by Damien Lewis
‘Our interest is in the Imperial Bank of Beirut,’ Kilbride replied. ‘You know it?’
‘Everyone knows the Imperial Bank.’
‘We need to get eyes on the bank for twenty-four hours or so, preferably from good cover – so a deserted tower block, or something. How doable is that, Emile?’
‘Half of Riad al-Solh lies in ruins. Every other building is deserted.’
Kilbride grabbed one of the uniforms. It consisted of a white medical tunic and trousers, with the Red Cross logo sewn onto one arm. He had no doubt that it was a genuine Red Cross original.
‘How busy is it likely to be in there?’ Kilbride asked.
‘Quiet as death,’ Emile answered. ‘It is in the very heart of the Green Line. On the one side sit the Christian militia, on the other the Muslims. In between it is mostly a wasteland. Only the foolish or the desperate go there. Maybe those wishing to withdraw their funds from the Imperial Bank, or those wishing to make a deposit. But how do you decide? In a city as crazed as this, do you keep your money in the boot of your car or under the bed, or in the vault of a bank in the very heart of the war zone?’
‘So no one’s going to be disturbing us?’ Kilbride asked, ignoring Emile’s last remark.
‘No, certainly not after dark. And come the weekend it will be empty. Not a soul will be moving in there.’
Kilbride knew that he would have to put Emile in the picture at some stage. But he seemed a sensible enough individual, and Kilbride figured that an offer of a share in the loot should buy his cooperation and silence. He would level with Emile once they were through the roadblocks and had reached their destination – which was pretty much the point of no return.
At 3.30 a.m. the convoy of vehicles revved up their engines and prepared to depart. Trying to hide all the team’s weapons and ammo had taken slightly longer than anticipated. Luckily, Emile had had the foresight to fill the Bedford truck with boxes of medical supplies, and the larger weapons had been buried beneath this pile of kit.
Once he had checked that the way was clear, Emile swung open the large metal doors that led out of the compound. He waved the convoy forward onto the war-torn streets of Beirut.
CHAPTER FIVE
KILBRIDE WAS DRIVING the lead vehicle, one of the Land Cruisers, together with Ward, Moynihan and Emile. Behind them came the Bedford truck, with Smithy at the wheel and McKierran and Johno as passengers. The second Land Cruiser brought up the rear, with Berger driving and Boerke and Nightly riding shotgun. As the last vehicle pulled away from the safe house, Boerke glanced at a sticker on the dashboard and shook his head in disgust. It showed the silhouette of an AK47 assault rifle with a red line running though it. It was the only time in his life that he had ridden in a vehicle that expressly forbade the carrying of weapons.
The lean South African patted his pocket, just to make sure that his handgun was there. All the big guns were hidden in the vehicle’s rear. But at least his pistol was a 9mm Browning HiPower, with a staggered-row thirteen-round magazine – the personal weapon of choice for elite forces. With each man carrying a Browning they at least packed a little firepower, and stood half a chance if they did hit trouble. But since the pistol’s effective range was no more than thirty yards it had better be up close and personal, Boerke reflected.
The convoy pushed ahead using full headlights, and making little effort to avoid being spotted. They were posing as an official Red Cross convoy now, which had a free right of passage across all parts of the war zone. Apart from the odd militia vehicle, nothing was moving on the streets. Those militia they did pass paid little attention once they had spotted the distinctive Red Cross insignia on the vehicles. As they trundled through the deserted city the extent of the devastation was breathtaking: whole streets lay in blasted ruins, with broken furniture, burned-out cars, shattered glass and rubble strewn across them.
As they neared the city centre the reek of decay caught in Kilbride’s throat. He wound up his window, but the stench of rotten death was everywhere, even in their vehicle or so it seemed. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement to his left, down a darkened alleyway strewn with rubbish and the discarded debris of war. A pack of emaciated hounds snarled and fought, tearing at something sacklike on the ground. For a second Kilbride mistook it for a dead dog, before the rabid pack began a tug-of-war with what was unmistakably a bloated human limb. One of the dogs paused to stare at the passing vehicle before turning back to its putrescent feast. Kilbride shuddered. Welcome to Beirut, he told himself.
Finally, the three-vehicle convoy approached the limits of Christian-held east Beirut and the crossover point into the Green Line. Up ahead a roadblock hove into view, a wooden pole counterbalanced with a lump of concrete at one end. To one side there was an American pick-up, with a Soviet Dushka heavy machine gun mounted on its rear. A soldier with a wild Afro hairdo and a white bandanna tied around his forehead manned the massive machine gun. Kilbride knew the Dushka well: it was an awesome piece of weaponry, which could make mincemeat out of any of their vehicles.
To the other side of the roadblock half a dozen soldiers lounged around in a sandbagged position. They were wearing an odd assortment of combats and carried AK47 assault rifles. Each one had the lower half of his face covered by a khaki scarf, leaving just the eyes visible. A battered radio set was perched atop the sandbags, and Kilbride could just make out the beat of some Western-style pop music. It sounded oddly out of place in the midst of this blasted city, and the overall effect was unnerving.
He slowed his vehicle to a stop in front of the barrier and wound down the window. As he did so Kilbride recognised the sound of Blondie’s hit single ‘I’m Always Touched By Your Presence, Dear’ blaring out from the radio. But barely had he registered the song when he got the shock of his life. One of the soldiers had emerged from behind the sandbags only to reveal a shapely set of legs ending in a pair of high-heeled shoes.
As she strolled across towards him, moving in time to the pop beat, Kilbride couldn’t help admiring the lady soldier’s svelte figure and her obvious grace and poise. Emile leaned across from the passenger seat and called out a greeting in Arabic. There was a quick exchange between them, of which Kilbride understood not a word, but all the while he was transfixed by the beautiful brown eyes above the mask. As she waved him through the roadblock the girl tugged down her khaki cloth, and offered Kilbride a brief smile.
‘Hello, my friend,’ she called after him. ‘Welcome to the Green Line.’
Kilbride almost stalled the vehicle, and he cursed inwardly. A beautiful young lady soldier in high heels and carrying a Kalashnikov assault rifle was the last thing that he had been expecting on this mission. For once he had found himself lost for words with a woman. Behind him the Bedford truck pulled through the roadblock, with Smithy giving the girl a wave. But the last vehicle ground to a halt. The big American, Bill Berger, leaned out of the window of the Toyota with a beaming smile on his face.
‘Hello – you need help?’ the girl with the eyes asked.
‘Just wondered if y’all needed anything,’ Berger announced, his eyes dancing. ‘We got us a load of cigarettes, some food rations – but no silk stockings, I’m afraid.’
The girl accepted a carton of Marlboro. ‘Next time, some stockings,’ she scolded, giving him a coy smile. ‘Or else big trouble.’
Bill Berger laughed. ‘No problem. I’ll see if I can’t pick some up for y’all in the Green Line.’
‘You’re supposed to be a Red Cross doctor,’ Nightly muttered, as they pulled away from the roadblock. ‘Not her bloody pimp.’
‘Never admired a beautiful woman before?’ Berger drawled. ‘Women with guns – boy, I gotta tell you … Never wondered what it’d be like to peel off that khaki uniform with your teeth? You’d better lighten up, buddy, before you shrivel up and die of old age.’
Ron Boerke let out a thin laugh. He was hardly a ladies’ man himself, but he was warming to the big American’s ways. And by the end of t
his mission he just might have five and a half million dollars in the bank. In which case he reckoned even he could be a hit with the fairer sex.
Ten minutes after passing through the checkpoint the convoy rumbled into Rue Riad al-Solh. Glass crunched under tyres as the lead vehicle ground to a halt. It was dark as pitch here in the ruined wasteland of the Green Line, and not a soul stirred. Emile pointed right up the street to where a building lit up by a faint glow was just visible. It stood by itself some five storeys high, an island of light in a sea of darkness.
‘The Imperial Bank,’ Emile announced. ‘One of the few buildings that still has a working generator, hence the illumination.’
‘The main entrance is on the corner, right?’ Kilbride asked. ‘What about the rear – is there a back way in?’
‘I am not that familiar with the building,’ Emile replied. ‘What little money I have I chose to keep elsewhere.’
‘Right, let’s park up at the far side of the building, off of the main drag,’ said Kilbride. ‘Then take a look at the terrain.’
‘I think maybe soon you are going to tell me why we have come here?’ Emile ventured.
Kilbride glanced at him. ‘Once we’re safely established in one of the empty buildings, you and I need to talk.’
The convoy proceeded up Riad al-Sohl at a dead-slow pace, then swung right onto a side road that led down towards Place de l’Etoile. Kilbride scanned the buildings to either side of the Imperial Bank and picked out one that was totally gutted. It offered a perfect vantage point from which to keep watch. He pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket. For a second he considered radioing the other vehicles, but then he thought better of it. Both sides in the civil war were known to scan the radio traffic as a way of sussing out what the enemy was up to. Kilbride knew that he and his men should keep their radio use to minimum.
He turned to Moynihan. ‘Take Boerke and McKierran and check out that building. I want confirmation that it’s unoccupied. If it is, that’s where we’ll establish the OP.’
As Moynihan disappeared up the darkened street, Kilbride turned to inspect the target. The Imperial Bank of Beirut was constructed of a light yellow chiselled stone. It had once been a truly imposing building and would not have looked out of place in the City of London. But now … Kilbride glanced upwards: ‘—perial Bank of Beiru—’ a sign running above the entrance announced. The beginning and end of the lettering had been blown away, the stonework pock-marked by heavy gunfire. Several of the windows were smashed, and scorch marks from a recent blast disfigured the whole front of the bank. Kilbride could hardly believe that there was fifty million dollars in gold bullion stored in that building’s vault. But where else in this warring city did anyone have to stash their money?
Moynihan returned. Apart from the odd pigeon or two, he reported, the building was completely empty. Inside it stank of stale urine and staler smoke, and not a window remained intact. But it would serve their purposes well, the Irishman reckoned. Kilbride staged a breakdown of the Bedford truck by removing the rotor arm, and left it with the bonnet open. To the casual observer it would appear as if a Red Cross convoy was parked up off Riad al-Sohl, waiting for a mechanic to arrive. The men unloaded their gear. Weapons, explosives, food rations, water and surveillance kit – all of it was piled into the deserted building.
‘Right, lads – you know the drill,’ Kilbride announced once they were gathered on the first floor. ‘I want one man watching each end of the street at all times, so start a rotating stag. Get a Claymore ambush set up covering each approach to this building and prepare your arcs of fire. By rights, we shouldn’t be getting any unwanted visitors, but if we do we’re going to need to deal with them. Get the mortars set up on the roof, and get some jerrycans of petrol from the vehicles, in case we have to boost their range. Grab some galvanised iron from somewhere so you can disguise your signature if you have to fire from up there. Smithy, I want you to organise that lot, okay?’
‘Boss,’ Smithy confirmed.
‘Right: Berger and Boerke, I want you guys on the listening device and the night-vision unit. We’ve got about three hours left until daybreak and I want all the intel we can get on the bank’s night operations. Take Emile with you, and rifle-mike the guards’ conversations. I want to know numbers, locations, patrols, how they’re armed, and any security systems that may be in operation, plus the location of that generator. The vault is below ground – in the basement – and I want to know if they’ve done anything stupid like lock up a guard in there. You never know – this is one fucked-up war. You got it?’
‘Sure thing,’ Berger replied. Boerke nodded.
‘Okay, the rest of you are on guard duty. Keep your eyes peeled. Meanwhile, I’m going to give our friend Emile a short briefing.’
‘Boss, one question,’ said Nightly, nodding in Emile’s direction. ‘What’s his share of the loot?’
‘Keep your mind on the job at hand, Nightly,’ Kilbride replied. ‘Get to it.’
‘But—’
‘Just shut it!’ Boerke snapped. ‘There’s work to be done, man.’
Kilbride turned to their Lebanese fixer. ‘Okay, Emile, I figure you’ve got every right to know what we’re up to. Plus, we need you on side for the rest of the mission … Believe it or not, there’s fifty million in gold bullion hidden in that bank vault. We’re going to remove it, starting tonight. We’ll use the Red Cross convoy to move it across Beirut to the safe house. Then we load it onto the RIBs and we’re gone. You get your share before we depart – that’s if you’re on for it. All I expect in return is for you to carry on doing what you’ve been doing so far, and guide us the hell out of here.’
Emile gave a wry smile. ‘I am not entirely surprised. It is what I suspected you might be doing. But fifty million dollars’ worth of gold – that I am surprised about.’
Kilbride grinned. ‘You’d never have believed it, not looking at the state of the place. I reckon we can have the gold loaded and be ready to depart by sundown tomorrow, latest. That’s less than twenty-four hours away, Emile, by which time you should be very rich indeed.’
Emile smiled. ‘Or dead, my friend … How rich? I think I have to ask.’
‘Two and a half million dollars, Emile,’ Kilbride announced, softly. ‘Our share of the gold is twice that, but you’ll appreciate we’ve planned the whole thing and we’ll be doing the fighting. It’s a fair share, don’t you think?’
‘It is more than fair, my friend.’ Emile paused for a second, seeming uncertain of what to say next. ‘In fact, it seems very generous …’
‘Anything troubling you, Emile?’ Kilbride prompted. ‘Feel free. Ask away.’
‘I think I know the answer, my friend, but is this a British Government operation, or a … private initiative?’
‘Private. We’ve been sent in to get eyes on the bank, that’s all. So robbing it is where this becomes a wholly freelance job.’
‘Then it will be doubly dangerous. For all of us.’
‘Don’t worry, Emile. We aren’t planning on leaving anyone behind.’
Emile stared at the floor. ‘No Englishman, no Scotsman, no American … not even a Lebanese?’
‘No one, Emile,’ Kilbride confirmed. ‘Regardless of their nationality, flag, race, religion or football team. We go in as one: we come out as one. End of story.’
Emile thrust out a hand to Kilbride. ‘Then I am on for it. It will be my ticket out of this godforsaken city …’
For the rest of that morning Kilbride’s team lay low and kept their eyes fixed on the battered façade of the Imperial Bank of Beirut. At 10 a.m. the bank manager pitched up in a Mercedes pock-marked by shrapnel. He was dressed in a well-pressed blue pinstripe suit, and carried a leather attaché case in one hand. He would not have looked out of place in the Square Mile of London’s banking district or on Wall Street in New York. Kilbride had to admire the man’s nerve. The day staff started to arrive, and as the morning wore on there were even some furtive customer
s. But other than that there were few visitors to Rue Riad al-Sohl, and no one showed any interest in the gutted building where Kilbride and his men were hiding, or the broken-down Red Cross convoy.
By 4.30 p.m. the bank was shutting down, its staff looking forward to a weekend away from the city’s empty quarter. As dusk descended on the city the four security guards took over for the weekend shift.
And Kilbride prepared to strike.
He called his men together for a final assault briefing. ‘Right, lads, this is it. We’ve learned a lot from today’s observations, and the assault plan we’ve come up with is based upon minimum firepower and maximum stealth. We should be in and out of the bank building without anyone noticing. Well, all apart from the four security guards, that is.’
Kilbride pulled over an old cardboard box and turned it on its lid. ‘Imagine this is the bank: this – the front; this – the back. Stage One of Cobra Gold is the assault itself. At eight p.m. sharp Smithy and Johno disable the generator, here, at the rear of the building. At that moment the bank should go dark. There’s two separate alarm systems, as far as we can tell, one of which is rigged to a series of metal cages. If that system goes off, then metal bars drop from the ceiling, closing off the vault. But with the generator taken out, that shouldn’t be a problem for us.
‘Of the four security guards, two are located here, at the front entrance, one here, at the rear, and one is stationed in a central security room on the first floor. As soon as the building goes dark I want four men hitting the lobby with thunderflash grenades and disabling the guards. Boerke, Nightly, McKierran and Ward – that’s you lot. Smithy and Johno, as soon as you’ve hit the generator at the rear you take out the guard there. Then McKierran and Boerke, you hit the central security room. By the end of Stage One the bank will be in our hands, and no one apart from the guards should have seen or heard anything.