by Andy McNab
'You'll see when I find it,' replied Fergus quietly.
They continued down the narrow street until they reached an open archway full of wooden pallets. On the wall a hand-painted sign said the owners would pay good money for more of the same.
'Stop counting and remember the number.'
'But what's it for?'
Fergus didn't even glance at him. He pulled Danny behind a rubbish skip full of flattened cardboard boxes and then looked carefully at the archway and up and down the road. He leaned closer to Danny and whispered, 'I'm going in there. If you hear any shouting, or if I don't come out in fifteen minutes, go back to the ERV and do the same drill until we meet up.'
Without waiting for a reply, he put down the sleeping bags and the other kit bought from the camping shop, walked over to the arch and disappeared into the darkness.
The minutes dragged by as Danny waited. He heard the rumble of trains and the occasional blast of a car horn from distant streets, but he kept his eyes fixed on the archway as raindrops dripped steadily from the peak of his baseball cap.
After ten long minutes that felt more like an hour, Fergus emerged from the dark archway. He walked quickly to Danny and picked up his bags. 'Come on.'
They went into the archway. Inside there was a strong stench of wood and grease from the pallets. It was completely dark and reminded Danny of the nightmare experience of being in the tunnel back at the cottage. 'I can't see,' he whispered.
Fergus put a hand on his shoulder. 'Stand still – we'll wait for our night vision to come.'
After a few minutes Danny could make out the shapes of the pallets, the brick walls – even his grandfather's face. He nodded and Fergus began to climb up the pallets; Danny clambered after him.
They reached the top of a high stack with a gap of only two metres between them and the top of the arch. Fergus moved about, checking out his lines of sight and his potential escape route. When he was satisfied they were safe, he sat down next to Danny. 'We're staying here tonight, this is our LUP.'
'Our what? Don't you ever speak normal English?'
'I am – my English, and you'd better start learning it. All you need to know now is that if we really are going to find Meacher, we have to live like this. And there are SOPs you've got to learn and stick to. Like tonight, one of us has to be awake at all times. On stag.'
He saw Danny's confused look. 'On guard. And if we get bumped we leave everything and get out the back way. I'll show you.'
Danny didn't bother asking what 'bumped' meant: he had a pretty good idea. They crawled to the rear of the stack where, many years earlier, a back wall had been added to the archway. There was a hole in the brickwork where at one time there had been a window. 'Stick your head out and look to the right,' said Fergus.
A rusty old ladder was set into the brickwork. It went up to the railway track as well as down to the ground.
'We go down that and bomb burst, you right, me left. Then we RV at Burger King.'
They went back to the front of the pallets so that they could see out to the front of the archway. 'LUP means lay-up point,' said Fergus. 'Always check out the area of a possible LUP first. There could have been a couple of homeless guys in here wanting to get out of the cold and wet.' He nodded towards their entrance point. 'Make sure that from the LUP you can see if anyone is approaching so that you can escape. To do that, you need an escape route, like the one I just showed you.'
There was a lot to take in, but Fergus was far from finished with Danny's lesson in SAS fieldcraft skills. 'Everything you take into the LUP goes out with you. You leave absolutely nothing to show you were there.'
He delved into a heavy-duty carrier bag from the camping shop and handed Danny a brand-new Leatherman knife. 'I never gave you anything before and you ought to have one of these. Look after it. There's an old saying, "You're only as sharp as your knife." It's true.'
'Thanks,' said Danny. He was examining the knife when Fergus threw over a small day sack, followed by a sleeping bag and an empty water bladder. 'Get comfortable, we'll eat soon.'
Danny unravelled the sleeping bag and then held up the water bladder. 'What's this for?'
'Think about it. You'll probably need it before you turn in for the night.'
As Fergus unfolded his own sleeping bag, his grandson worked out the precise purpose of the bladder. And as he did so, he was struck by another thought. 'But what if . . . what if . . . ?'
Fergus grinned. 'You got the baby wipes and the cling film, didn't you?'
'I got everything on the list.'
'Good. So, like I said, we leave absolutely nothing to show we've been here.' He glanced towards the carrier bags Danny had carried up to their hideaway. 'Shall we eat?'
Danny had suddenly lost his appetite.
But they did eat. As the trains rumbled by overhead, they consumed the contents of the ring-pull cans, followed by chocolate bars. When they finished, Fergus packed the empty cans, wrappings and bottles into a carrier bag as the rain bounced off the tarmac outside. Danny watched as his grandfather checked and then double checked that not a scrap of evidence of their makeshift meal had been left behind.
'I just realized something,' said Danny. 'I don't know what to call you.'
Fergus shrugged. 'It's a bit late for Granddad, and it's not a good idea anyway. Neither is Fergus. Don't call me anything if you can avoid it, but if you have to, stick to Frankie. And I'll call you . . . Derek.'
'Derek!' said Danny, horrified. 'No way, I'm not being called Derek.'
'You pick something then, beginning with a D. It's easier to remember it that way.'
Danny thought for a few moments. 'Dean. I don't mind Dean.'
'Fair enough, Dean it is.'
'And there's something else,' said Danny.
A train passed overhead, the first for several minutes – the rush hour was long over. Fergus looked out to the front of the archway to check that it was clear before settling down on his sleeping bag. 'Go on, then, ask.'
'If we have to use the ERV again and you're not there, I have to walk by every half hour for three hours, right?'
'That's right.'
'So what if you don't turn up after three hours? What does that mean? And what do I do?'
Fergus nodded. 'It would most probably mean Fincham and his team have got me. If it happens, you don't go to the police, they'd only hand you over to Fincham. You go to the press, one of the tabloids, the Sun or the Mirror. And you tell them everything I've told you and everything that's happened. It'll cause such a stink that Fincham won't dare come after you. Now get some sleep. I'll take first stag.'
20
Marcie Deveraux parked the battered old Mazda in a line of cars that looked in even worse condition. She switched off the windscreen wipers and looked across the road towards the drab, rundown housing estate. It made a depressing view, but Marcie Deveraux wasn't concerned with that. There was a job to be done and she was dressed and kitted out to do it.
Her designer clothes had been replaced with trainers, jeans and black cotton jacket – cotton rather than nylon because nylon meant noise. Her hair was unusually ruffled, almost scruffy, and fell over her ears. But there was a reason for that too. There were earpieces in both her ears and the tousled hairstyle hid them perfectly. One was connected to the personal radio that kept her in contact with her team. The other was blue tooth and was connected to a mobile she wore on a cord around her neck. That was for Fincham. He wanted to know everything Deveraux was about to learn, as she learned it.
The rain beat down on the windscreen as she checked that the Nike bag on the passenger seat was zipped up. Then she made sure the cord attaching the Maglite torch to her jacket was firmly fixed. She had to be certain that nothing would be left behind when the job was complete. The Maglite lens was covered with black duck tape, with a hole cut in it. She wouldn't need much light, and the more light the bigger the chance of compromise.
Deveraux had to be sterile of any ID, so she checked
her pockets were empty. She already knew they were, she'd been through them before leaving her flat, but as always, she double-checked.
A couple out walking a dripping dog went by, heads bent low. They didn't look into the car – they were much too anxious to get home and out of the rain. Deveraux watched them hurry away into the dark night as she pulled on a pair of clear plastic surgical gloves. She was ready.
The message she was waiting for came a few minutes later.
'Brian has Moyes now complete the Victory Club. Marcie acknowledge.'
With Mick getting treatment for broken front teeth and Fran nursing a busted nose, the surveillance team was down to two tonight. It was lucky for them that Eddie Moyes had travelled to the Victory Club by car. Deveraux pressed the small button that led from a wire under her watchstrap into her hand.
'Roger that. Marcie's foxtrot.'
She grabbed her bag, got out of the car and locked up before crossing the road towards the housing estate and Eddie Moyes's flat. Jimmy and Brian had followed him to the Victory Club; they had the trigger and would warn Deveraux when he left. There was plenty of time for her to get in and out of the flat for the CTR.
It wasn't much to look at from the outside. In his glory days Moyes had been the proud owner of a loft apartment in Docklands. Now he could just afford the rent on a housing association flat in east London.
Deveraux climbed the stairs, passing a teenager sitting in the rubbish-filled stairwell, his face pushed into a crisp packet. The bag moved in and out as he breathed and the strong smell of glue drifted upwards.
Moyes lived on the first floor. Rain had dampened the front half of the exterior balcony so Deveraux walked close to the doors as she headed for number 34. She didn't want to leave any wet marks inside the flat. The windows of the flats she passed had metal grilles covering them; some even had them in front of the doors.
Deveraux had learned which two locks were on the front door of number 34 during her four a.m. recce. There was a standard Yale, the normal pin tumbler type. That would take seconds to defeat. The second one would take longer and needed to be tackled first. It was the four-lever type, the sort that had to be turned into the locked or unlocked position. Deveraux had used her mini Maglite during the recce to peer into the lock and decide which master keys to bring. She unzipped the bag and brought out three lever-lock keys on a ring.
As she reached the blue front door, Brian came back in her earpiece.
That's Moyes no change. Still complete the Victory Club. His vehicle still static.'
Entry to the flat had to be quick. Deveraux slid in the first key. It didn't work. She quickly tried the second and the key turned and unlocked the four-lever. The keyring went back into the bag and Deveraux pulled out a Yale gun. It looked a bit like a chunky pistol with two thin-bladed picks instead of a barrel. She pushed the picks into the top lock and began to squeeze the trigger repeatedly. The picks rattled about and on the fourth squeeze the lock turned and Deveraux pushed open the door.
She slipped noiselessly into the dark hallway, gently closed the door and the Yale clicked back in position.
Five miles away at the Victory Club Eddie Moyes was watching Harry the barman go through his glass-polishing routine. The glasses were lined up, as usual, on the bartop.
Eddie nodded his approval. 'You're very proficient, Harry. Precise.'
Harry adjusted the position of one of the glasses slightly. 'If a job's worth doing, that's what I always say. We learned to do things right in the army.'
'I can see that.' Eddie finished his drink and stood his glass at one end of Harry's line-up. Harry swiftly moved it away.
'I'll have the other half in there, Harry,' said Eddie before the barman had the chance to consign the glass to the washing-up tray. Eddie didn't like drinking halves, but he'd lost his driving licence once before and had no intention of letting it happen again. So when he was driving, his limit was two halves.
'Never eaten out of a mess tin or been on the wrong end of a rifle, have you, Eddie?' Harry asked the question as he pulled the second half, knowing perfectly well that Eddie had never served in the army or any other of the armed forces.
Eddie smiled at the hint of disdain in the barman's voice. He lifted his glass, gave the beer an admiring look and downed almost half of it in one go. 'Sadly not, Harry. But you know how much I admire the army. And our boys and girls who serve in it.'
'I know you've made a living out of writing stories about them. Some of them more true than others.'
Eddie was anxious to move the conversation on to safer ground. He glanced around the bar: there were only two other customers, sitting together at a table in one corner. 'Quiet in here tonight.'
The barman shrugged and Eddie took another mouthful of beer. But he wasn't there purely to enjoy the beer. For much of the day he'd been checking through his cuttings and notebooks, reminding himself of the details of the original Watts stories.
A name had leaped out at him, someone he'd spoken to briefly by telephone then, the obvious person to comment on the SAS man's treachery. That person was Colonel Richard Meacher, Watts's commanding officer. And Eddie reckoned he was worth talking to again.
Back in '97, after Watts had been captured in Colombia, Meacher had stuck to the official line, trotting out all the expected cliches: Watts had betrayed his country and his Regiment; he was the rotten apple in the barrel; the Regiment would go on producing brave men prepared to lay down their lives in the defence of their country. All standard stuff, carefully phrased to reassure the great British public.
But at that time Meacher had been the Regiment's CO. Now it was different. He was retired and might be prepared to say a lot more once Eddie told him that Watts was back in Britain and on the run.
'So,' said Eddie as nonchalantly as he could, 'you were telling me about Colonel Meacher.'
Harry continued polishing. 'Was I?'
'Come on, Harry, you and me are old mates. I need to contact him.'
Harry put the glass he was polishing down on the bartop. 'I wouldn't exactly call us mates, Eddie. And I'll tell you exactly what I'd tell anyone else. He's a member here. That's all.'
Eddie finished his drink and placed his empty glass on the bar. 'I'll bid you goodnight then, Harry. Always a pleasure to chat with you.'
Harry picked up the empty glass and turned away to put it in the washing-up machine. Eddie looked at the perfectly lined-up row of glasses. Then he smiled and pushed two of the glasses a few centimetres out of line before walking out.
Marcie Deveraux stood perfectly still in the hallway of Eddie Moyes's flat. Tuning in. Allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Next door a television blared out. A woman shouted to her kids. 'Turn that bloody thing down!'
Deveraux smelled the microwaved remains of a Chinese meal. The odour of sweaty socks was even stronger.
Noiselessly she put down the unzipped bag, took out two plastic foot covers and slid them over her trainers. Next she drew a police-issue telescopic steel baton from the holster on her belt with one hand and removed her earpieces with the other. She needed to hear even the slightest movement because before the CTR could be carried out the flat had to be 'cleared'.
Moyes lived alone. She had checked. And there was no girlfriend. It appeared that there were no friends at all. But anyone unfortunate enough to be inside the flat now would be dropped.
It would be made to look like a burglary gone wrong. Deveraux would take something on the way out and make a run for it. The car would be abandoned and the pre-planned escape route would be utilized. Every contingency had been considered and covered.
