Greed

by Chris Ryan

  'Fancy a dip?' said Matt, looking directly at Pinky.

  Pinky shook his head.

  'It might do you some good,' Matt continued, shaking his head so that the man got sprayed with droplets of sea water. 'You look a bit flabby to me.'

  Perky stepped forwards. 'Don't get lippy, sonny,' he said. 'I can break you any time I want to.'

  From behind, Matt could see Bulmer striding across the beach. 'OK, you lot,' he shouted. 'That was just a warm-up, get your blood flowing a bit. Next time, we'll do it at night.'

  Matt wiped the sweat from his face. The run had taken them five miles across country, over the rugged hills that led away from Bideford. It was open countryside, but vicious winds gusted in from the sea and it had started to rain, a torrential downpour that soaked right through his track suit. Matt struggled to control his breathing. He was a better runner than he was a swimmer, but the pace was punishing, pushing him to limits of endurance he hadn't tested since he had left the Regiment.

  I thought I'd put all that behind me.

  'OK,' shouted Bulmer as they jogged their way back into the base. 'Fifty press-ups.'

  He paced up and down as the five men fell to the ground, pushing their bodies up and down. 'There are squid down on the beach stronger than you layabouts,' he shouted. 'Get inside and we'll see if your minds are in better shape than your bodies.'

  A ripple of pain ran through Matt's shoulder as he used his forearms to heave himself up and down. He'd lost shape, he reflected, since he had left the Regiment. He was a fit man, but not yet back to his peak. Looking around at the others, he could see Reid struggling to keep up. Damien was fine on the press-ups because he worked out in the gym every day and sailed at the weekends, but he was struggling with the running. Ivan, for an ex-Provo safecracker, was perhaps the fittest of them. Odd, thought Matt. Nothing with that man was quite how he'd expected it.

  'You want to cut down on those fags, mate,' said Bulmer, shouting in Reid's ear.

  Lucky this job is just a few days. I'm not sure we'd last a whole campaign.

  The coals from the brazier emitted a soft glow, spreading its heat throughout the shack. Matt sat close to the fire, soaking up the warmth. His skin was slowly starting to defrost, his blood to unthaw. 'Christ,' he said, looking towards Reid. 'I haven't been that cold since I spent a couple of months on training on the northern flank in Norway.'

  Reid nodded. 'Say what you like about the Regiment. At least they never chucked you in the water. Not on purpose anyway.'

  Bulmer tapped a metal cane against the desk at the front of the room. 'Listen up,' he said sternly. 'Tonight I'll run through the basic principles of a seaborne assault. Tomorrow night, we try the real thing. We'll keep trying until we get it right.' He smiled. 'Given the state of you, we'll probably be spending Christmas together.'

  He pointed towards a picture on the laptop. 'I've been told you'll be hitting a standard, small cargo ship much like this one,' he said. 'You see these all over the Med. This one is a hundred and five feet long, with a beam of thirty feet, and a draught of thirteen feet. It's got two engines on it, with a combined power of six thousand brake horsepower. That's enough to do about fourteen knots at full tilt.'

  Bulmer walked round to the front of the desk. The light from the ceiling glinted off the gold stud pinned into his ear. For an assault, you use the wake,' he said. 'It's going to be dark, you'll be blacked out and using night-vision goggles, so they aren't going to be able to see you. The problem is they might hear you coming. Then you transfer to a light, plastic dinghy. Their engines will be churning up the water, creating plenty of noise. You steer your dinghy directly into their wake. That way they shouldn't hear you.' He held up a fifteen-foot aluminium pole with a hook on its end. 'Then you use a grappling hook like this. Cast it to the stern, and pull your dinghy right up into the boat. You'll have a few seconds to jump on board. Then you move swiftly through the vessel, killing everyone on board.' He stopped, sitting back down on the edge of the desk. 'Any questions?'

  'There might be a lookout,' said Reid.

  'You'll have to shoot them,' said Buhner. 'It's going to be rocky on the dinghy, because the water will be all churned up. We'll practise shooting on a dinghy that's bobbing around like a yo-yo, so you'll have a chance to get used to it.'

  'What happens if we go in the water?' said Damien.

  'Then you're fish food, that's what,' answered Buhner. 'That's why we're going to keep practising boarding the enemy craft until we get it right. Fall into the drink and the engines will slice you like a turnip in a blender. A quick if messy death. And at least you'll be buried at sea like proper sailors.'

  Buhner looked round the room, checking to see whether there were more questions.

  There were none. No one wanted to make the lesson last any longer. They were all dog tired and freezing cold, and all they wanted to do was get some sleep next to the fire.

  'Right, you lot,' said Buhner, standing up from his desk. 'Now it's dark, we'll go for a quick swim around the bay. Then we'll knock off for the night.' He paused, pointing towards the door. 'Get your kit off. We'll have some towels ready for you on the beach.'

  Reid looked towards Matt. 'It's bloody fishy the way he keeps making us take our kit off. He does that once more, I'm going to let the crabs have a taste of him.'

  Alison's skin felt soft and smooth, as he buried his face into her hair. Her touch was soothing his sore and aching muscles, relieving some of the stresses that had built up during the hardest day's training since he'd left the Regiment. He could smell the salt on his own skin, contrasting harshly with the perfume and soaps on hers. And he could feel the hardness of his own muscles against the softness of hers.

  'Where the hell did you find that Buhner bastard?' he said, lying back on the bed after they had finished making love.

  Alison laughed. 'I thought you'd be tougher than Navy boys.'

  'We are,' Matt said sharply. 'Still, I thought the Navy was just for poofs. But there's nothing soft about him.'

  'Tougher than the IRA guy as well?'

  'Of course,' said Matt. 'But he's never had the training. Damien's the same. They're street fighters.'

  'Who could keep up with you?' said Alison, pulling him closer towards her, her fingers running through the hairs on his chest.

  'You want these al-Qaeda bastards pretty badly, don't you?' said Matt. 'To go to this much trouble.'

  'Believe it,' said Alison. 'Since Landau got hit, you can't imagine the pressure Five is under to get some results.'

  'Is there more in the pipeline?'

  'In Britain, yes,' said Alison, her expression turning serious. 'Sometime in the next month there's going to be an al-Qaeda spectacular in Britain. We don't know what it is – if we did, we'd stop it – but we know it's coming.'

  'You're that certain?'

  'We had a tip-off about Landau,' said Alison. 'Low-level, no one paid much attention to it. But now the same source is telling us al-Qaeda is planning something massive in Britain in the next month.' She ran a hand through Matt's hair. 'We're pretty sure it's right.'

  'I better get back to the shack, then,' he said, climbing out of her bed and pulling on his clothes. 'The others might be wondering where I have got to.'

  'You don't want them thinking you're the teacher's pet,' Alison said playfully. 'Aren't I?' Alison shook her head. 'I treat you boys all the same.'

  Matt hung on tightly to the side of the dark green dinghy. It skimmed like a Frisbee across the surface of the waves, lurching from left to right in sudden violent movements. It was dark, and a low-lying mist was hanging over the surface of the sea. That, combined with the spray from the waves, was keeping their visibility down to just a few yards.

  All five were on board, with Bulmer at the back barking instructions. They were wearing thick black wetsuits and had blacked-up faces to make certain they were invisible against the night sky. Damien, the best seaman among them, and, Matt judged, probably the bravest, was sitting at the prow
, taking the full impact of the waves as they splashed into the boat. Ivan sat next to him, crouched down low, Matt and Reid behind them. Reid had his hand on the outboard motor, steering the boat. Matt was charting their course. It was tougher than he expected. He had a GPS fix on their target – a tub that Bulmer had rented for the evening – plus a Garmin eTrex Vista handheld GPS receiver. The device processed the GPS co-ordinates of their target, and displayed a constantly shifting coastal map and compass reading to guide them towards their destination. Even so, in total darkness, with no lights and with the boat heaving through the waves, it was going to take all his concentration to get anywhere close.

  'Right,' he shouted to Reid. 'Keep banking right.'

  A wave sloshed over the dinghy, filling Matt's mouth with water. He spat into the sea but the salt was still on his lips. The craft started turning, rolling with the swell of the water. At least the Mediterranean won't be as rough as this, thought Matt. Or quite so cold.

  'Steady her – couple of degrees left,' said Matt. He looked down at the Garmin to get a fix on his position. The target was less than a mile away, straight ahead of them. They were one nautical mile from the coast, heading down towards Bude. The wind was starting to drop, and through a break in the clouds a beam of moonlight was breaking through. 'Increase the power,' said Matt. 'We're approaching.'

  He leant forward, squinting, trying to pierce through the darkness. He could make out the outline of a shape, but whether it was the boat, rocks or seagulls, he couldn't yet say. 'Goggles on, men,' he barked.

  MI5 had equipped each of them with a pair of Rigel 3200 night-vision goggles. Each set looked like a set of miniature black binoculars, with fibre webbing to strap them on to the head. The Rigel weighed just over a pound, and gave good crisp vision of two hundred metres in clear starlight, and one hundred metres in thick darkness. Tonight, realised Matt, a hundred metres was all they were going to get.

  He strapped his into place. The Rigel worked with thermal imaging. Instead of looking for light signals, as your eyes do, it searched for heat, looking at the upper end of the infra-red spectrum. Anything hotter than its surroundings – like a boat or a man – would be displayed on the screen in front of the eyes. Looming up ahead he could see two shapes, both defined in a pale, luminous green light. The hull of a ship. And a man standing on its deck.

  'Ignore the man,' shouted Buhner from the back of the dinghy. 'We're practising a zero-resistance contact.'

  Reid steered the dinghy closer to the ship. Spray hit Matt in the face again, drenching his goggles, making it almost impossible for him to see anything. The dinghy moved slowly forward, the engine churning up the water. Matt could feel the hard plastic of the craft vibrating as it skimmed into the wake of the boat. His balance was getting harder to hold. 'Steady her,' he could hear Buhner shouting behind him. 'The men on the left and right need to shift their weight to keep her steady.'

  Matt moved out to the edge of the dinghy and Reid did the same. The dinghy tossed, then flattened out. They were drawing closer to the ship, the waters beneath them heaving, the spray spitting into their faces. 'Get the hook ready,' shouted Buhner. 'We're ten feet from the target.'

  Matt watched as Cooksley slung the hook forward. He had watched him throwing it fifty times during the day, each time getting closer to perfection. Cooksley had been one of the best marksmen in the Regiment. But that was on dry land, when you could steady your arm and line up your eye. Now he was aiming from the prow of a dinghy, kicked around in the waves. He gripped the hook, leaning forward. Ivan was holding his waist to steady him. The hook hit the stern of the boat, and Cooksley started pulling. Matt could feel the dinghy bouncing along the surface of the sea. 'Get ready to move up,' he shouted as the dinghy was pulled closer to the boat.

  The four men stood up in one movement. A wave rolled on to the side of the boat, catching Matt by surprise. He could see foam swelling around his feet. He was slipping. Reid crashed into his side, and suddenly Matt was submerged beneath the water. Blackness engulfed him, a mouthful of icy water disappearing down his throat. Kicking his legs, he broke back on to the surface before another wave crashed over him, pushing him under, and he could feel the engines of the ship dragging him towards their blades. He was just six feet away from the blade slicing through the water.

  Christ. Fish food.

  He gave his legs a powerful kick to steer himself back to the dinghy. He grabbed its side, holding it tight. With the other hand, he tore the goggles from his face, slinging them inside the vessel. He looked around. Ivan, Cooksley, Reid and Damien were all in the water. The target was sailing away.

  'Jesus,' shouted Buhner, looking down at the men bobbing about in the water. 'I hope the fate of the world doesn't depend on you lot.'

  Matt kissed Alison full on the lips, aware of her breasts pushing back at him. Her hair fell across his chest, and her hands were starting to run down his back, teasing his flesh, and gently rubbing his muscles. They had made love once already, and Matt wanted to get back to the shack. He'd been away for two hours – spend too long and some of the other men might start getting suspicious.

  Alison's good, but she's not the woman I love.

  'How's the training?' Alison's voice sounded lazy and tired.

  'Hard,' said Matt. 'We're not as fit as we were when we quit the Regiment. It's amazing how quickly you lose it. We're making progress, though. It took Cooksley a few tries, but he's getting the knack of the hook. We'll be OK on the day.'

  'Just one more night, then you'll be off.'

  Matt shrugged. 'Why the rush?'

  'A boat will be crossing the Med in the next few days,' said Alison. 'You need to be ready.'

  'It's better to be properly trained,' said Matt. 'If al-Qaeda are sending boats out all the time, there'll be another one in a week or two. It's dangerous to go too early.'

  Alison sat up, drawing the sheet up to cover her breasts. 'You've heard of a man called Charles Booth.'

  'The head of Five,' Matt said, caressing her exposed ankle. 'Sent in to shake the agency up, get some results after September the eleventh.'

  'My boss,' said Alison. 'He needs a break on this Landau case. The PM and Home Secretary are all over him.'

  Matt's hand stopped half-way up her thigh. 'Did Booth authorise this mission?' he asked. 'Personally?'

  'That's need-to-know information.'

  'And I don't need to know?' Matt raised his eyebrows.

  Alison laughed, pulling him towards her, the sheet falling away to reveal her breasts. 'All you need to know is how to fuck me,' she said.

  Matt steadied himself on the prow of the dinghy. His legs were swaying from the combined force of the waves and the wind, and he had to keep adjusting his position to hold his balance. He raised the Bushmaster Leupold high-precision rifle to his right eye, lining up the night-vision goggles with its telescopic sights. The Bushmaster was a light semi-automatic weapon, precision manufactured from aircraft-quality aluminium. The rifle weighed just seven-and-a-half pounds, and the twenty-round magazine added another pound. American-made, Matt had noted when they were given the guns. The kind of weapon you could buy in any American hunting shop. If anything went wrong, Five didn't want the gang to be carrying anything that could link them back to the British government.

  He steadied his shoulder. The target was standing on the deck of the boat: three old tires roped together, with a life jacket slung on top. He levelled his sights. The boat swayed, knocking him off balance for a moment. He recovered, put the gun back to his eye, took aim and fired.