Greed mb-1

by Chris Ryan

  'You'll have to follow me, sir,' said the officer.

  Sallum paused. 'Can you tell me what the problem is?'

  The officer looked at him. He was a man of about forty, with thick, black hair and hard, determined eyes. 'Just follow me.'

  A set of screens divided the customs area from the back office. Sallum followed the officer — there was, he decided, no choice. Ever since the glorious victory in New York on 11 September 2001 — a day that would surely go down as one of the greatest in human history — every airport in the world had been teeming with armed police, and sometimes special forces soldiers. If he tried to make a break for it, he'd have half a battalion on him within five seconds. There was no other option but to do what he was told.

  The officer pointed to a bank of six small rooms, each with a small, high window. From one, Sallum could hear the sound of a woman crying as she was searched. From another, the violent, rough sound of a man resisting arrest. The officer opened a door, and pointed inside. 'Just wait there, sir,' he said quietly. 'Someone will be along to see you in a minute.'

  'Why am I being held?' asked Sallum, his voice more insistent this time.

  'Just wait there.'

  The room measured six feet by four, with grey wallpaper and a neon strip light. There was a simple wooden table and three black plastic chairs. On the table there was a jug of water and a stack of paper cups. Sallum took a sip of water and listened. The woman was still crying, the man overwhelmed and subdued. Somewhere in the distance he could hear men talking, but could catch nothing of what they were saying. He didn't need to. He knew they were talking about him, and what they should do with him next.

  Sallum took his mobile from his pocket and considered making a call. No, he told himself. Too dangerous. They are certain to be listening to every word I say.

  * * *

  The mobile rang four times in Matt's pocket before he answered it. He sat down on a bench and put the phone to his ear.

  'That you?'

  Matt recognised the voice instantly — Harry Pointer, Kazanov's sidekick back in Spain. Probably the last person he wanted to hear from. 'Yes,' he replied tersely. 'Everything OK?'

  There was a pause. Matt knew what that pause meant, and he steeled himself for the answer. He had heard officers calling the wives and mothers of men who had been killed in action. They always asked if everything was OK, and they always hesitated before delivering the blow. They knew they shouldn't — the rulebook said that if you have bad news, it's always kinder to deliver it quickly — but they couldn't help themselves. Inwardly, they recoiled from the task, and wanted to postpone it as long as possible.

  'Bloody hell, Matt, it's like a sodding butcher's shop in here.'

  Matt remained silent. Across the park he could see a toddler hassling his mum for some sweets.

  'He's dead, isn't he?'

  'Of course he's bloody dead,' Pointer snorted. 'The whole bloody family is dead. The wife, the kids — there's blood all over the bedroom, and all the way down the stairs. And there's all these bloody slogans written on the walls. In blood, Matt. Written in blood.'

  'What do they say?'

  'It says, "A thief was brought to the Prophet four times and his punishments were amputations of the right hand, the left foot, the left hand and then the right foot. On the fifth occasion the Prophet had him killed",' Pointer said, reciting the words written on the bedroom wall. 'Fuck it, Matt. These are complete sodding nutcases.'

  'Al-Qaeda,' said Matt. 'Or someone dressing their actions up to look like al-Qaeda.'

  Another pause. Matt glanced across the path again. The toddler appeared to have won and was sucking on a new packet of chews.

  'I can't believe you're messing with those nutcases,' Pointer continued angrily. 'Mr Kazanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Not pleased one little bit. We thought you were just hiding away from some local gangster. Not sodding al-Qaeda.'

  'We're all ex-SAS, Harry,' said Matt.

  'So what?' Pointer snarled, his voice rising with anger. 'Mr Kasanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Bringing al-Qaeda into his house. He doesn't need that kind of enemy.'

  'Frankly, there are so many people trying to kill me right now, you'll have to form a queue.'

  'You might think it's funny, Matt, but Kazanov won't.'

  'How the fuck did they get in, Harry?' Matt asked.

  'Looks like a decoy,' said Pointer. 'There's a hole in the fence, and a young guy dead on the lawn.'

  'Listen, just do one thing for me,' he said.

  Matt could hear Pointer laughing. 'The favour jar is empty,' he said. 'Don't even ask.'

  'Whoever did this, I want to catch them, and finish them,' said Matt. 'So do you.'

  Pointer snorted. 'You're not winning me round.'

  'Come on,' said Matt, his voice quickening. 'I just want to catch these guys and deal with them for you. Your video cameras should have recorded the whole thing. Just get me the tape of what happened.'

  'What will you do with it?'

  'Just get me the tape, Harry,' said Matt, his voice growing more insistent. 'I'll identify whoever is on it, then I'll kill him. And Kazanov can have his half-million back. The money's all there, so long as I can stay alive long enough to deliver it.'

  'One tape, Matt, that's it,' said Harry. 'Call me back in a couple of hours.'

  'Thanks, Harry.'

  'Oh, and Matt, one more thing,' Pointer said. 'Give me an address for your funeral. I'd like to send a wreath.'

  Matt disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The rain was falling more heavily now, the water dripping off his hair and down the back of his neck. The first lesson he had learned in the Regiment, and maybe the most valuable one, was to curb and control his anger. To channel it in the right direction. To make sure that vengeance, when it came, was deadly, accurate and precise.

  There will be time for grieving for Reid and his family later. After their killer has been dealt with.

  Matt stood up from the bench and started walking. There had been five of them to start with, and now three of them were dead. In the next couple of hours he could take that down to one. It was time for some payback.

  * * *

  Sallum tapped his fingers against the table. The woman in the next room had been released and the row of interview cubicles had fallen silent. It was quarter past twelve according to the clock on the wall. They had kept him waiting for an hour already. There was no way he was going to make it to see Assaf before lunchtime now.

  Of all the virtues the Prophet has taught his children, patience in the face of adversity is the greatest of them all.

  Sallum looked up as the door opened. The man who came into the room was in his mid-thirties, with cropped blond hair and a tie loosened around his neck. His name was Ben Harper, according to the plastic name-tag slung around his neck. Without introducing himself, he sat down at the table opposite Sallum, a sheaf of papers in front of him.

  'What's your name?' he asked, looking directly at Sallum.

  'With respect, you know my name,' replied Sallum. 'Otherwise I wouldn't be here.'

  'Nasir bin Sallum,' said Harper. 'Thirty-two, Saudi citizen, a businessman.'

  This is just the warm-up act, observed Sallum. They'll send the comedian later.

  'Why are you in Manchester?'

  'Working.'

  'What kind of work?'

  'Like it says on the papers, I'm a businessman,' replied Sallum. 'Business work.'

  'What business?' said Harper impatiently.

  'I import football shirts to Saudi Arabia,' said Sallum. 'Manchester United, Liverpool, Newcastle. There are even some Bolton supporters in Saudi. I'm here to see some of the suppliers.'

  'And in Spain?'

  'Same thing,' said Sallum with a shrug. 'English football shirts. Spanish. We sell some German and French ones as well. European football is very popular in my country.'

  Harper leant forward. 'It sounds like a good cover.'

  'R
eally?' Sallum answered casually. 'To me it sounds like a good, solid business.'

  Harper stood up. 'You wait here,' he said. 'A colleague will be along to question you some more later.'

  'What's the charge?'

  'No charges, just questioning,' said Harper.

  'Then why are you holding me?'

  Harper stood by the door. 'Prevention of Terrorism Act,' he said. 'We can hold you for three days, no charges. So shut up and get used to it.'

  * * *

  Matt walked from Hammersmith tube out into the Broadway. Traffic was flying around the roundabout and a thick layer of dark clouds had settled across the sky. He crossed the roundabout, dodging the cars, then started walking along King Street. The place was full of morning shoppers, but Matt kept his head down, ignoring everyone. This was not a moment to allow himself any distractions.

  Before getting on the tube he had tried Gill again, but there was no answer at her flat. He'd called the school and spoken to Sandy, but she said Gill wasn't there, hadn't been in for a couple of days, and she didn't know where she was or what she might be doing. Maybe getting over the bastard who broke her heart by cancelling the wedding, she'd added acidly before hanging up the phone.

  Women, reflected Matt. Now there's a Regiment that really knows how to fight for one another.

  Cross one, and you take on the whole damned army.

  Next he'd tried Janey at the Last Trumpet. Everyone at the bar was fine, she told him. Business was OK for the time of year: they were between the Christmas and Easter rushes, so it was quiet but no more than she would expect. Some men had been in looking for him. Any sign of Gill? Matt had asked, cutting through the small talk. No, answered Janey. Hadn't been in, and no mention of her. Can you look? asked Matt. Ask the regulars in the bar, check with the local police, try anything you can. What's up? Janey had asked. Nothing, said Matt. Just trying to track her.

  He could tell she didn't believe him.

  It's not like Gill, Matt thought, turning up one of the side streets towards Ravenscourt Park. She wouldn't just take off like that. She wouldn't stop going into school without telling Sandy where she was and why. He could feel his heart sinking as he ran the calculations through his mind. They'd got to everyone else. Why not Gill as well?

  Number sixteen Cedar Road looked no different from the last time he had seen it. The same peeling paintwork on the door, the same overflowing rubbish bins in the scruffy front garden. Matt pressed hard on the doorbell, then hammered at the door with the knocker. He knew exactly what he was going to say. It was time to get this finished.

  'Christ, no need to wake up the whole bloody neighbourhood,' said Ivan, holding the door open.

  Ivan was never a good-looking man. His eyes sloped away from his forehead, and his skin was blotchy and pale. But he looked worse now, Matt noticed. Like he hadn't been out for days, like he hadn't eaten — like he'd been cooped up with only a dead body for company. 'You look terrible,' said Matt. 'And in about five minutes you're going to look a lot worse.'

  'Remind me to blackball you from the bridge club,' said Ivan. 'We'll wait until you polish up your social skills.'

  'Don't smart-talk me,' Matt snapped, and stepped inside. The hallway had the same musty, decayed smell he recognised from the last time he'd been here. Underneath the floorboards, Keith Whitson's body was probably starting to rot from the bones, filling the rooms with the sickly perfume of death.

  'I want some answers and I want them now,' Matt said. 'No fooling around, no double talk.' He took the Beretta from his pocket, holding it in his fist. 'You mess with me any more, I kill you.'

  Ivan looked into his eyes, his expression switching between sympathy and contempt. He raised one hand, then walked through to the kitchen. Next to the sink, Matt could see a pile of unwashed plates, saucepans and coffee cups. On the table, the remains of some breakfast cereal were still lying in a bowl. Next to it a laptop was open, a bridge game displayed on its screen. Ivan leant over, thought for a second, then pressed a key, making the cards move. A smile flickered across his face. 'You know what?' he said, looking up. 'A good bridge player always keeps one trump card up his sleeve.'

  He walked away from the table and stood directly in front of Matt. 'Reid is dead, isn't he?' he said flatly. 'I'm sorry. He might have been SAS but he seemed like a straight enough sort of guy.'

  Matt's fist hammered straight into Ivan's stomach. He doubled over in pain, coughing, then pulled himself up, his expression indifferent. 'One of these days a little light is going to go off in your head, Matt,' he said calmly.

  Matt delivered a swift uppercut, his knuckles knocking into the stubble of Ivan's jaw. The man reeled backwards under the force of the blow, wobbling on his feet, his arms flailing outwards to regain his balance. He took two steps back, rubbing his jaw with his hand: his lip had opened up and a trickle of blood had started to dribble down his chin.

  'I told you, no clever talk,' Matt shouted. 'Just the truth.'

  'OK,' said Ivan with a shrug. 'The truth is I've been here for the last five days, ever since Whitson died. I'm just lying low until you tell me our money is ready to collect. I haven't been out, and I haven't spoken to anyone. I don't know where you or Reid went. I didn't have anything to do with his death. That's the truth, plain and simple. You can take it or leave it.'

  'Then how did you know he was dead just now?' Matt snarled.

  Ivan tapped the side of his head. 'I have a brain in here somewhere, despite your best efforts to punch it out of me. I can still add two and two together and get the right answer. If Reid wasn't dead, you wouldn't be here.'

  'You told me your family had been picked up by the Provos, but that was a lie,' said Matt. 'You've bed about everything right from the start.'

  'Who told you that?' said Ivan cautiously.

  'Alison.'

  'Interesting,' answered Ivan.

  'There were five us when we started, now there are two,' Matt continued angrily. 'Only the two of us knew who was in the gang, and where we all were. It's not me, so it has to be you.'

  'I didn't even know where you and Reid were,' Ivan answered, his tone turning patronising. 'You already decided it was me days ago. Two more men have died since then. I even knew when and where the money was being fenced, and I didn't move out of this house. When are you going to realise, you and I are on the same side now?'

  Matt held the Beretta up, pointing it directly at Ivan. 'If not you, then who?' he said. 'If you can't answer that question, I'm going to kill you right now.'

  'Like I just said, a trump card,' said Ivan, smiling. He held up a micro-cassette. 'This is mine. It will tell you who's responsible for Cooksley's, Damien's and Reid's death, and who will probably be responsible for your death and mine before the week is out.' He paused, dangling the tape in front of Matt's eyes. 'Want to listen to it?'

  * * *

  Sallum first saw the woman through the tiny window of the cubicle. He had been waiting for three hours, sitting alone, with nothing to look at but four grey walls. The minutes had ticked slowly by, each one allowing him to make a calculation. Whoever they were sending to see him, she probably came from London. The local police wouldn't take this long to get here. That meant MI5.

  I'm in more trouble than I thought.

  He examined the woman as she stepped through the door. Like many European females, he observed, there was hardly an ounce of womanly flesh on her. She was tall and thin, with blonde hair that tumbled down the back of her neck. Her face was painted with lipstick and mascara, but the femininity of her appearance was all just decoration, Sallum judged: beneath the perfume and the lipstick, she would be made from metal as tough as any man's.

  Only the sickest, most decadent of societies would turn a woman into a warrior. That is a man's work.

  Harper stood behind her, remaining silent. 'Good afternoon,' the woman said, sitting down at the desk, looking coldly across at Sallum. 'My name is Alison Hammond.'

  Sallum nodded. He could disapprove
of a working woman, but he would not underestimate her. 'Why am I being held?'

  'Prevention of Terrorism Act,' said Alison curtly. 'I think you have already been told that.'

  'I am not a terrorist.'

  'That's for you to prove, and me to judge,' answered Alison. 'Why are you in Manchester?'

  'On business.'

  'What business?'

  'I've been through that with your colleague,' Sallum snapped. 'Why don't you ask him?'

  'I like the sound of your voice,' said Alison. 'So you tell me, please.'

  'Import, export,' answered Sallum. 'All perfectly legitimate. You can look at the records if you like. The Saudi embassy will be happy to help you.'

  Alison unfolded the pad on the desk, then took out a photograph from a plain brown envelope and pushed it across the desk. It was a shot of Cooksley, taken when he was still in the Regiment, but showing only his head, and dressed in civilian clothes. 'Recognise this man?'

  Sallum glanced downwards. He blinked. Then he realised that he'd been caught with his guard down — he had paused, and that had been a mistake. He looked back up at Alison, meeting her eyes with a stare of pure stone. 'No.'

  Alison pushed another picture across the desk: Reid, in Regimental uniform. 'How about him?'

  This time, Sallum didn't pause. 'No.'

  'I don't think you looked at it properly,' Alison replied.

  Sallum picked the photograph up with his fingers, holding it to the light, his eyes squinting. 'No.'

  'Or these men?' Alison pushed across pictures of Damien, Ivan and Matt. Sallum scrutinised each one in turn, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said slowly. 'I'd like to help you, but I have never seen any of these men in my life.'

  Alison nodded. Her eyes moved up to meet his, and he could tell she was scrutinising him, trying to break through the impassive exterior to find out what was happening within. But his mind was encased within walls of steel, and she would never break through.