Greed mb-1

by Chris Ryan

  'We're big boys, I suppose,' said Matt. 'We can look after ourselves.'

  Her hand lingered against his knee, starting to crawl up the inside of his thigh. 'What are you going to do?'

  'Cooksley's gone home to his family,' replied Matt. 'His kids are very ill, and he wants to be with them. The rest of us are going to stick together, lie low. We're staying here tonight, then we reckon we'll shift around some cheap hotels in London. I reckon it's the best place in the country to hide. Big, anonymous, nobody pays any attention to anyone. London is full of lost men; we'll just blend in with the crowd.'

  'Let me know where you are,' said Alison. 'If there's any way I can help out, I will.'

  'Thanks,' replied Matt.

  She looked at him closely. 'My tape went missing,' she said. 'Did you take it?'

  Matt took a sip on his beer. 'Me? No,' he said. 'Are you sure?'

  'Quite sure,' said Alison. 'One of you must have taken it. Find out who, and get it back. We need it.'

  Matt nodded. He didn't know what she was talking about and his mind was on other things. His hand was resting on her leg, his eyes tracking the curve of her legs, admiring the way her black stockings tapered into her black stiletto shoes. 'Look,' he said. 'I bought you a souvenir.'

  'For me?' said Alison, her smile widening. 'How sweet!'

  Matt fished through his pocket. The diamond was still wrapped in tissue paper. He placed it on the bar, letting her unwrap it. The diamond was cut to perfection, scattering tiny beads of light in every direction. 'My own al-Qaeda diamond!' Alison said. She looked up at Matt. 'I'll get it set in gold and make it a necklace. And every time I wear it, I'll think of you.'

  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 level
led 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.