Payback bs-2 Read online

  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

  Senorita dice: so wots the weather like there

  Senor dice: WOT!!!!!!!!

  Senorita dice: wot du mean wot!

  Senor 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.

  Senorita dice: all right!!! theres no need 2 get arsey

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

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

  Senor dice:

  I cant. he won’t let me

  Senorita dice: exactly!!!

  Senor dice: u tell me things then

  Senorita dice: like wot

  Senor 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 cafe 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.

  Senorita 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.

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

  Senrita 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 c
ouple 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 the 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.’

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ said Fergus with a shrug. ‘And it’s not just about killing. It’s a bit like gladiators in the Roman arena. There’s tradition, and ritual and ceremony.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, tell that to the bull,’ snarled Danny as he stood up and headed for the stairs. ‘And don’t ask me to watch it again!’

  They were not getting on well. After six months together they were still, in many ways, like strangers. Physically, the family resemblance was strong, but the similarity ended there. They were from different generations, different lives, different worlds.

  And they argued endlessly. ‘I didn’t ask you to come looking for me,’ Fergus would say when Danny moaned about the boredom and frustration of their life in Spain.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t! I’m sick to death of making tea. I was doing A levels at school – I should have a proper job!’

  ‘You’re lucky you’re alive, Danny, remember that. If you’re bored, read a book. Or tell me all the SOPs you can remember. You haven’t done that lately.’

  ‘I don’t want to know SOPs. I want a life!’

  And the arguments would rage on and on. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, Fergus remained focused on safety and security. He was quiet and secretive; it was as though he wore secrecy like a protective suit of armour. Danny was different. He could be impulsive, hot-headed, inclined to act without thinking. It didn’t make for the perfect partnership, especially as Fergus was constantly reminding Danny that he should be more like him.

  Danny wanted to tell Elena all about it as he sat in the Internet cafe. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had his orders. His SOPs. His hands went back to the keyboard.

  Senor dice: so wot else is happening

  Senorita dice: u sure u want me 2 say

  Senor dice: look im sorry 4 being a pain, go on tell me

  Senorita dice: u no who is back in court next week. he could go 2 prison 4 a long time.

  Senor dice: im sorry, i should have asked b4

  Senorita dice: don’t matter, nothing u can do, nothing any1 can do, its his own stupid fault, i dont care.

  But she did care. Desperately. And the one person she wanted to talk about it to was Danny. But she couldn’t. Fergus’s rules on online safety applied to them both.

  ‘U no who’ was Elena’s dad, Joey. Years earlier, when Elena was a small child, he’d cleared off back to his Nigerian homeland, saying he was going to make his fortune. He didn’t; he just didn’t come back, not until eighteen months after Elena’s mum died. She had left a small inheritance for her daughter’s education, and when Elena came into the money, Joey suddenly turned up. He spun Elena a line about investing in a fantastic moneymaking scheme that involved exporting second-hand white goods – old fridges, freezers and washing machines – back to Nigeria.

  It was only when Danny and Fergus were safely out of the country that Elena learned exactly which ‘white goods’ Joey was dealing in. Cocaine. And it was being imported rather than exported. Joey and his socalled ‘business partner’ were arrested, charged and remanded at Her Majesty’s pleasure until his trial came up.

  Elena had gone through a tough six months too. She’d risked her own life in helping Danny rescue his grandfather from the safe house. Then she’d handed over much of her remaining cash to help them leave Britain and start their new life in Spain. The money was already being gradually paid back through various banks directly into her building society account. But it wasn’t the money that mattered.

  What mattered was not knowing if she’d ever see Danny again. And not knowing if one day the police would come knocking on the door to arrest her for her part in the escape. And, just like Danny, not knowing if life would ever be normal again.

  Danny came back on her computer screen.

  Senor dice: i better go, he’s waiting outside

  Senorita dice: yeah ok. talk in 2 weeks???

  Senor dice: hope so

  Senorita dice: i’ll b here, just in case. take care

  Senor dice: u take care

  Senorita dice: bye then

  Senor dice: bye

  Senorita dice: xxx

  5

  Night falls quickly in southern Spain. Darkness creeps up stealthily and is suddenly there. Like an ambush.

  Fergus and Danny were back at the house. The drive from Seville had passed in silence after Fergus made the mistake of asking how the online conversation with Elena had gone. Danny merely grunted, ‘It was crap.’

  Fergus said nothing more and concentrated on driving. He already felt bad enough about the way Danny’s life had changed because of him.

  They ate in silence and when Fergus switched on the television, Danny just sighed and went up to his room.

  Fergus sat through a Western movie dubbed in Spanish and then switched off the TV. He did his usual rounds, checking that the house and garage were secure, and then made his way up the stairs. Danny’s room was already in darkness and Fergus knew better than to knock and say goodnight. His grandson was probably asleep anyway.

  Ten minutes later Fergus got into bed and switched off the light. But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay in the darkness, thinking. The twenty-four-hour clock at his bedside flicked over to 23:17. Two men were talking loudly as they passed by in the street below. Their footsteps faded and Fergus turned to face the wall. Soon after, he slept.

  The night was still and warm, and much later a sound penetrated the wooden shutters and Fergus woke. He opened his eyes and listened. Somewhere, close by, a dog was barking. It wasn’t unusual. He turned to look at the clock: 02:54. Before it had moved on to the next number he was asleep again.

  Fran checked her watch. Three a.m. She stood beneath one of the small orange trees and stared across
and up the road at the target house less than twenty metres away. Dull yellow light from the streetlamps barely penetrated the inky darkness. She pressed the radio pressel hanging from her watchstrap with a rubber-gloved finger.

  ‘OK, let’s get on with it. Fran’s foxtrot.’

  Further down the street, on the far side of the target house, Mick heard Fran in his earpiece and began to move. The two new members of the team were watching the rear of the property, even though there was no way out in that direction. A three-metre wall completely enclosed the small back yard, but they were watching the approach routes so that, if necessary, they could give warning of any approaching third party.

  The operation had been meticulously planned: the house and town had been recced on each of the four previous evenings. Fran moved forward cautiously with a square Tupperware lunch box cradled in her hands. Two large magnets were gaffered to the sides so that they stuck out just a centimetre beyond the lip of the box.

  A dog was barking incessantly. Someone had spooked it. Fran made a mental note to give the new members of the team a bollocking if it was down to them. She smiled as she got closer to the house. She and Mick had talked about this moment many times over the past six months. Revenge would be especially sweet.

  They met at the garage shutter. Fran immediately stood with her back to it while Mick shone a mini Maglite around the frame, his fingers covering the lens, leaving just enough light to check for any tell-tales. They couldn’t allow themselves to think that Watts would leave house and vehicle completely unguarded – he was too professional for that. If there were no telltales here or inside the garage they would assume they had been left on the wagon itself.