Payback Read online

  ‘The thing is, Paul, the world’s changed since nine/eleven,’ said Benny, continuing the heated discussion with his friend. ‘Terrorism has taken on a new dimension. Look at those other suicide bombers – you know, those Chechen Black Widows: they’re not just prepared to die for their cause, they want to die for it. It’s a holy thing for them – it’s a . . . a . . .’ He was floundering for the right word.

  ‘A jihad,’ said Frankie, looking up from the hotplate.

  ‘That’s it, that’s the word,’ said Benny. ‘Jihad.’ He looked at Frankie. ‘What d’you reckon about all this then, Frankie?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Frankie, going back to his hotplate. ‘I just cook.’

  ‘But you got to have an opinion,’ snapped Paul, slamming his empty tea mug down on the trestle table. ‘I think it’s disgusting. Worse than that, it’s inhuman. It’s murder, cold-blooded murder. They should round the lot of ‘em up and shoot ’em.’

  Dean placed the lid of the urn back in position and glared at the young builder. ‘You mean murder them?’

  Paul returned the angry stare for a moment, and then glanced over at his mate before smiling at Dean. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Be like sinking to their level, wouldn’t it? And we’re more civilized than that. Give us another tea, Dean.’

  Before Dean could pick up the empty mug, the builder’s mobile phone rang. He took it from a pocket in his cut-off jeans, mumbled a quick ‘Hello’ and walked away from the tables to continue his conversation.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Benny to Dean. ‘He gets a bit steamed up about these things.’

  Dean saw Frankie flash him a look that said, Leave it. He just nodded to Benny and said nothing.

  Benny laughed. ‘That’ll be his girlfriend, giving him grief about being over here. I’d better have another tea. She keeps him on that phone for hours.’

  3

  Marcie Deveraux looked calm and unruffled as she went into a Coffee Republic and joined the queue of people waiting to place their orders. But she was anxious: the secret operation she had nurtured and overseen for many months was close to being blown. And it seemed there was little she could do about it.

  She took off her designer sunglasses and turned to watch the pedestrians going by outside. Nothing suspicious. She bought a latte, found a seat and took a single sip of her coffee before pulling out her Xda mobile phone and computer. Once the connection was made she didn’t waste time with small talk. ‘I’m coming in. Five minutes.’

  Deveraux left the café and headed towards Pimlico. Soon she reached a street where rows of three-storey town houses were grouped around their own private gardens. She pushed open a black iron front gate and walked along the cobblestone path. The red velvet curtains at the window to the left of the front door were smart and respectable. Anyone getting close enough to peer through the nets would have seen a decent three-piece suite and a good carpet. But there was no expensive TV or music system to attract the attention of ambitious housebreakers.

  Three paces before Deveraux reached the door there was a low buzzing sound as the bolts slid back. She walked straight in, closed the door, and the three steel bolts returned to their locked position.

  From the outside, and through the front window, the house seemed virtually identical to the others in the street. But the front room was exactly that: a front – a front of respectability and normality.

  The rest of the house was different. In the hallway the paintwork was dull and faded, the carpet threadbare and the air stale and musty, as though the windows hadn’t been opened in years. They hadn’t. Every window in the house was screwed securely into position. They couldn’t be opened. And the front room was the only place where natural light found its way into the building. The rest of the house was artificially lit. Every other window had internal shutters closed and firmly secured.

  It was a safe house, manned and run by the Security Service, or M15, the organization responsible for protecting the UK from terrorists, spies and traitors. And this safe house was special, and known to very few in the Security Service. But they were after a big fish, and Marcie Deveraux had been secretly seconded from M16 to help catch that fish.

  She went past the stairs into a back room that opened onto the kitchen, and was immediately struck by the pungent smell of tomato soup and burned toast. Two men in their late twenties – one with long curly hair and the other wearing a blue beanie – were sitting at a long wooden trestle table. They were facing the doorway, their eyes fixed on three TV monitors on the tabletop, their ears covered by headphones.

  No sound came from the monitors, or from a fourth TV mounted above the kitchen door. The only noise was the constant hum of the internal fans cooling the monitors and the vast array of electric equipment around the room.

  The long-haired man looked up at Deveraux and pulled one headphone away from the mass of curls. ‘He’ll be here in about ten minutes, ma’am.’

  Deveraux nodded, aware of the admiring glances directed towards her by both young men. She was used to it: with her ebony skin, stunning looks and impeccable dress sense, she could have passed for a supermodel. She glanced up at the monitor above the kitchen door. Sky News was at the House of Commons to report on Prime Minister’s Questions.

  The two surveillance operators went back to watching the TV screens while dunking toast soldiers into their mugs of soup. Deveraux wandered round to their side of the table, flicked some old magazines from a folding chair, sat down next to the curly-haired man and looked at the monitors.

  The three black and white screens each showed a different location. The furthest one was split into six sections, each picking up a different area outside the house they were in.

  The two closer screens were of much more interest to Deveraux. On the one in the centre, the four sections showed different rooms in an exclusive-looking apartment. The owner had no idea that miniature fibre-optic lenses had been fitted where walls met ceiling.

  There was no one at home, but the furnishings and fittings made it obvious that this was no family residence. Every room was immaculate, nothing out of place. Almost too perfect, like a picture from a glossy, upmarket lifestyle magazine.

  The closest screen showed just one room; a room that Deveraux knew very well. The hidden lens in that room was part of the wiring for one of the two wall-mounted plasma TV screens situated in one corner. The room was the office of Deveraux’s immediate boss at MI6, George Fincham.

  George Fincham, head of the security section; George Fincham, whose apartment was shown on the middle screen; George Fincham, the ultimate target of Deveraux’s ongoing operation; George Fincham, traitor.

  The Security Service had known for years that Fincham was a traitor. His activities went back nearly a decade to his time as desk officer at the British Embassy in Bogotá, Colombia. By feeding the FARC cocaine traffickers information about the operations being conducted against them he was reckoned to have amassed a fortune of around twelve million pounds, most of it hidden in foreign bank accounts. With interest, the amount was probably closer to fifteen million now.

  The Security Service wanted that fifteen million, and they wanted it badly. It could be used to fund future ‘black ops’ – the illegal, covert work the government could never officially sanction or even publicly acknowledge, and certainly never finance. Deveraux had been secretly seconded by M15 to recover the money, without publicly exposing Fincham as a traitor. That would be too embarrassing – for the Firm and the government.

  As Deveraux watched the monitor, she saw the door to the office open and Fincham walk in. He looked his usual elegant self. Blond-haired, mid forties, slick, dark blue suit and custard-yellow and red striped MCC tie. Every inch the gentleman, every inch the top civil servant. He sat at his desk and took out his mobile phone.

  The curly-haired operator checked that everything Fincham was about to say would be recorded. Deveraux tapped the small speaker on the tabletop and Curly threw a switch.

  As Fincham
punched in a number he glanced up at the plasma screens. He was checking out the world news headlines but seemed to be staring directly at Deveraux. When he spoke into the phone his voice was crystal clear in the surveillance room. ‘Fran, the sighting of Watts and the boy is confirmed. I want you and Mick to link up with the other two. Plan and carry out the disposal of both Watts and the boy. But be careful – we cannot afford to mess this up in another country.’

  ‘Exactly what I was afraid of,’ said Deveraux, more to herself than to the surveillance operators.

  Fincham ended the call, reached for the remote TV control on his desk and turned up the volume on one of the plasma screens.

  Deveraux glanced up at the monitor above the kitchen door. She and Fincham were watching the same picture of the Prime Minister standing at the dispatch box, ready to answer questions about the Parliament bombing.

  But before the PM had uttered more than a few words, Curly turned down the speaker so that it was just audible and nodded towards the house security screen. A man was approaching the door. ‘He’s here.’

  Deveraux stood up as she heard the front door open and close and the locks slide back into place. A small grey-haired man in his mid sixties entered the room. Despite the warm spring weather his overcoat was buttoned up to the neck.

  His name was Dudley. It was his surname but he had been part of the Service for so long it could just as well have been his first name. To most in MI5 he was ‘Sir’; to his equals and superiors – and there were very few of those – he was simply Dudley.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Deveraux.

  ‘Good afternoon, Marcie. I don’t have long.’

  Deveraux nodded: she was used to making short and concise reports. ‘Fincham has located Watts and the boy in Spain. He intends to have them both killed.’

  Dudley considered for a moment and then focused his eyes on the TV screen to his right. ‘Not exactly how you planned this, Marcie.’

  ‘No, sir. I have been monitoring their movements and I intended to bring them back at the appropriate time, when we had more to go on and Watts could be of use to us.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do now?’

  Deveraux shook her head. ‘Since their previous escape Fincham has ensured I had no direct involvement in the case; I argued too strenuously that they should be kept alive when they were first located. If I attempt to intervene now I risk compromising my own situation.’

  Dudley’s shrug was philosophical. ‘Then I’m afraid they are lost to us, Marcie.’ His eyes were still fixed on the TV.

  ‘But sir, there’s still the question of who else knew Watts was operating as a K when Fincham set him up. There was, of course, Watts’s old SAS commanding officer, Colonel Meacher, but as you know—’

  ‘Fincham had him eliminated last year,’ said Dudley, finally turning away from the television and looking at Deveraux. ‘Perhaps we will have to find the answer elsewhere. Your focus must be on recovering the money. And now I really must go.’ He nodded towards the monitor. ‘The PM wants an update on the bombing as soon as he leaves the House. Anti-Muslim demonstrations outside mosques have already started. The country is scared, Marcie, and that makes our leaders very scared.’

  4

  Señorita dice:

  so wots the weather like there

  Señor dice:

  WOT!!!!!!!!

  Señorita dice:

  wot du mean wot!

  Señor dice:

  u can not be serious!! its hot! bloody hot! 2 bloody hot! its always hot!!!!

  Danny had long since familiarized himself with MSN messaging in Spain – here he got no time check on his monitor when he sent or received a message. But his language, and his attitudes, remained very English.

  Señorita dice:

  all right!!! theres no need 2 get arsey

  Señor dice:

  wot dyou expect??? we get a few minutes online n u ask me about the weather

  Señorita dice:

  yeah, coz im not allowed 2 ask proper questions n u never tell me anything!

  Señor dice:

  I cant. he won’t let me

  Señorita dice:

  exactly!!!

  Señor dice:

  u tell me things then

  Señorita dice:

  like wot

  Señor dice:

  anything, something thats happened, im going crazy out here

  Danny sighed as he waited for Elena to come back to him. He was in an Internet café in Seville and this conversation was already becoming as difficult and awkward as the last three had been.

  They had an arrangement – more than that, an SOP which Fergus insisted on: Elena went online at eight o’clock British time every morning and evening in case of emergencies. She never expected Danny to be there and so far he never had been. But every two weeks, on a Sunday afternoon, Fergus allowed them a brief MSN session.

  Señorita dice:

  all right. u remember that guy in yor year, todd hammond? he asked me out the other day

  A surge of jealousy swept through Danny’s body and he felt his face flush with anger.

  Señor dice:

  look, i might as well go, yor trying to wind me up now

  Señrita dice:

  i am not! u asked me to tell u wots happened. it happened! and anyway i said no, hes a creep. look y does it always end up like this lately? y cant we just be normal???

  Normal. Danny longed to be normal again. He wanted to explain to Elena that his life had changed completely since he had last seen her. As his hands hovered over the computer keyboard he pictured the room at Foxcroft where she was sitting.

  He missed Foxcroft. The harsh red-brick exterior, the creaking staircases and wheezing central heating system. The huge windows, with their broken sashes and cracked panes. He missed his old room, the posters on the walls, his computer. He missed the garden and the lushness of the emerald-green lawn after a shower of rain. He missed all the things he’d so easily taken for granted, but most of all he missed Elena.

  Southern Spain was like another world where one sun-drenched day followed another. In Seville, orange trees lined the wide boulevards and palm trees reached skywards. It was easy to see why the surrounding countryside was known as the dust bowl of Spain: parched brown earth, dust-blown and dry, with never a glimpse of greenery. Mile after mile of barren countryside with small, quiet towns dotted here and there.

  But Danny was a city boy, born and brought up amid the noise and pace of a bustling, vibrant capital. And the longer he spent marooned in the Spanish countryside the more he yearned for the London life that already seemed so distant.

  The road where Fergus and Danny ran their tea bar was newly built and sat about half a metre above ground level. Like a puckered black scar it meandered between scorched fields of ancient gnarled olive trees towards the coastal city of Huelva. In some places you could see a pair of concrete rendered gateposts with rusting iron gates standing a few metres back from the road. But there were no accompanying fences or driveways. The grand estates once guarded by the gates were long gone.

  The gates were old Spain; the road itself was one of the gateways to new Spain, for it snaked its way down to the Costa de la Luz, the latest growth area for holidaymakers and second-home hunters. It was the perfect spot for a snack bar: many of the more intrepid and adventurous Brits had started choosing this route rather than the busier motorway toll roads.

  Fergus had never bothered seeking permission for the business venture; he guessed no one would worry about a couple more foreigners making a few euros by the roadside. And he was right. It was too hot for complaints and arguments and filling in forms. An official from the nearest town hall had even become a regular customer; so had couple of the local police. Fergus had operated a roadside tea bar back in Britain before he’d gone on the run with Danny. This one was different: most of the Spanish customers pulled in for coffee and a speciality hot chicken or pork sandwich cooked in garlic-flavoured oil. But t
he Brits were attracted by the Union flag and the hand-painted sign reading: TEA. They would spill from their hire cars, desperate for a proper cuppa, clutching new home brochures with titles like ‘Live the Dream’.

  Danny’s dream was more simple. He wanted to go home. To England. To London. But instead, every evening they returned to Valverde del Camino.

  The small white house was mid terrace, identical to all the others in the narrow street. Each had three windows, two up and one down, with exterior shutters protected by ornate wrought-iron bars. Each house had the same carved wooden front door and a roll-down shutter for the integral garage.

  Every night when they returned, Fergus would go through his standard anti-surveillance drill: the remains of the matchstick trapped between the door and the frame would inevitably fall to the ground as proof that no one had opened it. Inside, the shutters and interior doors were always in exactly the same position as he had left them. When Fergus was satisfied the house was safe, he would garage the truck, slamming down the rolling door so hard it sparked up every dog in the vicinity. Then their usual evening routine would begin.

  Fergus was determined to keep up his fitness levels, so most nights he completed a forty-five-minute routine of aerobic and muscle-toning exercises. Danny would go for a run, partly because he too wanted to stay fit, partly because it reminded him of his former life in England, and partly because he could escape from his grandfather, if only for a while. Then it would be a quick shower, a bite to eat, followed by a couple of hours in front of Spanish television.

  Danny hated it. Endless chat shows, Spanish football, badly dubbed movies and soaps. There was even a programme devoted to bullfighting. They watched it together one night and Danny stared in horror as the magnificent bull was tormented, tortured and finally brought to its knees as the matador thrust his sword into the back of its neck.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ said Danny as the preening matador took the whistles and applause of the huge crowd. ‘I wish the bull had got him.’