Whatever It Takes Read online

  Andy McNab

  * * *

  WHATEVER IT TAKES

  Contents

  PROLOGUE: 2016 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART ONE: 2019 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  PART TWO: Eight months earlier Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART THREE Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  PART FOUR Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  PART FIVE Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  PART SIX Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  PART SEVEN Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  PART EIGHT Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  About the Author

  From the day he was found in a carrier bag on the steps of Guy’s Hospital in London, Andy McNab has led an extraordinary life.

  As a teenage delinquent, Andy McNab kicked against society. As a young soldier, he waged war against the IRA in the streets and fields of South Armagh. As a member of 22 SAS, he was at the centre of covert operations for nine years, on five continents. During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, ‘will remain in regimental history for ever’. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military career, McNab was the British Army’s most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS.

  Since then Andy McNab has become one of the world’s best-selling writers, drawing on his insider knowledge and experience. As well as several non-fiction bestsellers – including Bravo Two Zero, the biggest selling British work of military history – he is the author of the best-selling Nick Stone and Tom Buckingham thrillers. He has also written a number of books for children.

  Besides his writing work, he lectures to security and intelligence agencies in both the USA and UK, and works in the film industry advising Hollywood on everything from covert procedure to training civilian actors to act like soldiers. He continues to be a spokesperson and fundraiser for both military and literacy charities.

  Also by Andy McNab

  Novels featuring Nick Stone

  REMOTE CONTROL

  CRISIS FOUR

  FIREWALL

  LAST LIGHT

  LIBERATION DAY

  DARK WINTER

  DEEP BLACK

  AGGRESSOR

  RECOIL

  CROSSFIRE

  BRUTE FORCE

  EXIT WOUND

  ZERO HOUR

  DEAD CENTRE

  SILENCER

  FOR VALOUR

  DETONATOR

  COLD BLOOD

  LINE OF FIRE

  Featuring Tom Buckingham

  RED NOTICE

  FORTRESS

  STATE OF EMERGENCY

  Andy McNab with Kym Jordan

  WAR TORN

  BATTLE LINES

  Quick Reads

  THE GREY MAN

  LAST NIGHT ANOTHER SOLDIER

  TODAY EVERYTHING CHANGES

  ON THE ROCK

  Non-fiction

  BRAVO TWO ZERO

  IMMEDIATE ACTION

  SEVEN TROOP

  SPOKEN FROM THE FRONT

  THE GOOD PSYCHOPATH’S GUIDE TO SUCCESS

  (with Kevin Dutton)

  SORTED!: THE GOOD PSYCHOPATH’S GUIDE TO

  BOSSING YOUR LIFE (with Kevin Dutton)

  For more information on Andy McNab and his books, see his website at www.andymcnab.co.uk

  ‘For what can men do when so many have grown lawless?’

  Alan Paton, Cry, the Beloved Country

  Prologue

  * * *

  2016

  1

  Queenstown, New Zealand

  Sunday, 27 November 2016

  It’s amazing the view just a few million dollars will buy you. Far in the distance, the other side of this never-ending wall of glass and the breathtakingly turquoise infinity pool, which you could swear merged with the lake sparkling in the brilliant sunshine, mountain peaks jutted majestically into the clear blue sky. Speedboats carved their way across the water. Paragliders floated through the air. Locals and tourists alike were having fun on this beautiful Sunday morning, and if I hadn’t been up to what I was, I would probably have joined them.

  Instead, I turned my back, picked up my bag from the kitchen island, and grabbed a large shiny red apple from a fruit display that looked more like a Cézanne painting than a bowl of stuff to eat. I carried on into the blindingly white room, then deeper into the house. It felt so good to have the place to myself. No family, no gardeners, no cleaners, no cooks, just me, and a few thousand square feet of billionaire’s mansion. I’d been waiting weeks to get time to myself.

  I passed through one of the large lounge areas and wasn’t too happy about the white leather sofas but, considering I’d had no input whatsoever into the décor, I didn’t suppose I could complain.

  Still munching, I took the wooden staircase down to the basement and pushed through a heavy, bomb-proof door. Everything was just as plush down here, but without the view and the natural light. Clusters of bright seasonal-affective-disorder lights compensated for that by giving the illusion of sunlight, and the high-end air-con did its best to convince you that a window was open, letting in a gentle breeze.

  I walked into the den – well, I say den, technically it was the family panic room, dug into the hillside and under the house, and about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. And panic room? It was more like an underground panic complex, complete with bedrooms, a kitchen, food-storage areas, a clean-water facility – everything you’d need to lead a very plush and comfortable existence while, just a few metres of reinforced concrete above you, Armageddon raged. It was designed for the family to live down there for up to a year. Time enough for the world above to finish burning and a new order to install itself.

  This first bit had been converted into office space, and a dozen monitors on the walls broadcast round-the-world stock markets in real time, green gains and red losses, updates on multinational trade a constant flow of numbers tumbling down the flat screens, or running horizontally beneath CNN presenters, like digital ticker-tape.

  I didn’t stop to take in any of the information. I didn’t know how to and,
anyway, I wasn’t down there to see how Marcus Dalladine made even more money.

  I was down there to relieve him of some of it.

  I swallowed the last of the apple, including the core, so there wouldn’t be anything left behind by accident that could eventually find its way back to me. Dalladine was the American hedge-fund guy who’d moved his family there permanently – not for the great weather and views, but for sheer safety. Up till 2008, he’d been making more money than the average third-tier country, and then the financial crisis had hit. After that, he’d made even more as he preyed on people’s desperation and fear. He’d ripped off his clients and their pension funds, and walked away from the carnage scot-free by simply telling the world he was suffering like the rest of us. Suffering so much that he’d joined the wolf-pack down here in New Zealand.

  So, where was the harm in repatriating just a little of it to its rightful owners?

  It wasn’t his investors’ rage and despair that he’d run down here to avoid. That was just small-fry compared to something he and many others who’d fled to New Zealand considered much worse.

  Anyway, that was his problem. Mine lay directly under the desk in the middle of his trading room, covered with an ornamental rug that lay, like an island of swirling colours, in a sea of grey Italian slate. The desk was dark wood, straight-legged, heavy and substantial. There were castors on each of the legs that were going to make it ever so easy to move away from the rug.

  A pretty basic mistake that signals you’re trying to hide something underneath.

  I pulled the desk aside, very conscious of keeping all the family pictures, the paperwork, the pens and pencils from moving or being displaced. Obviously, it would have been easier if I’d had a mobile with me to take a couple of pictures, the before to compare with the after, but bringing one in was dangerous. The dangers far outweighed the advantages. I needed to be careful. I was careful.

  I was always careful.

  With the rug now free of the desk, I rolled it up to expose a brushed-steel cabinet set flush with the floor. It was rectangular and embedded in the concrete – just as I’d known it would be.

  2

  This wasn’t my first visit to the Dalladine household. I had called in twice before, a year ago, while the house was being constructed. I had found out all the details possible from the local authority, all the consents and specs, so I knew what was being built – but, more importantly, how and with what. I knew where all the electrical and security systems were going to be installed, all the plumbing, everything down to the type of locks that would be used to keep out intruders.

  My other visits were to confirm that the specs were being adhered to correctly, and no one on-site had batted an eyelid. Construction is a bit of an international brotherhood, and it’s amazing how helpful people are when you say you’re in the business, you’re on holiday, you were just passing by, and you couldn’t resist seeing how things were done this side of the world. It all paid off. Once the house was finished, I could come back and access it on a day of my choosing, and take whatever I wanted, just like today. It had made me very happy for months that I knew what was going to happen and the owner didn’t.

  I had realized years ago that what I did to make money, these days, was very much like my old business. In what now felt like a lifetime ago, I had been a quantity surveyor. Say the word ‘surveyor’ and most people think you’re the guy a building society sends round to check a house you’re buying, and who doesn’t even spend enough time to look in the roof-space before approving or turning down the mortgage.

  Back then, I used to smile and say, ‘Yep, something like that.’ I never had the time or the inclination to explain that my job had nothing to do with mortgage applications. A quantity surveyor ensures that construction costs are kept within budget, so he or she has to supervise the entire end-to-end process of a construction development. To be able to do that, he or she needs to understand all the relevant building regulations for a project and everything about construction down to the last nut and bolt, from drainage to electrical systems to insulation. I had overseen the building of everything from a home extension to a multimillion-pound tower block. I knew my stuff. I had a practical, logical mind, a methodical way of thinking, and was pretty creative when it came to problem-solving. I’d gone to university, studied for years to qualify in my old career, and I didn’t see why this new one was any different. Any gaps I had, like dealing with the pressure of being caught, were filled by my training and experience in the reserves as a captain in the Royal Engineers, which had included a tour in Afghanistan.

  The cabinet was locked, which I took as a good sign. Until now, all I’d known was that the concrete well existed, and I’d been wondering why it was needed.

  For sure, it would be to keep stuff safe, and accessible to the family if it was time to use the panic room. But what was in it?

  There were no drawers in the desk, so I checked the top: maybe a key in a jar, or under the lamp.

  I tapped the cabinet door, and this was no safe. Maybe just a few millimetres of steel that could easily be cut.

  Digging into my bag, I pulled out a battery-powered disc cutter. It only gave about fifteen minutes of cutting time but was small enough to carry unnoticed in a daysack, and that would be more than enough time to cut around the one key well that secured the door.

  It never mattered to me that I left carnage, as long as I could cover it up long enough to give me time to make distance. In fact, I liked it even more: I wanted people like Dalladine to know that someone had come into their house, violated their personal zone, then stolen from it.

  I put on my safety glasses, pulled on my yellow washing-up gloves for a better feel as I gripped the cutter, and started to cut in three straight lines around the lock.

  Sparks flew and the disc screamed. This wouldn’t take long.

  This was my fifth robbery in the past five years. I’d never had much problem getting in, getting what I wanted and getting out. In other words: getting away with it. The hardest task was deciding what and what not to take. For that, I needed to work out the value of things, which was when it paid off to have been a student and therefore addicted to daytime television. Three years of Bargain Hunt, Flog It! and Antiques Roadshow had set me up for life. This life, anyway.

  Sometimes I’d look at something nice and shiny, but decide against taking it. I wasn’t stealing the Crown Jewels. All those diamonds and rubies – I wouldn’t be able to sell them. It’s all well and good stealing a diamond the size of a golfball, but where do you offload something like that? I didn’t even want to find out. It would mean people being involved in my business, would increase my chance of being found out. No, I just went with things that could be moved on easily or used, and that mainly meant cash and gold. Besides, I wasn’t greedy: it was all about taking what I was owed.

  Sometimes I called myself lucky, but was I really? After five years, I still wasn’t sure what luck was. My family had spent their lives trying to do the right thing, then gone through hell for it. Luck never entered their lives when it was needed. Doing the right thing doesn’t bring luck. Luck is just opportunity and timing. Luck is about being able to identify the opportunity and the right time to take advantage of it. Don’t try to do the right thing: just act when opportunity and timing align.

  It took no more than ten minutes before I could stamp down the last of the remaining steel around the lock for the door to bounce back on its hinges. I always packed up before opening, just in case anything was left behind. Once it was used it was secured, just like a pocket with a button: if there was one, it should be used.

  As I opened the cabinet, I saw what tended to be kept in this sort of container in a panic room. Some cash and valuable minerals of some kind, and assorted paperwork that, for all I knew, could be more valuable than anything else in there. But that would mean understanding what I was looking at, then the effort to find people to profit from it. Inside this particular cabinet were just two i
tems I wanted.

  The first that caught my eye was the cash: US$100 bills, still bank-banded in $5000 lots. I didn’t bother counting how many, but there were more than ten, for sure. Then there was the gold, a bandolier of twenty one-ounce gold buffalo coins, the US version of sovereigns, and Krugerrands. I was a big fan of gold coins. They were easier to sell than ingots: ordinary people traded them, and collectors bought them.

  With my daysack full, I kept control of myself and slowly replaced the rug and desk. Now wasn’t the time to rush things just because I’d got what I’d come for. This part of the job was just as important, like descending Everest is every bit as important as climbing it. People nearly always die on the way down, not the way up.

  I ensured the legs pushed down on the dents they had already made in the pile, then gently brushed back the grain on the wool that had been made by the castors’ movement so all looked normal.

  Happy, I moved back from the desk and checked the area for the last time. Did anything look different from thirty minutes ago? Did I have everything I’d come with, and, of course, everything I’d be leaving with? Was everything secured in the daysack, nothing to fall on the kitchen floor on the way out?

  It took only a few seconds, but it meant I could sleep that night without worrying what I might have cocked up.

  All was good, so I headed back upstairs. I wasn’t excited about what was in my bag. It wasn’t really about the steal: what I got satisfaction from was that Dalladine would eventually pull back the rug and discover his stuff had been stolen. He wouldn’t be worried about its value – that would be pocket change for him – but what would eat away at him and really, really hurt was the thought that, quite simply, someone had intruded on his world. A world that he had spent a lot of money and effort to keep the hoi polloi away from.