Greed

THIRTEEN

Sallum sat alone behind the wheel of the Lexus LS430. The village of Pembridge was still fast asleep. Dawn had started to break twenty minutes ago, the sun gradually rising across the fields, sending shafts of bright orange light from the east. He had been here for two hours now, and the heat inside the car had gradually been dropping. Sallum could see his breath collecting on the windscreen, could feel the cold biting into the tips of his fingers.

He reflected for a moment on one of the hundreds of verses he had memorised from the Koran: 'Seek assistance through patience and prayer. Allah is with the patient.'

To sit, and wait and watch. That is the skill of the assassin.

Cooksley emerged abruptly from the front door. He glanced left and right, took a deep breath of air, then started walking. The collie bounced ahead of him, barking a couple of times, and dashing up the lane and towards the fields. Cooksley followed the dog at his own pace. He was walking slowly, his back stooped and his head bowed as if he was deep in thought.

Sallum glanced down at the photograph resting on the passenger seat of the car, then up at the man walking down the lane. There could be no doubt. He was the target. He climbed out of the car, pulling the collar of his long, grey overcoat up around his neck. On his back he was wearing a small, black rucksack. He checked the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol was sitting snugly in his pocket, reassured by the feel of its metal against his fingertips. There was nothing like the barrel of a pistol to make a man feel more secure, he reflected. Or more powerful.

He walked slowly up the lane, his pace quickening to bring himself level with Cooksley. 'Excuse me,' he said softly, 'do you know the way to the church?'

Cooksley looked round, surprised. The accent was Middle Eastern, but American educated. Not the sort of voice you heard in Herefordshire very often. 'You're going the wrong way, mate,' he replied. 'Go back down the lane, past the Two Foxes, then you'll see it on the left. You can't miss it.'

'Is it far?' asked Sallum.

The collie had bounded back up to them and was bouncing enthusiastically around Cooksley's and Sallum's ankles. 'Not far, no,' said Cooksley. 'Ten minutes' walk.'

Sallum knelt down to pat the dog, rubbing it around the ears. The collie yapped, rubbing its jaw into his knees. From his pocket, Sallum pulled the P7. With his left hand he took the dog's two ears in a firm grip, holding its head absolutely still. With his right hand, he jabbed the pistol into the animal's fur, pressing it into the skin just between the ear and the eye. From there the bullet would smash straight through the dog's brain, killing it instantly.

He squeezed the trigger.

The dog whimpered momentarily and a trickle of saliva dripped from its open jaws. It collapsed on to the ground, blood spilling from the wound that had opened up in its head. Sallum jumped swiftly backwards, letting go of the dog's ears, and jabbed the barrel of the P7 hard into Cooksley's ribs. He could feel the metal pressing tightly into the skin. He twisted his wrist downwards, so the gun was pointing upwards. This man, he knew, was a trained soldier. He would know that the bullet from a gun fired at that angle would travel right through his ribcage and up through the bottom of his heart. He would die instantly.

'Don't say a word, don't even move,' muttered Sallum. His eyes looked into Cooksley's face. He could see no fear there. Just the ticking of a mind looking for some method of escape. 'Go back down towards the house,' said Sallum. 'Don't say anything, don't run.'

They walked slowly for the two hundred yards back to the house, Cooksley ahead, Sallum at his side, the pistol wedged into his ribs. Cooksley stopped outside the front door, opened it and held it ajar. Inside, Sallum could hear the sounds of children playing and their mother talking to them.

'Run, love, run!' Cooksley shouted as soon as the door was open. 'Grab the kids and run!'

'Shut up!' shouted Sallum. 'You'll only make it worse for yourself.' He grabbed Cooksley's hair, yanking his head back hard. He forced the pistol into his throat, pushing him down the hallway. He could see the woman and the two children in the kitchen staring at him, their mouths open. Tears were starting to stream down the cheeks of the smaller of the two boys. 'Do exactly what I tell you, and you won't get hurt,' he shouted towards her.

'Don't do it, love!' Cooksley shouted. 'He's a lying bastard.'

Sallum pushed the man hard against the wall, which shook with the force of his weight, and a piece of ornamental china crashed from the shelf on to the floor. Sallum could hear the woman screaming. Cooksley lunged towards him, his fist raised and his muscles clenched, ready to smash into his face. Sallum swivelled and ducked, his movements elegant and delicate. Cooksley swung up at him with a boot aimed at the waist. Sallum turned again — like a ballerina, he could swivel perfectly on the balls of his feet. He caught the back of Cooksley's right wrist, slamming it against the wall. He pushed the P7 into the soft flesh of the palm, firing. The bullet hammered right through the hand, cracking open the bones and lodging into the wall behind. Cooksley doubled forward in pain, clutching his hand, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood.

A man with a fresh wound through his right hand is effectively disabled.

Sallum moved in closer to Cooksley, slamming his knee up into his jaw. Cooksley's head spun backwards and he lashed out, a line of blood from his hand streaking across Sallum's face. Sallum clenched his left hand into a ball and slammed the fist into the back of Cooksley's neck. The blow sent him crashing to the ground. Sallum delivered two swift kicks to the side of his head, leaving him limp and unconscious on the floor.

Sallum spun around, levelling the pistol directly at the woman's forehead. 'I'm a reasonable man,' he said. 'Stop screaming, do exactly what I say, and you won't get hurt.' With his left hand he threw a pair of plasticuffs down on the floor. The woman looked at her husband lying slumped next to them. Tears were streaming down her face. From the kitchen, the sound of the children's screams could be heard. 'Bind him,' barked Sallum. 'And shut those kids up.'

She shook her head.

Sallum kept the gun trained on her, moving backwards. He took the elder boy by the hand and led the child towards the front room. The toddler looked nervously at his mother, then down at his father, and wet himself. He stopped crying, biting his lip.

Sallum could feel the boy's hand shaking. He levelled the pistol with the top of the boy's skull, its muzzle resting in his black hair. He looked coldly towards the woman. 'Do exactly what I say,' he repeated. 'Tie him.'

The woman picked the plasti-cuffs from the ground. She fastened them around Cooksley's hands. She wiped away the sweat from his forehead, then leant forward to kiss him just between the eyes.

'Just bind him!' Sallum barked.

She snapped the cuffs into place. Callum ran towards his mother and threw himself into her side, gripping on to her legs. Danny ran out from the kitchen, looked edgily at Sallum, then hung on to his brother's legs, sucking furiously on his dummy.

'What do you want from us?' she said, her voice gradually regaining its strength.

'Be still,' answered Sallum. 'Don't say anything. Just watch.'

He shook the rucksack from his back, letting it land on the floor. From the bag he took out a Sony camcorder and a collapsible tripod. He walked towards the front of the room, glancing briefly out to the street, then put up the tripod. He placed the camcorder on top of the tripod, then pulled a black woollen mask over his face, with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. He pulled on a pair of black surgical gloves, making sure not a trace of skin was visible, then switched on the camcorder. He could feel the eyes of the boys following him as he walked back towards their father, measuring each step across the floor, listening to each creak of the floorboard. As he worked, the woman remained completely still, her muscles frozen.

A religious man should never make a mother watch her children die.

Sallum knelt down before Cooksley, uncorked a small jar of smelling salts, and waved it under his nose. With his thumb, he pulled up his right eyelid. 'I want you to watch,' he said.

Cooksley's eyes were bloodshot, his expression drained. Sallum could see the pupils moving cautiously from right to left, but he could tell nothing of what the man was thinking. He stood up, walking towards the centre of the room, making sure he was in direct view of the camcorder.

'Come here,' he snapped at the woman.

She looked at Cooksley, then back towards Sallum, shaking her head.

In her eyes, Sallum could detect a mood of defiance. 'Now!' he shouted.

She started to walk nervously the three yards across the floor. He levelled the P7 with her head, squeezing the trigger once. The bullet struck her in the windpipe, blowing a hole through her neck. Blood started to spit from her mouth, her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor. Sallum walked one pace forwards, pushed the pistol down, firing another bullet. This time it struck her just above the eyes, crashing through her skull. Her body jerked once, then went still.

'It was quick, at least,' said Sallum, looking towards Cooksley.

The two boys were cowering beside the fireplace, clinging on to each other. Both of them fell silent. Sallum took two paces forwards, grabbed Danny by the hair and yanked him into the air. His mouth fell open into a scream. Sallum jabbed the gun into his open jaw and fired. The bullet went straight through his head, sending blood and skin against the wall behind him. The body wriggled, then died. Sallum released his grip on the hair, letting the body drop on the floor.

Sallum looked towards Cooksley. 'I'll let the other boy live if you'll do something for me.' He reached back inside his bag, pulling out a single piece of white card. Stepping back towards Cooksley, he knelt down in front of him. He could smell the sweat and blood on Cooksley's skin. 'Read this out for the camera,' he said.

'Fuck off!' Cooksley spat. 'You'll kill me anyway.'

Sallum nodded. 'Yes, but I don't have to kill the boy,' he said. 'I am a just man. So just read it.'

'Who are you?' said Cooksley, his voice dry and hoarse.

'I am your executioner,' said Sallum. 'You should know better than to steal, and you should certainly have known what the punishment would be. Now read.'

Cooksley glanced down at the piece of card resting on his lap. His lips were shaking as his eyes struggled to focus on the words written out in neat block capitals. 'Look up at the camera when you speak,' said Sallum.

Cooksley began to read. 'We shouldn't have stolen from al-Qaeda, boys,' he said, his tone dull and lifeless. 'I'm getting what I deserve, and you're about to get what you deserve. If you give back the money and turn yourself in, they'll just kill you and leave your families alone. Do it, boys, it's not worth it. You've seen what happened to me.'

Count to five. Let the man understand what has happened to his family before he dies. One, two, three, four, five.

Sallum lined up the barrel of the P7 with Cooksley's head. One bullet struck on the side of his chin, the second just below the ear. Cooksley's head slumped forwards, his leg twitched, and trails of blood started to seep from his wounds. Within seconds, the last breath had emptied itself from his lungs, and his body had fallen completely still.

Sallum stood back, taking a moment to compose himself. There were three bodies on the floor, and the blood and fresh wounds were starting to fill the room with the fresh aroma of a butcher's shop. He tucked the gun back into his pocket and walked back to the video camera, turning the off switch.

Next to the wall, the younger boy was crying. Sallum smiled down at him. 'Allah have mercy on you,' he said. He drew the P7 swiftly from his pocket. One shot was all that was needed. He fired straight at the boy's head, the bullet smashing into the side of the skull. The boy crumpled to the floor, blood seeping from the wound.

When the others see this, then they will learn to be truly awed by the pitilessness of our vengeance.

Sallum stepped out into the cold morning air and glanced up and down the lane. In the distance he could see a man walking his dog. He left the door open, making sure the bodies would be discovered quickly, and walked back towards the Lexus.

One limb severed. Four left. Just as the Prophet would command.

Alison was dressed in a hotel towel when she emerged from the shower. Her hair was wet, tied behind her neck, and droplets of water were still running down her smooth, tanned skin.

Matt caught a glimpse of the outline of her breast underneath the cloth, her nipples still stiff from the water. 'I ordered some breakfast,' he said.

'How sweet,' she replied, her lips breaking into a broad smile. 'A man who can slaughter a boat full of al-Qaeda, then provide breakfast. What more could a Five girl ask for?'

'Room service is about my limit,' said Matt. 'That and sausage sandwiches.'

'Pasta, surely,' said Alison. 'Guys can always rustle up a spag bol.'

Matt spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his toast and started eating. In the background he could hear Sky News talking about an explosion in Hamburg: al-Qaeda were the main suspects. 'They're getting closer, aren't they?' he said, looking up at Alison.

She nodded. 'There's going to be something in Britain soon, if we don't break them first.'

'It makes me want to rejoin the Regiment,' said Matt.

'You've done your bit,' said Alison. 'You can't save the world all by yourself.'

Matt threw the remains of his coffee down his throat. The blood of the men lying on the floor of the boat, and the severed limbs strewn across the hold after the Semtex had exploded were still vivid in his mind. This memory was still raw. And yet, as he listened to the details of the women and children killed in the Hamburg attack, he couldn't regret a single one of them.

They had it coming to them.

The mobile phone rang twice before Alison answered it. She had pulled on a pair of black tights and a blue silk blouse, but her skirt was still tossed over the back of her chair where Matt had undressed her last night. He found himself admiring the shape of her leg as she perched on the arm of the sofa, her head nodding briskly into the phone. 'Thanks,' she said briskly. 'I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

She put the phone down and looked directly at Matt. He could tell something was wrong. 'It's Cooksley,' she said. 'He's dead. And his family.'

Matt could feel his blood freezing. In the Regiment, you got used to dying. A couple of guys had gone down just on the induction course, and after that there'd been a regular two or three a year. One dark night, alone with a bottle of vodka, Matt had calculated that, of the twenty-five men in his intake, fourteen had already died. But each death struck you afresh, hitting you straight in the gut. Your mind suddenly filled with memories of all the times you had spent together, all the risks and dangers you had shared, and all the regimental reunions you wouldn't be sharing now that they were gone.

'What happened?' Matt asked.

Alison walked across the room and rested a hand on his shoulder. 'Somebody broke into the house, shot all four of them.' She paused. 'Apparently there's a video.'

'A video?' said Matt. 'What the fuck. .'

'The local police say there was a video left at the scene. They're getting a copy up to Five.'

Matt brushed her hand away from his shoulder. 'If you'd given us a safe house, this wouldn't have happened.'

'Don't give me that,' snapped Alison. 'You knew the deal.'

Matt stood up and walked to the window. He could feel the rage rising in his chest, his pulse was racing. 'My friend is dead!' he shouted, refusing to look at her.

The video had been sitting next to him all the way along the M4. Matt hadn't even wanted to look at it or touch it.

I have a strong stomach, and I have watched lots of men die. I've seen women who've been raped in Bosnia, and children garrotted in Chechnya. I know what pain and suffering look like.

He slammed the door shut on the Boxster and looked suspiciously across the car park. The Reading Travelodge was on the Basingstoke Road, a mile north of junction eleven of the M4. The Harvester Inn stood in front of it, facing the road, and the hotel was tucked just behind. Matt waited for a few minutes to make sure no one was following him, then walked inside. He had already booked a bedroom, checking it came with a video player.

He collected the keys from the receptionist, and walked down the corridor. He had spoken to Ivan, Damien and Reid right after Alison had told him of Cooksley's murder. It was too dangerous to stay at the hotel in Wandsworth: somebody was clearly on to them, and for all they knew they might be watching the place. Let's gather in Reading, at three in the afternoon, he'd told them. Alison had promised that the Herefordshire police could get a copy of the video up to London, and that she could give it to him by lunchtime. They'd met at the BP petrol station on Vauxhall Bridge Road, just across the river from Five's headquarters. Anyone looking at them would have thought they were just two people chatting as they filled up their tanks.

'Are you coming with us?' Matt had asked as he'd tucked the video into the pocket of his coat.

'No,' Alison had said, with a swift shake of her head. 'You're on your own.'

The words were still playing in Matt's ears as he swiped the card through the door and let himself into the room. We're on our own. Well, that's fine. That's how we fight best. As a small unit, following nobody's orders except our own.

He waited for ten minutes. The room was painted pale cream, with a double bed and a TV, a desk, and windows that looked out over the car park. Rain was starting to fall.

If there was one lesson Matt had learnt in combat, it was that once things started to go wrong, they kept going wrong.

A messed-up mission stays that way. The only thing you can do is get it over with as quickly as possible and hope to stay alive.

Ivan, Damien and Reid looked sombre as they walked into the room. They had taken a train up from London together, and caught a cab from the station. Their faces were drawn, their expressions shattered.

'We'd better watch this,' said Matt, slotting the video into the player. He picked up the remote and pressed play. The picture sprang to life on the screen. Matt braced himself, taking a deep breath.

The next few minutes are going to be among the most horrible of my life.

The film lasted only a few minutes. They watched in silence, none of them speaking, none of them moving. Matt was sitting on the edge of the bed, Damien on the chair, Ivan and Reid on the floor. The first shot showed the man in the mask, moving across the room. They watched as Sarah was killed, then the first of the children. Matt found it hard to concentrate on the screen, forcing his eyes back towards it as each murderous scene unfolded. He knew he had to watch if they were to have any chance of discovering who was after them, but his eyes kept closing. He could hear the man's voice, saying something to Cooksley. He looked back up at the screen and saw the face of his friend staring back at him — a face he had known through good times and bad, yet which he had never seen in such a state of total despair. Cooksley looked as though he knew it was all up for him, and he just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

'We shouldn't have stolen from al-Qaeda, boys,' said the face on the screen, the voice as clear and loud as if the man was sitting in the room with them. 'I'm getting what I deserve, and you're about to get what you deserve. If you give back the money and turn yourself in, they'll just kill you and leave your families alone. Do it, boys, it's not worth it. You've seen what happened to me.'

Matt watched as the bullet went into Cooksley's face, and as the second child was murdered in cold, ruthless blood. He watched as the blood spilt on to the floor, and as the masked man stepped over the bodies and walked towards the camera. And then nothing. The screen went blank.

I have never been so determined to kill a man as I am resolved to kill him. Only his blood will satisfy me.

The room was completely silent. None of them moved, none of them spoke. To Matt it seemed as though the video had lasted for hours, but when he glanced at the clock he could see it had been just minutes.

He stood up, switching off the TV. 'That's it, then,' he said, his voice flat and lifeless.

'We'll get him,' Reid muttered through clenched teeth. 'The cheap, murdering scumbag bastard.'

'That's for sure,' said Matt.

Ivan cleared his throat. 'Unless he gets us first.'

Matt fell silent. 'Who the fuck is he then?' he asked.

'He's a professional,' said Damien. 'We know that much. He's masked up, and he's wearing gloves so there's no way the police will get an ID on him. I'll bet any money you like he made sure nobody saw him go into the house, and nobody saw him go out again.'

'What's the video for, then?' said Matt.

'To frighten us, obviously,' said Damien 'He's al-Qaeda, that's what Cooksley says on the message. They want revenge, sure — but they also want us to give them their money back.'

'I'm not giving them any money,' shouted Reid. 'I'm going to find that bastard—'

Matt patted him on the shoulder. 'Yes. But the point is — who is he, and where do we find him?'

Across the room, Ivan was shaking his head. 'With due respect, that's not really the point,' he said.

Matt looked up at the Irishman. He was leaning against the wall, close to the window, his head bowed down in thought. He was speaking softly and clearly, and for a moment Matt found himself wondering why Ivan didn't seem more shocked by the scenes they had just witnessed. 'What is the point, then?'

'He found Cooksley so easily,' Ivan said, his voice slow and deliberate as if he were thinking over the issue to himself. 'First, Cooksley gets attacked in Cyprus. So we come back here. The rest of us stick together, he goes home — and within twenty-four hours he's dead. How can that possibly happen unless this guy knows exactly who he is and where to find him?'

Matt thought for a moment. Ivan was right.

How could he possibly know?

'Now,' Ivan continued, 'the most obvious explanation for that is that someone told him. One of us.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Matt snapped. 'Why in hell would any of us do that?'

'I don't think you play enough bridge,' said Ivan. 'Think through the maths of this situation. We were going to be collecting ten million next week. Split five ways, that makes two million each. Now one of us is dead, I assume we split the money four ways. That makes two-and-a-half million each. I'm sad about Cooksley — but I'm also half a million richer. That sounds like a motive to me.'

Reid stood up, his face reddening. 'There's only one person who'd do that,' he shouted. 'And that's a lying, treacherous Irish Provo bastard like you! I knew we should never let you into the gang — you've been trouble since we started.'

Matt held Reid back. 'Bloody cool it, man. We're not going to start killing each other and doing al-Qaeda's work for them.'

Reid stepped back, his face sullen.

'I know you don't trust me — but if it was me, why would I raise the issue?' Ivan said. 'That would be pointing the finger at myself.'

'Well it's not one of us, is it?' barked Reid, his gesture including Matt. 'We're soldiers, not terrorists.'

'What about him?' Ivan nodded towards Damien. 'He's a gangster.'

Damien grabbed Ivan by the throat, snarling into his face. 'Say that again and I'll kill you. You would raise the issue to cover yourself. I'm not falling for your double-bluff.'

'Stop acting like bloody idiots!' Matt shouted. He looked towards Ivan. 'What the hell are you trying to do?'

Ivan shrugged. 'Think straight, that's all — and stay alive,' he said quickly. 'Somebody has to.'

Matt stood in the centre of the room. 'We all start fighting among ourselves, we're all going to get killed,' he snapped. 'Listen, we have to get one thing straight. We have to stick together. Regiment rules apply here, like I said right at the start. We all look out for each other, and everyone's voice counts for the same.'

I can say it. But I'm not sure I really believe it.