Andy McNab - Payback

Fincham was almost ready to run; he was going to get out while he could. The news of the latest botched attempt to finish off Fergus and Danny had stunned more than angered him. Whatever he did, no matter which tactics he employed, Watts still eluded him. Fincham wasn’t a superstitious man, but he was beginning to believe that fate was against him. And so he was making plans to take the money and run.

The phone in Moscow was finally lifted from its receiver and a deep, irritated voice growled a single terse word. ‘Da?’

Fincham sounded calm and relaxed as he spoke. ‘Good evening, it’s Mr Davies.’

The man at the other end of the line paused for a moment as his sleepy brain adjusted to the switch in language. ‘Ah, Mr Davies, how are you? It is very late here in Moscow.’

‘I apologize if I woke you, but there are certain things I need to know regarding my investments.’

‘I see. Then perhaps you would not mind answering some security questions?’

‘Of course.’

At the word ‘investments’ the two night operators had exchanged a look, frustrated that they could hear and record only one side of the conversation.

‘Fifty-six,’ said Fincham; then, after a long pause, ‘One hundred and twenty-nine.’

The figures meant nothing to Curly and Beanie. They knew that Fincham was providing the numbers in a complex sum or sequence. But without knowing the other numbers, what they were hearing was useless to them.

‘Ninety-three.’

Fincham’s ‘broker’ was satisfied with his client’s answers. ‘How can I help you, Mr Davies?’

‘I need to know how much of my investments I can draw immediately, or within a week at the most.’

There was another pause. Fincham couldn’t see the smile that spread over the face of the Russian at the end of the line. ‘Perhaps… four million. Dollars, of course. And at such short notice there would be a considerable cost involved.’

‘Four million dollars! But that’s nowhere near my total investment!’

Curly frantically began hitting panic buttons in what he knew was a virtually hopeless attempt to get a fix on the mobile or pick up the call. ‘He’s calling his broker! There’s a broker laundering the money. Find him and we’ve found the cash!’

But when the broker spoke again, his words were heard by Fincham alone. ‘Mr Davies, as you know, your investment covers many areas. Gold, property, oil. All guaranteed to bring you a considerable return. But for that, your commitment is long term, as we have discussed before.’

Fincham breathed hard. ‘And if I chose to change our arrangement, call in my total investment? How long would it take?’

‘Perhaps… six months. But there would be a significant loss of interest; probably of the capital figure also. Your business partners depend on you, just as you depend on them.’

Perhaps. Perhaps. The word ‘perhaps’ was occurring too many times for Fincham’s liking. ‘Very well, I’ll get back to you. Thank you for your time. Goodnight.’

He ended the call and threw his mobile onto a beautifully upholstered sofa. ‘Bastard!’

In the surveillance house Beanie was feeling equally pissed off. He ripped off his headphones and threw them down on the tabletop. ‘Shit. We’ll never find out who he called.’

Curly was still staring at the monitors, watching Fincham pace angrily around his apartment. ‘Maybe there is a way,’ he said. ‘If he calls again, I reckon we’ll have him.’

Danny was running along the tarmac road towards the fir tree plantation where his grandfather was hiding.

It was nearly first light. Fergus had told Danny to dump the Discovery in the reservoir a couple of miles down the road and then get back under the cover of darkness, before being spotted by early drivers using the route through the Brecon Beacons.

In the semi darkness he could just see the peak of the mountain behind the forestry block. This area was like nothing he had seen during his time in Spain. There, the long mountain ranges had rolled and stretched across vast areas of land. Here, everything seemed more compressed, compacted into one dark, ominous mass of towering peaks and dark forest.

He jogged off the road at a large lay-by, his marker, and then jumped a stone wall and plunged into densely packed fir trees. They were like giant Christmas trees, their branches drooping almost to the ground. There was barely enough light for Danny to see where he was going. As he made his way towards the centre of the plantation, he could feel the pine needles that had worked their way down the back of his neck sticking to his sweat.

Everything usable had been stripped from the Discovery before Danny drove it away. Rubber mats laid on top of the pine needles formed a waterproof seal and the carpeting made lying down a little more comfortable for Fergus, who was still in a lot of pain.

The wound was weeping, but he knew better than to take off the sweatshirt dressings. By now scabs would have formed between the material and flesh; taking off the dressings would rip off the scabs and start the heavy bleeding again. More dressings and more pressure were needed to completely stop the blood flow from the GSW, but while Danny was away all Fergus had been able to do was use his hands to press down on his thigh.

The wind had got up and was rustling through the branches, but Fergus was being kept warm by Kev’s green fleece and an old Barbour on top of his own jacket. They had lost most of their kit in the contact at the golf club. All that remained was the PE and detonator, which had been in separate inside pockets in Fergus’s jacket, and a little money. Very little: Fergus had been carrying the?60 in notes in his jeans pocket and they were soaked in blood.

Fergus heard Danny approaching, then saw him crawling into the hide. He handed him a roll of gaffer tape taken from the Discovery. Danny could see well enough now to bind the sweatshirt dressing tightly around the wound. He started to rip tape from the roll as Fergus turned cautiously onto his side.

‘Wagon sink OK?’

‘Yep. Rolled down the hill no problem.’ Danny slowly but firmly wrapped the tape around the wound. ‘I reckon there’s a few more down there – it sounded like it landed on another car.’

Fergus grimaced as Danny fixed the tape, but then smiled as he remembered a night many years earlier. One of the rusty wrecks sunk beneath the water had belonged to Kev. They had dumped it when the battered Renault 5 failed its MOT, and then Kev reported it stolen and cashed in on the insurance. It paid for a few golf balls.

‘It’s deep enough,’ was all he said.

A vehicle pulled into the lay-by and Fergus saw Danny’s anxious look. ‘Don’t worry – it’ll be the first of the dog walkers or hikers. We’re at the bottom of Pen y Fan.’

‘You mean that mountain?’

Fergus pulled himself up against a tree trunk so that he could just see the activity going on in the lay-by. ‘Part of selection for the Regiment is getting over the top of that thing, down the other side and back to the lay-by again in under four hours. With a sixteen-kilo bergen on your back.’

Danny thought back to the towering peak he had just made out as he ran back to the LUP. ‘Bloody hell.’

A tailgate slammed, and through the branches they spotted a multi-coloured jumper as a hiker went stomping off down the roadway towards the mountain path. ‘Some people do it for pleasure,’ said Fergus.

‘What do we do now?’ said Danny. ‘We can’t stay here for ever, and your leg needs attention.’

‘I can sort it, with the right stuff. I’ve been trying to think what happens after that.’

Another car door slammed in the lay-by: it looked as though it was going to be a busy morning on the mountain. Fergus shifted slightly to try to get himself more comfortable. ‘Big Kev said something to me about a place just before the contact. I didn’t get the chance to ask him what he meant.’