Avenger (8 page)

Dudley emerged from his meeting with the Foreign Secretary to find Marcie Deveraux waiting for him.

He was his usual business-like self, but the pressure was on for everyone in the Intelligence Services. And the higher up in authority, the higher the levels of pressure. Dudley nodded a brusque acknowledgement to Deveraux, and without a word gestured for her to follow him into a room that had been hastily set aside for their conversation.

It wasn't by any means Deveraux's first visit to the Foreign Office. The main building, with its marble columns, aged colonial oil paintings and heavy chandeliers, always looked to her more like an expensive Parisian hotel than a place of government.

Dudley led the way into one of the wood-panelled reception rooms. The heavy curtains were closed and they sat in armchairs on either side of an ornate low table, where coffee had been set out for their arrival.

The concerned look on Dudley's usually placid-looking face was a sign that his meeting with the Foreign Secretary had not gone completely smoothly.

'Your final arrangements have been made?' he asked brusquely.

'Yes, sir, everything is in place for tomorrow.'

'Good. I don't need to stress the importance of your mission, Marcie. And it is
your
mission.'

There was no need for Dudley to elaborate; Marcie Deveraux fully understood the implications of his words. It was her mission. A deniable mission. She had planned it, the strategy and the tactics.

As soon as it had been established that Black Star was in America, Deveraux was the one who had urged that the mission should remain deniable and that no MoU between the UK and the USA should be arranged. She argued that to share the information with American colleagues would delay the mission. The Americans would throw the full weight of their resources into the operation, quite possibly tipping off Black Star that they were on to him in the process.

Better to keep it small, said Deveraux, compact, the fewer involved the better. Get in, get the job done, and get out. That was the way she operated; it had worked for her in the past and it would work for her this time. Dudley had considered her plan and had then given the go-ahead.

If it was a success, the personal rewards for Deveraux would be enormous. Promotion certainly, and perhaps even Dudley's job. It was well known that he was to retire soon.

On the other hand, failure was too terrible to contemplate. The Americans would go ballistic if they discovered the Brits were conducting a covert operation in New York, involving a planted Angel, and PE with the potential to kill hundreds of US citizens.

Deveraux would be fully responsible and no one else. The Americans would be told that she was a rogue operator who had never been sanctioned to conduct an operation on US soil. She would be thrown out of the Security Service to ensure that good, if damaged, relations were maintained with the US.

Deveraux needed no reminding. She couldn't concern herself with the consequences of failure. She just had to concentrate on the job.

Her cover story was that she was working as a diplomatic attaché at the UN. It meant she would be travelling to and operating in the USA with the comforting security blanket of a diplomatic passport. At any time she could simply claim diplomatic immunity and fly out of the country. If the mission failed, she would be able to return to the UK, but she knew that returning home would not ultimately save her.

No one else involved in the operation had the same level of protection, and that was something Deveraux still needed to discuss with her boss. 'Watts spent years working as a K, sir, which means he's fully aware of what could happen to Danny and Elena. And to himself, of course.'

Dudley nodded. 'Yes. And I'm fully aware of your recommendations with regard to Watts and the teenagers if – he paused to correct himself –
'when
the mission is successfully concluded.'

'Yes, sir,' said Deveraux. 'I've always believed that they can only be considered a threat to our security. As outsiders, they know far too much and we can never guarantee they will keep silent. As for Watts himself, there's too much history. And I've decided it's too risky to have him in New York. I've made arrangements to deal with that . . . In any event, after the successful conclusion of the mission my recommendation remains the same. They should all be eliminated. We need to clean house after this one, sir.'

Dudley sighed. 'I'm afraid I'm getting too old for this. I shall be glad to get to Dorset, and my bees.' He nodded again. 'It's unfortunate, Marcie, but yes, I agree. Elimination.'

Fergus was due to depart from Heathrow two hours before the others. He had kept his farewells to Danny and Elena brief when leaving Oxford, giving them a final reminder to 'take care'.

He had made other arrangements the previous evening while Deveraux was in London. He had phoned for the DHL parcel delivery company to come and collect a small envelope addressed to Frank Wilson – an alias he had used before, and the one Deveraux had agreed to for this mission – for collection at his hotel, the Roosevelt, which was just a few blocks away from the Pennsylvania.

Inside the envelope were three alias passports, complete with US visa waiver stubs, for himself, Danny and Elena; Fergus had made good use of his old contacts during the weeks in Oxford.

Terminal Four was as busy as ever. Fergus checked in and then joined one of the long lines of passengers waiting to pass through the security checks before going into the departure lounge.

Like most of the other passengers, he took off his jacket and made sure there was nothing metallic in his trouser pockets that would be likely to set off the metal detector as he walked through. He reached the front of the queue, put his jacket in one of the plastic trays and then slid that and the small rucksack he had with him onto the rubber conveyor belt and watched them disappear into the darkness.

He stepped through the metal detector and was relieved not to hear the alert ping, which would have meant an irritating body search. Fergus went to the conveyor belt, put on his jacket and picked up the rucksack. He reached passport control, which had been hastily put in place after the London Underground bombing of
7/7,
and showed his passport and boarding card to the waiting security officer.

As he turned to walk towards the departure lounge, he saw two smartly suited men approaching him. He knew instantly who they were: Special Branch. There was no point in panicking; it would have been pointless.

Fergus realized at that moment that he had been set up.

The closest man smiled politely. 'Hello, sir. Can we see your passport and boarding card, please?'

Fergus's passport was in the name of Frank Wilson. The name made no difference: the Special Branch men knew exactly who they were dealing with.

Fergus handed over the passport and boarding card, going along with what he knew was an inevitable process.

The man looked at the passport as he and his colleague escorted Fergus away from the crowds by the security gates. It was a standard practice: move the suspect away from any public areas.

'Just routine, sir,' said the second man as they led Fergus along a corridor and into an office.

It was a small room, the only furniture a desk and a couple of upright chairs. There was hardly enough space for the two Special Branch men, Fergus and the two burly uniformed Metropolitan Police officers, both complete with body armour and MP5 sub-machine guns. One of these was pointing directly at Fergus's head.

Fergus knew the drill. Without even bothering to attempt to protest, he slowly placed his rucksack on the floor, turned round, extended both his arms behind him and waited for the handcuffs to snap into place.

Danny was close to the back of the plane, and as the huge Boeing 747 lumbered down the runway, lifted its nose and began its steady climb into the sky, he thought of the last time he had been inside an aircraft.

The two flights could hardly have been more different. This time he was sitting at one end of the central section and was one of several hundred passengers. And even in economy class there was relative comfort and adequate legroom.

On the previous occasion he had been squeezed into the back of a single-engine Cessna alongside his grandfather as they returned to England after six months on the run in Spain.

The tiny plane had collected them, in the dead of night, from an improvised LS deep in the Andalusian countryside, and the highly skilled pilot had used NVGs to negotiate his way through the darkness and onto the ground. They took off knowing only that they were flying into the unknown, as the final struggle to clear Fergus of the accusations laid against him began.

Danny almost smiled as the 747's four huge engines roared and the Jumbo climbed up through the clouds. There was one similarity between the two flights: he was once again flying into the unknown.

But Danny's smile hid the sense of unease he was feeling. Not about the mission – he was feeling good about that, glad that he was part of a crucially important operation of worldwide significance.

He knew that many of his fellow passengers would be thinking about the teenage suicide bombers. Some would be anxious – Danny had noticed the elderly woman next to him give him a long, questioning look as they fastened their seat belts. He had been expecting that sort of reaction; people were bound to be unnerved by the sight of a teenager travelling alone. But Deveraux and his grandfather had briefed him well, and Danny had eased the woman's fears with a smile and a few well-chosen words about the long flight ahead.

He had also dealt skilfully with the extra-long questioning and the bag and body search he had been subjected to when going through security to the departure lounge at Heathrow.

Danny glanced across to his right and saw the newspaper headline:

HUNT FOR BOMB MASTER

Little did the passenger reading the newspaper know that someone at the forefront of that hunt was sitting just a few seats away.

And despite his grandfather's fears over Deveraux, Danny felt excited about whatever lay ahead. But there was a nagging worry: Elena.

After their short conversation at the end of Deveraux's briefing the previous afternoon, Danny had seen no more of Elena until this morning. She had stayed in her room all evening, not even bothering to come down for dinner.

She had reappeared at breakfast but had been quiet and withdrawn, even when Fergus had said his farewells.

And then, just as they were about to say their own awkward goodbyes, Elena had done something that seemed to surprise them both. She had kissed Danny; fleetingly brushing her lips against his before whispering, 'Goodbye, Danny.'

Before a stunned Danny could even reply, she was gone, apparently not wanting to prolong the parting any more than was absolutely necessary. Danny didn't like the word 'goodbye' when it came from Elena. He was used to 'see ya' or 'later', or even 'bye', but 'goodbye' was weird. Too . . . final.

They travelled separately to Heathrow – Deveraux had insisted on that, just in case Black Star, or an associate, was watching out for Elena on this side of the Atlantic. It was unlikely, but Deveraux was taking no chances.

As Danny unbuckled his seat belt and made himself more comfortable,
he was thinking about the way things had been not quite right between him
and Elena over the past few weeks. There was a strange distance between them
that had never been there before. He told himself that it was his fault. He
had been so wrapped up in the mission that he had neglected Elena's feelings
at the time when she needed him most. And he felt bad about it. And worried.
And guilty.

Elena was sitting in a window seat, a little closer to the front of the plane. Next to her was a huge middle-aged American woman, who had started to chat even before her more than ample backside hit the seat.

By the time the engines had begun their starting whine, Elena knew that her travelling companion was called Mavis Bachelor and that she was married to Henry – whom 'just everyone called Hal' – and that Hal was in the meat-packing business.

'You look a little scared, honey,' said Mavis as they picked up speed. 'There really is no problem with flying. You have more to worry about when you cross the road.'

But Elena wasn't worried about the flight. That was the least
of her worries.

Marcie Deveraux was at the front of the plane, in first class. The businessman sitting next to her had done no more than nod a polite 'Hello' as he took his seat. She had nodded back in the same way, relieved that he obviously had no intention of passing the flying hours attempting to make meaningful, interesting conversation.

He was already working at his laptop as Deveraux sat looking at the menu for the first of the meals they would be served during the eight-hour flight.

Her eyes flicked over the menu and she allowed herself a slight smile as she considered what Fergus Watts might have to look forward to for his next meal. By now he would be in a cell and would have realized that she had arranged for him to be lifted at the airport.

He would remain in a cell until Deveraux returned at the end of the mission. And then, along with Danny and Elena, he would be eliminated.

Deveraux had never intended Fergus to be part of the final phase of the operation, and the fact that it was overseas had made it easier for her. His participation in phase one had been essential: Danny and Elena would never have agreed to being involved, had Fergus been jettisoned at that stage. And he had been more than useful in their training – Deveraux silently acknowledged that she wouldn't have been able to move them on so quickly or efficiently.

But now he was unnecessary; his presence in New York would have been a liability and there would undoubtedly have been problems when it came to making decisions that might put Danny or Elena in danger.

There would still be problems when Deveraux had to explain to the teenagers why Fergus was not with them in New York.

But she would cope with that. She had it all worked out.

Herman Ramirez was weary; the past few months had been exhausting with the intercontinental flights and the subsequent jet lag. But Herman never complained and this time it would be easier. This time the Angel was flying to them.

Herman was good with electronics, and there were certain electronic adjustments he needed to make to Elena's room at the Hotel Pennsylvania before her arrival.

He worked methodically and with total concentration. Herman did things right.

A pencil-sized camera had been fitted into the TV, enabling it to draw power from the set at all times. It was located behind a small hole in the speaker. The mic had been placed in the ceiling light and was also drawing constant power.

Both devices would radiate their weak signals via the power cables by which they were fed to a rebroad-caster. The suitcase-sized device was located in a Winnebago, which Herman had earlier left in a long-term parking lot one block from the hotel.

The rebroadcaster's function was to pick up and encrypt the weak signals from both camera and mic and then boost the power before relaying the signal on its onward journey towards Pointer's home in The Hamptons.

There, the encrypted signal would eventually be decoded and Pointer's monitor and speaker would relay what was taking place in the room approximately two seconds after it had happened.

Herman completed his work, packed away his tools, checked his
watch and slipped from the room as noiselessly as he had entered it.

Before take-off Elena had feared her arrival in New York and what it would bring. But when she heard the announcement that the aircraft was beginning its descent, she felt relieved.

Mavis was a talker. Elena now knew the entire Bachelor family history. The only time Mavis didn't talk was when she was eating, and then only when she was actually chewing and swallowing. Between mouth-fuls she picked up wherever she had left off.

Short of being rude and telling her to shut up, Elena had tried everything to get a break from the verbal onslaught. She read, she stared out of the window, she watched movies, but Mavis just kept on talking.

There had been a brief respite of a couple of hours when Mavis had dropped off to sleep. Elena gratefully did likewise, but her dreams were dark and disturbing and she was almost relieved when her neighbour's piercing voice brought her back to consciousness. The only good thing about Mavis's chatter was that she didn't ask questions; she was far too busy talking about herself.

The aircraft slipped lower and followed the coastline over The Hamptons. Mavis was gathering her things together. 'Hal will be waiting for me; he'll be just
dying
to tell me everything that's happened while I've been away. He really is the most wonderful husband but he never stops talking. Once he gets going, I just can't get a word in.'

She delved into her huge handbag, pulled out a business card and pressed it into Elena's hands. 'It's been just wonderful chatting to you, Elena, you're such an interesting girl. Now, you make sure you come and visit the Bachelors of Brooklyn Heights if you get a moment. The phone number and address are on the card. Just call, any time.'

Elena smiled and slipped the card into her jacket pocket. 'That would be great. Thanks very much.'