by Damien Lewis
At 10 p.m. the boats were ready for departure. Kilbride, Boerke and Berger stood in the darkness on the grassy river bank and said a final, exhausted farewell to Emile. But as they turned towards the boats there was a rustle in the darkness and a ragged figure emerged from the gloom. The four men froze as the person stumbled across the ground in front of them down towards the river. He reached the old jetty and made a beeline for the makeshift bed – an old door propped up between an upturned fridge and a desk.
When he was no more than fifteen paces away the man glanced up, straight at Kilbride and his men. He stood stock-still for a second, his mouth hanging open in shock. Then he turned and fled. Kilbride levelled his M16 at the fleeing figure, but decided against shooting. He lowered his weapon, gesturing for the others to do likewise. There had been enough killing already, and if the mystery man disappeared his friends might come looking for him.
As the figure was swallowed up by the night, a terrified voice rang out. ‘Al Israelis! Al Israelis! Al Israelis!’
Kilbride grinned wearily to himself. Whoever the mystery figure was, he had obviously mistaken Kilbride and his men for an Israeli raiding party. Which was fine, as far as Kilbride was concerned. Let the man go ahead and talk, if anyone would listen to him. Doubtless he would provide a wild report about a massive force of Israeli commandos invading Beirut from the river. It was a fine source of disinformation if ever there was one.
The journey down the Beirut River went without mishap, and by 10.30 p.m. the three craft began powering away from the cursed city. As the boats hit the open ocean Kilbride felt as though he was waking from a deep trance. For forty-eight hours greed had possessed him and his men, and they had been gripped by gold fever. Gold fever. That had been their mission password, and for three days they had all been totally consumed by it. But now the fever had left him. Kilbride felt exhausted. Drained. A husk. And big Jock McKierran was lying at his feet in the bottom of the boat, close to breathing his last.
Kilbride made a promise to himself there and then. Whatever else happened on this mission, if McKierran didn’t make it, his family would be getting Kilbride’s share of the money. There was no way Kilbride could keep it for himself. It would be small compensation for a much-loved father, brother and son, but at least it would be something.
Two hours later they reached Ramkine Island. Ward and Johno were sinking yet more of the gold to the bottom of the cave. Nightly was at the surface, loading up the gold bars to lower them to the depths. Kilbride and his team made Smithy and Moynihan comfortable, and set up a new intravenous drip for McKierran. Then they began unloading the last of the loot. When that was done Kilbride broke out the back-up radio set, powered it up and sent off a tersely worded message.
‘Kilo One, Base. At FMB. Two walking wounded, one unconscious. Request immediate exfil. Urgent. Out.’
He waited several minutes before he heard the faint beep-beep-beep of the reply. It gave the nearest possible exfil time as being 9 p.m. the following evening, and provided the coordinates to rendezvous with the submarine.
The message ended with the following words: ‘JJ to LK. Cat is out of bag. T-bollock knows target was hit. Prepare cover story. Base to Kilo One, out.’
‘JJ’ were the initials of the squadron sergeant major, Jimmy Jones, and ‘LK’ were Kilbride’s initials. ‘Tbollock’ didn’t require much figuring out. The SSM was giving Kilbride the nod that they were in the shit big time with Major Thistlethwaite.
Kilbride was hardly surprised. As soon as they’d taken their first casualty Kilbride had known that they would need a cover story. With McKierran now at death’s door there would be serious questions asked. And in all likelihood there would be an after-action inquiry. Kilbride could think of only one cover story that just might work, and that was to tell the truth, or at least ninety per cent of the truth as he saw it, backed up with some gold.
He called the men together for one last briefing and explained what he had in mind. There were no objections to his proposal from any of those present, Nightly included. Most of the men couldn’t have cared less. They were sick to death of the bloody gold.
The old man sat in the shadows of his office and contemplated a dark, dark moment in the history of the struggle. He was calm. There had been others. Few as dark as this, but there had been others. Each time the cause had survived and they had lived to fight another day. They would survive this one, too. He stroked his beard contemplatively. Who could have done this, he wondered? Who could possibly have believed that they would get away with it? That the wrath of his people, his fearless Mujahedin, would never be unleashed upon them?
There was a gentle knock at the door. A few seconds passed and then the door opened a crack. The bearded face of a younger man peered around it, hesitantly. With difficulty the old man pulled his focus back to the present and ushered the figure into the room. The younger man seated himself before him, and waited for the tea ritual to begin. Without even bothering with it the old man began to speak. It was a sign of the urgency of the moment that the tea ritual had been dispensed with. Such a thing had never happened before.
‘What news, Ahmed?’ the old man asked of his lieutenant.
‘Sheikh …’ the younger man began, spreading his hands before him. ‘As yet, we have nothing. There is not a whisper on the streets as to who is responsible for this monstrous crime. But we will find them. Given time we will find them. And then vengeance shall be ours …’
The Sheikh held up a hand to silence the younger man. ‘No talk of vengeance … Waste none of your energy on thoughts of vengeance. Focus every essence of your being on finding them. That is your sole and only task. Find them. And find the people’s money. Once you have done that, then we will talk of a vengeance that will be Allah’s own …’
‘As you say, Sheikh. Your words, as always, are deeply wise.’
The Sheikh nodded, and began to pour some tea.
‘Sheikh …’ the younger man said, hesitantly. ‘There is one thing. A fool of a Syrian labourer who sleeps down by the river. He swears blind that he saw a force of Israeli commandos …’
The Sheikh looked up sharply, his hooded eyes looking like those of a hawk. ‘When was this?’
‘In the early hours of Sunday morning. It would fit with the timing of the raid. But Israeli commandos raiding the Imperial Bank of Beirut? It makes no sense …’
‘It would make every sense,’ the Sheikh snapped. ‘But how would they have known our money was there? It is almost inconceivable … Abdul Sali al-Misri! Abdul Sali al-Misri, our trusted banker who appears to have disappeared into thin air. What of him? Has that dog come to heel yet? Has that mongrel cur been tracked to his lair?’
‘We have searched his residence and his country retreat. There is no sign of him at either. He is running. But we will run faster and further and we will find him.’
‘It is good.’
‘You think he bears some responsibility, Sheikh? That he might have been … somehow … involved? Surely he is no friend of the Israelis?’
‘Who knows? Money makes strange bedfellows … We need to find him. I have some questions to put to him. Many, many questions.’
Major Thistlethwaite leaned back in his chair as he eyed Kilbride. The Lieutenant stood there before him, dishevelled, unshaven and unwashed, the scent of war still strong upon him. His eyes were red and puffy with sleeplessness, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The Major had him exactly where he wanted him and was determined to show no mercy.
‘Let’s get this absolutely straight,’ the Major said, glancing across at Sergeant Major Jones and grinning smugly. ‘You have one member of your troop at death’s door and two badly wounded; you’ve fired off enough ordnance to fight a small war; you have eight-point-seven-five tons of gold in your possession, which was until recently the property of the Imperial Bank of Beirut. And this is all a result of a failure in radio communications – is that it?’
‘Yep,’ said Kilbride.
&nbs
p; ‘So, just what on earth possessed you to go in and clean out the Imperial Bank of Beirut’s vault? My original orders were crystal clear: HMG were after some terrorist papers, not the whole bloody gold reserves of the bank! In addition to which, you were ordered to withdraw. To withdraw. How do you explain that little lot, Kilbride?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Let’s recap, shall we? No one ordered you to assault the bank – in fact, you were ordered to withdraw. But attack it you did, regardless of your orders. No one ordered you to raid the bank vault, but raid it you did. No one ordered you to steal fifty million dollars’ worth of gold bullion, but you proceeded to do so anyway. And in the process you have ended up with one man practically dead and two others seriously injured. It’s the sort of stuff that nightmares are made of. You’re finished, wouldn’t you say so, Kilbride?’
‘Probably.’
‘I would just volunteer one thing in Kilbride’s favour,’ Sergeant Major Jones interjected. The Major had placed him at the end of his desk and to one side so that he could witness Kilbride’s full humiliation.
‘Would you, indeed, Sergeant Major? Extraordinary. I’m listening. In fact, I’m all ears. I can’t imagine what in the world you could possibly find to say in Kilbride’s favour, but do go on.’
‘Well, it may be hard to understand why the silly sod did what he did, but it wasn’t for his own benefit, was it? I mean, he got the terrorist documents and the gold’s been delivered to Cyprus – all fifty million dollars of it. So it’s not as if they thieved it for themselves, or anything.’
‘Kilbride, do you think you deserve credit for what the Sergeant Major has just pointed out? Or do you think it just makes you appear doubly stupid? Doubly incompetent? Your actions doubly illogical? Or is the only possible conclusion to be reached that you are clinically insane?’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Kilbride. ‘I’m dog-tired. I’ve got two men badly wounded, another one fighting for his life. I need to get a wash, a sleep and to be with my men. I don’t give a shit, Major. End of story.’
Kilbride turned to leave.
‘If you walk out of that door, Kilbride, I will be recommending you for a court martial.’ Kilbride kept walking. ‘And not just you, Kilbride. Think about it: you walk out that door and it’s nine dishonourable discharges. That’s one for you, and one for each of your men. I’ll even argue the same for the dead man, McKierran, as by all reports he stands little chance of making it. That’s all of you Kilbride. All your merry men.’
Kilbride spun around to face the Major. ‘Bastard! This has got fuck all to do with my men … I may have disobeyed orders but they did not. They were under my command for every minute of this mission. Whatever we did out there, I ordered my men to do it. So don’t try and fuck with them too.’
‘So you admit you disobeyed orders?’ said the Major, with a triumphant sneer. ‘He admits it! Incredible – he actually admits it! Odd, that – because I have been repeatedly told that your radio unit was inoperable, so it was nothing more than a communications breakdown. But no, the truth is finally out: you deliberately disobeyed orders, didn’t you, Kilbride?’
Kilbride was tired of all this, tired of the Major and all his shit. It was time to tell it like it was. ‘Correct – there never was a radio malfunction. I bent the lug pins in the battery housing. Get it checked out. It’s completely fine. I told my men the radio had gone down and ordered them to hit the bank. They acted on my orders because I am their troop leader and it’s what they’re trained to do. So to clarify matters, for the record, with the Sergeant Major as my witness – I alone disobeyed orders. You can do your fucking worst with me, Marcus, but not with my men.’
‘As a confession of guilt, that’s a pretty superlative one, Kilbride. I’ll start preparing your court-martial papers right away, shall I? But before I do, any chance you might enlighten me as to the motive behind your freelance bank robbery? I’m just curious. It would make the case against you one hundred per cent perfect, not just ninety-nine per cent perfect, as it is now. Bank robbers don’t normally hand over the loot at the end of the job, do they? Or am I missing something?’
‘You ever wanted to prove someone wrong?’ said Kilbride, quietly. ‘You know, prove them wrong whatever the cost? Someone who’s got their head so far up their own backside they have to clean their teeth through their arsehole? You said the plan for the raid would never work, Marcus. Piece of shit, you called it. I proved you wrong. Simple as that, really.’
The Major turned back to his desk and began writing. ‘Get out, Kilbride,’ he snapped. ‘You’re finished. I would imagine a place will be found for you on the first flight back to Britain. Best you go and say your goodbyes … Oh, and one more thing,’ he added, without bothering to look up. ‘Before you leave, I’m going to have the Sergeant Major search your gear, and that of your men – just in case you forgot to hand over all the loot. I don’t actually believe you’re smart enough to have hidden any, but just in case.’
Kilbride’s face remained a blank, inscrutable mask. ‘Do I have your word that you’ll leave my men out of this? They were under orders. Their actions should attract no blame.’
‘Listen, Kilbride, if I can find a way to send the whole bloody lot of you down, I will. You and your little fan club, your troop – you’re all alike. Birds of a feather … No discipline … You’re the problem, the whole bloody lot of you. And this will be a finer unit when the madmen like you are gone. Get out, Kilbride. Leave. You’re history.’
Kilbride glanced across at Sergeant Major Jones, and with a flick of his eyes he indicated the door. The burly Sergeant Major inclined his head imperceptibly, and slipped quietly from the room. Kilbride stood his ground and waited for the Major to notice the ice-cold predatory essence that had crept into the room. The Major glanced up from his desk. Kilbride stared at him, a current of brute, animal aggression lying just below the surface of the coal-black pools of his eyes. The Major twitched. He tried to hold Kilbride’s gaze, then lost his nerve. For a second he searched for Sergeant Major Jones, his head darting about nervously.
Kilbride stepped closer to the desk and leaned forward until he was eyeball to eyeball with the Major. ‘It’s no use, Marcus, you’re on your own,’ he announced, quietly, his voice laden with menace. The Major recoiled from Kilbride’s breath, just inches from his face. ‘You’re a lucky man, Marcus – I’m willing to do a deal with you. You leave my men out of this and I’ll take your court martial, Major. I’ll never darken your door again.’
Kilbride paused. ‘But you go after my men, and I promise you you’ll never be shot of me. Not even when I’m on the outside. This will never be finished – not until I say it’s over. In some dark alley, down some deserted country lane, at home with your family snugly asleep upstairs – I’ll find you, Marcus, I’ll find you. When you’re least expecting it, I’ll find you. Wherever you are, I’ll find you. I’ll track you down and I’ll root you out and I’ll exact my revenge …’
The Major stared up at Kilbride. His jaw hung slack and his face had gone a sickly shade of pale.
‘You fuck with my men, Marcus, and I promise you I’ll pursue you to the grave. And when I find you, you’ll wish you were already dead. Don’t ever forget, Marcus: I’ve made you a promise. A solemn promise. And I never break my fucking promises …’
With that Kilbride spun on his heel and strode away. As he headed off to check on his wounded men he was nursing a cold, murderous rage. He entered the ops tent and spotted a familiar figure hunched over a chessboard. It was Knotts-Lane. Kilbride ignored him and headed for the rear. Ernie Jones, the radio operator, was in the midst of transcribing a message.
‘Any news, mate?’ Kilbride asked. ‘Smithy and Moynihan? Jock McKierran?’
‘Not much. There’s this just come in.’ He handed Kilbride the scribbled message. ‘Says Smithy and Moynihan are on a flight out of here, back home by midday today – their condition’s stable. As for McKierran – he’s too bad to
be flown anywhere, so he’s staying at the hospital …’
Kilbride glanced over the message. ‘Thanks, mate. Keep me posted, will you?’
Kilbride turned to leave. As he did so he noticed Knotts-Lane staring over at him. The man’s eyes were a deep reptilian green as they tracked him across the tent, and Kilbride noticed an air of smug satisfaction about him. It made his blood boil.
‘You seem happy,’ Kilbride announced, as he went to pass. ‘Just beat yourself at chess again? Or are you celebrating the improvement to your face from that pig-ugly scar?’
‘Guess you’ll be sad to be leaving us,’ Knotts-Lane remarked, ignoring Kilbride’s jibe. He had a barely perceptible sneer on his face. ‘Well – we’ll all be sad to be losing you, too.’
Kilbride paused. ‘I didn’t know I was leaving.’
‘Word is you are. No big surprise, really, not after your little Beirut caper. Pulling a stunt like that can end a man’s career. Must be the influence of that dumb American rubbing off on you …’
‘A stunt like what – radio failure? I didn’t know having radio failure was such a fucking crime.’
‘Radio failure? Come on – you’ll have to do better than that. Like I said, I know you, Kilbride. You’ve been up to something.’
‘So tell me what you know.’
‘I know I’d like to know where you stashed the gold.’
‘Actually, I was planning on stuffing it up your arse. Might stop you from talking out of it the whole fucking time.’
Twenty-four hours later Kilbride was strapped into a seat in a C130 Hercules transport aircraft. As the plane climbed away from Cyprus, he stared out across the glittering waters of the Mediterranean. Somewhere out there lay Ramkine Island – and one hundred million dollars in gold bullion hidden beneath the waves. Seven days earlier he had made a pact with his men to rob the Imperial Bank of Beirut. One of them, McKierran, was still at death’s door. Kilbride had visited him in the army medical unit, but the big Scot had still been unconscious. And two of them, Smithy and Moynihan, might well be invalided out of the services. Kilbride knew that the responsibility was chiefly his. It was a heavy burden to bear.