Andy McNab: Payback

‘Evening, officer. Lovely night.’

‘Very nice, sir. But did you know that one of your tail lights is out?’

Joey cursed to himself. A dud light – they’d stopped him for nothing more than a dud light. He took the unlit cigar from his mouth. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t. I’m extremely sorry, officer, I’ll make sure I replace it first thing in the morning.’

But the police officer wasn’t finished. ‘Your car, is it, sir?’

‘As a matter of fact it isn’t. It’s a hired vehicle.’

‘Can I see your driving licence, please?’

‘Why, sure, officer.’

Joey began rummaging through his jacket pockets, all the while smiling a broad smile. It was then that the officer caught the strong smell of alcohol.

‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘Drinking?’

‘Alcohol, sir. Have you been drinking alcohol?’

Joey’s face registered the panic he was beginning to feel. ‘Well, no. I… I wouldn’t say drinking. I just-’

‘Would you step out of the car, please, sir?’

Joey sighed, slowly opened the door and got out. ‘It was only one. Just a pint – hours ago.’

The police officer nodded and Joey held up the cigar, still gripped between two fingers. ‘Do you mind if I smoke this?’

‘I’m afraid I do, sir. I’d like you to blow into this, please.’

Fincham had calmed down. He was more his normal, cold, calculating self as he checked out his disguise in the disabled toilets at the service station on the M4, near Heathrow Airport. Gone was the smart suit, MCC tie and polished shoes. He was now wearing baggy cords, a button-up cardigan and sandals with socks.

Rolled out on the toilet seat was his make-up bag, along with cotton wool wipes. He had been busy and was putting the final touches to his disguise, comparing the Mr Davies in his new passport photograph to the one he was looking at in the mirror.

Fincham was very pleased with the results. The trimmed beard stuck on his face lessened the need for more make-up. All Intelligence Service operators were instructed by professional make-up artists in the art of disguise, learning how to change the shape and size of their faces. Fincham had long ago mastered the art, and was a deft practitioner.

He touched up some of the darker make-up on both sides of his nose, the shading making it appear longer than it actually was. It would confuse the facial recognition cameras that scour airport terminals for known terrorists and criminals.

Once he had finished he put on a pair of plain lens glasses and the Mr Davies look was complete. He appeared more like a bumbling university professor than an Intelligence Service IB.

Fincham rolled up the make-up bag; it would be going with him in case any last-minute touch-ups were required at the airport. He checked his new watch, a cheap thing from a supermarket; all part of his new look. It was 2.33 a.m.

Once everything was packed away he picked up the holdall with his old suit and old life inside and headed back towards his car. The rest of his escape plan had been carefully scheduled. At 6.30 a.m. he would phone a local taxi company from a call box in the service station, saying that his car had broken down and he was desperate to get to the airport for an 8.30 flight. He had with him not one but two taxi company business cards. Just in case.

Mr Davies would then be collected and delivered to the airport, where he would check in at the very last minute, so that as little time as possible was spent in the one area from where he could not escape – the departure lounge.

Fincham went back to his car to wait. He sat in silence and his thoughts returned to Marcie Deveraux. Revenge would have been sweet, but escape would be sweeter.

Joey was in a cold, bare cell, waiting for the results of his blood test.

The roadside breathalyser had shown him to be way over the legal limit. Joey hadn’t needed to wait for the crystals to change colour to know that would be the inevitable outcome. He’d been cautioned and driven to the police station, where two samples of his blood had been taken.

Now all he could do was wait. He’d already been waiting for a long time and he still hadn’t smoked his cigar. He was scared; more than that, he was terrified. He’d made a big mistake in drinking as much as he had at the pub. He could take his drink – he felt perfectly sober – but that didn’t make any difference. He wasn’t the first to make that discovery far too late.

He knew that Elena, Danny and Fergus would be worrying, wondering what had happened, probably thinking that he’d run out on them. But even more than that, he feared what would happen now, once records had been checked and it was discovered that he should have left the country days ago.

It meant either a return to a British prison for a long stretch or the even more terrifying prospect of an escorted flight back to Nigeria.

He sat back on the low bed and heard shouting from another holding cell. Somewhere another drunk was gobbing off about unfair police treatment, demanding to see a solicitor and moaning that the loss of his driving licence would ruin him. Joey shook his head; the loss of a driving licence was the least of his worries.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the cell. Joey stood up as keys turned in the lock, the door swung open and the police sergeant who had taken down his details earlier appeared in the doorway.

‘You must know people in high places, mate.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re leaving us. Lucky boy. Very lucky.’

The sergeant stepped to one side and Marcie Deveraux walked into the cell.

‘I knew he’d do this. I knew he’d let us down in the end.’

Elena was furious. After everything that had happened over the last couple of days she had finally begun to believe that perhaps, after all, her dad had changed. But now he’d gone AWOL again. Same old Joey. He would never change. Never.

‘I bet he’s gone to see that woman! I bet he’s… I don’t want to think about what he’s doing. It’s disgusting at his age.’

‘If he’s with his girlfriend, at least he’s out of trouble for a while,’ said Danny. ‘He’ll turn up when he’s ready.’

Elena was standing by the window, staring out into the darkness, vainly hoping to see the hire car pull to a standstill on the road outside the square. But she knew it wouldn’t.

Danny wandered over and stood by her side. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘What makes you think I’m worried?’ snapped Elena. ‘I’m angry, that’s all. And pissed off!’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Danny softly.

Fergus was stretched out on the old sofa, thinking about the e-mail he was going to get Elena to send to M. Deveraux.

He had no doubts about the identity of M. Deveraux now. She’d been there all along, manipulating them, waiting until they had outlived their usefulness, planning their elimination.

But they had powerful ammunition of their own now. The information stored on the CDs was their lifeline. The Intelligence and Security Services would never risk that information being revealed to the press. The framing and proposed killing of innocent people would be totally unacceptable to the British people. It was enough to topple the heads of both services and bring down the government.

Fergus planned to arrange a meeting with M. Deveraux. He would give her one of the CDs as proof of what they had, along with his demands for the future. As he thought about the e-mail he wanted to send, he was holding the electrician’s screwdriver, completing the circuit by placing one thumb on the top contact and touching the end so that the red light in the handle lit up. But as he glanced over at Elena’s laptop, he dropped the screwdriver and pulled himself upright. ‘You’d better come and take a look at this.’