by Chris Ryan
Matt fished around in his pocket and took out the fiver he would have spent on a taxi. He knelt down, handing the money across. 'How does this happen?' he asked.
The man looked at him suspiciously, taking the money and folding it into his fist. 'I'll thank you for the money,' he said in a Birmingham accent slurred by alcohol, 'but my story is my story, and it's about the only thing I still own. So I'll not be sharing it with you.'
The smell of the man hit Matt hard in the chest: a stale odour of dead fish, cheap spirits and damp cloth. 'Where's your dignity?' Matt said, his eyes suddenly intense and full of anger. 'You were a soldier, man.'
'Fuck off,' spat the tramp.
Christ, thought Matt. I threw away my dignity today.
I'm just inches away.
Maybe I should just get out of the country, he thought. Go to Moscow, Hong Kong, Nigeria — anywhere. Change my name. Change my face, even. Get some security work and become another person. It's not so hard. I've been Matt Browning all my life, and where did it ever get me? Why not try on some other identity. I could hardly make a worse mess of things.
No. That might save me, but it won't save Gill. And if anything happened to her because of me, I couldn't live with it. My dignity would have been stripped from me for ever.
* * *
'Pleased to see me?' Alison looked up towards Matt as he walked into his flat, a lipsticked smile spreading across her lips.
Matt looked at her suspiciously, his eyes moving across the slender curves of her body. 'What are you doing in my flat?'
'We need to talk,' said Alison.
Matt laughed. 'Don't tell me — you're pregnant. That's all I need right now.'
Alison stood up, moving away from the sofa. 'I'm here to help you.'
'You're the only person who's said that recently.'
'I know, Matt. I know everything about you.'
Matt stood closer to her, looking directly into her eyes. 'Who are you?'
'Like I said, we should talk.'
'Then start talking,' said Matt. 'I've got all day.'
Alison walked towards the kitchen. She took a glass from the shelf, blew away a thin layer of dust that had settled on its surface, filled it with water and raised it to her lips. 'My name is Alison Hammond,' she said slowly. 'I work for MI5.'
The silence lasted several seconds as her words hung in the air. Matt looked at her closely, wondering if she would suddenly change shape: he had met her as a pickup in the bar, and now, suddenly, she was a spy who had broken into his flat. 'Go on,' he said quietly.
'I have a proposition for you. Whether you choose to accept it or not is up to you. It could solve all your problems.'
'I'm out of that game,' Matt snapped. 'I left the Regiment two years ago. I've done all that misguided shit about risking my life for my country several times already, and I don't need it. These days I'm just interested in chilling out and looking after myself.'
'And making a right screw-up of it too.'
'What do you know about me?' said Matt angrily.
'As I said, everything,' Alison said coldly, swilling the remains of the water into her throat. 'Matt, we know you better than you know yourself.' She paused, looking away from him and walking back towards the window. 'After I left you in Spain, you were visited by a man looking to collect some money. You are half a million pounds in debt, and because the money is owed to Gennady Kazanov, if you don't pay it back soon you're a dead man. I have some pictures of people who didn't keep up with their debts to Gennady. I can show them to you if you like, but you might need a stiff drink first. He usually severs a couple of limbs before he finishes you off. Even the KGB thought he was a bit rough when he used to work for them. We have files on him going back a long time. You're in pretty deep there.' She hesitated, walked back to the kitchen and refilled her glass with water. 'But I think you know that. Two days ago you split up with your fiancee, Gill. Yesterday afternoon you took a Go flight from Malaga to Stansted — budget airlines, Matt. A year ago you were going business class on BA. You spent the night here, ordered in a pizza and two beers. Today you went to see your banker, then your old friend Harry Stroller. You were looking for help. But you were stupid, Matt. The rich only help themselves. That's what makes them rich.'
Alison walked back towards Matt, her lips turned in an engaging smile. 'You see, Matt, we've been watching. We know everything. But most of all we know of a way to help you.'
'Help me?' said Matt. 'I know about Five — you don't help people.'
Alison ran a hand through her hair, messing its neatly brushed appearance. 'We do deals sometimes,' she said, her tone hardening. 'Win-win deals, where both sides come out ahead. That's what we'd like to do with you.' She stretched out an arm and Matt felt her fingers brushing against the skin on the back of his neck. A tingle ran down his spine, a sensation that mixed anticipation and excitement in the same delicate movement. She has class, he reflected. Social class, sure, but also poise and brains — and she's playing me like a cheap guitar.
He felt Alison's breath on his skin as she asked him, 'What more do you have to lose?'
FOUR
The traffic was backing up behind the roundabout that led down to Wandsworth bridge. Thick clouds were lying low over the Thames, shrouding the city in a dark, heavy gloom. A way out of my troubles, Matt was thinking — that's what Alison had said. Right now, I'm not in any position to turn offers down.
There was no choice. He had to see what she had to say. But it wouldn't be a simple way out, of that he felt certain. It wouldn't be safe either.
He pumped the accelerator on his Porsche Boxster and pulled out into the roundabout. He could see Alison's metal-blue Audi TT just ahead. The Holiday Inn sign was plastered against the skyline, sitting next to a B&Q superstore, a BP garage, and a McDonald's. Matt swerved the car around the bend moments before an orange light turned red.
I might as well get some fun out of this car. I won't have it much longer.
He pulled up in the car park of the hotel. Very Five, reflected Matt, taking the Porsche down a gear. The spooks generally met in anonymous, corporate locations, as if they were just computer salesmen. It was part of the routine, a way of throwing their targets off the scent, keeping every operation at a safe distance from the organisation itself. If they invited you to the Thames House headquarters, you knew the conversation didn't matter.
I thought I was through with these kind of games.
When he'd left the Regiment after ten years of active service, Matt had vowed to himself that he would never go back. He'd seen enough violence and risked his life enough times. His appetite for danger was sated. Lots of his mates had become bodyguards or mercenaries, but after a spell working for Stroller, Matt hadn't wanted to do that.
If you were going to kill people it had to be for a cause, not just for money.
'Nice car,' said Alison, suddenly appearing next to him, a playful smile spreading across her lips.
Matt noticed the way the wind caught her hair, blowing it away from her face. Beautiful, he reflected, in the same way a leopard is beautiful: sleek and slender and perfectly groomed. 'Thanks,' he muttered.
'Shame it's going to be repossessed by the finance company next week.' Alison turned smartly towards the entrance of the hotel.
Keep swallowing, man.
He followed her into the Holiday Inn. The lobby was nondescript, with pale blue carpets and a standard wooden desk, the kind of space you might see in a thousand different hotels around the world. 'Room 262,' Alison said to the girl at reception. 'They're expecting us.'
They remained silent in the lift. Then Matt followed Alison down a corridor and they stepped into the room without knocking. The bed had been pushed to one side, and the desk had been placed next to the window. The curtains were drawn, and only a desk lamp was illuminating the faces of two men sitting either side of the desk.
Matt looked into their eyes. The first man was about fifty, with greying hair combed across his head to
disguise a bald patch. He wore a charcoal grey suit, with a pink silk tie and a checked shirt with silver cufflinks. The second man was maybe forty-five, with brown hair that looked as if it could use a trim and ears that stuck out too far from his head. He wore a blue suit and a striped tie, probably from a school. Neither of them smiled or even looked at him.
Let's call them Pinky and Perky, thought Matt: Pinky for the guy with the tie, Perky for the younger guy with the scruffy hair. He knew enough about Five and the way it operated to know that he wasn't going to be given their names. Never mind. It wasn't as if he was ever going to add them to his Christmas card fist.
I'm back. I'd better start getting used to it.
'These two men are going to ask you a few questions,' said Alison, her tone cold and businesslike. 'I'll be down the corridor. You'll see me again when they've finished.'
Matt looked for somewhere to sit down but they seemed to have forgotten to provide him with a chair. Forgotten? No. If there wasn't a chair, that was because they wanted it like that. They didn't want him relaxed.
They want to see whether I can still handle pressure.
'Your name is Matt Browning,' said Pinky, looking down at the notes on his desk. 'Thirty-five years old, two years out of the Regiment, served with distinction for ten years. Saw action in the Gulf, Ulster, Bosnia and a couple of other places that seem to have been mysteriously deleted from the files because the British Army wasn't officially supposed to be involved. Chechnya, Indonesia.' He paused, shifting to another sheet of paper. 'A tough soldier, exceptionally steady under fire, fantastic endurance, but takes things personally. Short-tempered. Sometimes prone to excessive violence, even by SAS standards.'
Matt looked at the man closely, but could read nothing in his expression. 'I know my record, thanks,' he said curtly. 'I've no apologies. Sometimes violence is the only language people understand.'
'Not officer material,' said Perky, looking down at the notes on his desk. 'Good sense of leadership, popular with the men and decisive in combat, but not easy to control. He doesn't always see the bigger picture, nor always understand about putting the interest of the campaign above the interests of his own men. Doesn't always listen to advice from his superiors. Doesn't learn from his mistakes.' He paused, looking up at Matt. 'Would you say that was a fair assessment?'
Matt shrugged. 'I'm out of the Regiment,' he replied. 'I assess myself these days.'
'We're going to read out a fist of words,' said Pinky. 'I want you to give us your first reaction to each one. OK?'
'Fine,' said Matt, shifting his weight from one leg to another. 'Shrink school. I know the drill.' He glanced down towards the small stack of flash-cards that Perky was pulling from his briefcase. At about the time he had left the Regiment a bunch of moronic management consultants had been hired to start testing the men's aptitudes and ambitions. It was all rubbish, according to most of the men, and Matt agreed with them — their main ambition was not to get killed, and you didn't need some consultant examining you to tell you that.
This stuff is fine for regional sales managers at Vodafone. Fighting men don't need it.
'Money,' said Perky.
'Control.'
'Hope,' said Pinky.
'Children.'
'Blood,' said Perky.
'Food.'
'Anger,' said Pinky.
'Fools.'
'Desire,' said Perky.
'Safety.'
'Greed,' said Pinky.
'Stupid,' said Matt.
Both men looked down at their notes, and made a series of marks on the papers spread out in front of them. Then Perky picked up his mobile and called up a pre-recorded number. 'You can come back in now,' he said. 'We're finished.'
Matt relaxed. 'Did I pass?'
'We're here to ask questions,' snapped Perky, 'not answer them.'
Matt briefly imagined meeting the man in a dark alley, thinking about the marks his fist would leave on his jaw.
'Our assessment is that you're psychologically impaired,' Perky continued. 'Maybe that's why you never got the promotions you wanted in the Regiment.'
Matt shrugged. 'Impaired?' he said sharply. 'I've noticed that you two couldn't find your way out of a dark room without someone coming to rescue you. I'd call that thinking pretty straight.'
'As we were saying,' Pinky leant forward on the desk, 'lacks respect for authority. No direction in life. No moral compass. Lacks socialisation.'
'Right,' said Matt, grinning. 'I thought moral flexibility was what Five was looking for these days.'
Behind him he heard Alison at the door, and he turned to watch her as she walked back into the room. She glanced towards the two men, nodded, then looked towards Matt. 'We're about to explain a mission to you,' she said. 'You might be interested, you might not be. Either way, I want you to understand that everything we are about to tell you is confidential. If you walk away, forget everything we say. Understood?'
Matt nodded. 'Agreed,' he said. 'I might be out of the services, but I'm still a loyal citizen.'
Alison returned one of her old smiles, the type Matt had seen in Spain but hadn't seen here in London: a smile that spoke of warmth and interest, not simply manipulation and control. 'OK,' she said softly. 'Great.'
Pinky took a Toshiba notebook computer from his case and set it out on the desk. 'You probably already know that the greatest security threat we face, indeed all the developed nations face, is al-Qaeda,' he began. 'We are fighting them in lots of different ways, shutting down training centres, rounding up sympathisers, stopping the flow of weapons. But one of the ways we are fighting them is financial.'
'Al-Qaeda has a lot of money,' said Perky, picking up the flow of the conversation where his colleague had left it. 'Its roots are in Saudi Arabia, and that's a rich place. But it has a lot of support right across that region. There are contributions coming from everywhere — Jordan, Egypt, Pakistan, Malaysia. That's what makes them so deadly. Fanatics we can handle. Fanatics with cash are a different story. Overall, we estimate the organisation has at least five billion dollars at its disposal. They hide their money, and they are good at it. So it could be a lot more.'
Matt could feel his heart sinking. They hadn't told him what the deal was yet. But they had started talking about al-Qaeda. Whatever it was, it was going to be dangerous.
'Before September the eleventh, al-Qaeda kept its money hidden in offshore centres around the world.' Pinky glanced towards Alison as he spoke. 'The usual places — Gibraltar, the Isle of Man, the Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, Switzerland. Mainly Switzerland. It's got the best banks in the world, and the Arabs like Zurich and Geneva. The place is swarming with them.'
'But after September the eleventh it started getting too hot,' Perky continued. 'The Americans started clamping down hard, particularly on the Swiss. They told them they didn't mind the usual drugs dealers, Russian mafiosi, and tax dodgers who use their banks. They could all stay secret. But they wanted to know about the al-Qaeda accounts, and they wanted to shut them down. The Swiss didn't have any choice. Either they played along, or Credit Suisse and UBS and the rest of them were going to get kicked out of Wall Street. They couldn't afford that, so they had no choice. They had to start shutting al-Qaeda accounts down and seizing the money.'
Matt leant forward. 'And the Americans decided to share all of this information with you because they love MI5 so much?'
'No, they needed our help as well,' said Alison. 'A lot of al-Qaeda money was passing through the City of London as well. It's a big money-laundering market, everyone knows that. We froze out what we could, but it's in Zurich that most of its money is stored.'
Pinky looked towards Matt, a frown creasing his brow. 'Al-Qaeda saw what was happening in Switzerland. They could see the heat being turned up, and they could see their accounts being frozen. The Swiss authorities tracked and seized about one billion dollars. Ever since then, al-Qaeda have been slowly moving it out.'
'You're saying even the Swiss don't know w
here the money is?' said Matt.
'Al-Qaeda are smart,' Alison interjected. 'They hide it well. It's all stored away in accounts nominally belonging to Kuwaiti or Pakistani or Jordanian businessmen. Nobody knows whether they exist or not. And not asking questions is the first principle of Swiss banking.'
'Now they are clearing the money out,' said Perky. 'It works like this. An al-Qaeda Arab turns up in Zurich. He goes to the bank and withdraws say $25,000 in cash. Euros or dollars or Swiss francs, it doesn't matter. He walks down the street to a jewellery store or a goldsmith and he buys diamonds or gold, pays cash, and stashes the goods away. Next day, another $25,000 from another bank, more gold and diamonds. The next day, the same again. By the end of the week that's $125,000 turned into commodities. If there's eight of them, that's a million dollars. They spread it around as well, just so no one gets too suspicious or starts recognising them. Sometimes they get a train up to Munich or down to Milan and buy the gold and diamonds there.'
Matt listened closely. Five wouldn't be sharing this information with him unless they wanted something very badly.
'The CIA calculates that about a million dollars might have been taken out of the Swiss banks so far, and just about all of it has been turned into gold and diamonds,' Pinky said. 'You can see it in the prices. Both gold and diamonds are up this year. That amount of money going into a market has an impact.'
'So what's the point?' said Matt. 'What do they want the stuff for?'
'To hide,' said Perky. 'They've realised that money kept in a bank is never going to be safe. Not when you are fighting a war against the United States. Eventually it's going to get tracked down and seized. They'll keep small amounts, carefully laundered. But not the big stuff. They want that somewhere they can keep their eye on it.'
'The diamonds and gold are being hoarded for a few days, then taken in vans down to the north Italian or the French coasts,' Pinky continued. 'They are loaded on to boats, then taken out across the Mediterranean to the Middle East. The stuff is picked up by al-Qaeda and driven out to safe locations. It could be anywhere — the Saudi desert, the Atlas mountains in Morocco, along the Nile delta, somewhere in Iraq or Iran. The point is, nobody is going to see it again. The Americans aren't going to track it down, and nobody's going to freeze the account. It's safe.'