Greed (14 page)

If anyone is alive in there, that should draw some return fire.

He waited five seconds, reloaded the pistol with a fresh magazine, then started walking slowly forwards. Cooksley, Reid and Ivan were at his side, their pistols cocked, ready to fire. The door had been turned into a mess of twisted and burnt metal, scraps littered across the floor. Matt pushed it aside, shining a torch into the strongroom. His eyes locked on to the figure of a man sprawled across the floor. His leg was severed clean from his body, and blood was pouring from him. His gun was lying several feet from where he had fallen.

'Rahmet,'
he was muttering.
'Rahmet.'

Sorry, pal, thought Matt. You can beg for mercy in any language you like but you're not going to get it. He knelt down, pressed the nozzle of the Beretta 92 to the man's head and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded into his skull, sending his brains spilling out on to the floor. His eyes closed and blood started to pour out of his still open mouth.

Matt looked around. There were two other men in the hold. One was already dead, his head blown clean away from his body. The other was slowly dying. A gaping hole had opened up his chest where a chunk of steel blown out of the door had cut straight through him. Now his ribcage was sticking out of his torso. His clothes had turned into shreds. Reid jammed his pistol into his mouth, finishing him off with one shot.

Somewhere I can hear water. Gushing.

'Is she holed?' Matt shouted to Ivan.

Ivan looked up from the doorway, his expression tense. 'Afraid so,' he said. 'It's torn a strip of metal the size of a man from the bottom of the boat. We're shipping water.'

'It's going to sink?' said Cooksley.

'You stupid Irish twat,' shouted Reid. 'I knew we shouldn't trust you.'

'Shut it!' Matt snapped. 'Damien is on his way with the mother ship. I reckon we've got twenty minutes to get this gear transferred before she goes down.'

He looked towards the back of the hold. The boxes were stacked one on top of the other, maybe fifty of them in all. Opening the first one, Matt looked inside. Diamonds. Tray upon tray of them, stacked in neat rows like chocolates. He opened another box. Gold. Ten bars, five on each side of the crate. For a moment he was transfixed by the display of wealth laid out before him.

More money than any of us ever dreamt of.

'Let's get this stuff on deck,' he barked.

He took the first crate and walked back to the broken stairway. Reid positioned himself at the top, a bandage now strapped over his arm wound, Ivan stood beneath, ready to pass the crates up. Matt passed the boxes from the hold to Ivan – and once they were on deck, Cooksley stacked them close to the dinghy. It was back-breaking work, the water spitting up from the hull all the time, soaking their feet. The diamonds were light enough, a few pounds of glass and tissue paper, but the gold was like carrying sacks of coal. Sweat was starting to pour from Matt's brow as he lugged box after box. But there was a lightness in his step. They had faced the risks and overcome them. This was just grunt work.

'We should go,' said Matt, the water swirling around his knees and rising fast. 'There's only a few crates left.'

'No,' snapped Reid. 'We've risked our lives. We take it all.'

'Don't be an idiot,' said Ivan. 'There's no point if everything goes down to the bottom of the ocean.'

Reid jumped into the hold and jabbed his finger into Ivan's face. 'You got us into this mess.'

Matt looked at both men, exasperated. 'Shut the fuck up and get up the top, we've only got another five minutes, man.'

Matt waded through the rising swell of water, and started lifting the last few crates four at a time on his shoulder. He passed one load up to Cooksley, then the next. 'That's it,' he said, passing the last of the crates to Ivan. The boat was filling rapidly. Somewhere beneath him, he could hear the sound of metal tearing, as waves beat against the hole ripped open in the hull.

Christ, the sooner we're out of here the better.

Matt levered himself on to the deck. The boat was starting to list as water filled the hull. They were drifting helplessly, tossed about on the waves. 'Any sign of our ship?' Matt asked.

Cooksley and Ivan took the corpse of the first man they had killed and tossed it down into the hold. Then they heaved the two bodies from the bridge down the stairs. It was important to make sure all the men went down with the ship, leaving no traces on the surface of the sea. By the time they had finished their hands were smeared with blood.

Reid shook his head. 'He can't be far.'

'About two miles,' said Ivan. 'It could take him fifteen minutes to get here. That's if the bugger knows how to steer in a straight fine.'

'I thought you said he knew about boats,' said Cooksley. 'That's why we brought him along.'

'He does, and he'll be here,' said Matt. 'Just get this stuff on the dinghy.'

They started loading, each crate carefully placed in the craft. They stacked the boxes one on top of another, using the straps from the life jackets to belt them into place. All the time, the water was filling the boat at a faster pace. It was leaning badly to one side, making walking difficult without slipping, and the waves were climbing closer and closer to the rim of the deck. Come on, Damien, thought Matt. She won't hold for more than a couple of minutes.

Matt scoured the horizon, looking for some sign of the boat. Nothing. He knew Damien would be steering without lights, so he might well not see him in the pitch dark. He tried the radio again, but the device was struggling to locate the frequency. Either that or Damien wasn't answering.

You'll have to be here soon. We can't swim from here, and we're not abandoning the gear.

He could see from their faces that the gang was losing its patience. Damien should have been there at least five minutes ago. Cooksley and Reid's eyes kept squinting towards the horizon. Ivan's face was tense and uncertain. 'What the hell is keeping him?' said Matt, his words almost drowned out by the wind and spray hitting his face.

A wave rolled over the surface of the deck; the boat was struggling to stay above the surface.

I
can feel her slipping beneath my feet.

Matt worked with Reid and Cooksley to lash the crates to the dinghy, each crate packed tightly to the next one. As they worked, the boat was starting to sway and heave as the waves broke closer to its deck. Matt looked out into the horizon. Total darkness. The boat was wobbling like a jelly beneath his feet. He slashed at the ropes securing the dinghy. Behind him he could hear a giant sucking sound, like water disappearing from a bath but amplified a hundred times.

I've never heard a boat sinking before, he thought. But I bet it sounds something like that.

The crates took up the entire dinghy. 'Pull on life jackets,' shouted Matt. 'We might have to swim for it.'

He tightened one of the jackets around his waist and dived into the water. Two ropes were dangling from the dinghy. He grabbed one, holding on to it, and kicked his legs to keep his head above water. Wave after wave broke over his head, pushing him below the surface of the ocean.

I can survive out here, but not for long. If the dinghy goes down then we are all fucked. And it's dangerously low because of the weight it is carrying.

Matt glanced around. Ivan was holding on to another rope. Reid and Cooksley were bobbing about in the water, taking huge gulps of air every time their heads broke free of the waves.

Now I know why Buhner wanted us to practise our swimming.

Struggling to keep his head above water, Matt realised he could hear it before he could see anything – the noise of an engine, the sound broken up by the waves, but growing steadily louder. Behind him, he could hear the hull of the boat cracking, and saw one half disappear into the sea. Another hour, and all trace of it would be gone.

A light shone in the distance. Damien, thought Matt. He watched as the searchlight moved rapidly towards them, beaming out across the sea. Matt raised his hand into the air, waving it frantically, before remembering that they had blacked up faces and had worn black wetsuits to make sure no one could see them. That worked both ways. Damien wasn't going to see a hand in the water.

'There should be a flare,' shouted Ivan. 'See if you can reach it.'

Matt levered himself up to the side of the dinghy and peered over the rim. At the back, there was a small box with a red cross marked on it. Medical supplies, thought Matt. And maybe flares.

Pulling himself into the boat, he reached into the box. Bandages, disinfectants, antibiotics, aspirin.

For fuck's sake, who needs this rubbish?

Flares, he noticed, grabbing them. He held the gun high over his head, firing the flare into the sky, watching as it hung like a firework over the ocean. Beneath its fierce light he could see the boat vanishing underneath the waves. And he could see their own ship, maybe four hundred metres away.

Matt perched on the edge of the dinghy, watching while Damien steered his craft closer towards them.

It pulled up alongside, and Damien killed the engines. His searchlight was turned on to the water, picking out the crates and the four men.

'You blokes look like you could use a cup of tea,' he said.

The clouds had cleared, revealing a sky of bright stars whose light settled on the pure sand and the dark blue water. Matt paced along the shoreline, the waves lapping at his feet. There could be few better spots, he reflected, in which to collect your fortune. It reminded him of how much he loved the Mediterranean.

Wherever Gill and I decide to make our home, it will be somewhere looking over this sea. The water is in my veins.

'That's it!' said Reid at his side.

Matt followed the line of Reid's finger, pointing out to sea. The cargo ship was steaming slowly into the bay. 'Get the dinghy and trucks ready,' he said.

Matt felt tired but invigorated. After the last night the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins. Damien had fished them all out of the water and they had loaded the crates on to their own boat. They had waited for an hour, watching as the last remnants of the al-Qaeda ship disappeared beneath the waves. They wanted to make sure it was safely at the bottom of the sea, since a floating wreck would be discovered within a few hours. Then they sailed back to Cyprus, cleaning themselves up on the boat. Damien laid anchor a kilometre from the coast, while the rest of them went ashore in the dinghy. The plan had been for Damien to stay with the loot overnight: it would be safer to keep it at sea than on dry land. He would meet them at the bay at two o'clock the following night to transfer the crates into the Land Rovers and then on to the cargo boat bound for Rotterdam.

Reid had insisted on staying with Damien – both he and Cooksley were suspicious about letting the money out of their sight, and wanted at least one of them to stay on the boat. Matt had to work hard to make sure Ivan didn't stay as well: it might create suspicions, he told them, if none of them made it back to the hotel.

The team finally stumbled back into the hotel at five in the morning, exhausted but in high spirits. As far as the receptionist was concerned, it was just a stag party returning after an all-night bender. They went to their rooms, but it took Matt a couple of hours before he could get off to sleep. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind: how quickly can we get the money, how soon can I pay off my debts, how long before I see Gill again?

All of them woke late, and spent the day lounging around the pool. The team now looked tired and haggard; none of them had slept for more than a couple of hours. But they were also happy and relaxed, noticed Matt. They were all coming together. There was, he decided, nothing like the combination of danger and success to create camaraderie between men.

And now, here's the pay-off.

The ship was within sight. Damien was at anchor two hundred metres from the shore, with Reid at his side. Matt pushed out the dinghy to meet him, Cooksley and Ivan remaining on the secluded beach preparing the two Land Rovers. The dinghy bounced through the waves and pulled up alongside. Matt cast up a rope for Damien to catch and clambered up on to the ship.

'We've made it,' he said, thumping Damien on the back.

'Well, Reid and I thought about turning around and sailing straight for Argentina,' said Damien. 'But then I thought – nah, I'd miss Camberwell.'

Matt laughed. 'And we'd have to track you down and kill you as well.'

'I believe you would too,' grinned Damien.

The work was slow and hot, but none of them minded. Their spirits were high. Each crate had to be loaded on to the dinghy and steered back to shore. That took three trips. Then they opened up each case, wrapped the trays of diamonds and the bars of gold in tissue paper, and stowed them away inside the hulls of the Land Rovers. Both cars were already loaded on to the back of a truck, their engines removed, ready to be taken down to the docks. They had been parked behind a high sandbank to keep them out of sight of any passing traffic. There was not much chance of anyone seeing them: the beach was at the end of a dirt road leading nowhere, and Ivan had cased the location two mornings running to be sure it had no visitors.

Unpacking the crates and transferring the gear, Reid and Cooksley struck up a chorus of the Good Ship Venus: 'We sailed to the Canaries, to screw the local fairies, we got the syph in Tenerife and the clap in Buenos Aires,' they sang in a deep, rolling baritone. By the next verse, Matt, Ivan and Damien had all joined in: 'We sailed to the Bahamas, where the girls all wear pyjamas, they wouldn't screw our motley crew, they much preferred bananas.'

The song completed, all five men stood around laughing. Matt put the last of the gold bars into the Land Rover, then stood back from the truck. 'There's one more thing I want to do,' he said.

In his hand, Matt held one tray with six diamonds in it. He took them out one by one, holding them in his hand, admiring the way they caught and reflected the light from the stars, then handed one to each man. 'Let's keep one of these each as a souvenir,' he said. 'Give them to our wives or girlfriends.'

'You could give one to that cute waiter in the hotel,' said Reid.

'That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble,' Damien said.

They all took one diamond, slipping them into their pockets. 'One left,' said Cooksley.

'Why don't we give it to that barmaid at the hotel,' said Reid, laughing. 'I reckon she'd shag all five of us for one of these sparklers.'

'Or Alison,' said Ivan. 'She gave us this job. I reckon one of these would look good around her neck.' 'Alison, yes,' said Matt. 'Let's keep one for her.'

Matt turned the diamond over between his fingers, letting the sunshine from the window catch its light. 'Alison?' he said into the phone.

'Matt,' she answered quickly. 'You OK?'

'Never better,' he answered. 'The mission went like clockwork.'

'Good work, Matt. When are you coming back?'

Matt hesitated before answering. 'It will be a few days before we can get the goods fenced. We'll be in Rotterdam, then back in London.'

'I'll plan a celebration,' said Alison. 'Maybe even cook you something.'

Matt put down the phone and walked back into the sunshine. There was easiness to his mood he hadn't known for months. A burden had been lifted from his shoulders – the burden of debt and failure. He could walk more freely now.

At a table next to the pool, the rest of the gang were collecting bottles of Keo, the local Cypriot beer. It wasn't the best Matt had ever tasted; nothing could beat the Filipino San Miguel he'd sampled when he'd spent two months fighting some communist insurgents in that country. But when the sun was shining and you were about to fold two million into your pocket, all the beer tasted sweet and all the girls looked good. Or was that the other way around?

He collected a round from the bar and slammed the bottles down on the table. 'Get these down your necks, boys,' he said.

'You're paying for a round, Matt,' laughed Damien. 'Now we
know
you've made a lot of money.'

Ivan was shuffling a deck of cards, but Reid had already told him to forget it. They had better things to do than sit around playing games. Such as, Ivan had asked quizzically?

'Drink beer, and work on my tan.'

'And you?' Matt looked across at Ivan. 'What do you think you might do when we collect the money?'

'I suspect I'm going to suffer from too many choices,' answered Ivan, putting his cards down on the table. 'I must become a different man, yet I will still be who I am, with the same wife, and the same children.'

'Translate that into English for us,' said Reid

'I can go anywhere, and be anyone,' said Ivan. 'So I reckon I'll go to Boston, somewhere around there. There's a good Irish community, the air is clean, and it's not too hot. But I don't know. I might feel differently tomorrow. How about you?'

'Use the money to make more money, that's my plan,' said Reid. 'I'm through with working for other people. Building, that's what I want to do. Buy some land with planning permission, put up some new houses, sell them on. Try some barn conversions as well. There's always money in that game. You just need some capital to get started. Well, now I've got it.'

'And what about you?' Ivan said, looking towards Cooksley.

'California,' he replied. 'That's where Jane and I are going for a year. The kids are getting booked in for gene therapy. We'll spend the next year with them, doing everything we can to make sure they pull through.'

'And when they recover?' said Matt. 'What then?'

'I can't even think about that, Matt. Until I know whether the children are going to be OK, I can't focus on anything else.' He paused, sipping on his beer, lost in his own thoughts. 'And how about you, Damien. What's your plan?'

'I'm with Reid,' Damien answered. 'Money is for building, not spending. Sure, I'll spend a bit, but the rest I'm going to invest. The gangs in London are wide open right now. There's an opportunity for one man to take charge, impose his will, bring some order to the city. With the right amount of capital, that could be me.'

'The Godfather, right?' said Ivan gently.

Damien swigged back the remains of his beer and reached for another bottle. 'Somebody get me a horse and a large carving knife.'

'And you, Matt?' said Ivan. 'You've brought us all together here. What happens to your two million?'

Matt glanced towards Damien. 'I get married, that's what,' he said firmly. 'A new Porsche, my own yacht, a gorgeous babe hanging off my arm, and nothing to do all day but run and drink beer, and I'm happy.'

'We risk our lives to make all this money,' Ivan said,

'and when we get it, we do things we could have done with much less.'

'You're saying we don't need the money?' said Cooksley.

Ivan shook his head. 'I'm just saying maybe it's the pursuit we enjoy, not the possession of it.'

The night was drawing in, and the moon was already rising over the bay. Matt had just completed a five-mile run along the beach, picking his way through the tourists and the volleyball players, and the blood was pumping through his veins. He felt refreshed and relaxed. He had thought about it during the run, and his mind was made up. It was time to make the call.

He finished his shower, dried himself off, then picked up the hotel phone. It sat in his hand, a small, inert lump of plastic and copper wire. He put it down, walked once around the room, paused to look at the sun setting on the horizon, then picked the phone up again.

Christ, Matt. You killed at least two men last night. I can't believe you are frightened of calling a girl.

'Gill,' he said into the receiver as she picked up the phone. 'Is that you?'

There was a pause on the line. He could hear her breath, and he could imagine her expression, yet for several seconds she remained silent. 'Matt Browning,' she said eventually. 'The man who is too frightened to go through with his own wedding.'

The words stung more than Matt had imagined they would. He'd always known this was going to be a tough conversation, but he'd thought she might have softened in the weeks since they had last spoken. 'That's not fair, Gill,' he said firmly.

'Try telling all your girlfriends your wedding has been called off,' said Gill. 'You try taking your dress back to the shop, and calling up the cake-maker and the florist and all the rest of them, and telling them not to bother, your boyfriend can't be fagged to go through with it.' He could hear her choking back the sobs. 'That's bravery, Matt. Not clearing off and leaving me to clear up the mess.'

'I was in a jam, Gill,' said Matt. 'I could have been killed. So could you.'

'What kind of a jam?' she said. 'What's happened to you?'

'I can't tell you, Gill, it's against all the rules.'

'You're not back with the Regiment, are you? I thought you were finished with all of that.'

'No,' said Matt.

'And where's Damien gone? I haven't been able to get him on the phone for days. He's not involving you in a bit of crime, is he?'

Matt winced. 'No,' he replied. 'I can't talk about it, but it's almost over now. I just wanted to hear your voice and make sure you're OK. And to say, this will all be over in a week or so. I'll have my life back together.' He hesitated, allowing a moment for the words to sink in. 'When that happens, I want us to be together again.'

Matt held the receiver in his hands. He couldn't be sure how many miles separated Cyprus from Marbella. They were at opposite ends of the Mediterranean. Yet, despite the distance, it was as if she were sitting right next to him. In his mind he could see her eyes and smell her hair. 'Gill,' he continued, 'would that be OK?'

'You think you can just break off the engagement, piss off on some stupid mission, then call me up and say, oh, I think its back on again – with one phone call?' Her tone was starting to harden.

'Two phone calls, then,' said Matt quickly. 'And a text message.'

She hesitated, then laughed.