Greed (26 page)

Before getting on the tube he had tried Gill again, but there was no answer at her flat. He'd called the school and spoken to Sandy, but she said Gill wasn't there, hadn't been in for a couple of days, and she didn't know where she was or what she might be doing. Maybe getting over the bastard who broke her heart by cancelling the wedding, she'd added acidly before hanging up the phone.

Women, reflected Matt. Now there's a Regiment that really knows how to fight for one another.

Cross one, and you take on the whole damned army.

Next he'd tried Janey at the Last Trumpet. Everyone at the bar was fine, she told him. Business was OK for the time of year: they were between the Christmas and Easter rushes, so it was quiet but no more than she would expect. Some men had been in looking for him. Any sign of Gill? Matt had asked, cutting through the small talk. No, answered Janey. Hadn't been in, and no mention of her. Can you look? asked Matt. Ask the regulars in the bar, check with the local police, try anything you can. What's up? Janey had asked. Nothing, said Matt. Just trying to track her.

He could tell she didn't believe him.

It's not like Gill, Matt thought, turning up one of the side streets towards Ravenscourt Park. She wouldn't just take off like that. She wouldn't stop going into school without telling Sandy where she was and why. He could feel his heart sinking as he ran the calculations through his mind. They'd got to everyone else. Why not Gill as well?

Number sixteen Cedar Road looked no different from the last time he had seen it. The same peeling paintwork on the door, the same overflowing rubbish bins in the scruffy front garden. Matt pressed hard on the doorbell, then hammered at the door with the knocker. He knew exactly what he was going to say. It was time to get this finished.

'Christ, no need to wake up the whole bloody neighbourhood,' said Ivan, holding the door open.

Ivan was never a good-looking man. His eyes sloped away from his forehead, and his skin was blotchy and pale. But he looked worse now, Matt noticed. Like he hadn't been out for days, like he hadn't eaten – like he'd been cooped up with only a dead body for company. 'You look terrible,' said Matt. 'And in about five minutes you're going to look a lot worse.'

'Remind me to blackball you from the bridge club,' said Ivan. 'We'll wait until you polish up your social skills.'

'Don't smart-talk me,' Matt snapped, and stepped inside. The hallway had the same musty, decayed smell he recognised from the last time he'd been here. Underneath the floorboards, Keith Whitson's body was probably starting to rot from the bones, filling the rooms with the sickly perfume of death.

'I want some answers and I want them now,' Matt said. 'No fooling around, no double talk.' He took the Beretta from his pocket, holding it in his fist. 'You mess with me any more, I kill you.'

Ivan looked into his eyes, his expression switching between sympathy and contempt. He raised one hand, then walked through to the kitchen. Next to the sink, Matt could see a pile of unwashed plates, saucepans and coffee cups. On the table, the remains of some breakfast cereal were still lying in a bowl. Next to it a laptop was open, a bridge game displayed on its screen. Ivan leant over, thought for a second, then pressed a key, making the cards move. A smile flickered across his face. 'You know what?' he said, looking up. 'A good bridge player always keeps one trump card up his sleeve.'

He walked away from the table and stood directly in front of Matt. 'Reid is dead, isn't he?' he said flatly. 'I'm sorry. He might have been SAS but he seemed like a straight enough sort of guy.'

Matt's fist hammered straight into Ivan's stomach. He doubled over in pain, coughing, then pulled himself up, his expression indifferent. 'One of these days a little light is going to go off in your head, Matt,' he said calmly.

Matt delivered a swift uppercut, his knuckles knocking into the stubble of Ivan's jaw. The man reeled backwards under the force of the blow, wobbling on his feet, his arms flailing outwards to regain his balance. He took two steps back, rubbing his jaw with his hand: his lip had opened up and a trickle of blood had started to dribble down his chin.

'I told you, no clever talk,' Matt shouted. 'Just the truth.'

'OK,' said Ivan with a shrug. 'The truth is I've been here for the last five days, ever since Whitson died. I'm just lying low until you tell me our money is ready to collect. I haven't been out, and I haven't spoken to anyone. I don't know where you or Reid went. I didn't have anything to do with his death. That's the truth, plain and simple. You can take it or leave it.'

'Then how did you know he was dead just now?' Matt snarled.

Ivan tapped the side of his head. 'I have a brain in here somewhere, despite your best efforts to punch it out of me. I can still add two and two together and get the right answer. If Reid wasn't dead, you wouldn't be here.'

'You told me your family had been picked up by the Provos, but that was a lie,' said Matt. 'You've bed about everything right from the start.'

'Who told you that?' said Ivan cautiously.

'Alison.'

'Interesting,' answered Ivan.

'There were five us when we started, now there are two,' Matt continued angrily. 'Only the two of us knew who was in the gang, and where we all were. It's not me, so it has to be you.'

'I didn't even know where you and Reid were,' Ivan answered, his tone turning patronising. 'You already decided it was me days ago. Two more men have died since then. I even knew when and where the money was being fenced, and I didn't move out of this house. When are you going to realise, you and I are on the same side now?'

Matt held the Beretta up, pointing it directly at Ivan. 'If not you, then who?' he said. 'If you can't answer that question, I'm going to kill you right now.'

'Like I just said, a trump card,' said Ivan, smiling. He held up a micro-cassette. 'This is mine. It will tell you who's responsible for Cooksley's, Damien's and Reid's death, and who will probably be responsible for your death and mine before the week is out.' He paused, dangling the tape in front of Matt's eyes. 'Want to listen to it?'

Sallum first saw the woman through the tiny window of the cubicle. He had been waiting for three hours, sitting alone, with nothing to look at but four grey walls. The minutes had ticked slowly by, each one allowing him to make a calculation. Whoever they were sending to see him, she probably came from London. The local police wouldn't take this long to get here. That meant MI5.

I'm in more trouble than I thought.

He examined the woman as she stepped through the door. Like many European females, he observed, there was hardly an ounce of womanly flesh on her. She was tall and thin, with blonde hair that tumbled down the back of her neck. Her face was painted with lipstick and mascara, but the femininity of her appearance was all just decoration, Sallum judged: beneath the perfume and the lipstick, she would be made from metal as tough as any man's.

Only the sickest, most decadent of societies would turn a woman into a warrior. That is a man's work.

Harper stood behind her, remaining silent. 'Good afternoon,' the woman said, sitting down at the desk, looking coldly across at Sallum. 'My name is Alison Hammond.'

Sallum nodded. He could disapprove of a working woman, but he would not underestimate her. 'Why am I being held?'

'Prevention of Terrorism Act,' said Alison curtly. 'I think you have already been told that.'

'I am not a terrorist.'

'That's for you to prove, and me to judge,' answered Alison. 'Why are you in Manchester?'

'On business.'

'What business?'

'I've been through that with your colleague,' Sallum snapped. 'Why don't you ask him?'

'I like the sound of your voice,' said Alison. 'So you tell me, please.'

'Import, export,' answered Sallum. 'All perfectly legitimate. You can look at the records if you like. The Saudi embassy will be happy to help you.'

Alison unfolded the pad on the desk, then took out a photograph from a plain brown envelope and pushed it across the desk. It was a shot of Cooksley, taken when he was still in the Regiment, but showing only his head, and dressed in civilian clothes. 'Recognise this man?'

Sallum glanced downwards. He blinked. Then he realised that he'd been caught with his guard down – he had paused, and that had been a mistake. He looked back up at Alison, meeting her eyes with a stare of pure stone. 'No.'

Alison pushed another picture across the desk: Reid, in Regimental uniform. 'How about him?'

This time, Sallum didn't pause. 'No.'

'I don't think you looked at it properly,' Alison replied.

Sallum picked the photograph up with his fingers, holding it to the light, his eyes squinting. 'No.'

'Or these men?' Alison pushed across pictures of Damien, Ivan and Matt. Sallum scrutinised each one in turn, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said slowly. 'I'd like to help you, but I have never seen any of these men in my life.'

Alison nodded. Her eyes moved up to meet his, and he could tell she was scrutinising him, trying to break through the impassive exterior to find out what was happening within. But his mind was encased within walls of steel, and she would never break through.

You can't read me, infidel, any more than you could read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. I'm not from your world, and you know nothing about me.

'Let him go,' said Alison, looking up towards Harper. She glanced towards Sallum, her expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. 'We're sorry to have detained you, Mr bin Sallum. Have a good day.'

Matt held the tape in his hand, a tiny piece of plastic, weighing less than a box of matches. 'OK,' he said, looking across at Ivan, 'play it.'

From the sideboard Ivan picked up a dictaphone and slotted the tape into position. He pressed play. Matt could hear a voice talking, and the unidentifiable sound of some machines in the background. The voice was speaking Arabic, he could tell that much, but his knowledge of the language was so limited he couldn't pick up the meaning of a single word.

'Recognise it?' asked Ivan.

Matt nodded. 'It's the tape Alison played to us in the hotel room, the one she's been looking for,' he answered. 'The al-Qaeda boys in the boat phoning home. Where the hell did you get it?'

'She left it on the table and I slipped it into my pocket when she wasn't looking,' said Ivan. 'You never know when these things might come in useful. It's the one thing I haven't been honest with you about.'

'It was unprofessional of her to leave it out,' said Matt.

'Exactly,' said Ivan. 'That's what I thought. She just left the tape on the table, like she wasn't bothered what happened to it. You don't speak Arabic do you?'

Matt shook his head. 'Do you?'

'No,' said Ivan. 'But she knew that when she played us the tape. None of us would understand what it said. So I had it translated.' He handed another tape to Matt. 'Want to listen to it?'

Matt took the tape and slotted it into the machine. A voice started up: a slight Arab accent, but speaking English with a London accent. It was the kind of voice you would hear in any kebab shop in Acton. 'I would like to order two tickets to Cairo. I want to book return flights, business class, going out early in the morning on the tenth, then coming back on the eighteenth. I'm going to need a car rental at the airport and a hotel in the city.'

Ivan walked across the room and pressed his finger on the tape machine. The voice stopped. 'It's just some guy booking tickets to Egypt at one of the Arab travel shops along the Edgware Road.'

Matt lifted the Beretta, levelling it directly at Ivan's forehead. He released the safety catch. 'You're lying.'

Ivan stepped forward, bringing his forehead into contact with the barrel of the gun. 'Listen you bloody fool, it's Alison,' he said, spitting the words out of his mouth. 'She's been setting us up all along.'

Sallum slammed the door of the rented Golf. He stepped out into the car park, looking around him. He believed he hadn't been followed, but it never hurt to check once again. The mark of a great assassin is his attention to detail.

Assaf was standing twenty yards away, outside a phone box. Sallum walked slowly towards him, his eyes darting from right to left. As far as he could tell, the man was alone. 'Sorry for the delay,' he said, looking into the eyes of his master. 'I was taken in for questioning at the airport.'

'I know,' said Assaf. 'Are you certain you weren't followed?'

Sallum nodded. After being released from the airport, he had taken a taxi into Manchester, a bus up to Preston, then hired a car and driven down towards Birmingham. At each stage of the journey he had carefully checked his trail, watching for anyone who might be following him. He had doubled back and twisted around on himself – usually that revealed a tracker. He had bought a ticket for Coventry, then hopped on the Preston bus: that should confuse anyone following him by computer. He had checked into a hotel for an hour, showered, then checked into a branch of Next to buy himself a completely new set of clothes and luggage: he wanted to make sure they hadn't planted any electronic devices on him. If he was being followed, he had surely lost them.

'I have taken every precaution I could think of,' Sallum answered.

Assaf was a commanding man, with a natural sense of authority. His voice was deep and balanced, each vowel perfectly pitched for the desired impact. 'Did they know who you were?'

Before driving down to Birmingham Sallum had phoned Assaf, leaving a message with his secretary that they should meet in the car park of the Toby Inn, on the A518, just off the M5 between Birmingham and Manchester. He'd made the call from a phone box: if he was being followed, a mobile call could easily be tracked. It was now just before eight. It was dark, a light rain was falling, and the only witnesses to their meeting were a few people parking their cars and heading into the pub. Nobody was likely to overhear them.

'I think so. She showed me pictures of the five men – the three who are dead and the two who are still alive.' He looked up at Assaf, scrutinising his face. 'Something isn't right. How could they possibly know it was me? And if they know, why would they let me go?'

Assaf shrugged. 'Maybe they are just fishing around, stopping Arabs at random and showing them the pictures in the hope of shaking something loose. Ever since the glorious events of September the eleventh they have been persecuting Saudis.'

'Yes, but maybe they do know something,' persisted Sallum. 'How did we get that list of men? It was only a day or two after the robbery, and we already knew exactly who was responsible.'

'Out of the network,' said Assaf. 'A man in the mosque in Solihull. A low-level sympathiser. British intelligence think they turned him, he informed on us and collected a couple of hundred a week for his trouble. Actually, he's double-crossing them. We know he's an informer, and we use him to feed them false information. Let them spend their time arresting newsagents in Hendon!
He
told us their names.'

'Do you think he's a triple, then?'

Assaf shrugged. 'It had occurred to me,' he said. 'But they let you go, didn't they?'

Sallum turned around, speaking with his back to Assaf. In the service of a cause as great as this, there were many sacrifices that had to be made. Sometimes including your own honour, your dignity, even your life.

The task of a true servant of the Prophet is to accept all without question.

'Let me get this straight,' he said. 'You're saying MI5 organised the hit on our boat. Then they give the information to this agent in Solihull, who they know is double-crossing them. So he tells you, and then you go and send me to assassinate the men. They are watching all the time, and that leads them to me.' He paused, his eyes scanning the car park with new vigour. 'And I lead them to you.'

'Clever, you have to admit that,' said Assaf.

Sallum turned to look at him. 'I care nothing for myself, you know that,' he said. 'If it is necessary to lay down my life for the cause, I make no complaint about that. But to let me lead them to you . . . Without you, the whole network in this country would fall apart.'

Assaf smiled. 'You are a good man, but you worry too much,' he said. 'I was aware of what their plan might be. Of course I was. But as the information was offered, I had no choice but to act upon it. Men cannot be allowed to steal from al-Qaeda and live. That would be intolerable. I had no choice but to send you after them.' He paused, resting a hand on Sallum's shoulder. 'But I trusted your abilities enough to know you were unlikely to lead them to me. I have faith in you, as you should have faith in me, and as we should all have faith in the Prophet to lead us through difficulties.'

Sallum smiled.

The wisdom of the master is what I should surrender myself to.

'What should I do now?'

'They think they can outwit us with their double and triple crosses,' said Assaf. 'But we can out-think all of them, because we have faith and purpose, and they, for all their strength, have nothing but themselves.' He turned and started walking towards his parked car. 'Come with me. The moment of a famous victory is close.'

Acton Lane was thick with rush-hour traffic. Cars snaked and crawled along the road, the sound of the engines turning into one collective groan. Matt walked swiftly along the street, his head turning from side to side. A kebab shop, a mini-cab firm – they were looking for anywhere they might find an Arab who wanted to earn fifty quid without working for it.

'Here,' he said to Ivan.

The two men stepped inside the Paradise Kebab House. A poorly chosen name, Matt reflected as the smell of the place hit him. Some greasy looking meat was turning on a hot skewer and spitting fat. Ranged along the counter there was a selection of cut onions and gherkins, and some stale pitta bread. A couple of likely looking guys were standing at the bar, smoking. Another stood behind the counter. 'Anyone here speak Arabic?' said Matt. 'And want to earn fifty quid for five minutes' work?'

The two men looked at him suspiciously then shuffled out to the street. 'I don't mind, boss,' said the boy at the counter, 'so long as it doesn't get me into trouble with the law.'

Matt shook his head. 'Just listen to this tape and tell me what it says.'

He took the dictaphone from his pocket and placed it on the counter. The voice started up, droning on in Arabic. Matt was starting to find the sounds familiar even though he had no idea what they meant. 'OK,' he said, pressing pause. 'What's he saying?'

'Where's my cash?'

Matt peeled two twenties and a ten from his wallet and pushed them into the boy's hand. 'Well?'

'The guy is booking some travel tickets,' said the boy. 'He's flying to Egypt, and taking an internal flight from there, and he needs some hotel rooms reserved as well. Sounds like he's talking to a travel agent. If you want it word for word then you'll have to play it to me again.'

Matt shook his head. 'That's OK,' he said softly. 'I've heard enough. Give me a doner kebab, and one for my mate as well.'

He turned towards Ivan. The man had remained expressionless throughout the conversation, but somewhere behind his eyes Matt had detected a hint of satisfaction. Matt took a kebab from the boy. The rich, fatty smell of the meat drifted to his nostrils. 'You were right. It's her.'

Assaf pulled the case from the boot of his car and passed it carefully to Sallum. It was a standard black Samsonite attache case: you could see hundreds of them on any commuter train into the City every morning.

Sallum held it in his hands. It felt heavy – much heavier than he would have expected for a case of its size. 'What's in it?' he asked, looking up at Assaf.

'Plutonium,' said Assaf. 'Not a nuclear device, but three pounds of radioactive plutonium next to a conventional Semtex bomb. The blast will create a radioactive, contaminated area that will be unusable for at least five years.'

Sallum's grip on the case remained firm. 'Am I to deliver it?'

'You are my best man,' Assaf answered. 'The one person I trust absolutely. You know how hard it is for us to obtain any plutonium. I cannot waste it on idiots. Other men will clear the way for you, but you will plant the device, and trigger the detonation.'

It is for moments such as this that we devote ourselves to the cause. Truly, Allah has blessed me with this most noble of tasks.

'What is the target?'

Assaf looked towards the pub, then back at Sallum. A pair of men were walking past ten yards away, and he waited until they were safely out of earshot before replying. 'We plan our targets with great care,' he said. 'We strike rarely, but with maximum force, so as to spread terror and confusion among the enemy. Yet we also operate by stealth – we come at them where they least expect us to strike. This bomb is to be placed at Clapham Junction. It's the biggest railway junction in Europe, and the busiest. It's the one crucial hub for all the people and freight coming into London. After this bomb goes off, nothing will be able to move through the area for at least a year, until the contamination dies down. Radiation will seep into the underground network and down into the water pipes. London will grind to a halt.'

Sallum permitted himself a brief, thin smile. 'That will teach them to underestimate our power.'

'The moment to strike is three nights from now,' said Assaf. 'I will give you a map. Other agents are working in London, and they will clear the way for you. There are twelve security guards protecting the station. Each will be killed at the same moment, five o'clock in the dead of night. Twelve of our agents have been assigned to that task. You will sneak undetected across the tracks and bury the case beneath the track. The bomb will have a thirty-minute timer on it, enough for you to get away from the area, but not enough time for it to be found.'

'I am honoured to be chosen.'

'But first we must deal with the last two of our thieves,' said Assaf. 'Honour demands that they must die. As soon as I have it from our source, you shall be given the address of their hiding place, and you will go and kill them. Then you will deliver the bomb.'

Sallum looked to the sky. 'In the book of Surah it is written: "Muhammad is God's apostle. Those who follow him are ruthless to the unbelievers." Those are indeed wise words.'

'Your devotion to the way of the faith is an inspiration to us all,' said Assaf. 'May Allah stand at your side through the days ahead of you.'