Greed

EIGHT

The sand felt cold and damp against the soles of Matt's feet. He had abandoned his trainers, opting to run barefoot along the edge of the water, letting the waves lap up against his ankles. The Atlantic was cold compared to the Mediterranean, chilling the blood in his veins. But the air smelt fresher and cleaner, the salt and the brine filling his lungs each time he took a breath.

The beach was two miles from Bideford, on the North Devon coast. The sand curved in a long arc and was framed by black rocks and with mellow green hills. A few sheep were gently grazing the hillside, but otherwise there was not another soul in view. Matt had been here once before, and the contours of the landscape had remained imprinted on his memory. A family holiday, maybe when he was nine or ten, in a caravan park with his mum and dad. Looking back, he realised it can't have been much fun for his parents. The caravan was cramped — it was impossible for Mum to cook anything — and it rained half the week. But for the ten-year-old Matt it had been the wildest adventure ever. A week away from the council estate, away from the dirt, the fumes and the noise of south London. And the chance to run free on the sand, play in the waves, explore the hills and the countryside.

It was then that I learnt two things about myself— I don't ever want a boring office job, and I don't ever want to be poor.

He picked up his pace, pushing himself to run faster, taking deep breaths of salty air. What would Dad say about what I am doing now, Matt wondered, looking up into the sky.

He'd say, take your chance, boy, like I should have taken mine.

Matt had arrived in Bideford the night before, and had met up with the rest of the gang. The location was obvious enough. Bideford was an old naval town, and it made sense that there would be some training facilities tucked away there. They were based in a disused naval barracks, which, from the state of the place, Matt guessed hadn't been used since the Second World War. About three miles east of Bideford, it was a corrugated iron shack next to a series of crumbling gun embankments. There were seven iron cots to sleep in, a pair of electric rings to cook on, and a loo you had to walk across fifteen yards of frozen mud to reach. Not luxury, Alison had explained as she showed them around, but it was only for three nights, and they would survive.

And she's staying at a hotel in town.

Matt had risen earlier than the others and got out on to the beach for a run. He checked his watch — eight-thirty. He turned and started jogging back towards the base. They were due to start work at nine, and he needed something to eat first.

Up ahead, he could see Damien walking by himself, chucking stones into the sea.

'Keeping fit?' Damien said as Matt started jogging alongside him.

'We'll need to be,' said Matt. 'You sure you're in good enough shape?'

Damien nodded. 'Two hours in the gym every day,' he said. 'The gangs are tougher than they've ever been. It's not just a bunch of boozy south London robbers like it was in Dad's day.'

'With two million you could get out,' said Matt. 'Do something different with your life.'

'Maybe,' said Damien, looking out into the sea. 'If I had someone like Gill to settle down with. You're a lucky man having a girl like that, Matt, luckier than you know. It's harder for gay men. We don't settle.'

Alison was dressed in dark blue cords, green wellies, a green Barbour jacket, and a Hermès scarf holding her hair in place. A Chelsea girl up in the country for the weekend, Matt thought. Gill would have been down on the beach with him at dawn, going for a run, exploring the rock pools, getting her hair wet in the sea and her feet dirty in the sand.

'What are you always running away from?' said Alison, looking up at the sweat dripping from his brow as he arrived at the base.

'Maybe I'm running towards something,' he said, grabbing a towel from his kit bag. 'Did that ever occur to you?'

Reid and Cooksley had brewed some coffee, and fried up some bacon, beans and eggs. Matt grabbed a plateful, wolfed down the food hungrily, then put his jeans and sweatshirt back on.

Ivan was sitting on his bed, connecting his mobile phone to a Palm Pilot. He concentrated on the tiny screen, lines on his brow, ignoring the noise around him.

Matt waited until he had pressed a button on the screen. 'How's the bridge going?'

'I got the contract — three no trumps, the greatest of all bids,' said Ivan softly.

'So who do you play against?' said Cooksley, looking across. It was the first time that either Cooksley or Reid had spoken to him.

'Other enthusiasts,' said Ivan. 'You don't need to know who they are. Just that they can play, and they pay their debts.' He paused. 'Those are the only two questions worth asking about a man.'

Pinky and Perky walked into the room, nodding to Alison. Great, thought Matt. The Comedy Club has arrived. Both men were wearing chinos, sweaters, and long thick grey overcoats. They stood at the front of the room, unpacking laptops from their cases. Alison looked around the room. 'These are two colleagues of mine from Five,' said Alison. 'They will take you through the basics of the mission, and explain the moves you need to train for.'

Pinky took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair. 'Al-Qaeda are shipping gold and diamonds back to the Middle East,' he started. 'The mission is to intercept one of their boats, and take its contents.' He paused, pointing to a map on the screen of his computer. 'The boats generally leave from here, Portofino, on the North Italian coast. They sail through the Med, towards the Middle East Coast. It's a five-day trip. The landing points vary but it's always somewhere in Jordan or the Lebanon. The best place to base you is right here.' He jabbed his thumb at the screen. 'Cyprus.' Perky looked around the room. 'On Cyprus you'll be just a few nautical miles from the interception. Our intelligence sources will tell us when the boat is leaving and where it's going. Satellites will track it from there, so we'll be able to give you a precise location of the target.'

'Your task is to find the boat, raid it, take the goods, then sink it, and get out as fast as possible,' Pinky continued. 'For obvious reasons, we don't want anyone left alive. Except, of course, you lot.' He smiled, but was met only by stony stares on the faces of the men in front of him. 'Tony Bulmer, formerly of the Special Boat Squadron, is going to spend the next three days with you. He'll give you training on how to board the boat.'

Great, thought Matt. That's just what we need. Some animal from Shaky Boat roughing us up.

'Bulmer doesn't know what the mission is, and he isn't meant to know,' continued Pinky. 'He doesn't know who you are either, so don't start shooting your mouths off. He's been told you have to hit a boat, and that's it.'

Just then Buhner walked smartly into the room, looking more like someone who had stepped out of a student union bar than a parade ground. Matt paused. The man was nothing close to what he had expected. He must have been in his late twenties, and was dressed in baggy blue trousers and a bright-red T-shirt. His hair had a green streak in it, and was spiked up with gel. He looked more like a sales assistant at a surfing shop than a soldier.

He looked down at the five men sitting in front of him, his face immobile. 'You lot look like you could use some licking into shape,' he said.

'Piss off,' said Reid.

'Let the man do his job,' Ivan said warily. 'We all need training if we're to stay alive.'

'Hey, who asked you, bogtrotter?' said Cooksley.

'Good to see we're all getting along so well,' said Buhner. 'Perhaps we'll start with some team-building exercises.'

Matt could feel the water biting into his naked skin. It was as if blocks of ice were being dropped on to his body, freezing up his nerve endings and chilling the blood so it could hardly flow through his veins.

A wave rolled over the top of him, pushing him below the surface of the sea, filling his mouth with salty water. He struggled to open his eyes, kicking his legs to push himself back to the surface. His head broke above the waves, and he rolled into a crawl to drag himself forward. To the next bay, he reckoned, it was about a mile, past some evil rocks jutting away from the beach. If he swam hard, he should be there in half an hour.

A few yards ahead he could see Cooksley and Reid: Cooksley he knew was a strong swimmer, Reid less so. Ivan was some way ahead of them, Damien a few yards behind. Ten minutes earlier Buhner had marched them down to the beach, told them all to strip off and start swimming. 'See you at the next bay,' he'd shouted. 'If the fish don't get you.'

Matt could feel another wave crashing over his head, and a gust of cold wind whipping around his ears. 'You OK?' he shouted across to Damien.

'Apart from the hypothermia.'

By the time Matt pulled himself on to the beach he reckoned he'd swallowed at least two pints. He swam every day in Marbella, but there it was warmer, gentler water, and he only went out when the sun was shining. It wasn't Bideford in March, with the temperature close to zero. He grabbed a towel from the pile Pinky and Perky had left on the beach, and started drying himself off, unfreezing his limbs. Ivan, Cooksley and Reid were already ashore, Damien was just swimming up to the beach.

'Fancy a dip?' said Matt, looking directly at Pinky.

Pinky shook his head.

'It might do you some good,' Matt continued, shaking his head so that the man got sprayed with droplets of sea water. 'You look a bit flabby to me.'

Perky stepped forwards. 'Don't get lippy, sonny,' he said. 'I can break you any time I want to.'

From behind, Matt could see Bulmer striding across the beach. 'OK, you lot,' he shouted. 'That was just a warm-up, get your blood flowing a bit. Next time, we'll do it at night.'

Matt wiped the sweat from his face. The run had taken them five miles across country, over the rugged hills that led away from Bideford. It was open countryside, but vicious winds gusted in from the sea and it had started to rain, a torrential downpour that soaked right through his track suit. Matt struggled to control his breathing. He was a better runner than he was a swimmer, but the pace was punishing, pushing him to limits of endurance he hadn't tested since he had left the Regiment.

I thought I'd put all that behind me.

'OK,' shouted Bulmer as they jogged their way back into the base. 'Fifty press-ups.'

He paced up and down as the five men fell to the ground, pushing their bodies up and down. 'There are squid down on the beach stronger than you layabouts,' he shouted. 'Get inside and we'll see if your minds are in better shape than your bodies.'

A ripple of pain ran through Matt's shoulder as he used his forearms to heave himself up and down. He'd lost shape, he reflected, since he had left the Regiment. He was a fit man, but not yet back to his peak. Looking around at the others, he could see Reid struggling to keep up. Damien was fine on the press-ups because he worked out in the gym every day and sailed at the weekends, but he was struggling with the running. Ivan, for an ex-Provo safecracker, was perhaps the fittest of them. Odd, thought Matt. Nothing with that man was quite how he'd expected it.

'You want to cut down on those fags, mate,' said Bulmer, shouting in Reid's ear.

Lucky this job is just a few days. I'm not sure we'd last a whole campaign.

The coals from the brazier emitted a soft glow, spreading its heat throughout the shack. Matt sat close to the fire, soaking up the warmth. His skin was slowly starting to defrost, his blood to unthaw. 'Christ,' he said, looking towards Reid. 'I haven't been that cold since I spent a couple of months on training on the northern flank in Norway.'

Reid nodded. 'Say what you like about the Regiment. At least they never chucked you in the water. Not on purpose anyway.'

Bulmer tapped a metal cane against the desk at the front of the room. 'Listen up,' he said sternly. 'Tonight I'll run through the basic principles of a seaborne assault. Tomorrow night, we try the real thing. We'll keep trying until we get it right.' He smiled. 'Given the state of you, we'll probably be spending Christmas together.'

He pointed towards a picture on the laptop. 'I've been told you'll be hitting a standard, small cargo ship much like this one,' he said. 'You see these all over the Med. This one is a hundred and five feet long, with a beam of thirty feet, and a draught of thirteen feet. It's got two engines on it, with a combined power of six thousand brake horsepower. That's enough to do about fourteen knots at full tilt.'

Bulmer walked round to the front of the desk. The light from the ceiling glinted off the gold stud pinned into his ear. For an assault, you use the wake,' he said. 'It's going to be dark, you'll be blacked out and using night-vision goggles, so they aren't going to be able to see you. The problem is they might hear you coming. Then you transfer to a light, plastic dinghy. Their engines will be churning up the water, creating plenty of noise. You steer your dinghy directly into their wake. That way they shouldn't hear you.' He held up a fifteen-foot aluminium pole with a hook on its end. 'Then you use a grappling hook like this. Cast it to the stern, and pull your dinghy right up into the boat. You'll have a few seconds to jump on board. Then you move swiftly through the vessel, killing everyone on board.' He stopped, sitting back down on the edge of the desk. 'Any questions?'

'There might be a lookout,' said Reid.

'You'll have to shoot them,' said Buhner. 'It's going to be rocky on the dinghy, because the water will be all churned up. We'll practise shooting on a dinghy that's bobbing around like a yo-yo, so you'll have a chance to get used to it.'

'What happens if we go in the water?' said Damien.

'Then you're fish food, that's what,' answered Buhner. 'That's why we're going to keep practising boarding the enemy craft until we get it right. Fall into the drink and the engines will slice you like a turnip in a blender. A quick if messy death. And at least you'll be buried at sea like proper sailors.'

Buhner looked round the room, checking to see whether there were more questions.

There were none. No one wanted to make the lesson last any longer. They were all dog tired and freezing cold, and all they wanted to do was get some sleep next to the fire.

'Right, you lot,' said Buhner, standing up from his desk. 'Now it's dark, we'll go for a quick swim around the bay. Then we'll knock off for the night.' He paused, pointing towards the door. 'Get your kit off. We'll have some towels ready for you on the beach.'

Reid looked towards Matt. 'It's bloody fishy the way he keeps making us take our kit off. He does that once more, I'm going to let the crabs have a taste of him.'

Alison's skin felt soft and smooth, as he buried his face into her hair. Her touch was soothing his sore and aching muscles, relieving some of the stresses that had built up during the hardest day's training since he'd left the Regiment. He could smell the salt on his own skin, contrasting harshly with the perfume and soaps on hers. And he could feel the hardness of his own muscles against the softness of hers.

'Where the hell did you find that Buhner bastard?' he said, lying back on the bed after they had finished making love.

Alison laughed. 'I thought you'd be tougher than Navy boys.'

'We are,' Matt said sharply. 'Still, I thought the Navy was just for poofs. But there's nothing soft about him.'

'Tougher than the IRA guy as well?'

'Of course,' said Matt. 'But he's never had the training. Damien's the same. They're street fighters.'

'Who could keep up with you?' said Alison, pulling him closer towards her, her fingers running through the hairs on his chest.

'You want these al-Qaeda bastards pretty badly, don't you?' said Matt. 'To go to this much trouble.'

'Believe it,' said Alison. 'Since Landau got hit, you can't imagine the pressure Five is under to get some results.'

'Is there more in the pipeline?'

'In Britain, yes,' said Alison, her expression turning serious. 'Sometime in the next month there's going to be an al-Qaeda spectacular in Britain. We don't know what it is — if we did, we'd stop it — but we know it's coming.'

'You're that certain?'

'We had a tip-off about Landau,' said Alison. 'Low-level, no one paid much attention to it. But now the same source is telling us al-Qaeda is planning something massive in Britain in the next month.' She ran a hand through Matt's hair. 'We're pretty sure it's right.'

'I better get back to the shack, then,' he said, climbing out of her bed and pulling on his clothes. 'The others might be wondering where I have got to.'

'You don't want them thinking you're the teacher's pet,' Alison said playfully. 'Aren't I?' Alison shook her head. 'I treat you boys all the same.'

Matt hung on tightly to the side of the dark green dinghy. It skimmed like a Frisbee across the surface of the waves, lurching from left to right in sudden violent movements. It was dark, and a low-lying mist was hanging over the surface of the sea. That, combined with the spray from the waves, was keeping their visibility down to just a few yards.

All five were on board, with Bulmer at the back barking instructions. They were wearing thick black wetsuits and had blacked-up faces to make certain they were invisible against the night sky. Damien, the best seaman among them, and, Matt judged, probably the bravest, was sitting at the prow, taking the full impact of the waves as they splashed into the boat. Ivan sat next to him, crouched down low, Matt and Reid behind them. Reid had his hand on the outboard motor, steering the boat. Matt was charting their course. It was tougher than he expected. He had a GPS fix on their target — a tub that Bulmer had rented for the evening — plus a Garmin eTrex Vista handheld GPS receiver. The device processed the GPS co-ordinates of their target, and displayed a constantly shifting coastal map and compass reading to guide them towards their destination. Even so, in total darkness, with no lights and with the boat heaving through the waves, it was going to take all his concentration to get anywhere close.

'Right,' he shouted to Reid. 'Keep banking right.'

A wave sloshed over the dinghy, filling Matt's mouth with water. He spat into the sea but the salt was still on his lips. The craft started turning, rolling with the swell of the water. At least the Mediterranean won't be as rough as this, thought Matt. Or quite so cold.

'Steady her — couple of degrees left,' said Matt. He looked down at the Garmin to get a fix on his position. The target was less than a mile away, straight ahead of them. They were one nautical mile from the coast, heading down towards Bude. The wind was starting to drop, and through a break in the clouds a beam of moonlight was breaking through. 'Increase the power,' said Matt. 'We're approaching.'

He leant forward, squinting, trying to pierce through the darkness. He could make out the outline of a shape, but whether it was the boat, rocks or seagulls, he couldn't yet say. 'Goggles on, men,' he barked.

MI5 had equipped each of them with a pair of Rigel 3200 night-vision goggles. Each set looked like a set of miniature black binoculars, with fibre webbing to strap them on to the head. The Rigel weighed just over a pound, and gave good crisp vision of two hundred metres in clear starlight, and one hundred metres in thick darkness. Tonight, realised Matt, a hundred metres was all they were going to get.

He strapped his into place. The Rigel worked with thermal imaging. Instead of looking for light signals, as your eyes do, it searched for heat, looking at the upper end of the infra-red spectrum. Anything hotter than its surroundings — like a boat or a man — would be displayed on the screen in front of the eyes. Looming up ahead he could see two shapes, both defined in a pale, luminous green light. The hull of a ship. And a man standing on its deck.

'Ignore the man,' shouted Buhner from the back of the dinghy. 'We're practising a zero-resistance contact.'

Reid steered the dinghy closer to the ship. Spray hit Matt in the face again, drenching his goggles, making it almost impossible for him to see anything. The dinghy moved slowly forward, the engine churning up the water. Matt could feel the hard plastic of the craft vibrating as it skimmed into the wake of the boat. His balance was getting harder to hold. 'Steady her,' he could hear Buhner shouting behind him. 'The men on the left and right need to shift their weight to keep her steady.'

Matt moved out to the edge of the dinghy and Reid did the same. The dinghy tossed, then flattened out. They were drawing closer to the ship, the waters beneath them heaving, the spray spitting into their faces. 'Get the hook ready,' shouted Buhner. 'We're ten feet from the target.'

Matt watched as Cooksley slung the hook forward. He had watched him throwing it fifty times during the day, each time getting closer to perfection. Cooksley had been one of the best marksmen in the Regiment. But that was on dry land, when you could steady your arm and line up your eye. Now he was aiming from the prow of a dinghy, kicked around in the waves. He gripped the hook, leaning forward. Ivan was holding his waist to steady him. The hook hit the stern of the boat, and Cooksley started pulling. Matt could feel the dinghy bouncing along the surface of the sea. 'Get ready to move up,' he shouted as the dinghy was pulled closer to the boat.

The four men stood up in one movement. A wave rolled on to the side of the boat, catching Matt by surprise. He could see foam swelling around his feet. He was slipping. Reid crashed into his side, and suddenly Matt was submerged beneath the water. Blackness engulfed him, a mouthful of icy water disappearing down his throat. Kicking his legs, he broke back on to the surface before another wave crashed over him, pushing him under, and he could feel the engines of the ship dragging him towards their blades. He was just six feet away from the blade slicing through the water.

Christ. Fish food.

He gave his legs a powerful kick to steer himself back to the dinghy. He grabbed its side, holding it tight. With the other hand, he tore the goggles from his face, slinging them inside the vessel. He looked around. Ivan, Cooksley, Reid and Damien were all in the water. The target was sailing away.

'Jesus,' shouted Buhner, looking down at the men bobbing about in the water. 'I hope the fate of the world doesn't depend on you lot.'

Matt kissed Alison full on the lips, aware of her breasts pushing back at him. Her hair fell across his chest, and her hands were starting to run down his back, teasing his flesh, and gently rubbing his muscles. They had made love once already, and Matt wanted to get back to the shack. He'd been away for two hours — spend too long and some of the other men might start getting suspicious.

Alison's good, but she's not the woman I love.

'How's the training?' Alison's voice sounded lazy and tired.

'Hard,' said Matt. 'We're not as fit as we were when we quit the Regiment. It's amazing how quickly you lose it. We're making progress, though. It took Cooksley a few tries, but he's getting the knack of the hook. We'll be OK on the day.'

'Just one more night, then you'll be off.'

Matt shrugged. 'Why the rush?'

'A boat will be crossing the Med in the next few days,' said Alison. 'You need to be ready.'

'It's better to be properly trained,' said Matt. 'If al-Qaeda are sending boats out all the time, there'll be another one in a week or two. It's dangerous to go too early.'

Alison sat up, drawing the sheet up to cover her breasts. 'You've heard of a man called Charles Booth.'

'The head of Five,' Matt said, caressing her exposed ankle. 'Sent in to shake the agency up, get some results after September the eleventh.'

'My boss,' said Alison. 'He needs a break on this Landau case. The PM and Home Secretary are all over him.'

Matt's hand stopped half-way up her thigh. 'Did Booth authorise this mission?' he asked. 'Personally?'

'That's need-to-know information.'

'And I don't need to know?' Matt raised his eyebrows.

Alison laughed, pulling him towards her, the sheet falling away to reveal her breasts. 'All you need to know is how to fuck me,' she said.

Matt steadied himself on the prow of the dinghy. His legs were swaying from the combined force of the waves and the wind, and he had to keep adjusting his position to hold his balance. He raised the Bushmaster Leupold high-precision rifle to his right eye, lining up the night-vision goggles with its telescopic sights. The Bushmaster was a light semi-automatic weapon, precision manufactured from aircraft-quality aluminium. The rifle weighed just seven-and-a-half pounds, and the twenty-round magazine added another pound. American-made, Matt had noted when they were given the guns. The kind of weapon you could buy in any American hunting shop. If anything went wrong, Five didn't want the gang to be carrying anything that could link them back to the British government.

He steadied his shoulder. The target was standing on the deck of the boat: three old tires roped together, with a life jacket slung on top. He levelled his sights. The boat swayed, knocking him off balance for a moment. He recovered, put the gun back to his eye, took aim and fired.

The bullet missed.

'Wanker,' growled Bulmer behind him. 'Listen, if there's a lookout, you're going to get one shot. No second chances. They'll have depth charges, machine-guns, the fucking works. They start chucking charges into the sea it will blow this dinghy apart. Then they'll rake the water with the machine-guns. You boys will be finished.'

Damn, thought Matt. He steadied himself again, waited for the wave to pass, tensed his shoulder, and pressed the trigger. Through the telescopic sights, he could see a tear ripping open in the life jacket. He smiled to himself

'Reckon you got lucky,' growled Bulmer. 'Now do it again.'

Damien and Ivan had cooked up a round of steak sandwiches, and were passing them around the team. Matt squirted some ketchup on to his, and took a thick bite, swallowing quickly. Neither of them would be the next Jamie Oliver, but this was just the kind of food needed after a hard day at sea.

'We could train and train for this mission,' said Perky, standing at the front of the room. 'But there isn't time. An al-Qaeda boat will set sail in the next couple of days. That's the one we want to hit. Buhner's going to take you out again tonight, to run through tactics one last time. There's a BA flight from Heathrow to Cyprus tomorrow at two. We've booked tickets for you.'

'You'll be staying at the Amathus Beach Hotel in Limassol,' said Pinky. 'It's a standard package holiday place next to the beach. As far as the rest of the world is concerned you're just a bunch of Brits on a stag week.' A grin flashed on to his face as he looked around the room. 'Drink plenty, and chase the girls round the pool. That'll be your cover.'

Nobody laughed, Matt noticed.

Don't ever retrain as a comedian, Pinky. You haven't got it.

'We'll be tracking the boat by satellite,' said Perky. 'When it's within five hours' sailing of Cyprus, Matt will get a text message saying: "Don't forget Mum's birthday. Ring her on this number." The last four digits of that number will be the expected time of arrival off the Cyprus coast.

'A ship has been hired for you in Mongari, a fishing village close to Limassol. Matt will be given the details. Your guns and explosives will be shipped out to the British embassy in Cyprus in diplomatic bags. They'll be delivered to the boatman and he'll stash them on board. After that, there won't be any more contact with the embassy.'

Matt took another bite on his sandwich.

Keeping us at a distance again. In case it goes wrong.

'When you get the signal,' said Pinky, 'get down to Mongari, and set out to sea. There will be a radio receiver on board the boat. When we have it, we'll patch through the precise co-ordinates of the al-Qaeda boat. After that you're on your own. Any questions?'

'What's the plan for the gear once we've taken it?' said Damien.

'That's for you to decide,' said Alison. 'It's all yours. Ship it anywhere you like, anyhow you like.'

Matt handed out the cups of tea. His hands were numb from the day's training on the water, and he held the cup tightly to try and get the circulation moving again. Each of the men sitting around the fire looked just as tired and cold; they were fit and strong, but they were still mortal, and the day had been tougher than any of them expected.

Behind him, Alison spooned some sugar into a cup but remained silent. Matt checked that Buhner had left the room, and so had Pinky and Perky. This was a discussion he wanted to keep private.

'Listen up,' said Matt, 'there's something we need to discuss.' He paused, taking a sip of his tea. 'We're going to be off soon. I just wanted to make sure everyone is straight on a few things before we start. That way we make sure there aren't any arguments later.'

He sat down next to the fire. 'After we get the money, Damien will organise fencing it. We ship the stuff from Cyprus to Rotterdam, then we bring the money back to England.'

'We all go and collect it together, right?' said Ivan.

'If you like,' answered Matt.

'The money comes off the boat, right?' said Damien. 'We put it on to a cargo boat to Rotterdam. None of us will be able to touch it while it's in transit. We all go together to the port in Rotterdam, and get the stuff off the boat, then we'll deliver the stash to the fence, and split up the cash. OK?'

'How do we know the boat's going to Rotterdam?' Reid asked.

'You'll have to trust me,' Damien said.

'We'll decide who to trust, thanks,' snapped Cooksley.

'I'm glad we finally agree on something,' Ivan chipped in.

'OK, OK,' said Matt, raising his hands into the air. 'Like Damien says, we'll all go get the money together. The point I was trying to make was this — if anything goes wrong after the hit and we get split up, we all meet up in ten days' time. The money will be buried at a spot in Kent, and I'm going to give each one of you the GPS co-ordinates. Like I said, it's just a back-up plan. But if we need to, we'll split up the money then. March the thirty-first at 11.00 a.m. Be there.'

'And what exactly are you planning to go wrong?' said Ivan.

Matt rolled over on his side, spent and exhausted. Alison's legs were still wrapped around him, her hair still draped across his neck, and her fingernails still digging into his back. He could feel her sweat on his skin, and the sweet smell of her perfume lingered on the rumpled sheets of the hotel room.

'Next time I see you, you'll be a rich man,' she said.

'You like your men rich?'

Alison shrugged. 'It doesn't matter. I don't expect men to look after me.'

'Do you always sleep with the men you send out on missions?'

Alison smiled coyly. 'Only the ones who please me.'

'And after the mission?'

She shrugged again, pulling the sheet back over her silky breasts.

'We're expendable, right?' said Matt.

'You want me to describe you as collateral damage?'

Matt pulled on his jeans and started doing up the buttons on his shirt. 'It makes no difference what you call me.'

He stepped out alone into the darkness of the street. Bideford at one in the morning in March was an empty place. The few pubs and restaurants were closed, and most of the lights in the houses were out. A quarter of a moon was hanging in the night sky, its light shimmering in the long inlet that stretched through the centre of the town. Ahead, Matt could hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline.

As he walked, he thought of Gill. He had called Janey, the manager at the Last Trumpet, earlier in the day. He knew he'd defied Alison's instructions that none of the gang should contact their family or friends until the mission was over. But he wanted to know where Gill was, what she was doing, and how she was taking the separation.

I still think about her all the time. Even when I'm with Alison.

Especially then.

Janey hadn't seen Gill, but she'd run into one of the other girls from the Dandelion nursery, who'd commented that Gill had seemed down, and asked where Matt had gone. 'I don't think she's told anyone you've split,' Janey added. 'That's probably a good sign. Like she doesn't want it to be permanent.'

Matt pulled his collar around his neck to protect himself from the chill wind blowing in from the sea.

If I sort myself out, will Gill take me back?

'You cheating, miserable bastard,' shouted a voice from the darkness. 'You sick, sodding slag.' The punch felled Matt. A fist collided with his jaw, the bone crunching into his flesh with the force of a hammer. If he'd seen it coming he might have been able to steady himself, recover his balance and return the blow. But it came straight out of the darkness. His foot slipped and he could feel himself falling to the pavement. He jabbed out an arm to break his fall and caught his elbow on the kerb, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. 'What the fuck,' he muttered.

A boot crashed into the side of his chest, blasting the air from his lungs. Matt coughed violently, gasping for breath. His hand swung around, reaching for the leg to pull the man down, but he missed. The boot swung back, then forwards, this time hitting him on the side of the neck. The flesh started to swell instantly. Matt reached out, his reactions quicker this time, and his hand clamped on the boot. He yanked at it, hard. The man swayed, his balance thrown, and another yank brought him crashing to the pavement. Matt pulled back a fist high into the air, preparing to deliver a powerful blow directly to the man's teeth.

The least you deserve is an expensive trip to the dentist, you bastard.

'Damien,' he said, looking down into the face of his assailant. He stopped himself just in time. 'Christ, man, what the hell are you doing?'

'What the hell are you doing,' Damien spat, his face purple with rage and sweat. 'You're screwing her, aren't you?'

Matt rubbed his jaw with his hand. It was bruised, but there was no blood. 'Yes,' he said quietly.

'You're meant to be getting married in a few weeks,' said Damien. 'How could you do that to Gill?'

'We split.'

'Split? From Gill? You didn't tell me.'

Matt pulled himself up from the pavement. 'I broke it off,' he said. 'I'm in too much trouble to marry anyone, let alone Gill. I do love her, but I can't have her around me right now. She could get killed as well.' He helped Damien back on to his feet. 'I need this mission to get my life back together. When I do, I'll go back and marry her — if she'll still have me.' He paused, looking down at the water. 'I'm more certain of that now than I have ever been.'