Greed Page 18

  'I'll tell you something else as well,' Ivan chipped in. 'Five have plenty of safe houses. There are at least three I know about just in my patch over the water. I reckon there must be a couple of dozen in London. She could stash us away somewhere if she wanted to.'

  'She doesn't want to,' said Cooksley. 'She's just a bloody Rupert in a skirt.'

  I can't disagree, thought Matt. Better legs, and a softer smile – but she's a Rupert with blonde hair and perfume. And you can never trust a Rupert.

  'I suppose she hasn't broken any promises,' he said, looking around the table. 'We weren't told we were getting any protection, just that we were getting paid. We always knew we'd have to look after ourselves.'

  'We didn't know it was about to go wrong, did we?' Reid snapped, ignoring the no smoking sign and lighting up a cigarette.

  'And we didn't know al-Qaeda would be phoning details of the hit back to base, did we?' said Damien. 'She says there's nothing on the tape about who we are, but we don't know that.'

  'Let's cool it,' said Matt. 'There's no point in going over this. She's said no safe house, and that's that. We have to look out for ourselves.'

  Damien leant forwards on the table. 'We've got six days until the boat arrives in Rotterdam,' he said. 'After that, we're rich men – that makes life easier. Perhaps it was just some local Cyprus boys, whatever.' He paused, taking a swig on his Coke. 'If not, then we use our money to change our names, disappear. I know some boys down in Bermondsey who can come up with new passports, new credit cards, even a new face if you really want one.'

  'Damien's right,' said Matt. 'We hold out for the next six days, we should be in the clear.'

  'Until then, we stick together,' said Reid. 'We all look out for one another.'

  'And we all meet the gear coming off the boat and take it to the fence,' said Ivan. 'Only then do we go our separate ways.'

  'Agreed,' said Matt. 'For the next week, we should be on top of each other like a bunch of mosquitoes. Let's stay in this hotel until it's all over.'

  Cooksley finished off the last of his chips. 'Except for me,' he said slowly. 'I'm going home.'

  Matt looked at him closely, but his face was made of granite: you could no more read it than you could read a piece of stone. 'What's up?'

  'The kids have taken a turn for the worse,' he said, his voice trailing away. 'I have to be there.'

  'I know a house you can go to,' said Alison. 'I don't know if it's safe, though.'

  Matt looked up from the window to the doorway. His hotel room door was unlocked, and she had opened it without knocking. He had a pint of lager in front of him he had ordered up from the bar, but he was drinking slowly. From the window he could just see the Thames, but most of it was obscured by an apartment block. There were a few salesmen, and a couple of stray tourists who can't have realised that Wandsworth isn't the glitziest part of London. This place is about as miserable as I feel, he thought to himself.

  'I like you, Alison, but I don't think there's anything safe about you.'

  Alison toyed with her necklace. 'Listen, sorry about what happened earlier. There wasn't anything else I could do.'

  Matt looked hard into her eyes but could find no trace of pity there. 'You could have given us what we wanted,' he said. 'Five has plenty of safe houses in London. You know it, we know it, so there was no need to lie.'

  Alison sat down on the chair next to him, close enough for Matt to smell the perfume on her neck. Fresh, he noted. She'd just put it on, as if she were heading out on a date. 'You don't understand the kind of pressure we're under,' she said. 'There's something big going off in the next couple of weeks. We don't know what it is, but the al-Qaeda networks we monitor are humming. Maybe Heathrow, maybe Parliament, maybe a bomb at Old Trafford on a Saturday afternoon. It could be anything.' She paused, taking a bottle of mineral water from the desk. 'We're all getting chewed up trying to break the network. We're really grateful for what you've done, and at a calmer time we'd be able to do something. Not now, though.'

  'We're big boys, I suppose,' said Matt. 'We can look after ourselves.'

  Her hand lingered against his knee, starting to crawl up the inside of his thigh. 'What are you going to do?'

  'Cooksley's gone home to his family,' replied Matt. 'His kids are very ill, and he wants to be with them. The rest of us are going to stick together, lie low. We're staying here tonight, then we reckon we'll shift around some cheap hotels in London. I reckon it's the best place in the country to hide. Big, anonymous, nobody pays any attention to anyone. London is full of lost men; we'll just blend in with the crowd.'

  'Let me know where you are,' said Alison. 'If there's any way I can help out, I will.'

  'Thanks,' replied Matt.

  She looked at him closely. 'My tape went missing,' she said. 'Did you take it?'

  Matt took a sip on his beer. 'Me? No,' he said. 'Are you sure?'

  'Quite sure,' said Alison. 'One of you must have taken it. Find out who, and get it back. We need it.'

  Matt nodded. He didn't know what she was talking about and his mind was on other things. His hand was resting on her leg, his eyes tracking the curve of her legs, admiring the way her black stockings tapered into her black stiletto shoes. 'Look,' he said. 'I bought you a souvenir.'

  'For me?' said Alison, her smile widening. 'How sweet!'

  Matt fished through his pocket. The diamond was still wrapped in tissue paper. He placed it on the bar, letting her unwrap it. The diamond was cut to perfection, scattering tiny beads of light in every direction. 'My own al-Qaeda diamond!' Alison said. She looked up at Matt. 'I'll get it set in gold and make it a necklace. And every time I wear it, I'll think of you.'

  THIRTEEN

  Sallum sat alone behind the wheel of the Lexus LS430. The village of Pembridge was still fast asleep. Dawn had started to break twenty minutes ago, the sun gradually rising across the fields, sending shafts of bright orange light from the east. He had been here for two hours now, and the heat inside the car had gradually been dropping. Sallum could see his breath collecting on the windscreen, could feel the cold biting into the tips of his fingers.

  He reflected for a moment on one of the hundreds of verses he had memorised from the Koran: 'Seek assistance through patience and prayer. Allah is with the patient.'

  To sit, and wait and watch. That is the skill of the assassin.

  Cooksley emerged abruptly from the front door. He glanced left and right, took a deep breath of air, then started walking. The collie bounced ahead of him, barking a couple of times, and dashing up the lane and towards the fields. Cooksley followed the dog at his own pace. He was walking slowly, his back stooped and his head bowed as if he was deep in thought.

  Sallum glanced down at the photograph resting on the passenger seat of the car, then up at the man walking down the lane. There could be no doubt. He was the target. He climbed out of the car, pulling the collar of his long, grey overcoat up around his neck. On his back he was wearing a small, black rucksack. He checked the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol was sitting snugly in his pocket, reassured by the feel of its metal against his fingertips. There was nothing like the barrel of a pistol to make a man feel more secure, he reflected. Or more powerful.

  He walked slowly up the lane, his pace quickening to bring himself level with Cooksley. 'Excuse me,' he said softly, 'do you know the way to the church?'

  Cooksley looked round, surprised. The accent was Middle Eastern, but American educated. Not the sort of voice you heard in Herefordshire very often. 'You're going the wrong way, mate,' he replied. 'Go back down the lane, past the Two Foxes, then you'll see it on the left. You can't miss it.'

  'Is it far?' asked Sallum.

  The collie had bounded back up to them and was bouncing enthusiastically around Cooksley's and Sallum's ankles. 'Not far, no,' said Cooksley. 'Ten minutes' walk.'

  Sallum knelt down to pat the dog, rubbing it around the ears. The collie yapped, rubbing its jaw into his knees. From his pocket, Sallum pulled the P7.
With his left hand he took the dog's two ears in a firm grip, holding its head absolutely still. With his right hand, he jabbed the pistol into the animal's fur, pressing it into the skin just between the ear and the eye. From there the bullet would smash straight through the dog's brain, killing it instantly.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The dog whimpered momentarily and a trickle of saliva dripped from its open jaws. It collapsed on to the ground, blood spilling from the wound that had opened up in its head. Sallum jumped swiftly backwards, letting go of the dog's ears, and jabbed the barrel of the P7 hard into Cooksley's ribs. He could feel the metal pressing tightly into the skin. He twisted his wrist downwards, so the gun was pointing upwards. This man, he knew, was a trained soldier. He would know that the bullet from a gun fired at that angle would travel right through his ribcage and up through the bottom of his heart. He would die instantly.

  'Don't say a word, don't even move,' muttered Sallum. His eyes looked into Cooksley's face. He could see no fear there. Just the ticking of a mind looking for some method of escape. 'Go back down towards the house,' said Sallum. 'Don't say anything, don't run.'

  They walked slowly for the two hundred yards back to the house, Cooksley ahead, Sallum at his side, the pistol wedged into his ribs. Cooksley stopped outside the front door, opened it and held it ajar. Inside, Sallum could hear the sounds of children playing and their mother talking to them.

  'Run, love, run!' Cooksley shouted as soon as the door was open. 'Grab the kids and run!'

  'Shut up!' shouted Sallum. 'You'll only make it worse for yourself.' He grabbed Cooksley's hair, yanking his head back hard. He forced the pistol into his throat, pushing him down the hallway. He could see the woman and the two children in the kitchen staring at him, their mouths open. Tears were starting to stream down the cheeks of the smaller of the two boys. 'Do exactly what I tell you, and you won't get hurt,' he shouted towards her.

  'Don't do it, love!' Cooksley shouted. 'He's a lying bastard.'

  Sallum pushed the man hard against the wall, which shook with the force of his weight, and a piece of ornamental china crashed from the shelf on to the floor. Sallum could hear the woman screaming. Cooksley lunged towards him, his fist raised and his muscles clenched, ready to smash into his face. Sallum swivelled and ducked, his movements elegant and delicate. Cooksley swung up at him with a boot aimed at the waist. Sallum turned again – like a ballerina, he could swivel perfectly on the balls of his feet. He caught the back of Cooksley's right wrist, slamming it against the wall. He pushed the P7 into the soft flesh of the palm, firing. The bullet hammered right through the hand, cracking open the bones and lodging into the wall behind. Cooksley doubled forward in pain, clutching his hand, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood.

  A man with a fresh wound through his right hand is effectively disabled.

  Sallum moved in closer to Cooksley, slamming his knee up into his jaw. Cooksley's head spun backwards and he lashed out, a line of blood from his hand streaking across Sallum's face. Sallum clenched his left hand into a ball and slammed the fist into the back of Cooksley's neck. The blow sent him crashing to the ground. Sallum delivered two swift kicks to the side of his head, leaving him limp and unconscious on the floor.

  Sallum spun around, levelling the pistol directly at the woman's forehead. 'I'm a reasonable man,' he said. 'Stop screaming, do exactly what I say, and you won't get hurt.' With his left hand he threw a pair of plasticuffs down on the floor. The woman looked at her husband lying slumped next to them. Tears were streaming down her face. From the kitchen, the sound of the children's screams could be heard. 'Bind him,' barked Sallum. 'And shut those kids up.'

  She shook her head.

  Sallum kept the gun trained on her, moving backwards. He took the elder boy by the hand and led the child towards the front room. The toddler looked nervously at his mother, then down at his father, and wet himself. He stopped crying, biting his lip.

  Sallum could feel the boy's hand shaking. He levelled the pistol with the top of the boy's skull, its muzzle resting in his black hair. He looked coldly towards the woman. 'Do exactly what I say,' he repeated. 'Tie him.'

  The woman picked the plasti-cuffs from the ground. She fastened them around Cooksley's hands. She wiped away the sweat from his forehead, then leant forward to kiss him just between the eyes.

  'Just bind him!' Sallum barked.

  She snapped the cuffs into place. Callum ran towards his mother and threw himself into her side, gripping on to her legs. Danny ran out from the kitchen, looked edgily at Sallum, then hung on to his brother's legs, sucking furiously on his dummy.

  'What do you want from us?' she said, her voice gradually regaining its strength.

  'Be still,' answered Sallum. 'Don't say anything. Just watch.'

  He shook the rucksack from his back, letting it land on the floor. From the bag he took out a Sony camcorder and a collapsible tripod. He walked towards the front of the room, glancing briefly out to the street, then put up the tripod. He placed the camcorder on top of the tripod, then pulled a black woollen mask over his face, with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. He pulled on a pair of black surgical gloves, making sure not a trace of skin was visible, then switched on the camcorder. He could feel the eyes of the boys following him as he walked back towards their father, measuring each step across the floor, listening to each creak of the floorboard. As he worked, the woman remained completely still, her muscles frozen.

  A religious man should never make a mother watch her children die.

  Sallum knelt down before Cooksley, uncorked a small jar of smelling salts, and waved it under his nose. With his thumb, he pulled up his right eyelid. 'I want you to watch,' he said.

  Cooksley's eyes were bloodshot, his expression drained. Sallum could see the pupils moving cautiously from right to left, but he could tell nothing of what the man was thinking. He stood up, walking towards the centre of the room, making sure he was in direct view of the camcorder.

  'Come here,' he snapped at the woman.

  She looked at Cooksley, then back towards Sallum, shaking her head.

  In her eyes, Sallum could detect a mood of defiance. 'Now!' he shouted.

  She started to walk nervously the three yards across the floor. He levelled the P7 with her head, squeezing the trigger once. The bullet struck her in the windpipe, blowing a hole through her neck. Blood started to spit from her mouth, her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor. Sallum walked one pace forwards, pushed the pistol down, firing another bullet. This time it struck her just above the eyes, crashing through her skull. Her body jerked once, then went still.

  'It was quick, at least,' said Sallum, looking towards Cooksley.

  The two boys were cowering beside the fireplace, clinging on to each other. Both of them fell silent. Sallum took two paces forwards, grabbed Danny by the hair and yanked him into the air. His mouth fell open into a scream. Sallum jabbed the gun into his open jaw and fired. The bullet went straight through his head, sending blood and skin against the wall behind him. The body wriggled, then died. Sallum released his grip on the hair, letting the body drop on the floor.

  Sallum looked towards Cooksley. 'I'll let the other boy live if you'll do something for me.' He reached back inside his bag, pulling out a single piece of white card. Stepping back towards Cooksley, he knelt down in front of him. He could smell the sweat and blood on Cooksley's skin. 'Read this out for the camera,' he said.

  'Fuck off!' Cooksley spat. 'You'll kill me anyway.'

  Sallum nodded. 'Yes, but I don't have to kill the boy,' he said. 'I am a just man. So just read it.'

  'Who are you?' said Cooksley, his voice dry and hoarse.

  'I am your executioner,' said Sallum. 'You should know better than to steal, and you should certainly have known what the punishment would be. Now read.'