Andy McNab: Payback

Danny’s skin went cold as the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. ‘You mean she might be…?’

Fergus shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s pointless making wild guesses.’

‘But it probably is that woman,’ said Danny desperately. ‘She knows what’s happened here and she wants to help us again.’

Fergus didn’t answer. A bright yellow bus was approaching and he stood up.

Danny grabbed his grandfather’s arm as he got to his feet. ‘It is that woman, I’m certain it is. We have to trust her.’

The morning sun was slanting over the tall buildings lining one side of the boulevard. The bus drew to a halt and the door swung open. Fergus looked at Danny. ‘We trust no one, Danny. No one.’

George Fincham was seated at his desk, and for once the man famed for keeping his cool seemed close to losing it. He was on his mobile, but was staring up at the two plasma TVs.

Marcie Deveraux was also looking at the TV screens. The volume was turned up on both channels, where Sky and BBC News 24 were giving details of the latest suicide bomber, now confirmed as sixteen-year-old Adam Hollis, a Catholic boy from Manchester.

Dudley had been correct in his prediction of a media frenzy on the release of the identity of the second teenage bomber. Since the first explosion at Parliament a constant stream of news pundits and armchair experts had been wheeled into every television and radio studio to fuel speculation that it was the work of Muslim extremists.

Now live TV was filled with a whole new raft of pundits. Islamic fundamentalists were still top of the list of suspects. After all, claimed one expert, the Islamic faith was the fastest growing religion on the planet. In the US state of Texas alone, more than half a million people had converted to Islam since 9/11. Who was to say that many impressionable British youngsters were not doing the same? But there were other theories too: everyone and everything from mad mullahs to bizarre suicide cults was getting a mention.

However, the urgency and excitement of the television voices were nothing compared to George Fincham’s as he shouted into the phone. ‘Missing? Why didn’t you tell me that before? You’re saying that not only is he alive and out of our control but he has explosives? What the fucking hell are you doing over there? You may as well get your arses back here. Wait out!’

He looked at Deveraux. ‘I should have sent you to handle this. The only reason I didn’t is because of your apparent obsession with allowing the two of them to live.’

‘Only because of the information Watts may have to give us, sir.’

Fincham ignored Deveraux’s comment and turned to look at a screen as the sound of the explosion burst out of the plasma’s speakers. One of the news programmes was replaying the fatal moment as the camera fixed for the kick-off shuddered at the impact of the bomb and then panned to the right to settle on the scene of devastation.

Deveraux picked up the remote on Fincham’s desk. ‘May I, sir?’

Fincham nodded and Deveraux hit a button to mute the sound from both screens.

In the Pimlico surveillance house Curly and Beanie were on the early shift. They smiled as they hovered over their TV monitors; Fincham and Deveraux’s conversation would now be as crystal clear as the picture they were watching.

‘Way to go, Marcie,’ said Curly.

Steaming mugs of coffee stood untouched on the tabletop. The job could be tedious – hour after boring hour of watching nothing. But this morning the two operators had front-row seats at their very own reality TV extravaganza. Beanie checked that the recording gear was running smoothly as they listened to Deveraux speak.

‘I think we should keep the team in Spain, sir,’ she said to Fincham. ‘Watts will know they planted the device. He has nothing to gain by coming back to the UK: it’s too much of a risk. If I were in his situation, I would be looking for a new safe house and keeping a low profile. My suggestion is that we keep all our resources in Spain and attempt to find him. If he gets away again, we may lose him for good.’

In the surveillance house Curly unwrapped a Snickers bar and dunked it in his coffee. ‘You tell him, Marcie.’

Fincham sat back in his chair as a police helicopter flew low past his window, following the line of the river. ‘But where do we start?’ he asked Deveraux.

‘Inform the Spanish we have a warrant for their arrest; get their Intelligence and police to help us find Watts and the boy.’

Both surveillance operators were leaning in towards the monitor, willing Fincham to agree. ‘Come on, Georgie-boy,’ said Beanie. ‘Do that thing. Keep those knuckle-draggers in Spain.’

But Fincham wasn’t yet convinced. ‘I don’t want the Spanish turning this into a full-scale operation.’

Deveraux had worked out her plan carefully. ‘I don’t see it as a problem, sir. We tell Spanish intelligence that it’s connected with anti-terrorism, the suicide bombings. Watts has explosives; Danny is another potential bomber. We explain that our people will collect the two suspects and bring them back to the UK without our respective governments knowing. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘And what about their police?’

‘We make it clear to Spanish intelligence that as far as their police are concerned, Watts and the boy are just a couple of criminals who need to be rounded up and thrown out of the country. That way the police help us in the hunt without knowing too many details.’

Fincham stood up and went to the window stretching the length of his office. He looked out for a few moments before turning back. ‘All right. Contact the Spanish and keep the operation covert. Tell them we just need to know where Watts and the boy are and we will do the rest.’

Deveraux nodded and got up from her chair. ‘Yes, sir.’

Fincham reached for his mobile; then, as Deveraux headed for the door, her Xda began to ring. She looked at the phone and saw that it was the call she was expecting. Before she left the room and answered it, she glanced up at the TV screens and smiled slightly.

In the surveillance room both operators started to clap their hands, applauding Deveraux’s performance.

Curly blew a kiss at the screen just before she disappeared from view. ‘I think she fancies me,’ he said with a laugh.

Fergus and Danny lay on the sandy earth next to the long stretch of tarmac road cutting through the remote stretch of Andalusian countryside. It was an hour before first light, the time when the night seems to be at its darkest.

Fergus had paced the distance from the road junction several kilometres back. They had not begun the long march until after dark and had left their final approach until Fergus stood off from the area and observed it from higher ground to ensure they were not walking into a trap. When he was sure it was safe, they moved in. Now they were in exactly the right position at exactly the right time.

The faint drone of an engine broke the silence.

‘Our lift,’ said Fergus quietly. ‘When I get up, you follow, and stay directly behind me.’

Danny could feel the tension as the adrenalin began pumping round his body. The moment he had dreamed of for so long had finally arrived. ‘Why did you decide we should go back?’ he asked.

Fergus gave a short, ironic laugh. ‘Because basically, whichever way you look at it, we’re in the shit. Sometimes, for all the training and preparation, you have to go with your gut feeling. My gut feeling is we take the ride that’s been offered. At least this way we’re doing something active, instead of running away. And you can’t run away for ever – didn’t you tell me that once?’