'Arguing I can handle.'
'It's the money,' said Heuhle. 'It's always the money. It has the same effect on all of them. Within a few days, the oldest of friends are at each other's throats.' He paused, turning to look at Matt. 'You want my advice, you split that cash up, give a fair share to each man still standing, then get the hell out. Once the killing starts, it doesn't end until there's only one man left standing. And it won't necessarily be you.'
Matt swung the last of the bags into the boot of the Ford, which was still parked on the back of the truck. 'Thanks,' he said tersely. 'Always good to have some encouragement.'
Heuhle laughed. 'I just meant be careful,' he said. 'A man with ten million in unmarked notes in the boot of his car needs several sets of eyes. He'll have enemies he never even imagined.'
Matt turned the ignition on the car and carefully backed it down on to the dirt track. 'You look after yourself, too,' he said. 'A man with a truck full of gold and diamonds needs just as many eyes as a man with ten million in notes. Especially when it's jinxed.'
With a brief smile he wound up the window and started turning the car. The killing won't stop until only one man is left standing, reflected Matt — the advice Heuhle had just given him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, looking out for the main road, and wondering how long it would be until he hit the turning for Calais.
Well then, I just have to make sure that man is me.
EIGHTEEN
Home, thought Matt, as he glanced up at the first of the familiar green-and-white British road signs.
It was pitch dark when he pulled out of the Eurotunnel. From Rotterdam he had driven due east, hitting the main road, and not stopping until he'd reached Calais. It was after midnight by then, and the terminal had been mostly deserted — truckers used the train at that time of the night to take advantage of the cheap rates, and a few frugal tourists, but there was plenty of space, and he had no trouble getting a ticket. He had drunk a couple of cups of machine coffee as he'd waited for his number to be called: it tasted like powdered sawdust, but he'd needed something to keep himself awake through the next few hours. As the caffeine kicked in, he'd steered the car into the carriage. For the twenty-minute journey he had sat alone in the car, composing himself and arranging his thoughts.
There was still no sign of Ivan, nor any word from him. The man was planning a hit later on. Perhaps when they split up the money. Or else he was completely innocent, and was just waiting for his share. It was impossible to tell, realised Matt.
But my life may still depend on getting the answer right.
Matt's heart had been thumping as he'd steered the car out of the train and back on to dry land. His hands were sweaty, and his throat dry. He'd glanced nervously at the customs office as he'd driven into a nothing-to-declare lane. He'd slowed the car down, keeping his eyes rooted to the black tarmac of the road, trying to act as casually as he could.
A few officers had been on duty, but they had seemed to be more on the lookout for asylum seekers and cigarette smugglers. Not men with five bags of used notes in their boot.
Strictly speaking, Matt decided, there is probably nothing technically illegal about carrying ten million across the border in cash. But you could be sure that if they found it, they would know you were guilty of something.
Matt glanced in the mirror. The customs post was now safely in the distance, and there was no sign of anyone running after him. He switched the headlights on to high beam and tapped the accelerator, taking the car up to seventy as he hit the M20. He didn't want to risk being stopped for speeding, not with ten million in his boot.
A few minutes' drive, and then I'll be there.
At junction ten he turned on to the A28, heading south towards Tenterden. Two miles along that road he turned sharply to the right. He drove for another mile up a B road, then turned left along a stretch of farming track that led across three fields to a small meadow abutted by woodland. Even in the darkness, as Matt struggled to find his way along the lane in the pitch blackness, this was a place full of strong memories. Damien and he had spent a holiday near here when they were about seven, when both of their fathers were still alive. For several days they'd camped, built fires and constructed dams across streams. They were days that Matt still kept among the happiest of his memories. They had been back here a few times together since, in their teens and twenties, when Matt was back on leave from the Regiment. It was their own personal hiding place, somewhere they could come together and get away from their day-to-day life. A place where they could drink beer and just be boys again.
Maybe that was why Matt had chosen to stash some gear here. Sentimental perhaps — but it was as good a spot as any.
And a man never knows when he might need some weapons.
The wood was just as he remembered it. It was hidden away from the road, and although in the distance you could just see the lights of Ashford, it wasn't overlooked by any houses. The nearest farm building was at least three miles away. Safe, secret, and hidden away. Perfect.
A gust of wind lashed his face as he stepped out of the car. He collected a spade from the boot and walked silently across the ground, counting out the trees. It was the fourth one along from the fence that he wanted. He stepped behind it, kicking his shoe in the mud. It had been churned up by some rain during the day. He knelt, digging his hands into the ground, starting to scratch away at the surface. Nothing had been disturbed. It would be just as they had left it.
It was hard not to think of Damien as he dug. He could see the face and hear the words of his friend as he worked. He had only ever been here with him, and the wood was fresh and alive with his friend's memories. If Damien had a ghost, it would be these woods he would haunt.
The box was just where they had left it: a four-foot green metal ammunition box they had picked up in an army surplus store in Ashford. Matt pulled it free of the trench. From his wallet, he pulled out a tiny padlock key and slid it into the lock. The padlock came away smoothly in his hand. He lifted the open case, glancing inside. The gear was all there — a Beretta 92FS pistol and a Browning 9mm, complete with ten magazines of ammunition each, plus ten sticks of dynamite, a pair of sticks of C4 explosive, complete with detonators. It was material Damien had acquired, and decided to put it in a safe place in case they ever needed it.
Matt picked the Beretta up, feeling its weight in his hand. It had seemed a bit of a joke at the time they had stashed this stuff away: Damien might have expected to be on the run one day, but Matt had been still a loyal soldier in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, and never expected to be doing anything illegal. Still, he had figured there was no harm in stashing a weapon away: everyone in the Regiment knew that old retired soldiers went into the security game, and a gun might come in handy in that business. 'You were right,' said Matt, muttering the words out loud to his dead friend. 'A man never knows when he needs a pistol and a few rounds of ammo.'
He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his jacket, took the spade and walked back to the car. He collected the bags from the car, walked into the woods a few yards, and started digging. The trench, he reckoned, needed to be three to four feet deep: far enough underground that some stray dog wouldn't start sniffing it, but not so far down that it might be impossible to retrieve later.
The money would be hidden for just two days.
Until I have dealt with. Ivan, and until Reid can collect his share. Until the day we agreed we'd meet up and share out the spoils of our war.
He pitched his spade into the earth, slamming it down to break open the mud. Shovelling was hard, heavy work, even in the cold of night. After a few spadefuls Matt cast aside his coat, sweat forming on his brow as he dug. After twenty minutes, the hole was complete: a neat trench, four feet long and three feet deep. Well, thought Matt, looking down into the pit, this is the spot. In Bideford we said we'd put the money here if anything went wrong, and I'm sticking to that plan.