Andy McNab: Payback

The long-haired man looked up at Deveraux and pulled one headphone away from the mass of curls. ‘He’ll be here in about ten minutes, ma’am.’

Deveraux nodded, aware of the admiring glances directed towards her by both young men. She was used to it: with her ebony skin, stunning looks and impeccable dress sense, she could have passed for a supermodel. She glanced up at the monitor above the kitchen door. Sky News was at the House of Commons to report on Prime Minister’s Questions.

The two surveillance operators went back to watching the TV screens while dunking toast soldiers into their mugs of soup. Deveraux wandered round to their side of the table, flicked some old magazines from a folding chair, sat down next to the curly-haired man and looked at the monitors.

The three black and white screens each showed a different location. The furthest one was split into six sections, each picking up a different area outside the house they were in.

The two closer screens were of much more interest to Deveraux. On the one in the centre, the four sections showed different rooms in an exclusive-looking apartment. The owner had no idea that miniature fibre-optic lenses had been fitted where walls met ceiling.

There was no one at home, but the furnishings and fittings made it obvious that this was no family residence. Every room was immaculate, nothing out of place. Almost too perfect, like a picture from a glossy, upmarket lifestyle magazine.

The closest screen showed just one room; a room that Deveraux knew very well. The hidden lens in that room was part of the wiring for one of the two wall-mounted plasma TV screens situated in one corner. The room was the office of Deveraux’s immediate boss at MI6, George Fincham.

George Fincham, head of the security section; George Fincham, whose apartment was shown on the middle screen; George Fincham, the ultimate target of Deveraux’s ongoing operation; George Fincham, traitor.

The Security Service had known for years that Fincham was a traitor. His activities went back nearly a decade to his time as desk officer at the British Embassy in Bogota, Colombia. By feeding the FARC cocaine traffickers information about the operations being conducted against them he was reckoned to have amassed a fortune of around twelve million pounds, most of it hidden in foreign bank accounts. With interest, the amount was probably closer to fifteen million now.

The Security Service wanted that fifteen million, and they wanted it badly. It could be used to fund future ‘black ops’ – the illegal, covert work the government could never officially sanction or even publicly acknowledge, and certainly never finance. Deveraux had been secretly seconded by M15 to recover the money, without publicly exposing Fincham as a traitor. That would be too embarrassing – for the Firm and the government.

As Deveraux watched the monitor, she saw the door to the office open and Fincham walk in. He looked his usual elegant self. Blond-haired, mid forties, slick, dark blue suit and custard-yellow and red striped MCC tie. Every inch the gentleman, every inch the top civil servant. He sat at his desk and took out his mobile phone.

The curly-haired operator checked that everything Fincham was about to say would be recorded. Deveraux tapped the small speaker on the tabletop and Curly threw a switch.

As Fincham punched in a number he glanced up at the plasma screens. He was checking out the world news headlines but seemed to be staring directly at Deveraux. When he spoke into the phone his voice was crystal clear in the surveillance room. ‘Fran, the sighting of Watts and the boy is confirmed. I want you and Mick to link up with the other two. Plan and carry out the disposal of both Watts and the boy. But be careful – we cannot afford to mess this up in another country.’

‘Exactly what I was afraid of,’ said Deveraux, more to herself than to the surveillance operators.

Fincham ended the call, reached for the remote TV control on his desk and turned up the volume on one of the plasma screens.

Deveraux glanced up at the monitor above the kitchen door. She and Fincham were watching the same picture of the Prime Minister standing at the dispatch box, ready to answer questions about the Parliament bombing.

But before the PM had uttered more than a few words, Curly turned down the speaker so that it was just audible and nodded towards the house security screen. A man was approaching the door. ‘He’s here.’

Deveraux stood up as she heard the front door open and close and the locks slide back into place. A small grey-haired man in his mid sixties entered the room. Despite the warm spring weather his overcoat was buttoned up to the neck.

His name was Dudley. It was his surname but he had been part of the Service for so long it could just as well have been his first name. To most in MI5 he was ‘Sir’; to his equals and superiors – and there were very few of those – he was simply Dudley.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Deveraux.

‘Good afternoon, Marcie. I don’t have long.’

Deveraux nodded: she was used to making short and concise reports. ‘Fincham has located Watts and the boy in Spain. He intends to have them both killed.’

Dudley considered for a moment and then focused his eyes on the TV screen to his right. ‘Not exactly how you planned this, Marcie.’

‘No, sir. I have been monitoring their movements and I intended to bring them back at the appropriate time, when we had more to go on and Watts could be of use to us.’

‘Is there anything you can do now?’

Deveraux shook her head. ‘Since their previous escape Fincham has ensured I had no direct involvement in the case; I argued too strenuously that they should be kept alive when they were first located. If I attempt to intervene now I risk compromising my own situation.’

Dudley’s shrug was philosophical. ‘Then I’m afraid they are lost to us, Marcie.’ His eyes were still fixed on the TV.

‘But sir, there’s still the question of who else knew Watts was operating as a K when Fincham set him up. There was, of course, Watts’s old SAS commanding officer, Colonel Meacher, but as you know-’

‘Fincham had him eliminated last year,’ said Dudley, finally turning away from the television and looking at Deveraux. ‘Perhaps we will have to find the answer elsewhere. Your focus must be on recovering the money. And now I really must go.’ He nodded towards the monitor. ‘The PM wants an update on the bombing as soon as he leaves the House. Anti-Muslim demonstrations outside mosques have already started. The country is scared, Marcie, and that makes our leaders very scared.’

Senorita dice: so wots the weather like there

Senor dice: WOT!!!!!!!!

Senorita dice: wot du mean wot!

Senor dice: u can not be serious!! its hot! bloody hot! 2 bloody hot! its always hot!!!!

Danny had long since familiarized himself with MSN messaging in Spain – here he got no time check on his monitor when he sent or received a message. But his language, and his attitudes, remained very English.

Senorita dice: all right!!! theres no need 2 get arsey

Senor dice: wot dyou expect??? we get a few minutes online n u ask me about the weather

Senorita dice: yeah, coz im not allowed 2 ask proper questions n u never tell me anything!

Senor dice:

I cant. he won’t let me

Senorita dice: exactly!!!

Senor dice: u tell me things then

Senorita dice: like wot

Senor dice: anything, something thats happened, im going crazy out here

Danny sighed as he waited for Elena to come back to him. He was in an Internet cafe in Seville and this conversation was already becoming as difficult and awkward as the last three had been.

They had an arrangement – more than that, an SOP which Fergus insisted on: Elena went online at eight o’clock British time every morning and evening in case of emergencies. She never expected Danny to be there and so far he never had been. But every two weeks, on a Sunday afternoon, Fergus allowed them a brief MSN session.