Payback

  Deveraux walked into the club’s softly lit restaurant and dialled Dudley’s number. She was looking forward to her meal.

  It was almost closing time, and Danny and Elena were still waiting for Joey to emerge from the pub.

  Danny was desperate to get on with the mission, but to do that Joey had to drive him up to the camp and Elena back to the industrial unit. After watching the camcorder footage again, Fergus had picked what appeared to be the two best places to climb over the fence. Danny had an old blanket resting on his knees, which he would sling over the razor wire.

  Once over – if he got over – there were CCTV cameras, the guards and the dogs to worry about, before he even got near a computer and the information he would be searching for. In his pocket was a CD containing the script Elena had downloaded from Black Star, which had to be fed into a Northwood computer while Elena linked up with the mysterious Deep Web surfer so that they could make their combined assault on the mainframe.

  But none of this could even begin until Joey came out of the pub.

  ‘I told you he’d let us down in the end,’ said Elena, sensing Danny’s growing anger. ‘He always does. I warned you.’

  ‘Maybe he got caught trying to put the swipe card back in the bloke’s pocket.’

  ‘No way. If that had happened we’d have heard a police car by now, or he’d have been thrown out. He’s in there getting drunk, or chatting up some woman.’

  The light drizzle had petered out, and Danny and Elena’s conversation did likewise. They were both anxious to get on, but afraid of what the long night could bring. And sitting, waiting and wondering just made it worse.

  The sound of shouted farewells and laughter drifted through the still night from the front of the pub and then Joey came strolling casually round the side of the building towards them.

  Danny and Elena got out of the car to meet him and saw that he was smiling broadly.

  ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ said Elena angrily.

  ‘Networking, darling,’ answered the beaming Joey. ‘That’s what I do best.’

  ‘You stink of drink!’

  ‘Well, of course I do. I made a lot of friends in there.’

  ‘I knew we could never depend on you!’

  Joey took a single silver key from his pocket and held it out towards his daughter. ‘Depend on me? Sure you can depend on me, darling. You see that truck over there?’

  Elena and Danny followed Joey’s gaze to a silver Warrior truck, which had an aluminium top fitted to the cargo area at the back.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, that vehicle belongs to my new friend Richie. And he’ll be heading back to the camp very soon, as he’s tonight’s driver.’ He turned to Danny. ‘You want a ride, Danny? I reckon it’s a lot better than climbing that wire fence. You might cut yourself.’

  They rushed over to the Warrior and Joey quickly unlocked the top.

  ‘How did you get the key?’ asked Danny.

  Joey shrugged. ‘Just took it off his key ring. Don’t worry, he’s got plenty more on there, and I don’t imagine he’ll be thinking of opening this up tonight, anyway. He’s got three friends with him, and they’ll all be riding up front in the cab. You got this all to yourself, Danny.’

  Elena was looking shamefaced. ‘Dad, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it, honey. I never did like the idea of Danny climbing that fence, and when Richie started boasting about his wonderful Warrior, this seemed to be the answer.’ He held up the cover and looked at Danny. ‘Your carriage awaits, sir.’ He pointed to a small metal ring on the lock. ‘That’s there so that anyone locked inside can get out. You just pull it and the top pops up. Now, you’d better hurry – they were finishing their drinks when I came out.’

  Danny was about to clamber into the truck when Elena grabbed his arm. As he turned back to her, she quickly kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take care. Please.’

  A few minutes later the Warrior, complete with four loud and laughing RAF men up front and one silent teenager hidden in the cargo area, pulled away from the pub car park. Joey and Elena were sitting low in the front seats of the hire car, watching the truck as it moved quickly up the road.

  Joey turned to Elena. ‘I thought you told me you two were just friends . . .’

  38

  It was cold in the back of the Warrior. And damp. And uncomfortable. But Danny found some small comfort in knowing that it would be just a short ride.

  As the vehicle bumped over tarmac, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Fergus still had Elena’s phone and it was up to Danny to let his grandfather know about the change of plan. As always, Fergus insisted on being brought up to speed with every move.

  Danny thought about sending a text, but the ride in the cargo hold was so bumpy there was no way he could hit the right buttons. So he found the number and Fergus answered instantly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Change of plan. Found a new way into the Obvious. It’s better. Others will explain when they get back.’

  He hung up. Danny had given his grandfather all the information he needed at that stage. He had carried out his orders, including his reference to ‘the Obvious’, which was the name they had given to Northwood. To Northwood and more.

  Just before Danny, Elena and Joey had left the unit, Fergus asked them, ‘So, where’s Danny going tonight?’

  All three stared at him, puzzled, before Elena said, ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s going to Northwood.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Fergus. ‘But we don’t want to advertise that to anyone, in any way. So if we talk about it, it’s not Northwood, it’s the Obvious. And that’s a transferable phrase.’

  ‘A what?’ said Joey.

  ‘It can apply to anything we want it to. So if Danny gets the information we want, what has he got?’

  Joey was looking more perplexed than ever, but Elena smiled. ‘Yeah, I see. It’s the Obvious.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘Good.’

  Joey sighed and walked towards the stairs.

  ‘You got it too, Joey?’ called Fergus.

  ‘Well, obviously,’ answered Joey without looking back.

  There was just one other diner in the restaurant: an elderly military type, who was sitting with both hands cupped around a brandy glass.

  As Deveraux toyed with her dessert, she couldn’t help hearing the exchange between the waiter and the ancient club member as the bill was presented. ‘Was everything to your satisfaction, Colonel?’

  ‘As always, Simon. Quiet in here tonight.’

  The waiter shrugged. ‘The bombings, Colonel.’

  The colonel grunted with disdain. ‘Despicable. They won’t keep me away. If Hitler and his lot couldn’t do it, I’m dammed if a bunch of cowardly terrorists will!’

  Deveraux went back to her food. She rarely ate a dessert. She was naturally lithe and athletic, supremely fit both physically and mentally, and she was determined to stay that way. Stodgy food could lead to a stodgy mind, and Deveraux’s mind was always stiletto-sharp.

  But tonight she was celebrating the approaching end of a long and difficult mission with a very small portion of the chef’s speciality, Belgian chocolate pudding. There wasn’t much – five small forkfuls – and as she rested her fork on the side of the plate, the colonel’s anger reminded her that the life she led meant there always would be another mission. Another battle to be won.

  Deveraux’s Xda, which sat on the pristine white tablecloth, began to vibrate; she had switched it to silent mode out of respect for her fellow diner, but even so she saw the colonel look up from his brandy glass and scowl.

  She wiped her lips with the cotton napkin and spoke softly as she answered the call. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You wanted to know when Fincham moved. He’s just left his flat with one small suitcase. Next stop Northwood, I guess.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She ended the call. The colonel was glaring at her; he was doubtless one of the ‘those new-fangled telephone contrapti
ons should be banned from the club’ brigade. Deveraux smiled a conciliatory smile just as the waiter arrived at her table.

  ‘Coffee, madam?’

  ‘No, thank you, Simon. My bill, please.’

  The waiter nodded and melted noiselessly away.

  Deveraux looked down at the last piece of chocolate pudding sitting invitingly on the plate and decided to leave it. There was much to do; her mind had instantly switched into operational mode.

  39

  The Warrior was parked up inside Northwood, close to the accommodation block. The driver and his three mates had left the vehicle fifteen minutes earlier, but Danny waited in the pitch dark of the cargo hold, just as Fergus would have done.

  He ran through his grandfather’s instructions on how to enter the building and reach his target area, the first underground level. It would not be staffed at this hour, unlike the two levels below that, which were manned around the clock – this was where military and covert operations throughout the world were controlled.

  Danny held his breath with his mouth open. He was using methods he had learned from his grandfather over the previous six months, attempting to keep his own internal sounds from drowning out whatever noises were coming from outside the vehicle. He heard nothing: no footsteps or muttered conversation, not even a stifled sneeze or a distant cough.

  He let his breath out slowly and then pulled the small metal ring on the tailgate. It popped open and he lifted the cover a few centimetres and looked out at the parked vehicles. They were damp from the earlier rain and glistened in the glare of the security lights. Everywhere was still and silent.

  It was time to move. Danny lifted the cover fully, jumped out quickly and lowered the top. He remembered his grandfather’s words: ‘Believe you are part of the camp. Once you’re inside, move around as if you belong there, because the third party will naturally think you do. Security is designed to keep people outside the camp, so the deeper you are behind enemy lines, the easier it is to move around.’

  As well as the RAF guys, there were always civilian staff on the site, dressed in civilian clothes. Danny would be a lot younger than most there, but if he moved around with confidence rather than skulking in the darkness, he might just be taken for one of them. He had to believe he would.

  The main building was about a hundred metres away. It was like a beacon in the night; every light appeared to be switched on. But that didn’t mean it was crammed with people; the lights were on as a security measure.

  A concrete path, with well-trimmed grass on either side, led to the building. Danny walked quickly and confidently along it, with his head down and his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. One was wrapped around Elena’s Halifax card and the other held the CD.

  As he neared the building, he found himself partially illuminated by car headlights from some way off to his right. He took a quick look and saw that a car was being held at the main gate. Danny could hear the engine running and he saw the driver stride purposefully into the guardroom.

  The door of the main building was dead ahead. It was exactly as Fergus had described: a dark glass door, with more of the same overhead to protect the entrance from the elements. Danny’s grip tightened on the Halifax card: his key to gaining access.

  But then there was a moment of panic. People were approaching the door from the inside. It looked as though there were three of them. Danny felt his heart thudding. He had to carry on. If he turned and hurried away he would arouse not only their suspicions, but also those of anyone in the guardroom who might be looking in his direction. He had to believe. He had to believe.

  He pulled out the card and swiped it through the reader on the wall beside the door. The door buzzed, and as Danny pulled it open he saw the three figures, all clad in DPM camouflage uniform, just a couple of metres away. There were two women and a man, and they were chatting about the week’s leave one of them had just enjoyed.

  Danny held the door open, his head tilted downwards. As the three passed through, he concentrated on keeping his voice low as he muttered, ‘Evening.’

  One of the women answered, ‘Hello,’ and the others just nodded as they continued on towards the accommodation blocks.

  Without turning to watch them go, Danny stepped through the door and allowed it to lock behind him. He had to keep moving and make it appear as though he used the door every day and knew exactly where he was going. Ahead was a long, narrow corridor with office doors on either side. The gentle hum of the air conditioners and the squeak of his own trainers on the highly polished floor tiles was all Danny could hear as he ventured onwards. That, and his pounding heart.

  George Fincham was going through security clearance in the guardroom. Outside, his car engine was still running and two RAF guards were checking beneath the vehicle with torches.

  The duty sergeant was showing Fincham all the respect he was due: after all, his ID card revealed him to be a high-ranking IB in the Intelligence Service. But correct procedure still had to be followed. ‘Now, sir, if you would place your right hand on the glass plate and look into the two eyepieces above?’

  Fincham knew the drill. For positive identification his handprint had to be checked along with his irises, but it all took time. Valuable time. ‘Just get on with it, man,’ he said, lowering his eyes towards the two lenses, which looked as though they should be part of a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Won’t take a minute, sir,’ said the sergeant as he forced a smile and pressed the buttons to set the machine in motion.

  As Fincham looked into the lenses, he placed his right hand on the length of glass. A strip of light ran underneath, copying his handprint. At the same time lasers were focusing on his eyes, checking the unique pattern of his irises.

  The sergeant was satisfied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He handed Fincham a pass – a plastic card hanging from a white nylon strap with a large black V, for visitor, emblazoned in the centre.

  Fincham didn’t even nod a thank-you as he turned away and went back to his car to drive to the parking area.

  The sergeant and another guard, whose duty it would be to escort Fincham into the main building, watched him go. ‘What a happy chappie,’ said the guard as he adjusted his cap and stepped out into the night. ‘I get all the good jobs.’

  Danny took the stairway next to the lift. So far it had felt as though the building was deserted. It wasn’t. The place was like a warren. Many people were working on the levels below. Others might well be on the underground level that Danny was about to enter. CCTV cameras were fixed to the walls above the NO SMOKING signs. Someone somewhere could see what was going on. Danny had to believe he belonged there. It had worked so far.

  He slid on a pair of plastic gloves, the type available to drivers at filling stations for protecting their hands from fuel. In Danny’s case they were to keep his fingerprints off the keyboard once he got onto a computer. If he got onto a computer. He pushed through a fire door and stepped into the corridor of floor – 1. He turned to the right, just as Fergus had instructed, and kept walking.

  The layout was the same as on the ground floor. Danny was heading for room – 1/44, the Stand By Room, which was reserved for use by visitors when they were working in the building. Fergus had been in the room many times when at Northwood for briefings.

  Most of the office doors were closed, but as Danny walked along the corridor he saw that one up ahead was ajar. He heard a single voice speaking: someone was talking on the telephone. It was the duty officer. Danny didn’t see him, but as he passed the room, – 1/37, he heard the words, ‘Of course it’s not. Who’d be using it at this time of night?’

  Danny reached room – 1/44: the sign on the door said STAND BY ROOM, and the door was unlocked, just as Fergus had told him it would be. He quickly went inside and closed the door. The room was in darkness apart from a soft glow of light emanating from the floor on the far side. The light silhouetted a desk with a PC sitting on top. Exactly what Danny needed.

  He carefully moved
over to the light and looked down at a long rectangular piece of plate glass, set into the floor where it met the wall.

  Danny’s eyes widened; he was staring down into the control and command centre itself. It was one huge area, like an aircraft hangar. Massive screens covered the walls. Officers from all three services huddled around computers as maps and live video feeds from Iraq and Afghanistan filled the screens.

  He wanted to stay there watching all night. But there was a job to be done. He turned away, powered up the PC and took the CD from his pocket.

  The lift stopped at level – 1 and the door glided open. George Fincham stepped out and strode into the corridor, with the escort struggling to keep up.

  Further down the corridor the duty officer emerged from his room to meet the visitor. ‘The Stand By Room is ready, sir. It’s just along here.’

  Fincham said nothing, just kept walking, and the duty officer fell in with his hasty step, the escort still trailing behind. When they reached room – 1/44 the duty officer stopped, grabbed the door handle and began to open the door. ‘The Stand By Room, sir.’

  Fincham stopped walking and glared. ‘I’m not here for the Stand By Room. I’m going to the Depository.’

  The duty officer, a young flight lieutenant, exchanged an anxious look with the escort. The Depository was the most secure area in the building, where secret documents could be accessed and read. Even the walls were lined with lead so that radiation from the computer’s screen could not be detected by someone out in the corridor with an electronic decoding reader.

  The duty officer was well aware of his responsibilities. ‘But . . . but, sir? Do you have the correct clearance to access the Depository?’

  Fincham had been expecting this and he was prepared. He was staking everything on this ultimate gamble. He pulled out his Intelligence Service ID card and thrust it towards the officer. ‘How dare you question me! Do you know who I am? Take me there now, or do I have to wake up your commanding officer and let you explain why his idiot of a junior officer is slowing down a time-critical operation? We are fighting a war!’