by Chris Ryan
With a brief smile he wound up the window and started turning the car. The killing won't stop until only one man is left standing, reflected Matt – the advice Heuhle had just given him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, looking out for the main road, and wondering how long it would be until he hit the turning for Calais.
Well then, I just have to make sure that man is me.
EIGHTEEN
Home, thought Matt, as he glanced up at the first of the familiar green-and-white British road signs.
It was pitch dark when he pulled out of the Eurotunnel. From Rotterdam he had driven due east, hitting the main road, and not stopping until he'd reached Calais. It was after midnight by then, and the terminal had been mostly deserted – truckers used the train at that time of the night to take advantage of the cheap rates, and a few frugal tourists, but there was plenty of space, and he had no trouble getting a ticket. He had drunk a couple of cups of machine coffee as he'd waited for his number to be called: it tasted like powdered sawdust, but he'd needed something to keep himself awake through the next few hours. As the caffeine kicked in, he'd steered the car into the carriage. For the twenty-minute journey he had sat alone in the car, composing himself and arranging his thoughts.
There was still no sign of Ivan, nor any word from him. The man was planning a hit later on. Perhaps when they split up the money. Or else he was completely innocent, and was just waiting for his share. It was impossible to tell, realised Matt.
But my life may still depend on getting the answer right.
Matt's heart had been thumping as he'd steered the car out of the train and back on to dry land. His hands were sweaty, and his throat dry. He'd glanced nervously at the customs office as he'd driven into a nothing-to-declare lane. He'd slowed the car down, keeping his eyes rooted to the black tarmac of the road, trying to act as casually as he could.
A few officers had been on duty, but they had seemed to be more on the lookout for asylum seekers and cigarette smugglers. Not men with five bags of used notes in their boot.
Strictly speaking, Matt decided, there is probably nothing technically illegal about carrying ten million across the border in cash. But you could be sure that if they found it, they would know you were guilty of something.
Matt glanced in the mirror. The customs post was now safely in the distance, and there was no sign of anyone running after him. He switched the headlights on to high beam and tapped the accelerator, taking the car up to seventy as he hit the M20. He didn't want to risk being stopped for speeding, not with ten million in his boot.
A few minutes' drive, and then I'll be there.
At junction ten he turned on to the A28, heading south towards Tenterden. Two miles along that road he turned sharply to the right. He drove for another mile up a B road, then turned left along a stretch of farming track that led across three fields to a small meadow abutted by woodland. Even in the darkness, as Matt struggled to find his way along the lane in the pitch blackness, this was a place full of strong memories. Damien and he had spent a holiday near here when they were about seven, when both of their fathers were still alive. For several days they'd camped, built fires and constructed dams across streams. They were days that Matt still kept among the happiest of his memories. They had been back here a few times together since, in their teens and twenties, when Matt was back on leave from the Regiment. It was their own personal hiding place, somewhere they could come together and get away from their day-to-day life. A place where they could drink beer and just be boys again.
Maybe that was why Matt had chosen to stash some gear here. Sentimental perhaps – but it was as good a spot as any.
And a man never knows when he might need some weapons.
The wood was just as he remembered it. It was hidden away from the road, and although in the distance you could just see the lights of Ashford, it wasn't overlooked by any houses. The nearest farm building was at least three miles away. Safe, secret, and hidden away. Perfect.
A gust of wind lashed his face as he stepped out of the car. He collected a spade from the boot and walked silently across the ground, counting out the trees. It was the fourth one along from the fence that he wanted. He stepped behind it, kicking his shoe in the mud. It had been churned up by some rain during the day. He knelt, digging his hands into the ground, starting to scratch away at the surface. Nothing had been disturbed. It would be just as they had left it.
It was hard not to think of Damien as he dug. He could see the face and hear the words of his friend as he worked. He had only ever been here with him, and the wood was fresh and alive with his friend's memories. If Damien had a ghost, it would be these woods he would haunt.
The box was just where they had left it: a four-foot green metal ammunition box they had picked up in an army surplus store in Ashford. Matt pulled it free of the trench. From his wallet, he pulled out a tiny padlock key and slid it into the lock. The padlock came away smoothly in his hand. He lifted the open case, glancing inside. The gear was all there – a Beretta 92FS pistol and a Browning 9mm, complete with ten magazines of ammunition each, plus ten sticks of dynamite, a pair of sticks of C4 explosive, complete with detonators. It was material Damien had acquired, and decided to put it in a safe place in case they ever needed it.
Matt picked the Beretta up, feeling its weight in his hand. It had seemed a bit of a joke at the time they had stashed this stuff away: Damien might have expected to be on the run one day, but Matt had been still a loyal soldier in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, and never expected to be doing anything illegal. Still, he had figured there was no harm in stashing a weapon away: everyone in the Regiment knew that old retired soldiers went into the security game, and a gun might come in handy in that business. 'You were right,' said Matt, muttering the words out loud to his dead friend. 'A man never knows when he needs a pistol and a few rounds of ammo.'
He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his jacket, took the spade and walked back to the car. He collected the bags from the car, walked into the woods a few yards, and started digging. The trench, he reckoned, needed to be three to four feet deep: far enough underground that some stray dog wouldn't start sniffing it, but not so far down that it might be impossible to retrieve later.
The money would be hidden for just two days.
Until I have dealt with. Ivan, and until Reid can collect his share. Until the day we agreed we'd meet up and share out the spoils of our war.
He pitched his spade into the earth, slamming it down to break open the mud. Shovelling was hard, heavy work, even in the cold of night. After a few spadefuls Matt cast aside his coat, sweat forming on his brow as he dug. After twenty minutes, the hole was complete: a neat trench, four feet long and three feet deep. Well, thought Matt, looking down into the pit, this is the spot. In Bideford we said we'd put the money here if anything went wrong, and I'm sticking to that plan.
Time to bury the treasure.
Sallum trained his binoculars on to the edge of the fence. It was dark, but there was just enough light in the sky for him to see what was going on. Rami was crouching down low, the pliers in his hand, cutting his way swiftly through the wire mesh. The boy gripped a handful of steel and tore at it as if it were a piece of paper. Smart, thought Sallum, a wry smile playing across his lips. If you want to make absolutely sure you trigger the alarms, that's the way to do it.
He could see the boy push himself through the hole he'd made, making his body small, and wriggle across the dry earth. His shirt snagged on the wire and he had to turn to rip the cloth free. Then he stood, looking towards the house forty yards away. The land between was covered in immaculate lawn and flowerbeds, with two fountains closer to the building. It had been designed carefully, Sallum observed from his perch high on the hill. Between the fence and the house there was no cover a man could use. Any obstacles that would restrict the line of sight of the guards had been stripped away. All Rami could do was crawl slowly along the ground, keep his head down, and hope for the best.
> He has faith, Sallum reflected. That will give him the courage.
He watched as Rami started to crawl forwards. The rifle was still slung over his back, and his hands were moving swiftly across the ground. Up ahead, at the side entrance to the house, Sallum could see the door swinging open. He switched his binoculars up an inch, focusing on the man emerging from the house. About six feet tall, he was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, with black body armour strapped around his chest and a pistol in one hand, a rifle hung across his shoulders and a knife tucked into the buckle of his belt. He was twenty yards from where Rami was crawling forwards, ignorant of his presence.
You can protect yourself against most forms of attack, Sallum thought, watching as Reid approached the boy – but you can't protect yourself against a man who is committing suicide. The ultimate price will always claim the ultimate victory.
Sallum checked both his P7 pistols were secured to his body and fully loaded. He unclasped a knife from his belt, holding it in his hand, then started moving swiftly down the side of the hill.
Time to sever another limb.
There were only a few customers at the Road Chef service station on the M20. Matt sat down at a plastic table, ordered himself a full English breakfast with extra toast and coffee, and glanced through the restaurant. A few truckers, stopping off after bringing their trucks off the ferries, a few stray German and Dutch tourists, and one young family who, from the noise the kids were making, were on their way to Disneyland Paris.
He checked his watch –just after five-twenty in the morning. He scanned the restaurant to check no one was watching him. It was still impossible to say whether Ivan had put a trail on him or not.
After burying the loot, Matt had climbed back into the car and started driving. He had called Reid briefly to let him know the transfer had gone smoothly, and that the money was safely stashed away in the location they'd agreed upon down in Bideford. He'd given him precise co-ordinates of the location and directions of how to find it; if anything happened to him in the next few hours, the money belonged to Reid and his family.
Reid had been furious with him for slipping away, bursting into a rage and hurling a thousand insults at him, but eventually calming down when he realised that the money was safe – and that Matt wouldn't be calling if he'd been planning to steal it. Still, Matt had been grateful to hear he was still alive, and as he talked to him he'd become more certain that Ivan must be the traitor among them. If it was Reid, he wouldn't have been so desperate to protect his family – there would be nothing to protect them from. And there had been no more hits on the gang since they'd told the Irishman to get lost.
The food arrived at the table: a steaming plate of sausages, bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. Matt took a gulp of coffee and stuffed down a couple of mouthfuls of bacon, then he pushed the plate away. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Ivan or his accomplice was about to hit him.
When you feel certain someone might be about to try and kill you, it's funny how your appetite abandons you.
Matt checked his watch again. Five twenty-eight. He watched the faces of the people in the restaurant. A pair of truckers had just walked in, one glancing through a copy of the Express, the other talking on his mobile. No sign of Ivan. I suppose he might not come himself, he thought. He'll send his accomplice, whoever that might be: some psychotic kicked out of the IRA for excessive cruelty. It could be any of these people here, just sitting, eating their breakfast, silently preparing the bullet that wall kill me or polishing the blade that will slit my throat.
Five-thirty. Matt reached for a slice of toast and started chewing on it. His throat felt dry and it was difficult to swallow. Fights he could handle – it was the waiting he hated, the moments of silence and reflection before the inevitable conflict.
He tried Gill on the mobile. He knew it was early in the morning in Spain, but he wanted to hear from her: not to ask her to take him back – he was starting to give up hope on that – but just to make sure she was OK. He needed to hear the sound of her voice.
Why isn't she answering? he asked himself as he hung up on the twentieth ring.
Five thirty-four. One of the truckers was glancing up in Matt's direction. Is it you? he asked himself. His eyes flickered towards one of the tourists. You? Or that family – maybe the kids are just cover, maybe you're planning to knife me in the car park.
In his jacket pocket, Matt was fingering the cold, steel case of the Beretta. Come out of the shadows, Ivan, he muttered to himself. Let's get this done.
He tried another piece of toast but found himself incapable of swallowing anything and spat the food out. Walking across to the payphone, he slipped some coins into the box then punched the number into the keypad. He listened to the slow, insistent ringing of the phone. In his mind, he could see the dark corridor in Hammersmith of the IRA safe house, Whitson's body rotting somewhere and Ivan pacing around or playing another stupid game of bridge on the computer. Answer the phone, man, Matt repeated to himself. I know you're there.
He hung up the phone on the twentieth ring, pressing re-dial instantly. The ringing tone again. Still no reply. Then he punched in the mobile number for Ivan, waited for the connection, and hung up when he heard the familiar voicemail message kick in.
Okay, Ivan, he thought to himself, we'll play it your way. If you won't come and get me, I'll just have to come and get you.
Sallum moved closer to the perimeter of the fence, making little sound as he walked. He kept his eyes trained on Rami, still crouching on the ground, still unaware of the man from the house walking towards him. Their confrontation could only be a few seconds away. This was the moment to strike.
A shot rang out, the sound piercing the still of the dawn. Sallum glanced up. Rami had fired, but missed. A mistake.
In any gun battle, the man who shoots first is almost always the loser.
Sallum ducked silently through the hole Rami had cut in the fence. He swerved to the right, intending to approach the house from the back while Rami was still distracting the man at the front of the house. He was dressed completely in black, no more visible in the darkness than a shadow flickering across the ground. Looking up towards the house, he realised that it occupied maybe five thousand square feet: a massive building, and he would have only a few minutes inside to find and kill the family while the man was distracted by Rami.
He could hear another shot. He couldn't see, but he knew it meant either Rami was protecting his position, or he had lost the initiative. It could only be a matter of moments before he was killed.
No matter. His work was done, and his sacrifice worthwhile.
The door from which the man had exited the house had been left ajar, just as Sallum had expected it to be. A man who sees an assailant on his way to kill him and his family doesn't have time to fish around for keys or shut doors behind him; he wants to leave a quick way back for himself should he need it.
Sallum heard the sound of another shot, then a scream. Rami had been hit but not killed. Over the years, Sallum had learnt to distinguish the screams of a wounded man and a dying man. The boy was young and strong, and could take a couple more bullets – there was time left.
Sallum slipped inside the building. He moved through the kitchen towards the main living room. Nobody there. He ran upstairs – that was where the family would be sleeping. He checked two bedrooms, both empty. In the third, the woman was sitting up in bed, a sheet raised to cover her body. The two children were lying at her side, both of them asleep. Her blue eyes moved up, meeting his. He could see the fear, but also confusion, terror. Silently, without moving her lips, she was pleading for mercy – but she already knew she would be rejected.
Sallum smiled, raised the silenced P7 and aimed. He knew the noise might alert the man downstairs to what was happening, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it.
He could see the woman moving instinctively to protect not herself but her children; she seemed to want to he
across them like a warm, smothering blanket.
The gun jumped in Sallum's hand as he fired first once, then twice.
The first bullet hit her just above the left eye, sending her head spinning and a splash of blood colliding with the back wall. The second bullet hit her on the left breast, smashing into her heart. Blood started to seep from the open wound as she slumped forward.
