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Greed mb-1 Page 3

by Chris Ryan


  But this woman wasn't like that. She might be easy — he would find out soon — but there was nothing cheap about her.

  'I don't even know your name,' said Matt, sitting down on one of the rocks that jutted out from the sand.

  'Alison.'

  'I heard you let that little friend of mine take off your party dress.'

  'I know the song, thanks.'

  Matt fell silent. It was only two days since he had split up with Gill. The pain was still there, weighing on his mind. Her parting words were still echoing through his thoughts, and the image of her tears still burned his memory. A hundred times he had thought about calling her: a thousand times he had told himself he mustn't. He had made his choice, he must learn to live with it.

  Maybe I need something to help me get over Gill. Maybe I'll never sort out the mess I'm in and just need to move on. Forget about the past, and everything in it.

  'You're quiet.'

  'Just thinking.'

  'Oh.'

  Alison leant forward and brushed her lips against his. Matt moved his face towards her and their lips collided, the kiss turning into a long, passionate embrace. She tasted different, and felt different. It was two years since Matt had slept with any woman other than Gill, and he had started to forget how each had her own unique flavour, her own way of touching you, her own noises and movements. Gill and he had got together when he'd left the Regiment, and they'd gone back to the crowd of people they'd known before he'd become a soldier. There had always been plenty of temptation at the bar, but he'd never so much as looked at another woman.

  Alison's hands were moving quickly over his chest and shoulders, her fingers pressing through his blue denim shirt. Through her bra and her blouse he could feel her nipples starting to harden. 'Not here,' she whispered into his ear. 'I want to fuck you all night, and we can't do that on the beach.'

  He stood up, holding her hand, and they started walking. It was ten minutes to his apartment, a one-bedroom place overlooking the sea, just down from the main coastal road.

  Matt pushed open the door of the flat, hoping it wasn't too much of a mess. It was a standard guy's place — a few pieces of furniture, none of them bought with any great thought. A big hi-fi, and a row of CDs filed away on the bookshelf in alphabetical order. A wide-screen TV, with a PlayStation 2 underneath it and a collection of games. A small kitchen, with a big fridge containing beer, some orange juice and six frozen double pepperoni and sausage pizzas. The only individual touch was the framed pictures on top of the hi-fi, one of his mum, the rest of himself in uniform with some of his mates from the Regiment.

  Matt picked a CD from the shelf — Sonny Rollins, in his opinion the greatest jazz saxophone player of the 1950s. He fed the disc into the player then turned around to look at her, noticing the way the light caught her hair, emphasising the fact that she was a near platinum blonde. A sad, soulful tune slowly filled the room, the lines of the melody straying in different directions, and Matt gripped Alison around the waist, feeling the tight leather of her trousers firm against his hand. Already he was wondering how she would look naked, what would be the contours of her body, how her shape would fit against his. She wasn't saying anything, but it suited him that way. He kissed her lips, his mouth moving quickly down the length of her neck, his hands wrestling with her belt buckle. 'Undress,' he said. 'Undress for me now.'

  She took off her clothes with the same relaxed grace she'd displayed in the bar, like a woman who was perfectly comfortable with herself and her surroundings. She unpeeled her trousers first, uncovering slender, finely sculpted legs. Then she dropped her blouse to the floor, revealing slim, elegant shoulders and breasts that seemed larger than they'd looked when she was clothed. Her bra and knickers were red lace La Perla, designed more to provoke than to protect. She must have known she was going home with a guy tonight, decided Matt. A woman doesn't wear underwear like that unless she is on the prowl. I just happened to be standing in the right place.

  Alison dropped to her knees before him, unbuttoned the fly of his jeans. Her tongue moved slowly, teasingly against his groin, and Matt could feel his muscles relaxing as the pleasure flooded through his body. He ran his fingers slowly through her long hair, admiring the skill with which she seemed to be working every nerve-ending in his body. He waited until he could stand it no more, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her towards the bedroom. Her hair broke free, trailing across his shoulder. He rolled her on to the bed and lay on top of her, his movements swift, urgent and uncontrolled. He could feel her yielding beneath him, and could feel her excitement mounting as he pushed into her. Within minutes, her screams were ringing in his ears.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later Matt leant back on the bed. Every muscle in his body felt stretched, each nerve taut. At his side, Alison rolled over, reaching out for her bag and retrieving a packet of Dunhill. She lit one, blowing a plume of smoke high into the air. Then she lit one for him and moved to place it between his lips, but Matt shook his head.

  'I've given up,' he said, breathing in the smoky air. 'Did I approach you in the bar, or did you approach me?' he continued.

  The trace of a smile flashed across Alison's lips. 'You mean, are you the hunter or are you the prey?'

  'Exactly,' said Matt.

  She reached across the bed to rest her head on his chest, her tongue flicking across his nipple.

  * * *

  Matt reached out across the bed to find her. His hand moved through the sheet. Nothing. Drowsily he opened his eyes, looking around the tiny room. Nothing. Light was streaming in through the window and the sky was bright blue. He stood up, walking towards the bathroom. 'Alison,' he shouted. He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls. Then silence. Nothing. She was gone.

  Matt shrugged and walked towards the kitchen. He threw some coffee into the percolator, and took a flask of orange juice from the fridge, drinking it straight from the bottle. The smell of her still lingered on his body. Strange, he reflected. Last night she was all over me, this morning she wakes up and buggers off without so much as saying goodbye.

  That's a guy's job, isn't it?

  Matt glanced at his watch. It was already half past nine. He needed a shower, and he needed to get on with his life. Last night was fun, but that was all. She was right to take off.

  'You're a stupid boy, Matt Browning.'

  The sound of the voice rattled through his ears, catching him off-guard. Matt looked up. The man sitting on the sofa was called Harry Pointer. Matt had met him a couple of times before. A fat, ugly brute of an Englishman with a nasty rash on the top of his balding head, Harry ran errands for Gennady Kazanov, local landlord and an investor in the Last Trumpet. Harry wasn't the heavy muscle, although he knew how to throw a punch and fire a gun when he had to. But mainly he did the talking and the translating: the muscle that travelled with Kazanov spoke Russian or Ukrainian or Georgian, not English.

  'How the fuck did you get in?' demanded Matt.

  'Mr Kazanov owns the block, remember,' said Harry. 'He has keys to all the apartments.'

  'And that gives you the right to barge in here whenever you like?'

  Pointer shook his head. 'No,' he replied slowly. 'The fact you owe us half a million gives us the right.'

  'I've told you,' said Matt, 'I'm doing everything I can think of to get you your money back.'

  'Thinking isn't what you do best.'

  Pointer stood up. He was wearing cream chinos and a bright blue shirt, and the tattoos were visible all the way up his arm.

  'Tell Kazanov he's just going to have to wait,' said Matt.

  'He's waited already, Matt. He's tired of waiting. Mr Kazanov is a patient man; he knows that sometimes it takes time to make money, but even his patience will be exhausted eventually. You know what troubles him: he doesn't see you working. He watches, and he sees some guy too busy knocking off the tourist honeys in the bar to spend his time worrying about how he's going to pay Mr Kazanov back.' Harry paused, moving
closer to Matt. 'And Mr Kazanov doesn't like that.'

  Matt shrugged, walking towards the balcony. He looked to the beach below. A pair of girls were sunning themselves, one in a pink bikini, the other in blue. He looked more closely. No, neither of them was Alison.

  'We know where she works, Matt. We know all her movements.'

  'That's more than I do.'

  'No.' Pointer laughed. 'We know where Gill works, Matt. The Dandelion Playschool, Puerto Banus. The kids get out at two-thirty every afternoon. She walks home to her apartment. Takes her about fifteen minutes. Plenty of good spots along the way where a couple of men could pick her up, take her away to somewhere quiet.'

  Matt turned slowly away from the window. His eyes narrowed and he could feel the muscles in his chest tightening. He had few expectations of Kazanov. He knew better than to believe the man had made his money in the Russian oil business. He knew he was a hard, ruthless thug who had worked for the KGB before looting a fortune when the system in his country started to come apart. And he knew that if he didn't get his money back to him sometime, he was likely to come after him. But Gill. .

  'Don't even think about it,' Matt snapped.

  A thin smile started to spread over Pointer's lips. 'A primary school teacher. I reckon she uses her hands a lot,' he said, drawing out each word. 'All that painting and building things with the kids. If some guys snatched her and chopped off her right hand, I reckon that would be pretty bad for her.'

  Matt squared up to Pointer, close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. 'I'd kill any man who laid a finger on her,' he said, his voice rising. 'I'd kill the man, then I'd kill Kazanov. Then I'd kill you. Slowly.'

  Pointer backed away. 'Calm, Matt, calm,' he said quickly. 'We're just having a hypothetical conversation.'

  'Let's keep it that way.'

  'You've got a month, Matt,' said Pointer. 'Then we come after you. And you can shout and scream and threaten all you like, but remember this: we don't give a fuck if you've been in the Regiment or not. To me you're all just a bunch of pussies. And anyway, there is no back-up. You are just one man, and we're an organisation. We'll kill you, and then we'll cut her up, and there's nothing you can do to stop us.'

  Matt looked straight into Pointer's eyes: it was like gazing into the face of a statue, he thought. 'Where the hell am I going to get half a million pounds in a month?'

  THREE

  The look in the man's eyes told Matt everything he needed to know. There wasn't any money. There never would be any money.

  I'm just an embarrassment. They want to get rid of me.

  Eddie Addler shifted his pen from one side of his desk to the other. His eyes darted up to the window, then to the door, then to one of the oil paintings hanging on the wall. Anything, Matt thought, to avoid looking me in the eye.

  'I'm sorry, but I don't think there is anything we can do,' said Addler. 'With the state of your portfolio, there's just no chance of giving you any more credit.'

  Tatton & Friedland was a private bank set up only seven years previously, but its St James's Place offices had been decorated to make it look far older. There was wood panelling on the walls, which were adorned with stuffed fish in cases and a collection of oil paintings of dogs and huntsmen. Matt had felt instinctively uncomfortable the first time he had set foot in the place. He should have trusted his instincts.

  'If I could get some collateral, I was thinking maybe I could trade my way out of trouble.'

  Harry Stroller had introduced Matt to Addler, back when he was still working for him full-time. At first Matt had dabbled in just a few shares, dealing through his usual bank account. As Stroller's tips had made him wealthier, he'd suggested Matt get himself a proper banker. Tatton & Friedland dealt with a small group of rich clients, mostly technology entrepreneurs or City bankers. You needed a quarter of a million to invest to get through the door. Matt had only just qualified.

  'In these markets, Mr Browning, I can't help feeling you'd just be trading yourself into more trouble.' Matt could hear the pained tone in Addler's voice: polite still, but on the brink of rudeness.

  'I made money before, I can make it again,' said Matt.

  'From these records, I see you made a lot of money trading while you were working for Mr Stroller,' said Addler, looking at the computer screen on his desk. 'Spotting which internet and technology shares were moving up. Maybe Mr Stroller was discussing his own thoughts with you — I can't judge. Since you stopped working for him, you have made a series of investments on your own. You had a half-million in your portfolio, now you are down half a million.' He paused, looking directly at Matt for the first time. 'Let me give you some advice. You're a soldier by training. You're good at it, I'm sure. Trading shares is different. Even the best City operators are losing money this year. Do yourself a favour. Stay out of the game.'

  Matt swallowed hard. 'I'm in a jam,' he said. 'I need to make that money back, and I need to make it quickly.'

  Addler's eyes moved back to his computer screen. His expression closed. 'I'm sorry,' he said coldly. 'We're a bank. We can't help you. We'd like to help you — we'd like to help lots of people — but we can't. That's business.'

  * * *

  The offices were almost empty compared to the last time he had been there. Ark Technology Systems occupied a refurbished warehouse in Clerkenwell, its insides gutted and rebuilt with stainless steel floors, frosted glass partitions and plasma screens covering every wall. Each desk had once been home to at least two computers, and there'd been so many girls running around in short black skirts and tight T-shirts that Matt had found it impossible to concentrate on the work. Not that there had been much to do. As Harry Stroller had admitted after a few beers one night, bodyguards were mostly there for show, part of convincing the investors they had a big business worth protecting. Bill Gates had a bodyguard, so Ark had one too. Like the plasma screens, and the immaculately groomed receptionists, Matt was there mainly for decoration.

  The decorations were all gone now. It was like walking through a house that had been left empty for a few years. A chilled emptiness had descended on the building, and dust was gathering in the corners. There was still a receptionist, and maybe two dozen people occupying a few of the hundred or more desks. But Ark was a pale, waning shadow of what it once had been.

  Stroller shook Matt warmly by the hand. A broad grin was playing on his face. He was a short man, just over five foot five, with broad shoulders and black hair that was thinning on top, but sporting a thick, neatly trimmed goatee beard. 'I don't need a bodyguard, Matt,' he said. 'The only people likely to kill me are my shareholders.'

  'That bad?'

  Stroller turned on his heels and walked back towards his own desk in the centre of the main floor. He'd always refused to have his own office — very 'old economy', he used to point out — even though Matt had argued that it was impossible to protect anyone adequately who worked in an open-place space. Now it didn't matter any more. There were so few people around, the third floor was a private office.

  'Look at this place,' said Harry. 'Hardly recognise it, do you? The good times have gone. The orders have dried up, and the venture capitalists aren't taking my calls any more. Heck, I can't even get a date.' Stroller leant back in his chair and swung his right foot on to the desk. 'Internet billionaire had a kind of ring to it. Chicks went for that. Close-to-bankrupt computer nerd doesn't work the same kind of magic.' He paused. 'But, hey, when's the wedding?'

  'There isn't going to be a wedding,' said Matt. 'I can't afford to look after myself, never mind Gill.'

  'You're in a mess?'

  'The worst mess I've ever been in,' Matt confessed.

  'I lost all the money I made when I was working for you, and I lost a whole lot more as well. The people I owe it to want it back.'

  'And you were wondering if any of my friends might need a guard,' said Stroller. 'Somebody who might share a few stock tips with you?'

  Matt paused. Once you got used to the taste, he rea
soned, swallowing your pride wasn't so hard. 'If there was anyone on the circuit who needed a reliable man, I could use a break.'

  'I like you, Matt — but let me tell you something,' said Stroller, standing up from his desk, his expression suggesting he was fast losing interest in the conversation. 'You know what I've learned about life over the last few months. When you're down, you're down, and nobody wants to help you. I can't even help myself.'

  * * *

  The words were still echoing through Matt's mind as he stepped back on to the street. A year before, he had bought himself a one-bedroom flat close to Holborn. The plan had been to use it on his trips to London — back when he thought he was still a big shot who had to fly home to see his banker. It might have been a good investment, but the place now was mortgaged to the hilt, and the bank was already threatening to repossess it. Four months had passed since Matt last made a mortgage payment, and right now there was no chance of making one.

  The walk took about twenty minutes. Matt could have hopped on a bus or taken a cab, but he reckoned he needed the time to clear his mind. When he'd flown to London he hadn't been sure what he was looking for. A way out. Another loan, or a new job. .

  Harry's right, Matt thought. Nobody is going to help me. Why should they? I'm a thirty-five-year-old guy. I know how to fight — but out here in the real world, away from the Regiment, who cares about that? I don't have anything to offer.

  There was something about making all that money, so quickly and so easily — it does something to your head. It stops you from thinking straight. And when that happens, you're as good as finished.

  A tramp was sitting in the doorway of the office building next to his flat. A man of maybe forty-five or fifty, his skin was pitted with spots and a black beard was starting to crawl down his chin. His hair was matted with sweat and grease. A can of beer was held in one hand, a piece of brown cardboard in the other: 'EX-FORCES. SERVED IN THE FALKLANDS. PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY.'

 

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