Andy McNab - Payback

‘They? Who are they? I don’t understand any of this.’

Elena said nothing and they slipped into a gloomy silence as the cab moved out through the suburbs towards Heathrow. When they reached the terminal, armed police were watching at the drop-off point. The driver caught Elena’s eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Want me to wait? It’s all paid for, but I can’t hang around long – the police are moving everyone on. It’s this bombing business.’

‘I’m seeing my dad off. I’ll find my own way back.’

Joey already had his hand on the door handle. ‘No, darling, you go back. You know I’m no good at long goodbyes.’

‘But Dad-’

‘No, Elena. There’s two hours until my flight. You don’t want to see your poor old dad in tears, do you?’

Elena could already feel tears beginning to well up in her own eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand and looked at the cab driver. ‘Two minutes?’

The driver smiled sympathetically and nodded. ‘Sure.’

Joey got out of the cab and waited while Elena walked round to join him. She couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around him and hugging him.

‘I’m sorry, babe,’ whispered Joey, his voice choking with emotion.

Elena held onto him tightly; she didn’t want him to see her cry. And she was crying, even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. ‘I’ll miss you, Dad. Take care – write to me.’

‘Course I will, darling.’

She laughed, even though she was still crying. ‘You won’t; you never do.’

Tears were rolling down Elena’s face. She kissed her dad on the cheek and then turned away. She didn’t look back as she walked to the cab. She didn’t look back as the driver pulled away. She didn’t see Joey watching the cab until it disappeared from view.

Danny looked down over London as the Cessna eased into its landing approach. The lights across the city and suburbs seemed to stretch away endlessly in every direction.

It had been a long and gruelling flight of over one thousand nautical miles. They flew virtually the whole length of Spain and then skirted the Pyrenees and crossed into French air space for another long haul northward, and then finally across the English Channel. Three times they landed to refuel, first in Spain and then twice more in France. But not once were they permitted to leave the cockpit; not even the pilot got out.

At each brief stop, air force personnel silently and efficiently approached the aircraft to carry out the refuel. No paperwork was completed, no words were exchanged; whoever was responsible for organizing the operation was high up in the food chain. Everything had been considered and prepared, right down to the bottles for peeing in. The pilot gave them each a small square cardboard box, packed with vacuum-sealed bags of food and drink – twenty-four-hour army ration packs.

Fergus grinned as he opened his. ‘Brings back memories,’ he said, delving into the box and examining the contents. ‘Lancashire hot pot for dinner. What you got?’

‘The same,’ said Danny, reading the blue words printed on the bag. ‘And bacon and beans, and fruit dumplings and custard.’

Fergus ripped open a packet of chocolate. ‘This used to be pretty good. But watch out for the biscuits, they’re like iron.’

An incredible amount was packed into the boxes. As well as the main food rations there was soup, chewing gum, boiled sweets, sugar, hot chocolate and carefully packed essentials like matches. There was even a small metal tub of turkey and herb pate.

‘Yanks always used to be jealous of our rations,’ said Fergus. ‘Much better than theirs.’

It was the first time Danny had flown in a small plane, but the initial excitement soon turned to boredom as hour followed tedious hour. A couple of times he attempted to engage the pilot in conversation. He needn’t have bothered; this was no pleasure trip, and the man at the controls was totally focused on the job in hand and was not going to be distracted.

Fergus was quiet too; his thoughts were centred on what was awaiting them when they eventually touched down in the UK.

So Danny had to settle for talking to himself or keeping his mouth shut. He chose the latter, listening to the constant drone of the engine, occasionally dipping into his rations and worrying about Elena.

They dozed for a while, but Danny was woken suddenly as the small aircraft neared the Pyrenees and was tossed about in the updraughts of air. He was scared at first, but when he saw that both Fergus and the pilot looked completely unperturbed, he sat back and enjoyed the rollercoaster ride. It was better than boredom.

They went from darkness to light and back to darkness with hardly a word spoken. But at last they were making their final descent.

Fergus knew exactly where they were headed as he looked down at the A40 streetlights burning their way west towards Oxford. ‘We’re going into Northolt,’ he said quietly. ‘West London.’

His grandson just nodded. Suddenly, with Fergus finally prepared to start a conversation, Danny had nothing to say. He was nervous; more than that, frightened. They were taking a massive gamble on coming back and had no idea what awaited them the moment they stepped out of the plane.

Fergus knew RAF Northolt well from his years in the Regiment. He had landed there many times, before being driven the last few miles to what is known simply as ‘Northwood’, the top-secret MoD control centre used to conduct operations all over the world. It was at Northwood that Fergus had been given his final briefing before being sent out to Colombia as a K.

Both Gulf wars were monitored and controlled from the high security location. From the outside, all the public get to see through the high wire fences are a few old buildings and some satellite dishes. But inside, and mostly underground in the three levels of bunkers, the complex was the closest thing Fergus had seen to the set of a James Bond movie. He remembered watching the large screens showing real-time pictures of operations in the world’s trouble spots as government officials and high-ranking officers directed personnel hunched over computers.

That was in the past, when Fergus was part of it all. Now it was different. He was returning to the very nerve centre of British military operations as a fugitive from the law, a wanted man.

‘If there’s a drama, I’ll try to give you some time,’ he said to Danny as the aircraft lined up on two rows of runway lights that had just started to flash. ‘Run towards the lights on the main road, get over the fence somehow and head left. There’s a tube station about half a mile away.’

‘But… but I’ve only got euros.’

Fergus stared at his grandson and then shook his head. ‘Work something out.’

The wheels screeched on tarmac and the aircraft bounced along the runway. Fergus checked the Semtex he had shoved down his sweatshirt. He had kept only the plastic-like high explosive and the detonator, its two wires tightly twisted together. Left free, the wires could act like an antenna, pick up radio frequencies and set off the detonator. Fergus was ensuring that the det and the HE were kept well apart at all times.

Headlights flashed in the distance and the pilot turned the aircraft away from the A40 and towards the lights. He kept the aircraft moving quickly; too fast for his passengers to attempt to jump out and make a run for it.

As they neared the vehicle, two figures could be seen silhouetted in the headlights.

Danny gripped his grandfather’s arms. ‘They’re carrying.’

Fergus had already spotted the Heckler and Koch MP5s – small 9mm machine guns: a weapon he had used himself in the Regiment. He knew that one option was already closed to them. No one outruns a Heckler and Koch.