The Jews might be among our greatest foes, but sometimes the devil has the best munitions. We'll use their guns if we need to.
'See if you can hit the fruit from that tree,' said Sallum.
They were standing in the hills behind the cafe, in the middle of a long stretch of waste and scrubland populated only by a few goats. In the distance there were two orange trees, struggling to grow in the barren, sun-baked earth. Rami found his target in the gun-sight, steadied his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed around the hills.
The fruit didn't move.
'See if you can hit the tree, then,' said Sallum patiently.
Rami put the rifle back up to his shoulder. He spread his legs slightly wider apart, driving his heels into the sand to give himself a better balance. He took a deep breath, lined up the sight to his right eye, squinted to protect his vision from the bright afternoon sun, then squeezed softly on the trigger.
The tree remained undisturbed.
'Don't worry,' said Sallum, patting the boy on the back, 'when we go in against our target you'll be much closer.'
This boy couldn't shoot himself in the foot.
The Ithaca inched its way carefully through the dock, its massive engines churning up water as the propellors screwed in reverse to slow the ship down. Along its side, sailors cast down ropes to their colleagues on the bay.
It's an ugly looking ship, though Matt. Twenty years of ploughing cargo through the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the North Sea had battered its hull and scraped away whatever paintwork might have once decorated it.
But to me, it's the finest looking vessel I have ever seen.
Matt turned to Heuhle. 'Looks like my boat just came in.'
The two men walked closer to the side of the dock. It was five in the afternoon, and dusk was falling. A wind was whipping in from the north, and the spray from the sea was hitting Matt's face. A group of men were huddled around a makeshift wooden hut, filling in forms and collecting passes: most of them looked like Albanians, Kosovans or Kurds. Temporary workers, explained Heuhle, signing on for the night shift. That's what the asylum seekers do while they are waiting to be sent home.
Matt scoured the faces in front of them. One of you could be the assassin, he reflected. One man looked him in the eye, smiled, then looked away. Maybe you, wondered Matt. Another man stood next to him, lighting up a cigarette, looking down at the ground. Maybe you.
Until I get out of here I'm going to be looking at every shadow, wondering whether it's going to kill me.
He walked up closer to the Ithaca. The ship was bound to the dockside now, rolling only slightly with the swell of the water. Above, Matt could see the massive cargo cranes swinging into action. Huge steel beams swung out over the boat, lowering cables on to its deck, hauling containers up into the sky, then back down on to the dock.
I'm so close to my money I can almost smell it.
'Ticket number 219,' Matt said to the docks manager standing beside the ship, supervising its unloading. 'A couple of imported cars. How long?'
The man shrugged. 'An hour, maybe two,' he replied. 'It depends how deep down in the hold they stashed it.'
The waiting, thought Matt. That's always what gets to you. In the thick of the action you don't have the time to think or worry. When you are sitting around, that's all there is to do.
A small group of men was starting to gather, each of them, Matt supposed, here to make their own collections. Behind them, the car park was full of lorries and vans, all ready to take the stuff away.
Heuhle collected a truck from the car park and drove it up to the side of the dock, ready for the two containers to be loaded on top of it.
Matt counted three ships in this dock and two in the next one, but the Ithaca was the only vessel being unloaded right now, and looked like the last of the day. Most of it was bulk cargo: fruit, and cheap manufactured goods, mostly clothes and furniture, that had been picked up in Turkey and Cyprus and was destined for the supermarkets of western Europe. Most of the truck drivers looked bored and uninterested. So would I be, thought Matt, if I just had to pick up a couple of these containers and drive them to Düsseldorf.
That, after all, is the point of all this. To save myself from an ordinary working life.
'Our number's up,' said Heuhle, standing at his side.
Matt snapped to attention and looked up. The crane had lifted a single steel container free of the boat. The metal screeched while the crane slowly turned, then the steel ropes started to winch the crate down.
Just a few more inches, thought Matt. Then it's back on dry land.
'Your ticket,' said the docks manager.
Matt took the receipt from his wallet and handed it across. The man inspected the piece of paper briefly, made a note on his pad, then nodded. 'OK,' he said tersely. 'It's yours.'
The container was lowered slowly on to the back of the truck. 'Take it away,' shouted the docks manager as soon as it was in place.
Matt hopped into the passenger seat and Heuhle drove the truck forward into the parking lot. From the corner of his eye, Matt could see the customs inspector approaching them. 'I'll do the talking,' said Heuhle. 'It'll be easier to speak Dutch.'
Matt could feel his stomach heaving as the two men spoke. He'd been told that about five per cent of the containers were searched by customs. The inspector nodded, looked at some paperwork, then cast his eyes over the container and stamped Heuhle's paper.
'We're clear,' Heuhle said, climbing back into the cabin.
Matt got out, lowered the back of the truck, fired up the rented Ford, and steered it on to the back of the lorry, tucking it behind the container.
'Can you drive this?' said Heuhle, looking towards Matt as he climbed back into the cabin.
'Of course,' answered Matt. 'If you can drive a tank, a truck is no problem.'
'Follow the red Audi,' said Heuhle, climbing down from the cabin. 'When I stop, that's where the money is.'
Matt turned the ignition, bringing the engine roaring to life. Pushing his foot on the accelerator, he gradually familiarised himself with the controls. Turning the wheel, he started to steer the truck out of the port and on to the main road. Up ahead, Heuhle's Audi was in view, driving cautiously in the slow lane. So far, so good, thought Matt. In another hour, the money will be safely stashed in the back of that rented Ford.
My money. Ten million, a third of it mine — and more if we finish Ivan.
The lights from the compound were only just visible over the ridge of the hill. Sallum looked over the cusp of the rock, surveying the panorama below. He could see the house, the drive leading up to it, and the high, wire fencing encircling the compound. Taking a pair of binoculars from his pocket, he looked down at the gates: black, thick, reinforced steel. The only way through was by cutting the wire — and that, he could be sure, was protected by a thousand different electronic sensors.
My sources were right. Only a man on a suicide mission would attempt to get inside there.
'How do we get inside, sir?' Rami asked, looking up towards Sallum.
'Wire cutters,' said Sallum.
From his backpack, he took out a pair of thick steel pliers. 'You cut the wire like this,' he said, crunching the pliers together. 'Snap a section of wire open, about one foot square. That will be enough for you to crawl through. Then wriggle along the ground, trying to keep low and out of sight. As you approach the house, get your gun ready. Go in through the main balcony window. As soon as you see anyone, shoot them on sight. Understood?'