Andy McNab - Payback

Black Star explained that once Gola’s laptop and the Northwood computers linked up, the two scripts, working together, would give root access. It was the only way, said Black Star, but if successful, it would have to be the biggest exploit of all time.

I WON’T SEE WHAT YOU SEE, BUT HEY, WHO CARES!! YOU WANT THE INFORMATION, I JUST WANNA BE PART OF THIS EXPLOIT. WILL YOU GO FOR IT GOLA? Y OR N?

Elena knew it was their only way of hacking into the mainframe. If even Black Star needed help, what chance would they have? She hit the Y key.

OK! WHAT AN EXPLOIT! WE’RE GONNA BE FAMOUS FOR THIS! YOU READY TO DOWNLOAD? Y OR N?

By the time they got back to the car with more tea and sandwiches for Fergus and Joey, the two men had made their deal.

Elena told Fergus the details of the Black Star plan as he sipped his tea. The whole concept of hacking and exploits was alien and strange to the SAS veteran and at first he was doubtful. ‘So what does Black Star get out of this?’

‘The credit,’ said Elena. ‘It’s what hackers live for; it’s all they live for. It’s our only chance.’

Fergus nodded and finished the last of the tea. ‘Joey and me have come to an arrangement. He’ll be helping us for a little while.’

It was Elena’s turn to be doubtful. ‘And what does Joey get out of it?’

Joey looked mortified. ‘Shame on you, daughter! You know full well your old dad would do anything to help out another human being in trouble.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Elena, turning towards the steamed-up car window. She raised her hand and wiped away the condensation. The rain had stopped. ‘Isn’t it time we got moving?’

They drove back towards London slowly, and at around midnight Fergus told Joey to pull the car off the motorway and find a quiet place where they could grab a few hours’ sleep. He was employing ultra-cautious tactics: arriving on the outskirts of the city during the early hours and cruising the deserted streets would only invite trouble and the possible interest of a police patrol car.

But Fergus was in too much pain to sleep. Instead he tried to think of a way of getting Danny into Northwood while he listened to Joey’s deep, rumbling snores and Elena’s frequent complaints as she jabbed her dad in the ribs and told him to shut up.

Soon after first light they were on the road again. They stopped at another service area and Danny and Elena went inside for hot food and drinks. As they ate and sipped tea, Fergus outlined his plan for Northwood.

Even Joey listened intently. His eyes widened as he took in the details and he looked at Danny as Fergus finished speaking. ‘Rather you than me, son.’

Elena was still in a bad mood from listening to hour after hour of her dad’s snores. ‘I thought you said you’d do anything to help out someone in trouble.’

‘Yes, darling, but there’s anything and anything, and this definitely comes in the anything category.’

Fergus shifted his weight slightly in the back seat. His leg was throbbing constantly and the pain was increasing. He wanted to do the job himself, but he knew it was impossible. ‘It is dangerous, Danny. Are you sure you want to do it?’

There was no hesitation. ‘It’s got to be done. Once this is over and we prove your innocence we can get you to hospital. So we’d better get on with it.’

Fergus decided they should wait until after the early morning scramble before driving into London, and they joined the A40 approaching west London at around ten.

The traffic was still surprisingly heavy and slow moving. They were close to Northolt when they spotted the reason why: a police road block.

‘Trouble,’ said Joey as he slowed in the queue of vehicles filing past the armed officers and parked blue Land-Rovers.

Fergus stared out through the windscreen. ‘Don’t panic. It’s not for us. The police aren’t involved in this.’

Very few cars were actually being stopped; the volume of traffic was so heavy that it would have meant the whole of west London grinding to a standstill. Most vehicles were being allowed to drive slowly by, as officers peered inside to check out the occupants.

Joey was lucky, partly because the old red Ford Fiesta in front of them was directed to pull over. Three officers, all wearing flak jackets and carrying MP5 machine guns, approached the car, and without getting too close ordered the young driver, who was alone in the car, to step out.

Joey wound down his window and smiled broadly as he passed the lone police officer at the roadside.

‘What’s happening, officer?’ he called as the car crawled slowly by.

The officer was already looking at the next vehicle. ‘Stick your radio on.’

The third suicide bombing had taken place in Birmingham less than two hours earlier. This time only two people died, thanks largely to the heroic actions of a Big Issue seller out early in the New Street area.

It was a regular pitch: he usually recognized many of the office workers who passed by on their way to offices and shops in the redeveloped part of the city. Most of them avoided buying one of his magazines; some adopting the no-eye-contact tactic, others using the old ‘Got one already, mate’ line, when he knew perfectly well that they hadn’t.

Monday morning was never a good time for sales; most people were too fed up at the prospect of returning to work after the weekend. But it was a bright, cloudless morning in the Midlands, and sunshine usually did help sales. So the Big Issue seller, who went by the name of Wilf, was out earlier than usual.

He spotted the smartly dressed teenager because he looked lost. And nervous. And because he was wearing an expensive-looking duffel coat over his shirt and tie, while most people were in much lighter spring clothes.

Wilf’s only interest at first was in the possibility of a sale; he was skilled in sizing up potential buyers. He put this kid down as a well-off student, probably here for a job interview.

Slowly the young man moved up the incline towards Wilf, and at exactly the right moment – not too aggressive, in your face or confrontational – Wilf stepped towards him and smiled. ‘Big Issue, sir?’

The young man reacted as though Wilf was about to mug him. He almost jumped in the air, his eyes bulged in terror and he pulled his duffel coat closer round his body. It was almost as though Wilf had woken him from some sort of trance. He stood, frozen, for a moment and then shook his head vigorously and walked on.

Wilf watched him for a few seconds and then shrugged and turned away. ‘Have a nice day.’ He thought nothing more of it, but a couple of minutes later the teenager was back.

‘Excuse me?’

Wilf knew it wasn’t a sale; they never came back. The kid wanted directions. ‘Yes, mate?’

‘Can you tell me how to get to the BBC? It’s at a place called the Mailbox.’

Wilf recognized the Newcastle accent instantly; his own girlfriend was a Geordie. He pointed up the incline and gave easy directions to the new BBC centre.

The teenager listened intently and then nodded.

‘Got an interview, have you?’ asked Wilf.

There was no reply; the young man simply walked away.

It was the mention of the BBC that did it. Wilf had watched the news, heard the stories of the smartly dressed young teenage bombers and their carefully selected, high-profile targets. He’d listened to the appeals from politicians and police officers for the public to remain vigilant and alert. And he was suddenly certain that beneath the young man’s smart duffel coat there was a bomb strapped to his body.

‘Bloody hell!’

The teenager was already about ten metres away and walking quickly. More people were moving up from New Street now and Wilf targeted the one he thought least likely to panic. He went up to a middle-aged man carrying a briefcase.