Greed

by Chris Ryan

  Matt laughed. 'And we'd have to track you down and kill you as well.'

  'I believe you would too,' grinned Damien.

  The work was slow and hot, but none of them minded. Their spirits were high. Each crate had to be loaded on to the dinghy and steered back to shore. That took three trips. Then they opened up each case, wrapped the trays of diamonds and the bars of gold in tissue paper, and stowed them away inside the hulls of the Land Rovers. Both cars were already loaded on to the back of a truck, their engines removed, ready to be taken down to the docks. They had been parked behind a high sandbank to keep them out of sight of any passing traffic. There was not much chance of anyone seeing them: the beach was at the end of a dirt road leading nowhere, and Ivan had cased the location two mornings running to be sure it had no visitors.

  Unpacking the crates and transferring the gear, Reid and Cooksley struck up a chorus of the Good Ship Venus: 'We sailed to the Canaries, to screw the local fairies, we got the syph in Tenerife and the clap in Buenos Aires,' they sang in a deep, rolling baritone. By the next verse, Matt, Ivan and Damien had all joined in: 'We sailed to the Bahamas, where the girls all wear pyjamas, they wouldn't screw our motley crew, they much preferred bananas.'

  The song completed, all five men stood around laughing. Matt put the last of the gold bars into the Land Rover, then stood back from the truck. 'There's one more thing I want to do,' he said.

  In his hand, Matt held one tray with six diamonds in it. He took them out one by one, holding them in his hand, admiring the way they caught and reflected the light from the stars, then handed one to each man. 'Let's keep one of these each as a souvenir,' he said. 'Give them to our wives or girlfriends.'

  'You could give one to that cute waiter in the hotel,' said Reid.

  'That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble,' Damien said.

  They all took one diamond, slipping them into their pockets. 'One left,' said Cooksley.

  'Why don't we give it to that barmaid at the hotel,' said Reid, laughing. 'I reckon she'd shag all five of us for one of these sparklers.'

  'Or Alison,' said Ivan. 'She gave us this job. I reckon one of these would look good around her neck.' 'Alison, yes,' said Matt. 'Let's keep one for her.'

  Matt turned the diamond over between his fingers, letting the sunshine from the window catch its light. 'Alison?' he said into the phone.

  'Matt,' she answered quickly. 'You OK?'

  'Never better,' he answered. 'The mission went like clockwork.'

  'Good work, Matt. When are you coming back?'

  Matt hesitated before answering. 'It will be a few days before we can get the goods fenced. We'll be in Rotterdam, then back in London.'

  'I'll plan a celebration,' said Alison. 'Maybe even cook you something.'

  Matt put down the phone and walked back into the sunshine. There was easiness to his mood he hadn't known for months. A burden had been lifted from his shoulders – the burden of debt and failure. He could walk more freely now.

  At a table next to the pool, the rest of the gang were collecting bottles of Keo, the local Cypriot beer. It wasn't the best Matt had ever tasted; nothing could beat the Filipino San Miguel he'd sampled when he'd spent two months fighting some communist insurgents in that country. But when the sun was shining and you were about to fold two million into your pocket, all the beer tasted sweet and all the girls looked good. Or was that the other way around?

  He collected a round from the bar and slammed the bottles down on the table. 'Get these down your necks, boys,' he said.

  'You're paying for a round, Matt,' laughed Damien. 'Now we know you've made a lot of money.'

  Ivan was shuffling a deck of cards, but Reid had already told him to forget it. They had better things to do than sit around playing games. Such as, Ivan had asked quizzically?

  'Drink beer, and work on my tan.'

  'And you?' Matt looked across at Ivan. 'What do you think you might do when we collect the money?'

  'I suspect I'm going to suffer from too many choices,' answered Ivan, putting his cards down on the table. 'I must become a different man, yet I will still be who I am, with the same wife, and the same children.'

  'Translate that into English for us,' said Reid

  'I can go anywhere, and be anyone,' said Ivan. 'So I reckon I'll go to Boston, somewhere around there. There's a good Irish community, the air is clean, and it's not too hot. But I don't know. I might feel differently tomorrow. How about you?'

  'Use the money to make more money, that's my plan,' said Reid. 'I'm through with working for other people. Building, that's what I want to do. Buy some land with planning permission, put up some new houses, sell them on. Try some barn conversions as well. There's always money in that game. You just need some capital to get started. Well, now I've got it.'

  'And what about you?' Ivan said, looking towards Cooksley.

  'California,' he replied. 'That's where Jane and I are going for a year. The kids are getting booked in for gene therapy. We'll spend the next year with them, doing everything we can to make sure they pull through.'

  'And when they recover?' said Matt. 'What then?'

  'I can't even think about that, Matt. Until I know whether the children are going to be OK, I can't focus on anything else.' He paused, sipping on his beer, lost in his own thoughts. 'And how about you, Damien. What's your plan?'

  'I'm with Reid,' Damien answered. 'Money is for building, not spending. Sure, I'll spend a bit, but the rest I'm going to invest. The gangs in London are wide open right now. There's an opportunity for one man to take charge, impose his will, bring some order to the city. With the right amount of capital, that could be me.'

  'The Godfather, right?' said Ivan gently.

  Damien swigged back the remains of his beer and reached for another bottle. 'Somebody get me a horse and a large carving knife.'

  'And you, Matt?' said Ivan. 'You've brought us all together here. What happens to your two million?'

  Matt glanced towards Damien. 'I get married, that's what,' he said firmly. 'A new Porsche, my own yacht, a gorgeous babe hanging off my arm, and nothing to do all day but run and drink beer, and I'm happy.'

  'We risk our lives to make all this money,' Ivan said,

  'and when we get it, we do things we could have done with much less.'

  'You're saying we don't need the money?' said Cooksley.

  Ivan shook his head. 'I'm just saying maybe it's the pursuit we enjoy, not the possession of it.'

  The night was drawing in, and the moon was already rising over the bay. Matt had just completed a five-mile run along the beach, picking his way through the tourists and the volleyball players, and the blood was pumping through his veins. He felt refreshed and relaxed. He had thought about it during the run, and his mind was made up. It was time to make the call.

  He finished his shower, dried himself off, then picked up the hotel phone. It sat in his hand, a small, inert lump of plastic and copper wire. He put it down, walked once around the room, paused to look at the sun setting on the horizon, then picked the phone up again.

  Christ, Matt. You killed at least two men last night. I can't believe you are frightened of calling a girl.

  'Gill,' he said into the receiver as she picked up the phone. 'Is that you?'

  There was a pause on the line. He could hear her breath, and he could imagine her expression, yet for several seconds she remained silent. 'Matt Browning,' she said eventually. 'The man who is too frightened to go through with his own wedding.'

  The words stung more than Matt had imagined they would. He'd always known this was going to be a tough conversation, but he'd thought she might have softened in the weeks since they had last spoken. 'That's not fair, Gill,' he said firmly.

  'Try telling all your girlfriends your wedding has been called off,' said Gill. 'You try taking your dress back to the shop, and calling up the cake-maker and the florist and all the rest of them, and telling them not to bother, your boyfriend can't be fagged to
go through with it.' He could hear her choking back the sobs. 'That's bravery, Matt. Not clearing off and leaving me to clear up the mess.'

  'I was in a jam, Gill,' said Matt. 'I could have been killed. So could you.'

  'What kind of a jam?' she said. 'What's happened to you?'

  'I can't tell you, Gill, it's against all the rules.'

  'You're not back with the Regiment, are you? I thought you were finished with all of that.'

  'No,' said Matt.

  'And where's Damien gone? I haven't been able to get him on the phone for days. He's not involving you in a bit of crime, is he?'

  Matt winced. 'No,' he replied. 'I can't talk about it, but it's almost over now. I just wanted to hear your voice and make sure you're OK. And to say, this will all be over in a week or so. I'll have my life back together.' He hesitated, allowing a moment for the words to sink in. 'When that happens, I want us to be together again.'

  Matt held the receiver in his hands. He couldn't be sure how many miles separated Cyprus from Marbella. They were at opposite ends of the Mediterranean. Yet, despite the distance, it was as if she were sitting right next to him. In his mind he could see her eyes and smell her hair. 'Gill,' he continued, 'would that be OK?'

  'You think you can just break off the engagement, piss off on some stupid mission, then call me up and say, oh, I think its back on again – with one phone call?' Her tone was starting to harden.

  'Two phone calls, then,' said Matt quickly. 'And a text message.'

  She hesitated, then laughed.

  First base, thought Matt.

  'Twenty phone calls, and the biggest diamond you ever saw,' said Gill. 'And then I might just think about it.'

  Well, at least that can be arranged.

  The street market in the centre of Limassol was thronging with people. The sun was beating down and there was a sharp smell of citrus fruits hanging in the air. Matt walked slowly through the crowds, his eyes scanning the stalls. Most of it was just the usual tourist junk: T-shirts, ornamental daggers, salad bowls and poorly made leather handbags. He paused over a knife, argued briefly with the shopkeeper about the price, then went on to the next stall.

  Somewhere around here there must be a piece of jewellery or something to wear that Gill would really appreciate.

  'Find anything?' said Cooksley.

  'Shopping for girls,' said Matt. 'Almost impossible. No way to tell what they like and don't like.'

  'Do you think Jane might like this?' Cooksley held up a brightly painted china salad bowl.

  'For Christ's sake, no.'

  The two men walked on in silence. Around them tourists were haggling, stallholders shouting, and a few locals out shopping. The sun was beating down, and as midday approached the temperature was starting to rise, but it was not yet uncomfortably hot. What's the rush? Matt thought. We've got a whole week to sit around Limassol buying presents. I might as well take my time. 'How about a beer down by the port?' he said. 'We can shop tomorrow or the next day.'

  It was a ten-minute walk, through the main tourist districts, down to where the boats docked. Matt had been stationed in Cyprus for a couple of months of his Army stint, and the docks were the part of town he liked best. He could sit for hours drinking a beer and watching the ferries that worked the Aegean Sea, connecting the hundreds of tiny islands scattered between here, Turkey and Greece.

  If I wasn't a soldier, I would have been quite happy to have been a ferryman. That's an honest, outdoor trade.

  They stepped into the street. A few metres in front of them, a Mitsubishi Shogun suddenly swerved away from the kerb, its engine revving furiously. Matt pulled Cooksley back, tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt, but it was too late – the car winged the side of his hip, sending him crashing on to the road, his body sprawled across the tarmac. The car stopped ten metres away as the driver slammed on the brakes. Matt started running towards it, shouting at the idiot at the wheel. Then he heard the sound of rubber screeching against tarmac and realised that the car was on the move again – in reverse.

  The bastard was trying to drive back over Cooksley.

  Matt dived on to the road, grabbed Cooksley by the neck and somehow managed to heave and roll his body across the road and into the gutter. He dived with him, and through the corner of his eye he saw the big, thick tyres of the Shogun crunching past him, missing them both by just a few inches. The driver slammed on the brakes again, the engine revved and roared as reverse was thrown into first gear, then the vehicle started moving forwards again. Matt had to use all his strength to roll a few more inches, drag both their bodies on to the pavement. Around him, he could hear people shouting and screaming. The Shogun's tyres slammed hard into the kerb and it bounced backwards. People started to crowd around them, but for a moment Matt could see the man sitting behind the wheel. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and Matt could feel the hatred pouring out of him.

  Then the Shogun reversed, turned and disappeared up the street.

  'What happened?' said Cooksley.

  'Somebody just tried to kill you,' said Matt.

  The mood around the table was sombre. They were sitting towards the back of the pool area, far enough away from the crowds that no one would hear what they were saying. Cooksley was wearing a bandage down the side of his face. He was bruised along his neck and arms, and there were plasters stuck on to three separate cuts. He would be OK, Matt had made sure of that. He had cleaned and dressed men with bullets through them, and a few cuts were not going to kill anyone. Certainly not a man of Cooksley's strength.

  'You're sure somebody was trying to kill you?' said Damien.

  'It was an attempted assassination, no question,' said Matt. 'We've all seen them close enough to know what they look like. This guy drove the car straight at Cooksley. Then he reverses, and tries to back over him. The first time could have been an accident. But the second time, no way.' He paused. 'Anyway, I saw his eyes. Looked like a rag-head.'

  Reid shook his head, banging his fist on the table. 'I say we find him and we kill him.'

  'Find him?' said Matt, shrugging. 'Where? He was driving a red Mitsubishi Shogun, I can tell you that. I didn't see the number plate – and anyway, I don't know how to trace cars in Cyprus.'

  'The question,' said Ivan, 'is who would want to kill Cooksley?' He looked towards him. 'Well?'

  Cooksley looked straight back. 'I don't know,' he answered. 'There isn't anybody, and anyway, nobody knows I'm here, except for us. Not even my wife.'

  'Al-Qaeda,' said Damien. 'They're on to us already.'

  'But how would they know it's us?' asked Cooksley. 'We killed all the buggers on the boat. Al-Qaeda have probably only just discovered it's missing. How the fuck could they find us?'

  'Maybe it's someone after our money,' said Matt. 'Maybe someone saw us stashing the gear into the Land Rover and decided to take a bit of it for themselves.'

  'What about your fence?' said Ivan to Damien. 'Does he know something?'

  'That couldn't happen,' snapped Damien.

  'He's a fucking gangster, isn't he?' said Reid. 'He knows we just nicked thirty million. He kills us off, and gets to pocket all of the loot for himself. Sounds like a good plan to me.'

  'It's not just soldiers that have standards,' Damien replied angrily. 'Villains have them too. Our code is even stronger than yours. It's impossible for a fence to do something like that – he'd be cutting his own throat.' He paused. 'Anyway, like I said, he doesn't know who or where we are. I haven't told him. All he knows is a big shipment is coming in next week. From somewhere. Anyway, Matt said it was an Arab.'