by Chris Ryan
'You too,' said Damien.
Matt glanced along the length of the bar. The Two Foxes was an average boozer, in a side street around the back of Camberwell High Street in south London. To anyone dropping in for a pint it looked like one of thousands of pubs tucked into every street of the city: faded Victorian coach lamps on the walls, thick, stained wood around the bar, beer mats on every table, and the same pair of old geezers nursing their glasses of stout and rolling their own. But to anyone in the know, it was an office – a place where the Walters family, and a few of the other south-London crime dynasties, came to carve up the spoils. Two men sipping on pints might well be arranging who could and couldn't sell dope on the Brixton streets. Two guys at the bar sinking whiskies and sodas could well be arranging protection for the Albanians who shipped eastern European hookers into the massage parlours of south London. To the innocent, it was just another pub. To the regulars, it was as busy with deals as the trading floor of any City bank.
The SAS had been Matt's escape from this part of town, and this kind of fife. Crime had been Damien's. The Army had given Matt respect and dignity, and the gangs had made Damien richer and better dressed than he would have been. He looked different to Gill – his hair was black, he was six inches taller, and his eyes were darker – but there was similarity in some of their gestures and mannerisms. You could tell instantly they were moulded from the same materials.
'How's business?' said Matt.
'Too much competition,' said Damien. 'Can't keep the margins up. People think it's a soft option, but it's bloody hard graft.'
There had never been any secrets between Matt and Damien: there were no pretences about what Damien and his family did for a living. They had grown up together. Maybe when Matt was five or six he'd started noticing that Damien's parents had a lot more money than his. Certainly after Matt's father injured himself at the factory and couldn't work again, somehow Damien always had the cash for new trainers, new records, and a new car when he was eighteen. But that had never been a barrier between them. All through their teenage years they had run through the streets together, getting into the same fights and chasing the same girls. The night before Matt left to join the Army he went round to Damien's house, and his father spoke to him, told him he could have a better life and make more money working for one of his gangs. 'That's the life for a man who wants to fight,' he could remember the old guy saying to him. 'We look after our boys a lot better than the Army looks after theirs.' And maybe, looking back on it fifteen years later, he was right.
'And you?' said Damien.
'OK,' replied Matt. 'Gill sends her love.'
'Tell her to ring mum,' said Damien.
Inside, Matt was squirming. On the drive back from Hereford he had called Damien, telling him he was in town and suggesting they get a beer. He still hadn't spoken to Gill since the split. She obviously hadn't told her family. If she had, he suspected Damien would be furious with him. Gill may have moved to Spain because she wanted to put some distance between herself and her family – she didn't approve of the way they made their money – but she was still blood.
'I'm swapping trades,' said Matt. 'Mine for yours.'
Damien looked up at him. Even though he was the same age as Matt, he looked younger. Most people would guess he was twenty-nine, thirty. He spent half his life at sea, and sailed his own small dinghy every weekend off the Essex coast, which gave his skin a thick, weatherbeaten appearance. His teens and his twenties he had spent on the smuggling runs between Holland and the Essex marshes. He'd take a boat over to Rotterdam, pick up some gear, and be back by dawn. That made him both an expert sailor, and a man who knew all that could be known about navigating at night.
Damien had thick black hair, swept back over his head, clear blue eyes, and strong shoulders that sloped away from his neck. It was in the way he laughed that Matt could see bits of Gill in him: he always started giggling right at the start of one of his own jokes, and Gill did the same thing.
'Aren't things OK at the Last Trumpet? Last time anyone looked at the books it seemed to be making a bit of money.'
Matt shrugged. 'The bar is fine,' he replied. 'It's just not making the kind of money I need to get myself out of the jam I'm in.' He paused, letting the alcohol fill his veins. 'I've lost a bundle dabbling in shares, and I need to get it back quickly.'
'And you want to rob it?'
'Listen, between you and me, I've been tapped up by Five for a job,' said Matt. 'It's just parting some money from some very nasty boys so they can't do anything bad with it. The twist is, we get to keep the loot at the end. It's a private job, not Regiment.' He looked at Damien. 'Listen, at the end of the job we might have a lot of valuable stuff. But hot. What's your advice?'
Damien whistled, running a hand through his hair. 'The trick with robbing is to make sure you're nicking from the right people,' he said. 'That's why people rob banks, insurance companies. You just get a few middle management types riled up, and they don't scare anybody. It's like having some bunny rabbits chasing after you. But who are you nicking from, Matt, and what are they going to think?'
'I can't say, not yet,' Matt replied. 'I can look after myself. The money is worth it.'
'OK, so long as you know what you're getting into, that's all.'
'I know,' said Matt. 'It's how I fence the money that bothers me.'
'How much?'
'I can't say yet,' answered Matt. 'But unless it was the Bank of England, more than you'd find in any bank.'
'Then you want to make sure you keep hold of the money yourself,' said Damien. 'Don't let Five go near it. Any job you do, it's not getting the money that's the problem. It's getting rid of it, and splitting it up.'
'Could you help?'
'Since Dad died business hasn't been so great,' said Damien. 'The gangs, they're like a corporation. You have to prove yourself a coming man. You have to bring in some big deals.' He glanced through the pub, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'I could use something big. In this line of work, you're only as tough as your last hit.'
Matt nodded to the barman for a refill. 'You are my oldest and best friend,' he said. 'If anything happened to you I'd never forgive myself.'
'Dangerous?' said Damien, his face cracking into a laugh. 'You know that Camberwell breeds the hardest villains in the world.'
The flat was on the twelfth floor of Chelsea Harbour, a luxurious development of apartments, shops, restaurants and a hotel overlooking the Thames on a curve of the river where Chelsea starts to turn into Fulham. Matt stood in the lift and glanced down at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Late.
Maybe I should have bought her some flowers.
He felt uncomfortable walking through the lobby. He could see some of the high-class Chelsea girls and their banker boyfriends looking at him suspiciously. Who let the security guard in? they were thinking. The Porsche fitted in with the other hundred-grand vehicles in the car park, but Matt was wearing jeans, sweatshirt and a waxed green jacket – fine for a Regimental reunion but out of place amid the marble and gilt of this lobby.
Who cares? Another month, maybe I'll buy a flat here myself.
He pressed the buzzer. Alison was wearing a red silk kimono when she opened the door. In the background he could hear a George Michael CD playing on the hi-fi. Those thirtysomething birds, they love old Georgie, Matt reflected as he stepped into the apartment. He hits all the right notes.
An elegant expanse of leg was exposed as Alison walked across the polished pine floorboards towards the kitchen. 'I thought you might be hungry,' she said, looking back at him. 'So I made you something.'
Matt slung his jacket over the sofa. The apartment was plusher than he would have expected. It had polished wood floors, spotlights inset into a white ceiling, and black wooden Oriental furniture – stuff Matt had last seen in the antique shops of Hong Kong. On the back wall was a huge 1950s modernist painting, covering twenty feet by ten.
The civil service is paying better these days.
'I'm starving,' he shouted towards the kitchen.
A huge window made up one wall, and Matt looked out over the snarling traffic and noise of south London, its lights twinkling back at him. If I look closely, Matt thought, I can probably see the council tower where Mum and Dad lived. That was on the twelfth floor as well.
'It's ready,' she called back.
The kitchen was made out of polished granite and stainless steel. The units and appliances looked like the kind of machines girls drool over, but they meant nothing to Matt: he preferred cooking over an open camp fire. She was leaning over the hob, a flame turned up high underneath a wok. Matt could smell prawns, garlic, chillis, ginger and noodles. 'Get some wine,' she said, pointing towards the fridge.
Matt pulled a Chablis from the rack of bottles, uncorked it, and placed two glasses on the table. 'It went well,' he said. 'Reid and Cooksley have signed up. They don't know what the mission is yet, so maybe they'll back out. But they're brave men, and by Christ they need the money.'
Alison put the steaming wok down on the table, laying two plates and some chopsticks at its side. 'I knew you could do it,' she said, running her fingers through his hair. 'That's why I chose you.'
'There's another guy as well,' said Matt. 'Damien Walters. His family runs with the gangs in south London. He'll come on the job, and take care of the fencing for us.'
Alison swallowed the food in her mouth, looking directly at Matt. 'Your future brother-in-law?'
'You know about him?'
'I work for MI5, Matt,' she replied. 'Walters. Went to school with you, old pals. He's gay, but discreet about it. It doesn't stop him being a hard man when he needs to be. His father Eddie Walters was a big-time gangster, controlled a lot of the money in south London. Damien is struggling to play in the same league. I'm told he's not quite cutting it, not yet. I hope you haven't told him what we're planning?'
'Everybody needs a motive,' Matt said quietly. 'If they didn't need the cash, they wouldn't be up for this job. We need someone we can trust on the team, and he has the right skills. He can steer the boat for us, and he knows how to fence the money after we've taken it. I say he's in.'
'I don't like it – it's a conflict. You and he are going to be loyal to each other, not to the team. It could cause splits.' Alison took a sip on her wine. 'We won't fence the money ourselves, but we can find a reliable person who can. You don't need to be suspicious, Matt. Five will look after everything.'
'Right, and nice girls don't stay for breakfast,' said Matt. 'I've talked about it with Reid and Cooksley and they agree with me. If we don't get control of the money, then we don't want to do it.'
'I was planning our own man,' said Alison. 'Ex-Special Boat Squad. Needs cash in a hurry. I think you should go and talk to him.'
Matt shook his head. 'We want our own people.'
A smile flicked over Alison's lips. 'I've no objections,' she replied carefully. 'Like I said, once you get the money, it's yours. We just want to make sure al-Qaeda don't get it.'
Matt nodded. He noticed the way her kimono was slipping aside as she crossed her legs, revealing the soft tanned skin of her thigh. 'Damien's in, so that makes four,' he said. 'He knows about boats as well, so he covers that angle as well. But who's the fifth guy?'
'Ivan Rowe.'
'Tell me about him.'
'In the morning,' said Alison, putting her wine glass down on the table. 'You are staying the night, aren't you?'
Matt glanced again at her thigh, his gaze moving down her slender legs, down to her ankles and her feet. He looked back up slowly, his eyes roving across her body until he met hers. 'Of course.'
A low double-bed with crisp white sheets and a black duvet sat in the centre of the bedroom. The side table was cluttered with make-up and hairbrushes, a couple of chick-lit novels and a thick, hardback biography of Field Marshal Montgomery. The wooden blinds were shut, hiding the lights beaming across the river.
Matt ran his hand up the inside of her leg. The silk of the kimono was charged with static. He kissed her hard on the lips, feeling her tongue jab back at him, as he pushed her down on to the bed. She yielded, softly at first, then with mounting urgency. He could feel her turning him over, surprised by the strength of her shoulder and arm muscles as she pushed him roughly down into the mattress. Her red fingernails were clawing into his chest, her lips brushing against the skin of his neck.
A woman who likes to take control.
Half an hour later he lay back on the pillow, the smooth skin of Alison's cheek resting on his chest. He had noticed something in her eyes as they made love: passion, certainly, but an edge of anger, as if she were fighting him at the same time. He ran his hand along the curve of her spine, enjoying the way her flesh moved beneath his grip. Better than the first time, he reflected. Like a new gun, a woman always took time to get to know. You had to unlock her, find out which muscles to squeeze and what words to mutter in her ear.
'I was glancing through your file,' she said, her voice lazy and sleepy.
'Old war stories,' answered Matt. 'They don't mean much any more.'
'I was reading about Janos Biktier. That was some mission.'
The Kosovan warlord, thought Matt. The guy Cooksley, Reid and I finished off. 'Just work,' he said.
'His gang is still in business, though,' said Alison. 'And his son's in charge now. Nikolai Biktier. Nasty piece of work.'
'So what?' said Matt.
'Nothing worries you, does it? Not even the thought that one of those guys might come after you one day.'
Matt laughed. 'Right now, a few crazy Serbs are the least of my worries,' he said. 'I owe half a million to a psychotic Russian gangster, and I'm out to steal thirty million from al-Qaeda. Why worry about a Serb?'
Alison buried her face into his skin, her eyes closing. 'No fear,' she said softly. 'I like that in a man.'
SEVEN
It's in the morning that you can tell what a woman really looks like, Matt decided, dragging the razor across the stubble of his cheek. At night, their faces are painted, their bodies are decorated with jewellery and clothes, and their moods are lightened by wine.
Alison remained completely still while she slept, her hand lying across his chest. When she woke her face was as fresh and lively as it had been the moment she drifted off to sleep. She walked quickly from the bed on the first ring of the alarm at seven precisely, as if there was not a minute to be lost.
A woman who enjoys her work.
He dried his face. Matt hated shaving without foam, and with a woman's razor – but these came with staying overnight at a woman's place. Pulling his jeans back on, he stepped out into the sitting room. Light was streaming through the plate glass window. Alison was already dressed, wearing black linen trousers with a dark blue silk shirt, and a cream jacket was slung over her shoulder.
'Off to work?' He poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.
'This is work,' she said. 'I'm taking you to meet Ivan.'
He followed her towards the basement. Take the Porsche, she instructed him. She could get a taxi home later on. He steered the car out on to the King's Road. Victoria, she told him. They would meet Ivan close to the station.
On the car radio, there was a story about the assassination of David Landau. The Prime Minister was due to make a statement about the killing in the House of Commons this afternoon. There was speculation of new powers for the security forces to counter the threat from al-Qaeda.
'Is that what this is about?' said Matt, steering the car into Sloane Square. 'Landau's killing?'
In the car's mirror, Alison was applying some lipstick. 'It's about defeating al-Qaeda,' she answered.
