by Chris Ryan
Or he could say yes. The mission would take a month at most. It was a lot of money, enough to pay off all his debts and set up himself and Gill with a new life. It was the fresh start he needed. It would be dangerous, sure, but he didn't mind that. He had risked death before. One more trip around that carousel wouldn't make any difference. He'd take his chances, the same way he always had in the past. One boat raid, then they'd be home. They would have surprise on their side, they would have the right gear, and they would be trained. Al-Qaeda were good, hardy fighters, and he would never underestimate them. But he fancied the odds, they were plenty good enough to roll with. There was just one problem: he had to trust Alison, and he had to trust the people he was working for. His fate was going to be in their hands.
Trouble was, the Regiment had been full of stories of missions for Five going wrong. They looked after their own people, but when it came to soldiers they were reckless, they took chances. They reckoned that's what soldiers were there for. Spies were for thinking. Soldiers for dying.
Matt added that up as two problems with saying no, and one with saying yes. When you laid it out like that, it wasn't much of a choice at all. He'd do it. Whatever the risks.
The door of the lift shut as Matt pressed the button for the sixth floor. A door closes, a door opens, he reflected to himself. If I take these next few steps I'm committed, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
Just like the marriage I backed out of.
Alison was sitting in the bedroom, her legs neatly crossed. She was wearing a black skirt that stopped just short of her knee, over a pair of black, patterned tights. Her shoes were black and pointed like daggers, and her blue jumper clung tightly to her breasts and her waist. A professional smile was drawn across her lips.
She knows, thought Matt, looking into her eyes. This is a woman who knows plenty about men, and how they react. She already knows what I'm going to say. Probably even knows the tone of voice in which I'll say it.
'Where are Pinky and Perky?'
'Who?' she asked.
'You know, the two squeaky pigs.'
'They're waiting down the corridor,' said Alison. 'I wanted to talk to you first. To hear your decision.'
'One question first,' said Matt. 'Why me?'
'You're a good man, with a good record of service. You might not have been officer material, but that's no mark of disrespect. A lot of the best soldiers aren't. For this mission we need someone trained to SAS standards. And we need someone who needs cash.'
Matt moved across the room; he didn't want to feel her eyes upon him. 'I was a screw-up as a share trader,' he said. 'I thought I could make money, and I couldn't. I probably didn't have the brains, and I certainly didn't have the training. But one piece of advice from that has stayed with me. Whenever you were looking at a company or a trade, if it looks too good to be true, then it probably is.' He turned around, looking right at her. 'That's my problem. This looks too good to be true.'
'Cynicism is OK, Matt,' Alison replied sharply. 'We don't want you to be too trusting. But I don't understand what you mean. In what way is it too good, exactly?'
Matt spread his arms in front of him. 'Here I am, a washed up SAS man, hardly employable, then this good-looking blonde comes along and says I can make two million dollars for a few weeks' work,' said Matt, his tone hardening. He paused, looking towards the window. 'So I'm just wondering, aren't there some rats scurrying around somewhere, and shouldn't I start smelling them? Why an ex-SAS man, for example? Why not just give the details of the boats to the Regiment, let them take them out. Even better, tell our American friends about it. Delta Force would love to have a crack at those guys. I don't see why you want someone like me to do it. It complicates the mission. What don't I know?'
Alison stood up and stepped closer to Matt. 'Listen,' she said. 'I like you, I think you can tell that. I'm not going to try and smart-talk you into anything. You're too clever. The reason we're not using the Regiment, or Delta Force, or anyone like that, is very simple. The mission is off the books, Matt. Unofficial. Anything goes wrong, we have complete deniability. Think of the possible consequences if this was an official Regiment mission. British soldiers storming a boat in another country's territorial waters? Killing some men our enemies would claim were just innocent Arab businessmen – stealing from them?' She brushed a hand across his cheek, her skin delicate against the stubble on his face. 'So, I'm sorry, if anything goes wrong, then the view of the British government is this: it's just a bunch of former soldiers who've turned themselves into gangsters. Nothing to do with us.'
Matt pushed her hand aside, but not roughly. There would be plenty of time for touching later. Her story was good enough. In the twisted world of Five it was convenient for them to use men who were completely expendable. Back in the Regiment bar, MI5 was an organisation known mainly for its arse-covering and back-stabbing.
But Matt's mind was already made up, and he had heard nothing to make him change it. He needed a second chance, and this was the only one on offer.
You make your decision and you go with it. You hang up your doubts with your coat at the door.
'OK, I'll do it,' he said firmly. 'Where do we start?'
Alison drew away, the hint of a laugh in her eyes. She was, Matt judged, a woman who was used to getting what she wanted from men – and he was no exception. He was doing what she wanted. She'd known he would.
'I'll get Pinky and Perky,' she said.
Matt could have used a beer, but mineral water was all there was. He took a sip and looked across the desk. Pinky and Perky were sitting on chairs on either side, their ties straight and their legs crossed. Alison perched on the side of the bed. It feels right to get back to work, Matt decided. This is what I'm good at.
'Five men,' Pinky said. 'That's the number we'll need for the mission.'
'Why five?' Matt asked.
'Pirates,' said Pinky. 'That's basically what you'll be. You'll be raiding a boat and stealing everything on board. Our calculations are that you'll need a small dinghy to approach the boat, and one man to steer that, and you'll need four men to hit the boat. That makes five.'
Matt nodded. 'All ex-SAS?'
'Maybe, maybe not,' said Alison. 'We've got some guys in mind already.'
'Who are they?'
Perky turned towards the laptop on his desk and pulled up a file. 'MI5 keeps records of all you SAS boys, as you may know,' he said. 'The taxpayer went to a lot of trouble to turn you into killers. We like to know where you all are, and what you're up to.'
'We know,' said Matt. 'And don't think we like it either. We've served our time; we're free to do whatever we like.'
'Within the law,' Pinky said archly.
No point in arguing now, thought Matt. 'So who have you got?'
'When you look at the qualifications,' Pinky said, 'the field starts to narrow down. We want men only recently out of the Regiment. Much more than three years as civilians and they'll be too flabby. We want men who need money and need it badly. But at the same time, we don't want complete drunks, cokeheads or psychopaths. That rules out a few as well.'
'There's always Regiment guys who need money,' said Matt. 'It's not like we get big pay-offs when we leave.'
'Exactly. Here are two names,' said Perky. 'We'd like you to approach both men.'
Alison moved closer to where Matt was standing. 'With the SAS men, it would be better if you make the approach,' she said. 'It'll come better from you.'
Matt looked down at the piece of paper. Two names were printed in small black lettering: Joe Cooksley and Alan Reid. He knew both men quite well but they had not been close friends. He had served alongside them both in Bosnia in the 1990s. They hadn't been in the same squadron, but they had worked together on the assassination of Janos Biktier, one of the local warlords who'd thrived under Milosevic's patronage, and whose men had been raping and killing their way through Kosovo. An evil bastard. Matt had enjoyed that mission: Biktier richly des
erved the bullet he'd left in his skull. Cooksley and Reid had been in a team that had proved itself under fire, providing Matt with the cover he needed as he moved in for the final kill. He had been happy to trust them with his fife then. He would be happy enough to do so again now.
Poor bastards. I wonder what kind of messes they're in to qualify them to make it on to this list?
'Any particular reason for these two?'
'We've asked around,' said Pinky. 'We hear they're good men, and for different reasons they might need money. We think you should talk to them. If they don't want to, there are more names we can give you.'
'There's a regimental get-together tomorrow night in Hereford,' said Perky. 'You should go. Get talking to them.'
Matt nodded. 'That makes three, if they agree. Who else?'
'You'll need some specialist help,' said Alison. 'This is stealing. The gold and the diamonds in the boat will almost certainly be in a safe, so we'll need someone who knows about cracking those open. I've got someone in mind. And once you've got the stuff, you'll need someone to fence it. You can't just walk into Ratner's and offer them thirty million dollars' worth of gold and jewels. I know someone who can help you with that too.'
'So do I,' said Matt.
Damien. Damien will know the right people to deal with.
Alison, Pinky and Perky exchanged glances. They are saying something, Matt realised. But not out loud. Not so I can hear it.
'It would be better if I chose the gang members,' said Alison.
'Better for you, maybe,' Matt said swiftly. He could see her face turning to stone and some words starting to form on her lips, and he could tell they were likely to be harsh. He relaxed, flashing her a grin – he could be manipulative too. 'Listen,' he said. 'The guy I have in mind is good, and I can trust him for reasons of my own. But if you don't like him, he's not in. OK?'
'Maybe,' said Alison.
'Meanwhile, I'll start talking to these guys.'
'It has to be secret,' said Perky. 'Any leaks will cost lives.'
'Hey,' said Matt, 'anything goes wrong, I'm the one who's getting his balls blown off.'
Alison looked towards Matt, her eyelashes dropping coyly, and her red, painted fingernails brushed the edge of his wrist. 'Mr Browning,' she said softly, 'thanks for accepting the mission. I'm sure it will be a pleasure for us to work together.'
The bar was hot and crowded, the smell of beer already thick in the air. Matt stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the scent of the place fill his nostrils. It wasn't a scent you could put in a shop. Nobody was ever going to bottle it and sell it as aftershave, but to him, it was as sweet as any cologne. It smelt like home.
He walked slowly through the room. The sergeants' mess was open every evening, and although it usually catered for only serving members, it was the venue for every reunion. Tonight, the class of 1990 – the year Matt had joined up – was meeting. That was one of the things Matt admired most: the spirit and camaraderie of the Regiment. You could leave it, but it never left you.
On the walls were photographs, paintings and captured weapons from past campaigns. Matt glanced to the left. Up there was a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, the model used by the IRA for the bulk of its assassinations of British soldiers. Matt had been on the team that captured that weapon from a Provo sniper in 1993, and the sight of it now stirred proud memories. Next to it was an AK-47 captured during the battle of Mirbat in Oman in 1972.
He caught the eye of one of a group of lads standing close to the bar. Young men, maybe twenty-six to twenty-eight. There was a look of hunger in their eyes. Like looking in a mirror, thought Matt, but one that returns a reflection of how you looked a decade ago. They might look like boys to him, but they were already battle-hardened sergeants. It reminded Matt of how he had aged over the past decade.
The Regiment teaches us how to do amazing things, he realised as he took his first sip of beer. Fantastic feats of endurance, physical stamina and bravery. But they don't teach us the lesson we most need: how to survive on the outside.
He heard a voice calling his name: a raucous Geordie accent he would have recognised anywhere. Steve Watts had been one of his great pals in the Regiment. They had been on the same training courses together. Matt always remembered a rain-sodden night hiking across the Brecon Beacons with a heavily laden bergen on his back, when it seemed as if every muscle was about to explode and his spirit was already past breaking point. It had only been Wattsie's jokes that had pulled him through. Another time they had been holed up together in the bleak, dark hills of County Antrim, ambushed by a group of Provos, heavily outnumbered and under withering fire. One of them had to make a break across open country to call in some back-up. Matt offered to flip a coin, but Wattsie had said no. He had a good feeling about it, and he'd take the chance.
Matt had met plenty of people since leaving the Regiment, and made lots of new friends, but none of them were brothers like Wattsie.
Playing with life and death. It forms bonds between men that are impossible in the ordinary run of civilian life.
'Look at that tan, man. That's the life,' said Wattsie, his thick, muscled hand slapping hard against Matt's back. 'I look at you and I think, What the hell are you doing back in Newcastle, Wattsie, you daft bugger? The lasses aren't in bikinis because it's too bloody cold, the beer costs two bloody quid a pint, and the football team still hasn't won anything. I'm telling you, I'm on the next plane out.'
Matt grinned. Whatever your problems, they could melt away in the company of men such as this. 'How's it going?'
'Not so bad, mate, not so bad,' said Wattsie. 'Those al-Qaeda boys, we've got a lot to thank them for. Put a few blokes like me back in business. I started doing a bit of security work, then nothing. After six months, things were so bad I did a few nights as a bouncer down at Quayside. The lasses are the worst. The lads, you just give them a bit of a slap, let them sleep it off out the back. But the lasses, you don't want to start roughing them up, but some of them are so drunk, there's nothing else you can do.'
'But it's got better?'
Wattsie took a swig on his beer, nodding to the barman for a fresh glass. 'After September the eleventh, all the Yanks and Japs started pissing themselves,' he said. 'They want protection. Bodyguards for executives, advice on how to search their factories. Now, that assassination of David Landau out in Saudi has made them all even more nervous. Business has never been so good. So I'm back on my feet. Can't complain.'
The world has become a tense, edgy place, but that is good for men like us. We thrive in nervous times.
'But a bar in Marbella – that's the life, though,' said Wattsie. 'I'll bring the wife and kids out in the summer, we can afford it this year, not like the last two years. We could use a holiday.'
'There's always a beer waiting for you at the Last Trumpet.'
The next hour drifted past in a series of drink-fuelled recollections. Old fights, old officers, accidents with girls, engagements with the enemy – anecdotes it was good to share with men who had lived through the same traumas. Matt bought a pint for Danny Sparsen and Rhys Davids – two men he had fought with in a nasty search-and-rescue mission in Chechnya, getting out some British businessmen who had been selling arms there, and who seemed to have enough pull for a Regiment squad to be sent over to rescue them. He owed his life to Rhys, and Danny owed his life to Matt. More bonds, none of which could be untied by the passage of a few years. Rhys was working for his brother's building company in Newport: Danny had been guarding some oilfields out in Kuwait. They were getting on with their lives.
Will Darton wandered by to say hello. He was a Rupert, but one of the better ones. Matt had fought with him in Sierra Leone, and found him straight and honest and willing to listen to his men. A cut above the usual Sandhurst crap. Maybe that was why he hadn't made it above Major, and was now out in civilian life along with the rest of them. Will was retraining as a surveyor near Chippenham, and had just had his first kid: after the second beer, he confes
sed that he was bored. The grey, narrow repetitiveness of office life got to him.
