by Chris Ryan
The bullet missed.
'Wanker,' growled Bulmer behind him. 'Listen, if there's a lookout, you're going to get one shot. No second chances. They'll have depth charges, machine-guns, the fucking works. They start chucking charges into the sea it will blow this dinghy apart. Then they'll rake the water with the machine-guns. You boys will be finished.'
Damn, thought Matt. He steadied himself again, waited for the wave to pass, tensed his shoulder, and pressed the trigger. Through the telescopic sights, he could see a tear ripping open in the life jacket. He smiled to himself
'Reckon you got lucky,' growled Bulmer. 'Now do it again.'
Damien and Ivan had cooked up a round of steak sandwiches, and were passing them around the team. Matt squirted some ketchup on to his, and took a thick bite, swallowing quickly. Neither of them would be the next Jamie Oliver, but this was just the kind of food needed after a hard day at sea.
'We could train and train for this mission,' said Perky, standing at the front of the room. 'But there isn't time. An al-Qaeda boat will set sail in the next couple of days. That's the one we want to hit. Buhner's going to take you out again tonight, to run through tactics one last time. There's a BA flight from Heathrow to Cyprus tomorrow at two. We've booked tickets for you.'
'You'll be staying at the Amathus Beach Hotel in Limassol,' said Pinky. 'It's a standard package holiday place next to the beach. As far as the rest of the world is concerned you're just a bunch of Brits on a stag week.' A grin flashed on to his face as he looked around the room. 'Drink plenty, and chase the girls round the pool. That'll be your cover.'
Nobody laughed, Matt noticed.
Don't ever retrain as a comedian, Pinky. You haven't got it.
'We'll be tracking the boat by satellite,' said Perky. 'When it's within five hours' sailing of Cyprus, Matt will get a text message saying: "Don't forget Mum's birthday. Ring her on this number." The last four digits of that number will be the expected time of arrival off the Cyprus coast.
'A ship has been hired for you in Mongari, a fishing village close to Limassol. Matt will be given the details. Your guns and explosives will be shipped out to the British embassy in Cyprus in diplomatic bags. They'll be delivered to the boatman and he'll stash them on board. After that, there won't be any more contact with the embassy.'
Matt took another bite on his sandwich.
Keeping us at a distance again. In case it goes wrong.
'When you get the signal,' said Pinky, 'get down to Mongari, and set out to sea. There will be a radio receiver on board the boat. When we have it, we'll patch through the precise co-ordinates of the al-Qaeda boat. After that you're on your own. Any questions?'
'What's the plan for the gear once we've taken it?' said Damien.
'That's for you to decide,' said Alison. 'It's all yours. Ship it anywhere you like, anyhow you like.'
Matt handed out the cups of tea. His hands were numb from the day's training on the water, and he held the cup tightly to try and get the circulation moving again. Each of the men sitting around the fire looked just as tired and cold; they were fit and strong, but they were still mortal, and the day had been tougher than any of them expected.
Behind him, Alison spooned some sugar into a cup but remained silent. Matt checked that Buhner had left the room, and so had Pinky and Perky. This was a discussion he wanted to keep private.
'Listen up,' said Matt, 'there's something we need to discuss.' He paused, taking a sip of his tea. 'We're going to be off soon. I just wanted to make sure everyone is straight on a few things before we start. That way we make sure there aren't any arguments later.'
He sat down next to the fire. 'After we get the money, Damien will organise fencing it. We ship the stuff from Cyprus to Rotterdam, then we bring the money back to England.'
'We all go and collect it together, right?' said Ivan.
'If you like,' answered Matt.
'The money comes off the boat, right?' said Damien. 'We put it on to a cargo boat to Rotterdam. None of us will be able to touch it while it's in transit. We all go together to the port in Rotterdam, and get the stuff off the boat, then we'll deliver the stash to the fence, and split up the cash. OK?'
'How do we know the boat's going to Rotterdam?' Reid asked.
'You'll have to trust me,' Damien said.
'We'll decide who to trust, thanks,' snapped Cooksley.
'I'm glad we finally agree on something,' Ivan chipped in.
'OK, OK,' said Matt, raising his hands into the air. 'Like Damien says, we'll all go get the money together. The point I was trying to make was this – if anything goes wrong after the hit and we get split up, we all meet up in ten days' time. The money will be buried at a spot in Kent, and I'm going to give each one of you the GPS co-ordinates. Like I said, it's just a back-up plan. But if we need to, we'll split up the money then. March the thirty-first at 11.00 a.m. Be there.'
'And what exactly are you planning to go wrong?' said Ivan.
Matt rolled over on his side, spent and exhausted. Alison's legs were still wrapped around him, her hair still draped across his neck, and her fingernails still digging into his back. He could feel her sweat on his skin, and the sweet smell of her perfume lingered on the rumpled sheets of the hotel room.
'Next time I see you, you'll be a rich man,' she said.
'You like your men rich?'
Alison shrugged. 'It doesn't matter. I don't expect men to look after me.'
'Do you always sleep with the men you send out on missions?'
Alison smiled coyly. 'Only the ones who please me.'
'And after the mission?'
She shrugged again, pulling the sheet back over her silky breasts.
'We're expendable, right?' said Matt.
'You want me to describe you as collateral damage?'
Matt pulled on his jeans and started doing up the buttons on his shirt. 'It makes no difference what you call me.'
He stepped out alone into the darkness of the street. Bideford at one in the morning in March was an empty place. The few pubs and restaurants were closed, and most of the lights in the houses were out. A quarter of a moon was hanging in the night sky, its light shimmering in the long inlet that stretched through the centre of the town. Ahead, Matt could hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline.
As he walked, he thought of Gill. He had called Janey, the manager at the Last Trumpet, earlier in the day. He knew he'd defied Alison's instructions that none of the gang should contact their family or friends until the mission was over. But he wanted to know where Gill was, what she was doing, and how she was taking the separation.
I still think about her all the time. Even when I'm with Alison.
Especially then.
Janey hadn't seen Gill, but she'd run into one of the other girls from the Dandelion nursery, who'd commented that Gill had seemed down, and asked where Matt had gone. 'I don't think she's told anyone you've split,' Janey added. 'That's probably a good sign. Like she doesn't want it to be permanent.'
Matt pulled his collar around his neck to protect himself from the chill wind blowing in from the sea.
If I sort myself out, will Gill take me back?
'You cheating, miserable bastard,' shouted a voice from the darkness. 'You sick, sodding slag.' The punch felled Matt. A fist collided with his jaw, the bone crunching into his flesh with the force of a hammer. If he'd seen it coming he might have been able to steady himself, recover his balance and return the blow. But it came straight out of the darkness. His foot slipped and he could feel himself falling to the pavement. He jabbed out an arm to break his fall and caught his elbow on the kerb, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. 'What the fuck,' he muttered.
A boot crashed into the side of his chest, blasting the air from his lungs. Matt coughed violently, gasping for breath. His hand swung around, reaching for the leg to pull the man down, but he missed. The boot swung back, then forwards, this time hitting him on the side of the neck. The flesh started to
swell instantly. Matt reached out, his reactions quicker this time, and his hand clamped on the boot. He yanked at it, hard. The man swayed, his balance thrown, and another yank brought him crashing to the pavement. Matt pulled back a fist high into the air, preparing to deliver a powerful blow directly to the man's teeth.
The least you deserve is an expensive trip to the dentist, you bastard.
'Damien,' he said, looking down into the face of his assailant. He stopped himself just in time. 'Christ, man, what the hell are you doing?'
'What the hell are you doing,' Damien spat, his face purple with rage and sweat. 'You're screwing her, aren't you?'
Matt rubbed his jaw with his hand. It was bruised, but there was no blood. 'Yes,' he said quietly.
'You're meant to be getting married in a few weeks,' said Damien. 'How could you do that to Gill?'
'We split.'
'Split? From Gill? You didn't tell me.'
Matt pulled himself up from the pavement. 'I broke it off,' he said. 'I'm in too much trouble to marry anyone, let alone Gill. I do love her, but I can't have her around me right now. She could get killed as well.' He helped Damien back on to his feet. 'I need this mission to get my life back together. When I do, I'll go back and marry her – if she'll still have me.' He paused, looking down at the water. 'I'm more certain of that now than I have ever been.'
NINE
Mongari was a few miles from Limassol, but it might as well have been on a different planet. Matt checked his watch as he walked with Ivan down the quiet street. It was just after ten at night, and whereas the holiday resort would be noisy with drunken clubbers staggering their way through the streets, here there was just the sound of the few fish restaurants that lined the bay being shut up, and the screeching of a couple of cats being put out for the night.
The two of them had come alone. The flight from London had landed mid-afternoon, and they'd transferred straight to the hotel. The rest, it was agreed, would stay behind in the bar while Matt and Ivan went to check the boat and the gear were all lined up.
We could get the call at any minute. We have to be ready twenty-four hours a day.
The houses in the village were all painted white. Half a moon was hanging in the sky, gently illuminating the curve of the dock and the fishing boats moored along the wooden jetty. The moon was rising, Matt noted. That meant that on the night of the raid it would be relatively light, unless there was cloud cover. That would make it easier for them to see the target. But it would also make it easier for the target to see them.
Given the choice, I'd rather take them by surprise.
Glafacos Hasikos was prowling along the edge of the jetty, his face illuminated by the orange stub of a cigarette glowing in the corner of his mouth. Matt walked up to him. 'Do you know the way back to Limassol?' he said.
'It's too far to walk, you'll have to go by bike,' Hasikos replied, chucking his cigarette into the water behind him.
That was the phrase arranged as a password. This was their man.
'Is this the vessel?' said Matt briskly.
The ship behind him was a tug boat, about eighty feet long, with a black metal hull and a pair of white cranes on its deck. At a quick glance it looked at least ten years old, but it was still in good shape. This was just what Matt wanted. He didn't need a new, untested boat, and he didn't want an old cranky one either. This raid would be dangerous enough without the equipment cracking up on them.
'I'll take you aboard,' said Hasikos.
Matt followed him on to the ship. Hasikos was a small, overweight man, with fingernails stained from nicotine and two days of stubble on his chin. The boat was moored to the jetty, but still swaying from the swell washing in from the open sea. 'Show us the electronics, and then where the gear is stashed,' said Matt.
The bridge was towards the front of the boat. Matt was not an expert sailor, but he felt comfortable about handling this. The ship was equipped with radars, giving position and depth of water. And there was a GPS locator. No nonsense about using the stars to guide you. If you could drive a car, you could drive this.
A green inflatable dinghy, identical to the one they had trained on in Bideford, was strapped to the side of the boat. Next to it was a long hook.
'Where's the packages?' Ivan asked.
Hasikos led them down into the hold. A single battery-powered electrical light was burning in the corner, its pale light struggling to illuminate the metal interior of the vessel. Four crates were resting to the side of the stairway. Ivan told Hasikos to leave the hold for a few minutes. Matt opened the first of the boxes up. Two Bushmaster rifles and two Beretta 92 pistols. There were ten magazine cartridges for the rifles, each one holding thirty bullets. He checked the rest of the crates. Six more rifles, six more pistols, and another thirty magazine cartridges.
That made twelve hundred bullets, Matt calculated, not counting the pistols.
Should be enough to deal with six men. Two hundred each.
'How's your gear?' he said, looking across at Ivan.
Ivan had opened the first of a set of three smaller crates. Inside each one were three two-pound blocks of Semtex. He unpacked the first one, holding it in his hand. The explosive had no smell, and the consistency of children's modelling dough, but evidently Ivan had handled enough Semtex in his life to tell that in this batch the cyclonite and penaerythrite tetranitrate – the two main chemical ingredients in the explosive – had been mixed to perfection.
'It'll be fine,' he said.
Matt climbed back on to the deck. Hasikos was leaning against the railing, ash from his cigarette dropping into the sea. 'Everything is as it should be,' he said. 'I can't say for sure when we'll be taking her out. Just make sure she's ready at all times, and the tanks are full of oil.'
Hasikos nodded. Matt had no idea how much Five had already paid him, but it had to be a lot.
'She's a good craft,' Hasikos said. 'I've worked her for ten years. Try to bring her back in one piece.'
Matt grinned. 'The boat's not going down unless we do. And I'm not planning to let that happen.'
Waiting around. That was always the part of any mission that Matt hated the most. The hours dragged slowly by, the nerves gradually building in all of your muscles and the tension rising in the pit of your stomach. It preyed on your mind and grated on your nerves.
You just want to get out there and get into the thick of it.
Matt glanced out across the pool. There were a few young couples, some families with toddlers in tow, but mostly singles. There was a wet T-shirt contest down on the beach and Cooksley and Reid had gone down to take a look. Matt couldn't be bothered. He'd had his fill of women for this month. There were more important things to do than watch some podgy slapper from Sheffield tip a bucket of water over her head.
The sooner I can get out of here and get back to Gill the better.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and the heat of the sun was starting to ebb when Matt called the group together in a quiet corner of the poolside. 'I want to make sure we're all agreed about what happens to stuff when we've taken it, and when we split up the money. We agree a plan, and we stick to it. That way, there's no room for disagreements later.'
'We need to get it to Rotterdam,' said Damien. 'That's the best place in the world for fencing gold and jewels. About half the illegal trade goes through there – gold smuggled out of Russia, diamonds from South Africa, the works. I've got a guy who'll take the lot, and give us at least a third of full market value. He pays laundered money, cash. A mixture of pounds, euros and dollars. All of it untraceable.'
