Greed

Ivan looked straight back at him. 'No,' he answered, his tone clear and direct. 'Did you ever kill a Republican soldier?'

'Three. All armed, all on active service.' He paused, looking directly at Ivan. 'I got paid for it, but I'd have done it for free.'

'Cool it, Matt,' Alison snapped. 'That war is over. We're fighting a new one now.'

What does she know about war? Matt asked himself.

She can start them, but she can't fight them.

He shook his head. 'There is no way I'm working with a Provo,' he snapped. 'You can just forget it.'

* * *

Matt walked silently down the street. His head was bowed, his muscles tightening. He was about to push a couple of million dollars off the table for a principle, but it was a good principle.

You never compromise with the enemy.

'You should have told me,' he said, not looking at Alison.

She said nothing.

'A Provo scumbag,' Matt continued. 'He's a traitor. He's betrayed one cause, he'll betray another. And Christ knows how I'll sell it to Reid and Cooksley.'

Alison stopped. 'For God's sake, grow up,' she said, swivelling around to face him. 'You need this job. This isn't some bloody pleasure cruise. You're going up against the toughest, best-organised terrorist group in the world. If there was one thing the Regiment should have taught you, it's that perfect planning makes for perfect missions, and fucked-up planning makes for fucked-up missions. And dead soldiers.'

Matt turned away from her.

'I'm planning the perfect mission,' he heard her say. 'Don't think for a moment that I give a damn for your feelings.'

'Feelings don't come into it,' Matt said, leaning into her face. 'What would you know? All you've ever done is sit behind a desk all day, sending men out to die. When you're in the field, you have to trust the men you're with absolutely. You have to be willing to die for them, and know they'd die for you.'

'You sound like a junior officer struggling to give his first pep talk and falling flat on his face,' she snapped. 'I've heard enough about duty and comradeship. In case you hadn't noticed, you're not in the Army any more.'

Matt looked away. A dark cloud was looming in the sky above them, threatening rain. 'When Reid was in the Paras, he was a corporal in a patrol that got hit with a pipe bomb by the IRA. Three of his friends died. I can't see Reid and your man Ivan getting on too well together.'

'We're professionals, Matt. We get the job done, no matter what it takes,' replied Alison. 'At Five we don't enjoy paying Provo informers. We don't like building a network of informers at every mosque in the country to keep tabs on al-Qaeda either. We do what we have to do.'

Matt turned to walk away. 'If Reid and Cooksley won't buy it, then neither will I. Your Irishman's out.'

'Then you're out as well, Matt,' replied Alison swiftly. 'This is my mission, don't forget that.'

* * *

Always level with the rest of the guys on the team, thought Matt. Whatever other rules you might have to break, that one must always be obeyed.

He looked across at Cooksley and Reid. They were sitting in a cafe just around the corner from his flat, finishing off some tea and sandwiches. Both men had travelled up from Hereford this morning, and although neither of them yet knew what the mission was, Matt could tell they were committed. They needed the money desperately. They would take whatever risks were necessary to get it.

'There's a problem,' he said simply.

'Already,' said Reid, fiddling with some Rizla papers. 'We haven't even started yet.'

Matt nodded. 'The woman running this is a Five officer called Alison,' he said. 'She wants us to bring along a guy called Ivan. He's a safecracker. The job is going to involve some explosives. That's his bit.'

'So,' said Cooksley. 'Sounds fair enough. Blowing a safe is a specialist job. None of us have training in it.'

'He's a Provo,' said Matt. 'Turned by Five, so he's a traitor as well.'

Around him, Matt could hear the clatter of plates and cups, the waitress shouting at the chef for more sandwiches. But on his table it was completely silent. Reid was holding his coffee halfway between the table and his mouth, but his hand had stopped moving. 'A Provo,' he said, lighting the cigarette he had just rolled, and taking a sharp intake of breath. 'I tell you what, Matt, I'll kill him, then we get on with the mission.'

'I don't like it, Matt,' Cooksley chipped in. 'A team has to have men who can trust each other.'

Matt shrugged. 'I've told her we don't want him,' he said. 'It's up to you guys. You don't want him, the mission's off.'

'Do the mission and then kill him,' said Reid, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. 'That's my plan.'

* * *

Reid and Cooksley sat quietly in the corner of the room. Matt recognised their expressions from a hundred different briefings when they'd all been in the Regiment together. Their faces said: What kind of crap are the Ruperts going to throw at us now?

'When do we hear about the dough, Matt?' said Cooksley, looking up from the sofa.

'When we're all together,' replied Matt firmly.

He went to answer the door. Ivan was standing outside. Matt showed him through to the sitting room, handing him a coffee. He checked his watch. Four minutes to three.

'Nice to meet you boys,' said Ivan, stepping into the room and nodding in the direction of Cooksley and Reid.

They looked back, nodded, but remained silent. Their expressions were suspicious, hostile. You didn't need to be an expert in body language, noticed Matt, to tell what was going on.

'How'd your game go?' said Matt.

'Won the game, but lost the rubber,' said Ivan. 'I play on the internet because that's where all the best games are now.' He took a sip of coffee. 'I'll teach you to play if you like. You have the look of a useful bridge player to me.'

'And what do they look like?' asked Matt.

'Two things about bridge,' said Ivan. 'You've got to count the cards, and you've got to judge the man. Counting, anyone can learn that. But judgement, you've either got it or you haven't. Nobody can teach you.'

Matt noticed Cooksley shaking his head in despair.

'Nobody can teach how to be a wanker, either,' said Reid.

'OK, drop it,' said Matt, anxious to calm everyone down. 'There'll be some hanging around on this job, there always is. Maybe we'll learn. We can make it a foursome. Very civilised.'

'There's nothing civilised about bridge,' said Ivan. 'People think it's just for little old ladies, but it's the roughest game there is.'

Matt walked back to the door to let Alison in. 'Everything OK?' he asked.

Alison walked past him. 'If you want Damien on the team, then you have to take Ivan as well,' she said briskly. 'That's the deal. Take it or leave it.'

'Don't give me orders,' Matt retorted. 'I make my own choices.'

Alison turned around to face him, her eyes alight with indignation. 'You were an inch away from being a dosser. You make crap choices.'

Matt turned away. Inside, he was fighting down the desire to snap back at her. Stay calm, he reminded himself. Turning quickly, he walked back to the door, glancing at Damien. He had known him since they were in primary school, and he reckoned he could read his friend's face like a tabloid newspaper: whatever he was thinking was right there in a 72-point black headline. Right now Damien could see a prize a few inches away from him, but feared it was about to be snatched away.

I'll lay out the facts, and let the team take the decision. What else can I do?

He walked through to the main room. 'If we're doing this, I want proper Regiment rules to apply,' said Matt, standing next to the window. 'Everyone's equal. We take decisions as a group. Everyone pulls his weight. No flapping, no panicking — and if you fuck-up you say sorry and move on. OK?'