Andy McNab - Payback

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want a magazine. I bought one once before and found it completely unreadable.’

‘Look, I don’t want to sell you a magazine, I need your help.’

The man could see that this was no advanced selling technique; the Big Issue seller really did look worried. ‘What is it?’

‘Have you got a mobile?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Well, don’t panic when I tell you this. I think there’s a kid heading towards the BBC at the Mailbox with a bomb strapped to his body.’

The man’s eyes widened, but Wilf continued before he could say anything in response. ‘Phone the police, say that Big Issue Wilf told you. They know me. Tell them the kid has got fair hair and he’s wearing a black duffel coat. Oh, and he’s from Newcastle.’

The man nodded and reached into his pocket for his mobile phone as Wilf started to move away.

‘Where are you going?’ called the man as he began punching in numbers.

‘I’m gonna see if I can stop him, talk him out of it. He’s just a kid. Make the call. Please!’

The fair-haired teenager from Newcastle was nearing his destination when he heard a voice calling to him.

‘Hey, mate?’

He stopped. In his right hand were a few twists of green garden twine. He tightened his grip slightly, slowly turned round and immediately recognized the Big Issue seller who had given him directions and was now standing a few metres away, smiling at him.

‘What time’s your interview?’

‘My… my…?’

‘Got time for a coffee first?’

They were standing in a wide open space in front of the steps leading up to the Mailbox. The teenager looked confused: Wilf could see beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

‘I… I don’t want any coffee.’

He started to turn away, but Wilf called to him again. ‘Look, mate, I know you’re in trouble and-’

‘Piss off!’ The teenager was shouting. ‘I’m not in trouble! Just leave me alone!’

Wilf raised his hands and held them open, with both palms facing forward. ‘It’s cool, it’s cool. It’s just that I’ve had a few problems myself and I know what it’s like.’

‘You know nothing! How could you know?’

Wilf was no professional negotiator; he just wanted to help a kid in trouble. Like he said, he’d had problems of his own. Drugs, and the increasing amount of theft required to fund the habit. But there had been people around to help him. He was clean now and going straight. His life was the best it had been for years.

But at that moment Wilf made the mistake that no professional would ever have made. Instead of keeping his distance, he moved closer, simply to reassure the teenager facing him; to show him that he was no enemy; to prove that they were on the same side.

He saw the teenager’s right arm jerk upwards and a momentary flash of brilliant light.

And then it was over. For them both. For ever.

Mark Davenport had left his home in Newcastle the previous evening after a row with his parents. It was most unlike him; he was a quiet eighteen-year-old who rarely, if ever, argued with his mum and dad.

He liked living at home, so much so that when it came to choosing a university, he’d opted for Newcastle, despite receiving offers from more prestigious centres of learning. And it had seemed to be the right choice. His first year was going well, and even if Mark hadn’t really made many new friends, he’d seemed happy enough. At first.

However, over the past few months Mark had gradually become more withdrawn, with little to say unless someone spoke to him. The situation at home became tense and his worried parents had finally confronted him with it the previous afternoon.

They reasoned to begin with, and when that got them nowhere, they argued, until Mark finally stormed off to his room. Half an hour later, dressed in a shirt and tie and his black duffel coat, he left the house and drove away in the second-hand white Nissan Micra his parents had given him as a surprise eighteenth birthday present.

At one o’clock in the morning Mark’s anxious mother phoned the police to report her son missing; he had never before stayed out that late without phoning to say he was OK. The desk officer patiently took down Mark’s description and was sensitive enough not to tell Mrs Davenport that she was worrying unnecessarily. He was a dad himself; kids were a worry. He logged the details and asked Mrs Davenport to call again when Mark turned up, as he felt sure he would.

But he never did. Less than an hour after the explosion in Birmingham, police had matched the facts from Newcastle with the city centre CCTV footage and the details phoned in by the man Wilf had spoken to near New Street. Soon the identity of another bomber was confirmed and Mark’s distraught parents were being comforted.

Police forces throughout the country swept into action even sooner, with new tactics, planned since the second bombing. Road blocks were set up on major roads into cities, targeting young drivers travelling alone. Police were suddenly present on trains and buses, and outside schools and colleges. They were stopping, challenging and questioning teenagers, particularly those who were alone.

There was no longer any doubt: the bombings were part of an orchestrated campaign. But the vital question remained unanswered: who was doing the orchestrating?

It was like being in a white goods graveyard. Old fridges, freezers, washing machines and tumble dryers took up every available metre of space in the warehouse. They lined every wall and in some places were balanced precariously, one on top of another.

But they were silent; the only sound came from the hum of the fluorescent strip lighting dangling unevenly from the steel support girders stretching across the warehouse.

Joey and Danny helped Fergus through the maze of white and up the steel staircase bolted to one wall. On the first floor was one large room, with a filing cabinet, a desk, a couple of bentwood chairs and an old, threadbare sofa. A barred, grime-covered window looked out onto a small square made up of other industrial units. In the distance the massive steel arch and construction cranes of the new Wembley Stadium cut into the skyline.

Behind Park Royal Station and the lines of car showrooms and fast food places that hug the A40 is a world of business parks, conveniently positioned to make use of the main road in and out of west London.

They were in the heart of one of the parks. They had pulled off the A40, passing a Renault showroom and a Parcel Force depot. The service road was potholed through constant use by heavy vehicles. Joey had known exactly where he was heading. He turned the hire car into the square and they stopped by the roll-down shutters outside a unit in one corner. They got inside quickly.

‘Not exactly home from home,’ said Joey as he and Danny eased Fergus down onto the dusty sofa. ‘But I guess it will do.’

Fergus nodded as Danny lifted his injured leg onto the sofa. ‘Just tell me again exactly how you sorted this, Joey?’

Joey sat on one of the bentwood chairs and took out a small cigar. ‘Like I said, this place was the legitimate side of my business partner Sonny’s operation. I brought Elena here to meet him.’

‘Yeah, I remember him,’ said Elena as she unpacked some of the items she and Danny had bought while Joey had been arranging their new place of residence and Fergus lay in the back of the car fighting back the pain from the GSW. ‘And I didn’t like him.’

Joey lit the cigar and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘No, well, we don’t have to worry about good old Sonny. He’ll be staying at Her Majesty’s pleasure for some considerable time.’