'And you guys?' said Ivan.
'I haven't spoken to Jane, but, yes, my mobile is switched on a couple of times a day,' said Cooksley. 'She could leave a message if there was an emergency.'
Reid nodded. 'Same here,' he said. 'You never know. Something might happen to the kids.'
Matt leant forwards on the table. 'If it's confession time — I called Gill,' he said. 'But I didn't tell her where I was.'
Ivan leant forwards, his elbows leaning on the table, the lines on his forehead creasing up. 'Let me get this straight, you spoke to your girlfriend?'
'I didn't tell her where we are,' Matt repeated.
'You owe a lot of money to a Russian gangster, Matt,' Ivan said. 'If he knew how much money you'd just taken, he'd be after you.' He paused, looking around the pool area. 'This is Cyprus. The place is crawling with Russian mafia, in case you hadn't noticed the accents in the bar. It's where they come for their winter holidays.'
'Let's get back to you, Ivan,' Reid said, his face reddening. 'If the PIRA know how much money we have, they'll be after the lot of us. Those guys would kill us for free, never mind thirty million. It's you that's the problem, you have been right from the start.'
'He's right,' chipped in Cooksley.
Ivan raised his hands into the air. 'I'm not defending myself,' he said. 'Nobody is more worried about this than me. But I fight my own battles. If there's a problem, I'll fix it.'
'Once a traitor, always a traitor,' said Reid, stubbing out a cigarette into an already bulging ashtray.
Ivan turned to look at Matt. 'Look, it was an Arab driving the car, you say?'
Matt nodded.
'Not an Irishman then. The Provos wouldn't go after Cooksley. They'd come after me.'
The first sign of trouble, and everyone starts turning on each other.
'So we have four possibilities,' Damien interrupted. 'It could be al-Qaeda, it could be a local gang, it could be the IRA, or it could be the Russian mafia. Either way, you know what that says to me?' He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each man in turn. 'We get the hell out of here. Because whichever of those four it is, they already know where we are, and I don't want to be around when they catch up with us.'
Sallum parked the Lexus LS430 in the bay, next to the Fords, Vauxhalls and Rovers. A light drizzle was falling. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky, and even though it was only three-thirty in the afternoon, the night seemed to have started to draw in. He slammed the door shut, pocketed the keys, then walked swiftly towards the factory and the main office.
For Ibrahim bin Assaf himself to have asked to see him in person, he knew it had to be important. Field operatives rarely had any direct contact with their masters. That was not how the organisation worked.
Assaf Foods occupied a sprawling factory and warehouse on the outskirts of West Bromwich, close to Birmingham. It made Indian ready-meals for supermarkets, irradiated chicken tikka masala that sat in the microwave for five minutes. Assaf had started the business twenty years ago as a young Pakistani immigrant. Now he was one of the wealthiest, most respected figures in the British Muslim community.
If only they knew, thought Sallum as he strode across the factory floor. The infidels wouldn't be so keen on their curries then.
He sat for a moment in the waiting room, glancing out to the floor below. He could see the giant machines slicing the battery chickens, spitting out the bones and throwing the remnants into huge bins. Machine cutters were dicing vegetables, and conveyor belts dropped spices into huge vats of oil and grease. A small cloud of smoke hung over the factory, and the rich smell of raw curry powder infiltrated the building.
Disgusting. A nation that has forgotten how to cook for itself has also forgotten how to defend itself. That is why they are weak and we are strong.
'Sallum alakim,' said Assaf, standing up from his desk and shaking Sallum warmly by the hand. 'You are well, my brother?'
Assaf was a short, compact man who looked younger than his fifty-three years. His hair was greying but still thick, and although there were lines around his forehead his skin was still smooth and velvety. His eyes were set deep into his head, and his long nose raked out from the centre of his face. He had bearing and presence, Sallum observed, and a natural sense of command. Yet at the same time, he was discreet: you wouldn't notice him until he meant to put you under his spell. That was probably what made him such a successful businessman.
'I am well, sir,' Sallum replied stiffly.
'The operation in Saudi Arabia, it went better than we could have expected,' said Assaf. 'You are to be congratulated.'
Sallum bowed his head. 'To serve the movement in any way is an honour.'
'Quite so,' answered Assaf. 'May it be just the first of many great victories.' He turned, walking back towards his desk. The office was decorated simply — a desk, a computer screen, and a couple of leather armchairs for visitors. A copy of the FT and a pair of trade magazines lay on a coffee table. There was a picture of his wife and children on the desk, and a modest portrait of the prophet on the wall. But otherwise there was nothing to suggest that Assaf was anything but the most respectable of businessmen.
'But any movement will experience setbacks as well as victories,' said Assaf.
Sallum moved closer to the desk. 'A setback?'
'Unfortunately so,' Assaf replied. 'A boat carrying gold and jewels belonging to the organisation has been attacked and sunk. All the goods on board have been stolen, and our men killed.'
Sallum could feel a bead of sweat forming on his brow. 'Nobody would dare,' he said. 'It is an outrage.'
'They have dared,' said Assaf. 'But they will regret it.' He laid out five photographs on his desk, each one depicting a different man. Sallum picked up the pictures one by one, holding them carefully between thumb and index finger. On the back of each picture was stencilled a different name in black ink: Matt Browning, Damien Walters, Ivan Rowe, Alan Reid and Joe Cooksley. 'Are these the men?'
'They are British,' replied Assaf. 'They took the boat, and stole our money.' He paused, turning towards the window and looking out at the drizzly suburbs of Birmingham. 'In the Koran, in the book of Abu Dawuud, it is written: "A thief was brought to the Prophet four times and his punishments were amputations of the right hand, the left foot, the left hand and then the right foot. On the fifth occasion the Prophet had him killed."' Assaf looked towards Sallum, meeting his eyes. 'I think we know what it is the Prophet would wish to be done.'
TWELVE
This is where it started, Matt thought, looking up at the drab brick façade of the Holiday Inn Express on Wandsworth roundabout. He walked briskly into the hotel, telling the receptionist that three rooms were booked in the name of Jim Arnold. Matt had pulled the name straight out of his head when he made the booking on the phone. 'This way, lads, second floor,' he said.
Cooksley, Reid, Damien and Ivan followed him up the stairs. They had flown back from Cyprus that morning on the first flight available. From Heathrow, they had made their way directly to the hotel. Matt had called Alison from the airport, saying they were back in Britain, and they needed a meeting. Urgently.
'When will she be here?' Reid asked.
Matt checked his watch. It was three-twenty now, and she had promised to be there by three-thirty. 'Another ten minutes,' he said flatly.
The decision had not been hard to make, and it had been taken jointly between all five of them. Regiment rules. They took decisions together.
Who had attacked Cooksley or why, they had no way of knowing for sure. But it was obvious that someone was after them. They had talked about escaping, discussed lots of different places. They could have headed for Greece, maybe, or gone into Romania or the Balkans somewhere. There were lots of places a man could hide in that part of the world, and three of them knew Kosovo well. They could have crossed to Turkey or headed into north Africa. But it was Damien who had come up with the most practical solution. When you want to hide, go somewhere you know well. That meant going home.