Payback Read online

  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.’

  ‘But Danny won’t be online in the morning,’ said Elena between deep breaths. ‘He never is. I was surprised to find him—you . . . I . . . I . . . I only check in case there’s an emergency.’

  ‘There has been an emergency, and he will be online. I know the way Watts operates – he’ll want to make contact with you.’

  They were both becoming accustomed to the darkness in the alley and Deveraux spotted Elena’s anxious look. ‘What’s happened? Are they—?’

  ‘They’re OK, for the moment. But it won’t stay that way unless you do exactly as I say.’

  Elena glared at Deveraux: as her strength returned, her courage did too. ‘Why can’t you go online?’ she said. ‘You fooled me.’

  Fooling Elena online had been relatively simple: Deveraux had deliberately kept the MSN chat short and sweet and had told her exactly what she wanted to hear. But she knew it would be far more difficult to trick Danny, and with Fergus ever vigilant, it was too risky to attempt. Going online as herself would be even more of a risk. Fergus would almost certainly order Danny to end the conversation before it had even started, and would probably ensure that his grandson never attempted to make contact again.

  The best way was through Elena, and the quickest way of gaining her co-operation had been through fear.

  ‘I’m going to e-mail you the instructions I want you to give to Danny. They must be followed to the letter, and so must yours. When you go online to Danny, I shall be monitoring it. You tell them that you have met the woman who saved you before at the safe house. She is going to save you again. You will not go into the details of what has happened tonight. Is that clearly understood?’

  Elena nodded. ‘But . . . but what if they won’t come back?’

  Deveraux’s voice was cold and hard. ‘Not an option. They will come back; it’s their only
hope – and yours too. If not, all three of you are dead, and that apology of a father of yours stays in prison for good.’

  10

  Señorita dice:

  im so glad yor there, bin worrying all nite

  Señor dice:

  y? has something happened to u?

  Señorita dice:

  yes but im ok. u???????

  Danny and Fergus had waited at the ERV until after last light and then, carrying only their day sacks, had set out on the long walk. It wasn’t the first all-night trek they had undertaken to escape pursuers, and not for the first time Danny marvelled at his grandfather’s ability to keep up a steady and swift pace, despite his limp.

  They skirted the town and walked south, following the course of the main road but sticking to the fields. At around midnight they stopped to eat and rest for a while before moving on. An hour after first light they picked up the early bus to the coastal town of Huelva.

  Amongst the many contingency escape plans Fergus had made was one which involved stealing a small boat and making their way up the Portuguese coastline to some quiet little fishing port. Or even further. They had recced the harbour at Huelva and picked out potential vessels. There were plenty to choose from, particularly the small pleasure boats. Many were rarely used by their fair-weather sailor owners and sat at their moorings for a large part of the year. With any luck it would be weeks before one of those would be missed.

  By nine a.m. Spanish time – eight a.m. British time – Fergus and Danny were in an Internet café and Danny was logged onto MSN. Danny’s face paled as he typed in the next message.

  Señor dice:

  we’re fine, tell me wot happened

  Señorita dice:

  you both gotta come back!!!!!!!

  Señor dice:

  wot? wot du mean???????

  Señorita dice:

  the woman from the safe house! i saw her. she’s gonna help u. 2nite! b4 sunrise 2morrow!

  Before Danny could type in a reply, Fergus reached across and stopped him. ‘We need to be certain that this is Elena talking to you and it’s not some kind of setup. Ask something only Elena knows the answer to.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ snapped Fergus. ‘Use your initiative.’

  Danny went back to the keyboard.

  Señor dice:

  wot do i eat 4 breakfast?

  Señorita dice:

  WOT????????????

  Señor dice:

  just answer the question

  Señorita dice:

  o i get it, u don’t eat anything, u don’t do breakfast

  Danny turned to his grandfather. ‘It’s Elena.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘Ask her about getting us back.’

  Elena was ready with the instructions she had received by e-mail. As she sent them across, Fergus jotted down every word on one of the Internet café flyers he grabbed from the desk.

  ‘Ask her if she’s been threatened,’ he said as he finished writing. He wasn’t expecting to get the answer he wanted and when Elena sent back her reply, he didn’t get it.

  Señorita dice:

  can’t say, u just need 2 come home

  Señor dice:

  u sure ur ok?

  Señorita dice:

  don’t ask any more. just come home.

  PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!

  Fergus had seen enough. He stood up. ‘We have to go, Danny. Right now.’

  ‘But we know it’s Elena, and I have to tell her what we’re gonna do.’

  ‘Just tell her I’ll think about what she’s said, but there’s no guarantees, take it or leave it! Then get offline – we don’t know who else is looking at that. Do it. Now!’

  ‘But—’

  Fergus had already walked away to pay for their drinks and the use of the PC. Danny angrily typed in his grandfather’s final instruction and then reluctantly logged off without waiting for Elena’s goodbye. He pushed the flimsy chair back, scraping it across the floor, and as he got up, it went crashing down.

  All eyes in the café turned towards Danny, and he saw his grandfather glaring at him from the counter. He knew exactly what Fergus was thinking: Brilliant, Danny, just the way to avoid drawing attention to us.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled as he joined his grandfather. ‘But we’ve got to go back. For Elena. We’ve got to get her away from Foxcroft, so she’s safe.’

  Fergus was staring out of the window. ‘Not now, Danny. You know what has to be done now and you know the drill.’

  Danny nodded. His grandfather was right. Someone had got to Elena; she’d said it was the woman from the safe house, but they couldn’t be certain of that.

  ‘Someone may be telling Elena exactly what to write,’ said Fergus. ‘This could be a trap: getting you two online to locate us through the machine. It only takes seconds. We need to get out. Fast. For all we know, the team could be on their way.’

  They took a narrow alleyway leading away from the busier part of town.

  After six months of training Danny was well schooled in anti-surveillance and third-party awareness techniques. He checked behind them as they turned into a street leading towards the old town, but all the while he was worrying about Elena.

  Fergus was thinking about the woman from the safe house. She had given them the chance to run six months earlier and had been prepared to ruthlessly execute one of her own team to give them that chance.

  ‘It might not be her,’ he said as he walked. ‘Could still be Fincham himself. We don’t know, and making wild guesses won’t get us anywhere.’

  ‘But we are going back, aren’t we?’ asked Danny as they turned at another junction.

  Fergus said nothing and they walked in silence for a while until they reached a wide boulevard dotted every twenty metres or so with tall palm trees and clumps of oleander. Fergus found a hiding place in bushes close to a bus stop and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Danny to join him. They would be on the next bus to arrive, wherever it was heading.

  ‘So are we going back?’ asked Danny impatiently as he sat down. ‘We can’t just leave Elena.’

  ‘Could already be too late for Elena,’ said Fergus quietly. ‘Could be they’ve had what they needed from her.’

  Danny’s skin went cold as the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. ‘You mean she might be . . . ?’

  Fergus shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s pointless making wild guesses.’

  ‘But it probably is that woman,’ said Danny desperately. ‘She knows what’s happened here and she wants to help us again.’

  Fergus didn’t answer. A bright yellow bus was approaching and he stood up.

  Danny grabbed his grandfather’s arm as he got to his feet. ‘It is that woman, I’m certain it is. We have to trust her.’

  The morning sun was slanting over the tall buildings lining one side of the boulevard. The bus drew to a halt and the door swung open. Fergus looked at Danny. ‘We trust no one, Danny. No one.’

  11

  George Fincham was seated at his desk, and for once the man famed for keeping his cool seemed close to losing it. He was on his mobile, but was staring up at the two plasma TVs.

  Marcie Deveraux was also looking at the TV screens. The volume was turned up on both channels, where Sky and BBC News 24 were giving details of the latest suicide bomber, now confirmed as sixteen-year-old Adam Hollis, a Catholic boy from Manchester.

  Dudley had been correct in his prediction of a media frenzy on the release of the identity of the second teenage bomber. Since the first explosion at Parliament a constant stream of news pundits and armchair experts had been wheeled into every television and radio studio to fuel speculation that it was the work of Muslim extremists.

  Now live TV was filled with a whole new raft of pundits. Islamic fundamentalists were still top of the list of suspects. After all, claimed one expert, the Islamic faith was the fastest growing religion on the planet. In the US state of Texas alone, more than half a million people had co
nverted to Islam since 9/11. Who was to say that many impressionable British youngsters were not doing the same? But there were other theories too: everyone and everything from mad mullahs to bizarre suicide cults was getting a mention.

  However, the urgency and excitement of the television voices were nothing compared to George Fincham’s as he shouted into the phone. ‘Missing? Why didn’t you tell me that before? You’re saying that not only is he alive and out of our control but he has explosives? What the fucking hell are you doing over there? You may as well get your arses back here. Wait out!’

  He looked at Deveraux. ‘I should have sent you to handle this. The only reason I didn’t is because of your apparent obsession with allowing the two of them to live.’

  ‘Only because of the information Watts may have to give us, sir.’

  Fincham ignored Deveraux’s comment and turned to look at a screen as the sound of the explosion burst out of the plasma’s speakers. One of the news programmes was replaying the fatal moment as the camera fixed for the kick-off shuddered at the impact of the bomb and then panned to the right to settle on the scene of devastation.

  Deveraux picked up the remote on Fincham’s desk. ‘May I, sir?’

  Fincham nodded and Deveraux hit a button to mute the sound from both screens.

  In the Pimlico surveillance house Curly and Beanie were on the early shift. They smiled as they hovered over their TV monitors; Fincham and Deveraux’s conversation would now be as crystal clear as the picture they were watching.

  ‘Way to go, Marcie,’ said Curly.

  Steaming mugs of coffee stood untouched on the tabletop. The job could be tedious – hour after boring hour of watching nothing. But this morning the two operators had front-row seats at their very own reality TV extravaganza. Beanie checked that the recording gear was running smoothly as they listened to Deveraux speak.

  ‘I think we should keep the team in Spain, sir,’ she said to Fincham. ‘Watts will know they planted the device. He has nothing to gain by coming back to the UK: it’s too much of a risk. If I were in his situation, I would be looking for a new safe house and keeping a low profile. My suggestion is that we keep all our resources in Spain and attempt to find him. If he gets away again, we may lose him for good.’