by Chris Ryan
Matt picked the Beretta up, feeling its weight in his hand. It had seemed a bit of a joke at the time they had stashed this stuff away: Damien might have expected to be on the run one day, but Matt had been still a loyal soldier in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, and never expected to be doing anything illegal. Still, he had figured there was no harm in stashing a weapon away: everyone in the Regiment knew that old retired soldiers went into the security game, and a gun might come in handy in that business. 'You were right,' said Matt, muttering the words out loud to his dead friend. 'A man never knows when he needs a pistol and a few rounds of ammo.'
He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his jacket, took the spade and walked back to the car. He collected the bags from the car, walked into the woods a few yards, and started digging. The trench, he reckoned, needed to be three to four feet deep: far enough underground that some stray dog wouldn't start sniffing it, but not so far down that it might be impossible to retrieve later.
The money would be hidden for just two days.
Until I have dealt with. Ivan, and until Reid can collect his share. Until the day we agreed we'd meet up and share out the spoils of our war.
He pitched his spade into the earth, slamming it down to break open the mud. Shovelling was hard, heavy work, even in the cold of night. After a few spadefuls Matt cast aside his coat, sweat forming on his brow as he dug. After twenty minutes, the hole was complete: a neat trench, four feet long and three feet deep. Well, thought Matt, looking down into the pit, this is the spot. In Bideford we said we'd put the money here if anything went wrong, and I'm sticking to that plan.
Time to bury the treasure.
* * *
Sallum trained his binoculars on to the edge of the fence. It was dark, but there was just enough light in the sky for him to see what was going on. Rami was crouching down low, the pliers in his hand, cutting his way swiftly through the wire mesh. The boy gripped a handful of steel and tore at it as if it were a piece of paper. Smart, thought Sallum, a wry smile playing across his lips. If you want to make absolutely sure you trigger the alarms, that's the way to do it.
He could see the boy push himself through the hole he'd made, making his body small, and wriggle across the dry earth. His shirt snagged on the wire and he had to turn to rip the cloth free. Then he stood, looking towards the house forty yards away. The land between was covered in immaculate lawn and flowerbeds, with two fountains closer to the building. It had been designed carefully, Sallum observed from his perch high on the hill. Between the fence and the house there was no cover a man could use. Any obstacles that would restrict the line of sight of the guards had been stripped away. All Rami could do was crawl slowly along the ground, keep his head down, and hope for the best.
He has faith, Sallum reflected. That will give him the courage.
He watched as Rami started to crawl forwards. The rifle was still slung over his back, and his hands were moving swiftly across the ground. Up ahead, at the side entrance to the house, Sallum could see the door swinging open. He switched his binoculars up an inch, focusing on the man emerging from the house. About six feet tall, he was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, with black body armour strapped around his chest and a pistol in one hand, a rifle hung across his shoulders and a knife tucked into the buckle of his belt. He was twenty yards from where Rami was crawling forwards, ignorant of his presence.
You can protect yourself against most forms of attack, Sallum thought, watching as Reid approached the boy — but you can't protect yourself against a man who is committing suicide. The ultimate price will always claim the ultimate victory.
Sallum checked both his P7 pistols were secured to his body and fully loaded. He unclasped a knife from his belt, holding it in his hand, then started moving swiftly down the side of the hill.
Time to sever another limb.
* * *
There were only a few customers at the Road Chef service station on the M20. Matt sat down at a plastic table, ordered himself a full English breakfast with extra toast and coffee, and glanced through the restaurant. A few truckers, stopping off after bringing their trucks off the ferries, a few stray German and Dutch tourists, and one young family who, from the noise the kids were making, were on their way to Disneyland Paris.
He checked his watch — just after five-twenty in the morning. He scanned the restaurant to check no one was watching him. It was still impossible to say whether Ivan had put a trail on him or not.
After burying the loot, Matt had climbed back into the car and started driving. He had called Reid briefly to let him know the transfer had gone smoothly, and that the money was safely stashed away in the location they'd agreed upon down in Bideford. He'd given him precise co-ordinates of the location and directions of how to find it; if anything happened to him in the next few hours, the money belonged to Reid and his family.
Reid had been furious with him for slipping away, bursting into a rage and hurling a thousand insults at him, but eventually calming down when he realised that the money was safe — and that Matt wouldn't be calling if he'd been planning to steal it. Still, Matt had been grateful to hear he was still alive, and as he talked to him he'd become more certain that Ivan must be the traitor among them. If it was Reid, he wouldn't have been so desperate to protect his family — there would be nothing to protect them from. And there had been no more hits on the gang since they'd told the Irishman to get lost.
The food arrived at the table: a steaming plate of sausages, bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. Matt took a gulp of coffee and stuffed down a couple of mouthfuls of bacon, then he pushed the plate away. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Ivan or his accomplice was about to hit him.
When you feel certain someone might be about to try and kill you, it's funny how your appetite abandons you.
Matt checked his watch again. Five twenty-eight. He watched the faces of the people in the restaurant. A pair of truckers had just walked in, one glancing through a copy of the Express, the other talking on his mobile. No sign of Ivan. I suppose he might not come himself, he thought. He'll send his accomplice, whoever that might be: some psychotic kicked out of the IRA for excessive cruelty. It could be any of these people here, just sitting, eating their breakfast, silently preparing the bullet that wall kill me or polishing the blade that will slit my throat.
Five-thirty. Matt reached for a slice of toast and started chewing on it. His throat felt dry and it was difficult to swallow. Fights he could handle — it was the waiting he hated, the moments of silence and reflection before the inevitable conflict.
He tried Gill on the mobile. He knew it was early in the morning in Spain, but he wanted to hear from her: not to ask her to take him back — he was starting to give up hope on that — but just to make sure she was OK. He needed to hear the sound of her voice.
Why isn't she answering? he asked himself as he hung up on the twentieth ring.
Five thirty-four. One of the truckers was glancing up in Matt's direction. Is it you? he asked himself. His eyes flickered towards one of the tourists. You? Or that family — maybe the kids are just cover, maybe you're planning to knife me in the car park.
In his jacket pocket, Matt was fingering the cold, steel case of the Beretta. Come out of the shadows, Ivan, he muttered to himself. Let's get this done.
He tried another piece of toast but found himself incapable of swallowing anything and spat the food out. Walking across to the payphone, he slipped some coins into the box then punched the number into the keypad. He listened to the slow, insistent ringing of the phone. In his mind, he could see the dark corridor in Hammersmith of the IRA safe house, Whitson's body rotting somewhere and Ivan pacing around or playing another stupid game of bridge on the computer. Answer the phone, man, Matt repeated to himself. I know you're there.
He hung up the phone on the twentieth ring, pressing re-dial instantly. The ringing tone again. Still no reply. Then he punched in the mobile number for Ivan, waited for the connection, and
hung up when he heard the familiar voicemail message kick in.
Okay, Ivan, he thought to himself, we'll play it your way. If you won't come and get me, I'll just have to come and get you.
* * *
Sallum moved closer to the perimeter of the fence, making little sound as he walked. He kept his eyes trained on Rami, still crouching on the ground, still unaware of the man from the house walking towards him. Their confrontation could only be a few seconds away. This was the moment to strike.
A shot rang out, the sound piercing the still of the dawn. Sallum glanced up. Rami had fired, but missed. A mistake.
In any gun battle, the man who shoots first is almost always the loser.
Sallum ducked silently through the hole Rami had cut in the fence. He swerved to the right, intending to approach the house from the back while Rami was still distracting the man at the front of the house. He was dressed completely in black, no more visible in the darkness than a shadow flickering across the ground. Looking up towards the house, he realised that it occupied maybe five thousand square feet: a massive building, and he would have only a few minutes inside to find and kill the family while the man was distracted by Rami.
He could hear another shot. He couldn't see, but he knew it meant either Rami was protecting his position, or he had lost the initiative. It could only be a matter of moments before he was killed.
No matter. His work was done, and his sacrifice worthwhile.
The door from which the man had exited the house had been left ajar, just as Sallum had expected it to be. A man who sees an assailant on his way to kill him and his family doesn't have time to fish around for keys or shut doors behind him; he wants to leave a quick way back for himself should he need it.
Sallum heard the sound of another shot, then a scream. Rami had been hit but not killed. Over the years, Sallum had learnt to distinguish the screams of a wounded man and a dying man. The boy was young and strong, and could take a couple more bullets — there was time left.
Sallum slipped inside the building. He moved through the kitchen towards the main living room. Nobody there. He ran upstairs — that was where the family would be sleeping. He checked two bedrooms, both empty. In the third, the woman was sitting up in bed, a sheet raised to cover her body. The two children were lying at her side, both of them asleep. Her blue eyes moved up, meeting his. He could see the fear, but also confusion, terror. Silently, without moving her lips, she was pleading for mercy — but she already knew she would be rejected.
Sallum smiled, raised the silenced P7 and aimed. He knew the noise might alert the man downstairs to what was happening, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it.
He could see the woman moving instinctively to protect not herself but her children; she seemed to want to he across them like a warm, smothering blanket.
The gun jumped in Sallum's hand as he fired first once, then twice.
The first bullet hit her just above the left eye, sending her head spinning and a splash of blood colliding with the back wall. The second bullet hit her on the left breast, smashing into her heart. Blood started to seep from the open wound as she slumped forward.
Both the children woke up. They instinctively clung to their mother, breathless and confused, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Sallum stepped towards the bed.
They are small. One bullet will be enough for each of them.
He stood next to the bed, pointed the gun, fired once, then twice. Both children were killed instantly. Their bodies slumped across the bed, still clasped to their mother. The boy was still holding a toy, and the girl had a dummy in her mouth. Neither seemed to have had any idea what was happening.
Sallum spent a moment admiring the delicate, soft purity of their skins.
For infidel robbers there can be no mercy. Not even for their children.
He walked to the window and looked towards the lawn. He could see Rami's body lying out on the grass, the man leaning over him, checking he was dead.
Sallum crept into the space behind the door, waiting. After a few seconds he heard the sound of the door slamming, then a man's footsteps on the staircase.
'Jane?' the voice rang out from the hallway. 'Jane? Are you OK?'
The man came through the door. He looked towards the bed, his eyes darting from body to body. Blood was by now dripping from the sheets, running some of the way towards the bathroom.
The man froze.
Sallum emerged silently and his hand circled the man's neck. Both men were the same height, but Sallum was slightly heavier and had more strength in his shoulders. He jabbed the silenced P7 tight into the man's neck. 'Their death is the first part of your punishment,' he said. 'The second part will follow — but I will allow you a few moments to reflect on what has happened to your wife and children before you die.'
Sallum squeezed tighter on Reid's neck, choking off the flow of air to his lungs. Reid was struggling to free himself, but Sallum's grip was tight, and without oxygen it was impossible to summon the strength to break free.
'Repeat these words,' said Sallum. 'Allahummagh firlee warr hamnee wah-dini wan zug-ni.'
'Fuck off.'
'Would you like me to translate for you?'
'Fuck off you murdering Arab pig.'
'O Allah, forgive me, have mercy on me, guide me aright and grant me sustenance,' said Sallum, his voice touched with laughter. 'It is the dua that is always taught to a new Muslim. I thought you might like to convert, seeing as you're about to meet Allah. For he is a merciful God, and is always ready to greet a sinner who repents. Even scum like you.'
The man roared in anger, jabbing his elbow backwards and catching Sallum in the chest. Sallum's hand fell free from the neck and the man started to spin on his heels, his arm swinging out to grab Sallum's hand. Sallum rocked momentarily backwards on his heels before regaining his balance. He squeezed the trigger on the P7, blowing a hole through the man's neck. Blood and skin splashed on to the floor. Sallum pulled the trigger again, hitting his enemy just below the mouth. The lower part of the jaw was blown away, the bone splintering in different directions.
The man's legs buckled and he dropped to the floor.
Sallum tucked the pistol back into his pocket, stepping away from the body. From another pocket he took out a thin painter's brush. He dipped it into the pool of blood on the floor, and started writing on the wall.
Another limb severed. Two more to go. Then my work will be done.
NINETEEN
Matt walked alone through Regent's Park. It was just after ten in the morning, and apart from a couple of mums out for a walk with their children the place was empty. Heavy clouds were hanging in the sky and some light drizzle was falling into his face as he marched along the pathway.
He had driven straight back up to London after leaving the Road Chef on the M20. He didn't want to go to his flat, and he didn't want to be seen anywhere he might be recognised. So he'd dumped the car at an Avis office, grabbed a coffee, and come for a walk.
Maybe I should just go and take the money for myself. Clear off somewhere, change my name, fix my face and start a new life. After all, it isn't as if I have Gill to worry about any more.
Matt found his thoughts returning to the past. During his six-month selection for the Regiment, after a brutal two weeks of training, he had decided he'd had enough, that he couldn't take any more. For days he had been hiking across mountains, getting shot at, sleeping in open countryside with nothing to consume apart from a few biscuits and some spring water. He went home for the weekend, and decided not to go back. It was Damien and Gill who had persuaded him to return, telling him that he had no choice but to persevere, that he would never forgive himself if he didn't.
They aren't here for me any more.
Another time, during his first tour of duty in Northern Ireland, he'd suffered from a bad bout of what the shrinks would call post-traumatic stress, and the guys in the Regiment would call an attack of the shakes. Three of them ha
d been out on patrol in border country, when they were ambushed by a Provo hit squad. They had been pinned down for ten minutes, coming under sustained fire, before one of them volunteered to break out by rushing their attacker. Matt had been more terrified than he could have imagined possible: his guts had been heaving, he'd thrown up three times, and his fingers wouldn't stop shaking for long enough for him to load his gun.
Those had been bad, low moments. But this was worse. This time he was alone.
* * *
Sallum collected his case from the carousel and walked swiftly towards customs. The flight from Malaga to Manchester had taken two hours, fifteen minutes, and there was not much time to lose. Assaf wanted to see him before lunch. It was eleven now. If he picked up a rental car in the next few minutes, he should be there in time.
The morning had gone well. Better than he expected.
But there is still some killing time left in the day. A truly holy man can never rest.
He walked slowly through the green customs lane towards passport control. Experience had taught him to walk slightly nervously through customs: exaggerated self-confidence was one of the signs the customs men looked out for in picking out their victims for random searches. Even then, he had little to fear. He never carried any kind of weapon on a plane — he had dumped the P7 into the Mediterranean, and always bought fresh weapons for each hit — and his false Saudi passport was perfectly in order.
The successful assassin keeps risks to an absolute minimum. That way you stay alive.
'Can we see your bag, sir?'
Sallum stopped and looked at the customs officer. His pulse skipped a beat, but he felt certain that the reaction was not visible on his face, his expression remaining calm and impassive. 'Of course,' he replied.
He put his bag down on the counter. It was a simple, black leather case with a combination lock. Sallum put the numbers in place and opened the clasp. The officer opened the bag, taking out its contents one by one: two spare shirts, a pair of Gap chinos and a pair of blue Levis, a black polo jumper, some socks, underpants, a shaving kit, and a copy of the Koran. 'Okay?' said Sallum, replacing the items in the bag.