Greed mb-1 Read online

  Whatever my troubles might be, at least the sun is on my back and the sand beneath my feet.

  He looked up towards the Last Trumpet. It was a perfect location for a restaurant. Perched on a scenic hilltop, a kilometre west of Puerto Banus, it was a short drive from Marbella and within easy striking distance of the smart hotels and plush villas that lined this part of the coast. The balcony overlooked the jagged hills tumbling into the ocean, and into the sand-lined coves below. On a clear day you could see the north-African coastline twenty miles away. On a bad day you could watch the thunderclouds looming over the sea. It was the kind of view that made people want to linger and order another cocktail.

  But selling a few cocktails and a few hamburgers are never going to make enough money to get me out of this jam.

  It hurts now, he told himself, but I have done the right thing. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but a man shouldn't marry unless he is able to offer his wife a decent and secure life. Instead of debts and death-threats. Gill deserves better than that. It might hurt her now. But if we married she'd be hurt much worse. If I love her — and I do — then it's better this way. It will hurt me more and her less — and that's the way it should be.

  Matt started to consider what life without Gill might be like. He had known her most of his life. Her older brother Damien had been his best friend when they were all growing up together in south London. For years she had just been Damien's funny little sister, but when she'd moved to Marbella after her family started the bar, he had realised that she'd blossomed into a poised and graceful young woman.

  Our lives have been woven together. Hard to unravel them now.

  Matt pushed himself faster, picking up speed.

  Whatever else I might lose, I won't lose my strength or my fitness. It might be the only thing I can rely on.

  * * *

  The bar was already starting to come to life as Matt stepped on to the balcony, still gasping for breath after sprinting the last few hundred yards. The maid was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors, and at the back Pablo was making the evening delivery from the village: a couple of sackloads of potatoes for the chips, some steaks, hamburgers and chicken breasts, and plenty of peas and carrots. The diners at the Last Trumpet were not great gourmets, but they knew what they liked, and the servings were always huge.

  Matt picked up some of the post that was lying on the bar: brown envelopes, with names and addresses printed by computer. Bills and bank statements — he didn't need to open them to know that the news would be bad.

  If I'd realised that life outside was quite as difficult as this, I might have stuck it out in the Regiment.

  * * *

  Sallum stepped away from the soldier and walked swiftly down the length of the hotel's corridor. Fools, he reflected. They should have known better than to trust the Saudi guards to search me. Surely they know the Saudi army is riddled with supporters of the Holy Cause.

  He knocked lightly on the door. Richard Brent, the minister's assistant, opened the door and guided Sallum to the sofa in the centre of the room. 'Some tea, Mrs al-Kazim?' he said politely. 'Or maybe some water?'

  Sallum shook his head. Only delay is dangerous, he reminded himself. His eyes quickly scanned the room. Two men, both middle-aged and weak. No cameras, no security guards. The window was open, but they were on the seventh floor of the hotel and there was no building overlooking them. Everything was exactly as he had been told it would be.

  'Pleased to meet you, Mrs al-Kazim,' said David Landau, standing up and offering his hand. Beneath his black robe Sallum eased his hand to the front of his jeans and pulled out the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol, equipped with a silencer. He chose the P7 because its unique firing system made it the perfect concealed weapon. It could be carried safely while fully loaded — Sallum knew of assassins who'd shot their own genitals off— but as soon as you gripped the handle it was unlocked and ready to fire. It weighed less than two pounds, and yet its four-inch barrel made it an effective deadly weapon at close range. It was the fastest gun he knew of

  Sallum steadied himself, switching from the posture of a woman to a man. Leaning slightly forward on his left foot, he thrust the pistol upwards, his hands and the gun breaking through the robes.

  Very few men are perfect shots with both their left and right hands. Sallum was not one of them: he reckoned he was a ten per cent better shot with the right hand than with the left. At this range it didn't matter. He could hit both men — and the P7 was designed to be fired with either hand. He levelled the pistol on Landau, loosening off three rounds in close succession. Then he turned the pistol towards Brent, who was starting to flee towards the door. He had covered only two steps before Sallum stabbed the trigger three times in quick succession. Each of the six shots was effectively muzzled by the silencer, the noise no louder than a cork being pulled from a wine bottle.

  Landau fell backwards, hitting the sofa with the side of his head. The first shot had blown through his skull, the second ripped into his heart, and the third cut open his neck. Blood flowed swiftly on to the fabric, staining the surface of the seat.

  Brent crumpled into a heap on the floor. The first bullet had shattered his forehead, the second took out his left eye. The third bullet had hit him in the centre of the chest. Oxygenated blood started to gurgle from his mouth and a deathly moan escaped from his sagging lips.

  One more bullet for each man, just to make sure.

  Sallum knelt down next to Brent, clipped a fresh magazine into the P7, wedged the barrel of the pistol into the man's ear and squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore open the opposite side of Brent's head. Sallum walked three paces to where Landau lay sprawled across the sofa. He rammed the pistol into his open mouth, fired, and stood back. Brain tissue was now spattered across the cream fabric. Sallum dipped a finger into the gooey mess and lifted it to his nose.

  The smell of infidel decadence.

  His work completed, Sallum sat, placing himself opposite the door, the gun in his hand, ready to react if anyone came in. The meeting was scheduled to last half an hour, and he had another seven minutes to wait. To leave early would be suspicious. He would take the time to adjust the robes and the veil, to get his breath and his pulse-rate back under control.

  He started to stretch. Always exercise after an execution, he reminded himself.

  He checked the pistol, then placed it back inside the belt of the jeans he was wearing beneath his robes.

  I still have four bullets in the gun. Enough if I have to fight my way out of here.

  He stood up and walked calmly towards the door. If I die, what of it? he reflected, glancing down the length of the corridor. I have killed three infidels today. The sacrifice of my own blood would be an honour.

  * * *

  The chatter and buzz of the early-evening cocktail hour had started, and Matt glanced through the restaurant. Janey, the manageress, was holding court at the bar, regaling an elderly couple with some of the more salacious local gossip. Out on the balcony a group of muscled men were sitting at a table covered with open beer bottles and empty crisp packets. Three of them Matt recognised. Local gangsters, they worked the informal, underworld trade routes between Essex and Marbella, shipping stolen cars, guns, drugs, anything that turned a quick and easy profit. The other three he hadn't seen before, but judging by the whiteness of their complexions they were fresh off the plane. Looking for work, probably. Or making a delivery. As long as they kept to themselves, and paid for the beer and the food, nobody at the Last Trumpet would bother them. Along the Marbella coastline, that was the only way you stayed in business.

  'You OK, Matt?' said David, a former paratrooper now doing security work for some of the Arab bankers who kept houses along the coast.

  They can see it in my eyes, Matt thought, and in the way my shoulders are sagging. 'Keeping my chin up,' he answered. 'You?'

  'Touch of bother up at the big house,' said David. 'One of the lady sheiks went a bit crazy, slapped one of the cleaning girls
around a bit. You know what those Arabs are like, they treat the servants like scum. Anyway, this girl's brother goes crazy, starts coming up to the house looking to defend the honour of their family. Usual Spanish macho bullshit — a lot of lip and not much action.'

  'Let me know if you need some help,' said Matt. 'The way I'm feeling I could use a good scrap.'

  'Need extra money, Matt?' David took a sip on his glass of beer. 'I'd have thought you'd be doing OK with your share of this place. I spend enough money in here to pay off Victoria Beckham's credit-card bills.'

  Matt grinned. 'I can always use a bit more.'

  On the TV screen Sky Sports was playing, showing a Newcastle-Sunderland game, but apart from Keith, the local Geordie, nobody was very interested. It was mostly a Southern crowd along this stretch of the Marbella coast. Boys from Essex and Kent and London with their Barbie-doll girlfriends, at home among their own kind. The Northerners tended to settle further along towards Torremolinos. To Matt, they were even more foreign than the Spanish.

  * * *

  Matt swung open the door to the back office. He only owned a fifth of the bar, and Janey was the manageress, but he always looked after the back office — the main reason, he sometimes suspected, that Damien had wanted him to come in as an investor. Damien had been looking for a man he could rely on to add up the night's takings and get the cash into the bank the following morning without getting robbed. Matt also made sure there was no trouble at the bar.

  Maybe Damien wanted me to keep an eye on Gill as well, Matt considered as he sat down in front of the computer. The three of us were like one big family, always running in and out of each other's houses. Gill just didn't like her family much, not when she grew up and realised what it was her Dad and her brother actually did for a living. She came out here to get away from that — and then she was stupid enough to fall in love with me.

  Matt rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the numbers. The bar was a living. If only I had been a bit more sensible, he thought. I might still have Gill, and we might be going on our honeymoon in Marrakech in a couple of weeks' time.

  The light was flickering on the computer screen. Matt took another sip of the Coke he'd poured at the bar and switched on to the internet, waiting patiently while the modem searched for the connection. The software took an age to load, but Matt didn't mind waiting. He suspected the news was not going to be good.

  He had learnt about trading shares just after getting out of the SAS and picking up a job bodyguarding Harry Stroller, an American internet entrepreneur who had made five hundred million dollars from floating his company during the dotcom boom — and then seen the value of the business double in the next year. Despite their different paths through life, Matt and Harry were men chiselled from the same stone: they were the same age, 35, they were both physically fit and mentally alert, they both liked to drink beer and chase girls, and neither of them minded taking a risk. The only real difference, Matt sometimes reflected as he sat for hours outside board meetings, was that Harry could programme a computer and work a spreadsheet, and Matt could throw a knife and fire a gun. Harry's skills paid millions, and Matt's just a few thousand. And when you get that close to the big cake, you want a slice of it for yourself.

  After three months the two men had become solid friends, disappearing to bars together after Harry was through with his work. He'd started giving Matt share tips, and at the height of the dotcom bubble that was a valuable commodity. Harry knew from the bankers and brokers he talked to each day exactly which stocks were about to fly and when, and he passed the information on to Matt. Whether it was exactly legal or not, Matt wasn't sure. But he wasn't about to shut down a goldmine by asking anyone.

  Soon, the tips became a lot more valuable than the job. Harry was paying a thousand dollars a day to protect him, but Matt was making five or ten times that just by trading shares. At the end of the job he had made enough to buy him his share in the Last Trumpet, to invest in a flat in London, to get a new silver Porsche Boxster, and to leave over enough to keep trading. The restaurant gave him a stake in a real business, something he could work at, and be proud of.

  But by the time Matt stopped working for Harry he was addicted to trading. And he made the biggest mistake of all. He thought he was clever. He carried on trading shares, but without Harry to tell him what to buy and sell, every share he bought went down instead of up. The money quickly evaporated, and then the debts started to mount up.

  It wasn't greed. I was just trying to make the money for you, Gill. To give us a decent life together.

  Matt looked at the computer screen, where the shares in his portfolio were displayed in neat tables. Ten different stocks, all of them purchased in the last six months. All of them with borrowed money. And all of them trading heavily down.

  At a rough calculation, Matt reckoned he owed a half-million. And the people he owed it to didn't just charge interest. They didn't just downgrade your credit rating. They killed you.

  TWO

  Matt glanced towards Alison once, looked away, then found his eyes moving back towards her. A seven, maybe. No, make that an eight. Borderline nine, even.

  Bad thought, Matt. You've got enough problems without eying up other women.

  She was tall, with blonde hair that tumbled down the back of her neck, and a strong athletic build: a woman, Matt judged, who knew her way around the gym as well as the bedroom. She was wearing tight leather trousers and a pink silk blouse with the top two buttons undone. A single string of pearls was wrapped round her neck, there was a one-diamond earring glittering on either side of her face, and just enough cleavage on display to hook your interest.

  What's a girl like that doing in a bar known locally as the Last Strumpet?

  'A British minister killed in Saudi Arabia,' said Keith, holding up a newspaper. 'They must have had some inside help from the rag-heads. Otherwise I don't see how they could have got to the man. Not with the security he would have had around him.'

  Matt stole another glance at Alison. Definitely a nine. She had a way of growing on you. 'Not necessarily,' he said, looking back towards Keith. 'There's always a way of getting to a man.'

  She was standing by herself, he noticed, but didn't seem lost or nervous or insecure, the way a lot of women might when stranded by themselves in a bar. They either looked too eager, as if they were almost inviting one of the guys to come and try their luck, or they looked too sour, as if they were warning all the men in the bar to keep well away. But this one looked as if she was just enjoying the gin and lime in her glass, the night air, and the breeze blowing in from the sea, the same way a man would if he was having a drink by himself.

  'You reckon?' said Keith. 'How then?' Keith claimed to be a former policeman, but Matt wasn't sure he believed him. He had neither the strength nor the character Matt would expect from someone professionally trained. He was too loud, too cocky: his muscles were strong, but his mind was flabby. The closest Matt reckoned he'd been to any real danger was a late-night brawl in a pub or a ruckus at a football match. Men who had seen real action didn't joke about it and didn't talk tough: they knew it was ugly, raw and violent, and that even the strongest men were frightened in the face of death. A traffic cop, maybe — or a parking warden. If it wasn't for the fact that he spent most of the little money he earned at the bar of the Last Trumpet, Matt wouldn't have taken the time to talk to him.

  That's the trouble with life after the Regiment. You have to talk to wankers all the time.

  'I'm not telling you, mate,' said Matt. 'I might want to kill you one of these days. No point in telling you in advance how I'm going to do it.'

  'If you were going to kill me,' said the woman, 'how would you do that?'

  Matt turned round to see Alison standing just a few inches behind him. Her eyes were looking straight at his, her glass held slightly to one side, her lips were poised on the cusp of a smile. Classy, he reflected, having noted her voice's pure, round vowel sounds. A lot classier than most of th
e women who hang around at the Last Trumpet.

  'Meticulous preparation, that would be the key,' said Matt. 'I'd have to get to know everything about you.'

  'And where would you start?'

  Matt saw the way her finger was curling around the edge of her glass. There were no rings, he noticed. She was acting tough, but she still seemed slightly nervous. Her skin looked soft and was lightly tanned, but had none of the wrinkles women quickly collect when they move to the Spanish sun. On holiday, he decided. Maybe she was just divorced and looking to catch up on some lost time. Or maybe she was one of those London career harpies who suddenly find all their girlfriends have got married and had kids and they don't have anyone to go on holiday with except themselves. Either way it didn't matter. She was definitely interested.

  'I'd start by finding out all about you, where you five and what you do, then I'd want to find out what interests you and excites you. I'd want to know what your passions are.'

  'My passions?'

  'Sure,' said Matt. 'A woman's passions are her main weakness.'

  'I reckon the only killing you know about,' Alison said, her lips drawing back into a smile, 'is lady-killing.'

  'That's probably the most dangerous sort,' said Matt, laughing.

  Deciding to get rid of Keith, Matt took a bottle of Moet & Chandon from behind the bar — one of the privileges of being a shareholder — and cracked it open. The beach, he suggested to the woman, was the perfect place to drink champagne on a warm evening. Somewhere they could hear the waves in their ears and feel the sand beneath their feet.

  One of the best things about basing yourself in Spain, Matt reflected as he took her arm and guided her gently down the steep metal staircase that led from the terrace to the beach, was the constant parade of girls on holiday with tight skirts and loose morals. Easyjetters, some of the guys at the bar called them. They came in by jet. They were easy. They were cheap. And after a couple of days by the pool some of them were even orange as well.