Matt nodded to the barman for a refill. 'You are my oldest and best friend,' he said. 'If anything happened to you I'd never forgive myself.'
'Dangerous?' said Damien, his face cracking into a laugh. 'You know that Camberwell breeds the hardest villains in the world.'
The flat was on the twelfth floor of Chelsea Harbour, a luxurious development of apartments, shops, restaurants and a hotel overlooking the Thames on a curve of the river where Chelsea starts to turn into Fulham. Matt stood in the lift and glanced down at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Late.
Maybe I should have bought her some flowers.
He felt uncomfortable walking through the lobby. He could see some of the high-class Chelsea girls and their banker boyfriends looking at him suspiciously. Who let the security guard in? they were thinking. The Porsche fitted in with the other hundred-grand vehicles in the car park, but Matt was wearing jeans, sweatshirt and a waxed green jacket — fine for a Regimental reunion but out of place amid the marble and gilt of this lobby.
Who cares? Another month, maybe I'll buy a flat here myself.
He pressed the buzzer. Alison was wearing a red silk kimono when she opened the door. In the background he could hear a George Michael CD playing on the hi-fi. Those thirtysomething birds, they love old Georgie, Matt reflected as he stepped into the apartment. He hits all the right notes.
An elegant expanse of leg was exposed as Alison walked across the polished pine floorboards towards the kitchen. 'I thought you might be hungry,' she said, looking back at him. 'So I made you something.'
Matt slung his jacket over the sofa. The apartment was plusher than he would have expected. It had polished wood floors, spotlights inset into a white ceiling, and black wooden Oriental furniture — stuff Matt had last seen in the antique shops of Hong Kong. On the back wall was a huge 1950s modernist painting, covering twenty feet by ten.
The civil service is paying better these days.
'I'm starving,' he shouted towards the kitchen.
A huge window made up one wall, and Matt looked out over the snarling traffic and noise of south London, its lights twinkling back at him. If I look closely, Matt thought, I can probably see the council tower where Mum and Dad lived. That was on the twelfth floor as well.
'It's ready,' she called back.
The kitchen was made out of polished granite and stainless steel. The units and appliances looked like the kind of machines girls drool over, but they meant nothing to Matt: he preferred cooking over an open camp fire. She was leaning over the hob, a flame turned up high underneath a wok. Matt could smell prawns, garlic, chillis, ginger and noodles. 'Get some wine,' she said, pointing towards the fridge.
Matt pulled a Chablis from the rack of bottles, uncorked it, and placed two glasses on the table. 'It went well,' he said. 'Reid and Cooksley have signed up. They don't know what the mission is yet, so maybe they'll back out. But they're brave men, and by Christ they need the money.'
Alison put the steaming wok down on the table, laying two plates and some chopsticks at its side. 'I knew you could do it,' she said, running her fingers through his hair. 'That's why I chose you.'
'There's another guy as well,' said Matt. 'Damien Walters. His family runs with the gangs in south London. He'll come on the job, and take care of the fencing for us.'
Alison swallowed the food in her mouth, looking directly at Matt. 'Your future brother-in-law?'
'You know about him?'
'I work for MI5, Matt,' she replied. 'Walters. Went to school with you, old pals. He's gay, but discreet about it. It doesn't stop him being a hard man when he needs to be. His father Eddie Walters was a big-time gangster, controlled a lot of the money in south London. Damien is struggling to play in the same league. I'm told he's not quite cutting it, not yet. I hope you haven't told him what we're planning?'
'Everybody needs a motive,' Matt said quietly. 'If they didn't need the cash, they wouldn't be up for this job. We need someone we can trust on the team, and he has the right skills. He can steer the boat for us, and he knows how to fence the money after we've taken it. I say he's in.'
'I don't like it — it's a conflict. You and he are going to be loyal to each other, not to the team. It could cause splits.' Alison took a sip on her wine. 'We won't fence the money ourselves, but we can find a reliable person who can. You don't need to be suspicious, Matt. Five will look after everything.'
'Right, and nice girls don't stay for breakfast,' said Matt. 'I've talked about it with Reid and Cooksley and they agree with me. If we don't get control of the money, then we don't want to do it.'
'I was planning our own man,' said Alison. 'Ex-Special Boat Squad. Needs cash in a hurry. I think you should go and talk to him.'
Matt shook his head. 'We want our own people.'
A smile flicked over Alison's lips. 'I've no objections,' she replied carefully. 'Like I said, once you get the money, it's yours. We just want to make sure al-Qaeda don't get it.'
Matt nodded. He noticed the way her kimono was slipping aside as she crossed her legs, revealing the soft tanned skin of her thigh. 'Damien's in, so that makes four,' he said. 'He knows about boats as well, so he covers that angle as well. But who's the fifth guy?'
'Ivan Rowe.'
'Tell me about him.'
'In the morning,' said Alison, putting her wine glass down on the table. 'You are staying the night, aren't you?'
Matt glanced again at her thigh, his gaze moving down her slender legs, down to her ankles and her feet. He looked back up slowly, his eyes roving across her body until he met hers. 'Of course.'
A low double-bed with crisp white sheets and a black duvet sat in the centre of the bedroom. The side table was cluttered with make-up and hairbrushes, a couple of chick-lit novels and a thick, hardback biography of Field Marshal Montgomery. The wooden blinds were shut, hiding the lights beaming across the river.
Matt ran his hand up the inside of her leg. The silk of the kimono was charged with static. He kissed her hard on the lips, feeling her tongue jab back at him, as he pushed her down on to the bed. She yielded, softly at first, then with mounting urgency. He could feel her turning him over, surprised by the strength of her shoulder and arm muscles as she pushed him roughly down into the mattress. Her red fingernails were clawing into his chest, her lips brushing against the skin of his neck.
A woman who likes to take control.
Half an hour later he lay back on the pillow, the smooth skin of Alison's cheek resting on his chest. He had noticed something in her eyes as they made love: passion, certainly, but an edge of anger, as if she were fighting him at the same time. He ran his hand along the curve of her spine, enjoying the way her flesh moved beneath his grip. Better than the first time, he reflected. Like a new gun, a woman always took time to get to know. You had to unlock her, find out which muscles to squeeze and what words to mutter in her ear.
'I was glancing through your file,' she said, her voice lazy and sleepy.
'Old war stories,' answered Matt. 'They don't mean much any more.'
'I was reading about Janos Biktier. That was some mission.'
The Kosovan warlord, thought Matt. The guy Cooksley, Reid and I finished off. 'Just work,' he said.
'His gang is still in business, though,' said Alison. 'And his son's in charge now. Nikolai Biktier. Nasty piece of work.'
'So what?' said Matt.