Payback bs-2

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Payback bs-2 Page 13

by Andy McNab


  Elena smiled. ‘This guy must live on the Deep Web.’

  ‘You sure it’s Black Star?’

  Elena pressed the Y key. ‘We’re just about to find out.’

  I KNEW YOU WOULD. ROOT ACCESS GONNA BE PRETTY HARD TO GET, EVEN

  I’LL NEED HELP. MAYBE BLACK STAR AND GOLA CAN WORK TOGETHER? IT’LL BE

  THE ULTIMATE EXPLOIT. Y OR N?

  Soon they were reading Black Star’s proposal. It said that Black Star would send two scripts to give root access. One script would run from Gola’s laptop and would tunnel its way into the Northwood system.

  That was the good news; the bad news was that the second script had to be burned onto a CD and then someone would have to put that CD into a computer inside Northwood.

  Danny was staring at the screen. ‘How are we gonna get in there? It’ll be guarded like the Crown Jewels. And if we do ever manage it, we know who that someone will be, don’t we?’

  Black Star explained that once Gola’s laptop and the Northwood computers linked up, the two scripts, working together, would give root access. It was the only way, said Black Star, but if successful, it would have to be the biggest exploit of all time.

  I WON’T SEE WHAT YOU SEE, BUT HEY, WHO CARES!! YOU WANT THE INFORMATION, I JUST WANNA BE PART OF THIS EXPLOIT. WILL YOU GO FOR IT GOLA? Y OR N?

  Elena knew it was their only way of hacking into the mainframe. If even Black Star needed help, what chance would they have? She hit the Y key.

  OK! WHAT AN EXPLOIT! WE’RE GONNA BE FAMOUS FOR THIS! YOU READY TO DOWNLOAD? Y OR N?

  By the time they got back to the car with more tea and sandwiches for Fergus and Joey, the two men had made their deal.

  Elena told Fergus the details of the Black Star plan as he sipped his tea. The whole concept of hacking and exploits was alien and strange to the SAS veteran and at first he was doubtful. ‘So what does Black Star get out of this?’

  ‘The credit,’ said Elena. ‘It’s what hackers live for; it’s all they live for. It’s our only chance.’

  Fergus nodded and finished the last of the tea. ‘Joey and me have come to an arrangement. He’ll be helping us for a little while.’

  It was Elena’s turn to be doubtful. ‘And what does Joey get out of it?’

  Joey looked mortified. ‘Shame on you, daughter! You know full well your old dad would do anything to help out another human being in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Elena, turning towards the steamed-up car window. She raised her hand and wiped away the condensation. The rain had stopped. ‘Isn’t it time we got moving?’

  They drove back towards London slowly, and at around midnight Fergus told Joey to pull the car off the motorway and find a quiet place where they could grab a few hours’ sleep. He was employing ultra-cautious tactics: arriving on the outskirts of the city during the early hours and cruising the deserted streets would only invite trouble and the possible interest of a police patrol car.

  But Fergus was in too much pain to sleep. Instead he tried to think of a way of getting Danny into Northwood while he listened to Joey’s deep, rumbling snores and Elena’s frequent complaints as she jabbed her dad in the ribs and told him to shut up.

  Soon after first light they were on the road again. They stopped at another service area and Danny and Elena went inside for hot food and drinks. As they ate and sipped tea, Fergus outlined his plan for Northwood.

  Even Joey listened intently. His eyes widened as he took in the details and he looked at Danny as Fergus finished speaking. ‘Rather you than me, son.’

  Elena was still in a bad mood from listening to hour after hour of her dad’s snores. ‘I thought you said you’d do anything to help out someone in trouble.’

  ‘Yes, darling, but there’s anything and anything, and this definitely comes in the anything category.’

  Fergus shifted his weight slightly in the back seat. His leg was throbbing constantly and the pain was increasing. He wanted to do the job himself, but he knew it was impossible. ‘It is dangerous, Danny. Are you sure you want to do it?’

  There was no hesitation. ‘It’s got to be done. Once this is over and we prove your innocence we can get you to hospital. So we’d better get on with it.’

  Fergus decided they should wait until after the early morning scramble before driving into London, and they joined the A40 approaching west London at around ten.

  The traffic was still surprisingly heavy and slow moving. They were close to Northolt when they spotted the reason why: a police road block.

  ‘Trouble,’ said Joey as he slowed in the queue of vehicles filing past the armed officers and parked blue Land-Rovers.

  Fergus stared out through the windscreen. ‘Don’t panic. It’s not for us. The police aren’t involved in this.’

  Very few cars were actually being stopped; the volume of traffic was so heavy that it would have meant the whole of west London grinding to a standstill. Most vehicles were being allowed to drive slowly by, as officers peered inside to check out the occupants.

  Joey was lucky, partly because the old red Ford Fiesta in front of them was directed to pull over. Three officers, all wearing flak jackets and carrying MP5 machine guns, approached the car, and without getting too close ordered the young driver, who was alone in the car, to step out.

  Joey wound down his window and smiled broadly as he passed the lone police officer at the roadside.

  ‘What’s happening, officer?’ he called as the car crawled slowly by.

  The officer was already looking at the next vehicle. ‘Stick your radio on.’

  33

  The third suicide bombing had taken place in Birmingham less than two hours earlier. This time only two people died, thanks largely to the heroic actions of a Big Issue seller out early in the New Street area.

  It was a regular pitch: he usually recognized many of the office workers who passed by on their way to offices and shops in the redeveloped part of the city. Most of them avoided buying one of his magazines; some adopting the no-eye-contact tactic, others using the old ‘Got one already, mate’ line, when he knew perfectly well that they hadn’t.

  Monday morning was never a good time for sales; most people were too fed up at the prospect of returning to work after the weekend. But it was a bright, cloudless morning in the Midlands, and sunshine usually did help sales. So the Big Issue seller, who went by the name of Wilf, was out earlier than usual.

  He spotted the smartly dressed teenager because he looked lost. And nervous. And because he was wearing an expensive-looking duffel coat over his shirt and tie, while most people were in much lighter spring clothes.

  Wilf’s only interest at first was in the possibility of a sale; he was skilled in sizing up potential buyers. He put this kid down as a well-off student, probably here for a job interview.

  Slowly the young man moved up the incline towards Wilf, and at exactly the right moment – not too aggressive, in your face or confrontational – Wilf stepped towards him and smiled. ‘Big Issue, sir?’

  The young man reacted as though Wilf was about to mug him. He almost jumped in the air, his eyes bulged in terror and he pulled his duffel coat closer round his body. It was almost as though Wilf had woken him from some sort of trance. He stood, frozen, for a moment and then shook his head vigorously and walked on.

  Wilf watched him for a few seconds and then shrugged and turned away. ‘Have a nice day.’ He thought nothing more of it, but a couple of minutes later the teenager was back.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Wilf knew it wasn’t a sale; they never came back. The kid wanted directions. ‘Yes, mate?’

  ‘Can you tell me how to get to the BBC? It’s at a place called the Mailbox.’

  Wilf recognized the Newcastle accent instantly; his own girlfriend was a Geordie. He pointed up the incline and gave easy directions to the new BBC centre.

  The teenager listened intently and then nodded.

  ‘Got an interview, have you?’ asked Wilf.


  There was no reply; the young man simply walked away.

  It was the mention of the BBC that did it. Wilf had watched the news, heard the stories of the smartly dressed young teenage bombers and their carefully selected, high-profile targets. He’d listened to the appeals from politicians and police officers for the public to remain vigilant and alert. And he was suddenly certain that beneath the young man’s smart duffel coat there was a bomb strapped to his body.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  The teenager was already about ten metres away and walking quickly. More people were moving up from New Street now and Wilf targeted the one he thought least likely to panic. He went up to a middle-aged man carrying a briefcase.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want a magazine. I bought one once before and found it completely unreadable.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to sell you a magazine, I need your help.’

  The man could see that this was no advanced selling technique; the Big Issue seller really did look worried. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have you got a mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Well, don’t panic when I tell you this. I think there’s a kid heading towards the BBC at the Mailbox with a bomb strapped to his body.’

  The man’s eyes widened, but Wilf continued before he could say anything in response. ‘Phone the police, say that Big Issue Wilf told you. They know me. Tell them the kid has got fair hair and he’s wearing a black duffel coat. Oh, and he’s from Newcastle.’

  The man nodded and reached into his pocket for his mobile phone as Wilf started to move away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called the man as he began punching in numbers.

  ‘I’m gonna see if I can stop him, talk him out of it. He’s just a kid. Make the call. Please!’

  The fair-haired teenager from Newcastle was nearing his destination when he heard a voice calling to him.

  ‘Hey, mate?’

  He stopped. In his right hand were a few twists of green garden twine. He tightened his grip slightly, slowly turned round and immediately recognized the Big Issue seller who had given him directions and was now standing a few metres away, smiling at him.

  ‘What time’s your interview?’

  ‘My… my…?’

  ‘Got time for a coffee first?’

  They were standing in a wide open space in front of the steps leading up to the Mailbox. The teenager looked confused: Wilf could see beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

  ‘I… I don’t want any coffee.’

  He started to turn away, but Wilf called to him again. ‘Look, mate, I know you’re in trouble and-’

  ‘Piss off!’ The teenager was shouting. ‘I’m not in trouble! Just leave me alone!’

  Wilf raised his hands and held them open, with both palms facing forward. ‘It’s cool, it’s cool. It’s just that I’ve had a few problems myself and I know what it’s like.’

  ‘You know nothing! How could you know?’

  Wilf was no professional negotiator; he just wanted to help a kid in trouble. Like he said, he’d had problems of his own. Drugs, and the increasing amount of theft required to fund the habit. But there had been people around to help him. He was clean now and going straight. His life was the best it had been for years.

  But at that moment Wilf made the mistake that no professional would ever have made. Instead of keeping his distance, he moved closer, simply to reassure the teenager facing him; to show him that he was no enemy; to prove that they were on the same side.

  He saw the teenager’s right arm jerk upwards and a momentary flash of brilliant light.

  And then it was over. For them both. For ever.

  Mark Davenport had left his home in Newcastle the previous evening after a row with his parents. It was most unlike him; he was a quiet eighteen-year-old who rarely, if ever, argued with his mum and dad.

  He liked living at home, so much so that when it came to choosing a university, he’d opted for Newcastle, despite receiving offers from more prestigious centres of learning. And it had seemed to be the right choice. His first year was going well, and even if Mark hadn’t really made many new friends, he’d seemed happy enough. At first.

  However, over the past few months Mark had gradually become more withdrawn, with little to say unless someone spoke to him. The situation at home became tense and his worried parents had finally confronted him with it the previous afternoon.

  They reasoned to begin with, and when that got them nowhere, they argued, until Mark finally stormed off to his room. Half an hour later, dressed in a shirt and tie and his black duffel coat, he left the house and drove away in the second-hand white Nissan Micra his parents had given him as a surprise eighteenth birthday present.

  At one o’clock in the morning Mark’s anxious mother phoned the police to report her son missing; he had never before stayed out that late without phoning to say he was OK. The desk officer patiently took down Mark’s description and was sensitive enough not to tell Mrs Davenport that she was worrying unnecessarily. He was a dad himself; kids were a worry. He logged the details and asked Mrs Davenport to call again when Mark turned up, as he felt sure he would.

  But he never did. Less than an hour after the explosion in Birmingham, police had matched the facts from Newcastle with the city centre CCTV footage and the details phoned in by the man Wilf had spoken to near New Street. Soon the identity of another bomber was confirmed and Mark’s distraught parents were being comforted.

  Police forces throughout the country swept into action even sooner, with new tactics, planned since the second bombing. Road blocks were set up on major roads into cities, targeting young drivers travelling alone. Police were suddenly present on trains and buses, and outside schools and colleges. They were stopping, challenging and questioning teenagers, particularly those who were alone.

  There was no longer any doubt: the bombings were part of an orchestrated campaign. But the vital question remained unanswered: who was doing the orchestrating?

  34

  It was like being in a white goods graveyard. Old fridges, freezers, washing machines and tumble dryers took up every available metre of space in the warehouse. They lined every wall and in some places were balanced precariously, one on top of another.

  But they were silent; the only sound came from the hum of the fluorescent strip lighting dangling unevenly from the steel support girders stretching across the warehouse.

  Joey and Danny helped Fergus through the maze of white and up the steel staircase bolted to one wall. On the first floor was one large room, with a filing cabinet, a desk, a couple of bentwood chairs and an old, threadbare sofa. A barred, grime-covered window looked out onto a small square made up of other industrial units. In the distance the massive steel arch and construction cranes of the new Wembley Stadium cut into the skyline.

  Behind Park Royal Station and the lines of car showrooms and fast food places that hug the A40 is a world of business parks, conveniently positioned to make use of the main road in and out of west London.

  They were in the heart of one of the parks. They had pulled off the A40, passing a Renault showroom and a Parcel Force depot. The service road was potholed through constant use by heavy vehicles. Joey had known exactly where he was heading. He turned the hire car into the square and they stopped by the roll-down shutters outside a unit in one corner. They got inside quickly.

  ‘Not exactly home from home,’ said Joey as he and Danny eased Fergus down onto the dusty sofa. ‘But I guess it will do.’

  Fergus nodded as Danny lifted his injured leg onto the sofa. ‘Just tell me again exactly how you sorted this, Joey?’

  Joey sat on one of the bentwood chairs and took out a small cigar. ‘Like I said, this place was the legitimate side of my business partner Sonny’s operation. I brought Elena here to meet him.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember him,’ said Elena as she unpacked some of the it
ems she and Danny had bought while Joey had been arranging their new place of residence and Fergus lay in the back of the car fighting back the pain from the GSW. ‘And I didn’t like him.’

  Joey lit the cigar and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘No, well, we don’t have to worry about good old Sonny. He’ll be staying at Her Majesty’s pleasure for some considerable time.’

  Danny was unrolling new sleeping bags from their plastic wrapping. ‘So how come we can use this place? And you’ve got the keys?’

  Joey took another puff on his cigar. ‘While you were shopping, I went to see Sonny’s wife, Joyce. She’s a fine woman; I met Sonny through Joyce back in Nigeria a few years ago.’ He smiled and wistfully blew on the end of the smouldering cigar. ‘Yes, a fine woman. In fact, there was a time, a while back, when me and Joyce used to-’

  ‘Dad!’ said Elena holding up her hands. ‘This comes under the heading of “too much information”. We get the picture – you were good friends, right?’

  ‘That’s right – real good friends, honey. But Joyce has been struggling to keep the business going. So she’s agreed that I can take over after I’ve spent a couple of days sorting out my own situation.’ He looked at Fergus. ‘That’s where you come in.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘If we get out of this, I’ll do what I can for you.’

  ‘I’m counting on you,’ said Joey as they watched Elena take her precious laptop from its bag.

  ‘Can you get online here?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘All I need is a hotzone.’ She saw his puzzled look. ‘There’ll be plenty around, I just have to find one I can access.’

  ‘Right. Well, I want to stitch my leg up while I’ve still got the strength, and you won’t want to watch. You and Danny go and see if you’ve had any more messages from our friend in the Firm. If you have, you tell her exactly what I’ve told you and no more.’

 

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