Meltdown

by Andy McNab

  The Predator contained a number of different cameras, ranging from one that could pick out a newspaper being read by someone at a bus stop, to thermal imaging, which showed heat as white. The hotter the target, the whiter it appeared on the screen.

  The camera the operator was using to track Fiery Fred was an FLIR coupled with the UAV's powerful infra-red torch. Just like the handycam Danny had used, but millions of times more powerful, the torch shone an infra-red beam down to flood the area around the target and illuminate the invisible IR paint for the FLIR to pick up. The surveillance devices could easily see through cloud, smoke and darkness. For a Predator, it was always a bright, sunny day.

  Since 2000 a new dimension had been added to the capability of the Predator. Some boffin had come up with the idea of strapping Hellfire anti-tank missiles and a laser beam alongside the infra-red torch. The idea was that if the operator saw an opportunist target – armoured vehicles, say – he could switch on the laser beam and 'splash' the target before kicking off one of the fourteen missiles beneath the Predator's wings. The Hellfire is a laserguided missile, so it picks up the laser through the detector in its nose and follows the beam to the target.

  This was how many terrorists were being located and killed in places like Afghanistan. The Predator flies so high, it cannot be seen or heard. So when the terrorists leave the protection of their cave hideouts and travel in their pickups to attack British soldiers, the Predator operator, hundreds of miles away, can mark the targets with the laser beam and kick off the Hellfires.

  High above Manchester, the Predator was following every move of the Mini, and the operator watched on a green-hazed screen.

  'The target is now turning right. That's right onto . . . wait.'

  He checked the sat nav monitor, which showed exactly where the target was.

  'Right onto Maple Street.'

  Phil's voice came back immediately in the operator's earphones.

  'Roger that. I'm halfway down Hayward.'

  In the Mini, Freddie had not the slightest idea that he was being tracked by so many million pounds worth of technology.

  Freddie was worried. He was thinking about Albie. The news of his death had shocked him. Not that he would shed any tears over Albie; he was worried about himself.

  Like everyone on the team, Freddie had been only too delighted to join the Meltdown set-up when the twins came calling. He'd known Teddy and Will since university, where they had been popular, with their good looks and endless amounts of Mummy's cash to throw about.

  Freddie had never been popular. His name, his flaming red hair, his obsessive behaviour, his volatile temper, everything had conspired to make him an easy target for the cruel jokes that everyone thought were just a laugh. He knew that the twins had chosen him because he was a loner. They weren't friends. They despised him just as much as he despised them.

  But he was making big money, so why should he care – about the twins or anyone else? None of the team working for the twins gave a toss about the victims of the drug they were producing; about the damage, destruction and death it was causing.

  Suddenly everything seemed to be turning sour. The burned-out coaches, the attack on Teddy, and now Albie's death . . . Nothing much was known about Albie – it was merely a brief item in the Manchester Evening News reporting the discovery of his body. But of course there was going to be an inquest, and Freddie was only too aware of what that would reveal.

  He was thinking about getting out while he still could. But that wouldn't be easy. Even though Albie was dead, the twins still had plenty more muscle around for retaining their workers' loyalty. And there was the money. Freddie was good at earning it, but he was even better at spending it.

  'One more job,' he said to himself as he eased the Mini down the street. 'One more, maybe two. Then I'll just go – some place where they won't find me. America maybe. Or Australia.'

  He flicked the Mini's indicator and began to slow.

  *

  In the Portacabin, the operator got back on the net.

  'The target is stopping . . . Wait . . . Wait . . . He's parking on the left, three quarters of the way down Maple Street.'

  'Roger that. On Maple now.'

  The operator watched the pure white shape that was Freddie get out of the paler Mini; paler because it was heated by the engine.

  'He's foxtrot, on the pavement . . . W a i t . . . Wait . . . He's feeding a parking meter, two cars in front of his Mini.'

  Phil drove along Maple Street and saw the parked Mini and then Freddie.

  'Phil has Fred. Keep the trigger on the car. I'll take Fred.'

  The operator kept the Predator flying in a wide circle above the Mini as he watched Phil's vehicle park up just short of Freddie's car on the opposite side of the road.

  'Roger that, Phil. Trigger is on the car.'

  He watched the white shape that was Phil get out and start to follow Freddie, who was already walking away.

  The operator could hear the propeller of a second Predator start to rev up on the runway in preparation for take-off. There had to be twenty-four-hour coverage of the city: the team hoped to locate the DMP by following Freddie – he was the only lead they had, and the reasoning was that he would go there one day. With luck it would be one day soon.

  Until then, each Predator would take turns to spend its maximum of thirty hours in the air over Manchester.

  *

  Phil stood in an estate agent's doorway and watched Freddie disappear into an Indian restaurant. 'Loner,' he breathed.

  He thought of Freddie inside the restaurant, seated at a table set for one, trying to look as though he was enjoying himself as he avoided the pitying glances from couples and groups at other tables.

  It was all depressingly familiar. Phil smiled and pulled up the collar on his jacket. 'He's not the only one,' he said to himself.

  It was going to be another long wet night.

  29

  The pale, watery sun was rising behind the spires of Barcelona cathedral. It was a magnificent sight, but Dudley was in no mood to appreciate the view.

  Events had moved on at a furious pace and in a totally unexpected manner. And Dudley had a longstanding aversion to the unexpected – or anything beyond his control.

  The call to GCHQ had come through in the middle of the night. Several terse phone calls later, Dudley was driven at high speed to RAF Northolt in West London and flown out to Barcelona in a private jet.

  The fierce arguments, accusations and recriminations had continued the moment he arrived at the safe-house apartment at the top of a block overlooking the Gothic quarter of the city.

  As he sipped at a cup of coffee, Dudley felt angry with himself for not anticipating or even considering this development.

  And the arrival of the Spanish edition of that day's Times newspaper had brought yet another serious blow. The headline made horrifying reading.

  THINK-TANK PREDICTS

  EUROPEAN MELTDOWN

  There had been a leak. Someone on the inside had given The Times its 'world exclusive'.

  The source of the leak didn't matter at that moment; what mattered was the catastrophic effect the revelations would have on public confidence and morale.

  The think-tank's nightmare scenario – police forces throughout Europe being unable to cope, health services breaking down under the pressure on the system and, worst of all for Dudley, Meltdown falling into the hands of some terrorist organization – was all there in black and white for anyone to read.

  And following the revelations of the last few hours, it appeared that the feared terror link might well turn into a reality.

  Dudley threw down the paper, imagining the redhot phone lines between Downing Street and the major European capitals, and the questions that would be asked in the House later that day.

  It was a disaster, and there was only one way out. The Meltdown operation had to be successfully concluded within days. Then the government and his own department could put a posi
tive spin on their secrecy claiming that the information had been withheld in the public interest and that, as a result, an international crisis had been averted.

  It would be the perfect solution, but with so many strands needing to be wound up at virtually the same moment, timing would be crucial. They still needed to discover the whereabouts of the DMP, and now a completely new element had been thrown into the melting pot.

  The entry buzzer sounded and Dudley heard one of the minders going to open the door.

  He sighed; he was not looking forward to the next few minutes. He glanced down at the newspaper again and his eyes slid across to the array of blownup black and white photographs lying beside it. Photographs of the big Bosnian, the twins – and Fergus Watts.

  Dudley had summoned Fergus to an urgent meeting. He didn't give the reasons on the phone; he couldn't. He just told him that there was a 'highly significant development' which needed discussion.

  When Fergus came in, his eyes were immediately drawn to the photographs on the table.

  Without even greeting Dudley, he shouted, 'You had me photographed!'

  He picked up one of the photos and almost shoved it into Dudley's face. 'Someone's been covering me without you even telling me! What the hell are you playing at?'

  Dudley shook his head. 'Sit down, Mr Watts. Please? And try to stay calm.'

  'Calm?' Fergus threw the photo back onto the table. 'I'm meant to be running this operation and you—'

  Dudley raised both hands. He looked pained.

  'Please take a seat,' he said. 'As I told you – there has been an unexpected development which involves a change of plan.'

  Fergus sat at the table and started flicking through the piles of photographs, shaking his head in disgust as he saw the twins and the mysterious Bosnian.

  'I assure you that I knew nothing of this until a few hours ago,' said Dudley. 'I did not sanction these photographs.'

  'No?' said Fergus. 'Well, who did?'

  A door on the far side of the room opened and a woman dressed in a black designer trouser suit strode in.

  'I did,' she said.

  Fergus stared, totally lost for words.

  It was Marcie Deveraux.

  30

  Marcie Deveraux looked as cool as ever as she stared down Fergus, almost smiling at the stunned disbelief written all over his face.

  Slowly Fergus got to his feet. He looked at Deveraux: she stood there, full of confidence, absolutely assured.

  Fergus turned to Dudley. 'You'd better explain yourself. And quickly'

  'There's very little to explain,' said Deveraux before Dudley could speak. 'Your drugs bust seriously threatens my own operation. I want you out once you've given me all the information you have on Enver Kubara.'

  'Miss Deveraux!' said Dudley, for once raising his voice. He picked up the newspaper and pointed at the headline. 'If it's a question of priority, my operation will come first.'

  'But you said—'

  'I know what I said.' He threw down the newspaper. 'But the situation has changed and I am authorized to take charge. I am senior to you and I have the backing not only of my own organization but also of the British government and most of the governments of Europe, including the Spanish.'

  Deveraux's eyes flashed with anger. 'That is not acceptable!'

  'I think you'll find that it is, Miss Deveraux. It's been agreed at the highest level. You are ordered to co-operate.'

  There was total silence for a moment. Dudley took a sip of his cold coffee, glaring at Deveraux. 'Sit down.'

  She shrugged, then pulled out a chair and took a seat.

  'You too,' said Dudley to Fergus.

  Fergus sat down and listened closely as Dudley explained what he had learned in the past few hours about the twins' contact, Enver Kubara.

  MI6 had long known that the big Bosnian was much more than a drug dealer. He made many millions of dollars from his illicit business and the largest slice of that money went into sponsoring terrorism.

  Many groups throughout the world benefited from his handouts, but the biggest payouts were reserved for the Taliban in Afghanistan as they waged war against the British army.

  Kubara had a particular hatred of the British which went all the way back to the Bosnian war. The Brits had been in the war zone supposedly as peacekeepers, under the command of the UN and with restricted rules of engagement. It meant they were not allowed to take sides and were powerless to intervene while the ethnic cleansing of innocent civilians went on.

  When Kubara's own village was attacked, the Brits were less than half an hour away. He was sure they knew what was happening – it was happening all over the region all the time – but they did nothing to help.

  Kubara wanted revenge on them – all of them. They had failed to give the protection that any human being was entitled to expect. They had failed to prevent his wife's death. And now, with the British army deployed in Afghanistan to assist with the restructuring of the country, he was getting his revenge.

  The Brits had been dragged into a new war with the Taliban, who were becoming stronger than ever, financed by the sale of the huge quantities of heroin they produced. And Kubara was their perfect customer. Not only did he buy the stuff, he also gave them much of the money he made from its distribution and resale.

  Ever since Marcie Deveraux had returned to the Firm, Enver Kubara had been the focus of all her energy. She had been tracking him across Europe for months. Her mission: to eliminate him.

  She had come close on several occasions, but her target was a wily and experienced operator. He had spent years in the field, fighting, honing his survival skills. He knew all the tricks, all the evasive tactics, and he was guarded as closely as a president.

  Now Deveraux was closer to her target than ever before. She and her team had reacted like lightning to a tip-off that Kubara was in Barcelona for a meeting.

  The photographs snapped outside the restaurant were meant to be final confirmation that they had indeed found their man. Deveraux was already planning the hit; it would be made before Kubara left the city. It might be their only chance.

  Then she was given the photographs . . .

  Dudley sat back in his chair and looked at Deveraux and then Fergus.

  'There is a way through this,' he said. 'It means we will have to work together, combine our resources and our intelligence.'

  'No chance,' said Fergus quickly. 'If you seriously think we can—'

  'Mr Watts!' said Dudley, raising his voice again. 'I have no wish to treat you and Miss Deveraux like a pair of argumentative school children, so please do not interrupt me. You can have your say when I've finished. You can both have your say when I've finished.'

  Fergus took a deep breath and glanced at Deveraux.

  'For obvious reasons, none of us would have wanted this situation,' said Dudley, calmly again now. 'But we can make it work. It gives us a better opportunity than ever to achieve all our objectives. But it must be a combined effort, with no one acting purely in their own interests. All objectives must be achieved.'

  'That's a stupid idea!' said Fergus tersely. 'Even if we were to agree to it, we know her.' He glared at Deveraux. 'She'll agree to work with us and then do exactly as she pleases, and probably get us killed in the process. Whatever she says now, you've got no guarantee she'll keep her word.'