Greed

Those had been bad, low moments. But this was worse. This time he was alone.

* * *

Sallum collected his case from the carousel and walked swiftly towards customs. The flight from Malaga to Manchester had taken two hours, fifteen minutes, and there was not much time to lose. Assaf wanted to see him before lunch. It was eleven now. If he picked up a rental car in the next few minutes, he should be there in time.

The morning had gone well. Better than he expected.

But there is still some killing time left in the day. A truly holy man can never rest.

He walked slowly through the green customs lane towards passport control. Experience had taught him to walk slightly nervously through customs: exaggerated self-confidence was one of the signs the customs men looked out for in picking out their victims for random searches. Even then, he had little to fear. He never carried any kind of weapon on a plane — he had dumped the P7 into the Mediterranean, and always bought fresh weapons for each hit — and his false Saudi passport was perfectly in order.

The successful assassin keeps risks to an absolute minimum. That way you stay alive.

'Can we see your bag, sir?'

Sallum stopped and looked at the customs officer. His pulse skipped a beat, but he felt certain that the reaction was not visible on his face, his expression remaining calm and impassive. 'Of course,' he replied.

He put his bag down on the counter. It was a simple, black leather case with a combination lock. Sallum put the numbers in place and opened the clasp. The officer opened the bag, taking out its contents one by one: two spare shirts, a pair of Gap chinos and a pair of blue Levis, a black polo jumper, some socks, underpants, a shaving kit, and a copy of the Koran. 'Okay?' said Sallum, replacing the items in the bag.

'You'll have to follow me, sir,' said the officer.

Sallum paused. 'Can you tell me what the problem is?'

The officer looked at him. He was a man of about forty, with thick, black hair and hard, determined eyes. 'Just follow me.'

A set of screens divided the customs area from the back office. Sallum followed the officer — there was, he decided, no choice. Ever since the glorious victory in New York on 11 September 2001 — a day that would surely go down as one of the greatest in human history — every airport in the world had been teeming with armed police, and sometimes special forces soldiers. If he tried to make a break for it, he'd have half a battalion on him within five seconds. There was no other option but to do what he was told.

The officer pointed to a bank of six small rooms, each with a small, high window. From one, Sallum could hear the sound of a woman crying as she was searched. From another, the violent, rough sound of a man resisting arrest. The officer opened a door, and pointed inside. 'Just wait there, sir,' he said quietly. 'Someone will be along to see you in a minute.'

'Why am I being held?' asked Sallum, his voice more insistent this time.

'Just wait there.'

The room measured six feet by four, with grey wallpaper and a neon strip light. There was a simple wooden table and three black plastic chairs. On the table there was a jug of water and a stack of paper cups. Sallum took a sip of water and listened. The woman was still crying, the man overwhelmed and subdued. Somewhere in the distance he could hear men talking, but could catch nothing of what they were saying. He didn't need to. He knew they were talking about him, and what they should do with him next.

Sallum took his mobile from his pocket and considered making a call. No, he told himself. Too dangerous. They are certain to be listening to every word I say.

* * *

The mobile rang four times in Matt's pocket before he answered it. He sat down on a bench and put the phone to his ear.

'That you?'

Matt recognised the voice instantly — Harry Pointer, Kazanov's sidekick back in Spain. Probably the last person he wanted to hear from. 'Yes,' he replied tersely. 'Everything OK?'

There was a pause. Matt knew what that pause meant, and he steeled himself for the answer. He had heard officers calling the wives and mothers of men who had been killed in action. They always asked if everything was OK, and they always hesitated before delivering the blow. They knew they shouldn't — the rulebook said that if you have bad news, it's always kinder to deliver it quickly — but they couldn't help themselves. Inwardly, they recoiled from the task, and wanted to postpone it as long as possible.

'Bloody hell, Matt, it's like a sodding butcher's shop in here.'

Matt remained silent. Across the park he could see a toddler hassling his mum for some sweets.

'He's dead, isn't he?'

'Of course he's bloody dead,' Pointer snorted. 'The whole bloody family is dead. The wife, the kids — there's blood all over the bedroom, and all the way down the stairs. And there's all these bloody slogans written on the walls. In blood, Matt. Written in blood.'

'What do they say?'

'It says, "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",' Pointer said, reciting the words written on the bedroom wall. 'Fuck it, Matt. These are complete sodding nutcases.'

'Al-Qaeda,' said Matt. 'Or someone dressing their actions up to look like al-Qaeda.'

Another pause. Matt glanced across the path again. The toddler appeared to have won and was sucking on a new packet of chews.

'I can't believe you're messing with those nutcases,' Pointer continued angrily. 'Mr Kazanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Not pleased one little bit. We thought you were just hiding away from some local gangster. Not sodding al-Qaeda.'

'We're all ex-SAS, Harry,' said Matt.

'So what?' Pointer snarled, his voice rising with anger. 'Mr Kasanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Bringing al-Qaeda into his house. He doesn't need that kind of enemy.'

'Frankly, there are so many people trying to kill me right now, you'll have to form a queue.'

'You might think it's funny, Matt, but Kazanov won't.'

'How the fuck did they get in, Harry?' Matt asked.

'Looks like a decoy,' said Pointer. 'There's a hole in the fence, and a young guy dead on the lawn.'

'Listen, just do one thing for me,' he said.

Matt could hear Pointer laughing. 'The favour jar is empty,' he said. 'Don't even ask.'

'Whoever did this, I want to catch them, and finish them,' said Matt. 'So do you.'

Pointer snorted. 'You're not winning me round.'

'Come on,' said Matt, his voice quickening. 'I just want to catch these guys and deal with them for you. Your video cameras should have recorded the whole thing. Just get me the tape of what happened.'

'What will you do with it?'

'Just get me the tape, Harry,' said Matt, his voice growing more insistent. 'I'll identify whoever is on it, then I'll kill him. And Kazanov can have his half-million back. The money's all there, so long as I can stay alive long enough to deliver it.'

'One tape, Matt, that's it,' said Harry. 'Call me back in a couple of hours.'

'Thanks, Harry.'

'Oh, and Matt, one more thing,' Pointer said. 'Give me an address for your funeral. I'd like to send a wreath.'

Matt disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The rain was falling more heavily now, the water dripping off his hair and down the back of his neck. The first lesson he had learned in the Regiment, and maybe the most valuable one, was to curb and control his anger. To channel it in the right direction. To make sure that vengeance, when it came, was deadly, accurate and precise.

There will be time for grieving for Reid and his family later. After their killer has been dealt with.