by Damien Lewis
‘Promises, Knotty, promises. I’ve yet to see much delivery.’
‘You could take a gun, go into your neat Wiltshire garden, sit in the greenhouse and blow your brains out. That’s an option. Or there’s always the coward’s way out – in the garage with a hosepipe from the exhaust through the car window. It’d be a far nicer way to go – better than waiting for me to come and find you. But I want the joy of killing you all to myself. So hang on, Nick. Hang on.’
‘Oh, I intend to,’ Nick snapped. ‘And into a grand old age.’
‘Remember how we tortured the infidels in Afghanistan, Nick? We stripped them naked, sliced open their stomachs and pegged out their intestines in the Afghan sun. We gave them just enough water to keep them alive as the insects and the rodents came to feast. Just imagine it, Nick. You could hear their screams from miles around. I used to love that sound … I thought up that torture, Nick. It was my invention. And I’ve thought up something even better for you.’
‘You bastard.’
‘One of these days, Nick, I’ll be seeing you. Sweet dreams.’
The line went dead. Nick Coles drove home in a cold silence. His mind was working overtime. His tyres crunched on the gravel drive as he pulled up at the brick-built farmhouse. He took his briefcase and went directly to the annexe that looked out over the back garden. He’d made his decision: Kilbride had to know. Bugger orders to the contrary and bugger the consequences – Kilbride had to know. It had become a life-or-death matter now.
He punched the speed-dial number on the Thuraya that connected him to Kilbride. A voice answered.
‘Kilbride, the Brothers who survived the strike, they’re after you,’ Nick blurted out. ‘They’re after revenge. They’ve got people out searching all across the Lebanon, got eyes looking for you everywhere. They’re going to try to hit you, Kilbride.’
‘Calm down, Nick, calm down.’ Kilbride wasn’t entirely surprised that the enemy were after them. What he needed now was Nick Coles to give him some details. ‘Who’s behind all this? The Old Man’s dead, right? So who’s coming after us?’
‘There’s something we didn’t tell you, Kilbride … There’s a Muslim convert in that camp. He’s a Brit, and he’s ex-SAS. One of your own. He’s survived. He’s coming after you.’
‘Who is it? Give me a name, Nick.’
‘Knotts-Lane. The Searcher. Or Muhammad Mohajir, as he is now.’
‘Fuck me, that’s all we need … How long have you known, Nick?’
‘Ever since the beginning. I’m sorry, Kilbride. Orders. Told not to let on …’
‘So why tell me now, Nick?’
‘Erm … it’s suddenly become very personal.’
‘He’s after you, isn’t he, Nick? You set him up, so you have to die. Better hope we get to him first … Does he know where we are, Nick? Has he any idea what we’re up to?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But anything’s possible. Lebanon’s crawling with his people …’
‘I wish you’d told me earlier, Nick. Anything else you’ve held back from me?’
‘No. That’s it.’
‘Thanks, Nick. Keep me posted. You see or hear anything, let me be the first to know this time.’
As Nick placed the Thuraya on his writing desk his hand was visibly shaking.
Smithy readied the RIB for the midnight pick-up. It was frustrating to break off their work like this, but he was looking forward to seeing Kilbride and the others. And, in any case, with Mick and Brad beavering away in the depths of the cave the gold recovery was going like clockwork. He and Moynihan would be in and out of Tripoli in an hour, and then he would return to the cave, load the boat with the gold and ferry it back to the dhow. One more journey on the following evening and they would be fully loaded. Smithy could hardly wait.
At five minutes to midnight the black RIB nosed silently into Tripoli’s Al Mina port area. Smithy had already spotted the squat form of Kilbride’s jeep on the quayside. He cut the engines and they drifted forward. Moynihan grabbed a wooden stanchion, pulled them in to the pier and tied them off. As he did so a face appeared above them. It was Kilbride. The two men manhandled Boerke down the ladder to the waiting boat. The others followed, bringing the last of the ammo and supplies with them.
Kilbride returned to the jeep, grabbed a last empty ammo crate off the back seat, flicked the keys out of the ignition and pressed the remote to lock the vehicle. As he did so the Mitsubishi’s lights flashed three times and the alarm bleeped. Kilbride dropped to the ground, cursing his stupidity, and peered into the night. There were few signs of life in this deserted section of the port, but he had to be certain that no one was watching. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he hurried over to the waiting RIB.
Behind him on the dock a lone figure stirred. Rashid was a Syrian fisherman who had come to the Lebanon the year before to find work. He crewed a local fishing dhow, and earned a few extra Lebanese pounds by doubling as the ship’s nightwatchman. The sound of the Mitsubishi bleeping had woken him, and then he had sensed the faint whisper of the RIB leaving the pier. As it had pulled out to sea he’d spotted its sleek form, black against the moonlit waters. Rashid counted seven figures in the boat, some of whom were clearly armed: seven unknown men heading off to an unknown destination.
When the RIB had gone a good distance Rashid crept across the dock to the jeep. He traced the bullet holes torn in one side of the vehicle. He checked the number plate and noticed the car-hire sticker: it was a Beirut hire vehicle. Here was an enigma: a bullet-riddled Beirut jeep and seven mysterious gunmen. Rashid checked his imitation gold Rolex watch, his pride and joy: it was half past midnight. Four and a half hours until Fajr, the first prayers of the morning.
He would report his finding to the local imam, a fellow Syrian who ministered to a largely Syrian congregation. Rashid felt certain that the imam would know what to do.
By 4 a.m. Kilbride had got things on the dhow shipshape. Boerke was in the sickbay, plugged into an intravenous drip which was feeding a strong dose of antibiotics directly into his bloodstream. The tough South African was still unconscious but he was responding well, and his temperature had already started to come down. Smithy, Moynihan, Brad and Mick had returned from the cave and stowed the penultimate shipment of gold in the dhow’s cavernous hold. Kilbride had greeted his son Mick with a gruff bear hug. It had been over a year since he’d last seen him, when Mick had spent Christmas with them at The Homestead.
Kilbride gathered the men on deck for a quick heads-up. Smithy reckoned they’d have the last of the gold loaded by 10.30 p.m. the following evening. At which time they’d be ready to depart. Between then and now they’d lie low and keep watch. Just in case The Searcher and his cronies did manage by some miracle to track them down, Kilbride’s plan was to hold them off for long enough for the dhow to set sail. Then they would head for international waters – with or without the last few tons of gold.
‘One more thing,’ Kilbride added, before allowing the men to get some sleep. ‘I need one of those wooden decoy crates loaded with real bullion. We kick that off the chopper and show The Project some gold as soon as we reach Cyprus: that should prevent them from asking too many questions about the others … And I’m suggesting a slight change of plan. Mick, Brad – how do you fancy riding a slow boat back to Tanzania? I’d be happier with the added security, especially bearing in mind what the dhow’s carrying.’
‘Well, she ain’t no cruise liner,’ quipped Brad. ‘But after three days of solid diving, I sure could use the rest.’
‘Me too,’ Mick added. ‘Nowt like a leisurely cruise with a bit of shark fishing thrown in, is there?’
‘Right, Moynihan, you’ve got two new crew members,’ Kilbride continued. ‘And I’d like two in return. One, Sally, ’cause I can’t bear to be parted from her for the couple of weeks that the dhow’ll take to get home. Two, Smithy, ’cause the man’s like a young teenager in love, and he tells me he can’t bear to be parted from his woman …’
Kilbride’s last words were lost in a muted chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls. Smithy hung his head in embarrassment. It was true. He had asked the boss if he could catch a ride home on the chopper with the A Team. And all because his woman was waiting for him.
The imam of the Al Hamman Mosque was unsure if Rashid’s ‘news’ warranted much attention. What had he seen? One shot-up vehicle and seven men leaving the docks in a boat. Tripoli had a thriving smuggling scene, so it could easily have been arms dealers, which didn’t concern the imam much. Or it could have been drug smugglers, which concerned him greatly. Drugs were a curse and a scourge of the people, and they were forbidden under Islam. But even if it was drugs, there was precious little he could do about it. The drug smugglers were well-armed and ruthless operators.
It was 6.15 a.m. and the imam was starving. He dismissed Rashid and went to eat. As he washed his hands, the imam heard a ringing. He dried his hands on his robe and grabbed his mobile phone.
‘Yes?’
‘Imam Salah ad-Din? It’s Sajid. Sajid from the camp of the Black Assassins … There is most terrible news. Many of the Brothers are dead … The Old Man himself, even … We are searching for the killers, and we believe that they are still in the Lebanon. A handful of foreigners, infidel dogs, driving a Japanese four-wheel drive. It has faced us in battle, so it will show the scars of fighting. Keep your eyes open and your ears to the ground, Imam Salah ad-Din, just in case you should learn of anything …’
‘Wait!’ the imam commanded, before Sajid could ring off. ‘A fisherman was just here, two minutes ago, telling me this very story … By the grace of God, they are here, their vehicle parked at the dockside. I thought the fisherman had been dreaming, but …’
‘Brother Mohajir!’ Sajid yelled, once he’d finished speaking with the imam. ‘We’ve found them! Tripoli … The port … A fisherman saw it all …’
‘Calm yourself, Brother,’ The Searcher commanded as he strode across to Sajid’s vehicle. ‘This is glorious news. But tell me from the start all that you have heard.’
‘There is an imam in Tripoli, a Syrian and a good friend of the cause. I just spoke with him. Last night, at midnight, a car pulled up at the docks. Seven men got into a boat and it slid into the ocean. A fisherman was woken and he became suspicious. He checked the vehicle. It is peppered with bullet holes. It is their jeep, Brother. Brother Mohajir, we have them.’
The Searcher checked his watch: 6.30 a.m. ‘How long for us to get to Tripoli, Brother Sajid?’
‘Ten, maybe twelve hours.’
‘Right, get back to the imam. Tell him to send some Brothers to discover where that boat has taken them. Tell him to be careful and not to raise the alarm. We’ll be there before nightfall, by which time we need boats ready and as many of the Brothers as he can safely gather together, well armed and ready for glorious battle.’
The Searcher turned back to his vehicle and grabbed a map from the glove compartment. He spread it on the bonnet and traced the route to Tripoli. Pray God they would get there in time. He glanced around the shattered wasteland of the camp. The Brothers, the Old Man – they would be avenged. He was certain of it now. He glanced back at the map. What could Kilbride be doing in Tripoli? Why hadn’t he pulled out as soon as the trap had been sprung? Suddenly it hit him. The gold. The gold. Kilbride was going to retrieve the gold.
The Searcher cast his mind back to January 1979 and the original bank raid. After hitting the vault Kilbride and his team had left Beirut by sea, in several RIBs – that much he remembered. So maybe the gold had never been hidden in the Lebanon proper, as he had always imagined. Maybe it had been hidden at sea. If so, Kilbride and his men had … Suddenly, The Searcher was struck by an image so real that it was as though he was back there in that Cyprus camp, speaking with Kilbride in the SAS ops tent.
‘A word of advice … hide the gold at sea.’ That’s what he’d told Kilbride, yet for all these years it had escaped his mind. ‘No one will ever think of looking for it there. Gold is almost a hundred per cent indestructible – and it never corrodes in sea water. Never – not in a million years.’
The Searcher pawed the map, searching for the most likely hiding place. The coastline was heavily populated, from Byblos right up to Tripoli itself, so not a lot of opportunity there. Where could they possibly have hidden so many tons of gold? He grabbed a Lebanon road atlas from the jeep. It was a far bigger scale than the map he had just been using. As he flicked through to the page that covered Tripoli, his gaze came to rest on a group of islands, just off Tripoli itself. The Palm Islands.
They were too insignificant to be marked on the larger map. There were no roads shown and no towns or villages, so presumably no people. Just three chunks of rock, sitting in splendid isolation in the sea. As he gazed at the map he was struck by a burning conviction. Suddenly he knew. He knew. The Palm Islands. Somewhere among those rocky outcrops and shallow waters Kilbride and his men were in the process of salvaging 17.5 tons of gold. It was the perfect place to have hidden their loot over all these years.
If only he could get to them, The Searcher reasoned, then all might not be lost. With the gold behind him, he could resurrect the dream of the Old Man of the Mountains. He could form a new band of Brothers – the New Assassins – and they could take up the Holy Mission once more … He himself could lead them, he could be their figurehead. They could build a new camp, further and deeper into the mountains. He could resurrect the Day of the Seven Assassins – and he could finish the job that the Old Man had begun.
‘Sure, you best make yourself comfortable,’ Moynihan announced. ‘Anything you need? We’re about to get under way.’
‘No, man, I’m fine. It’s just …’ Boerke winced with the effort of sitting up. He had been conscious for the best part of the day, but was still drifting in and out of a high fever. He listened intently for a second, and then his arm shot out and grabbed Moynihan in a vice-like grip. ‘Listen, man. Listen. Can you hear it?’
Moynihan struggled to free himself. ‘Sure, hear what, you crazy feckin’ gobshite? All I can hear is the sea and the birds, and I’ve been listening to that for what seems like a feckin’ lifetime …’
‘Shut up, man. Listen. You ever heard sea birds making a racket like that before? Listen, man, really listen.’
For a few seconds Moynihan strained his ears. He fancied he could hear an unusual sense of alarm in the birds’ distant crying.
‘Something’s disturbing them, man,’ Boerke continued. ‘There’s no predators on those islands. You’ve got to get a warning to Kilbride. Now, man. Tell him he’s got company.’
Kilbride, Berger and Nightly crouched at the cave entrance, keeping watch on the waters outside. In the rear the wooden crates were being loaded aboard two of the RIBs. There was a faint, barely audible purr from the direction of the open ocean, and the sleek black form of the third RIB hove into view. Smithy cut the engines, hoisted them aboard and the long black craft slid silently into the cave. Kilbride glanced at Berger, and grinned. It was midnight, all the gold had been loaded aboard the dhow and they were bang on schedule. He could hardly believe that they were this close to pulling it off.
Kilbride jumped. The quiet of the night was broken by a ring tone, sounding loud and brash in the cool stillness of the sea cave. He made a grab for the Thuraya, and punched the answer button.
‘What is it, Nick?’
‘It’s not Nick, it’s Moynihan. Listen, from where we’re sitting we can hear the sea birds going spare, down around Palm Island itself. I’m not sure myself, but Boerke’s convinced it’s the enemy, and that they’re heading your way.’
‘Shit … Right, make yourself scarce, Paddy. Head for the open sea as quick as she’ll go. Good luck. And tell Boerke, thanks for the warning.’
Kilbride cut the connection. He glanced at Berger and Nightly. ‘We may have company. I’m going up top to check. Nightly, stay here and keep your eyes peeled. Bronco, let’s go.’
Kilbride and Berger scuttled up to the top of the cliff and gazed back across the islands towards Tripoli. Up above Palm Island Kilbride could see a flock of sea birds silhouetted against the distant glow of the city lights. They were wheeling and cawing in the night sky and dive-bombing the cliffs below.
Kilbride glanced at Berger. ‘Looks like Boerke’s right. How the fuck did they find us?’
Berger shrugged. ‘No idea, buddy. It’d be nice to know how many there are.’
Kilbride pulled out his Thuraya. ‘What we need is some eyes in the sky.’ He punched speed-dial button three, and a second later he heard a ring tone.
Burt Joubert was awake almost instantaneously and he punched the answer button. ‘Soup Dragon.’
‘It’s Kilbride. We need you here yesterday. The Palm Islands. The place is crawling with the enemy. What’s your time to target?’
‘Ten minutes. Fifteen max.’
‘Once you’re overhead call me, okay?’
‘Roger. Soup Dragon out.’
Burt reached up, punched a few buttons on the aircraft’s console and fired up his engines. The noise woke his crew.
‘We’re in business,’ he announced. ‘Volker, get me to the Palm Islands, quick as you can, man.’
As it was the middle of the night Burt planned to take off with no clearance and showing no lights. He powered down his radio so that none of the Lebanese authorities could give him any grief – not that he reckoned they would be awake at this hour. Once over the Lebanese coastline he would drop down to sea level, so for the most part he would be lost in the ‘sea chatter’ and invisible to any radar. No one would be coming after him, of that he was certain. Even if they did, where he was going they sure as hell wouldn’t be able to follow.
The Searcher gripped the side of the speedboat to steady himself and eyed the dark humps of the low-lying islands to the south. He could sense that he was right. He knew Kilbride was in there somewhere, barely a thousand yards away across the open sea. They were closing in, and soon he would be face to face with a man for whom his enmity knew no bounds. He barked out an order to Sajid, directing him to the seaward side of the last island. He had already sent in a bunch of locals – Hezbollah activists and other self-styled Mujahedin – to flush Kilbride and his men out of their lair.