Andy McNab - Payback

So Danny took a gamble, very glad that his grandfather was not around to see it. He looked across the road towards the dog and handler, and with a smile called, ‘Down, Rover – there’s a good boy!’

The dog let out two loud, short, sharp barks and pulled harder on the leash. The handler said nothing but stared hard at Danny; so did the female guard who was standing close by. But they both seemed satisfied that Danny was just another cheeky kid with a big mouth, and as he walked on, they finally turned away.

Danny was feeling quite pleased with himself as he continued along the road. But then he realized that his little double act with Rover had been captured by the camcorder, which meant he was in for a bollocking when his grandfather saw the footage. He shrugged; tough – it was too late to worry about it now.

He was back in residential land, and five minutes later he saw Elena walking towards him, just as they had arranged. Joey had driven the long way round and dropped her off so that they could meet up. The plan was that they would now continue with the CTR together, while Joey did a recce of his own. He was due to meet them later in a supermarket car park close to the original drop-off point.

‘Hello, stranger, haven’t seen you for ages,’ said the smiling Elena as they met up. It was a good performance for anyone who just happened to be looking out from behind net curtains.

They crossed the road and walked back towards the camp for a little way before turning right into a street lined on both sides with houses. They were working their way round to the back of the camp to complete the CTR. Danny had decided it looked better if Elena joined him after the main part of the walk past. Walking together all the way round the camp might arouse suspicion. This way looked more natural. He had gone to meet a friend and now they were heading off in a different direction.

Elena linked her arm through his as they approached the fence line at the back of the camp. ‘Looks better this way,’ she said, pulling him a little closer.

Danny smiled. He wasn’t complaining.

The Prime Minister was absent from the Commons chamber for the emergency debate on the teenager bombings. The Home Secretary led for the government, explaining that the PM was in discussion with the heads of the Security Services.

For once there was little party politicking. Opposition leaders were acutely aware that there was too much anxiety, fear and confusion running through the population for them to attempt any political points scoring. All sides were presenting a united front.

The Prime Minister was in the House, watching and listening to proceedings in the Commons on a monitor in a small office. Other screens in the room showed more disturbing pictures from around the country, as rampaging mobs were shown demonstrating outside mosques and taking out their anger and frustration on those they believed responsible.

An ITN reporter questioned one of the men demonstrating outside the mosque in Regent’s Park, asking him why this was happening when two of the bombers had been white, and not even Muslims.

‘Don’t mean nothing,’ snarled the man angrily. ‘They were converts – must have been – we all know it’s happening all the time. This is a Muslim thing, this is what they do. It’s them all right.’

Dudley was in the room with the Prime Minister. He remained calm and composed as the nation’s leader turned from the screen and stared at him accusingly.

‘Disturbing, Prime Minister, yes, but, however unpalatable, we continue to believe that allowing the people a focus for their anger is the correct course of action for now. The public has concluded that the bombings are the responsibility of Islamic fundamentalists and many of our friends in the media are helping us by perpetuating the myth.’

On one screen, in the packed chamber the Home Secretary was appealing for calm; another showed the scenes outside the Regent’s Park mosque, where bricks were being hurled at the building.

Dudley coughed just loudly enough to regain the Prime Minister’s attention. ‘It is a regrettable situation, sir, of course, but ultimately it’s retrievable. And it gives us the breathing space we need to pursue the real perpetrator, or perpetrators, without them becoming aware that we are closing in.’

‘And are you closing in?’

Dudley’s shrug was non-committal. ‘We learn more after each attack, sir.’

‘I want to be informed the minute you have any developments.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

The strange assortment of bits and pieces that Joey had rescued from the skip was sitting on the desk. Along with the PE and detonator Fergus had carried with him since the attack on the house in Spain, they were about to be turned into a lethal and devastating PAD.

The industrial unit had to be defended. There was no escape route, only a single way out through the front. If Fincham’s team discovered the LUP the only option would be to fight.

Fergus had already weighed up the positives, and as far as he could see there were just two. Positive one was that there were single entrances to both the square and the building itself, which made it reasonably defendable.

If an attack team did approach through the entrance to the square it would be met with positive two – the PAD; there was no way they would be expecting that. But it was a one-off, one-shot, one-chance weapon – not what Fergus would have chosen if there had been a choice.

His leg was throbbing like hell and had stiffened up so much he could hardly move. But while he waited for his own motley team to return from the walk past, he could at least do something useful.

He took the five-litre paint can and stood it on the floor. The bottom of the improvised device was the business end of the weapon, from where the damage would be done.

Outside in the square, Fergus could hear a forklift truck buzzing around and voices shouting as a lorry pulled in to make a delivery to one of the other units.

He ripped one of the pieces of cardboard into a long rectangle before twisting it into a cone shape that would fit into the paint can. It had to slide in so that the tip of the cone pointed towards the open end of the can and the bottom fitted as tightly as possible against the base.

As Fergus made a few minor adjustments to the cardboard he listened to the voices outside. A row was developing between the lorry driver and the manager of the unit he was meant to be delivering to. ‘It’s cat! Cat! I told them dog. I specifically said dog! If I’d wanted cat, I’d have said cat. It’s cat next time.’

‘Look, mate, it’s all the same to me. Cat, dog, I just deliver the stuff, I don’t eat it!’

Fergus smiled as he turned over the cone and began to fill it with the nuts, bolts and other small items of scrap metal that Joey had found. He packed in as many pieces as he could, filling the cone to the brim, and then picked up the can with his free hand, turned it upside down, and fitted it over the cone. When he turned it back the correct way, none of the scrap metal fell out and the cone fitted tightly against the bottom of the can.

Next Fergus gently rolled handfuls of the plastic explosive in his hands to warm it up, making it more pliable, and then started packing it around the cone, pushing it carefully down against the cardboard so that the nuts and bolts were held more firmly in position. Before long the cone was no longer visible and the can looked as if it were three-quarters full of PE.

Outside, the delivery driver’s day was not getting any better as he spoke on his mobile phone. ‘Yeah, he wanted me to take it back! I’ve spent three bleedin’ hours crawling round the North Circular and he don’t want the stuff. You speak to him – tell him I’ll bring dog food next time.’