by Chris Ryan
Jack Pointer looked straight across at Matt. A hand-rolled cigarette was dangling from his lower lip. 'Regiment?' he said, pronouncing the word with disgust.
He looked familiar. His head was round and bald, and his skin had the deathly purplish complexion of men who'd spent most of their life in jail. 'Ex,' said Matt. 'Been out for a couple of years.'
'It doesn't matter,' said Pointer. 'You are a ponce in my book.'
'Steady, Jack,' interrupted Damien. 'We're working together on this one.'
Pointer took another sip on his pint of black stout. 'We'll see about that.'
Suddenly Matt realised who he looked like: Harry Pointer, a vicious debt collector who worked for some of the Russian mobsters in Malaga, and dropped into the Last Trumpet occasionally. Matt had owed his people some money once, and had regretted it.
'I think I might know your son Harry,' said Matt. 'Nasty tub of lard, with a vicious criminal mind.'
Pointer smiled. 'That's my boy,' he said. 'Beautiful lad.' He looked up at Matt, his mood softening. 'Damien says you need help?'
'I need a train stopped.'
Pointer grinned. 'Then I'm your man.'
'Ever heard of the Balham job?' said Damien.
Matt shook his head. The gangs were just like the army, he reflected: every regiment had its own history of glorious victories and so did every gang. 'Can't say I have.'
'Seventy-two. Train carrying freshly minted banknotes up to London. Two million of them. Jack and his boys hit it. Got away with the money, as well, back when two million still meant something.'
'So what went wrong?' said Matt, looking across at Pointer. The man was at least sixty, and looked in rough shape.
'Seventy-seven, got shopped,' said Pointer. I got thirty years. Out last year.' He grinned. 'Still got my electronic tag, but I decided to leave it at home today.'
'And you can still stop a train, you reckon?'
Pointer took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and started rolling the soft leaves between his grubby fingers. 'Connex South Eastern, British Rail, it makes no difference to me,' he said. 'The one thing you can rely on with a railway in this country is that they won't have bought any new technology. We can stop it the same way we did back in the seventies. By fiddling with the signals.'
He licked the Rizla paper. 'The question is, why do we want to?'
Matt started to speak, but Damien stopped him. 'Because it's regiment you'd be taking out,' he said. He looked back across to Matt. 'There was a bad riot at Brixton nick back in eighty-four. Jack and some of his mates took over a wing for a few days. Barricaded themselves in. The SAS were sent in and started beating the buggers one by one until they gave themselves up. One of his lads suffered brain damage. He's still on a drip.'
'Well, killing some regiment boys,' said Pointer, opening his mouth to reveal two missing front teeth, 'now that is worth getting out of bed for.'
The Volvo was sweating in traffic on the M25. This route had seemed like the quickest way from Camberwell up to Essex, but the motorway had been backed up all the way, and steam was starting to rise from many of the cars. If this ancient car had ever had air conditioning, it had long since broken. Sweat was trickling down Matt's back as he looked up at the angry mess of snarling, stationary traffic stretched out before him.
Christ, a breakdown. That's all I need, thought Matt, watching as the needle pointed towards red on the thermostat: the police coming to help me with a full load of munitions stacked up in the back of the car.
He glanced at his watch. Ten past four already. Lacrierre's train for Paris left at eight-forty this evening, and would take an hour to make its way down to the Channel Tunnel. In this traffic, he didn't have time to get Eleanor, then get all the way back down to south London to hook up with the train line. There were only four hours left in which to organise the final assault.
Damn the British traffic. It was impossible to get anywhere these days.
He looked across at the mobile lying on the passenger seat. It was the latest model Ivan had supplied. It should be safe, he told himself.
He checked his watch again. Twenty past four. The traffic had inched forwards maybe sixty, seventy yards. At this rate he'd be lucky to get there by next Wednesday.
And the moment of retribution will have escaped me.
Matt wrenched the gear into first, moved forward another eight yards, than jammed his foot on the brake. The lorry in front of him was belching out heavy black fumes, and on the hard shoulder, a pair of cars had broken down, smoke rising from their engines. Caution be damned. The risks I'm running already are so terrifying one more doesn't make much difference. Either the gods are smiling on me or they aren't.
He picked up the mobile and punched in the number of the hotel, asking for Room Twelve. Eleanor answered the phone on the second ring. 'You all right?' she asked anxiously.
'So far,' replied Matt tersely. 'You?'
'OK. Just waiting.'
'Listen, I'm not going to make it,' said Matt. 'Too much traffic. You come and meet me in Battersea. Five forty-five on the bridge at the top of Battersea Rise. If I'm not there by six, assume the worst.'
The van was heading up the M3, going past the signs off into Basingstoke and heading into London. Ivan was sitting in the front seat, with Matram at the wheel. Harton and Godsall were sitting in the back, both of them close enough to Ivan to prevent him attempting an escape.
'So give me the name of the hotel,' said Matram.
'The Holiday Inn Express,' said Ivan. 'In Buckhurst Hill, in Essex. Close to Stansted Airport.'
Matram turned to him and grinned. 'Just what I always thought,' he said. 'You PIRA boys were always just a bunch of gangsters. The first sight of blood, you betray your mates. It worked in the old country, and it works here as well.'
Ivan shrugged, remaining silent. He'd been preparing munitions to blow up the train. Fortunately they'd only searched him for guns and knives. He had a tiny sliver of explosive hidden in his trouser pocket wrapped in silver paper to look like a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum. All he had to do was find the right moment to wriggle it down to the floor and stamp on it to trigger the explosion.
'The names, bogtrotter,' snapped Matram. 'I want the names they are checked in under.'
Ivan looked back at him coldly. 'Keith Todd and Helen Nuggett.'
'How do I know you aren't lying?'
'Call them and see,' said Ivan. 'It's a hotel, they'll know who the guests are.'
Matram leant back in his seat, passing a mobile back towards Harton. 'Ring,' he snapped. 'Check they're there.'
Harton took the phone, punching in a number for directory enquiries, then asking to be put through to the Holiday Inn in Buckhurst Hill. He turned his back, holding the phone close to his ear, shielding the noise of the van as the call was put through.
For a brief second, his back was turned on Ivan, and he was blocking Godsall from moving forward.
Ivan paused. There was a risk he might blow his own leg off in the next few seconds, but that was a chance he'd have to take. The explosive slithered from his trousers, on to the floor in front of him. A mixture of potassium nitrate, available in any agricultural store, and sugar, and packed into an emptied-out Roman candle, it was simple but effective. As the cracker blew, it sent out a huge plume of thick, ugly smoke.
Ivan leant sharply across the seat, his right hand clamping down hard on the steering wheel, tugging it to the right. 'Let's see how you drive, fucker,' he spat up into Matram's face.
The van swerved violently to the right, zagging out into the fast lane of the motorway. All the men in the van were shouting at once. A collision could be heard at the back, as a car winged its left side, sending the van spinning back to the left. It was rocking violently as the huge plume of smoke obscured the view inside and out.
Ivan's hand was still locked to the wheel, yanking it in one direction, while Matram pulled in the other. With his left hand, Ivan reached down, feeling for the handbrake. He grabb
ed it in his fist, pulling upwards with a single hard movement of his shoulder muscles. The van stopped, the tyres burning against the tarmac, sending both Matram and Ivan hurtling towards the window. It came to a halt, then jolted forwards as something else collided with its back.
Flinging the door open, Ivan jumped down. He landed hard on the tarmac, ducking sideways to avoid an on-rushing car. It screeched to a stop, just six feet short of him, skidding sideways, its horn blaring. Another winged it, turning round, and wobbling on its wheels as it narrowly avoided tipping over. Further behind, a lorry was hammering its brake, a blast of noise rising from its wheels as it struggled to slow down. Amid the fury and the fumes Ivan ducked behind the van and started to run down the central reservation between the two sides of the M3.
Matram pulled himself back out of the seat, then threw open the window. He jumped down on to the tarmac, then looked back down the road. A hundred yards ahead, he could see Ivan disappearing down the centre of the road. Then he could hear a screeching of brakes, as he watched Ivan running across the three lanes of motorway.
Whether he made it to the other side, it was impossible to say. He vanished into a blizzard of cars and lorries and, through the roaring traffic, Matram could see nothing.
Pointer was kneeling down at the side of the track. His hands were running through the gravel, the same way a farmer might run his hands through the soil. 'Here,' he said simply. 'We prepare right here.'
Matt looked behind him. Damien was standing right next to him, and beside him were three other men.
'Where did the goon squad come from?' asked Matt.
'Keith, Perry and Archie,' said Pointer. 'Keith is my other son,' he said, nodding to a man in his twenties with cropped hair, a thick beer gut and a row of tattoos running up his forearm. 'Not a nice quiet boy like Harry. Keith's got a mean streak in him. He was a nasty toddler, and stayed that way ever since. Perry,' he continued, nodding to a man in his forties, with strapping muscles, a huge torso and eyes that shone out of his dark face like two white pearls. 'Perry was with me in Brixton. His best friend got a good hiding at the hands of the SAS. And Archie,' he went on, nodding to a smaller man, nearing fifty, with red hair and a crimson, freckled complexion. 'Archie has come down from Glasgow specially to have a crack at your old mates. He was in Shotts maximum-security prison all through the nineties and it seems your boys mixed it up there as well. It's personal.'
Matt nodded. All three of them were dressed in the bright yellow tunics of railway workers. Matt didn't like the look of any of them. But there was a rule you learnt early in the regiment. In a desperate fight, the enemy of your enemy was your friend. That had never been more true than it was today.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'when you're all ready, we can begin.'
Matt knelt down by the side of the track, next to Pointer. He was deep in the gully of the tracks, looking down at the rails. They'd chosen this spot because the steep banks from the side of the tracks meant it was not overlooked. The pebbles felt hot to his touch, and the steel of the signal towers had heated up during the midday sun. From the slight vibration on the line, he could tell there was a train coming, but it was still at least a couple of minutes away.
The junction box was at the bottom of the tower. It was protected by a simple padlock. Pointer held it between his fingers. He jabbed the screwdriver into the box, and yanked hard, breaking it free. In front of him, there was a collection of colour-coded wire. The signal was a standard three-light box: one green, one yellow, one red. He needed Lacrierre's train to slow down, as if there was a possibility of a hazard ahead. For that, he needed a red flash, a yellow flash, another yellow flash, then a green flash. 'It's like Morse code,' said Pointer. 'Once you know it, railway codes are simple enough.'
The vibration on the track was growing louder. Pointer slammed the box shut, rolling away from the rails, hiding himself in the dried-out row of bushes that lined the banks of the line. The train started to shunt past, travelling at thirty miles an hour. Matt glanced upwards, looking out at the sweaty rows of commuters. Behind him, the rest of the men were already lying down, protected by the scrubland growing on the side of the banks.
'Job done,' said Pointer, backing away from the track. 'I'll set it back to normal now, for the time being, then back to the red and yellow flashes when the Frenchman's train is due.'
The phone in his pocket was ringing. Matt punched the green button, holding it to his ear. 'Yes?'
'Matt, we've been compromised.'
He recognised the soft Irish accent but not the tone. Ivan had always been calm, unflapped, even in the midst of the hardest battles. Now he sounded rattled, scared, shot up by nerves.
'What happened?'
'They picked me up,' he continued. 'I told them what hotel you were at, what your false names were.'
Matt felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach: he could feel the breath emptying out of him.
'Why the hell . . '
'I had no choice,' said Ivan angrily. 'I needed to buy some time. I knew you'd be gone by now. And Eleanor is with you, right?'
'That's my life you're gambling with,' said Matt, his tone rising. 'And Eleanor's.'
'Eleanor is with you, isn't she?' asked Ivan.
'She's meant to be on her way over to Battersea.' Matt looked around him. Pointer and Damien were discussing some of the finer details of the ambush. 'I'll try to get hold of her.'
'Do that, they might be on her trail,' said Ivan, sounding tense. 'If they get hold of her, they'll. . .' The words faded away on his lips.
Matt punched the red button on the phone, then dialled the Holiday Inn Express, asking to be put straight through to Keith Todd's room. The phone range twelve times, with no answer, before Matt was put through to an automated answering machine. 'To leave a message for this guest please press the star button twice . . .' started the computer.
Matt killed the line, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Eleanor was out there somewhere, alone, vulnerable. He knew he would not feel calm until he could hold her in his arms again.
Matt looked up into the burning hot sky.
I got her into this mess, and it's up to me to get her out again.
Matram held the sheet up to his nose. It was crumpled, with traces of sweat left in it, and the musty aroma of a bed that had been shared by a man and a woman.
Dogs had the right idea, he reflected. Once you had the smell of your prey, then it couldn't elude you.
'When did they leave?' he snapped, looking across at the manager.
David Plant was in his late twenties, thin, cheerful, and with an overeager-to-please manner that suggested he had spent too much time on Holiday Inn customer-service courses. 'I can't say exactly,' he replied. 'Holiday Inn has an automated check-in service. We introduced it last year under our 'Your Choice, Your Style' customer-service programme. It's very popular with the guests, and obviously it cuts back on check-in staff as well, so it generates value for . . .'
Matram stepped forward, pausing, then leaning into Plant's face. 'I don't give a fuck about your customer-service programme,' he barked. 'If I was looking for cockroaches, this is where I'd start. As it happens I'm looking for two terrorist suspects, a man and a woman. Now, did you see them?'
Plant looked around nervously. Matram was flanked by Harton and Godsall.
'The man left this morning, the woman just over an hour ago,' he said, his face turning red. 'The room was already paid for.'
'They talk to anyone?'
'No.'
'Meet anyone?'