Greed mb-1

by Chris Ryan

  A small group of men was starting to gather, each of them, Matt supposed, here to make their own collections. Behind them, the car park was full of lorries and vans, all ready to take the stuff away.

  Heuhle collected a truck from the car park and drove it up to the side of the dock, ready for the two containers to be loaded on top of it.

  Matt counted three ships in this dock and two in the next one, but the Ithaca was the only vessel being unloaded right now, and looked like the last of the day. Most of it was bulk cargo: fruit, and cheap manufactured goods, mostly clothes and furniture, that had been picked up in Turkey and Cyprus and was destined for the supermarkets of western Europe. Most of the truck drivers looked bored and uninterested. So would I be, thought Matt, if I just had to pick up a couple of these containers and drive them to Düsseldorf.

  That, after all, is the point of all this. To save myself from an ordinary working life.

  'Our number's up,' said Heuhle, standing at his side.

  Matt snapped to attention and looked up. The crane had lifted a single steel container free of the boat. The metal screeched while the crane slowly turned, then the steel ropes started to winch the crate down.

  Just a few more inches, thought Matt. Then it's back on dry land.

  'Your ticket,' said the docks manager.

  Matt took the receipt from his wallet and handed it across. The man inspected the piece of paper briefly, made a note on his pad, then nodded. 'OK,' he said tersely. 'It's yours.'

  The container was lowered slowly on to the back of the truck. 'Take it away,' shouted the docks manager as soon as it was in place.

  Matt hopped into the passenger seat and Heuhle drove the truck forward into the parking lot. From the corner of his eye, Matt could see the customs inspector approaching them. 'I'll do the talking,' said Heuhle. 'It'll be easier to speak Dutch.'

  Matt could feel his stomach heaving as the two men spoke. He'd been told that about five per cent of the containers were searched by customs. The inspector nodded, looked at some paperwork, then cast his eyes over the container and stamped Heuhle's paper.

  'We're clear,' Heuhle said, climbing back into the cabin.

  Matt got out, lowered the back of the truck, fired up the rented Ford, and steered it on to the back of the lorry, tucking it behind the container.

  'Can you drive this?' said Heuhle, looking towards Matt as he climbed back into the cabin.

  'Of course,' answered Matt. 'If you can drive a tank, a truck is no problem.'

  'Follow the red Audi,' said Heuhle, climbing down from the cabin. 'When I stop, that's where the money is.'

  Matt turned the ignition, bringing the engine roaring to life. Pushing his foot on the accelerator, he gradually familiarised himself with the controls. Turning the wheel, he started to steer the truck out of the port and on to the main road. Up ahead, Heuhle's Audi was in view, driving cautiously in the slow lane. So far, so good, thought Matt. In another hour, the money will be safely stashed in the back of that rented Ford.

  My money. Ten million, a third of it mine — and more if we finish Ivan.

  * * *

  The lights from the compound were only just visible over the ridge of the hill. Sallum looked over the cusp of the rock, surveying the panorama below. He could see the house, the drive leading up to it, and the high, wire fencing encircling the compound. Taking a pair of binoculars from his pocket, he looked down at the gates: black, thick, reinforced steel. The only way through was by cutting the wire — and that, he could be sure, was protected by a thousand different electronic sensors.

  My sources were right. Only a man on a suicide mission would attempt to get inside there.

  'How do we get inside, sir?' Rami asked, looking up towards Sallum.

  'Wire cutters,' said Sallum.

  From his backpack, he took out a pair of thick steel pliers. 'You cut the wire like this,' he said, crunching the pliers together. 'Snap a section of wire open, about one foot square. That will be enough for you to crawl through. Then wriggle along the ground, trying to keep low and out of sight. As you approach the house, get your gun ready. Go in through the main balcony window. As soon as you see anyone, shoot them on sight. Understood?'

  Rami nodded. 'You don't think they'll see me coming in?'

  'We wait until midnight, they should all be in bed,' said Sallum. 'It is just one man and his family. He can't stay up all night. So long as you are brave and quick, you'll be all right.'

  'What have they done, sir?'

  'They are infidels,' said Sallum gravely. 'They have stolen from the organisation to which we have pledged ourselves. The punishment they are about to receive is a just one.'

  'Then may Allah be with me, as he was with Husayn,' said Rami, starting to pace down the side of the hill.

  The boy has faith, reflected Sallum, if not much in the way of brains.

  * * *

  The Audi pulled up to a halt in a lay-by on the side of the road. Matt calculated that they were about six miles outside of Rotterdam, and at least two miles from the main highway. He could see Heuhle climbing out of the car, walking towards him. 'There's a right turning just ahead that leads to a copse of trees about a mile distant,' Heuhle told him. 'The stash is in there. You should be able to get the truck up the dirt track.'

  Ivan must be following me, Matt decided. He must have some plan for taking me down just after I get the money. I just have to be ready for him.

  Matt steered the truck out of the lay-by, back on to the road, then turned a sharp right on to the track. It led a mile between two fields towards the woods. The surface was rough, pitted with stones which were thrown up against the underside of the truck, but the ground seemed solid enough. The tyres were gripping, churning up mud but still pushing the machine forwards.

  This is the point of maximum danger. If I were Ivan, I'd attack right here, right now.

  Matt surveyed the scene ahead. The track opened up into a small clearing, surrounded by tall trees. It was pitch dark. The last farm Matt had seen was a couple of miles back, and this patch of wood was surrounded by nothing except empty fields. Plenty of places for a sniper up in those trees, thought Matt. If I was planning a hit, that's what I would do.

  He brought the truck to halt, killing the engine. Heuhle had already parked the Audi a few yards ahead. Matt sat perfectly still, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the branches of the trees. He looked up, then right and left, searching for the points where thicker branches grew out from the tree trunks. It was in one of those niches a sniper would conceal himself.

  Matt stepped down from the cabin. A branch creaked, and instinctively he ducked his head.

  'A bit jumpy?' said Heuhle.

  'Two men already died on this job. I don't plan to be the third.'

  Heuhle looked at him closely. 'Where did you get this stuff?'

  'Al-Qaeda.'

  Heuhle whistled. 'You're a brave man.'

  Matt shook his head. 'A desperate one,' he replied.

  'Within twenty-four hours, it will have been split up and distributed among a hundred different dealers, and within a week it will be in a thousand different jewellery shops across Europe.'

  That's the real beauty of gold and diamonds, thought Matt. Not the way they sparkled and glittered, but the fact that both commodities were completely untraceable. Nobody cared where they came from. They were money in its purest state.

  'Let's move.'

  Matt hopped on to the back of the truck. He was breathing more easily now. The shot hadn't come, and although he still had to be on his guard, he figured that any assassin hiding in the trees would have loosened off a few rounds by now. He had done some hits himself, and he knew the rules. When an opportunity for a clean shot at your target presents itself, you never pass on it. You never know when it might come again.

  He unhooked the back of the container, stepping inside its dank steel hull. The smell of the sea was still hanging to it: a mixture of salt and brine and rust. He switche
d on the flashlight from the truck, the beam piercing through the darkness. The two Land Rovers were there, both strapped down to the floor of the container. It looked as if they had barely been disturbed during the voyage.

  Matt stepped closer, Heuhle following him. He knelt down, his hand reaching underneath the first vehicle. He rummaged around until he found the catch and prised it loose with his thumb. Unlocked, the flat metal panel came free in his hand. Where you would expect to find the base of the car were a series of small wooden boxes, each one neatly stacked on top of each other. Matt pulled the first one free. He caught his breath as he slid the lid aside, flashing his torch on to its contents, and the diamonds sparkled back at him like the eyes of a child.

  Slowly, he started unpacking the boxes from the two cars, stacking each one on top of the other.

  At his side, Heuhle was opening each box, examining its contents, then placing it back on the stack. From his car he had brought a set of electronic scales. At random, he took a selection of diamonds and a selection of gold bars, measuring each one then weighing them. 'Once you know the right weights for a diamond of a certain size and a gold bar of a certain size, this is the quickest way of judging whether it's fake,' he explained to Matt. 'If the diamonds were made of glass, or if those gold bars had hollow shells, the weights would be all wrong.'

  'And how are they?'

  'Exactly as they should be.'

  'Then I'll collect my money.'

  The two men walked across the damp ground towards the wood. It was pitch dark, and Matt needed his torch to illuminate the path. The wind was picking up speed, rattling through the branches. He could hear creaking. A footstep? Or just a branch blown about in the gale?

  If there's someone there, they'd better take me down with one shot. Otherwise they're dead.

  'This way,' said Heuhle.

  The oak tree was massive, its thick trunk towering into the sky, its branches reaching out imperiously across the rest of the wood. At least a hundred years old, judged Matt. At its base the roots curled up and out from the ground, creating dozens of tiny caves and crevices.

  Useful for woodlice, rabbits and robbers.

  Heuhle bent over, his arm reaching between a pair of roots. He tugged, pulling out a yellow canvas travel bag. He handed it across to Matt. 'Count it if you want to,' he said.

  'How much in this one?'

  'Two million dollars. One million in American money, half a million in euros, two hundred and fifty thousand in British pounds and the rest in Swiss francs.'

  Matt pulled back the zipper. The notes were all there, folded into neat paper bundles. He could smell it. Not the fresh, inky scent of the newly printed note, but the familiar, grubby smell of the old, used note; the smell of cash tills, other people's hands and sweaty pockets.

  My money. I'm a rich man again.

  He watched as Heuhle pulled another bag from the tree, then another, until there were five bags in a row. Matt opened each one, checking the notes were all there, and that none of the bundles were stuffed with forgeries or blanks. That was all the checking he needed to do.

  'Here,' said Matt, handing across the keys to the truck. 'It's all yours.'

  He collected the bags, putting three over his shoulders and taking one in each hand. The money was lighter than he expected: ten million dollars was not such a big sum that a strong man couldn't comfortably carry it on his back. As he walked he scanned the trees, watching and listening.

  'What happened to the other guys?' said Heuhle as they walked.

  'Two died. The other. . We decided we didn't like the smell of him.'

  'You meet a lot of gangs in this trade,' said Heuhle. 'It's always the same. They are the best of friends until the job, but afterwards they all start arguing among themselves.'

  'Arguing I can handle.'

  'It's the money,' said Heuhle. 'It's always the money. It has the same effect on all of them. Within a few days, the oldest of friends are at each other's throats.' He paused, turning to look at Matt. 'You want my advice, you split that cash up, give a fair share to each man still standing, then get the hell out. Once the killing starts, it doesn't end until there's only one man left standing. And it won't necessarily be you.'

  Matt swung the last of the bags into the boot of the Ford, which was still parked on the back of the truck. 'Thanks,' he said tersely. 'Always good to have some encouragement.'

  Heuhle laughed. 'I just meant be careful,' he said. 'A man with ten million in unmarked notes in the boot of his car needs several sets of eyes. He'll have enemies he never even imagined.'

  Matt turned the ignition on the car and carefully backed it down on to the dirt track. 'You look after yourself, too,' he said. 'A man with a truck full of gold and diamonds needs just as many eyes as a man with ten million in notes. Especially when it's jinxed.'

  With a brief smile he wound up the window and started turning the car. The killing won't stop until only one man is left standing, reflected Matt — the advice Heuhle had just given him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, looking out for the main road, and wondering how long it would be until he hit the turning for Calais.

  Well then, I just have to make sure that man is me.

  EIGHTEEN

  Home, thought Matt, as he glanced up at the first of the familiar green-and-white British road signs.

  It was pitch dark when he pulled out of the Eurotunnel. From Rotterdam he had driven due east, hitting the main road, and not stopping until he'd reached Calais. It was after midnight by then, and the terminal had been mostly deserted — truckers used the train at that time of the night to take advantage of the cheap rates, and a few frugal tourists, but there was plenty of space, and he had no trouble getting a ticket. He had drunk a couple of cups of machine coffee as he'd waited for his number to be called: it tasted like powdered sawdust, but he'd needed something to keep himself awake through the next few hours. As the caffeine kicked in, he'd steered the car into the carriage. For the twenty-minute journey he had sat alone in the car, composing himself and arranging his thoughts.

  There was still no sign of Ivan, nor any word from him. The man was planning a hit later on. Perhaps when they split up the money. Or else he was completely innocent, and was just waiting for his share. It was impossible to tell, realised Matt.

  But my life may still depend on getting the answer right.

  Matt's heart had been thumping as he'd steered the car out of the train and back on to dry land. His hands were sweaty, and his throat dry. He'd glanced nervously at the customs office as he'd driven into a nothing-to-declare lane. He'd slowed the car down, keeping his eyes rooted to the black tarmac of the road, trying to act as casually as he could.

  A few officers had been on duty, but they had seemed to be more on the lookout for asylum seekers and cigarette smugglers. Not men with five bags of used notes in their boot.

  Strictly speaking, Matt decided, there is probably nothing technically illegal about carrying ten million across the border in cash. But you could be sure that if they found it, they would know you were guilty of something.

  Matt glanced in the mirror. The customs post was now safely in the distance, and there was no sign of anyone running after him. He switched the headlights on to high beam and tapped the accelerator, taking the car up to seventy as he hit the M20. He didn't want to risk being stopped for speeding, not with ten million in his boot.

  A few minutes' drive, and then I'll be there.

  At junction ten he turned on to the A28, heading south towards Tenterden. Two miles along that road he turned sharply to the right. He drove for another mile up a B road, then turned left along a stretch of farming track that led across three fields to a small meadow abutted by woodland. Even in the darkness, as Matt struggled to find his way along the lane in the pitch blackness, this was a place full of strong memories. Damien and he had spent a holiday near here when they were about seven, when both of their fathers were still alive. For several days they'd camped, built fires and const
ructed dams across streams. They were days that Matt still kept among the happiest of his memories. They had been back here a few times together since, in their teens and twenties, when Matt was back on leave from the Regiment. It was their own personal hiding place, somewhere they could come together and get away from their day-to-day life. A place where they could drink beer and just be boys again.

  Maybe that was why Matt had chosen to stash some gear here. Sentimental perhaps — but it was as good a spot as any.

  And a man never knows when he might need some weapons.

  The wood was just as he remembered it. It was hidden away from the road, and although in the distance you could just see the lights of Ashford, it wasn't overlooked by any houses. The nearest farm building was at least three miles away. Safe, secret, and hidden away. Perfect.

  A gust of wind lashed his face as he stepped out of the car. He collected a spade from the boot and walked silently across the ground, counting out the trees. It was the fourth one along from the fence that he wanted. He stepped behind it, kicking his shoe in the mud. It had been churned up by some rain during the day. He knelt, digging his hands into the ground, starting to scratch away at the surface. Nothing had been disturbed. It would be just as they had left it.

  It was hard not to think of Damien as he dug. He could see the face and hear the words of his friend as he worked. He had only ever been here with him, and the wood was fresh and alive with his friend's memories. If Damien had a ghost, it would be these woods he would haunt.

  The box was just where they had left it: a four-foot green metal ammunition box they had picked up in an army surplus store in Ashford. Matt pulled it free of the trench. From his wallet, he pulled out a tiny padlock key and slid it into the lock. The padlock came away smoothly in his hand. He lifted the open case, glancing inside. The gear was all there — a Beretta 92FS pistol and a Browning 9mm, complete with ten magazines of ammunition each, plus ten sticks of dynamite, a pair of sticks of C4 explosive, complete with detonators. It was material Damien had acquired, and decided to put it in a safe place in case they ever needed it.