by Chris Ryan
'I'm worried about my family, Matt,' Reid said. 'I need to get them away from Hereford.'
'Where?'
'Up in Derbyshire – my uncle owns a small lodge in the Peak District. It's tucked away, quiet. I reckon we could stay there for a few days.'
'Could Damien go with you?'
Reid nodded. 'What about you?'
'You and Damien go and hide for a few days,' Matt said. 'I'll go off with Ivan. Damien and you can watch each other's backs, and as long as Ivan doesn't know where you are I reckon you'll be OK. Stick together at all times, and the assassin won't be able to touch you. Damien is as good a man in a fight as anyone in the Regiment.'
'And you?'
'Like I said, I'll keep an eye on Ivan,' said Matt, 'watch him like a hawk.'
And I'm going to question him about that missing tape.
Matt glanced at his watch before punching the number into the payphone. It was just after ten in the morning, an hour later in southern Spain. The Dandelion playgroup should be on its mid-morning break.
Someone answered. 'Is Gill there?' Matt asked.
'Is that Matt?'
He recognised the voice: Sandy, one of Gill's colleagues. 'Yes,' he replied. 'Please get her for me, will you?' He looked out to the car park. Damien and Reid were climbing into a taxi, heading for the station. They were going to get the train back up to Herefordshire, collect Reid's car, then drive up to Derbyshire with Jane and the kids. They should be all right, Matt reflected. They're both good men, well able to look after themselves.
'Matt, is that you?' said Gill. 'Where are you?'
Matt cupped the receiver. It felt good to hear her voice: she was the only woman he had ever met who could make him feel better just by speaking. 'I can't say,' he replied. 'I just wanted to check in and see if you are OK.'
'What's happening to you, Matt?' she said, her voice full of anxiety. 'What are you doing?'
'Work, that's all,' Matt replied. 'Security stuff- but it's all gone a bit pear-shaped. I need a few more days to sort things out... I just wanted to check you were OK.'
There was a pause. Matt didn't need to be able to see her face to tell what Gill was thinking: anger and confusion were in her voice. 'Some men were hanging about watching us a couple of days ago,' she replied slowly. 'I was walking home with Sandy, and they gave us the jitters. They didn't whistle or jeer or anything, just watched.'
Christ, thought Matt. Kazanov's boys. Or worse. 'Anyone talks to you or approaches you in the next few days, stay out of their way.'
'What's happening, Matt?' she said quickly. 'No one's coming after me, are they?'
Matt hesitated. 'Let's just say the next few days are a bit tense for me,' he replied. 'Anything starts to happen, pack your bags and go away for a few days. Everything will be OK in a few days, I promise.' He paused, holding the phone closer to his mouth. 'Trust me, Gill. Everything will be all right.'
The Prince of Wales in Dalling Road, just off the Hammersmith Broadway, was a dark and gloomy pub. The yuppiefication of the 1980s and 1990s had passed it by. There were no stripped pine floors, no racks of Australian Chardonnay or South African Shiraz lining the walls. No ciabatta burgers chalked up on the wall. Just frayed and tatty red velvet chairs, a beer-soaked carpet and a barmaid who'd never see fifty again.
Matt could have used somewhere more cheerful. He needed something to lighten his mood. His nerves were still shaken and his head was aching from the lack of sleep. Still, Ivan had wanted to come here.
In moments of danger, we go back to the places we know.
'I'm worried,' said Ivan, pulling up a barstool.
'We're all fucking worried.'
They had taken the train down from Reading. Matt had left his car parked in a side street – he'd pick it up after all this was over, if some of the local villains hadn't nicked it. For the next five days – until the boat arrived in Rotterdam and they could unload their loot – none of them wanted to do anything that would reveal their locations. That meant not driving their own cars, not using their own houses, not using their own credit cards, and not phoning anyone on a mobile.
'I know.' Ivan took a sip on the pint in front of him. 'But I think the Provos might be after me.'
'The videotape said it was al-Qaeda that killed Cooksley,' said Matt. 'They wanted to frighten us – and they want their money back.
'The other tape – the one from the boat – it went missing,' he continued. 'Alison reckons one of us took it.'
Ivan looked at him, a question playing in his eyes.
Either a great actor, or else he's surprised, Matt reckoned.
'Why would anyone do that?' Ivan asked.
Matt drummed his fingers on the table. 'Beats me,' he said. He looked directly towards Ivan. 'Did you take it?'
'No,' Ivan said clearly. 'Why would I do that?'
Matt shrugged.
'It's a feint,' Ivan continued. 'Let me explain a concept from bridge.'
Matt rolled his eyes. 'For fuck's sake,' he muttered.
'You have some high diamonds, but you need to get rid of the other fellows' ace to win those tricks. You play a dummy card, misleading the other players, and try to force their card out of them.' He paused, glancing through the pub, making sure he couldn't be heard. 'I can't help feeling that Cooksley's murder was a dummy.'
'Provos posing as al-Qaeda? That's bloody ridiculous.'
'Not if they want to get at me, Matt. I think they suspect I've been turned. They know about a robbery – but how much do they know? After all, what would I be doing on a job with a bunch of SAS boys?'
'You're saying they took out Cooksley to flush you out. Why not just go straight to you?'
'I don't know. Perhaps they didn't know where I was, but they knew where Cooksley was,' Ivan replied. 'Then I'm next.'
'You're imagination is working overtime, Ivan.'
Ivan paused. 'There's a man near here who could tell us whether it's the Provos,' said Ivan. 'If you don't mind getting into a fight.'
'Fighting,' said Matt, smiling for the first time since they had sat down. 'It's the only thing I've ever been any good at.'
They finished their drinks then walked slowly along the Dalling Road. It was about a mile, said Ivan – up towards Ravenscourt Park. Hammersmith and Acton had always been strong IRA areas in London. There were a lot of Irish there – always had been – but it was a lot less obvious than Kilburn and didn't have the same levels of Special Branch surveillance. There were several IRA safe houses in the area: places where men on missions in the capital could store themselves away for a few days. They were run by a man called Keith Whitson, an old Provo fighter who had moved to London in the late 1970s. If anyone was chasing after Ivan in Britain, he would know about it.
'But we'll have to beat the information out of him,' said Ivan.
'I thought the Provos never crack under torture,' said Matt.
'Whitson's not an active brigade man,' said Ivan. 'More of a housekeeper. He's tough, sure, but not as tough as the soldiers. I can't guarantee he'll talk – but it's the best chance we have of finding out what's going on.'
Unless it's a trap, thought Matt. Maybe he's leading me into a house full of his Provo mates to finish me off. Just like they finished off Cooksley.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Matt had never liked this part of town: too many grey Victorian terraces, too much snarling traffic and not enough green spaces. If he had to be in London, he liked the centre, or the bits of Camberwell and Deptford where he had grown up. Nobody ever went on holiday to Camberwell, but at least it was home.
Some of the paint was scratched away from the surface of 16 Cedar Road. Whatever the Provos were up to these days, Matt noted, it wasn't DIY. The frames of the windows needed painting, and some of the brickwork was starting to flake away. Still, it was designed for safety, not for comfort.
'Let me talk,' said Ivan, and Matt stood silently behind him.
I'm not going inside until I'm certain it's not a t
rap.
The man who answered the door looked about fifty to fifty-five. His hair was greying and thinning, and deep lines were etched into the surface of his skin. Even though the years had ground away at him there was no fat on him, and his eyes were rock hard. 'Yes?' he said, holding the door ajar.
Matt noticed that his foot was barring the entrance, stopping anyone from rushing inside once the door was ajar. A professional.
'Ivan Rowe,' Ivan said quickly. 'A few years ago I was blowing some safes for the family.'
Whitson looked carefully at his face, scrutinising it as if he were looking at a forged bank note. 'Who's your friend?' he asked.
'I'll tell you inside,' said Ivan. 'I'm Portrush brigade. I need some help.'
The door opened slightly wider, and Matt and Ivan stepped into the dark hallway. A single light was shining in the kitchen towards the back of the house, but otherwise the building was shrouded in darkness. The walls were covered in faded paper, with one or two damp patches evident on the ceiling. The carpet was frayed and worn, and there was a stack of old papers and magazines filling the hall. A smell of old boiled potatoes filtered through from somewhere.
Matt hesitated before stepping inside – but the man had seemed so suspicious of Ivan, it looked unlikely to be a trap.
I'll take my chances.
'I won't be offering you a cup of tea because I don't think you'll be lingering,' said Whitson, revealing a set of grey and broken teeth. 'You can state your business and then be on your way.'
'I think there's a gang after me,' said Ivan bluntly. 'The family suspects I've been disloyal, and they've sent some cousins to sort me out. If there was a nutting squad over here, you'd know about it. I need to speak with them, tell them it's a mistake, sort the whole thing out.'
'And have you been disloyal?'
Ivan shook his head. 'I have not,' he replied.
'But you would say that, wouldn't you?' Whitson said slowly. 'After all, we know what the family thinks about cousins who want to leave.'
'If you just tell me where they are, I can speak to them,' said Ivan. 'If I convince them I'm OK, they can let me go. If not, they can kill me there and then. Either way, it saves them the trouble of finding me.'
Whitson leant towards him, his jaw open. Matt could smell fried onions on his breath. 'Your name again, sonny?'
'I told you once,' said Ivan, 'I don't need to tell you again.'
'Ivan Rowe,' said Whitson, rolling the words over his tongue. 'I don't think I've heard anything about you. You can be on your way.'
Ivan's fist collided with the man's stomach, Matt, just like the victim, was surprised by the speed and force of the punch. Whitson doubled up in pain, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. His eyes rolled up towards Ivan, and he tried to move away. Another fist collided with the back of his neck, sending him crashing to the floor, spluttering for breath. 'Tell me who's looking for me, and then I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan shouted.
'No one's looking for you, you idiot,' Whitson snarled, spitting on to the floor.
The side of Ivan's foot smashed into his ribcage. Matt could hear the sound of a bone snapping, and Whitson's face screwed up in pain. 'Tell me!' shouted Ivan.
'Fuck off! There's no one!' Whitson screamed.
'Hold him down,' said Ivan, glancing towards Matt.
Matt knelt, half his weight on Whitson's chest, pinning back both his arms. At his side, Ivan slapped the back of his hand hard against the man's face. Matt winced. He could smell the vomit rising in the man's throat. He's an old guy, he thought. There's not much punishment in him.
'Keep holding him,' Ivan said curtly.
Matt dug an elbow into Whitson's chest, crushing the air from his lungs and pinning him to the floor. He moved his hand up across the neck, and used the back of his hand to force Whitson's mouth open. He could hear him struggling for air.
'Tell me where they are!' shouted Ivan.
Whitson coughed. 'There's nobody looking for you, I swear it.'
Ivan smashed his fist into Whitson's face. Matt could feel the force of the blow trembling through the old man's body.
If that doesn't make him talk, nothing will.
'There's no fucking hit squad after you,' croaked Whitson.
'Just tell me where they are, and I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan said coldly.
'There's no one, you have to believe me.'
'Hold the fucker harder,' said Ivan, looking towards Matt.
'There's nothing,' Whitson hissed, the voice gradually trailing away to a whimper. 'There's nothing.'
'I think he might be telling the truth,' said Matt, looking up at Ivan.
But Ivan slammed his fist into the man's face once again, cutting open the skin. Whitson wriggled, then Matt could feel him falling completely still. There was no sound at all. Matt put his hand up over the man's mouth, but could feel nothing.
'Christ,' he said, looking up at Ivan. 'He's dead.'
'Weak heart,' said Ivan matter-of-factly. 'Common with a man of that age, particularly when they eat too much fatty food. The pain builds up the blood pressure, and the heart cuts out. Happens all the time.'
Ivan's capacity for sudden, explosive violence was one side of the man's character Matt had not expected. 'As if we weren't in enough trouble already,' he said.
Ivan stepped away, into the darkness. 'But I think he was telling the truth,' he said. 'There's nobody looking for me.'
Matt stood up. 'You killed the man –just like that?' he said.
'Once we start questioning him, he knows we think someone is looking for us,' said Ivan, looking closely at Matt. 'That means we've definitely done something. If we let him live, someone will be looking for us.' He shrugged, walking back towards the kitchen. 'Anyway, he's a Provo, you're SAS. I thought you liked killing Irishmen.'
Just as we used to say in the Regiment – once a mission starts going wrong, it keeps going wrong.
Ivan was rummaging around in the cupboard. 'Stop getting in a flap,' he continued. 'We needed to find out whether the Provos were on to us, and we've done that. And we need somewhere safe to hole up for a few days.'
'You think we should stay here?'
Ivan flicked a switch on the kettle. 'You wanted a safe house,' he said. 'Well, now you've got one.'
FIFTEEN
Matt fished the mobile out of his pocket, glancing down at the display. It was Reid. He jabbed his thumb against the answer button. 'You OK?' he said quickly.
'A bit bruised, but still breathing,' said Reid.
'What happened?'
There was a pause on the line.
Right now, anything could happen.
'Your poofy pal, Damien,' said Reid, the words twisting on his lips. 'He's buggered off.'
'What?' Matt slumped back against the wall. He was sitting on the floor of the kitchen in Cedar Road. Ivan was brewing up a pot of tea. Ahead of him, Whitson's body was lying stretched out on the floor, waiting to be disposed of.
'Tell me about it,' he said.
The story took about ten minutes to tell, interrupted by some noises in the background from the children. The two men had driven together to Reid's house in Herefordshire, collected Jane and the kids, then driven across country towards the Peak District. In total, they had been driving for about six hours: three hours from London to Herefordshire, then another three hours by the time they arrived in Derbyshire. They stopped briefly in Derby, because Damien said he wanted to rent a car so he had his own transport – after that, he had followed them in a rented Peugeot 205. Reid had been exhausted by the time they got there. Jane had put the kids to bed, then rustled up some chicken and rice for supper. Reid had reckoned they would have a couple of beers to relax, then get some sleep. 'But Damien announces that he has to go out,' Reid continued.
