Payback

  ‘What?’ said Danny, feeling as confused as he looked. ‘You’re just baffling me with army talk again.’

  ‘I mean we do what we came here to do.’

  ‘And what is that? It’s about time you told me. I don’t suppose it’s for a regimental reunion.’

  Fergus smiled. ‘Of a sort. We’re going to see my old mate Kev Newman. He lives here.’

  ‘Big Kev? The bloke I saw last year at the Victory Club?’

  ‘That’s him. Until you turned up, Big Kev was my only link with the old world. He’s in danger too now, but he also might just come up with something I’ve not thought of.’

  ‘Why is he in danger?’

  ‘Later, Danny – we need to get away from here.’

  Danny was suffering the usual frustration of being kept only partially informed. ‘So do we call to tell him we’re on the way?’

  Fergus shook his head. ‘I’ve thought of Kev, so someone else could have done the same thing. It’s too risky to call. This is going to be a surprise reunion.’

  They were well away when Rita finally emerged from the station toilets with her lipstick freshly applied. She was always particular about her appearance.

  She went out of the main entrance, looked around, then sighed with irritation and headed for the taxi rank. With a cigarette in one hand and a mobile in the other, she called a friend and moaned that she’d forgotten to pick her up. ‘Oh, and you’ll never guess who I saw on the train,’ she added once she had finished complaining. ‘Watty. You know, Fergus Watts. You remember him . . .’

  17

  Brecon Road is one of the main drags out of Hereford. Fergus knew it well: it leads to the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains in Wales, the area used by the Regiment for selection courses and fitness training. It was also the road where Kev Newman lived, close to the edge of town.

  It was after last light. Fergus walked casually along one side of the road; Danny was on the other, holding back by around a hundred and fifty metres and watching for the moment when his grandfather disappeared into the darkness.

  Smart detached houses with nice prim gardens and large estate cars in the drive lined the road. Danny had the sports bag slung over one shoulder; he kept his head down as he walked.

  As Fergus passed the Wyevale Garden Centre he turned left and melted into the darkness. Danny crossed the road, walked past the garden centre and its car park and fencing and slipped into the same dark area. His grandfather was three metres off the road, waiting beneath a tree. He pointed towards a black mass about ten metres further along the road. Danny could just make it out as a building. ‘That Kev’s house?’

  ‘No, it’s our OP.’ Fergus started to move, using a line of bushes as cover.

  Danny knew the drill without being told. Follow Fergus and do exactly as he does. If he freezes, freeze. If he kneels down, kneel down. If he runs, run, but in a different direction. They had set the ERV for outside the local swimming pool.

  They clambered carefully over a crumbling brick wall into an overgrown back garden. The lights from the garden centre broke through the trees just enough to expose the top half of a once grand but now derelict Victorian house.

  Instead of heading towards the building, Fergus moved deeper into the garden, taking his time to ensure he made no noise as his feet found the mess of empty cans, plastic bags and ripped bin liners spewing out their rubbish.

  He sat down on a pile of fallen bricks and Danny sat next to him, watching and listening for any signs of life from inside the building. They were tuning into the area; despite Danny’s moans and groans over the past few months he had learned to become a team player: together he and his grandfather looked for shadowy signs of movement behind torn curtains, or a burst of light from a window. They listened for muttering voices or a single cough.

  Danny reckoned that Fergus was thinking there could be kids inside, using the house as a place to drink or take drugs; or maybe some homeless guy preparing to settle down for the night.

  The minutes slipped by. Fergus was always cautious, but he seemed to be watching and waiting for an unusually long time. Eventually he leaned towards Danny and spoke softly. ‘OK, we’re going in. If there’s a drama, it’s back to the ERV. OK?’

  ‘Why did we wait so long? D’you think maybe there’s someone asleep in there?’

  ‘No,’ answered his grandfather. ‘There could be Regiment guys in there. Be very careful.’

  ‘Regi—?’

  But Fergus had already started to move, and as Danny followed he was left wondering what possible reason SAS soldiers could have for holing up in a derelict house in their own town.

  They edged their way up the garden and reached a smashed window. Out on the road, a couple of trucks bombed out of town towards Wales. Fergus had stopped to listen again, and as the roar of the truck engines died away, Danny could hear the sound of his own breathing.

  When Fergus was ready, he climbed in through the window and waited while Danny clambered in after him. They waited for their night vision to kick in and then moved slowly from room to room over floors strewn with rubbish, checking they were the only ones on the ground floor, and then they climbed the stairs to check the bedrooms.

  The house was clear. Fergus led Danny back to the main bedroom and pointed through the window to a house across the road, where two cars and a concrete mixer stood in the drive. ‘That’s Kev’s place. I’ll take first stag; you get your head down in the corner. We’ve got a lot to do once there’s enough light to move around properly. I don’t want to use a torch – we’re too close to the road.’

  ‘But you said Regiment guys might be in here. I don’t understand.’

  He could just see his grandfather’s slight smile as he replied. ‘We used to use this place for OP training for Northern Ireland, that’s how I know about it. The locals never had a clue we were watching them. Big Kev always had his eye on the house over the road. It was a bit run down then, but he reckoned it had potential.’

  ‘And now you reckon Kev’s in danger. But why?’

  ‘Because he knows I was a K. Not officially, but he knows.’

  ‘So you’re gonna ask him to help us get Fincham?’

  Fergus looked through the window towards the house opposite. ‘No, Danny, I’m not. For a start, Kev only knows because I told him everything when I got back to the UK and made contact. Which means he’s in real danger because he’s of no use to our friend with her so-called case against Fincham.’

  ‘What d’you mean, so-called case?’

  ‘I don’t believe her – not a word of it – and I’ve got no intention of falling in with her plan. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.’

  ‘But . . . I don’t understand.’

  Fergus moved over to one wall and eased himself down to the floor. ‘You’d better sit down for a minute.’

  Danny followed his grandfather across the room and sat next to him.

  ‘There’s no one else who knows, Danny, not now that Meacher is dead, I’m certain of that. Fincham’s already got what he wants, he just doesn’t realize it. There’s no one else for them to worry about.’

  ‘So why are we here then?’

  ‘Fincham and the woman are a lot closer to the truth than I ever thought they would be. They could even be monitoring my closest former contacts, waiting for me to get in touch. And that’s Kev. His phones could be tapped, so I have to see him to warn him. I owe him that. But then we’re on our own, Danny.’

  18

  The Pimlico safe house was starting to smell. Cleaning, tidying, washing up, taking out the rubbish – it was all part of the job for operators on a long-term surveillance. But it was the part of the job that was rarely tackled; not until there were no more clean mugs or plates, or the smell became unbearable. That moment was fast approaching.

  Curly and Beanie were on the day shift and had been on duty for a couple of hours. They were sitting in front of their TV monitors. The tabletops were littered with dirty mugs and p
lates, chocolate bar wrappers, empty Pot Noodle containers with the congealed remnants stuck to the inside, and an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarette ends. The air was thick with the mingled smell of food and stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘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.