He could say no. Nobody was forcing him, he could just walk away. From somewhere, somehow, he'd then have to find a lot of money very quickly. Either that, or disappear somewhere where Kazanov and his thugs would never find him. Tempting, but there were two problems. What would happen to Gill? And how much of a fife would that be? You can hide for a while, if you have to. But for the rest of your life? Never see your mates or your family again? Never walk through the streets you played football in as a kid? Never admit who you really were? That wasn't any kind of life worth living.
Or he could say yes. The mission would take a month at most. It was a lot of money, enough to pay off all his debts and set up himself and Gill with a new life. It was the fresh start he needed. It would be dangerous, sure, but he didn't mind that. He had risked death before. One more trip around that carousel wouldn't make any difference. He'd take his chances, the same way he always had in the past. One boat raid, then they'd be home. They would have surprise on their side, they would have the right gear, and they would be trained. Al-Qaeda were good, hardy fighters, and he would never underestimate them. But he fancied the odds, they were plenty good enough to roll with. There was just one problem: he had to trust Alison, and he had to trust the people he was working for. His fate was going to be in their hands.
Trouble was, the Regiment had been full of stories of missions for Five going wrong. They looked after their own people, but when it came to soldiers they were reckless, they took chances. They reckoned that's what soldiers were there for. Spies were for thinking. Soldiers for dying.
Matt added that up as two problems with saying no, and one with saying yes. When you laid it out like that, it wasn't much of a choice at all. He'd do it. Whatever the risks.
The door of the lift shut as Matt pressed the button for the sixth floor. A door closes, a door opens, he reflected to himself. If I take these next few steps I'm committed, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
Just like the marriage I backed out of.
Alison was sitting in the bedroom, her legs neatly crossed. She was wearing a black skirt that stopped just short of her knee, over a pair of black, patterned tights. Her shoes were black and pointed like daggers, and her blue jumper clung tightly to her breasts and her waist. A professional smile was drawn across her lips.
She knows, thought Matt, looking into her eyes. This is a woman who knows plenty about men, and how they react. She already knows what I'm going to say. Probably even knows the tone of voice in which I'll say it.
'Where are Pinky and Perky?'
'Who?' she asked.
'You know, the two squeaky pigs.'
'They're waiting down the corridor,' said Alison. 'I wanted to talk to you first. To hear your decision.'
'One question first,' said Matt. 'Why me?'
'You're a good man, with a good record of service. You might not have been officer material, but that's no mark of disrespect. A lot of the best soldiers aren't. For this mission we need someone trained to SAS standards. And we need someone who needs cash.'
Matt moved across the room; he didn't want to feel her eyes upon him. 'I was a screw-up as a share trader,' he said. 'I thought I could make money, and I couldn't. I probably didn't have the brains, and I certainly didn't have the training. But one piece of advice from that has stayed with me. Whenever you were looking at a company or a trade, if it looks too good to be true, then it probably is.' He turned around, looking right at her. 'That's my problem. This looks too good to be true.'
'Cynicism is OK, Matt,' Alison replied sharply. 'We don't want you to be too trusting. But I don't understand what you mean. In what way is it too good, exactly?'
Matt spread his arms in front of him. 'Here I am, a washed up SAS man, hardly employable, then this good-looking blonde comes along and says I can make two million dollars for a few weeks' work,' said Matt, his tone hardening. He paused, looking towards the window. 'So I'm just wondering, aren't there some rats scurrying around somewhere, and shouldn't I start smelling them? Why an ex-SAS man, for example? Why not just give the details of the boats to the Regiment, let them take them out. Even better, tell our American friends about it. Delta Force would love to have a crack at those guys. I don't see why you want someone like me to do it. It complicates the mission. What don't I know?'
Alison stood up and stepped closer to Matt. 'Listen,' she said. 'I like you, I think you can tell that. I'm not going to try and smart-talk you into anything. You're too clever. The reason we're not using the Regiment, or Delta Force, or anyone like that, is very simple. The mission is off the books, Matt. Unofficial. Anything goes wrong, we have complete deniability. Think of the possible consequences if this was an official Regiment mission. British soldiers storming a boat in another country's territorial waters? Killing some men our enemies would claim were just innocent Arab businessmen — stealing from them?' She brushed a hand across his cheek, her skin delicate against the stubble on his face. 'So, I'm sorry, if anything goes wrong, then the view of the British government is this: it's just a bunch of former soldiers who've turned themselves into gangsters. Nothing to do with us.'
Matt pushed her hand aside, but not roughly. There would be plenty of time for touching later. Her story was good enough. In the twisted world of Five it was convenient for them to use men who were completely expendable. Back in the Regiment bar, MI5 was an organisation known mainly for its arse-covering and back-stabbing.
But Matt's mind was already made up, and he had heard nothing to make him change it. He needed a second chance, and this was the only one on offer.
You make your decision and you go with it. You hang up your doubts with your coat at the door.
'OK, I'll do it,' he said firmly. 'Where do we start?'
Alison drew away, the hint of a laugh in her eyes. She was, Matt judged, a woman who was used to getting what she wanted from men — and he was no exception. He was doing what she wanted. She'd known he would.
'I'll get Pinky and Perky,' she said.
Matt could have used a beer, but mineral water was all there was. He took a sip and looked across the desk. Pinky and Perky were sitting on chairs on either side, their ties straight and their legs crossed. Alison perched on the side of the bed. It feels right to get back to work, Matt decided. This is what I'm good at.
'Five men,' Pinky said. 'That's the number we'll need for the mission.'
'Why five?' Matt asked.
'Pirates,' said Pinky. 'That's basically what you'll be. You'll be raiding a boat and stealing everything on board. Our calculations are that you'll need a small dinghy to approach the boat, and one man to steer that, and you'll need four men to hit the boat. That makes five.'
Matt nodded. 'All ex-SAS?'
'Maybe, maybe not,' said Alison. 'We've got some guys in mind already.'
'Who are they?'
Perky turned towards the laptop on his desk and pulled up a file. 'MI5 keeps records of all you SAS boys, as you may know,' he said. 'The taxpayer went to a lot of trouble to turn you into killers. We like to know where you all are, and what you're up to.'
'We know,' said Matt. 'And don't think we like it either. We've served our time; we're free to do whatever we like.'
'Within the law,' Pinky said archly.
No point in arguing now, thought Matt. 'So who have you got?'
'When you look at the qualifications,' Pinky said, 'the field starts to narrow down. We want men only recently out of the Regiment. Much more than three years as civilians and they'll be too flabby. We want men who need money and need it badly. But at the same time, we don't want complete drunks, cokeheads or psychopaths. That rules out a few as well.'