Time to bury the treasure.
Sallum trained his binoculars on to the edge of the fence. It was dark, but there was just enough light in the sky for him to see what was going on. Rami was crouching down low, the pliers in his hand, cutting his way swiftly through the wire mesh. The boy gripped a handful of steel and tore at it as if it were a piece of paper. Smart, thought Sallum, a wry smile playing across his lips. If you want to make absolutely sure you trigger the alarms, that's the way to do it.
He could see the boy push himself through the hole he'd made, making his body small, and wriggle across the dry earth. His shirt snagged on the wire and he had to turn to rip the cloth free. Then he stood, looking towards the house forty yards away. The land between was covered in immaculate lawn and flowerbeds, with two fountains closer to the building. It had been designed carefully, Sallum observed from his perch high on the hill. Between the fence and the house there was no cover a man could use. Any obstacles that would restrict the line of sight of the guards had been stripped away. All Rami could do was crawl slowly along the ground, keep his head down, and hope for the best.
He has faith, Sallum reflected. That will give him the courage.
He watched as Rami started to crawl forwards. The rifle was still slung over his back, and his hands were moving swiftly across the ground. Up ahead, at the side entrance to the house, Sallum could see the door swinging open. He switched his binoculars up an inch, focusing on the man emerging from the house. About six feet tall, he was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, with black body armour strapped around his chest and a pistol in one hand, a rifle hung across his shoulders and a knife tucked into the buckle of his belt. He was twenty yards from where Rami was crawling forwards, ignorant of his presence.
You can protect yourself against most forms of attack, Sallum thought, watching as Reid approached the boy — but you can't protect yourself against a man who is committing suicide. The ultimate price will always claim the ultimate victory.
Sallum checked both his P7 pistols were secured to his body and fully loaded. He unclasped a knife from his belt, holding it in his hand, then started moving swiftly down the side of the hill.
Time to sever another limb.
There were only a few customers at the Road Chef service station on the M20. Matt sat down at a plastic table, ordered himself a full English breakfast with extra toast and coffee, and glanced through the restaurant. A few truckers, stopping off after bringing their trucks off the ferries, a few stray German and Dutch tourists, and one young family who, from the noise the kids were making, were on their way to Disneyland Paris.
He checked his watch — just after five-twenty in the morning. He scanned the restaurant to check no one was watching him. It was still impossible to say whether Ivan had put a trail on him or not.
After burying the loot, Matt had climbed back into the car and started driving. He had called Reid briefly to let him know the transfer had gone smoothly, and that the money was safely stashed away in the location they'd agreed upon down in Bideford. He'd given him precise co-ordinates of the location and directions of how to find it; if anything happened to him in the next few hours, the money belonged to Reid and his family.
Reid had been furious with him for slipping away, bursting into a rage and hurling a thousand insults at him, but eventually calming down when he realised that the money was safe — and that Matt wouldn't be calling if he'd been planning to steal it. Still, Matt had been grateful to hear he was still alive, and as he talked to him he'd become more certain that Ivan must be the traitor among them. If it was Reid, he wouldn't have been so desperate to protect his family — there would be nothing to protect them from. And there had been no more hits on the gang since they'd told the Irishman to get lost.
The food arrived at the table: a steaming plate of sausages, bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. Matt took a gulp of coffee and stuffed down a couple of mouthfuls of bacon, then he pushed the plate away. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Ivan or his accomplice was about to hit him.
When you feel certain someone might be about to try and kill you, it's funny how your appetite abandons you.
Matt checked his watch again. Five twenty-eight. He watched the faces of the people in the restaurant. A pair of truckers had just walked in, one glancing through a copy of the Express, the other talking on his mobile. No sign of Ivan. I suppose he might not come himself, he thought. He'll send his accomplice, whoever that might be: some psychotic kicked out of the IRA for excessive cruelty. It could be any of these people here, just sitting, eating their breakfast, silently preparing the bullet that wall kill me or polishing the blade that will slit my throat.
Five-thirty. Matt reached for a slice of toast and started chewing on it. His throat felt dry and it was difficult to swallow. Fights he could handle — it was the waiting he hated, the moments of silence and reflection before the inevitable conflict.
He tried Gill on the mobile. He knew it was early in the morning in Spain, but he wanted to hear from her: not to ask her to take him back — he was starting to give up hope on that — but just to make sure she was OK. He needed to hear the sound of her voice.
Why isn't she answering? he asked himself as he hung up on the twentieth ring.
Five thirty-four. One of the truckers was glancing up in Matt's direction. Is it you? he asked himself. His eyes flickered towards one of the tourists. You? Or that family — maybe the kids are just cover, maybe you're planning to knife me in the car park.
In his jacket pocket, Matt was fingering the cold, steel case of the Beretta. Come out of the shadows, Ivan, he muttered to himself. Let's get this done.
He tried another piece of toast but found himself incapable of swallowing anything and spat the food out. Walking across to the payphone, he slipped some coins into the box then punched the number into the keypad. He listened to the slow, insistent ringing of the phone. In his mind, he could see the dark corridor in Hammersmith of the IRA safe house, Whitson's body rotting somewhere and Ivan pacing around or playing another stupid game of bridge on the computer. Answer the phone, man, Matt repeated to himself. I know you're there.
He hung up the phone on the twentieth ring, pressing re-dial instantly. The ringing tone again. Still no reply. Then he punched in the mobile number for Ivan, waited for the connection, and hung up when he heard the familiar voicemail message kick in.
Okay, Ivan, he thought to himself, we'll play it your way. If you won't come and get me, I'll just have to come and get you.
Sallum moved closer to the perimeter of the fence, making little sound as he walked. He kept his eyes trained on Rami, still crouching on the ground, still unaware of the man from the house walking towards him. Their confrontation could only be a few seconds away. This was the moment to strike.
A shot rang out, the sound piercing the still of the dawn. Sallum glanced up. Rami had fired, but missed. A mistake.
In any gun battle, the man who shoots first is almost always the loser.
Sallum ducked silently through the hole Rami had cut in the fence. He swerved to the right, intending to approach the house from the back while Rami was still distracting the man at the front of the house. He was dressed completely in black, no more visible in the darkness than a shadow flickering across the ground. Looking up towards the house, he realised that it occupied maybe five thousand square feet: a massive building, and he would have only a few minutes inside to find and kill the family while the man was distracted by Rami.