money, everyone else used plastic.

  I've moved on to the other side of the law now. And I might never come back.

  There was a direct train from Schipol to the Rotterdam Central station, stopping at Leiden and Den Haag. The journey was only three-quarters of an hour, but Matt was grateful for the time and space to himself. He needed to sort out his thoughts. And decide what he was going to do next.

  The money is like some kind of worm. It chews away at all of us.

  Matt was still shocked by the way Reid had reacted the night before. They had never been the best of friends in the Regiment. But they had known each other for years; they were both Army men. Surely it couldn't be him. .

  He peered out of the window, watching the countryside rush by. Whatever else, he felt certain he had been right to slip away last night after Reid had finally gone to sleep. The man was cracking. There was no other choice.

  I don't know. Maybe it's Reid. He could have killed Damien when they were up in the lodge together. He could have slipped out to kill Cooksley — he would certainly have known where he was. Maybe Reid is a complete psycho.

  He took a hit of the coffee and finished off the biscuit. A taste of food reminded him that it was hours since he'd had anything proper to eat. His stomach was empty, and his head was aching from hunger.

  Stop it, Matt — you're going mad yourself. Just collect the money, stay alive, and get this thing over with.

  * * *

  The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He was tall and thin, strong in the way that teenagers are, with eyes that bulged from their sockets, and a shy manner. Sallum inspected him the way he might inspect a goat in the market: as a piece of meat for cooking, not as a living creature.

  'Your name?' he said.

  'Rami Shamil, sir,' he answered.

  Sallum nodded, a smile exposing his gleaming white teeth. 'Rami. The marksman. It is appropriate.'

  'I chose it, sir, when I joined our movement.' He sat down next to Sallum. The cafe was situated in the hills behind the main road running east from Puerto Banus. There were no views from here, and it wasn't on
a road towards any tourist site. It was entirely Spanish, serving great plates of pork and beans to the truckers. Just as well, reflected Sallum. If we talk in English no one will understand us.

  The boy had been supplied by the organisation. Sallum had contacted Assaf to say that he needed someone expendable, and the boy had been dispatched. Rami was Algerian, and had joined al-Qaeda three years before. He'd been in Afghanistan before the war for basic training, then moved to Qatar after the fall of Kabul. He was not an expert fighter, just a mule: a boy used as muscle. But he was devout and fearless, and ready to lay down his life for the cause. Even though he had no particular talents, his willingness made him a useful tool of the organisation. Perfect for Sallum's purposes tonight.

  'You are familiar with the Koran?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Sallum ordered two cups of weak peppermint tea from the waitress. 'Then tell me the story of Husayn.'

  'The grandson of the prophet Mohammed, and the third Imman,' answered Rami. 'He and his band of followers were killed by the Caliph Yazid in 680. He was the first of the great martyrs of the faith, and the shrine to him at Karbala in Iraq is one of the holiest places in all Islam.'

  Sallum nodded. 'You are a good student,' he said.

  Rami took a sip of his tea, looking up towards Sallum, his expression calm and impassive. 'Am I to become a martyr, sir?'

  'Not at all,' said Sallum, shaking his head, a benevolent smile playing on his lips. 'But, you know, those of us who fight for the faith must always be prepared to be martyrs one day. It is that knowledge, that we would lay down our lives at any time, that makes us strong and the infidels weak.'

  * * *

  Matt walked towards the parking lot, clutching the car keys. The blue Ford Focus was one of seven identical cars parked in a row in the Avis lot. He picked his from the number plate, climbed inside the vehicle and started driving.

  He had used his own name and credit card to complete the rental forms. There was no way they would give him a car without showing his licence and some plastic, so he figured he had little choice. If anyone wanted to track him down, they could.

  But they'll have to find me first. And if I keep moving that won't be so easy.

  He checked his watch. It was twelve-twenty. He had another forty minutes until he was scheduled to meet Heuhle, but first he had to find his way through the suburbs of Rotterdam. He pulled the car out of the lot and started heading east. He checked his mirror every few seconds to see if anyone was on his tail.

  At this moment I could use a gun, he thought — but although there were plenty of Dutch gangsters who would have sold him one, he didn't have the time to find them.

  He turned sharply right. According to the map on the passenger seat, this road would take him in towards the docks. The restaurant was an Italian place, Roos Marijn, a couple of streets from the main port. A local place, out of the way and discreet — Matt reckoned there was little chance anyone would see them.

  He drove slowly through the neat suburban streets. His head was turning from right to left, making sure he read every street sign and tracking his position on the map. He was almost there. The next turning on the right, then the restaurant should be a couple of blocks along.

  He glanced in the mirror. Nobody was following. He looked across the streets, checking for any cars with people in them. Nothing. He scanned the driveways of the houses, glanced at the street corners, then up into the trees.

  If I was planning a hit here, where would I hide myself?

  He could see the restaurant a block away: a two-storey building with a long glass front and a red neon sign on top. He pulled into the car park, switched off the ignition, and sat silent for a moment. There were two cars in the lot, both empty. In the mirror, he could see one man walking down the street. He waited for him to pass, tracking his movements, ready to respond. Only when he had disappeared from view did Matt climb out of the car.

  OK, if Ivan's here, he's planning to make the hit after the money gets transferred.

  Heuhle was sitting in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. Look for a man reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune, he had told Matt, but he needn't have bothered. The only other customers were a Dutch mother and daughter, and a man in his seventies by himself.

  'Let's get one thing straight,' said Matt, sitting down in the booth. 'I've had a crap few days. People are getting killed all around me, and I'm probably next. I'm tired, and my nerves are edgy. So you fuck me around, I kill you. With my bare hands if I have to. We clear about that?'

  'You should order the chicken soup,' said Heuhle. 'It might make you feel better. Calm you down.'

  Heuhle was a thin man, in his early forties Matt judged, almost six feet tall, with light blond hair and a tan that suggested he took several holidays a year. He was wearing a black Boss suit and a dark grey shirt, with a couple of buttons undone at the neck. Fencing stolen jewels and gold looked like a trade that could earn a man a good living. That was to be expected. If he wasn't good enough to make money, Damien wouldn't have been using him.

  'I'm sorry to hear about Damien,' said Heuhle.

  'How well did you know him?'

  Heuhle shrugged. 'In this trade, a man doesn't know anyone that well,' he replied. 'We have contacts, networks, references, but we're all freelancers. We work alone. I did three trades with him. London goods. Diamonds twice, some paintings once. He was reliable and sharp.'

  Matt nodded. 'As you know, the Ithaca gets into the port this afternoon. About five, but it could be a couple of hours out either way. I suppose it depends how crowded the port is. But they should be unloading about six. I go in there, collect the gear, get past customs. Then we make the transfer at night. I give you the stuff. You give me the ten million. Agreed?"

  'The money is ready.'

  'Show me.'

  Heuhle shook his head. 'It's in a safe place about five miles from the city. Once you get your stuff, we'll take it there and I'll give you the cash.'

  Matt leant forwards, resting his arms on the table. 'How do I know I'm not just going to get my throat cut and my corpse tossed into some Dutch ditch?' he said sharply. 'You could easily have a bunch of guys waiting to finish me off.'

  'I could, but I don't,' said Heuhle. 'Trust. That's the basis on which this business works.'

  * * *

  Rami held the TCI 89SR sniper rifle to his shoulder. Sallum had been amused by the choice of weapon: the TCI was a gun manufactured for the Israeli Army, based on the American M14 SWS. A short, black metal rifle, the TCI was light, easily concealed, and had exceptional punch for a weapon of its size. That made it perfect for the tight, house-to-house fighting the Israeli Army specialised in.

  The Jews might be among our greatest foes, but sometimes the devil has the best munitions. We'll use their guns if we need to.

  'See if you can hit the fruit from that tree,' said Sallum.

  They were standing in the hills behind the cafe, in the middle of a long stretch of waste and scrubland populated only by a few goats. In the distance there were two orange trees, struggling to grow in the barren, sun-baked earth. Rami found his target in the gun-sight, steadied his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed around the hills.

  The fruit didn't move.

  'See if you can hit the tree, then,' said Sallum patiently.

  Rami put the rifle back up to his shoulder. He spread his legs slightly wider apart, driving his heels into the sand to give himself a better balance. He took a deep breath, lined up the sight to his right eye, squinted to protect his vision from the bright afternoon sun, then squeezed softly on the trigger.

  The tree remained undisturbed.

  'Don't worry,' said Sallum, patting the boy on the back, 'when we go in against our target you'll be much closer.'

  This boy couldn't shoot himself in the foot.

  * * *

  The Ithaca inched its way carefully through the dock, its massive engines churning up water as the pro
pellors screwed in reverse to slow the ship down. Along its side, sailors cast down ropes to their colleagues on the bay.

  It's an ugly looking ship, though Matt. Twenty years of ploughing cargo through the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the North Sea had battered its hull and scraped away whatever paintwork might have once decorated it.

  But to me, it's the finest looking vessel I have ever seen.

  Matt turned to Heuhle. 'Looks like my boat just came in.'

  The two men walked closer to the side of the dock. It was five in the afternoon, and dusk was falling. A wind was whipping in from the north, and the spray from the sea was hitting Matt's face. A group of men were huddled around a makeshift wooden hut, filling in forms and collecting passes: most of them looked like Albanians, Kosovans or Kurds. Temporary workers, explained Heuhle, signing on for the night shift. That's what the asylum seekers do while they are waiting to be sent home.

  Matt scoured the faces in front of them. One of you could be the assassin, he reflected. One man looked him in the eye, smiled, then looked away. Maybe you, wondered Matt. Another man stood next to him, lighting up a cigarette, looking down at the ground. Maybe you.

  Until I get out of here I'm going to be looking at every shadow, wondering whether it's going to kill me.

  He walked up closer to the Ithaca. The ship was bound to the dockside now, rolling only slightly with the swell of the water. Above, Matt could see the massive cargo cranes swinging into action. Huge steel beams swung out over the boat, lowering cables on to its deck, hauling containers up into the sky, then back down on to the dock.

  I'm so close to my money I can almost smell it.

  'Ticket number 219,' Matt said to the docks manager standing beside the ship, supervising its unloading. 'A couple of imported cars. How long?'

  The man shrugged. 'An hour, maybe two,' he replied. 'It depends how deep down in the hold they stashed it.'

  The waiting, thought Matt. That's always what gets to you. In the thick of the action you don't have the time to think or worry. When you are sitting around, that's all there is to do.