Andy McNab - Payback

There was just one other diner in the restaurant: an elderly military type, who was sitting with both hands cupped around a brandy glass.

As Deveraux toyed with her dessert, she couldn’t help hearing the exchange between the waiter and the ancient club member as the bill was presented. ‘Was everything to your satisfaction, Colonel?’

‘As always, Simon. Quiet in here tonight.’

The waiter shrugged. ‘The bombings, Colonel.’

The colonel grunted with disdain. ‘Despicable. They won’t keep me away. If Hitler and his lot couldn’t do it, I’m dammed if a bunch of cowardly terrorists will!’

Deveraux went back to her food. She rarely ate a dessert. She was naturally lithe and athletic, supremely fit both physically and mentally, and she was determined to stay that way. Stodgy food could lead to a stodgy mind, and Deveraux’s mind was always stiletto-sharp.

But tonight she was celebrating the approaching end of a long and difficult mission with a very small portion of the chef’s speciality, Belgian chocolate pudding. There wasn’t much – five small forkfuls – and as she rested her fork on the side of the plate, the colonel’s anger reminded her that the life she led meant there always would be another mission. Another battle to be won.

Deveraux’s Xda, which sat on the pristine white tablecloth, began to vibrate; she had switched it to silent mode out of respect for her fellow diner, but even so she saw the colonel look up from his brandy glass and scowl.

She wiped her lips with the cotton napkin and spoke softly as she answered the call. ‘Yes?’

‘You wanted to know when Fincham moved. He’s just left his flat with one small suitcase. Next stop Northwood, I guess.’

‘Thank you.’

She ended the call. The colonel was glaring at her; he was doubtless one of the ‘those new-fangled telephone contraptions should be banned from the club’ brigade. Deveraux smiled a conciliatory smile just as the waiter arrived at her table.

‘Coffee, madam?’

‘No, thank you, Simon. My bill, please.’

The waiter nodded and melted noiselessly away.

Deveraux looked down at the last piece of chocolate pudding sitting invitingly on the plate and decided to leave it. There was much to do; her mind had instantly switched into operational mode.

The Warrior was parked up inside Northwood, close to the accommodation block. The driver and his three mates had left the vehicle fifteen minutes earlier, but Danny waited in the pitch dark of the cargo hold, just as Fergus would have done.

He ran through his grandfather’s instructions on how to enter the building and reach his target area, the first underground level. It would not be staffed at this hour, unlike the two levels below that, which were manned around the clock – this was where military and covert operations throughout the world were controlled.

Danny held his breath with his mouth open. He was using methods he had learned from his grandfather over the previous six months, attempting to keep his own internal sounds from drowning out whatever noises were coming from outside the vehicle. He heard nothing: no footsteps or muttered conversation, not even a stifled sneeze or a distant cough.

He let his breath out slowly and then pulled the small metal ring on the tailgate. It popped open and he lifted the cover a few centimetres and looked out at the parked vehicles. They were damp from the earlier rain and glistened in the glare of the security lights. Everywhere was still and silent.

It was time to move. Danny lifted the cover fully, jumped out quickly and lowered the top. He remembered his grandfather’s words: ‘Believe you are part of the camp. Once you’re inside, move around as if you belong there, because the third party will naturally think you do. Security is designed to keep people outside the camp, so the deeper you are behind enemy lines, the easier it is to move around.’

As well as the RAF guys, there were always civilian staff on the site, dressed in civilian clothes. Danny would be a lot younger than most there, but if he moved around with confidence rather than skulking in the darkness, he might just be taken for one of them. He had to believe he would.

The main building was about a hundred metres away. It was like a beacon in the night; every light appeared to be switched on. But that didn’t mean it was crammed with people; the lights were on as a security measure.

A concrete path, with well-trimmed grass on either side, led to the building. Danny walked quickly and confidently along it, with his head down and his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. One was wrapped around Elena’s Halifax card and the other held the CD.

As he neared the building, he found himself partially illuminated by car headlights from some way off to his right. He took a quick look and saw that a car was being held at the main gate. Danny could hear the engine running and he saw the driver stride purposefully into the guardroom.

The door of the main building was dead ahead. It was exactly as Fergus had described: a dark glass door, with more of the same overhead to protect the entrance from the elements. Danny’s grip tightened on the Halifax card: his key to gaining access.

But then there was a moment of panic. People were approaching the door from the inside. It looked as though there were three of them. Danny felt his heart thudding. He had to carry on. If he turned and hurried away he would arouse not only their suspicions, but also those of anyone in the guardroom who might be looking in his direction. He had to believe. He had to believe.

He pulled out the card and swiped it through the reader on the wall beside the door. The door buzzed, and as Danny pulled it open he saw the three figures, all clad in DPM camouflage uniform, just a couple of metres away. There were two women and a man, and they were chatting about the week’s leave one of them had just enjoyed.

Danny held the door open, his head tilted downwards. As the three passed through, he concentrated on keeping his voice low as he muttered, ‘Evening.’

One of the women answered, ‘Hello,’ and the others just nodded as they continued on towards the accommodation blocks.

Without turning to watch them go, Danny stepped through the door and allowed it to lock behind him. He had to keep moving and make it appear as though he used the door every day and knew exactly where he was going. Ahead was a long, narrow corridor with office doors on either side. The gentle hum of the air conditioners and the squeak of his own trainers on the highly polished floor tiles was all Danny could hear as he ventured onwards. That, and his pounding heart.

George Fincham was going through security clearance in the guardroom. Outside, his car engine was still running and two RAF guards were checking beneath the vehicle with torches.

The duty sergeant was showing Fincham all the respect he was due: after all, his ID card revealed him to be a high-ranking IB in the Intelligence Service. But correct procedure still had to be followed. ‘Now, sir, if you would place your right hand on the glass plate and look into the two eyepieces above?’

Fincham knew the drill. For positive identification his handprint had to be checked along with his irises, but it all took time. Valuable time. ‘Just get on with it, man,’ he said, lowering his eyes towards the two lenses, which looked as though they should be part of a pair of binoculars.

‘Won’t take a minute, sir,’ said the sergeant as he forced a smile and pressed the buttons to set the machine in motion.

As Fincham looked into the lenses, he placed his right hand on the length of glass. A strip of light ran underneath, copying his handprint. At the same time lasers were focusing on his eyes, checking the unique pattern of his irises.