Greed

by Chris Ryan

  'I'm not a fucking bookmaker.'

  'Just give us the bloody answer,' said Cooksley.

  'About sixty–forty in our favour,' said Ivan. 'Position the Semtex in the right way, and most of the force of the explosion travels on a horizontal axis. It goes into the door and punches a hole in it. But you can't stop some of the energy the blast releases from travelling downwards as well. And that could put the loot at the bottom of the sea. And us with it, if we don't get out damned sharpish.'

  Matt looked towards Reid and Cooksley. 'Shall we take a vote?'

  'What are the options?' said Reid.

  Matt shrugged. 'They can't have much to eat or drink in there. At some point, they're going to come out, take a chance on whether we shoot them or let them go.'

  'They'll call for help,' said Reid. 'They could easily have a radio or a satellite phone in there.'

  'And they are fanatics,' added Ivan. 'They might just decide to die in there rather than let us nick their stuff.'

  'I say we blow them now,' said Reid.

  'Me too,' said Cooksley.

  'Go to work,' said Matt, looking towards Ivan.

  'I'll need a couple of minutes.'

  Matt climbed back on to the deck, followed by Cooksley and Reid. Ivan had explained that when the blast went up, the over-pressures created by the explosion would kill anything within twenty yards. They needed to be out of range. Matt switched on his radio, patching through a connection to Damien. 'Start sailing to meet us,' he said. 'There are four men down here. Ivan's about to blow them, but there's a chance he might sink the ship. So I want you nearby.'

  Matt tucked the radio back into its holder and leant over the side of the ship. The waves were beating against the hull and the wind seemed to have gathered yet more strength, sending the clouds swirling through the sky. Inside his wet-suit it was suddenly starting to feel very cold. It had been more than two years since he had killed a man: the last mission before he left the Regiment had been the hostage rescue in Chechnya, and two men had gone down. Over his career, he calculated there had been twenty-eight to thirty-six kills, depending on which bullet had hit whom. He remembered each one of them, and would carry the memories to his grave.

  Ivan was back on the deck now, alongside Cooksley and Reid. 'The charger is ready,' he said. 'Take cover.'

  Matt turned his back to the bridge, leaning on the railing at the stern. He crouched down, preparing for the impact of the explosion.

  If the Irishman hasn't got it right, Cooksley and Reid will

  be sending him to the bottom of the sea to get our stuff.

  The blast shook through the vessel. It felt as if the explosion heaved the boat several feet above the water. The hull shook furiously as the boat caught a wave and started to lurch to the left. Water started to splash across the deck, washing over each of them. Matt could hear the sound of creaking metal, the noise of joints and girders being wrenched out of position. The smell of charred and melting steel drifted through the air.

  Matt walked unsteadily back towards the stairway. The boat was rocking still, tossed around by the waves. As he looked down, he could see the stairs had collapsed. He slung his rifle aside and took out his pistol. Using his arms, he levered himself down into the hold. The smoke was intense, making him choke as soon as the fumes hit his lungs. Matt released the safety catch on the pistol, looking into the darkness. The door had collapsed inwards, a hole punched clean through the metal. Matt levelled his pistol and fired six shots in quick succession.

  If anyone is alive in there, that should draw some return fire.

  He waited five seconds, reloaded the pistol with a fresh magazine, then started walking slowly forwards. Cooksley, Reid and Ivan were at his side, their pistols cocked, ready to fire. The door had been turned into a mess of twisted and burnt metal, scraps littered across the floor. Matt pushed it aside, shining a torch into the strongroom. His eyes locked on to the figure of a man sprawled across the floor. His leg was severed clean from his body, and blood was pouring from him. His gun was lying several feet from where he had fallen.

  'Rahmet,' he was muttering. 'Rahmet.'

  Sorry, pal, thought Matt. You can beg for mercy in any language you like but you're not going to get it. He knelt down, pressed the nozzle of the Beretta 92 to the man's head and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded into his skull, sending his brains spilling out on to the floor. His eyes closed and blood started to pour out of his still open mouth.

  Matt looked around. There were two other men in the hold. One was already dead, his head blown clean away from his body. The other was slowly dying. A gaping hole had opened up his chest where a chunk of steel blown out of the door had cut straight through him. Now his ribcage was sticking out of his torso. His clothes had turned into shreds. Reid jammed his pistol into his mouth, finishing him off with one shot.

  Somewhere I can hear water. Gushing.

  'Is she holed?' Matt shouted to Ivan.

  Ivan looked up from the doorway, his expression tense. 'Afraid so,' he said. 'It's torn a strip of metal the size of a man from the bottom of the boat. We're shipping water.'

  'It's going to sink?' said Cooksley.

  'You stupid Irish twat,' shouted Reid. 'I knew we shouldn't trust you.'

  'Shut it!' Matt snapped. 'Damien is on his way with the mother ship. I reckon we've got twenty minutes to get this gear transferred before she goes down.'

  He looked towards the back of the hold. The boxes were stacked one on top of the other, maybe fifty of them in all. Opening the first one, Matt looked inside. Diamonds. Tray upon tray of them, stacked in neat rows like chocolates. He opened another box. Gold. Ten bars, five on each side of the crate. For a moment he was transfixed by the display of wealth laid out before him.

  More money than any of us ever dreamt of.

  'Let's get this stuff on deck,' he barked.

  He took the first crate and walked back to the broken stairway. Reid positioned himself at the top, a bandage now strapped over his arm wound, Ivan stood beneath, ready to pass the crates up. Matt passed the boxes from the hold to Ivan – and once they were on deck, Cooksley stacked them close to the dinghy. It was back-breaking work, the water spitting up from the hull all the time, soaking their feet. The diamonds were light enough, a few pounds of glass and tissue paper, but the gold was like carrying sacks of coal. Sweat was starting to pour from Matt's brow as he lugged box after box. But there was a lightness in his step. They had faced the risks and overcome them. This was just grunt work.

  'We should go,' said Matt, the water swirling around his knees and rising fast. 'There's only a few crates left.'

  'No,' snapped Reid. 'We've risked our lives. We take it all.'

  'Don't be an idiot,' said Ivan. 'There's no point if everything goes down to the bottom of the ocean.'

  Reid jumped into the hold and jabbed his finger into Ivan's face. 'You got us into this mess.'

  Matt looked at both men, exasperated. 'Shut the fuck up and get up the top, we've only got another five minutes, man.'

  Matt waded through the rising swell of water, and started lifting the last few crates four at a time on his shoulder. He passed one load up to Cooksley, then the next. 'That's it,' he said, passing the last of the crates to Ivan. The boat was filling rapidly. Somewhere beneath him, he could hear the sound of metal tearing, as waves beat against the hole ripped open in the hull.

  Christ, the sooner we're out of here the better.

  Matt levered himself on to the deck. The boat was starting to list as water filled the hull. They were drifting helplessly, tossed about on the waves. 'Any sign of our ship?' Matt asked.

  Cooksley and Ivan took the corpse of the first man they had killed and tossed it down into the hold. Then they heaved the two bodies from the bridge down the stairs. It was important to make sure all the men went down with the ship, leaving no traces on the surface of the sea. By the time they had finished their hands were smeared with blood.

  Reid shook his head. '
He can't be far.'

  'About two miles,' said Ivan. 'It could take him fifteen minutes to get here. That's if the bugger knows how to steer in a straight fine.'

  'I thought you said he knew about boats,' said Cooksley. 'That's why we brought him along.'

  'He does, and he'll be here,' said Matt. 'Just get this stuff on the dinghy.'

  They started loading, each crate carefully placed in the craft. They stacked the boxes one on top of another, using the straps from the life jackets to belt them into place. All the time, the water was filling the boat at a faster pace. It was leaning badly to one side, making walking difficult without slipping, and the waves were climbing closer and closer to the rim of the deck. Come on, Damien, thought Matt. She won't hold for more than a couple of minutes.

  Matt scoured the horizon, looking for some sign of the boat. Nothing. He knew Damien would be steering without lights, so he might well not see him in the pitch dark. He tried the radio again, but the device was struggling to locate the frequency. Either that or Damien wasn't answering.

  You'll have to be here soon. We can't swim from here, and we're not abandoning the gear.

  He could see from their faces that the gang was losing its patience. Damien should have been there at least five minutes ago. Cooksley and Reid's eyes kept squinting towards the horizon. Ivan's face was tense and uncertain. 'What the hell is keeping him?' said Matt, his words almost drowned out by the wind and spray hitting his face.

  A wave rolled over the surface of the deck; the boat was struggling to stay above the surface.

  I can feel her slipping beneath my feet.

  Matt worked with Reid and Cooksley to lash the crates to the dinghy, each crate packed tightly to the next one. As they worked, the boat was starting to sway and heave as the waves broke closer to its deck. Matt looked out into the horizon. Total darkness. The boat was wobbling like a jelly beneath his feet. He slashed at the ropes securing the dinghy. Behind him he could hear a giant sucking sound, like water disappearing from a bath but amplified a hundred times.

  I've never heard a boat sinking before, he thought. But I bet it sounds something like that.

  The crates took up the entire dinghy. 'Pull on life jackets,' shouted Matt. 'We might have to swim for it.'

  He tightened one of the jackets around his waist and dived into the water. Two ropes were dangling from the dinghy. He grabbed one, holding on to it, and kicked his legs to keep his head above water. Wave after wave broke over his head, pushing him below the surface of the ocean.

  I can survive out here, but not for long. If the dinghy goes down then we are all fucked. And it's dangerously low because of the weight it is carrying.

  Matt glanced around. Ivan was holding on to another rope. Reid and Cooksley were bobbing about in the water, taking huge gulps of air every time their heads broke free of the waves.

  Now I know why Buhner wanted us to practise our swimming.

  Struggling to keep his head above water, Matt realised he could hear it before he could see anything – the noise of an engine, the sound broken up by the waves, but growing steadily louder. Behind him, he could hear the hull of the boat cracking, and saw one half disappear into the sea. Another hour, and all trace of it would be gone.

  A light shone in the distance. Damien, thought Matt. He watched as the searchlight moved rapidly towards them, beaming out across the sea. Matt raised his hand into the air, waving it frantically, before remembering that they had blacked up faces and had worn black wetsuits to make sure no one could see them. That worked both ways. Damien wasn't going to see a hand in the water.

  'There should be a flare,' shouted Ivan. 'See if you can reach it.'

  Matt levered himself up to the side of the dinghy and peered over the rim. At the back, there was a small box with a red cross marked on it. Medical supplies, thought Matt. And maybe flares.

  Pulling himself into the boat, he reached into the box. Bandages, disinfectants, antibiotics, aspirin.

  For fuck's sake, who needs this rubbish?

  Flares, he noticed, grabbing them. He held the gun high over his head, firing the flare into the sky, watching as it hung like a firework over the ocean. Beneath its fierce light he could see the boat vanishing underneath the waves. And he could see their own ship, maybe four hundred metres away.

  Matt perched on the edge of the dinghy, watching while Damien steered his craft closer towards them.

  It pulled up alongside, and Damien killed the engines. His searchlight was turned on to the water, picking out the crates and the four men.

  'You blokes look like you could use a cup of tea,' he said.

  ELEVEN

  The clouds had cleared, revealing a sky of bright stars whose light settled on the pure sand and the dark blue water. Matt paced along the shoreline, the waves lapping at his feet. There could be few better spots, he reflected, in which to collect your fortune. It reminded him of how much he loved the Mediterranean.

  Wherever Gill and I decide to make our home, it will be somewhere looking over this sea. The water is in my veins.

  'That's it!' said Reid at his side.

  Matt followed the line of Reid's finger, pointing out to sea. The cargo ship was steaming slowly into the bay. 'Get the dinghy and trucks ready,' he said.

  Matt felt tired but invigorated. After the last night the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins. Damien had fished them all out of the water and they had loaded the crates on to their own boat. They had waited for an hour, watching as the last remnants of the al-Qaeda ship disappeared beneath the waves. They wanted to make sure it was safely at the bottom of the sea, since a floating wreck would be discovered within a few hours. Then they sailed back to Cyprus, cleaning themselves up on the boat. Damien laid anchor a kilometre from the coast, while the rest of them went ashore in the dinghy. The plan had been for Damien to stay with the loot overnight: it would be safer to keep it at sea than on dry land. He would meet them at the bay at two o'clock the following night to transfer the crates into the Land Rovers and then on to the cargo boat bound for Rotterdam.

  Reid had insisted on staying with Damien – both he and Cooksley were suspicious about letting the money out of their sight, and wanted at least one of them to stay on the boat. Matt had to work hard to make sure Ivan didn't stay as well: it might create suspicions, he told them, if none of them made it back to the hotel.

  The team finally stumbled back into the hotel at five in the morning, exhausted but in high spirits. As far as the receptionist was concerned, it was just a stag party returning after an all-night bender. They went to their rooms, but it took Matt a couple of hours before he could get off to sleep. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind: how quickly can we get the money, how soon can I pay off my debts, how long before I see Gill again?

  All of them woke late, and spent the day lounging around the pool. The team now looked tired and haggard; none of them had slept for more than a couple of hours. But they were also happy and relaxed, noticed Matt. They were all coming together. There was, he decided, nothing like the combination of danger and success to create camaraderie between men.

  And now, here's the pay-off.

  The ship was within sight. Damien was at anchor two hundred metres from the shore, with Reid at his side. Matt pushed out the dinghy to meet him, Cooksley and Ivan remaining on the secluded beach preparing the two Land Rovers. The dinghy bounced through the waves and pulled up alongside. Matt cast up a rope for Damien to catch and clambered up on to the ship.

  'We've made it,' he said, thumping Damien on the back.

  'Well, Reid and I thought about turning around and sailing straight for Argentina,' said Damien. 'But then I thought – nah, I'd miss Camberwell.'