by Chris Ryan
He collected the keys from the receptionist, and walked down the corridor. He had spoken to Ivan, Damien and Reid right after Alison had told him of Cooksley's murder. It was too dangerous to stay at the hotel in Wandsworth: somebody was clearly on to them, and for all they knew they might be watching the place. Let's gather in Reading, at three in the afternoon, he'd told them. Alison had promised that the Herefordshire police could get a copy of the video up to London, and that she could give it to him by lunchtime. They'd met at the BP petrol station on Vauxhall Bridge Road, just across the river from Five's headquarters. Anyone looking at them would have thought they were just two people chatting as they filled up their tanks.
'Are you coming with us?' Matt had asked as he'd tucked the video into the pocket of his coat.
'No,' Alison had said, with a swift shake of her head. 'You're on your own.'
The words were still playing in Matt's ears as he swiped the card through the door and let himself into the room. We're on our own. Well, that's fine. That's how we fight best. As a small unit, following nobody's orders except our own.
He waited for ten minutes. The room was painted pale cream, with a double bed and a TV, a desk, and windows that looked out over the car park. Rain was starting to fall.
If there was one lesson Matt had learnt in combat, it was that once things started to go wrong, they kept going wrong.
A messed-up mission stays that way. The only thing you can do is get it over with as quickly as possible and hope to stay alive.
Ivan, Damien and Reid looked sombre as they walked into the room. They had taken a train up from London together, and caught a cab from the station. Their faces were drawn, their expressions shattered.
'We'd better watch this,' said Matt, slotting the video into the player. He picked up the remote and pressed play. The picture sprang to life on the screen. Matt braced himself, taking a deep breath.
The next few minutes are going to be among the most horrible of my life.
The film lasted only a few minutes. They watched in silence, none of them speaking, none of them moving. Matt was sitting on the edge of the bed, Damien on the chair, Ivan and Reid on the floor. The first shot showed the man in the mask, moving across the room. They watched as Sarah was killed, then the first of the children. Matt found it hard to concentrate on the screen, forcing his eyes back towards it as each murderous scene unfolded. He knew he had to watch if they were to have any chance of discovering who was after them, but his eyes kept closing. He could hear the man's voice, saying something to Cooksley. He looked back up at the screen and saw the face of his friend staring back at him — a face he had known through good times and bad, yet which he had never seen in such a state of total despair. Cooksley looked as though he knew it was all up for him, and he just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
'We shouldn't have stolen from al-Qaeda, boys,' said the face on the screen, the voice as clear and loud as if the man was sitting in the room with them. '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.'
Matt watched as the bullet went into Cooksley's face, and as the second child was murdered in cold, ruthless blood. He watched as the blood spilt on to the floor, and as the masked man stepped over the bodies and walked towards the camera. And then nothing. The screen went blank.
I have never been so determined to kill a man as I am resolved to kill him. Only his blood will satisfy me.
The room was completely silent. None of them moved, none of them spoke. To Matt it seemed as though the video had lasted for hours, but when he glanced at the clock he could see it had been just minutes.
He stood up, switching off the TV. 'That's it, then,' he said, his voice flat and lifeless.
'We'll get him,' Reid muttered through clenched teeth. 'The cheap, murdering scumbag bastard.'
'That's for sure,' said Matt.
Ivan cleared his throat. 'Unless he gets us first.'
Matt fell silent. 'Who the fuck is he then?' he asked.
'He's a professional,' said Damien. 'We know that much. He's masked up, and he's wearing gloves so there's no way the police will get an ID on him. I'll bet any money you like he made sure nobody saw him go into the house, and nobody saw him go out again.'
'What's the video for, then?' said Matt.
'To frighten us, obviously,' said Damien 'He's al-Qaeda, that's what Cooksley says on the message. They want revenge, sure — but they also want us to give them their money back.'
'I'm not giving them any money,' shouted Reid. 'I'm going to find that bastard—'
Matt patted him on the shoulder. 'Yes. But the point is — who is he, and where do we find him?'
Across the room, Ivan was shaking his head. 'With due respect, that's not really the point,' he said.
Matt looked up at the Irishman. He was leaning against the wall, close to the window, his head bowed down in thought. He was speaking softly and clearly, and for a moment Matt found himself wondering why Ivan didn't seem more shocked by the scenes they had just witnessed. 'What is the point, then?'
'He found Cooksley so easily,' Ivan said, his voice slow and deliberate as if he were thinking over the issue to himself. 'First, Cooksley gets attacked in Cyprus. So we come back here. The rest of us stick together, he goes home — and within twenty-four hours he's dead. How can that possibly happen unless this guy knows exactly who he is and where to find him?'
Matt thought for a moment. Ivan was right.
How could he possibly know?
'Now,' Ivan continued, 'the most obvious explanation for that is that someone told him. One of us.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Matt snapped. 'Why in hell would any of us do that?'
'I don't think you play enough bridge,' said Ivan. 'Think through the maths of this situation. We were going to be collecting ten million next week. Split five ways, that makes two million each. Now one of us is dead, I assume we split the money four ways. That makes two-and-a-half million each. I'm sad about Cooksley — but I'm also half a million richer. That sounds like a motive to me.'
Reid stood up, his face reddening. 'There's only one person who'd do that,' he shouted. 'And that's a lying, treacherous Irish Provo bastard like you! I knew we should never let you into the gang — you've been trouble since we started.'
Matt held Reid back. 'Bloody cool it, man. We're not going to start killing each other and doing al-Qaeda's work for them.'
Reid stepped back, his face sullen.
'I know you don't trust me — but if it was me, why would I raise the issue?' Ivan said. 'That would be pointing the finger at myself.'
'Well it's not one of us, is it?' barked Reid, his gesture including Matt. 'We're soldiers, not terrorists.'
'What about him?' Ivan nodded towards Damien. 'He's a gangster.'
Damien grabbed Ivan by the throat, snarling into his face. 'Say that again and I'll kill you. You would raise the issue to cover yourself. I'm not falling for your double-bluff.'
'Stop acting like bloody idiots!' Matt shouted. He looked towards Ivan. 'What the hell are you trying to do?'
Ivan shrugged. 'Think straight, that's all — and stay alive,' he said quickly. 'Somebody has to.'
Matt stood in the centre of the room. 'We all start fighting among ourselves, we're all going to get killed,' he snapped. 'Listen, we have to get one thing straight. We have to stick together. Regiment rules apply here, like I said right at the start. We all look out for each other, and everyone's voice counts for the same.'
I can say it. But I'm not sure I really believe it.
FOURTEEN
Matt swilled back the orange juice he had taken from the mini-bar and switched on the electric kettle for some coffee. The Travel Inn didn't run to breakfast in the room, and he certainly didn't want to go down to the restaurant.
'Can I trust Damien?' Reid
said, shutting the door behind him.
Matt rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. After the argument he had managed to calm them down a bit. They had agreed that they should stay in Reading that night and figure out what they were going to do in the morning. There was a mood of mistrust and suspicion growing between them, and Matt wanted to give everyone a chance to rest and reflect before they made any decisions. He'd had three swift vodkas from the mini-bar before he went to bed, but it did nothing to help him sleep. Most of the night had been spent tossing and turning, thinking over what had happened to Cooksley and his family.
'You can trust Damien with your life,' Matt said firmly. 'I've known that guy since he was five. He's been like a brother to me. There's no way he'd betray us, no way. There's nobody more loyal than a London villain.'
'What do you reckon, then?'
Matt poured hot water into his coffee cup. 'It's not me,' he said. 'And it's not you. Goes without saying you'd never have Cooksley killed, no matter how much money you might make. Not Damien either. That means it has to be Ivan — if someone is betraying us.'
'Just for the money?'
Matt shook his head. 'I don't know. He's a deep one,' he replied. 'He's always playing games. There's all kinds of links between the IRA and al-Qaeda going way back. I don't think we should have ever trusted him.'
'Maybe we should just beat the hell out of him, make him talk.'
'I don't think it would work,' Matt said. 'He's a Provo. They're trained not to talk under interrogation.'
'I'm worried about my family, Matt,' Reid said. 'I need to get them away from Hereford.'
'Where?'
'Up in Derbyshire — my uncle owns a small lodge in the Peak District. It's tucked away, quiet. I reckon we could stay there for a few days.'
'Could Damien go with you?'
Reid nodded. 'What about you?'
'You and Damien go and hide for a few days,' Matt said. 'I'll go off with Ivan. Damien and you can watch each other's backs, and as long as Ivan doesn't know where you are I reckon you'll be OK. Stick together at all times, and the assassin won't be able to touch you. Damien is as good a man in a fight as anyone in the Regiment.'
'And you?'
'Like I said, I'll keep an eye on Ivan,' said Matt, 'watch him like a hawk.'
And I'm going to question him about that missing tape.
* * *
Matt glanced at his watch before punching the number into the payphone. It was just after ten in the morning, an hour later in southern Spain. The Dandelion playgroup should be on its mid-morning break.
Someone answered. 'Is Gill there?' Matt asked.
'Is that Matt?'
He recognised the voice: Sandy, one of Gill's colleagues. 'Yes,' he replied. 'Please get her for me, will you?' He looked out to the car park. Damien and Reid were climbing into a taxi, heading for the station. They were going to get the train back up to Herefordshire, collect Reid's car, then drive up to Derbyshire with Jane and the kids. They should be all right, Matt reflected. They're both good men, well able to look after themselves.
'Matt, is that you?' said Gill. 'Where are you?'
Matt cupped the receiver. It felt good to hear her voice: she was the only woman he had ever met who could make him feel better just by speaking. 'I can't say,' he replied. 'I just wanted to check in and see if you are OK.'
'What's happening to you, Matt?' she said, her voice full of anxiety. 'What are you doing?'
'Work, that's all,' Matt replied. 'Security stuff- but it's all gone a bit pear-shaped. I need a few more days to sort things out… I just wanted to check you were OK.'
There was a pause. Matt didn't need to be able to see her face to tell what Gill was thinking: anger and confusion were in her voice. 'Some men were hanging about watching us a couple of days ago,' she replied slowly. 'I was walking home with Sandy, and they gave us the jitters. They didn't whistle or jeer or anything, just watched.'
Christ, thought Matt. Kazanov's boys. Or worse. 'Anyone talks to you or approaches you in the next few days, stay out of their way.'
'What's happening, Matt?' she said quickly. 'No one's coming after me, are they?'
Matt hesitated. 'Let's just say the next few days are a bit tense for me,' he replied. 'Anything starts to happen, pack your bags and go away for a few days. Everything will be OK in a few days, I promise.' He paused, holding the phone closer to his mouth. 'Trust me, Gill. Everything will be all right.'
* * *
The Prince of Wales in Dalling Road, just off the Hammersmith Broadway, was a dark and gloomy pub. The yuppiefication of the 1980s and 1990s had passed it by. There were no stripped pine floors, no racks of Australian Chardonnay or South African Shiraz lining the walls. No ciabatta burgers chalked up on the wall. Just frayed and tatty red velvet chairs, a beer-soaked carpet and a barmaid who'd never see fifty again.
Matt could have used somewhere more cheerful. He needed something to lighten his mood. His nerves were still shaken and his head was aching from the lack of sleep. Still, Ivan had wanted to come here.
In moments of danger, we go back to the places we know.
'I'm worried,' said Ivan, pulling up a barstool.
'We're all fucking worried.'
They had taken the train down from Reading. Matt had left his car parked in a side street — he'd pick it up after all this was over, if some of the local villains hadn't nicked it. For the next five days — until the boat arrived in Rotterdam and they could unload their loot — none of them wanted to do anything that would reveal their locations. That meant not driving their own cars, not using their own houses, not using their own credit cards, and not phoning anyone on a mobile.
'I know.' Ivan took a sip on the pint in front of him. 'But I think the Provos might be after me.'
'The videotape said it was al-Qaeda that killed Cooksley,' said Matt. 'They wanted to frighten us — and they want their money back.
'The other tape — the one from the boat — it went missing,' he continued. 'Alison reckons one of us took it.'
Ivan looked at him, a question playing in his eyes.
Either a great actor, or else he's surprised, Matt reckoned.
'Why would anyone do that?' Ivan asked.
Matt drummed his fingers on the table. 'Beats me,' he said. He looked directly towards Ivan. 'Did you take it?'
'No,' Ivan said clearly. 'Why would I do that?'
Matt shrugged.
'It's a feint,' Ivan continued. 'Let me explain a concept from bridge.'
Matt rolled his eyes. 'For fuck's sake,' he muttered.
'You have some high diamonds, but you need to get rid of the other fellows' ace to win those tricks. You play a dummy card, misleading the other players, and try to force their card out of them.' He paused, glancing through the pub, making sure he couldn't be heard. 'I can't help feeling that Cooksley's murder was a dummy.'
'Provos posing as al-Qaeda? That's bloody ridiculous.'
'Not if they want to get at me, Matt. I think they suspect I've been turned. They know about a robbery — but how much do they know? After all, what would I be doing on a job with a bunch of SAS boys?'
'You're saying they took out Cooksley to flush you out. Why not just go straight to you?'
'I don't know. Perhaps they didn't know where I was, but they knew where Cooksley was,' Ivan replied. 'Then I'm next.'
'You're imagination is working overtime, Ivan.'
Ivan paused. 'There's a man near here who could tell us whether it's the Provos,' said Ivan. 'If you don't mind getting into a fight.'
'Fighting,' said Matt, smiling for the first time since they had sat down. 'It's the only thing I've ever been any good at.'
They finished their drinks then walked slowly along the Dalling Road. It was about a mile, said Ivan — up towards Ravenscourt Park. Hammersmith and Acton had always been strong IRA areas in London. There were a lot of Irish there — always had been — but it was a lot less obvious than Kilburn and didn't have the same levels of Sp
ecial Branch surveillance. There were several IRA safe houses in the area: places where men on missions in the capital could store themselves away for a few days. They were run by a man called Keith Whitson, an old Provo fighter who had moved to London in the late 1970s. If anyone was chasing after Ivan in Britain, he would know about it.
'But we'll have to beat the information out of him,' said Ivan.
'I thought the Provos never crack under torture,' said Matt.
'Whitson's not an active brigade man,' said Ivan. 'More of a housekeeper. He's tough, sure, but not as tough as the soldiers. I can't guarantee he'll talk — but it's the best chance we have of finding out what's going on.'
Unless it's a trap, thought Matt. Maybe he's leading me into a house full of his Provo mates to finish me off. Just like they finished off Cooksley.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Matt had never liked this part of town: too many grey Victorian terraces, too much snarling traffic and not enough green spaces. If he had to be in London, he liked the centre, or the bits of Camberwell and Deptford where he had grown up. Nobody ever went on holiday to Camberwell, but at least it was home.
Some of the paint was scratched away from the surface of 16 Cedar Road. Whatever the Provos were up to these days, Matt noted, it wasn't DIY. The frames of the windows needed painting, and some of the brickwork was starting to flake away. Still, it was designed for safety, not for comfort.
'Let me talk,' said Ivan, and Matt stood silently behind him.
I'm not going inside until I'm certain it's not a trap.
The man who answered the door looked about fifty to fifty-five. His hair was greying and thinning, and deep lines were etched into the surface of his skin. Even though the years had ground away at him there was no fat on him, and his eyes were rock hard. 'Yes?' he said, holding the door ajar.
Matt noticed that his foot was barring the entrance, stopping anyone from rushing inside once the door was ajar. A professional.
'Ivan Rowe,' Ivan said quickly. 'A few years ago I was blowing some safes for the family.'