Meltdown (13 page)

Phil was driving along a wet and busy road,
desperately trying to read the road names through
rain-streaked windows. The streetlights were
making his task even more difficult. He pressed his
gear-stick radio pressel.

'You sure he turned left into Hayward Street?'

The voice coming back in Phil's ear was slow and
monotonous; it had all the enthusiasm of a bank
clerk counting out someone else's money.

'Correct. Target now halfway along Hayward Street.'

'Roger that.'

Phil kept on checking left as he pushed his way
through the traffic, with the vehicle's windscreen
wipers battering to and fro.

The Predator operator was having no such problems
with the rain. His Portacabin, erected on a
vehicle trailer, was full of TV monitors, and bird's-eye
views of Manchester were being picked up from
two massive portable satellite dishes sitting outside
on the runway.

He could see vehicle lights moving slowly along
the busy streets. People were just white shapes
against darker backgrounds as they walked along
the pavements.

But the operator was concentrating on one vehicle
in particular: the Mini with the bright white stripe
that had been sprayed over it.

Phil had done his follow-up work from the Mini's
number plate and had discovered that the redheaded
guy he'd called Carrot-top was a young
graduate chemist by the name of Freddie Lucas.

Now, Fiery Fred was being tracked by a Predator
drone that the operator was guiding remotely. It
was circling 40,000 feet above the city.

The Predator, a UAV, looks a bit like a glider, with
a wingspan of around fifteen metres. It has been in
service since 1995 and was first used during the war
in the Balkans as a battlefield surveillance device. It
had been used to track Bosnian soldiers like the
twins' contact as they fought the Serbs, and later the
gangsters when they started to run heroin into Italy.

Unlike a glider, the Predator has a propeller
engine and can fly at anything up to 50,000 feet
while sending back to the monitors a real-time feed
of what is happening on the ground. It means that
military commanders can view a battlefield as
easily as turning on the TV to watch a traffic report.

And now the operator talking to Phil could easily
track a single vehicle in a heavily congested city.

The Predator contained a number of different
cameras, ranging from one that could pick out a
newspaper being read by someone at a bus stop, to
thermal imaging, which showed heat as white.
The hotter the target, the whiter it appeared on the
screen.

The camera the operator was using to track Fiery
Fred was an FLIR coupled with the UAV's powerful
infra-red torch. Just like the handycam Danny had
used, but millions of times more powerful, the torch
shone an infra-red beam down to flood the area
around the target and illuminate the invisible IR
paint for the FLIR to pick up. The surveillance
devices could easily see through cloud, smoke and
darkness. For a Predator, it was always a bright,
sunny day.

Since 2000 a new dimension had been added to
the capability of the Predator. Some boffin had come
up with the idea of strapping Hellfire anti-tank
missiles and a laser beam alongside the infra-red
torch. The idea was that if the operator saw an
opportunist target – armoured vehicles, say – he
could switch on the laser beam and 'splash' the
target before kicking off one of the fourteen missiles
beneath the Predator's wings. The Hellfire is a laserguided
missile, so it picks up the laser through the
detector in its nose and follows the beam to
the target.

This was how many terrorists were being located
and killed in places like Afghanistan. The Predator
flies so high, it cannot be seen or heard. So when the
terrorists leave the protection of their cave hideouts
and travel in their pickups to attack British soldiers,
the Predator operator, hundreds of miles away, can
mark the targets with the laser beam and kick off
the Hellfires.

High above Manchester, the Predator was following
every move of the Mini, and the operator watched
on a green-hazed screen.

'The target is now turning right. That's right onto . . . wait.'

He checked the sat nav monitor, which showed
exactly where the target was.

'Right onto Maple Street.'

Phil's voice came back immediately in the
operator's earphones.

'Roger that. I'm halfway down Hayward.'

In the Mini, Freddie had not the slightest idea that
he was being tracked by so many million pounds
worth of technology.

Freddie was worried. He was thinking about
Albie. The news of his death had shocked him. Not
that he would shed any tears over Albie; he was
worried about himself.

Like everyone on the team, Freddie had been only
too delighted to join the Meltdown set-up when the
twins came calling. He'd known Teddy and Will
since university, where they had been popular, with
their good looks and endless amounts of Mummy's
cash to throw about.

Freddie had never been popular. His name,
his flaming red hair, his obsessive behaviour, his
volatile temper, everything had conspired to make
him an easy target for the cruel jokes that everyone
thought were just a laugh. He knew that the twins
had chosen him because he was a loner. They
weren't friends. They despised him just as much as
he despised them.

But he was making big money, so why should
he care – about the twins or anyone else? None
of the team working for the twins gave a toss
about the victims of the drug they were producing;
about the damage, destruction and death it was
causing.

Suddenly everything seemed to be turning sour.
The burned-out coaches, the attack on Teddy, and
now Albie's death . . . Nothing much was known
about Albie – it was merely a brief item in the
Manchester Evening News
reporting the discovery of
his body. But of course there was going to be an
inquest, and Freddie was only too aware of what
that would reveal.

He was thinking about getting out while he still
could. But that wouldn't be easy. Even though Albie
was dead, the twins still had plenty more muscle
around for retaining their workers' loyalty. And
there was the money. Freddie was good at earning
it, but he was even better at spending it.

'One more job,' he said to himself as he eased the
Mini down the street. 'One more, maybe two. Then
I'll just go – some place where they won't find me.
America maybe. Or Australia.'

He flicked the Mini's indicator and began to slow.

*

In the Portacabin, the operator got back on the net.

'The target is stopping . . . Wait . . . Wait . . . He's parking
on the left, three quarters of the way down Maple Street.'

'Roger that. On Maple now.'

The operator watched the pure white shape that
was Freddie get out of the paler Mini; paler because
it was heated by the engine.

'He's foxtrot, on the pavement . . . W a i t . . . Wait . . . He's
feeding a parking meter, two cars in front of his Mini.'

Phil drove along Maple Street and saw the parked
Mini and then Freddie.

'Phil has Fred. Keep the trigger on the car. I'll take Fred.'

The operator kept the Predator flying in a wide
circle above the Mini as he watched Phil's vehicle
park up just short of Freddie's car on the opposite
side of the road.

'Roger that, Phil. Trigger is on the car.'

He watched the white shape that was Phil get out
and start to follow Freddie, who was already walking
away.

The operator could hear the propeller of a second
Predator start to rev up on the runway in preparation
for take-off. There had to be twenty-four-hour
coverage of the city: the team hoped to locate the
DMP by following Freddie – he was the only lead
they had, and the reasoning was that he would go
there one day. With luck it would be one day soon.

Until then, each Predator would take turns to
spend its maximum of thirty hours in the air over
Manchester.

*

Phil stood in an estate agent's doorway and
watched Freddie disappear into an Indian
restaurant. 'Loner,' he breathed.

He thought of Freddie inside the restaurant,
seated at a table set for one, trying to look as though
he was enjoying himself as he avoided the pitying
glances from couples and groups at other tables.

It was all depressingly familiar. Phil smiled and
pulled up the collar on his jacket. 'He's not the only
one,' he said to himself.

It was going to be another long wet night.

The pale, watery sun was rising behind the spires of
Barcelona cathedral. It was a magnificent sight,
but Dudley was in no mood to appreciate the
view.

Events had moved on at a furious pace and in a
totally unexpected manner. And Dudley had a longstanding
aversion to the unexpected – or anything
beyond his control.

The call to GCHQ had come through in the
middle of the night. Several terse phone calls later,
Dudley was driven at high speed to RAF Northolt
in West London and flown out to Barcelona in a
private jet.

The fierce arguments, accusations and recriminations
had continued the moment he arrived at the
safe-house apartment at the top of a block overlooking
the Gothic quarter of the city.

As he sipped at a cup of coffee, Dudley felt angry
with himself for not anticipating or even considering
this development.

And the arrival of the Spanish edition of that
day's
Times
newspaper had brought yet another
serious blow. The headline made horrifying
reading.

THINK-TANK PREDICTS
EUROPEAN MELTDOWN

There had been a leak. Someone on the inside had
given
The Times
its 'world exclusive'.

The source of the leak didn't matter at that
moment; what mattered was the catastrophic effect
the revelations would have on public confidence
and morale.

The think-tank's nightmare scenario – police
forces throughout Europe being unable to cope,
health services breaking down under the pressure
on the system and, worst of all for Dudley,
Meltdown falling into the hands of some terrorist
organization – was all there in black and white for
anyone to read.

And following the revelations of the last few
hours, it appeared that the feared terror link might
well turn into a reality.

Dudley threw down the paper, imagining the redhot
phone lines between Downing Street and the
major European capitals, and the questions that
would be asked in the House later that day.

It was a disaster, and there was only one way out.
The Meltdown operation had to be successfully
concluded within days. Then the government and
his own department could put a positive spin on
their secrecy claiming that the information had
been withheld in the public interest and that, as a
result, an international crisis had been averted.

It would be the perfect solution, but with so many
strands needing to be wound up at virtually the
same moment, timing would be crucial. They still
needed to discover the whereabouts of the DMP,
and now a completely new element had been
thrown into the melting pot.

The entry buzzer sounded and Dudley heard one
of the minders going to open the door.

He sighed; he was not looking forward to the next
few minutes. He glanced down at the newspaper
again and his eyes slid across to the array of blownup
black and white photographs lying beside it.
Photographs of the big Bosnian, the twins – and
Fergus Watts.

Dudley had summoned Fergus to an urgent meeting.
He didn't give the reasons on the phone; he
couldn't. He just told him that there was a 'highly
significant development' which needed discussion.

When Fergus came in, his eyes were immediately
drawn to the photographs on the table.

Without even greeting Dudley, he shouted, 'You
had me photographed!'

He picked up one of the photos and almost
shoved it into Dudley's face. 'Someone's been
covering me without you even telling me! What the
hell are you playing at?'

Dudley shook his head. 'Sit down, Mr Watts.
Please? And try to stay calm.'

'Calm?' Fergus threw the photo back onto the
table.
'I'm
meant to be running this operation and
you—'

Dudley raised both hands. He looked pained.

'Please take a seat,' he said. 'As I told you – there
has been an unexpected development which
involves a change of plan.'

Fergus sat at the table and started flicking
through the piles of photographs, shaking his head
in disgust as he saw the twins and the mysterious
Bosnian.

'I assure you that I knew nothing of this until a
few hours ago,' said Dudley. 'I did not sanction
these photographs.'

'No?' said Fergus. 'Well, who did?'

A door on the far side of the room opened and a
woman dressed in a black designer trouser suit
strode in.

'I did,' she said.

Fergus stared, totally lost for words.

It was Marcie Deveraux.

Marcie Deveraux looked as cool as ever as she
stared down Fergus, almost smiling at the stunned
disbelief written all over his face.

Slowly Fergus got to his feet. He looked at
Deveraux: she stood there, full of confidence,
absolutely assured.

Fergus turned to Dudley. 'You'd better explain
yourself. And quickly'

'There's very little to explain,' said Deveraux
before Dudley could speak. 'Your drugs bust
seriously threatens my own operation. I want you
out once you've given me all the information
you have on Enver Kubara.'

'Miss Deveraux!' said Dudley, for once raising his
voice. He picked up the newspaper and pointed at
the headline. 'If it's a question of priority, my
operation will come first.'

'But you said—'

'I know what I said.' He threw down the newspaper.
'But the situation has changed and I am
authorized to take charge. I am senior to you and
I have the backing not only of my own organization
but also of the British government and
most of the governments of Europe, including the
Spanish.'

Deveraux's eyes flashed with anger. 'That is not
acceptable!'

'I think you'll find that it is, Miss Deveraux. It's
been agreed at the highest level. You are ordered to
co-operate.'

There was total silence for a moment. Dudley
took a sip of his cold coffee, glaring at Deveraux. 'Sit
down.'

She shrugged, then pulled out a chair and took a
seat.

'You too,' said Dudley to Fergus.

Fergus sat down and listened closely as Dudley
explained what he had learned in the past few
hours about the twins' contact, Enver Kubara.

MI6 had long known that the big Bosnian was
much more than a drug dealer. He made many
millions of dollars from his illicit business and
the largest slice of that money went into sponsoring
terrorism.

Many groups throughout the world benefited
from his handouts, but the biggest payouts were
reserved for the Taliban in Afghanistan as they
waged war against the British army.

Kubara had a particular hatred of the British
which went all the way back to the Bosnian war.
The Brits had been in the war zone supposedly as
peacekeepers, under the command of the UN and
with restricted rules of engagement. It meant they
were not allowed to take sides and were powerless
to intervene while the ethnic cleansing of innocent
civilians went on.

When Kubara's own village was attacked, the
Brits were less than half an hour away. He was sure
they knew what was happening – it was happening
all over the region all the time – but they did
nothing to help.

Kubara wanted revenge on them – all of them.
They had failed to give the protection that any
human being was entitled to expect. They had
failed to prevent his wife's death. And now, with
the British army deployed in Afghanistan to assist
with the restructuring of the country, he was getting
his revenge.

The Brits had been dragged into a new war with
the Taliban, who were becoming stronger than ever,
financed by the sale of the huge quantities of heroin
they produced. And Kubara was their perfect
customer. Not only did he buy the stuff, he also
gave them much of the money he made from its
distribution and resale.

Ever since Marcie Deveraux had returned to the
Firm, Enver Kubara had been the focus of all
her energy. She had been tracking him across
Europe for months. Her mission: to eliminate him.

She had come close on several occasions, but her
target was a wily and experienced operator. He had
spent years in the field, fighting, honing his survival
skills. He knew all the tricks, all the evasive tactics,
and he was guarded as closely as a president.

Now Deveraux was closer to her target than ever
before. She and her team had reacted like lightning
to a tip-off that Kubara was in Barcelona for a
meeting.

The photographs snapped outside the restaurant
were meant to be final confirmation that they had
indeed found their man. Deveraux was already
planning the hit; it would be made before Kubara
left the city. It might be their only chance.

Then she was given the photographs . . .

Dudley sat back in his chair and looked at
Deveraux and then Fergus.

'There is a way through this,' he said. 'It means we
will have to work together, combine our resources
and our intelligence.'

'No chance,' said Fergus quickly. 'If you seriously
think we can—'

'Mr Watts!'
said Dudley, raising his voice again. 'I
have no wish to treat you and Miss Deveraux like a
pair of argumentative school children, so please do
not interrupt me. You can have your say when
I've finished. You can
both
have your say when I've
finished.'

Fergus took a deep breath and glanced at
Deveraux.

'For obvious reasons, none of us would have
wanted this situation,' said Dudley, calmly again
now. 'But we can make it work. It gives us a better
opportunity than ever to achieve
all
our objectives.
But it must be a combined effort, with no one acting
purely in their own interests.
All
objectives must be
achieved.'

'That's a stupid idea!' said Fergus tersely. 'Even if
we were to agree to it, we know her.' He glared at
Deveraux. 'She'll agree to work with us and then do
exactly as she pleases, and probably get us killed in
the process. Whatever she says now, you've got no
guarantee she'll keep her word.'

Deveraux smiled slightly and Fergus sensed that
she had been thinking something along the same
lines.

But the smile was wiped from her face with
Dudley's next words: 'Oh, but I have, Mr Watts.'

She could only listen with visibly mounting
frustration as he continued.

'This is my last job; it's also my most important
job. Meltdown is a global threat, and must be
stopped. This mission cannot be allowed to fail. If
Miss Deveraux does anything,
anything,
to compromise
the success of my operation, then I'll make
sure that her career is finished. She won't even get
to make the tea at the Firm.' He turned and looked
Deveraux directly in the eyes. 'Do you understand
that . . . Marcie?'

It was no idle threat. Dudley was famed as the
quiet man, unassuming in manner and appearance.
But he wielded enormous power throughout the
British security services and had huge influence up
to the highest levels of government; he'd had the
ear of every prime minister for the past thirty years.

Even Deveraux knew there was no point in any
further argument. She nodded slowly and
deliberately.

Dudley gave a faint smile. 'If my operation
succeeds,
your
operation will succeed. So you
will
co-operate fully.'

'Yes, but if I'm to take on your mission too, I need
more people. I've got four operatives out here, but
I'll need more if we're to tail Kubara and take care
of the twins.'

'Miss Deveraux! Let me make myself plain.'
Dudley's long years of high command were
apparent. 'This is no longer solely your mission. My
mission takes precedence and Watts is in command.
You will work with him. That is an order. Thanks to
Watts we know that Kubara has arranged to meet
the twins again at the football match tonight. He's
provided tickets for a private box. There are things
we need to put into motion straight away and
there's no time to bring in backup from the UK – we
have to go with what we've got.'

'What – a lame geriatric and an inexperienced boy
who can't take orders!?'

'Danny has done well; he's shown he can operate
as part of a team – and as for Watts, he's had more
experience of missions like this than you're ever
likely to see!'

Dudley turned to Fergus. 'What do you
think?'

Fergus shrugged his shoulders. 'I've worked with
arseholes before.'

'That isn't the attitude I'm expecting, Mr Watts.
The operation must come first.'

'OK,' said Fergus. 'But Danny's got a say in this,
and he won't take too kindly to her' – he nodded
towards Deveraux – 'being involved.'

'Then make sure you persuade him, Mr Watts,'
said Dudley wearily. 'Nothing must get in the way
of the ultimate success of the mission.'