Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  The old man raised a glass to his lips. ‘Doubtless it is important business that brings you to speak with me, Muhammad Mohajir.’

  Muhammad Mohajir – Muhammad the Searcher – was the visitor’s chosen Islamic name. The old man knew that he had also called himself The Searcher in his previous life. He hoped that now he had found the one true faith he had truly stopped searching.

  ‘It must be exceedingly important business,’ the old man continued. ‘For what else would make you break off training the brothers? What else would make you halt the preparations for their sacred mission? And all to come to speak to an old man like me?’

  ‘Sheikh, Your Holiness, there is something I heard within the camp that both worries and excites me. In the sickbay I overheard some brothers talking. If I may …’

  ‘Please, speak freely.’

  The Searcher’s eyes were burning with excitement. ‘Sheikh, I heard that you are searching for some gold that went missing during the Beirut civil war. And whilst this may not be the Holy Mission that you have allocated to me …’

  ‘Go on, Brother Mohajir.’

  ‘I’m grateful, Sheikh. I think I know who stole your gold, and I may even have an idea where it is. I believe it remains hidden in the Lebanon somewhere …’

  The old man looked up sharply. ‘How so, Brother Mohajir? How is it possible? How could you know?’

  The Searcher stared at the floor. ‘Sheikh, before discovering the one true faith, before making the acquaintance of Your Holiness, I served for another cause. This you know. I was lost for many years … During that previous life, I served with the British SAS – the forces of the infidels. In January 1979 there was an operation in Beirut against the Imperial Bank of Beirut. The raid was carried out by a group of nine men who blasted their way into the vault. One man almost died and two were badly injured—’

  ‘It cannot be,’ the Sheikh cut in, barely able to hide his astonishment. ‘British soldiers robbed the bank? But how? And why? And how did they …’

  The old man’s words trailed off. He had just been struck by the enormity of what his visitor was saying – that was if it was true. Of all the different groups that he had suspected over the years – the Christian Militia, the Israelis, the Italian Mafia even – this possibility had never crossed his mind. Part of him doubted the visitor’s story, but what on earth would possess him to lie? If he trusted this brother to train the elite of the Black Assassins for the most important mission in the history of Islam, why should he doubt him now? The old man gestured for The Searcher to continue.

  ‘Sheikh, these nine men brought back fifty million dollars in gold bullion to our base. But at the time I suspected there was more. Now I am convinced of it, and that the portion of gold they hid was yours, Your Holiness – or at least the gold of the people, of the struggle. It sounds incredible, Sheikh, and I can see that you are shaken by it …’

  ‘If you tell me it is so, I think I must believe you, Brother Mohajir …’

  ‘It is difficult to understand the mindset of these people, but they are driven by the basest desires. Money, women, life’s ephemeral luxuries – all things that are transient, that pass. They care little for the eternal in life – for belief, for faith, for finding the one true path.’

  The old man nodded. ‘I can conceive that it might be thus with these infidels. Continue.’

  ‘Sheikh, I now believe that they hid this gold somewhere between Beirut city and their Cyprus base – which has to mean somewhere in the Lebanon. And I believe it is still there, Sheikh.’

  The old man held up his hand, to silence The Searcher. ‘Please tell me all that you know. But please, no conjecture. We are in no hurry – so start from the very beginning. Give me only the facts to which you yourself can testify before Allah. Let us build up the fullest picture based upon facts only. Then we can move into the realms of conjecture.’ He began pouring some more tea. ‘How did you first hear of this, brother? And who was in charge of the operation?’

  An hour later The Searcher had finished telling the Sheikh all that he knew about the Beirut bank job. The old man reached behind him, opened a wooden chest and pulled out a scrap of paper. He held it out to his visitor.

  ‘Brother Mohajir, perhaps this will make some sense to you? I have had this for many years, and always it has remained a mystery to me. That is, perhaps, until today …’

  The Searcher glanced at the paper. It was a hand-scrawled list of names. ‘Mr Boss. Mr Busman. Mr Bronchos. Mr Smithilee. Mr Nightilee …’

  ‘I was given this by one of the bank security guards,’ the old man added. ‘Before he escaped he overheard some of their names … But I have never heard of names such as these. The last two sound almost … Indian?’

  The Searcher shook his head in amazement. ‘It is a list of names.’ He glanced up from the paper and smiled. ‘Your Holiness, these are the men who carried out the raid, only these are their nicknames. And they’re so badly spelled you’d never guess … If you have another sheet of paper, Sheikh, I think I can remember all of their real names. Plus there was a Lebanese fixer with them, one Emile Abdeen.’

  The old man reached behind him in the shadows. ‘And there was this,’ he announced. He turned around and held out a faded-looking Rubik’s Cube. ‘It was found in the bank vault itself.’ The old man spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘Tell me, does it also mean something?’

  The Searcher shook his head in amazement. ‘The South African … Boerke. He left his calling card behind … If you have that sheet of paper, Sheikh, I’ll give you all their names.’

  Kilbride’s beachside home had been designed by an old school friend, a high-flying architect who lived in London. He had started by mapping out all twelve acres of the site, including every tree of any consequence. During construction the house and three guest cottages were skilfully woven into the forest. From the simple wood-and-glass windows and whitewashed walls of the main residence, a series of raised wooden walkways radiated out to the guest cottages and down to the nearby beach and pier. The bulbous baobab trees, with their twisting, stubby limbs, thrust their bulk over and above the property, half obscuring it from view. And as dusk fell the noise of insects was quite deafening, as the darkness of the forest enveloped all.

  Kilbride had called the place ‘The Homestead’. It was the first time since his teens that he had lived in his own home, as opposed to a military base or camp, or a rented hotel room. Power was provided by solar panels, so there was never a shortage of hot water or electricity. From the military point of view, of course, The Homestead was a complete disaster. Had it been designed with defence in mind, a 500-yard swathe of vegetation would have been cleared on all sides, to offer good fields of fire. As it was, any attacker could get to within mere feet of the place without being seen. But Kilbride hadn’t built it with such in mind: he hoped that he’d more or less left those days behind him.

  The tourists loved The Homestead as a departure point for dhow trips, diving on the reefs or dolphin watching. There was a campsite at one end of the beach where most chose to stay, and a five-star hotel a little further down the coastline. Whilst the sun would beat down all day long from a burning African sky, The Homestead remained bathed in the cool shadows of the forest. It was the perfect place for the visitors to have a relaxing sundowner at the end of a day at sea. All night long the gentle rhythm of the ocean would soothe the sleep of those staying at The Homestead. And as dawn broke over the still sea Kilbride often fancied he could hear a leaf falling in the silent forest.

  Invariably the first awake, Kilbride would leave a sleeping Marie-Claire and pad barefoot down the walkway towards the beach. On his way, he would pop his head around the door of his two sons’ room. If the elder, David, was awake, he would sling him over his shoulder and carry him down to the beach. Once released, David would scurry across the sand, chasing crabs down their holes. If David was asleep, Kilbride would fetch Sally, his German shepherd, and go for a long jog on the pri
stine night-cool sands. Sally was an ex-SAS war dog, and fiercely loyal to Kilbride. They retired their military dogs early from The Regiment, for obvious reasons, so she was still relatively young and fit.

  When Bill Berger had invited himself to stay, Kilbride had told him that he was welcome on two conditions. One, he wasn’t to discuss the Lebanon mission in front of Marie-Claire. Kilbride didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. Two, he had to keep his fucking hands off Kilbride’s maid. Tashana was a beautiful young girl from the local Chagga tribe, and rumour had it she was about to be married. Her fiancé was said to be a young Chagga fisherman with muscles like iron, and Kilbride didn’t want the big American causing any trouble.

  Originally, Kilbride had objected to having any domestic staff at all. He had always led a fiercely independent existence and he saw no reason why his family life should be any different. But then his wife had explained things. In the nearby villages Kilbride would be seen as a man of immense wealth and standing. He would be expected to provide some local employment. Not to do so would be seen as deeply insulting, and would alienate the local community.

  So now they had Tashana, the maid; Nixon, the cook; and a group of six young men who crewed the dhow. Although Kilbride paid them well by local standards, his monthly wage bill was far from crippling. It was the down season right now in Tanzania, the midst of the January rains, so his ship’s crew were laid off until the summer. Nixon, their giant of a chef, was a permanent fixture at The Homestead. He’d been with Kilbride for a decade or so, and Kilbride trusted him about as much as he had ever trusted any man, including his mates in The Regiment.

  The evening after their surfing adventures Kilbride and Berger headed down to The Slipway, a swanky new development on the southern side of Dar-es-Salaam. The Slipway Bar was a short drive from The Homestead, and was one of Kilbride’s favourite watering holes. It had a relaxed low-key atmosphere and a shaded terrace built out over the sea. Kilbride and Berger each ordered a Kilimanjaro beer and settled down to enjoy the warm African evening. At a table three away from them sat a group of local girls dressed in tight jeans and figure-hugging T-shirts. As they chatted and laughed and flashed their smiles, Bill Berger could hardly keep his eyes off them.

  The beers arrived, ice-cold and beaded with drops of moisture. Kilbride took a thirsty pull on his. ‘That’s goooood …’ He tried to catch Bill Berger’s eye. ‘I’ve been thinking over what you said last night, mate. Maybe you’re right – maybe it is the right time to go—’

  ‘Say, buddy, where do all these women come from?’ the big American interrupted. ‘I mean, is it always like this? Everywhere I fuckin’ go they’re bursting out of their hot pants, tight little arses like you never seen before … I mean, if you’d goddamn told me it was like this I might never have married that Jewish-American bitch and got in the mess I am now …’

  Kilbride leaned across the table and swiped his friend’s bottle. ‘Hey!’ Berger objected. ‘Gimme back my beer …’

  ‘Keep your eyes off the women and your mind on the job in hand,’ Kilbride told him, with a steely grin. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later, when the rest of the troops arrive.’

  Kilbride handed Berger his beer. The big American took a defiant swig. ‘Ain’t never no harm in looking. Anyway, what d’you mean, “the rest of the troops”?’

  ‘Don’t know if you noticed, mate, but when you were drinking beer and flirting with my maid I was off working. I sent a quick email to the boys, suggesting a meeting at my place. It’s January and pissing with rain in England or Ireland or wherever, and I got an overwhelming response.’ Kilbride raised his beer. ‘It looks like were going to have company.’

  The two men drank a toast. ‘Nice work, buddy. So who’s coming?’

  ‘I got four confirmed – Smithy, Moynihan, Ward and Johno. Boerke’s got a clunky internet connection down in the South African veld somewhere, but he’ll confirm. Nightly’s trying to get clearance from the wife. Only Jock McKierran I’ve not heard back from. But that’s not unusual. Months go by and I don’t hear much from the man …’

  ‘How’s he doin’? I ain’t seen nor heard much of him since Beirut …’

  Kilbride glanced at Berger, a troubled look on his tanned features. ‘He’s confined to his wheelchair, isn’t he, and that isn’t going to change. When he was hit, I thought it was just the artery was gone. But the bullet must’ve ricocheted off his pelvic bone and lodged in his lower back. They got it out, but the damage was already done. He’s got the use of his hands, and he’s got feeling from the pelvis up – but below that it’s pretty much dead ground.’

  ‘That’s pretty shitty … Pretty goddamn shitty all round.’

  The two men drank in silence for a while, staring out across the ocean. The bar’s terrace faced due east, and people gravitated to it in the early evening. Tonight’s sunset was proving dramatic as ever, a big golden orb sinking behind them, casting its dying rays over a blood-red African sea.

  ‘There might be some hope,’ Kilbride remarked, turning back to the table. ‘Dunno if you’ve heard, but there’s this new stem-cell process being pioneered in the Czech Republic. They can rebuild nerve cells, even … So they might be able to do something about Jock’s back. Trouble is, it’s still experimental. Can’t get it on the public health service or anything. So it’ll cost an arm and a leg to pay for privately. Which brings us back to the Lebanon …’

  Berger nodded. ‘Don’t it just …’

  Kilbride leaned closer across the table. ‘I did some preliminary research this afternoon. Hard to believe it, but the Lebanon is crawling with tourists again.’ He grabbed a napkin and began sketching out a rough map. ‘The Palm Islands lie off Tripoli, remember, around here. We need to spend several days moored in this vicinity without arousing suspicion. The country doesn’t have a big dive scene yet, but there is one, and Tripoli’s pretty much at the centre of it, which is good for us.’

  ‘What d’you have in mind, buddy?’

  Kilbride drained his beer and ordered two more. ‘Let’s say the nine of us – well, eight, ’cause McKierran’s hardly going – let’s say we head in there on a dive cruise. We take the dhow and sail up to the Lebanon posing as a bunch of sad old wrinklies diving …’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I’m in the first flush of youth.’

  Kilbride rolled his eyes. ‘Whatever.’ He flipped the napkin over and did a quick second diagram. ‘We head up the coast, through the Suez Canal and we’re practically in Lebanese waters. The dhow’s perfect, ’cause she’s ocean-going and big enough to take the cargo. There’s seventeen-point-five tons, remember? Tell you the truth, it’s one of the main reasons I got her. You don’t need that sort of cargo capacity for running dive tours.’

  Berger scrutinised the sketch map of the route. ‘Okay so far. In fact, I like it. It’s simple and neat with not a lot to go wrong. Only problem might be pirates off Somalia, so we’ll need some shooters to deal with them. What’s there that’s legit to dive on in the vicinity of them islands?’

  Kilbride picked at the label of his beer bottle. ‘Ah, well, now for the bad news … You’re not going to believe this, mate, but the Palm Islands have been declared a Nature Reserve. It seems like they’re a breeding ground for migratory birds, or something. The whole bloody area, the sea included, has been put off limits. In fact, the only way you’re allowed in there is with a permit from the NPAL.’

  ‘NPAL?’

  ‘National Parks Authority of Lebanon.’

  Berger shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re shittin’ me. Tell me you’re shittin’ me. Fuckin’ NPAL. Migratory birds …’

  Kilbride grinned. ‘It gets worse. The Lebanon Government plans to develop the islands under some United Nations wetlands treaty. They’ve got plans for picnic areas, raised walkways, overnight camping facilities, video tours, a visitor centre, interactive learning resources and robotic guides.’

  ‘Fuck me backwards and sideways, buddy … You tellin’ me w
e hid our seventeen and a half tons of gold in the middle of a fuckin’ theme park?’

  ‘It hasn’t happened yet, but a year or less from now, yeah, that’s about the long and short of it … Now for the good news.’

  ‘You mean to say there is some? I was just about to order me twelve more beers and go say hello to the girls.’

  ‘There is, mate. She’s the HMS Victoria, and back in the good old days of Empire she was the flagship of the British fleet. She was one of the first iron warships ever built, but there was a bit of a fuck-up and she sank. She went down like a brick and over half the crew were lost, including the Admiral-in-Chief. She had an enormous iron ram for a bow and the screws were still turning as she went under. She hit the seabed nose first and going like a bat out of hell and she stuck fast. Her stern sits in some seventy metres of water, her bows far deeper …’

  ‘Great, buddy, thanks for the maritime history lesson. What the hell’s it got to do with us?’

  Kilbride smiled. ‘When HMS Victoria sank the Admiral was attempting to drop anchor off Tripoli harbour – just north of Ramkine Island. People have been looking for the shipwreck ever since. It’s just been found. The site’s been declared a maritime military grave and access is restricted. But if you do your sums, mate, our great-grandfathers could have served on that ship. There’s one Lebanese–British dive group who’ve been licensed to take dives down on her. I’ve already had an email back from them saying they’d be delighted to host us. Like I said, she lies in over seventy metres of water, so you need some serious kit to dive her, which is a great cover for all the gear we’ll be needing.’