by Damien Lewis
‘Divin’ the ship gets us close enough to sneak off and salvage the gold?’
Kilbride nodded. ‘We anchor up somewhere between the wreck site and the boundary of the Palm Island National Park. During the day we dive the wreck. At night we check out the cave. Over several nights we raise the gold and ferry it across to the dhow. Then we up anchor and sail away. I’ve been racking my brains for any problems, but I can’t seem to find any.’
Nick Coles hardly felt as if fate was smiling on him during the last days of his service with MI6. It was early on a Monday morning and he had just received irrefutable proof that The Searcher had survived the Viper Strike attack. Nick stared at the image lying on his desk, into the eyes of the man he had so nearly managed to kill. The photograph had been taken with a long lens several weeks after the attack. It showed that The Searcher had been badly burned on his hands and arms, but also that he was still very much alive. Nick had already shared the news with his bosses at MI6. But he still had to tell General Peters, in SOCOM, that Sea Strike One had failed to kill its target. And he wasn’t looking forward to doing so.
Nick picked up the printout of the intelligence report that accompanied the photo. The first pages dealt entirely with The Searcher’s seeming indestructibility, and Nick had had quite enough of that. He flicked through and his eyes were drawn to the heading ‘Terrorist Funding’. The document outlined a report that the Black Assassins were supposedly hunting for some five hundred million dollars’ worth of gold bullion. The bullion originated from a Beirut bank vault that had been looted at the height of the civil war. Nick was hardly surprised that they needed the money. Sending out lone assassins and their support teams to simultaneously hit seven of the world’s foremost leaders was going to prove costly. But five hundred million bucks should just about do it.
Nick read on. The Black Assassins had recently had a significant breakthrough in their search for the gold. Infuriatingly, that breakthrough was attributed to his nemesis, The Searcher. Apparently, The Searcher had provided the Black Assassins with vital new information about the original bank robbery and who had been responsible. So now the bastard wasn’t only training them, Nick fumed, he was sorting out their funding, as well. If only Sea Strike One had got him.
Over the years Nick had got to know The Searcher well. The man was a loner and a chameleon, one who could quickly win the respect of others by immersing himself in their culture and their religion. In the dirty war against the Soviets, in Afghanistan, The Searcher had distinguished himself by becoming more of a Mujahedin than the Mujahedin. He had been sent in to train the ‘Muj’ how to use British Blowpipe surface-to-air missiles. But he’d ended up joining them on active combat operations and shooting down several Soviet helicopters packed with young conscripts. At the time there were cries that The Searcher had ‘gone native’. As a result he had been booted out of The Regiment.
The Searcher had reacted with a deep bitterness and anger. As far as he was concerned he’d wholeheartedly embraced his Afghan mission and his actions had gone well beyond the call of duty. And all he had got in return was rejection and punishment. But Nick had still felt that The Searcher was the sort they could use in The Project, as the British Government’s top-secret black operations unit was called. Islamic radicals were being viewed as the new threat to the West, and anyone who could effectively infiltrate their ranks was extremely useful. Nick had invited The Searcher to become one of his ‘retreads’, as the ex-special forces operators working for The Project were called.
The Searcher had accepted, and Nick had proceeded to use him for dozens of jobs in far-flung corners of the Islamic world. But over the years he had witnessed his man going increasingly off the rails. The Searcher believed that his country had abandoned and betrayed him. The longer he was immersed in the Islamic world, the more the Muslims became his people, Islam his system of belief. Nick should have reined in The Searcher years ago, while he’d still had the chance. But the man had proven too useful on too many occasions. Before he knew it, Nick had created a monster …
As he finished reading the briefing paper something clicked in the far recesses of Nick’s brain. He’d heard about this Beirut bank robbery somewhere before, but from an entirely different source. In a flash it came to him: Kilbride. Nick punched a key on the computer terminal in front of him and double-clicked on a file named: ‘Retreads’. A list of some three hundred surnames appeared, arranged alphabetically. He searched under ‘K’ and pulled up Kilbride’s file. Then he clicked on another file in ‘K’, under The Searcher’s real name – that of Knotts-Lane. For several seconds he scrutinised the two men’s military records: sure enough, both of them had been deployed to Cyprus at the time when Kilbride had pulled off his Beirut bank job.
Nick shook his head and chuckled. He didn’t believe in coincidences. In 1979 Kilbride had pulled off his multi-million bank job. Word would have gone round their Cyprus base like wildfire. Fast-forward two decades from there, and Knotts-Lane had taken up the terrorist’s mantle of murder and hatred. And then he had heard about the same Beirut bank raid, but this time from an entirely different source – his spiritual figurehead, the Old Man of the Mountains. Only the actual quantity of gold stolen was three times the amount that Kilbride had delivered to Cyprus. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to work out what had happened to the missing millions.
Nick pushed back his chair, folded his hands over his stomach and contemplated what he’d just discovered. Presumably the bulk of Kilbride’s gold was still hidden in the Lebanon somewhere, and The Searcher’s information had taken the Black Assassins that much closer to finding it. In which case, Kilbride would be best served by going back to retrieve it before the enemy got their hands on it. Certainly, if Nick shared this new intelligence with Kilbride he would be forced to do so, or face losing the gold.
Nick smiled to himself. A plan had started forming in his mind. It was hazy at first and opaque, but it gained form and substance with every passing second. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Nick told himself. Maybe there was a way to turn all this to their collective advantage: his own, The Project’s, MI6’s, and even Kilbride’s. Maybe there was a way to use this to hit the Black Assassins a killer blow – one that would finish The Old Man, The Searcher and all their would-be murderous accomplices once and for all.
Nick picked up the phone. One of the peculiarities of being a Project man was that he was based at the Chelsea Barracks, rather than across the water at MI6’s puke-green glass-and-metal headquarters. Nick preferred the serried ranks of grey and faded red brick of the Barracks, any day. As a Project man he served as an uncomfortable liaison between the Retreads and their intelligence and political taskmasters. It wasn’t an easy job, marrying up the two sides. But he only had a year to go before retirement. And if he could wrap up all this Black Assassins business, there just might be an MBE at the end of it all.
As he waited for an answer on the secure line to his MI6 liaison, Nick checked the documents on his computer screen. Who had been Kilbride’s commanding officer at the time of the bank robbery? he wondered. Nick scanned the relevant file: ‘Q Squadron’s CO has been found unsuited to special-forces soldiering, and moved sideways to the Secret Intelligence Service’. Well, that was a start. In 1982 Kilbride’s CO had been shunted across to MI6. He had probably retired several years ago, Nick reasoned, but maybe they could pull him back in again for just the one job. After all, the Major – now Colonel – was sure to know Kilbride and his men reasonably well.
Nick cut the connection, redialled and placed a call to the MI6 switchboard. It was highly unlikely, but worth checking out all the same.
‘Nick Coles here, over at Chelsea Barracks,’ he announced. ‘Just checking – d’you have a Colonel Marcus Thistlethwaite with you? If so, I’d like to have a quick word with him …’
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER THEIR SUNDAY-EVENING beers Kilbride and Berger spent the following morning putting some flesh on the plans for the gold-retr
ieval mission. Out the back of The Homestead there was a small, well-equipped annexe, and it was from here that Kilbride conducted his business. Each man sat before one of Kilbride’s flat-screen Apple computer terminals. One was networked with a broadband wireless internet connection, the other was off-line and reserved for the type of work that Kilbride preferred to keep away from prying eyes.
There was a deal of work to be done before the meeting with the rest of the lads, scheduled for the following weekend. Kilbride settled down to research the names and ancestry of those lost on HMS Victoria, the iron battleship now lying on the seabed off Ramkine Island. If he and his men were to pose as the descendants of deceased crewmen, they’d better get the names straight.
An hour into the task Kilbride’s concentration was broken by a phone ringing and he reached instinctively for his mobile. But then he recognised the ring tone for what it was: it was his Thuraya satphone. He rarely received calls on this system, which was restricted to one use only: voice communications with his controller at The Project.
Kilbride grabbed the bulky receiver. ‘Yes.’
‘Kilbride? It’s Nick.’
‘Is it? I was expecting Big Ears or Noddy.’ Kilbride didn’t exactly dislike Nick Coles, but he couldn’t say he trusted him, either. He tolerated the man for the lucrative work he sometimes pushed his way. ‘It’s a dedicated line, Nick. Of course it’s you. Bit early for you suit-and-tie boys to be up and working, isn’t it?’
‘It is, but something’s come up, something pretty damn serious. I’m not calling you with the offer of a mission. This is something completely out of the normal ballpark. In fact, I’d like to come out on the next available flight and talk it through with you, face to face, if that’s all right.’
‘Give me an idea, Nick. A sense of what we’re talking about.’
‘We’re talking about the Lebanon, Kilbride. A lot of … missing gold. And someone who knows about it, someone who really shouldn’t. This information is hot, Kilbride, and you and I need to meet. These people are dangerous. Very.’
At the mention of the words ‘Lebanon’ and ‘missing gold’ Kilbride had sat bolt upright. The fact that Nick Coles had come to learn of their hoard of gold bullion was very worrying; that unknown others also knew about it was a potential disaster.
‘Do you have an interest in this, Nick? I mean does MI6? HMG? The Project?’
‘We may have. These people are dangerous enough to have appeared on our radar screens, let me put it that way.’
‘We do need to talk,’ Kilbride confirmed. ‘When and where?’
‘I’ve just been checking flights. I can get an overnight to Dar-es-Salaam, arriving early tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine. I’ll book you a room at the Sea Breeze Hotel. It’s quiet, discreet and reliable, plus you’ll enjoy the view. They’ll send a driver to meet you at the airport. Call me when you get there.’
Kilbride cut the connection and replaced the Thuraya’s handset. He was silent for a few seconds, as he tried to imagine how news of the gold could possibly have leaked. Maybe one of the lads had got talking during a drunken evening down the pub. But that didn’t explain how news could have reached the wrong side. Kilbride suddenly thought of Emile. Maybe their Lebanese fixer had thrown a lot of money around after the war. Maybe the wrong people had picked up on that, and Emile had talked. Kilbride made a mental note that they should try to track him down. Emile knew enough, so maybe he was their weak link.
Kilbride turned away from the computer to see Bill Berger watching him. The big American raised one eyebrow. ‘Problems, buddy?’
‘Problems? Yeah, you could say that … Put it this way, you’d best put all our plans on hold. I’ve got an unexpected meeting to attend …’
The following morning Kilbride left The Homestead early. He’d spent a restless night and yet he remained baffled by the whole thing. On arrival at the Sea Breeze Hotel Kilbride ordered a full cooked breakfast and a pot of tea, to be served on the hotel’s terrace. The view over the sea was breathtaking, and this early in the morning he had the place almost to himself.
An hour later the nondescript figure of Nick Coles made his way across the terrace to greet him. He had flown club class and had managed to grab six hours’ sleep on the plane. His grey suit was a little crumpled, but after a quick freshen-up in his hotel room he wasn’t feeling too bad. The last time he and Kilbride had seen each other had been six years ago, in London. So while Nick tucked into a breakfast the two of them caught up on old news.
Nick finished eating and placed his knife and fork carefully on his plate. He eyed Kilbride. ‘More tea?’
‘Yeah, tea is good. Look, thanks for coming, Nick. I’m sure you have your own agenda, but thanks, anyway. Why don’t you tell me what you know?’
Nick leaned his elbows on the table, linked his fingers together and rested his chin on them. As he began speaking his stare was locked on a point at the centre of the table and his voice was barely audible.
‘We have a source in Syria, or rather MI6 does. For three years that source has been keeping watch on a new terrorist group. They call themselves “The Black Assassins”. You’ve probably never heard of them. Few people have … But if they get their way all that will change. They’re planning the world’s worst-ever terrorism spectacular. They model themselves on the original Assassins, from Crusader times. The originals you have heard of, I think?’
‘Pretty mean bunch of operators, by all reports,’ Kilbride confirmed. ‘Sort of the Muslim equivalent of your Knights Templar. They had a cult of getting stoned on hashish before operations, or so the rumour goes. I tried to get something similar adopted by The Regiment, but the top brass were having none of it …’
‘Something like that, yes.’ Nick smiled. In a way he liked Kilbride, and he appreciated his offbeat sense of humour. ‘The spiritual leader of this new group models himself on the original Grand Assassin – the Old Man of the Mountains. They plan to simultaneously assassinate seven of the world’s top leaders, very publicly, on live TV if they can manage it. The leaders of America, Britain, Germany, Australia, Russia, China and Saudi Arabia have been singled out. They’re training for this right now in a remote camp in the Syrian mountains. We think that they are two or three months away from being ready to strike, maybe less …’
‘Seven leaders in one go – that’s a pretty tall order. Why China and Saudi Arabia? And why no Israel?’
‘Well, we suspect Israel has been omitted because their security is too damned hot to be easily breached. As for Saudi Arabia, they seem to think the Saudi Royal Family aren’t doing a particularly good job of ruling the Saudi Kingdom. Guardians of Islam’s most holy shrines and all that …’
‘And China?’ Kilbride prompted.
‘Well, apparently, whilst we “infidels” simply believe in the wrong god – i.e. not theirs – the Chinese are far worse, because they are completely godless. And as far as these lunatics are concerned, having no god at all is worse than having chosen the wrong one.’
Kilbride shook his head. ‘Unreal. Completely fucking unreal … But what’s all this got to do with the Lebanon?’
‘Everything. I’m going to present you with a scenario … Let’s cast our minds back to January 1979. You led your troop on a mission to rob the Imperial Bank of Beirut. You returned to your Cyprus base with fifty million dollars in bullion. Those are the known facts. But let’s say you stole rather more than that amount, and let’s say the majority of the gold remains hidden somewhere. Now, imagine if that gold was originally the property of the Old Man, or at least of his people. Fast-forward to the present day and let’s say he’s never stopped looking for it. Let’s say he’s got hold of a list of names that includes most, if not all, of your men …’
Nick scrutinised Kilbride’s face for a second but his expression gave nothing away. ‘I’ll continue … Imagine the cost of trying to assassinate the world’s seven foremost leaders. Finding that one hundred million dollars in bullion �
�� which has to be worth four or five times that amount now – would have to be a priority, don’t you think? That’s what you’re up against, Kilbride.’
Kilbride took a gulp of his tea and eyed the Project man. ‘Only if your story’s true, Nick. As far as I recall, the fifty million bucks I returned to Cyprus was all there ever was.’
‘What are you afraid of, Kilbride? We can’t work together on this if you won’t trust me.’
‘You could be trying to set me up, Nick, haul my arse and those of my men up in front of some court somewhere. You know the sort of thing.’
‘It’s not what I do, Kilbride. Law enforcement isn’t my thing. I’m The Project, remember. We do black ops. We’ve worked together enough for you to trust me on this one.’
‘Okay, let me present you with a little scenario of my own,’ Kilbride countered. ‘Let’s say the British and American governments are shitting bricks over these Black Assassins. Let’s say you’re waiting and watching and trying to track the individual Assassins as and when they move. Trouble is, there’s dozens and dozens of them – so how to keep track of them all? Better to strike first and wipe them out while they’re all in one place. If you deal with the training camp then you’ve dealt with the problem, haven’t you, Nick?’
Nick nodded. ‘We were thinking something along those lines, yes.’
‘And that’s where we come in, isn’t it, Nick? Because if what you’re saying is true we have a very good reason to hit the Assassins. In which case, you can sit back and let us do the job for you.’
Nick smiled. ‘We believe it makes complete sense – for us and for you. They have your real names. They have their people everywhere. We know they’re watching the airports. I don’t believe you’d be able to so much as breathe in the Lebanon without them having eyes on you. So you can’t go in to get your gold without being prepared to take these people on. If you did it would be a suicide mission, and we like to think that those are the tactics of the enemy, not us.’
