Payback bs-2

by Andy McNab

  ‘About time you cleaned up a bit,’ said Beanie as he pushed a Pot Noodle container onto the floor to make way for his mug of soup.

  ‘Me?’ said Curly. ‘It’s your turn. I did it last time.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘It’s those other two. They make all the mess.’ Curly unwrapped one of his favourite Snickers bars and dropped the wrapper onto the floor. ‘And their fags don’t help. It’s disgusting. They don’t even empty the ashtray.’

  ‘We’ll have a word with them.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s their turn.’

  ‘Hello, Georgie-boy’s got a call.’

  They both turned to look at the TV monitor split into four sections, each one showing a different room in George Fincham’s flat.

  Fincham was at home. He rarely took all the leave he was due, but occasionally he took a morning off, to make a leisurely start to the day, and to think. He had a lot to think about.

  The flat looked as immaculate as ever: Fincham’s cleaner had been with him for years and made sure it was always exactly as he liked it. Perfect. With nothing out of place.

  Fincham had finished his late breakfast. On the mahogany table in the dining room a white bone china coffee cup stood empty, and on a matching plate some croissant crumbs had been methodically pushed into a neat pile.

  Fincham’s mobile was resting on a perfectly folded napkin by the side of the plate. It was ringing.

  The two surveillance operators watched Fincham move from one quarter of the TV monitor to another as he walked from the kitchen to the dining room. He answered the phone. ‘Yes?’

  His voice was perfectly clear in the safe house and Beanie automatically checked that the recording gear was picking up every word.

  ‘Hereford? When did this happen?’

  When Rita Stevens had called her friend from Hereford Station she set off an incredible high-tech chain of events by innocently mentioning that she had seen Fergus Watts. What Rita didn’t know is that every normal, unsecure phone call, text or e-mail is sucked up by the Firm’s satellite vacuum cleaners. Codename: ECHELON.

  These satellites collect all the electronic information zipping around in space and send it back down to earth to be stored in huge computer mainframes. If a telephone number is programmed into the ECHELON computer, every time the phone is used, the conversation is downloaded and listened to. But, and more significantly, the computer can also be used for word recognition. Certain key words are programmed for recognition into the ECHELON computer. Words like ‘bombing’ or ‘suicide attack’. Names like ‘Bin Laden’. Or the names that Fincham had programmed in: Fergus and Danny Watts.

  ‘Unconfirmed or not, Fran,’ said Fincham into his secure phone, ‘I want you and the team to get there now. There must be some of his generation still living in Hereford. Old friends, men he joined up with. Find them. And find Watts. I want this finished. Keep me informed.’

  Curly looked at Beanie. ‘We’d better let Marcie know about this.’

  19

  Danny and Fergus were sitting on what remained of a sofa, facing the grime-covered bedroom window overlooking Brecon Road and Kev Newman’s house. They had been busy since first light, turning the room into an urban OP, ensuring that they could look out and that no one could see in.

  Some old net curtains found on the floor had been hooked above the window, pulled back at a forty-five-degree angle and held in position by bricks. From the outside, the window would look exactly as it had for years.

  They stood a rotting wardrobe a metre from where the net curtain was secured to the floor and then draped a soaking wet, dark green curtain salvaged from the garden over it. This made a perfect dark background and meant that anything between the two curtains could not been seen from the outside.

  The sofa was placed between the curtains, allowing Fergus and Danny to observe the target house in relative comfort.

  Fergus kept his voice low as he slowly got up from the sofa. ‘Sort some food out while I lock up.’

  As Danny reached for his sports bag, Fergus went to the bedroom door, closed it and began jamming small pieces of wood between the door and the floor. ‘Anyone tries to come in and the stops will hold it long enough for us to go out through the window. Bit of a drop, but try and make it to the garden centre, where there are plenty of people. Then go for the ERV. OK?’

  His grandson nodded, hoping that a quick exit through the first-floor window would not be necessary.

  Danny had done the shopping the previous day, so breakfast was a choice between Snickers and Mars bars and steak and kidney pies. Fergus wasn’t bothered; he’d spent years eating junk and convenience food when on ops and had a stomach like iron. He was impressed when he saw that Danny had made ready their rations, removing all the food from its packaging and wrapping it in cling film to cut down on noise in the OP. There was bottled water to avoid the distinctive hiss of cans being opened. The plastic bottles would come in useful when they needed to pee, and in an emergency the cling film also had a secondary use. As Danny knew only too well, everything had to go out with them when they left. Absolutely nothing could be left behind as giveaway clues to their temporary occupation of the building.

  Danny sat munching on a Mars bar while looking out at Kev’s house. It was similar to the others in the row – bay windows on the ground floor and a redbrick front – but by no means identical. Big Kev was a do-it-yourself freak, and over the years, as his family had grown, his house had grown too. Now it looked as though it had more extensions than Victoria Beckham’s hair.

  Danny was looking at the roof, where two not-quite-matching dormer windows were the dominant feature. As he stared, he realized he was slowly tilting his head over to one side. ‘Those windows in the roof aren’t straight.’

  Fergus laughed. ‘Kev never quite mastered the use of a plumb line. From what I remember, the inside’s no better. He’s a good bloke, though, one of the best. We spent weeks on ops like this in Northern Ireland.’ He paused for a moment and gazed out through the window. ‘Watching terrorists get together for planning meetings. Even bomb making. Last one we did together was over a chip shop in Belfast. We stank of fat for weeks.’

  Danny grinned. ‘Off on another trip down memory lane, are we, Watty?’

  Fergus flashed his grandson a look, but then saw the smile on Danny’s face and let it go. Besides, he’d always quite liked being called Watty; it reminded him of the old days too, when life was a lot less complicated.

  ‘You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’ said Danny. ‘I remember him telling me.’

  ‘Boy soldiers together; we were just a bit younger than you. Same battalion, then passed selection together. We used to be called the Grouse Beaters; he even had the kilt.’

  ‘But he’s not from Scotland. I remember his voice – I thought he was a Londoner. And you’re hardly Billy Connolly yourself. You don’t sound Scottish.’

  ‘But at least I was born there. Kev’s a plastic Jock,’ said Fergus, smiling. ‘His mum was from Glasgow, but that’s as far as it goes.’ His face clouded and he seemed to drift away with his thoughts. ‘We’ve been through a lot together. One time-’

  Whatever Fergus had been about to say was left unsaid. Instead he delved into Danny’s sports bag and pulled out a bottle of water.

  ‘What?’ said Danny. ‘One time what?’

  ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

  But Danny persisted. ‘Come on, you started telling me something. You can’t just leave it.’

  Fergus took a drink of water. ‘We got into a bad contact with the IRA in Belfast. Kev was shot but I managed to drag him out and get him away in the car.’

  ‘So… so you saved his life?’

  Fergus shrugged. ‘I didn’t do anything Big Kev wouldn’t have done for me.’

  They hadn’t spoken like this for a long time. Ever since Danny had first met up with his grandfather, he’d found that getting him to talk about his experiences in the Regiment was as tough
as pulling teeth. Now he’d learned a little more.

  They sat side by side on the sofa, and as Danny thought about the special and unique bond that exists between men like Fergus Watts and Kev Newman, his feelings were mixed: awe, admiration, and the slightest hint of jealousy.

  He didn’t like himself for feeling that way. Fergus was his only living relative, his flesh and blood. But he kept many secrets, and Danny knew those secrets could only ever be shared with someone who’d been there; someone who’d lived through the same horrors.

  ‘So what does he do now?’ he asked, trying to shake off his thoughts.

  ‘Works for a security firm around here,’ answered Fergus. ‘But as it’s Saturday – and judging by the two cars it looks as though he’s at home – I’m hoping he might put in an appearance.’

  ‘Then we go and talk to him?’

  Fergus shook his head. ‘We don’t know who else is watching the house. Fincham could have people out checking anyone I know. So we watch and wait for a while.’ He suddenly sat up and gestured towards the house. ‘Here’s the lad himself. He’s put on weight. Lard-arse!’

  Danny looked out and saw Big Kev, wearing ripped jeans and a paint-covered T-shirt, standing in the driveway with a woman.

  ‘That’s his wife, Sharon.’

  Kev kissed Sharon and waved her off as she got into her Mini and drove towards the town. Then he started up his cement mixer, went to the back of the house, returned with a wheelbarrow full of sand and cement and started shovelling it into the machine.

  Fergus took a swig of water. ‘Should have guessed. Another extension.’

  The morning passed at around about the same pace as Big Kev worked – slowly. He moved from front to back of the house with load after load of mixed cement.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if he had the mixer round the back, where he’s working?’ asked Danny after at least a dozen trips.

  ‘Course it would,’ said Fergus. ‘But this is Big Kev we’re talking about.’

  Sharon returned at lunch time with a carload of packed Tesco bags. She stood with one arm around the big man’s waist and they chatted as they watched the mixer turn.

  ‘They were always like that,’ said Fergus. ‘The original happy couple.’

  When the mix was ready, Kev went back to his barrow and Sharon disappeared into the house with her bags of shopping. Half an hour later she reappeared to call Kev in for his lunch. He’d stayed inside the house since then, although Sharon had gone off in the Mini again.

  Danny had been on stag since two p.m. He had another thirty minutes to go before his two hours were up when, across the street, the front door opened and Big Kev emerged. He was dressed differently: his working jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with smart chinos and a short-sleeved polo shirt, and he was carrying a golf bag stuffed with woods and irons.

  As Kev walked towards his car, Danny nudged Fergus, who was snoozing next to him on the sofa. ‘Heads up, Watty. He’s on the move.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fergus as he spotted the battered golf bag. ‘He’s still trying. I thought he’d have given that up by now.’

  ‘Is he no good at it, then?’

  ‘He’s worse than that, he’s total crap. He always loved golf – must be something to do with his Scottish ancestry. He even used to take a couple of clubs and a bag of balls on ops, just in case he got the chance to practise. But he can’t hit a ball straight. Never could.’

  Fergus smiled as he recalled golf balls being whacked in the desert, on ice-covered lakes in Norway and even inside an aircraft hangar the squadron had occupied for a couple of weeks in Cyprus.

  ‘He spent a fortune on lessons, read all the books, watched the professionals, but he reckoned he never got his swing quite right. He could hit a ball for miles, but never straight. The lads used to say it was easier to dodge a bullet than one of Kev’s golf balls.’

  Kev opened the tailgate of his Land-Rover Discovery, put the golf bag inside and began rummaging around in one of the pockets.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Probably checking to see if he’s got enough ammo for a whole round.’

  When Kev slammed the door shut, the whole vehicle shuddered. He got into the Discovery, smiling, and then drove away.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ said Danny. ‘Run after him?’

  ‘No need. I know exactly where he’s going.’

  A few minutes later, as Fergus and Danny gathered together their kit and dismantled the OP so that there were no signs of them having been there, a blue Vauxhall Vectra cruised past Kev Newman’s house.

  The driver pressed in his gearstick pressel.

  ‘That’s Mick on Brecon Road. Heading into town. Do we have any possible yet?’

  Fran was crossing the river Wye, which runs through Hereford.

  ‘That’s Fran on the bridge towards the town centre. There’s nothing yet. All callsigns, get into town and start looking for Watts until we get some Int.’

  20

  The Thames Embankment was far quieter than usual. The fear of further suicide bombings was keeping visitors away. It was a good spot for George Fincham to talk in confidence to his trusted second-in-command.

  Deveraux would have preferred to meet her boss in his office, where every word and look would have been recorded, but when Fincham called her and suggested they walk and talk, she could hardly refuse.

  She knew all about the possible sighting of Fergus and Danny on the train to Hereford, after receiving a call from Curly at Pimlico. But as Fincham explained what had happened, she listened attentively, taking in every word as if it were all hot news to her, while making certain she gave no indication of how pissed off she was that Fergus had allowed himself to be pinged.

  If Watts could be saved, he could still be useful to her to flush Fincham out and force his hand. If not, she needed to cover her own back. And there was still the fifteen million to be found.

  ‘We haven’t always seen eye to eye on this matter, Marcie,’ said Fincham, after telling her he had already sent the team to seek out and eliminate Fergus and Danny. ‘Consequently I have, at times, not kept you fully informed of my planned course of action. I regret that now – you know how highly I regard you as my second-in-command.’

  Deveraux had decided it was time for a change of tactics with her boss. From now on she needed to know everything she could about his plans. That meant restoring his confidence in her total loyalty. ‘Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. But I’ve realized, sir, that you were right all along. We should have killed Watts when we first had him, and then taken out the boy as well.’

  Fincham stopped walking and stared hard at her. ‘But you’ve always been in favour of keeping them alive.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I was wrong. I think it’s time to cut our losses. Catch them again, kill them and dispose of the bodies before there’s any further embarrassment.’

  Fincham raised his eyebrows as he considered Deveraux’s words. He walked over to the Embankment railings, rested both hands on the top and gazed across the river. Deveraux joined him and they watched an almost empty pleasure cruiser cut its way through the murky brown water.

  ‘You’ve taken me somewhat by surprise, Marcie,’ said Fincham, still staring out over the water. ‘I anticipated having to convince you on this one. I thought you would want to bring in Watts to question him further.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Deveraux. ‘We tried that and it failed. And quite frankly I don’t think he knows anything at all. If he did, why hide in Spain? Why not be proactive? You were right all along, sir, so let’s finish it this time.’

  Fincham turned from the railings and smiled broadly at Deveraux. ‘You have no idea how delighted I am to hear you say this, Marcie. It means a great deal to me to know that I have your complete backing and can trust you absolutely.’

  ‘You can, sir,’ said Deveraux, returning the smile. ‘Absolutely.’

  21

  Big Kev was in a bunker. He knew it wel
l. He’d been there before, many times. It wasn’t a big bunker or even a particularly deep one, but not for the first time Big Kev was thinking that he really did not like this small area of soft sand.

  He’d already had two attempts at getting his ball out and onto the green. Both times he had shifted quite a bit of sand, much of it onto himself, but he hadn’t troubled the ball much. It was nestling comfortably less than half a metre from where it had been when Kev first trudged into the bunker to join it.

  Kev was playing alone. It wasn’t that no one else would play with him; most of the club members enjoyed playing a round with Kev Newman – it was good for a laugh and it made them feel a lot better about their own game. But sometimes Kev preferred to play on his own. It gave him time to think about his game, and plenty of opportunities to search for that elusive, perfect swing. He dreamed of striking the ball like his golfing hero, Tiger Woods. Kev knew he would never be even a good golfer, but once, just once, he wanted to swing the club like the Tiger.

  He took a deep breath and prepared for his third attack on the ball. Both feet were planted deep in the sand and the head of his sand wedge hovered a few centimetres behind the ball. Kev focused both eyes on the little white sphere as he spoke to it. ‘This time you’re out. On the green. Next to the flag.’ He reminded himself of the golden rule: ‘Head down, eyes on the ball, eyes on the ball.’

  He pulled back the club, swung down with his mighty strength and heard the sand wedge make contact with the ball. It went high into the air and Kev watched it descend onto the green and begin to roll. Quickly. It went past the flag and rolled on. And on. Without losing speed it crossed the wide green and then disappeared off the edge as it dropped into another bunker on the far side.