Payback

by McNab, Andy,Rigby, Robert

  The sales assistant said nothing but turned away and went back to staring at the TV screen mounted on the wall above his till.

  Joey wasn’t bothered. ‘And a very good night to you too,’ he muttered as he ambled back to the hire car, unwrapping one of the cigar packets as he went.

  He got into the car, pulled out a cigar and stuck it into his mouth. Having it there, unlit, was almost as good as smoking it – for a while, at least. He started up the car and drove away from the garage forecourt.

  Then he heard the siren. He looked into the rear-view mirror and saw the flashing blue light.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  The police car’s headlights flashed a couple of times but Joey kept going: he wasn’t going to stop unless he had to. Seconds later the police car came cruising by, and the officer in the passenger seat indicated for Joey to pull over.

  Joey drew the hire car into the kerb. This was not good; Fergus would not be happy.

  The police vehicle stopped directly ahead and the officer in the passenger seat got out and walked back to Joey, who wound down his window and smiled, with the unlit cigar still in his mouth.

  ‘Evening, officer. Lovely night.’

  ‘Very nice, sir. But did you know that one of your tail lights is out?’

  Joey cursed to himself. A dud light – they’d stopped him for nothing more than a dud light. He took the unlit cigar from his mouth. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t. I’m extremely sorry, officer, I’ll make sure I replace it first thing in the morning.’

  But the police officer wasn’t finished. ‘Your car, is it, sir?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it isn’t. It’s a hired vehicle.’

  ‘Can I see your driving licence, please?’

  ‘Why, sure, officer.’

  Joey began rummaging through his jacket pockets, all the while smiling a broad smile. It was then that the officer caught the strong smell of alcohol.

  ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘Alcohol, sir. Have you been drinking alcohol?’

  Joey’s face registered the panic he was beginning to feel. ‘Well, no. I . . . I wouldn’t say drinking. I just—’

  ‘Would you step out of the car, please, sir?’

  Joey sighed, slowly opened the door and got out. ‘It was only one. Just a pint – hours ago.’

  The police officer nodded and Joey held up the cigar, still gripped between two fingers. ‘Do you mind if I smoke this?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do, sir. I’d like you to blow into this, please.’

  Fincham had calmed down. He was more his normal, cold, calculating self as he checked out his disguise in the disabled toilets at the service station on the M4, near Heathrow Airport. Gone was the smart suit, MCC tie and polished shoes. He was now wearing baggy cords, a button-up cardigan and sandals with socks.

  Rolled out on the toilet seat was his make-up bag, along with cotton wool wipes. He had been busy and was putting the final touches to his disguise, comparing the Mr Davies in his new passport photograph to the one he was looking at in the mirror.

  Fincham was very pleased with the results. The trimmed beard stuck on his face lessened the need for more make-up. All Intelligence Service operators were instructed by professional make-up artists in the art of disguise, learning how to change the shape and size of their faces. Fincham had long ago mastered the art, and was a deft practitioner.

  He touched up some of the darker make-up on both sides of his nose, the shading making it appear longer than it actually was. It would confuse the facial recognition cameras that scour airport terminals for known terrorists and criminals.

  Once he had finished he put on a pair of plain lens glasses and the Mr Davies look was complete. He appeared more like a bumbling university professor than an Intelligence Service IB.

  Fincham rolled up the make-up bag; it would be going with him in case any last-minute touch-ups were required at the airport. He checked his new watch, a cheap thing from a supermarket; all part of his new look. It was 2.33 a.m.

  Once everything was packed away he picked up the holdall with his old suit and old life inside and headed back towards his car. The rest of his escape plan had been carefully scheduled. At 6.30 a.m. he would phone a local taxi company from a call box in the service station, saying that his car had broken down and he was desperate to get to the airport for an 8.30 flight. He had with him not one but two taxi company business cards. Just in case.

  Mr Davies would then be collected and delivered to the airport, where he would check in at the very last minute, so that as little time as possible was spent in the one area from where he could not escape – the departure lounge.

  Fincham went back to his car to wait. He sat in silence and his thoughts returned to Marcie Deveraux. Revenge would have been sweet, but escape would be sweeter.

  Joey was in a cold, bare cell, waiting for the results of his blood test.

  The roadside breathalyser had shown him to be way over the legal limit. Joey hadn’t needed to wait for the crystals to change colour to know that would be the inevitable outcome. He’d been cautioned and driven to the police station, where two samples of his blood had been taken.

  Now all he could do was wait. He’d already been waiting for a long time and he still hadn’t smoked his cigar. He was scared; more than that, he was terrified. He’d made a big mistake in drinking as much as he had at the pub. He could take his drink – he felt perfectly sober – but that didn’t make any difference. He wasn’t the first to make that discovery far too late.

  He knew that Elena, Danny and Fergus would be worrying, wondering what had happened, probably thinking that he’d run out on them. But even more than that, he feared what would happen now, once records had been checked and it was discovered that he should have left the country days ago.

  It meant either a return to a British prison for a long stretch or the even more terrifying prospect of an escorted flight back to Nigeria.

  He sat back on the low bed and heard shouting from another holding cell. Somewhere another drunk was gobbing off about unfair police treatment, demanding to see a solicitor and moaning that the loss of his driving licence would ruin him. Joey shook his head; the loss of a driving licence was the least of his worries.

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the cell. Joey stood up as keys turned in the lock, the door swung open and the police sergeant who had taken down his details earlier appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You must know people in high places, mate.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re leaving us. Lucky boy. Very lucky.’

  The sergeant stepped to one side and Marcie Deveraux walked into the cell.

  43

  ‘I knew he’d do this. I knew he’d let us down in the end.’

  Elena was furious. After everything that had happened over the last couple of days she had finally begun to believe that perhaps, after all, her dad had changed. But now he’d gone AWOL again. Same old Joey. He would never change. Never.

  ‘I bet he’s gone to see that woman! I bet he’s . . . I don’t want to think about what he’s doing. It’s disgusting at his age.’

  ‘If he’s with his girlfriend, at least he’s out of trouble for a while,’ said Danny. ‘He’ll turn up when he’s ready.’

  Elena was standing by the window, staring out into the darkness, vainly hoping to see the hire car pull to a standstill on the road outside the square. But she knew it wouldn’t.

  Danny wandered over and stood by her side. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m worried?’ snapped Elena. ‘I’m angry, that’s all. And pissed off!’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Danny softly.

  Fergus was stretched out on the old sofa, thinking about the e-mail he was going to get Elena to send to M. Deveraux.

  He had no doubts about the identity of M. Deveraux now. She’d been there all along, manipulating them, waiting until they had outlived their usefu
lness, planning their elimination.

  But they had powerful ammunition of their own now. The information stored on the CDs was their lifeline. The Intelligence and Security Services would never risk that information being revealed to the press. The framing and proposed killing of innocent people would be totally unacceptable to the British people. It was enough to topple the heads of both services and bring down the government.

  Fergus planned to arrange a meeting with M. Deveraux. He would give her one of the CDs as proof of what they had, along with his demands for the future. As he thought about the e-mail he wanted to send, he was holding the electrician’s screwdriver, completing the circuit by placing one thumb on the top contact and touching the end so that the red light in the handle lit up. But as he glanced over at Elena’s laptop, he dropped the screwdriver and pulled himself upright. ‘You’d better come and take a look at this.’

  The laptop was still online and a pop-up had appeared on screen.

  HEY, ELENA, HOW’S IT GOING?? GREAT EXPLOIT, EH?

  BLACK STAR HASN’T HAD SO MUCH FUN IN A LONG TIME!!

  Danny and Elena stared at the screen.

  ‘He knows your name,’ said Danny. ‘How could he do that?’

  ‘We don’t even know if Black Star is a he,’ said Elena. ‘And I’ve got no idea how he or she knows about me.’

  She was about to find out.

  SURPRISED I KNOW YOUR REAL NAME? HEY, YOU CAN’T SPOOF A SPOOFER!!! JUST WANTED TO SAY I WON’T PASTE YOUR EXPLOIT ON THE DEEP WEB, WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO GET INTO ANY TROUBLE!!! KEEP IN TOUCH, WE MUST WORK TOGETHER AGAIN. BYE FOR NOW.

  The screen went blank; Black Star had gone.

  Danny looked at Elena. ‘What was that all about?’

  She shrugged. ‘How should I know? Showing off. Probably spends too much time down in the Deep Web. Should get out more.’

  Fergus was more concerned with their immediate problems. ‘I’m ready with that e-mail, Elena. Keep it brief. Just tell her we have everything we need for our continued safety, and we’ll be in touch tomorrow to arrange the time and place for a meeting.’

  Deveraux had changed into operational clothes for the conclusion of her mission, although her working gear still carried designer labels. She was wearing Italian blue jeans, a black leather jacket and Nike trainers.

  As they drove away from the police station, Joey kept taking surreptitious sidelong glances as he tried to figure out exactly who his rescuer was and what she wanted.

  Deveraux headed away from the main road into the quieter back streets and for a while she said nothing, deliberately making her nervous passenger wait.

  Joey decided he would be the icebreaker. He reached into his jacket pocket for his cigars. ‘Mind if I smoke? I’ve been waiting for hours.’

  ‘Yes, I do mind,’ said Deveraux coldly. ‘You’ll have to wait a little longer.’

  Joey sighed and released his grip on the cigar packet. Once again it was a case of so near, yet so far. Giving up would be easier.

  Deveraux took a left turn into a road lined on both sides with parked cars. ‘So, Joey, where are they?’

  ‘They?’ said Joey innocently. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  Deveraux smiled, prepared to play the game for a little while. ‘Listen, Joey, I’m here to help them, just like I’ve helped you. Twice now. Getting you out of jail is becoming a habit.’

  Joey turned and stared at her. ‘You did that? Before?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course. And that’s how I learned about tonight’s little escapade. You’re on our system, Joey. As soon as your name was fed into the police computer it came through to my people. You should have left the country, as you were told to.’

  ‘Yeah, look, I’m sorry, I—’

  Deveraux took her left hand from the steering wheel and placed it reassuringly on Joey’s arm. ‘Never mind. You made a mistake. I can sort it out. I can arrange for you to stay here, even get you a UK passport.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘It’s just a question of mutual co-operation. You help me and I’ll help you.’

  Joey was thinking quickly: maybe this might yet turn out a lot better than he had feared. ‘I’d like to help, but I wouldn’t want to cause problems for anyone else.’

  Deveraux took a right; the road was quieter, less built up. ‘There’s no fear of that, Joey. I already know that Fergus is totally innocent. The person I want is about to be taken. All that’s needed now is for me to talk to Fergus and the two kids and then everyone can get on with their lives. And that includes you.’

  She spoke softly and calmly. She seemed so sincere. And so friendly. Genuinely concerned for their welfare.

  Joey glanced at her again. She was an attractive woman; beautiful in a cold and detached way. He decided it was time to turn on his famous charm. ‘I don’t even know your name, and when I’m talking to a beautiful woman, I like to know her name.’

  Deveraux smiled. There was no harm in him knowing. Not now. ‘It’s Marcie.’

  ‘Marcie. That’s a lovely name. Are you married, Marcie?’

  Deveraux laughed, she couldn’t stop herself. This sad, deluded individual was actually attempting to chat her up. ‘No, Joey, I’m not married. Too busy sorting out other people’s problems.’

  ‘But you do get time off?’

  ‘Business before pleasure, Joey, that’s my rule.’ It had gone on for long enough. It was time to get this over with and move on. ‘Now, let’s cut the crap, shall we?’ She held up a bunch of keys. ‘The car you were driving was hired on Elena’s bankcard. I’ve checked. As well as the car key, there are the keys to an industrial unit on this key ring. And they have an address tag. Careless, Joey. Very careless. That’s where they are, isn’t it? That’s where they’re hiding.’

  Joey didn’t reply. And Deveraux didn’t need an answer; she had it all figured out. She knew precisely where Fergus, Danny and Elena were hiding.

  There was a soft ping on her Xda. She slowed the car and lifted the Xda up to read the brief e-mail Elena had sent. She smiled. ‘Is that so?’ she said softly.

  ‘Problem?’ said Joey.

  ‘No problem at all. Everything is fine, but I need to respond to this e-mail.’

  Up ahead was a deserted stretch of wasteground close to some buildings ready for demolition. It was exactly what Deveraux had been looking for. She pulled the vehicle off the road, drove slowly into a dark, unlit area, and switched off the engine. ‘You get out and have your cigar – you’ve waited long enough.’

  Joey needed no second invitation. He pushed open the door, pulled his cigars and lighter from his pocket and took a few steps away from the vehicle. Deveraux saw the blue smoke curl into the night air. The condemned man was enjoying his last smoke.

  Deveraux had already decided on the method. Going to the ready bag for a weapon and loading up was not the right option. Joey was stupid, but not that stupid. He would try to run, and that would mean an unnecessary delay and complications. There was a much simpler way, once Joey had had a few more puffs of his last cigar.

  Deveraux flicked the car’s internal light switch to off so that her victim would get no warning as she opened her door. Noiselessly she stepped from the vehicle. Joey didn’t hear a thing as she approached, silent as a panther.

  With a few light steps she was behind him. She held her Xda in her right hand, swung it round hard and fast and heard it connect with Joey’s nose. There was a dull crunch of fracturing bone as the big man fell to his knees, holding his face as blood poured between his fingers.

  Deveraux dropped to her knees behind him, stuck the phone’s edge across his throat with her right hand and gripped the other side with her left. She pulled back on the Xda. Joey was kicking out, arms flailing as he tried to tear the phone away from his neck, but Deveraux responded by leaning forward, using the weight of her upper body to bend Joey’s head down so that his chin was virtually touching his chest. She wrenched the phone back even harder.

  Joey’s l
egs kicked out again; his body jerked as he frantically tried to free himself. He couldn’t breathe, his head was dizzy, his vision blurred. His hands scrabbled at Deveraux’s face, but he was weakening quickly, and his assassin simply moved her head to avoid his desperate hands.

  It took another minute, no more. Then Joey’s movements subsided to a little spasmodic twitching of the legs. And then there was no movement at all.

  Deveraux let go of the phone with one hand and Joey’s limp body slumped to the ground. She checked for a pulse in his neck; there was nothing.

  Joey’s last cigar was still smouldering on the ground, close to his body. As Deveraux started to turn away, one foot made contact with a small cardboard packet lying in the dirt. She smiled. ‘Should have read what it says on the packet, Joey. Smoking kills.’

  ‘Ray . . . Ray . . . There’s a few Rays, but no Sonny.’

  ‘This is pointless,’ said Danny as he watched Elena working at her laptop. ‘You haven’t got an address and you don’t even know if Sonny is his real name. It’s probably not; it’s probably just a nickname. You know, sun ray, Sonny Ray. His real name could be anything.’

  Elena sighed with irritation. ‘I’m not stupid, Danny. Course I know that. But Sonny is all we’ve got.’

  That much was true. They knew Joey’s former business partner went by the name of Sonny Ray – it said precisely that on the sign above the unit. And Sonny was married to Joyce, so Elena was doing all she could do to trace Joyce. If she found Joyce, she would find Joey. That was the theory, anyway.

  The long night was passing slowly. Danny and Elena were both tired, and tetchy, and worried. Whatever Joey had been up to, he should have returned hours ago, or at least called. He had Elena’s mobile number and had been instructed to use no names if he did get in touch. But Joey just didn’t seem capable of following instructions.

  Elena had tried online phone listings and the Yellow Pages, searching for either a Sonny or a Joyce Ray. It was proving to be a fruitless exploit.

  ‘He could have had an accident in the car,’ said Danny. ‘Might be sitting in a police station now.’