Greed

'You told me your family had been picked up by the Provos, but that was a lie,' said Matt. 'You've bed about everything right from the start.'

'Who told you that?' said Ivan cautiously.

'Alison.'

'Interesting,' answered Ivan.

'There were five us when we started, now there are two,' Matt continued angrily. 'Only the two of us knew who was in the gang, and where we all were. It's not me, so it has to be you.'

'I didn't even know where you and Reid were,' Ivan answered, his tone turning patronising. 'You already decided it was me days ago. Two more men have died since then. I even knew when and where the money was being fenced, and I didn't move out of this house. When are you going to realise, you and I are on the same side now?'

Matt held the Beretta up, pointing it directly at Ivan. 'If not you, then who?' he said. 'If you can't answer that question, I'm going to kill you right now.'

'Like I just said, a trump card,' said Ivan, smiling. He held up a micro-cassette. 'This is mine. It will tell you who's responsible for Cooksley's, Damien's and Reid's death, and who will probably be responsible for your death and mine before the week is out.' He paused, dangling the tape in front of Matt's eyes. 'Want to listen to it?'

* * *

Sallum first saw the woman through the tiny window of the cubicle. He had been waiting for three hours, sitting alone, with nothing to look at but four grey walls. The minutes had ticked slowly by, each one allowing him to make a calculation. Whoever they were sending to see him, she probably came from London. The local police wouldn't take this long to get here. That meant MI5.

I'm in more trouble than I thought.

He examined the woman as she stepped through the door. Like many European females, he observed, there was hardly an ounce of womanly flesh on her. She was tall and thin, with blonde hair that tumbled down the back of her neck. Her face was painted with lipstick and mascara, but the femininity of her appearance was all just decoration, Sallum judged: beneath the perfume and the lipstick, she would be made from metal as tough as any man's.

Only the sickest, most decadent of societies would turn a woman into a warrior. That is a man's work.

Harper stood behind her, remaining silent. 'Good afternoon,' the woman said, sitting down at the desk, looking coldly across at Sallum. 'My name is Alison Hammond.'

Sallum nodded. He could disapprove of a working woman, but he would not underestimate her. 'Why am I being held?'

'Prevention of Terrorism Act,' said Alison curtly. 'I think you have already been told that.'

'I am not a terrorist.'

'That's for you to prove, and me to judge,' answered Alison. 'Why are you in Manchester?'

'On business.'

'What business?'

'I've been through that with your colleague,' Sallum snapped. 'Why don't you ask him?'

'I like the sound of your voice,' said Alison. 'So you tell me, please.'

'Import, export,' answered Sallum. 'All perfectly legitimate. You can look at the records if you like. The Saudi embassy will be happy to help you.'

Alison unfolded the pad on the desk, then took out a photograph from a plain brown envelope and pushed it across the desk. It was a shot of Cooksley, taken when he was still in the Regiment, but showing only his head, and dressed in civilian clothes. 'Recognise this man?'

Sallum glanced downwards. He blinked. Then he realised that he'd been caught with his guard down — he had paused, and that had been a mistake. He looked back up at Alison, meeting her eyes with a stare of pure stone. 'No.'

Alison pushed another picture across the desk: Reid, in Regimental uniform. 'How about him?'

This time, Sallum didn't pause. 'No.'

'I don't think you looked at it properly,' Alison replied.

Sallum picked the photograph up with his fingers, holding it to the light, his eyes squinting. 'No.'

'Or these men?' Alison pushed across pictures of Damien, Ivan and Matt. Sallum scrutinised each one in turn, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said slowly. 'I'd like to help you, but I have never seen any of these men in my life.'

Alison nodded. Her eyes moved up to meet his, and he could tell she was scrutinising him, trying to break through the impassive exterior to find out what was happening within. But his mind was encased within walls of steel, and she would never break through.

You can't read me, infidel, any more than you could read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. I'm not from your world, and you know nothing about me.

'Let him go,' said Alison, looking up towards Harper. She glanced towards Sallum, her expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. 'We're sorry to have detained you, Mr bin Sallum. Have a good day.'

TWENTY

Matt held the tape in his hand, a tiny piece of plastic, weighing less than a box of matches. 'OK,' he said, looking across at Ivan, 'play it.'

From the sideboard Ivan picked up a dictaphone and slotted the tape into position. He pressed play. Matt could hear a voice talking, and the unidentifiable sound of some machines in the background. The voice was speaking Arabic, he could tell that much, but his knowledge of the language was so limited he couldn't pick up the meaning of a single word.

'Recognise it?' asked Ivan.

Matt nodded. 'It's the tape Alison played to us in the hotel room, the one she's been looking for,' he answered. 'The al-Qaeda boys in the boat phoning home. Where the hell did you get it?'

'She left it on the table and I slipped it into my pocket when she wasn't looking,' said Ivan. 'You never know when these things might come in useful. It's the one thing I haven't been honest with you about.'

'It was unprofessional of her to leave it out,' said Matt.

'Exactly,' said Ivan. 'That's what I thought. She just left the tape on the table, like she wasn't bothered what happened to it. You don't speak Arabic do you?'

Matt shook his head. 'Do you?'

'No,' said Ivan. 'But she knew that when she played us the tape. None of us would understand what it said. So I had it translated.' He handed another tape to Matt. 'Want to listen to it?'

Matt took the tape and slotted it into the machine. A voice started up: a slight Arab accent, but speaking English with a London accent. It was the kind of voice you would hear in any kebab shop in Acton. 'I would like to order two tickets to Cairo. I want to book return flights, business class, going out early in the morning on the tenth, then coming back on the eighteenth. I'm going to need a car rental at the airport and a hotel in the city.'

Ivan walked across the room and pressed his finger on the tape machine. The voice stopped. 'It's just some guy booking tickets to Egypt at one of the Arab travel shops along the Edgware Road.'

Matt lifted the Beretta, levelling it directly at Ivan's forehead. He released the safety catch. 'You're lying.'

Ivan stepped forward, bringing his forehead into contact with the barrel of the gun. 'Listen you bloody fool, it's Alison,' he said, spitting the words out of his mouth. 'She's been setting us up all along.'

* * *

Sallum slammed the door of the rented Golf. He stepped out into the car park, looking around him. He believed he hadn't been followed, but it never hurt to check once again. The mark of a great assassin is his attention to detail.

Assaf was standing twenty yards away, outside a phone box. Sallum walked slowly towards him, his eyes darting from right to left. As far as he could tell, the man was alone. 'Sorry for the delay,' he said, looking into the eyes of his master. 'I was taken in for questioning at the airport.'

'I know,' said Assaf. 'Are you certain you weren't followed?'

Sallum nodded. After being released from the airport, he had taken a taxi into Manchester, a bus up to Preston, then hired a car and driven down towards Birmingham. At each stage of the journey he had carefully checked his trail, watching for anyone who might be following him. He had doubled back and twisted around on himself — usually that revealed a tracker. He had bought a ticket for Coventry, then hopped on the Preston bus: that should confuse anyone following him by computer. He had checked into a hotel for an hour, showered, then checked into a branch of Next to buy himself a completely new set of clothes and luggage: he wanted to make sure they hadn't planted any electronic devices on him. If he was being followed, he had surely lost them.