Greed

SEVENTEEN

The train twisted slowly through the Dutch countryside. Matt sat by himself, in a smoking carriage towards the back of the train. He was sipping slowly on a cup of stale coffee, a biscuit lying half eaten at its side. He watched the flat fields stretch out into the distance, reflecting on how far he had travelled in the past two weeks, and how far he still had to go.

When a team starts breaking up, it stays broke. It's part of the iron law of screw-ups.

The KLM plane had left Malaga at ten past eight that morning, touching down at Amsterdam's Schipol airport just before eleven local time. He'd paid cash for the ticket, which had caused some consternation among the girls at the check-in desk. Not using a credit card marked you out as some kind of criminal these days, Matt realised. Only men with something to hide used old-fashioned paper money, everyone else used plastic.

I've moved on to the other side of the law now. And I might never come back.

There was a direct train from Schipol to the Rotterdam Central station, stopping at Leiden and Den Haag. The journey was only three-quarters of an hour, but Matt was grateful for the time and space to himself. He needed to sort out his thoughts. And decide what he was going to do next.

The money is like some kind of worm. It chews away at all of us.

Matt was still shocked by the way Reid had reacted the night before. They had never been the best of friends in the Regiment. But they had known each other for years; they were both Army men. Surely it couldn't be him. .

He peered out of the window, watching the countryside rush by. Whatever else, he felt certain he had been right to slip away last night after Reid had finally gone to sleep. The man was cracking. There was no other choice.

I don't know. Maybe it's Reid. He could have killed Damien when they were up in the lodge together. He could have slipped out to kill Cooksley — he would certainly have known where he was. Maybe Reid is a complete psycho.

He took a hit of the coffee and finished off the biscuit. A taste of food reminded him that it was hours since he'd had anything proper to eat. His stomach was empty, and his head was aching from hunger.

Stop it, Matt — you're going mad yourself. Just collect the money, stay alive, and get this thing over with.

The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He was tall and thin, strong in the way that teenagers are, with eyes that bulged from their sockets, and a shy manner. Sallum inspected him the way he might inspect a goat in the market: as a piece of meat for cooking, not as a living creature.

'Your name?' he said.

'Rami Shamil, sir,' he answered.

Sallum nodded, a smile exposing his gleaming white teeth. 'Rami. The marksman. It is appropriate.'

'I chose it, sir, when I joined our movement.' He sat down next to Sallum. The cafe was situated in the hills behind the main road running east from Puerto Banus. There were no views from here, and it wasn't on a road towards any tourist site. It was entirely Spanish, serving great plates of pork and beans to the truckers. Just as well, reflected Sallum. If we talk in English no one will understand us.

The boy had been supplied by the organisation. Sallum had contacted Assaf to say that he needed someone expendable, and the boy had been dispatched. Rami was Algerian, and had joined al-Qaeda three years before. He'd been in Afghanistan before the war for basic training, then moved to Qatar after the fall of Kabul. He was not an expert fighter, just a mule: a boy used as muscle. But he was devout and fearless, and ready to lay down his life for the cause. Even though he had no particular talents, his willingness made him a useful tool of the organisation. Perfect for Sallum's purposes tonight.

'You are familiar with the Koran?'

'Yes, sir.'

Sallum ordered two cups of weak peppermint tea from the waitress. 'Then tell me the story of Husayn.'

'The grandson of the prophet Mohammed, and the third Imman,' answered Rami. 'He and his band of followers were killed by the Caliph Yazid in 680. He was the first of the great martyrs of the faith, and the shrine to him at Karbala in Iraq is one of the holiest places in all Islam.'

Sallum nodded. 'You are a good student,' he said.

Rami took a sip of his tea, looking up towards Sallum, his expression calm and impassive. 'Am I to become a martyr, sir?'

'Not at all,' said Sallum, shaking his head, a benevolent smile playing on his lips. 'But, you know, those of us who fight for the faith must always be prepared to be martyrs one day. It is that knowledge, that we would lay down our lives at any time, that makes us strong and the infidels weak.'

Matt walked towards the parking lot, clutching the car keys. The blue Ford Focus was one of seven identical cars parked in a row in the Avis lot. He picked his from the number plate, climbed inside the vehicle and started driving.

He had used his own name and credit card to complete the rental forms. There was no way they would give him a car without showing his licence and some plastic, so he figured he had little choice. If anyone wanted to track him down, they could.

But they'll have to find me first. And if I keep moving that won't be so easy.

He checked his watch. It was twelve-twenty. He had another forty minutes until he was scheduled to meet Heuhle, but first he had to find his way through the suburbs of Rotterdam. He pulled the car out of the lot and started heading east. He checked his mirror every few seconds to see if anyone was on his tail.

At this moment I could use a gun, he thought — but although there were plenty of Dutch gangsters who would have sold him one, he didn't have the time to find them.

He turned sharply right. According to the map on the passenger seat, this road would take him in towards the docks. The restaurant was an Italian place, Roos Marijn, a couple of streets from the main port. A local place, out of the way and discreet — Matt reckoned there was little chance anyone would see them.

He drove slowly through the neat suburban streets. His head was turning from right to left, making sure he read every street sign and tracking his position on the map. He was almost there. The next turning on the right, then the restaurant should be a couple of blocks along.

He glanced in the mirror. Nobody was following. He looked across the streets, checking for any cars with people in them. Nothing. He scanned the driveways of the houses, glanced at the street corners, then up into the trees.

If I was planning a hit here, where would I hide myself?

He could see the restaurant a block away: a two-storey building with a long glass front and a red neon sign on top. He pulled into the car park, switched off the ignition, and sat silent for a moment. There were two cars in the lot, both empty. In the mirror, he could see one man walking down the street. He waited for him to pass, tracking his movements, ready to respond. Only when he had disappeared from view did Matt climb out of the car.

OK, if Ivan's here, he's planning to make the hit after the money gets transferred.

Heuhle was sitting in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. Look for a man reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune, he had told Matt, but he needn't have bothered. The only other customers were a Dutch mother and daughter, and a man in his seventies by himself.

'Let's get one thing straight,' said Matt, sitting down in the booth. 'I've had a crap few days. People are getting killed all around me, and I'm probably next. I'm tired, and my nerves are edgy. So you fuck me around, I kill you. With my bare hands if I have to. We clear about that?'

'You should order the chicken soup,' said Heuhle. 'It might make you feel better. Calm you down.'

Heuhle was a thin man, in his early forties Matt judged, almost six feet tall, with light blond hair and a tan that suggested he took several holidays a year. He was wearing a black Boss suit and a dark grey shirt, with a couple of buttons undone at the neck. Fencing stolen jewels and gold looked like a trade that could earn a man a good living. That was to be expected. If he wasn't good enough to make money, Damien wouldn't have been using him.

'I'm sorry to hear about Damien,' said Heuhle.

'How well did you know him?'

Heuhle shrugged. 'In this trade, a man doesn't know anyone that well,' he replied. 'We have contacts, networks, references, but we're all freelancers. We work alone. I did three trades with him. London goods. Diamonds twice, some paintings once. He was reliable and sharp.'

Matt nodded. 'As you know, the Ithaca gets into the port this afternoon. About five, but it could be a couple of hours out either way. I suppose it depends how crowded the port is. But they should be unloading about six. I go in there, collect the gear, get past customs. Then we make the transfer at night. I give you the stuff. You give me the ten million. Agreed?"

'The money is ready.'

'Show me.'

Heuhle shook his head. 'It's in a safe place about five miles from the city. Once you get your stuff, we'll take it there and I'll give you the cash.'

Matt leant forwards, resting his arms on the table. 'How do I know I'm not just going to get my throat cut and my corpse tossed into some Dutch ditch?' he said sharply. 'You could easily have a bunch of guys waiting to finish me off.'

'I could, but I don't,' said Heuhle. 'Trust. That's the basis on which this business works.'

Rami held the TCI 89SR sniper rifle to his shoulder. Sallum had been amused by the choice of weapon: the TCI was a gun manufactured for the Israeli Army, based on the American M14 SWS. A short, black metal rifle, the TCI was light, easily concealed, and had exceptional punch for a weapon of its size. That made it perfect for the tight, house-to-house fighting the Israeli Army specialised in.

The Jews might be among our greatest foes, but sometimes the devil has the best munitions. We'll use their guns if we need to.

'See if you can hit the fruit from that tree,' said Sallum.

They were standing in the hills behind the cafe, in the middle of a long stretch of waste and scrubland populated only by a few goats. In the distance there were two orange trees, struggling to grow in the barren, sun-baked earth. Rami found his target in the gun-sight, steadied his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed around the hills.

The fruit didn't move.

'See if you can hit the tree, then,' said Sallum patiently.

Rami put the rifle back up to his shoulder. He spread his legs slightly wider apart, driving his heels into the sand to give himself a better balance. He took a deep breath, lined up the sight to his right eye, squinted to protect his vision from the bright afternoon sun, then squeezed softly on the trigger.

The tree remained undisturbed.

'Don't worry,' said Sallum, patting the boy on the back, 'when we go in against our target you'll be much closer.'

This boy couldn't shoot himself in the foot.

The Ithaca inched its way carefully through the dock, its massive engines churning up water as the propellors screwed in reverse to slow the ship down. Along its side, sailors cast down ropes to their colleagues on the bay.

It's an ugly looking ship, though Matt. Twenty years of ploughing cargo through the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the North Sea had battered its hull and scraped away whatever paintwork might have once decorated it.

But to me, it's the finest looking vessel I have ever seen.

Matt turned to Heuhle. 'Looks like my boat just came in.'

The two men walked closer to the side of the dock. It was five in the afternoon, and dusk was falling. A wind was whipping in from the north, and the spray from the sea was hitting Matt's face. A group of men were huddled around a makeshift wooden hut, filling in forms and collecting passes: most of them looked like Albanians, Kosovans or Kurds. Temporary workers, explained Heuhle, signing on for the night shift. That's what the asylum seekers do while they are waiting to be sent home.

Matt scoured the faces in front of them. One of you could be the assassin, he reflected. One man looked him in the eye, smiled, then looked away. Maybe you, wondered Matt. Another man stood next to him, lighting up a cigarette, looking down at the ground. Maybe you.

Until I get out of here I'm going to be looking at every shadow, wondering whether it's going to kill me.

He walked up closer to the Ithaca. The ship was bound to the dockside now, rolling only slightly with the swell of the water. Above, Matt could see the massive cargo cranes swinging into action. Huge steel beams swung out over the boat, lowering cables on to its deck, hauling containers up into the sky, then back down on to the dock.

I'm so close to my money I can almost smell it.

'Ticket number 219,' Matt said to the docks manager standing beside the ship, supervising its unloading. 'A couple of imported cars. How long?'

The man shrugged. 'An hour, maybe two,' he replied. 'It depends how deep down in the hold they stashed it.'

The waiting, thought Matt. That's always what gets to you. In the thick of the action you don't have the time to think or worry. When you are sitting around, that's all there is to do.

A small group of men was starting to gather, each of them, Matt supposed, here to make their own collections. Behind them, the car park was full of lorries and vans, all ready to take the stuff away.

Heuhle collected a truck from the car park and drove it up to the side of the dock, ready for the two containers to be loaded on top of it.

Matt counted three ships in this dock and two in the next one, but the Ithaca was the only vessel being unloaded right now, and looked like the last of the day. Most of it was bulk cargo: fruit, and cheap manufactured goods, mostly clothes and furniture, that had been picked up in Turkey and Cyprus and was destined for the supermarkets of western Europe. Most of the truck drivers looked bored and uninterested. So would I be, thought Matt, if I just had to pick up a couple of these containers and drive them to Düsseldorf.

That, after all, is the point of all this. To save myself from an ordinary working life.

'Our number's up,' said Heuhle, standing at his side.

Matt snapped to attention and looked up. The crane had lifted a single steel container free of the boat. The metal screeched while the crane slowly turned, then the steel ropes started to winch the crate down.

Just a few more inches, thought Matt. Then it's back on dry land.

'Your ticket,' said the docks manager.

Matt took the receipt from his wallet and handed it across. The man inspected the piece of paper briefly, made a note on his pad, then nodded. 'OK,' he said tersely. 'It's yours.'

The container was lowered slowly on to the back of the truck. 'Take it away,' shouted the docks manager as soon as it was in place.

Matt hopped into the passenger seat and Heuhle drove the truck forward into the parking lot. From the corner of his eye, Matt could see the customs inspector approaching them. 'I'll do the talking,' said Heuhle. 'It'll be easier to speak Dutch.'

Matt could feel his stomach heaving as the two men spoke. He'd been told that about five per cent of the containers were searched by customs. The inspector nodded, looked at some paperwork, then cast his eyes over the container and stamped Heuhle's paper.

'We're clear,' Heuhle said, climbing back into the cabin.

Matt got out, lowered the back of the truck, fired up the rented Ford, and steered it on to the back of the lorry, tucking it behind the container.

'Can you drive this?' said Heuhle, looking towards Matt as he climbed back into the cabin.

'Of course,' answered Matt. 'If you can drive a tank, a truck is no problem.'

'Follow the red Audi,' said Heuhle, climbing down from the cabin. 'When I stop, that's where the money is.'

Matt turned the ignition, bringing the engine roaring to life. Pushing his foot on the accelerator, he gradually familiarised himself with the controls. Turning the wheel, he started to steer the truck out of the port and on to the main road. Up ahead, Heuhle's Audi was in view, driving cautiously in the slow lane. So far, so good, thought Matt. In another hour, the money will be safely stashed in the back of that rented Ford.

My money. Ten million, a third of it mine — and more if we finish Ivan.

The lights from the compound were only just visible over the ridge of the hill. Sallum looked over the cusp of the rock, surveying the panorama below. He could see the house, the drive leading up to it, and the high, wire fencing encircling the compound. Taking a pair of binoculars from his pocket, he looked down at the gates: black, thick, reinforced steel. The only way through was by cutting the wire — and that, he could be sure, was protected by a thousand different electronic sensors.

My sources were right. Only a man on a suicide mission would attempt to get inside there.

'How do we get inside, sir?' Rami asked, looking up towards Sallum.

'Wire cutters,' said Sallum.

From his backpack, he took out a pair of thick steel pliers. 'You cut the wire like this,' he said, crunching the pliers together. 'Snap a section of wire open, about one foot square. That will be enough for you to crawl through. Then wriggle along the ground, trying to keep low and out of sight. As you approach the house, get your gun ready. Go in through the main balcony window. As soon as you see anyone, shoot them on sight. Understood?'

Rami nodded. 'You don't think they'll see me coming in?'

'We wait until midnight, they should all be in bed,' said Sallum. 'It is just one man and his family. He can't stay up all night. So long as you are brave and quick, you'll be all right.'

'What have they done, sir?'

'They are infidels,' said Sallum gravely. 'They have stolen from the organisation to which we have pledged ourselves. The punishment they are about to receive is a just one.'

'Then may Allah be with me, as he was with Husayn,' said Rami, starting to pace down the side of the hill.

The boy has faith, reflected Sallum, if not much in the way of brains.

The Audi pulled up to a halt in a lay-by on the side of the road. Matt calculated that they were about six miles outside of Rotterdam, and at least two miles from the main highway. He could see Heuhle climbing out of the car, walking towards him. 'There's a right turning just ahead that leads to a copse of trees about a mile distant,' Heuhle told him. 'The stash is in there. You should be able to get the truck up the dirt track.'

Ivan must be following me, Matt decided. He must have some plan for taking me down just after I get the money. I just have to be ready for him.

Matt steered the truck out of the lay-by, back on to the road, then turned a sharp right on to the track. It led a mile between two fields towards the woods. The surface was rough, pitted with stones which were thrown up against the underside of the truck, but the ground seemed solid enough. The tyres were gripping, churning up mud but still pushing the machine forwards.

This is the point of maximum danger. If I were Ivan, I'd attack right here, right now.

Matt surveyed the scene ahead. The track opened up into a small clearing, surrounded by tall trees. It was pitch dark. The last farm Matt had seen was a couple of miles back, and this patch of wood was surrounded by nothing except empty fields. Plenty of places for a sniper up in those trees, thought Matt. If I was planning a hit, that's what I would do.

He brought the truck to halt, killing the engine. Heuhle had already parked the Audi a few yards ahead. Matt sat perfectly still, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the branches of the trees. He looked up, then right and left, searching for the points where thicker branches grew out from the tree trunks. It was in one of those niches a sniper would conceal himself.

Matt stepped down from the cabin. A branch creaked, and instinctively he ducked his head.

'A bit jumpy?' said Heuhle.

'Two men already died on this job. I don't plan to be the third.'

Heuhle looked at him closely. 'Where did you get this stuff?'

'Al-Qaeda.'

Heuhle whistled. 'You're a brave man.'

Matt shook his head. 'A desperate one,' he replied.

'Within twenty-four hours, it will have been split up and distributed among a hundred different dealers, and within a week it will be in a thousand different jewellery shops across Europe.'

That's the real beauty of gold and diamonds, thought Matt. Not the way they sparkled and glittered, but the fact that both commodities were completely untraceable. Nobody cared where they came from. They were money in its purest state.

'Let's move.'

Matt hopped on to the back of the truck. He was breathing more easily now. The shot hadn't come, and although he still had to be on his guard, he figured that any assassin hiding in the trees would have loosened off a few rounds by now. He had done some hits himself, and he knew the rules. When an opportunity for a clean shot at your target presents itself, you never pass on it. You never know when it might come again.

He unhooked the back of the container, stepping inside its dank steel hull. The smell of the sea was still hanging to it: a mixture of salt and brine and rust. He switched on the flashlight from the truck, the beam piercing through the darkness. The two Land Rovers were there, both strapped down to the floor of the container. It looked as if they had barely been disturbed during the voyage.

Matt stepped closer, Heuhle following him. He knelt down, his hand reaching underneath the first vehicle. He rummaged around until he found the catch and prised it loose with his thumb. Unlocked, the flat metal panel came free in his hand. Where you would expect to find the base of the car were a series of small wooden boxes, each one neatly stacked on top of each other. Matt pulled the first one free. He caught his breath as he slid the lid aside, flashing his torch on to its contents, and the diamonds sparkled back at him like the eyes of a child.

Slowly, he started unpacking the boxes from the two cars, stacking each one on top of the other.

At his side, Heuhle was opening each box, examining its contents, then placing it back on the stack. From his car he had brought a set of electronic scales. At random, he took a selection of diamonds and a selection of gold bars, measuring each one then weighing them. 'Once you know the right weights for a diamond of a certain size and a gold bar of a certain size, this is the quickest way of judging whether it's fake,' he explained to Matt. 'If the diamonds were made of glass, or if those gold bars had hollow shells, the weights would be all wrong.'

'And how are they?'

'Exactly as they should be.'

'Then I'll collect my money.'

The two men walked across the damp ground towards the wood. It was pitch dark, and Matt needed his torch to illuminate the path. The wind was picking up speed, rattling through the branches. He could hear creaking. A footstep? Or just a branch blown about in the gale?

If there's someone there, they'd better take me down with one shot. Otherwise they're dead.

'This way,' said Heuhle.

The oak tree was massive, its thick trunk towering into the sky, its branches reaching out imperiously across the rest of the wood. At least a hundred years old, judged Matt. At its base the roots curled up and out from the ground, creating dozens of tiny caves and crevices.

Useful for woodlice, rabbits and robbers.

Heuhle bent over, his arm reaching between a pair of roots. He tugged, pulling out a yellow canvas travel bag. He handed it across to Matt. 'Count it if you want to,' he said.

'How much in this one?'

'Two million dollars. One million in American money, half a million in euros, two hundred and fifty thousand in British pounds and the rest in Swiss francs.'

Matt pulled back the zipper. The notes were all there, folded into neat paper bundles. He could smell it. Not the fresh, inky scent of the newly printed note, but the familiar, grubby smell of the old, used note; the smell of cash tills, other people's hands and sweaty pockets.

My money. I'm a rich man again.

He watched as Heuhle pulled another bag from the tree, then another, until there were five bags in a row. Matt opened each one, checking the notes were all there, and that none of the bundles were stuffed with forgeries or blanks. That was all the checking he needed to do.

'Here,' said Matt, handing across the keys to the truck. 'It's all yours.'

He collected the bags, putting three over his shoulders and taking one in each hand. The money was lighter than he expected: ten million dollars was not such a big sum that a strong man couldn't comfortably carry it on his back. As he walked he scanned the trees, watching and listening.

'What happened to the other guys?' said Heuhle as they walked.

'Two died. The other. . We decided we didn't like the smell of him.'

'You meet a lot of gangs in this trade,' said Heuhle. 'It's always the same. They are the best of friends until the job, but afterwards they all start arguing among themselves.'

'Arguing I can handle.'

'It's the money,' said Heuhle. 'It's always the money. It has the same effect on all of them. Within a few days, the oldest of friends are at each other's throats.' He paused, turning to look at Matt. 'You want my advice, you split that cash up, give a fair share to each man still standing, then get the hell out. Once the killing starts, it doesn't end until there's only one man left standing. And it won't necessarily be you.'

Matt swung the last of the bags into the boot of the Ford, which was still parked on the back of the truck. 'Thanks,' he said tersely. 'Always good to have some encouragement.'

Heuhle laughed. 'I just meant be careful,' he said. 'A man with ten million in unmarked notes in the boot of his car needs several sets of eyes. He'll have enemies he never even imagined.'

Matt turned the ignition on the car and carefully backed it down on to the dirt track. 'You look after yourself, too,' he said. 'A man with a truck full of gold and diamonds needs just as many eyes as a man with ten million in notes. Especially when it's jinxed.'

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.