He took a hit of the coffee and finished off the biscuit. A taste of food reminded him that it was hours since he'd had anything proper to eat. His stomach was empty, and his head was aching from hunger.
Stop it, Matt — you're going mad yourself. Just collect the money, stay alive, and get this thing over with.
The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He was tall and thin, strong in the way that teenagers are, with eyes that bulged from their sockets, and a shy manner. Sallum inspected him the way he might inspect a goat in the market: as a piece of meat for cooking, not as a living creature.
'Your name?' he said.
'Rami Shamil, sir,' he answered.
Sallum nodded, a smile exposing his gleaming white teeth. 'Rami. The marksman. It is appropriate.'
'I chose it, sir, when I joined our movement.' He sat down next to Sallum. The cafe was situated in the hills behind the main road running east from Puerto Banus. There were no views from here, and it wasn't on a road towards any tourist site. It was entirely Spanish, serving great plates of pork and beans to the truckers. Just as well, reflected Sallum. If we talk in English no one will understand us.
The boy had been supplied by the organisation. Sallum had contacted Assaf to say that he needed someone expendable, and the boy had been dispatched. Rami was Algerian, and had joined al-Qaeda three years before. He'd been in Afghanistan before the war for basic training, then moved to Qatar after the fall of Kabul. He was not an expert fighter, just a mule: a boy used as muscle. But he was devout and fearless, and ready to lay down his life for the cause. Even though he had no particular talents, his willingness made him a useful tool of the organisation. Perfect for Sallum's purposes tonight.
'You are familiar with the Koran?'
'Yes, sir.'
Sallum ordered two cups of weak peppermint tea from the waitress. 'Then tell me the story of Husayn.'
'The grandson of the prophet Mohammed, and the third Imman,' answered Rami. 'He and his band of followers were killed by the Caliph Yazid in 680. He was the first of the great martyrs of the faith, and the shrine to him at Karbala in Iraq is one of the holiest places in all Islam.'
Sallum nodded. 'You are a good student,' he said.
Rami took a sip of his tea, looking up towards Sallum, his expression calm and impassive. 'Am I to become a martyr, sir?'
'Not at all,' said Sallum, shaking his head, a benevolent smile playing on his lips. 'But, you know, those of us who fight for the faith must always be prepared to be martyrs one day. It is that knowledge, that we would lay down our lives at any time, that makes us strong and the infidels weak.'
Matt walked towards the parking lot, clutching the car keys. The blue Ford Focus was one of seven identical cars parked in a row in the Avis lot. He picked his from the number plate, climbed inside the vehicle and started driving.
He had used his own name and credit card to complete the rental forms. There was no way they would give him a car without showing his licence and some plastic, so he figured he had little choice. If anyone wanted to track him down, they could.
But they'll have to find me first. And if I keep moving that won't be so easy.
He checked his watch. It was twelve-twenty. He had another forty minutes until he was scheduled to meet Heuhle, but first he had to find his way through the suburbs of Rotterdam. He pulled the car out of the lot and started heading east. He checked his mirror every few seconds to see if anyone was on his tail.
At this moment I could use a gun, he thought — but although there were plenty of Dutch gangsters who would have sold him one, he didn't have the time to find them.
He turned sharply right. According to the map on the passenger seat, this road would take him in towards the docks. The restaurant was an Italian place, Roos Marijn, a couple of streets from the main port. A local place, out of the way and discreet — Matt reckoned there was little chance anyone would see them.
He drove slowly through the neat suburban streets. His head was turning from right to left, making sure he read every street sign and tracking his position on the map. He was almost there. The next turning on the right, then the restaurant should be a couple of blocks along.
He glanced in the mirror. Nobody was following. He looked across the streets, checking for any cars with people in them. Nothing. He scanned the driveways of the houses, glanced at the street corners, then up into the trees.
If I was planning a hit here, where would I hide myself?
He could see the restaurant a block away: a two-storey building with a long glass front and a red neon sign on top. He pulled into the car park, switched off the ignition, and sat silent for a moment. There were two cars in the lot, both empty. In the mirror, he could see one man walking down the street. He waited for him to pass, tracking his movements, ready to respond. Only when he had disappeared from view did Matt climb out of the car.
OK, if Ivan's here, he's planning to make the hit after the money gets transferred.
Heuhle was sitting in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. Look for a man reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune, he had told Matt, but he needn't have bothered. The only other customers were a Dutch mother and daughter, and a man in his seventies by himself.
'Let's get one thing straight,' said Matt, sitting down in the booth. 'I've had a crap few days. People are getting killed all around me, and I'm probably next. I'm tired, and my nerves are edgy. So you fuck me around, I kill you. With my bare hands if I have to. We clear about that?'
'You should order the chicken soup,' said Heuhle. 'It might make you feel better. Calm you down.'
Heuhle was a thin man, in his early forties Matt judged, almost six feet tall, with light blond hair and a tan that suggested he took several holidays a year. He was wearing a black Boss suit and a dark grey shirt, with a couple of buttons undone at the neck. Fencing stolen jewels and gold looked like a trade that could earn a man a good living. That was to be expected. If he wasn't good enough to make money, Damien wouldn't have been using him.
'I'm sorry to hear about Damien,' said Heuhle.
'How well did you know him?'
Heuhle shrugged. 'In this trade, a man doesn't know anyone that well,' he replied. 'We have contacts, networks, references, but we're all freelancers. We work alone. I did three trades with him. London goods. Diamonds twice, some paintings once. He was reliable and sharp.'
Matt nodded. 'As you know, the Ithaca gets into the port this afternoon. About five, but it could be a couple of hours out either way. I suppose it depends how crowded the port is. But they should be unloading about six. I go in there, collect the gear, get past customs. Then we make the transfer at night. I give you the stuff. You give me the ten million. Agreed?"
'The money is ready.'
'Show me.'
Heuhle shook his head. 'It's in a safe place about five miles from the city. Once you get your stuff, we'll take it there and I'll give you the cash.'
Matt leant forwards, resting his arms on the table. 'How do I know I'm not just going to get my throat cut and my corpse tossed into some Dutch ditch?' he said sharply. 'You could easily have a bunch of guys waiting to finish me off.'
'I could, but I don't,' said Heuhle. 'Trust. That's the basis on which this business works.'
Rami held the TCI 89SR sniper rifle to his shoulder. Sallum had been amused by the choice of weapon: the TCI was a gun manufactured for the Israeli Army, based on the American M14 SWS. A short, black metal rifle, the TCI was light, easily concealed, and had exceptional punch for a weapon of its size. That made it perfect for the tight, house-to-house fighting the Israeli Army specialised in.