Andy McNab: Payback

Ambulances had long since taken away the dead and wounded. Those closest had been killed or maimed by the impact of the explosion itself; others by the lethal shards of moulded plastic which had flown through the air like high velocity bullets as the explosive detonated and shattered the seats. Four of the dead were not victims of the blast itself; they had been trampled underfoot as panicking supporters tried to escape the ground.

Blue police lights on top of vehicles parked on the pitch flashed around the eerily quiet stadium, catching and then losing white-overalled, plastic-booted forensic officers as they picked flesh and clothing from the killing area and then placed their gruesome finds in evidence bags. Dudley watched them at work, the intermittent, flickering blue light making them look like characters in an old silent movie.

Dudley had no need of the information the forensic team would eventually discover about the explosives used in the attack: he had learned all he needed to know from watching the club’s CCTV.

A teenage boy had taken his seat just before kick-off. He was wearing a black parka, unlike many of the home supporters around him, who wore their bright blue replica Chelsea shirts. The boy didn’t look at the pitch or read the match programme, but kept glancing up at the nearest CCTV camera. And he was smiling.

He was lost for a few moments when the crowd stood up to cheer and chant and applaud as the teams ran out onto the pitch. After everyone around him re-took their seats he was still smiling, and as the whistle for the kick-off sounded he stood up. With his right hand he grabbed the cord held in his left, and pulled.

The monitor screen then went black: the detonation had destroyed the camera.

Dudley was looking at the exact spot where the smiling boy had detonated the IED, and then the mobile he was holding began to ring. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before pressing the phone to his ear. ‘Dudley.’

He waited for a few seconds as the private secretary making the connection passed the call on. The voice that barked out a curt ‘Hello?’ was familiar – not only to Dudley, but to the entire country.

‘Good evening, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news: Parliament was not a one-off attack. This was also a suicide bombing by a teenage boy, this time a white teenage boy.’

The police helicopter moved across the stadium again, almost drowning out Dudley’s words.

‘Yes, sir, white. I will have a name soon. And the device used was similar, if not identical to the first. I fear the media will have a field day with this once the news gets out.’

He listened to the question he knew was coming next before replying, ‘No, sir, we haven’t discounted that. Islamic militants could still be responsible. After all, there are white Muslims. But at this stage, intelligence points us in no definite direction.’

Deveraux had no need to follow Elena too closely; she knew exactly where she was going.

Elena took a left and then another left to reach the road running parallel to Foxcroft. It was a quiet street; most of the terraced houses on either side had their curtains drawn. People were home from work, settling down for another peaceful evening in front of the TV.

Deveraux gradually closed on Elena during the short walk, stalking her like a tiger waiting to pounce. Both hands were in the pockets of her bomber jacket, but the right was curled around her pistol, lower three fingers and thumb around the grip and trigger finger resting over the guard. She kept her head down as she walked.

The narrow alleyway Elena was heading for led nowhere. Once, it had run all the way through to the next street, but after a Second World War bomb had flattened a couple of houses on the far side, an enterprising builder had cleverly gained a few extra metres of garden for the new houses he erected. Now all there was at the end of the alley was a high brick wall.

As Elena turned from the street into the alley, she was hoping to find Danny waiting there for her. She couldn’t see all the way to the end yet – it was too dark. There were no lights, and the spill from the lamps in the street she had left barely penetrated the gloom. Cautiously, she made her way along.

‘Danny?’ she whispered as she inched her way along, deeper into darkness. ‘Danny, you there?’

There was no answer and Elena felt a twinge of disappointment. She reached the end and then, turning to took back, saw a figure silhouetted by the light from the street at the far end of the alley.

‘Danny?’

The figure gave a left-handed wave and moved silently and swiftly towards her, head still low. Elena waited: it was safer to stay where she was; they could talk there, just as Danny had said. It was only in the last seconds, as the approaching figure looked up and the right hand emerged from the bomber jacket pocket, that Elena realized it was not Danny. She recognized the face, but there wasn’t time to react or even say a word.

With her left hand Deveraux reached up and grabbed Elena by the back of her hair. She yanked her head back and at the same time brought the pistol up and shoved the barrel into Elena’s gaping mouth. Cold metal scraped against the terrified girl’s teeth; she tasted oil at the back of her throat.

‘Remember me?’ hissed Deveraux, forcing Elena against the wall.

Elena was too petrified to make even a sound. She stared, eyes bulging, at the face just inches from hers, remembering the woman only too well. She had replayed the horrific scene of the glamorous woman shooting one of the guards holding Fergus Watts many times in her mind.

‘Don’t speak, don’t move, don’t do anything unless I say so. Otherwise your brains will be all over the walls. And I wouldn’t want that. This jacket’s new – I do not want it ruined. Understand?’

Deveraux relaxed the grip on Elena’s hair just enough to allow her to nod.

‘Listen to me, and listen good. I want Danny and Fergus back here, and you’re going to make that happen.’

Terrified as she was, Elena managed a tiny, defiant shake of her head.

Deveraux tightened her grip again, pulling Elena’s hair so hard that it brought tears to her eyes. They ran down her cheeks and mingled with the saliva oozing from her gaping mouth as the pistol forced her lips wide apart.

‘I told you to listen,’ said Deveraux. ‘If they don’t come back they’ll be dead within days. This way, I might be able to save them. And I’ve got an added incentive for you. Do exactly as I tell you and I’ll get your father out of jail. If you don’t, not only do you three die – he’ll stay there until he rots. Understand?’

She relaxed her grip to allow Elena to nod again.

‘Good. Now, I’m going to let go of your hair. Try to run and I will kill you. And you know I will – you’ve seen me do it before, haven’t you?’

Elena nodded for a third time.

Deveraux slowly released her hold on the young girl’s hair, took two small steps backwards and watched as Elena began to shake with fear, her legs so weak she could hardly stand. Elena suddenly realized she had been holding her breath since the moment the pistol had been shoved into her mouth.

‘Breathe,’ said Deveraux. ‘Breathe deeply.’ It wasn’t advice; it was a command. She wanted this over quickly and needed Elena to understand exactly what she had to say. ‘Come on, breathe, you’re not dead yet.’

She waited while Elena sucked in huge gulps of air. The oxygen surged into her bloodstream, making her feel light-headed. But after less than a minute the strength began to return to her limbs and she eased herself away from the wall.

‘Tomorrow morning you go online, just as you always do,’ said Deveraux when she was certain Elena had calmed down enough to take in her instructions. ‘You tell Danny that he and Fergus must come back to the UK. And you will also tell them that you know how to get them here.’