Andy McNab - Payback

Deveraux couldn’t risk that happening, but she was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. And so did Dudley. ‘This is becoming extremely messy, Marcie.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Deveraux into her mobile. ‘It would be inconvenient to lose Watts and the boy after expending so much energy in getting them back to the UK.’

‘And Fincham’s team is already on the way to Hereford?’

‘Probably already there by now, sir.’

‘But if Watts suspects he’s been pinged, he may have decided not to go to Hereford at all.’

‘It’s possible, sir, but I doubt it. He’s gone there for a reason; he’ll want to see it through.’

As Deveraux waited for Dudley’s response, she looked over the Thames to Vauxhall Cross and gazed up at the higher floors, where the heads of the Firm had their offices. She planned to move into the top floor herself one day. If this mission was a success, that move might come a lot sooner than she had expected.

‘But you remain confident of recovering the money?’ said Dudley at last. ‘Whatever happens to Watts and the boy?’

The money, thought Deveraux. Always the money. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I will do what I can to keep them alive, but the safety and security of the mission must come first, sir.’

She could hear the slight sarcasm in Dudley’s voice as he spoke again. ‘Not to mention your own safety and security, Marcie.’

‘Quite so, sir, yes.’

Fran made sure she wore a broad smile as she walked into the Queen’s Arms in Hereford town centre. It was definitely more of a pint of bitter than a Bacardi Breezer pub.

‘Anyone here called Kev Newman?’

Four grizzly-looking guys sitting nursing their pints looked up as Fran held up a leather wallet. ‘I found this outside. It’s got a credit card inside and I thought he might be in here.’

The four men shared a laugh. ‘No, love,’ said one of them. ‘He’ll be at the house that Jack built, or down the golf club, trying to play golf.’

They went back to their beer, still laughing, as Fran listened patiently to the barman explaining in great detail where Big Kev lived.

She knew perfectly well how to get to Newman’s house. The Firm’s intelligence cell had finally provided the information on Watts’s known contacts in Hereford, including full details on his oldest mate, Kev Newman. But the information had taken a lot longer to arrive than Fran would have liked. The Security Services were at full stretch in the attempt to gather clues in the suicide bombings, and Fincham’s request for information was not a priority. His team had already spent three fruitless hours in Hereford, checking out faces in pubs and cafes used by men from the Regiment, hoping to stumble across Fergus or Danny.

Now they had a lot more to go on. With a trigger on Newman’s house in case he arrived home, the rest of the team were now looking at all known and possible locations. And they had Newman’s driving licence photograph on their Xdas.

Outside the pub she headed quickly towards her black Audi hatchback parked near the cathedral. She hit the radio pressel in the pocket of her jacket.

‘All callsigns. I have a possible location. I need the golf course checking. Who can?’

Benny was also heading back to his vehicle, a red Nissan Almera, after checking out coffee shops and a few pubs at the other end of town. He hit the pressel in his leather bomber jacket pocket as he kept an eye on the traffic and parked vehicles, watching for blue Discoverys.

‘Benny can.’

Fran was getting into her vehicle. As she pulled the door shut she hit the car pressel under the knob of the gearstick.

‘Roger that, Benny. Paul, where are you?’

Paul squeezed the gearstick pressel in his silver VW Passat and the net was filled with the sounds of a truck’s air brakes and a frustrated driver’s car horn.

‘That’s Paul on the ring road and held in traffic. I got two more gyms to check out.’

Fran looked at a map of Hereford as she started up the Audi. There were a couple more pubs on the edge of town that were well worth a look.

‘Roger that, Paul. Mick, any change at the house?’

As soon as Mick had had been given Newman’s address he’d driven back to Brecon Road. He’d found the house and then immediately spotted the perfect location for a trigger on the place. He parked his vehicle in the Wyevale Garden Centre car park and then slipped into the back garden of the derelict Victorian house standing alongside. He climbed in through a smashed rear window and went up to the first floor.

Using the net curtain he found lying on the floor, some heavy green curtains and an old wardrobe, he had built an urban OP. He pulled the sofa between the two sets of curtains and was now sitting in comfort, looking over at the house that Jack built.

‘Mick still has the house, no change. No vehicles, lights or movement.’

The big, lumbering figure of Kev Newman was just visible in the gathering gloom. Danny and Fergus could see him trudging towards them far off down the fairway. They watched as he stopped, took a golf club from his bag and then dropped the bag to the ground.

‘This should be interesting,’ said Fergus as they saw Kev prepare to make his long approach shot to the green. He stood still for a few moments and then swung back and through. Almost immediately he hurled the club to the ground. They didn’t see where the ball went, and they couldn’t hear what Big Kev shouted. But when he picked up the club and his bag and moved off, it wasn’t towards them, but away to the right.

Fergus laughed. ‘Hasn’t improved much. I’ll go meet him, help find his ball.’

He started walking but then turned back as a thought occurred to him. ‘Give me your phone.’

Danny pulled the new mobile from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Why do you want it?’

‘I’d better keep this chat with Kev short, just in case. I’ll give him the mobile number so he can call us. I can’t remember it, and we don’t have a pen to write it down.’

Fergus walked off towards the fairway and Danny moved back across the car park to wait – and watch. The steady thump of disco music echoed from the clubhouse and mingled with the sounds of laughter and raised voices; the wedding party was warming up.

Kev Newman’s ball had hidden itself somewhere in the deep rough. The big man had been searching for a good five minutes. The darkening sky didn’t help, and he was almost ready to give up when he sensed rather than heard the approaching footsteps. He looked up, and for a moment had no idea of the identity of the man closing on him.

Then he knew. ‘What the-?’

‘Hello, mate,’ said Fergus quietly. ‘I see you’re still no better at that stupid game of yours.’

Big Kev wasn’t usually lost for words, but he stood staring with his mouth gaping wide.

Fergus was about three paces away when he felt something solid beneath his right foot. He bent down, picked up the ball and held out his hand to Kev. ‘This what you’re looking for?’

Kev snatched the golf ball and then instinctively looked around to see if his old friend had been followed. ‘You must be bloody mad coming here, Watty. Why didn’t you call me at least?’

‘Too dangerous, mate.’

‘And you think this isn’t? For me as well as you? Fergus, I’ve got kids, and grandchildren.’

‘Yeah – I’ve got a grandson too. The one you met. He’s waiting back there for us. I’ve come to warn you, mate.’

Kev reached down and grabbed his golf bag. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He began striding up the fairway, with Fergus at his side. ‘Warn me of what?’

Elena’s laptop was, as usual, logged onto the Internet. It was in her bedroom, perched in its usual place on the desk by her bed.