by Damien Lewis
‘Thanks. What happened to your face?’
‘That?’ Knotty touched a hand to the cut on his cheek. ‘Last leave I did a solo crossing of the Darien Gap. You know where that is? It’s in Panama, one of the largest unexplored tracts of jungle in the world. Met some native Indians who took me in and fed me up for a few days. I was pretty much starving by then. They gave me this hallucinogenic drug made from the bark of a tree. They got this wooden pipe about five feet long, packed one end with the stuff and blew it up my nose. It’s literally mind-blowing stuff—’
‘Remind me to try some,’ Kilbride interjected dryly.
‘Well, the Indians believe you are possessed by their gods once you take this stuff – so whatever you do when you’re under the influence they won’t intervene. I went on this mind-bending trip for forty-eight hours. When I came to I’d had half my face ripped open. The Indians told me that I’d tried to kill one of their dogs – a savage little mongrel that they had running around the place. It’s feasible: I never have liked dogs. Too blindly loyal for my liking. Anyway, the dog fought back and ripped my face open …’
‘Thanks again for the info on the river,’ Kilbride remarked, as he rose to leave. ‘I appreciate it. And you’d better get the medic to take a look at that cut. It could turn nasty.’
Knotty grunted a reply, turned back to his chessboard and started to replace the pieces.
‘By the way, whatever happened to the dog?’ Kilbride added.
‘The village dog?’ Knotts-Lane gave a thin smile. ‘I slit its throat. The Indians weren’t too happy at first. But I was under the influence of the drugs and their gods, so what could they say? We cooked it and ate it. Ever tried dog, Kilbride? You should. It’s not so bad.’
‘I’m pretty fond of them myself – man’s best friend and all that. I appreciate the loyalty. You won’t be finding any on my menu.’
Knotts-Lane glanced up at Kilbride, a strange look in his eyes. ‘You’re going to hit that bank, aren’t you? Take it for all it’s worth. See, I know what makes you tick, Kilbride. Fifty million in gold bullion: you just won’t be able to resist it.’
Kilbride’s face remained a blank mask. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about, Knotty.’
‘A word of advice for when you do: hide the gold at sea. No one will ever think of looking for it there. Gold is almost a hundred per cent indestructible – and it never corrodes in sea water. Never – not in a million years.’
‘Assalam alaikum – peace be with you,’ Abdul Sali al-Misri intoned. He reached out to touch the hand of the old man who sat cross-legged before him.
‘Alaikum assalam – and unto you, peace,’ the old man replied.
He took Abdul Sali’s proffered hand, shook it gently, and then placed his palm over his own heart. It was a traditional Muslim greeting, showing that he brought the peace of the other into his being.
The old man indicated that Abdul Sali should sit. There were no chairs, so he squatted on the floor. As he waited for the old man to speak, Abdul Sali glanced around the sparsely furnished room. This part of Beirut had lost its electricity many months ago, but by the light of a sputtering gas lamp he could see a dog-eared poster. It announced the ‘Never-ending struggle of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.’ Next to it hung a gold-embossed verse of the Koran on a plastic backing hung in a cheap picture frame: ‘They fight in Allah’s name, so they kill and are killed.’ There was nothing about the room to suggest the immense power and wealth that was at the old man’s command.
The silence deepened as they waited for the tea to be brought. It was always thus whenever Abdul Sali came to visit, and he had got used to the slow pace of the ritual. Eventually, there was a tap at the door and a young man came in, carrying a tray: on it was a cheap brass tea pot, two small tea glasses and a bowl heaped high with sugar. In the austere atmosphere of the old man’s office, sugar was one of the few permitted indulgences. As the young man backed away his Kalashnikov clunked against the door frame. The old man glanced up, gave a thin crack of a smile and waved him out of the room.
He leaned forward and spooned four sugars into Abdul Sali’s glass – always four sugars, always no asking. As he poured the tea he raised and lowered the brass pot several times in quick succession, so that the hot liquid splashed and foamed into the glass. It was supposed to aerate the brew, so making it more agreeable to the palate. Once he had served both glasses, the old man would be ready to speak. No matter what Abdul Sali had been called to the old man’s office to discuss, the routine was always the same.
‘Your mission was successful, by the grace of Allah?’ the old man asked, handing Abdul Sali his glass.
‘Indeed, Sheikh, I believe it was.’
‘The brothers’ and the sisters’ money is secure?’ the old man queried, his eyes like hot coals beneath fearsome brows.
‘As secure as it can be anywhere in Beirut, of that much I am certain.’
‘No one suspects who you really are? No one suspects the source of the funds?’
‘I don’t think they have any idea, Sheikh. And I don’t think they would care that much, even if they did. The Englishman who runs the bank is an infidel and a capitalist. Like all of them, he is greedy and blinded by money. He has never so much as asked.’
‘It is good,’ said the Sheikh. ‘That gold may come from Syria and Iran – but it is the people’s money, Abdul Sali. It is the money to fund our struggle, to repulse the Jews and their Crusader allies. To retake our lands, our Holy Lands. To wage the eternal Jihad …’ The old man took a sip of his tea. ‘You have heard about the hijacking, Abdul Sali? A cruise ship. Ingenious, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Al hamdu lillah – praise be to God,’ Abdul Sali muttered. ‘Only one American infidel killed, but it sends the right message …’
The old man paused for a second. ‘You know, this war has brought great instability to the Lebanon, Abdul Sali. We should be fighting in Israel, in America, in Europe, not here on our own doorstep. The city lies in ruins. Several banks have been robbed. Heaven forbid that anyone should steal the people’s money. This is my great worry, Abdul Sali, my great fear …’
‘Sheikh, I spoke to the manager of the Imperial Bank …’
‘As I asked.’
‘As you asked. The Englishman assures me that he banks the funds for all sides of the war – Muslim, Christian, Druze, whoever. He actively encourages it. As he says himself, it is the Imperial Bank’s greatest insurance policy – for who in their right minds would attack them, this being so?’
‘Keep always your friends close and your enemies closer,’ the Sheikh murmured. He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘This Englishman, he is a clever dog, like the whole breed … That gold represents our war chest, Abdul Sali. Let no one try to take it from us.’
‘Rest assured, dear Sheikh, if it is safe anywhere—’
‘It is on your head, Abdul Sali,’ the Sheikh, interrupted softly. ‘This is your Holy Duty. This is your duty to the Struggle, to your People, to your God. It is on your head, Abdul Sali – and the heads of your children and their children if you fail …’
Kilbride had found it more than a little difficult to sleep, with all the mission details seething around in his mind, and he was awake with the dawn. That evening they would be departing for the Lebanon, and he was keen to get the operation under way. The planning stage was complete, and all that remained for the men to do was to get out on the ranges and zero in their weapons. That afternoon they would ferry their kit out to the submarine, HMS Spartan, and be shipshape for departure.
Kilbride glanced at his watch. It was not yet 6.15 a.m. and he could afford a few minutes of relaxation before starting the day. He stared up at the canvas ceiling of the tent that he shared with Berger, Smithy and Moynihan. As he did so, he ran through the mission plan one last time in his mind. The Spartan was scheduled to drop them seven miles off the Palm Islands, at last light on the following day. They would head directly for Ramkine Island a
t twenty-five knots, which should take them less than a quarter of an hour. Once safely hidden in the cave, Kilbride would brief his men – and he was looking forward to this with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation, he reflected to himself.
Still, presuming all went well with the briefing they would be back on the water by 11 p.m. The run to Beirut should take no more than two hours, so they would reach the mouth of the Beirut River at around 1 a.m. The three boats would head up the river in line astern at dead slow. The city was under a de facto curfew at night, so no one would be out on the streets. With the electricity off in most of the suburbs the boats would be all but invisible. Some twenty minutes upriver their Lebanese fixer, Emile Abdeen, would be waiting for them and he would signal them in with three flashes of a red torchlight.
They would tie up the boats and camouflage them in an old shack on the riverside. In the compound of a nearby safe house, Emile would have the Red Cross vehicles ready and waiting. Kilbride hadn’t pried too deeply when the MI6 officers had outlined this part of the plan. How they’d managed to get hold of the Red Cross vehicles wasn’t his need-to-know, although he felt certain that money had changed hands. Emile had identified a route that would take them directly into Rue Riad al-Solh, more commonly known as Bank Street, the location of the target. They would pass via one checkpoint only, which was manned by the Christian militia, so they should face few problems there.
Kilbride kicked his legs over the edge of the camp bed and wriggled his toes into some flip-flops. He and the rest of the Troop had a week of unwashed days ahead of them, and it was time for a last shower. As he shuffled across to the concrete shower block, Kilbride racked his brains as to what could conceivably go wrong with the plan. He entered the shower and stood beneath the lukewarm stream of water, soaping himself all over. It seemed like the perfect plan of attack, yet still he couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling that something had to go wrong.
Ten minutes later Kilbride came out of the shower block and almost stumbled into Sergeant Smith.
‘A word, boss,’ Smithy remarked as he jerked his head in the direction of the now-deserted shower block.
As the two men stepped inside, Kilbride had a strong suspicion that he knew what was coming.
‘Boss, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’ Smithy hissed. ‘’Cause knowing you like I do, I wouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t slept a wink worrying about it …’
Kilbride feigned ignorance. ‘You’ve lost me, Smithy.’
‘Are you thinking of pulling off this bloody bank job for real? I’d be buggered if you’re just going to walk away from fifty million dollars. I got to know, boss, I just got to know.’
‘Of course not, Smithy,’ Kilbride replied, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Nothing could be further from my mind …’
‘Bloody level with me, boss. I won’t breathe a word to the others.’
For a moment Kilbride was tempted to reveal to his trusted sergeant what he really had in mind. But he let his instinct rule him – for now at least he would keep it to himself.
‘Smithy, if there’s anything like that going down you’ll be the first to know. Trust me.’
‘I can feel it in my bones, boss, and I just want you to know to count me in …’
Kilbride grinned. ‘Whatever happens on this mission, Smithy, I’m counting you in.’
Kilbride made his way over to the mess tent for breakfast. At this early hour the place was all but deserted. The only other person present was the squadron sergeant major (SSM), Jimmy Jones, who was tucking into a massive fry-up. Like Kilbride, Jimmy Jones was a bit of an early bird.
‘Kilbride!’ he called out, jabbing a fork with a sausage speared on it in his direction. ‘Lovely nosh. Come ’n join me, lad.’
The SSM was in his mid-forties and was affectionately known to the men as ‘Spud’. He was a bit of a father figure to the younger soldiers, Kilbride included. The two of them had an instinctive liking for each other, and Kilbride felt he could trust the SSM on most things.
Kilbride loaded his plate and made his way over to the SSM’s table. ‘Morning, Spud. You want to give me an ear-bashing over the Major …’
‘Thistlebollock?’ the Sergeant Major cut in. ‘The bloke’s a bloody moron. Made my life a bloody misery, he has. He’ll never last.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Kilbride attacked his breakfast. The thought of the coming mission gave him a fierce appetite. ‘He’s a stool-pigeon, Spud. An agent provocateur.’
‘An agent bloody what? What you on about, Kilbride? You don’t half talk a load of bollocks. That’s what I like about you, lad.’
‘The Major’s a bloody stooge, Spud. He’s been sent here to teach us the three Rs: Rules, Rank and Regulations. It’s all bullshit. He’s trying to mess us up, Spud, to mess with the only R that matters – The Regiment.’
The Sergeant Major stopped chewing for a second and fixed Kilbride with a beady eye. ‘No one fucks with The Regiment, lad, no one. Like I said, the bloke’s bloody history. So, don’t you worry none …’ He rapped his knife on Kilbride’s plate, which was piled high with fried eggs and bacon. ‘You get a good feed down you, lad. You’ve got a week on cold rations in Beirut, which is more ’n enough for anyone. Talking of which, I got something for you.’
The Sergeant Major scrabbled around in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He handed it to Kilbride.
‘What’s this?’ Kilbride asked.
‘Well, seeing as you’re supposed to be stealing some documents, I thought you’d better have the numbers of the safety-deposit boxes that they’re stored in. Remember? The terrorist documents? You haven’t forgotten about them, have you, lad?’
Kilbride smiled, sharing the Sergeant Major’s implied joke, and the two men ate in silence for several seconds. Finally, the SSM stopped shovelling food into his mouth and glanced up at Kilbride.
‘Listen, lad, word of advice. Whatever we all think of Thistlebollock, he’s gunning for you big time. Step out of line on this mission and you could be finished with The Regiment. And that’d be a great loss, ’cause you’re a good soldier, Kilbride.’
Kilbride nodded. ‘Tell me something, Spud – who owns the gold in that vault? I mean, there’s a load of terrorist documents in there, and it sort of makes me wonder who owns the gold.’
The Sergeant Major glanced around the mess tent, checking that they were alone. Then he leaned closer across the table. ‘You’re a smart lad, Kilbride, so work it out. You put two and two together, what d’you get?’
‘Four.’
‘You put terrorist documents in a vault along with a shed-load of gold, so who owns the gold?’
‘The terrorists.’
The Sergeant Major nodded. ‘You said it, lad. You said it.’
‘So why the hell aren’t we lifting the gold? I just don’t get it, Spud. I mean, you can do a lot of damage with fifty million dollars. That’s one hell of a lot of hijacking, hostage-taking and car bombs.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ the Sergeant Major snorted. ‘Listen, lad, back in the good old days before Thistlebollock and his like, that’s exactly what we would’ve done. You remember Oman – the Jebel Akhdar mission?’
Kilbride shook his head. ‘Before my time.’
‘Well, here’s the short version. 1959. Bunch of rebels trying to topple the Sultan of Oman. He was a friend of Her Majesty, wasn’t he, so the lads got sent in. They did the bloody impossible and scaled the Jebel Akhdar, the highest mountain in the Gulf. The rebels had a stronghold on the summit, but the lads took ’em by surprise. Dawn assault, couple of three-point-five-inch rockets bang into the cave entrance – blew the fuckers away. They seized the cave, thinking it was full of ammo and stuff. Sure enough, they found a load of wooden crates. They levered the lid off the first one. Guess what they found inside?’
Kilbride shrugged. ‘A load of Liverpool FC T-shirts.’
‘A load of Liverpool …’ The Sergeant Major shook his head. ‘What’re you on,
Kilbride? It was full of Maria Theresa silver dollars, that’s what. The cave was full of crates and crates of silver. It was the rebels’ frigging bank. It was riches beyond their wildest dreams. So what did the lads do? What the fuck d’you think? They emptied their packs, filled them with the loot and the rest is bloody history.’
Kilbride smiled. ‘Not bad. So why aren’t we doing the same?’
‘Good question.’ The Sergeant Major took a swig of tea. ‘Think what they pulled off in that one mission, lad: they busted the rebel stronghold, put the fear of God into ’em, and bankrupted ’em, all in the one hit. And that was it – pretty much curtains for the war in the Oman. You take the terrorists’ money away, lad, and they ain’t got a hell of a lot left to fight with.’
Kilbride eyed the SSM. ‘So why aren’t we nicking that fifty million dollars in gold bullion?’
The Sergeant Major frowned, heavy lines creasing his forehead. ‘I don’t have an easy answer for you, lad …’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, first, Thistlebollock doesn’t have the balls for it, that’s for starters. And second, it’s not the sort of shit The Regiment gets up to these days, not with wankers like him in charge.’
‘It’s bollocks, Spud, complete bollocks. We should be lifting the bullion. We’ll only get the one chance. Once they realise the papers are missing they’ll move that gold.’
The Sergeant Major nodded. ‘Sure as eggs is eggs they will, lad. Fancy another brew?’
Sergeant Major Jones went to fetch two mugs of tea, leaving Kilbride brooding over the gold in that bank vault. There was an unspoken subtext to their conversation, which both men were well aware of. Ten years of a flaky Labour government had knocked the wind out of the British military, and special forces had taken the worst of the hit.
‘Thistlebollock’s still whining on about your mission plan,’ the Sergeant Major remarked as he plonked the brews down on the table. ‘Seems like he thinks he’s got a better way of doing things.’
‘Well, he can stick it up his fucking arse … In any case, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. That’s what you’re always telling us, isn’t it, Spud? So there’s no knowing what might happen when we hit that bank, is there?’
