by Chris Ryan
The man was sitting alone, his eyes peering at a web page.
'Ivan,' said Alison. 'This is Matt.'
The man raised a hand as if to silence her. Matt judged he was around thirty-two, thirty-three. He had short black hair, cropped close to his head, and he was wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans. A black leather jacket was slung over his chair. Tall and thin, his muscles tucked neatly into his arms. Probably a lot tougher than he looks, decided Matt. 'Give me two seconds,' he said.
The accent was Ulster, but the soft Ulster of the coast, not the harsh, grating Ulster of Belfast. Matt had learned to tell the difference when he had been in the Province with the Regiment. He glanced towards the screen, noticing how intently the man was staring at it, and the way his fingers were drumming against the desk.
Ivan moved and clicked the mouse, then looked up towards Alison, a mischievous grin playing on his face. He pushed the chair back, stood up and offered Matt his hand. His grip was warm, decisive. 'Bridge,' he said, looking towards Matt. 'The sport of princes. Do you play?'
'Princes?' said Matt. 'Why not kings?'
Ivan laughed. 'No, that's the horses,' he replied. 'And kings can afford to lose. Princes can't.' He paused, his eyes shifting towards Alison. 'There are only two games that require pure skill and brain power and are nothing to do with luck. Chess and bridge. But bridge you can play for money.'
'What about robbery?' said Alison.
'Ah, yes, robbery — that would be a third,' said Ivan, the smile remaining on his lips. 'Shall we find somewhere we can talk?'
Matt followed them towards a small cafe around the corner. He ordered a plate of bacon, eggs and beans. Ivan asked for the same, Alison for a slice of toast. Some workmen were sitting opposite them, discussing last night's football results. A couple of backpackers were looking at a map of London. Apart from that, it was empty. 'Which part of the Province are you from?' said Matt.
'Portrush,' said Ivan. 'Up on the north coast.'
'I know it,' said Matt. He assumed Ivan was another soldier, and immediately began wondering what regiment he might have been in. 'I did some work around there in the nineties. Lovely coastline. Windy, though. That air comes straight in from the North Pole. Gets into your bones.'
'It's lucky I never killed you then,' said Ivan, a gentle smile on his lips.
The food arrived on the table, the steam from the beans rising up into Matt's face. He paused. The words took a moment to turn through his mind. 'You're a Provo?' he said.
'Was,' said Ivan. 'Let's get our tenses straight.'
Matt looked towards Alison, but she was eating her toast, not looking at him. 'Maybe she didn't tell you, but I was SAS,' he said sharply. 'Past tense, too. But when it comes to a fight, I still know which side I'm on.'
'For this mission you'll be on the same side,' said Alison. 'You can both leave your history behind. This is a fresh start for both of you.'
'What did you do?' asked Matt. 'For the IRA.'
Ivan started eating his food. 'I broke safes,' he replied. 'The IRA does a lot of bank robberies, in the Province and on the mainland. That means cracking safes. That's my skill.' He paused. 'It's a bit like bridge, you see. A safe needs to be finessed.'
'The gear you're taking will be in a safe, Matt,' said Alison. 'None of your guys knows about that.' She smiled. 'So Ivan's on the team.'
'Why?' said Matt bluntly. 'What's your story? If you're a Provo safe-cracker, why aren't you round the corner casing the local Barclay's?'
'Tenses, tenses,' said Ivan. 'I was with the Provos, I'm not any more.'
'Nobody quits,' said Matt. 'It's against the rules. You resign, they kill you.'
'Ivan was turned by Five, Matt,' said Alison. 'He spent three years as an informer. Now he wants out. His cover could break any day. Five will help with a new identity and some money, but you know how it is. Ivan has a wife and two children. He needs a lot of money to disappear for ever. Five doesn't pay like that, it's not in our budgets.' She looked straight at him. 'You need a safecracker, he needs the work.'
'And Five's just bringing us all together,' said Matt sourly. 'Like one big happy family.'
Ivan pushed the remnants of his food away from him. 'Listen, you don't want me along, I'm not coming,' he said, his tone hardening. 'Frankly, I'm not crazy about working with a bunch of SAS tossers either. I might have been disillusioned with the Republican cause, man, but I've no time for the psychopaths, racists and bigots the British Army sent over to shoot our people either.' His face was starting to redden with anger. 'So, you want to blow your bollocks off trying to crack a safe? Go right ahead. Fine by me.'
'One question,' said Matt. 'Did you ever kill a British soldier?'
Ivan looked straight back at him. 'No,' he answered, his tone clear and direct. 'Did you ever kill a Republican soldier?'
'Three. All armed, all on active service.' He paused, looking directly at Ivan. 'I got paid for it, but I'd have done it for free.'
'Cool it, Matt,' Alison snapped. 'That war is over. We're fighting a new one now.'
What does she know about war? Matt asked himself.
She can start them, but she can't fight them.
He shook his head. 'There is no way I'm working with a Provo,' he snapped. 'You can just forget it.'
* * *
Matt walked silently down the street. His head was bowed, his muscles tightening. He was about to push a couple of million dollars off the table for a principle, but it was a good principle.
You never compromise with the enemy.
'You should have told me,' he said, not looking at Alison.
She said nothing.
'A Provo scumbag,' Matt continued. 'He's a traitor. He's betrayed one cause, he'll betray another. And Christ knows how I'll sell it to Reid and Cooksley.'
Alison stopped. 'For God's sake, grow up,' she said, swivelling around to face him. 'You need this job. This isn't some bloody pleasure cruise. You're going up against the toughest, best-organised terrorist group in the world. If there was one thing the Regiment should have taught you, it's that perfect planning makes for perfect missions, and fucked-up planning makes for fucked-up missions. And dead soldiers.'
Matt turned away from her.
'I'm planning the perfect mission,' he heard her say. 'Don't think for a moment that I give a damn for your feelings.'
'Feelings don't come into it,' Matt said, leaning into her face. 'What would you know? All you've ever done is sit behind a desk all day, sending men out to die. When you're in the field, you have to trust the men you're with absolutely. You have to be willing to die for them, and know they'd die for you.'
'You sound like a junior officer struggling to give his first pep talk and falling flat on his face,' she snapped. 'I've heard enough about duty and comradeship. In case you hadn't noticed, you're not in the Army any more.'
Matt looked away. A dark cloud was looming in the sky above them, threatening rain. 'When Reid was in the Paras, he was a corporal in a patrol that got hit with a pipe bomb by the IRA. Three of his friends died. I can't see Reid and your man Ivan getting on too well together.'
'We're professionals, Matt. We get the job done, no matter what it takes,' replied Alison. 'At Five we don't enjoy paying Provo informers. We don't like building a network of informers at every mosque in the country to keep tabs on al-Qaeda either. We do what we have to do.'
Matt turned to walk away. 'If Reid and Cooksley won't buy it, then neither will I. Your Irishman's out.'
'Then you're out as well, Matt,' replied Alison swiftly. 'This is my mission, don't forget that.'
* * *
Always level with the rest of the guys on the team, thought Matt. Whatever other rules you might have to break, that one must always be obeyed.
He looked across at Cooksley and Reid. They were sitting in a cafe just around the corner from his flat, finishing off some tea and sandwiches. Both men had travelled up from Hereford this morning, and although neither of them yet knew what the mis
sion was, Matt could tell they were committed. They needed the money desperately. They would take whatever risks were necessary to get it.
'There's a problem,' he said simply.
'Already,' said Reid, fiddling with some Rizla papers. 'We haven't even started yet.'
Matt nodded. 'The woman running this is a Five officer called Alison,' he said. 'She wants us to bring along a guy called Ivan. He's a safecracker. The job is going to involve some explosives. That's his bit.'
'So,' said Cooksley. 'Sounds fair enough. Blowing a safe is a specialist job. None of us have training in it.'
'He's a Provo,' said Matt. 'Turned by Five, so he's a traitor as well.'
Around him, Matt could hear the clatter of plates and cups, the waitress shouting at the chef for more sandwiches. But on his table it was completely silent. Reid was holding his coffee halfway between the table and his mouth, but his hand had stopped moving. 'A Provo,' he said, lighting the cigarette he had just rolled, and taking a sharp intake of breath. 'I tell you what, Matt, I'll kill him, then we get on with the mission.'
'I don't like it, Matt,' Cooksley chipped in. 'A team has to have men who can trust each other.'
Matt shrugged. 'I've told her we don't want him,' he said. 'It's up to you guys. You don't want him, the mission's off.'
'Do the mission and then kill him,' said Reid, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. 'That's my plan.'
* * *
Reid and Cooksley sat quietly in the corner of the room. Matt recognised their expressions from a hundred different briefings when they'd all been in the Regiment together. Their faces said: What kind of crap are the Ruperts going to throw at us now?
'When do we hear about the dough, Matt?' said Cooksley, looking up from the sofa.
'When we're all together,' replied Matt firmly.
He went to answer the door. Ivan was standing outside. Matt showed him through to the sitting room, handing him a coffee. He checked his watch. Four minutes to three.
'Nice to meet you boys,' said Ivan, stepping into the room and nodding in the direction of Cooksley and Reid.
They looked back, nodded, but remained silent. Their expressions were suspicious, hostile. You didn't need to be an expert in body language, noticed Matt, to tell what was going on.
'How'd your game go?' said Matt.
'Won the game, but lost the rubber,' said Ivan. 'I play on the internet because that's where all the best games are now.' He took a sip of coffee. 'I'll teach you to play if you like. You have the look of a useful bridge player to me.'
'And what do they look like?' asked Matt.
'Two things about bridge,' said Ivan. 'You've got to count the cards, and you've got to judge the man. Counting, anyone can learn that. But judgement, you've either got it or you haven't. Nobody can teach you.'
Matt noticed Cooksley shaking his head in despair.
'Nobody can teach how to be a wanker, either,' said Reid.
'OK, drop it,' said Matt, anxious to calm everyone down. 'There'll be some hanging around on this job, there always is. Maybe we'll learn. We can make it a foursome. Very civilised.'
'There's nothing civilised about bridge,' said Ivan. 'People think it's just for little old ladies, but it's the roughest game there is.'
Matt walked back to the door to let Alison in. 'Everything OK?' he asked.
Alison walked past him. 'If you want Damien on the team, then you have to take Ivan as well,' she said briskly. 'That's the deal. Take it or leave it.'
'Don't give me orders,' Matt retorted. 'I make my own choices.'
Alison turned around to face him, her eyes alight with indignation. 'You were an inch away from being a dosser. You make crap choices.'
Matt turned away. Inside, he was fighting down the desire to snap back at her. Stay calm, he reminded himself. Turning quickly, he walked back to the door, glancing at Damien. He had known him since they were in primary school, and he reckoned he could read his friend's face like a tabloid newspaper: whatever he was thinking was right there in a 72-point black headline. Right now Damien could see a prize a few inches away from him, but feared it was about to be snatched away.
I'll lay out the facts, and let the team take the decision. What else can I do?
He walked through to the main room. 'If we're doing this, I want proper Regiment rules to apply,' said Matt, standing next to the window. 'Everyone's equal. We take decisions as a group. Everyone pulls his weight. No flapping, no panicking — and if you fuck-up you say sorry and move on. OK?'
Around the room, he could see four men nodding back. Two of them were SAS and two weren't, but whatever their background, they were all warriors.
'We've all agreed to take part in this mission,' he continued. 'But I'm about to give you the details. If you don't like the sound of it, you are still free to go. Nobody's forcing you to do anything. But after this discussion, if you're still up for it, you're committed. There's no backing out. OK?'
He looked through the room again. No dissent.
Matt nodded towards Alison. 'This is Alison. She's a senior MI5 officer. It's her plan, and Five are going to be helping us with logistics, materials and planning.
'We're hitting a boat on the Mediterranean,' Matt continued. 'It's running gold and diamonds for al-Qaeda. There will be at least thirty million dollars in gear on board. Fenced, it should be worth ten million.' Damien cast him a look of confirmation. 'We get to keep the money, no questions asked.'
He looked into their eyes. It was more than they had expected. Unbelievably more. Behind the expressions he could see the calculations being made: two million translated into treatment for the children, a new house and car for the wife, escape from the Provos, or respect among the gangs in Camberwell. Fear and desire and escape. Those were the currencies being traded.
'Two million each?' said Cooksley.
'In cash?' added Reid.
'You heard it right,' said Matt. 'The mission should take a month, from today to pay-day. We'll take a day to tell our families, whoever. After that, silence. We're out of contact until it's over. We're all here for our different skills. Cooksley, Reid, and I are all ex-SAS. We know about fighting. Damien is an old pal of mine, and he knows everything about boats. He's also going to help us fence the goods. And Ivan. .' Matt paused, looking across at the Irishman. 'Well, I've told you about Ivan.'
Matt looked towards Reid. The calculations again: working with a Provo against the money he desperately needed. Swallow some pride, Matt thought. Get used to it.
'How dangerous is it going to be?' said Ivan.
Matt glanced towards Alison.
'Usual risk, high but acceptable,' she said. 'They'll be armed, and they'll do their best to kill you. Against that, you'll have training, numbers and equipment on your side.'
'I meant afterwards,' said Ivan. 'You steal from al-Qaeda, they're going to come after you.'
Another good question, thought Matt. He might be a Provo, but he's sharp. He glanced back towards Alison, noting the hesitation in her eyes. It was the first time he'd seen that: every other question pitched at her she had batted straight back with total self-belief. Not this time.
'There's no such thing as a safe mission,' she said slowly. 'From your different backgrounds, all of you know that. Five can't make any guarantees. But think about it. A boat in the middle of the Med. No one can see or hear you. You kill all the al-Qaeda men on board, then you disappear into the night. How are they ever going to trace you?'
Matt looked around the room. He could see the men nodding, satisfied with the reply. They're hungry for the deal.
They don't want to hear about the risks, and, in truth, neither do I.
'We need to speak among ourselves,' said Matt. 'About Ivan.'
Alison nodded. 'We'll take a walk around the block,' she replied. 'But remember, I think it would be safer for Five to organise fencing the goods. I'll trade you Damien for Ivan.'
'It's not a game of swapsies, it's our lives,' said Matt sharply.
Ivan stood up and looked at each man in turn, his expression dignified, polite, but also questioning. 'I don't want to work with you boys any more than you want to work with me,' he said. 'But I reckon on our different battlefields we've all learnt some of the same lessons. In a crisis, you take your allies where you find them, and you deal with life as it is, not how you'd like it to be.' He turned towards the door, not looking back. 'And remember, a proud man is sometimes also a poor man.'
The door slammed shut. Matt stood silent. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could see two million dollars slipping away from him. A proud man is sometimes also a poor man, he reflected.
I've been both, and I know which one I prefer.
'Tosser,' said Reid, his expression darkening. 'Stupid Provo tosser.'
'I reckon that's your vote then,' said Matt, trying to smile.
'Maybe she's bluffing,' said Reid. He bent down to pick up a packet of tobacco from the floor. 'I didn't like the look of her much either. Stuck-up, posh totty. I might shag her, but I don't want to take orders from her.'
'He's a bit smart, isn't he?' said Cooksley. 'It's not just that he's a Provo, there's something sly about him.'
'Tell her we'll do it ourselves,' said Reid. 'Four guys is plenty to take a boat if it's the right four men. That's us. We can learn how to blow a safe. There's plenty of Regiment guys can give us some lessons in explosives.'
'Your vote, mate,' said Matt, looking towards Cooksley.
Cooksley hesitated, his eyes rooted to the ground. 'It's the kids,' he said. 'I need this money. I'd team up with Saddam Hussein if I had to.'
'And you, Damien?'
'I'm the trade, aren't I?' said Damien
'We still listen to what you have to say,' said Matt. 'Everyone's voice counts.'
'No trust, no deal, that's my view. He's too different from the rest of us. That makes him a threat.'
'And where else does anyone suggest we're going to get this kind of money,' said Cooksley. 'We're all here for the same reason, we need this job. She knows it, and so does he.'