'There's always Regiment guys who need money,' said Matt. 'It's not like we get big pay-offs when we leave.'
'Exactly. Here are two names,' said Perky. 'We'd like you to approach both men.'
Alison moved closer to where Matt was standing. 'With the SAS men, it would be better if you make the approach,' she said. 'It'll come better from you.'
Matt looked down at the piece of paper. Two names were printed in small black lettering: Joe Cooksley and Alan Reid. He knew both men quite well but they had not been close friends. He had served alongside them both in Bosnia in the 1990s. They hadn't been in the same squadron, but they had worked together on the assassination of Janos Biktier, one of the local warlords who'd thrived under Milosevic's patronage, and whose men had been raping and killing their way through Kosovo. An evil bastard. Matt had enjoyed that mission: Biktier richly deserved the bullet he'd left in his skull. Cooksley and Reid had been in a team that had proved itself under fire, providing Matt with the cover he needed as he moved in for the final kill. He had been happy to trust them with his fife then. He would be happy enough to do so again now.
Poor bastards. I wonder what kind of messes they're in to qualify them to make it on to this list?
'Any particular reason for these two?'
'We've asked around,' said Pinky. 'We hear they're good men, and for different reasons they might need money. We think you should talk to them. If they don't want to, there are more names we can give you.'
'There's a regimental get-together tomorrow night in Hereford,' said Perky. 'You should go. Get talking to them.'
Matt nodded. 'That makes three, if they agree. Who else?'
'You'll need some specialist help,' said Alison. 'This is stealing. The gold and the diamonds in the boat will almost certainly be in a safe, so we'll need someone who knows about cracking those open. I've got someone in mind. And once you've got the stuff, you'll need someone to fence it. You can't just walk into Ratner's and offer them thirty million dollars' worth of gold and jewels. I know someone who can help you with that too.'
'So do I,' said Matt.
Damien. Damien will know the right people to deal with.
Alison, Pinky and Perky exchanged glances. They are saying something, Matt realised. But not out loud. Not so I can hear it.
'It would be better if I chose the gang members,' said Alison.
'Better for you, maybe,' Matt said swiftly. He could see her face turning to stone and some words starting to form on her lips, and he could tell they were likely to be harsh. He relaxed, flashing her a grin — he could be manipulative too. 'Listen,' he said. 'The guy I have in mind is good, and I can trust him for reasons of my own. But if you don't like him, he's not in. OK?'
'Maybe,' said Alison.
'Meanwhile, I'll start talking to these guys.'
'It has to be secret,' said Perky. 'Any leaks will cost lives.'
'Hey,' said Matt, 'anything goes wrong, I'm the one who's getting his balls blown off.'
Alison looked towards Matt, her eyelashes dropping coyly, and her red, painted fingernails brushed the edge of his wrist. 'Mr Browning,' she said softly, 'thanks for accepting the mission. I'm sure it will be a pleasure for us to work together.'
The bar was hot and crowded, the smell of beer already thick in the air. Matt stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the scent of the place fill his nostrils. It wasn't a scent you could put in a shop. Nobody was ever going to bottle it and sell it as aftershave, but to him, it was as sweet as any cologne. It smelt like home.
He walked slowly through the room. The sergeants' mess was open every evening, and although it usually catered for only serving members, it was the venue for every reunion. Tonight, the class of 1990 — the year Matt had joined up — was meeting. That was one of the things Matt admired most: the spirit and camaraderie of the Regiment. You could leave it, but it never left you.
On the walls were photographs, paintings and captured weapons from past campaigns. Matt glanced to the left. Up there was a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, the model used by the IRA for the bulk of its assassinations of British soldiers. Matt had been on the team that captured that weapon from a Provo sniper in 1993, and the sight of it now stirred proud memories. Next to it was an AK-47 captured during the battle of Mirbat in Oman in 1972.
He caught the eye of one of a group of lads standing close to the bar. Young men, maybe twenty-six to twenty-eight. There was a look of hunger in their eyes. Like looking in a mirror, thought Matt, but one that returns a reflection of how you looked a decade ago. They might look like boys to him, but they were already battle-hardened sergeants. It reminded Matt of how he had aged over the past decade.
The Regiment teaches us how to do amazing things, he realised as he took his first sip of beer. Fantastic feats of endurance, physical stamina and bravery. But they don't teach us the lesson we most need: how to survive on the outside.
He heard a voice calling his name: a raucous Geordie accent he would have recognised anywhere. Steve Watts had been one of his great pals in the Regiment. They had been on the same training courses together. Matt always remembered a rain-sodden night hiking across the Brecon Beacons with a heavily laden bergen on his back, when it seemed as if every muscle was about to explode and his spirit was already past breaking point. It had only been Wattsie's jokes that had pulled him through. Another time they had been holed up together in the bleak, dark hills of County Antrim, ambushed by a group of Provos, heavily outnumbered and under withering fire. One of them had to make a break across open country to call in some back-up. Matt offered to flip a coin, but Wattsie had said no. He had a good feeling about it, and he'd take the chance.
Matt had met plenty of people since leaving the Regiment, and made lots of new friends, but none of them were brothers like Wattsie.
Playing with life and death. It forms bonds between men that are impossible in the ordinary run of civilian life.
'Look at that tan, man. That's the life,' said Wattsie, his thick, muscled hand slapping hard against Matt's back. 'I look at you and I think, What the hell are you doing back in Newcastle, Wattsie, you daft bugger? The lasses aren't in bikinis because it's too bloody cold, the beer costs two bloody quid a pint, and the football team still hasn't won anything. I'm telling you, I'm on the next plane out.'
Matt grinned. Whatever your problems, they could melt away in the company of men such as this. 'How's it going?'
'Not so bad, mate, not so bad,' said Wattsie. 'Those al-Qaeda boys, we've got a lot to thank them for. Put a few blokes like me back in business. I started doing a bit of security work, then nothing. After six months, things were so bad I did a few nights as a bouncer down at Quayside. The lasses are the worst. The lads, you just give them a bit of a slap, let them sleep it off out the back. But the lasses, you don't want to start roughing them up, but some of them are so drunk, there's nothing else you can do.'
'But it's got better?'
Wattsie took a swig on his beer, nodding to the barman for a fresh glass. 'After September the eleventh, all the Yanks and Japs started pissing themselves,' he said. 'They want protection. Bodyguards for executives, advice on how to search their factories. Now, that assassination of David Landau out in Saudi has made them all even more nervous. Business has never been so good. So I'm back on my feet. Can't complain.'
The world has become a tense, edgy place, but that is good for men like us. We thrive in nervous times.
'But a bar in Marbella — that's the life, though,' said Wattsie. 'I'll bring the wife and kids out in the summer, we can afford it this year, not like the last two years. We could use a holiday.'