Greed (21 page)

Matt glanced upwards but remained seated. She was wearing a white coat, wrapped tight around her waist, and knee-high leather boots. She put her bottle of mineral water down on the table. 'He seemed like a good man.'

'He
was
a good man,' replied Matt.

'What do you think happened to him?'

'Why don't you tell me?' Matt snapped. 'You're the intelligence officer.'

'I wish I knew,' said Alison, a sympathetic smile on her lips.

'Right,' sneered Matt. 'The whole of Five can't find out anything about a pair of murders.'

Alison's hand reached across the table. 'As I said, I wish we knew more,' she said. 'But tell me what you think.'

Matt shook his head. 'I'm not sure,' he answered. 'Reid believes it's Ivan.' He looked up at her fiercely. 'He's been nothing but trouble.'

'Did you ask him about the missing tape?'

Matt nodded. 'He denies taking it,' he replied. 'He denies everything.'

'Maybe there's something on it that incriminates him.' Alison unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and put it to her lips. 'You really think he might be behind the killings?'

Matt nodded. 'That way he collects all the money for himself. It has to be him.' He looked closer at her, scrutinising every inch of her face. 'Why did you want him along?'

'I told you,' Alison said sharply, 'you needed a safe blown, we needed to get him out of Ulster.'

'And now two of my best friends are dead.'

'I didn't plan it that way, Matt,' Alison slammed her bottle on the table. 'I'm sorry, but it's not my fault. You were all grown men and you knew what you were getting into.'

'If you want to play Softball, go to the park – right?'

Alison leant across the table. 'I know this hurts for you,' she said. 'Everyone in this business has lost people they care about. It hurts, always. But we fight on. MI5 is doing everything it can to track down the killer.'

'I thought you said Five didn't care what happened to us. That's why we couldn't have a safe house.'

'Five doesn't have feelings,' said Alison, leaning back in her chair. 'It's not that sort of organisation. We want to catch al-Qaeda though.'

'What do you have, then?' Matt snapped. 'If you get any leads, you have to share them with me. It's my life on the line here.'

'OK,' she said. 'I should level with you about something.' Alison glanced around the cafe as if she was worried someone might hear her. 'It's about Ivan. He told you his family were being held by the IRA. That was a he. We checked it out. They are currently living in a rented villa in Chile. On the coast just up from Santiago.'

'The bastard.' Matt slammed his fist on the table. 'I knew it was him.'

Alison looked at him carefully. 'It might be, it might not be,' she said. 'Don't jump to conclusions.'

'Why would he he?'

'Tell me where you are going to be, and we'll do what we can to protect you.'

'Puerto Banus,' said Matt. 'Kazanov's place. It's about the most heavily fortified building on the Spanish coast, so if we aren't safe there, we aren't safe anywhere. We hole up there until we collect the money in Rotterdam in three days. Then, I don't know. New faces, new identities, the works. We disappear, and put all this behind us.'

Alison reached out and brushed a finger along Matt's hand. He kept still, not responding.

'You see, Matt, if we work together, we can get through this.'

The house sat high above the sea, perched above a tiny, sandy cove. The noise of the waves echoed up from the rocks, and spray flew about their jagged edges. A side road from the main highway twisted down to the building, and two huge black iron gates guarded the entrance to the main drive. A series of twenty tiny digital cameras were studded into the gateposts, relaying images back to the security room. An assailant could take out one or two cameras, but not twenty without being spotted.

You can't see the security, Matt noticed. Like a spider's web, you only notice once you are inside the trap. That's what makes it so effective.

The white Mercedes limousine drew to a halt outside the main doors, and Matt clambered out. It was two in the morning, and both Reid's children were asleep on the back seat. The flight from London had taken two-and-a-half hours, touching down at Malaga airport at just after midnight local time. Both the children had been excited to fly on a plane, and had spent most of the journey demanding to play with Matt. By the time they'd collected their bags and found the car Kazanov had sent for them, another hour had passed. Now Matt was exhausted. It seemed like three days since he had slept, and he needed to get his head down.

Sleep isn't easy when you know you might die in the next few days.

'You're a lucky boy, Matt Browning,' said Harry Pointer, walking towards the door, 'getting to stay in a place like this after all the trouble you've caused. Mr Kazanov is a nice man. A much nicer man than he should be.'

After the hard bargain Kazanov had driven, Matt reckoned he didn't have any grounds for complaining. The Russian had said he wanted his money back by the end of the month, and had added an extra fifty per cent on to the interest he was charging. Matt hadn't bothered to argue. Either way it made little difference. If he was alive at the end of the month, it was worth spending the extra money; if he was dead, Kazanov wasn't going to get paid anyway.

'He's getting his half-million back, plus a tidy wedge of interest,' Matt said sharply. 'He's a businessman. He knows that sometimes you have to protect an asset. Right now that's me.'

Pointer rang the bell, and they waited while a guard walked to the door. The man looked at them through a spyhole, then started unlocking the heavy bolts.

Matt heaved the bags on to his shoulders and stepped inside. Reid carried Emily, Jane was holding Jack in her arms. Matt had only been here once before, for a party Kazanov had held one New Year's Eve, back when he still counted as part of the nouveau riche set on the Marbella coastline. A plane load of Natashas and Ivanas seemed to have been flown in for the event: if Matt had ever before seen so many stunning girls gathered in one place, it could only have been in a dream. What they were like to talk to, he'd never discovered. Gill had hung on to his arm all evening, and the only people he'd got to speak to all night were some local property developers and some oil prospectors from the Caspian Sea.

'Nice place,' Jane whispered, stepping across the black and white marble floor of the hallway. 'It's a big improvement on that lodge in Derbyshire.'

Reid hadn't told her what was happening. For all Jane knew, they were simply staying there a few days while Matt and Reid sorted out some business, and Damien had gone to collect some money. Better to keep it that way. If Jane had any idea what had been happening, chances where she'd lose it completely.

'I'll show you to your rooms,' said Pointer.

Reid and Jane started walking up the stairs, the two sleeping children still in their arms. Matt took their bags in his arms and followed. His limbs were aching with tiredness, and he needed to get some rest.

About ten hours' sleep, some breakfast and a five-mile jog. Then I can start thinking straight again.

'A drink!' boomed a voice from the bottom of the stairs. 'I can't let you go to bed without at least one vodka.'

Matt turned round to see Kazanov standing in the hallway, waving him down. Even at two in the morning he was still wearing a suit and tie. He was a man who took his grooming seriously. He was never seen looking anything less than immaculate. Say what you like about the KGB, Matt reflected, but it certainly taught its operatives how to present themselves.

Matt followed him through to the front of the house. A huge log fire was burning in the fireplace, its light filling the room. A long window stretched across one wall, overlooking the Mediterranean. The moon was almost full now, casting deep shadows across the bay.

Last time I saw a moon like that, I was using its light to kill six men.

'Say hello, Irina,' said Kazanov. 'This is my friend Matt.'

The girl was draped over the sofa. She was about six feet tall, with a perfect figure and long brown hair, and the high, wide cheekbones common among Slavic women. She was wearing a tiny black dress, a pair of diamond earrings, and a single black stiletto. The other shoe had fallen off.

'Hello,' she said, glancing up from a magazine.

'Thanks for letting me stay,' Matt said.

'You're paying me in four days,' said Kazanov. 'Personally I don't care if you five or die – but I know I'm not going to collect my money from a dead man. What was it Lenin once said? The debts of the Tsar died with the Tsar.' He laughed, a huge booming racket that filled the room.

Matt took the glass of vodka Kazanov was offering him.

'A couple of weeks ago you were flat broke,' said Kazanov. 'Now you say you can pay me back half a million in a few days' time. Yet you also want somewhere to hide.' He paused, taking a sip of his drink. 'I don't know what you've done, but it must be very bad. I'm interested.'

Matt took a hit of vodka, throwing it against the back of his throat. He had avoided a drink on the plane, but he needed one now. Maybe it's him, he thought, his blood suddenly chilling. Maybe it's Kazanov who's been after us all along, just as I first suspected.

And I've walked right into a trap.

'I took some money.'

'You – a thief? Surely not,' Kazanov said. 'I always thought you were one of us. A soldier, an honourable man.'

'My conscience is clear.'

Kazanov nodded. 'But now they want it back?'

'Somebody wants it,' said Matt.

'I've been on both sides of the law, Matt,' Kazanov said. 'I've been KGB, and what in Russia we call a businessman. It's not so different, just buying and selling. People and secrets or oil and aluminium, there is always a trade in every kind of commodity.' He paused, walking forwards and resting a hand on Matt's shoulder. 'Remember this – trust no one.
Absolutely no one.'

Matt wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel and walked back into the house. A run makes a man feel better, he reflected. It washes all the poison out of your system. Today it wasn't working, though. He felt just as bad as when he'd started.

Matt had risen just after eight. Jane and the children were already awake – he'd found her fiddling with the satellite box, trying to find some cartoon channels in English, but finally settling on Bob the Builder in German. It seemed to keep the kids happy.

Matt had taken himself off for a run while Jane fixed some breakfast, and spent the time attempting to put the events of the past few days into perspective. The moment he dreaded most was telling Gill her brother had been killed.

In the house he showered, then located Reid, who was to assist him with a review of the security. They'd have the house to themselves for the next four days, and nobody would disturb them. There was enough food to last them a week or more. That was the way Matt wanted it. They could trust nobody, and they would rely on nobody but themselves.

A perimeter fence stretched around the borders of the estate. The wire rose to seven feet, supported by thick concrete and metal pillars. The fence was electrified, and fitted with sensors that would trigger an alarm in the house should anyone try to cut it. Matt and Reid walked the length of the fence, making sure there were no breaks and no weak points. It had been well designed, Matt judged. Even the trees surrounding the estate had been cut down so no one could use them to vault their way in. And the ground around it had been fitted with sensors as well, so tunnelling in would be impossible.

'Could you get past that?' said Matt.

Reid shook his head. 'I think you'd have to blast your way through then storm the place,' he replied. 'Or else drop in by parachute or helicopter. But there's no way you could sneak in undetected. It's too well protected.'

They walked up towards the main gate. They both knew that no matter how well guarded a property was, the way in was the most vulnerable point. That's why burglars use the front door, Reid pointed out as they walked up the driveway.

'Not this one,' said Matt.

They were standing next to the two black metal doors that were the entrance to the compound. Each was made of eight-inch-thick steel reinforced with tungsten. It was, Matt noted, the same material tanks are made from, and, like an armoured military vehicle, the gate was designed to withstand a rocket attack. There was an electronic keypad with a four digit code for opening the entrance: make one mistake in entering the code and a pair of heavy steel bolts shot across the doors, which remained shut for three hours. 'Short of heavy, sustained shelling, there's no way anyone is getting through this gate,' Matt said.

They walked back to the house. To the side of the building, past the kitchen, was a security control room. In total, there were fifty cameras slotted around the perimeter of the estate, and another fifty throughout the house. A hundred monitors were permanently active within the control room. Just about every square inch of the place was recorded twenty-four hours a day. Infrared sensors laced the property at night, meaning that the guard on duty would be alerted to any sudden movements. During the day, computers were programmed to monitor any suspicious movements: anybody running suddenly, or crawling across the ground, would immediately set off an alarm.

'Fancy set-up,' said Reid, surveying the screens and computer equipment.

'Kazanov is a rich man, and a lot of people would like to take a slice of his cake,' said Matt. 'Without this lot he'd probably have been dead a long time ago.'

The two men walked downstairs. From the control room, a single metal staircase led down into a concrete bunker. Matt punched in the four-digit code Pointer had given him for the door, which slid open, and they stepped inside. Matt flicked a switch. 'The armoury,' he said, glancing across at Reid.

It was an impressive display. Across one wall there was a rack of single- and double-barrelled shotguns. Next to it were stored ten high-precision rifles, twenty semi-automatic sub-machine guns, five full machine-guns, twenty-five boxes of ammunition, five crates of hand grenades, five crates of mortar shells, ten crates of explosives, twenty-five landmines, a selection of knives, ropes and flares, and two flame throwers.

'Christ,' said Reid. 'He's better stocked than the Regiment.'

Matt took one of the rifles from the wall, a Russian-made Kalashnikov – not the familiar AK47, but the more modern AK74M, built for the Russian infantry. Matt weighed up the weapon in his arms: the AK74M was made from a glass-filled polyamide material, making it much stronger and lighter than the older AK47 with its polished wooden furniture. But it's not really the quality of the weapons that matters, Matt knew. It's the quality of the man trying to kill you.

He tried to put that thought out of his mind. 'You could defend yourself against an infantry division with this lot,' he said.

'More likely to be one or two men, not a division,' said Reid. 'Whatever it is that comes after us, we won't be expecting it.'

Matt looked across at Reid. Maybe it is you, he considered. A Regiment man who's gone bad, overwhelmed by greed, driven mad by the thought of too much easy money. After all, a couple of weeks ago you were dossing down in a farm because you were too frightened to admit to your wife you weren't earning anything. Maybe all that alcohol you've been putting in your bloodstream has started chewing into your brain. How well do I know you?

Maybe it's you.

It was in the tone of her voice. He could tell she was not going to forgive him. The words stuck in the back of her throat, as if she was reluctant to let them emerge from her lips. 'Say it isn't true,' she muttered into the phone.

'I can't,' answered Matt. 'Nobody wishes that more than me – but it is true.'

There had been no choice but to tell her, and no simple way of breaking the news. Every instinct within him had told him that he should take the risk, get out of the house and go tell her in person. To tell the woman you loved over the phone that her brother was dead was monstrous. News as grave as that deserved to be delivered eyeball to eyeball. But it was too risky. Get Gill to come to the house, and she could easily be followed. All of them would be slaughtered. For him to go outside would be too dangerous as well. If Gill was being watched – and he had to assume that she was – that would be the opportunity for the assassin to move in and make his strike. The first rule of hiding was don't reveal your position to anyone, ever. No matter how desperate the situation.