1997, Colombia

Fergus had chosen the base camp carefully. He was always careful. Being careful had kept him alive during his twelve years in the Regiment and now that he was operating alone nothing was going to change.

The jungle floor was wet and muddy and covered with decaying leaf litter. Strong shafts of sunlight, as tight and bright as spotlights, speared through the tree canopy high above, illuminating the almost airless clearing.

The morning rains had stopped thirty minutes earlier but water constantly dripped from the canopy, and every small insect that flew or crawled seemed determined to take a bite out of Fergus. It was hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but then comfort never had been the top priority in his line of work. Staying alive had.

On SAS operations Fergus had learned the hard way about the seven Ps � Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance � so before setting up the base camp he'd made certain that two escape routes were available in the event of a surprise attack.

Carefully disguised rat runs had been cut into the undergrowth on either side of the camp. One led deeper into the jungle; the second went towards the river, where the four inflatable Zodiacs were hidden and camouflaged, just a metre or two from the water's edge. Their fuel bladders were still connected to the engines, their bows faced the water. They were ready to be launched within seconds.

Fergus stood facing the young guerrillas. They didn't look happy.

'Again,' said Fergus, in Castilian Spanish, keeping it as simple as he could. 'We do it again. Do like I do.'

One of the Colombians sighed and muttered to his friends. Fergus didn't understand what was said � the words came too quickly � but he knew exactly what was meant. They were bored; they didn't want to spend time stripping down and cleaning their AK-47 assault rifles. They wanted to use them.

Fergus held his AK in his right hand and the curved, thirty-round magazine in the left. He checked the top of the mag to make sure the shiny brass rounds were seated correctly before placing it in the assault rifle's mag housing and listening for the reassuring click as it locked into position. Then he gave the mag a quick shake to make sure it was fully home.

'Now you,' he said to the sweat-drenched guerrillas. 'Just do what I did.'

Fergus could load, unload and strip down a weapon with his eyes closed � he had done, thousands of times � but now he kept his eyes on the twelve young men as they copied his actions. Young men? They were kids, most of them not yet twenty and the youngest maybe seventeen.

Most were dressed in ripped jeans and old Brazil or Man U football shirts. Some had thin, wispy beards. It was as though they were trying to prove they really were man enough, mean enough and brave enough to be FARC guerrillas. The younger boys were smooth-faced; they probably hadn't even started to shave.

Their faces were sullen and sulky. They hadn't left their poverty-stricken villages to clean rifles. They wanted to make their fortunes. They wanted action.

They were about to get it.

The attack came suddenly, without warning and at the worst possible moment. The government troops must have been watching, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Fergus heard the helicopter gunships first. The deep, throaty growl of the engines, immediately followed by the ominous chop of the rotor blades. The tree canopy swayed and shifted and rainwater came cascading down.

'Shit,' murmured Fergus, as he looked up and saw the first helicopter overhead. 'Stand to! Stand to!'

The guerrillas ignored the command. Most of them simply panicked and started to run towards the boats, unaware that a gunner was already lining them up through the sights of the heavy machine gun mounted in the doorway of the gunship.

Fergus grasped the pieces of his own rifle and dived to the ground. 'No!' he shouted, rolling away through the mud. 'Not the boats! Stay away from the boats! Stay low, stay low!'

But it was already too late. Bullets thudded into the wet earth as the young Colombians hurtled towards the river, their weapons forgotten and abandoned. The youngest boy, Nino, stood rigid, petrified like a rabbit in car headlights, his eyes wide with fear.

The camp was surrounded: ground troops were approaching from all sides and shouted orders were drowned out by the sound of automatic gunfire. The attack had been expertly planned, and Fergus felt a moment of professional admiration as he mechanically loaded his AK.

He grabbed the terrified boy and dragged him towards the forest escape route. Before they had moved more than a few paces Fergus heard a stifled cry, felt Nino jerk away and turned to see him falling into the leaf litter. Blood oozed from his head.

Fergus was hit before he could return fire. The bullet smashed into his thigh and sent him spinning away, face down in the mud. Searing pain burned through his body. He lifted his head and saw blood-red bone protruding from the gaping wound in his leg.

The thudding sound of heavy machine-gun fire drifted back from the river. Fergus knew that the guerrillas who had made it to the boats would have been picked off by the helicopter gunships and that, by now, their bodies would be floating downstream.

And then it was all over. The firing stopped as quickly as it had begun. Fergus tried to crawl towards the undergrowth as he heard more shouted commands and then men running towards him. He was grabbed by the shoulders and turned over. Four Colombian soldiers stared down at him, their camouflaged faces glistening with sweat as they jabbed their rifle barrels into his face and excitedly shouted to their commander. 'Gringo! Gringo!'

Two of the troopers moved aside and an officer wearing the uniform of the Anti-Narcotics Police stepped through. He smiled at Fergus, reached into the breast pocket of his camouflaged combat jacket and took out a photograph. He looked at the photograph and laughed, then beckoned to a paramedic before viciously kicking Fergus in his wounded leg.

The agonized scream echoed away into the jungle.

2005, Army RCB Centre, Wiltshire, England Danny was running. His pace was as steady and constant as his breathing; he moved with a natural rhythm. This was what he'd been waiting for � at last he was really showing what he could do.

Sometimes when Danny ran, when he was training, he would wear a Walkman and sing to himself under his breath, fitting the tempo of the song to his strides. It helped maintain the pace and stopped him from getting bored on a long run. But not today. Today he was focused. He wanted to win, even though they'd been told it wasn't a race. But Danny still wanted to win. He always did.

He was way ahead of the others as he approached the stream. The muddy stretch of water was too wide to clear without the aid of the strong rope dangling invitingly from the thick branch of a tree. Danny's eyes narrowed as he neared the edge and without breaking his stride he leaped into the air, grabbed the rope with both hands and swung effortlessly across to the other side.

The watching NCO smiled his approval and checked the list of names on his clipboard. 'Good effort, Mr Watts, keep it going,' he boomed as Danny ran on towards the high wall.

Danny grinned. Mister Watts. Him? He couldn't remember anyone calling him Mister Watts before. A few other things maybe, but never Mister. But it was all so different here.

When they'd assembled on Day One, nervous and self-conscious, a sergeant had told them they would all be referred to as Mister. 'That's because officers are gentlemen,' he said. 'And that includes potential officers like yourselves.'

Danny wasn't bothered what they called him � General Watts, for all he cared � just as long as he got one of the Regular Commissions Board bursaries at the end of the three-day selection course. He had to get a bursary; it was the only way he could possibly afford to take up a university place and then go on to Sandhurst Military Academy.

And the weeks of preparation were paying off. Danny had sailed through the medical and fitness tests, handed in a decent current affairs essay, and if the rest of his written work wasn't exactly University Challenge standard, he was pretty sure he'd done well enough. In the briefings and interviews he had been confident but not cocky. He'd even laughed at the officers' bad jokes.

He knew they were being assessed at every moment, and that included their relaxation time. So when a few of the others got stuck into pints of bitter in the mess, Danny stuck to Diet Coke. It was no big sacrifice � he couldn't stand the taste of beer anyway.

One 'real ale man' ended up making a total prat of himself, downing four pints in less than an hour. It was three and a half pints too many: he threw up on the floor before being dragged off to bed. The duty officer wasn't impressed and neither was the steward who had to mop up the vomit.

Four Pints, as the others named him, woke up the next morning to a king-sized bollocking that did nothing to make his hangover feel better.

But it was a useful reminder to Danny to get everything right. This was his one chance, he had to take it, and with the assault course run being the final event it was all working out perfectly.

He clambered over the two-metre-high wall and sprinted the final hundred metres to the finish line, where a waiting sergeant clicked a stopwatch and made a note of his time. 'Very good, Mr Watts, very good indeed. Says on your application that you've run for your county.'

'Middle distance and cross country.'

'And is that something you'd wish to continue in the army?'

Danny paused before answering, reminding himself to say the right thing. 'As long as it didn't get in the way of my other duties.'

The sergeant laughed. 'I shouldn't worry about that, Mr Watts, the army always wants to sponsor top quality athletes. Look at Kelly Holmes � she did ten years in the army and look at her now: double Olympic gold medallist. Take my advice, you stay in training.'

'I will, sir. Thanks.'

'Sir? I'm no Sir. I work for a living.' The NCO pointed at the three small green stripes sewn onto his combat jacket. 'It's Sergeant. Now get yourself off to the showers while I wait for the also rans.'

As Danny jogged away towards the changing rooms he could see the next few years panning out exactly the way he'd planned. University, then Sandhurst and then a commission as an officer in the infantry. And on top of that, they might even pay him to run. It couldn't get any better.

The black-and-white photograph was yellowed and faded. Three young men in army uniforms, their arms around each other's shoulders. They were smiling, happy. Young comrades.

The photograph was the only link Danny had ever had to his grandfather. He looked at it again and then tore it down the centre and threw the two halves towards the already full wastepaper basket on the far side of the room. They missed and landed on the carpet.

Elena was standing in the doorway of Danny's bedroom. 'You might regret that.'

Danny sat on his bed, his face dark and sullen. 'Why? The only thing he's ever done for me is stop me getting into the army.'

'Don't sulk, Danny, it doesn't suit you.'

'Tough.' The journey back from Wiltshire hadn't improved his temper. He was seething, as well as sulking. 'The guy kept asking questions. Did I know where my granddad was? Was I certain he'd never been here?'

Elena glanced at the two halves of the torn photograph lying on the carpet. She could still make out the smiling faces. 'But what do they want him for? After all this time?'

'He wouldn't tell me. Just said they needed to talk to him.'

'Well, don't you want to know?'

'I don't want to know anything about him. I hate his guts.'

The sound of voices drifted up from the floor below and Elena shifted uneasily in the doorway. 'I'd better go down. Dave the Rave's gonna go ballistic if he catches me up here.'

Danny got up from the bed. 'I might as well look in the evening paper, see if there are any jobs going for army rejects. Part time at Tesco won't do any more, will it?'

'But what about your A levels?'

'What's the point now?' said Danny, brushing past and going towards the staircase at the end of the landing. Elena grabbed the two halves of the photograph from the floor, slipped them into the back pocket of her jeans and followed him.

It was a good spot for a roadside burger bar. A busy spur from the main London-to-Southend arterial road, it was used by huge numbers of vans and lorries streaming in and out of the light industrial and residential sprawl of south-east Essex.

White-van and lorry drivers were Frankie's main customers. He got the occasional suited company rep pulling in for a secret egg and bacon sandwich with tomato ketchup. 'My wife wouldn't be very pleased if she saw me eating this,' they'd say with a guilty smile. 'She likes me to have muesli. Bloody rabbit food. Hope you can keep a secret.'

Frankie kept many secrets.

The lay-by was potholed but wide and deep, with plenty of parking space for the biggest trucks. The landscape was flat and treeless, so drivers could spot the pull-in cafe, with its Union Jack flying above, from at least half a mile away in both directions.

Business was good, and for regulars in a rush there was a mobile phone number painted on the side of the van. They could call in advance with their order and their ETA and then collect their takeaway and be back on the road in a matter of minutes.

But most customers liked to stop for a leisurely cuppa and a chat with Frankie. Two regulars, Reg and Terry, painters working on a factory unit in Benfleet, had arrived for their usual full breakfast baps and strong teas. Bacon, sausages and burgers were already sizzling on the hotplate.

Reg dropped his third spoonful of sugar into the steaming mug of tea. 'I dunno how you do this all day, Frankie,' he said, stirring the brown, milky tea vigorously without spilling a drop. 'Don't you ever get bored? You know, stuck all day in a six-by-four tin can with nothing to do but watch the cars go by?'

Frankie cracked an egg onto the hotplate. 'I have plenty to do,' he said, reaching for another egg. 'This stuff doesn't cook itself. And I read the papers and listen to the radio. You get to learn a lot doing a job like this.'

Terry slurped tea from his mug. 'Yeah, fair enough, but � and don't get me wrong 'cos I love your cooking � but the smell of fried food all day would drive me round the bend. It clings to you, don't it?'

Frankie cracked the second egg onto the hotplate. 'You mean like the way the smell of paint clings to you?'

Reg laughed, and pulled a copy of the Sun from a deep pocket in his overalls. 'He's got a point there, Terry, a very good point. He stinks of fry-ups, we stink of top coat.'

He turned to page three and studied the photograph for a few moments. 'No, I could handle the smell, no problem. What would get me would be being stuck in this little van for hour after hour. Be like being in a prison cell.'

The eggs were almost cooked and Frankie turned away to spread butter on the baps. This, a prison cell? They had no idea. A prison cell was a dark, window-less concrete cube, three paces long by five wide and crammed with twelve other prisoners. The burger bar was heaven compared to all that. You could open the door and step outside. You could look out and see the road and the grass verge and the houses in the distance. You could listen to the radio. And you could talk to people.

Frankie had acquired his new identity three years earlier, soon after he'd finally made it back to England. It had taken a long time to get back, a full nine months after he'd led the breakout from the Colombian prison.

First he had to cross the two hundred and fifty miles of jungle to the Colombian border with Panama. It took three months and he used all his skills to evade capture, living off what he could trap or pick.

In Panama he stowed away on a Japanese cargo ship as it went through the canal towards the Atlantic Ocean. He hid amongst three thousand new cars, ate only food waiting to be thrown overboard and jumped ship when the vessel docked in Turkey six weeks later. Then he hitchhiked or hid in trucks until he reached France. He finally entered England along with seven illegal immigrants hiding under the cross-Channel train.

Essex seemed as good a place as any to settle. It was teeming with people too busy with their own lives to worry about one more ordinary, anonymous-looking bloke with a limp.

He did odd jobs to begin with, casual work for cash, no questions asked. He kept every penny he earned, but when he did start to spend, he spent wisely. A new National Insurance number bought in a pub cost him just fifty quid. That was when he became Frank Wilson. Changing his name and living as another person was something he was used to from his years on covert operations in the Regiment. The rule was: always have a first name starting with the same letter as your real name. It helped you remember.

Frankie always dealt in cash; there was no bank account or credit cards to help trace him. He'd started in a bedsit, but since buying the second-hand burger bar his finances had quickly improved. Now he rented an old cottage, pretty dilapidated but very private. And that was all he wanted. Privacy. To be left alone.

Frankie placed the two full breakfast baps on the counter. 'There we are, gentlemen. Help yourself to sauce. And enjoy.'

The website straplines spewed out the story in graphic and horrifying detail: SAS HERO TURNS TRAITOR� Fergus Watts, the former SAS hero�

About a mile upstream from the Houses of Parliament, on the south side of the river Thames close to Vauxhall Bridge, stands a strangely shaped building known as Vauxhall Cross.

It looks like a beige and black pyramid with its top cut off. There are staged levels with large towers on either side and a terrace bar overlooking the Thames. With a few flashing neon lights added it could easily be mistaken for a casino.

But Vauxhall Cross is no casino. It is the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. Those on the inside rarely, if ever, use the term MI6. As far as they are concerned they work for The Firm'. They are responsible for overseas intelligence gathering and for covert operations. They 'maintain the UK's influence overseas'. They keep the 'Great' in Great Britain.

George Fincham arrived early, as he did most mornings. Dressed, as always, in a smart suit, crisp white shirt and favourite MCC tie, he swiped his identity card through the electronic reader and eased open the single metal door. He carried no briefcase or papers. Staff at Vauxhall Cross do not take their work home with them, not even high-ranking IBs like George Fincham.

He walked down to reception, where the first visitor of the day was waiting to be collected after being issued with a badge that read: ESCORTED EVERYWHERE. Fincham simply nodded a good morning to the two female receptionists seated behind blastproof glass and walked on to the lifts.

His office was high up and at the rear of the building, with a river view up to Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Fincham reached his floor and stepped out of the lift. The long corridor kept its usual secretive silence. The only sounds were the faint hum of the air conditioning and the hardly audible electronic buzz of the fluorescent lighting.

In one of the small staff kitchens, two other early arrivals, their IDs slung on chains around their necks, stood making coffee. They spoke in soft voices. That wasn't unusual: everyone at Vauxhall Cross spoke softly when away from the privacy of their office.

Fincham arrived at his own office, unlocked the heavy wooden door and went inside. He felt at home in here. The room was functional and impersonal. There were no paintings on the walls, just plasma TVs mounted on a wall bracket in one corner. One screen constantly scrolled through Ceefax world news headlines; the other was tuned to BBC News 24, with the sound muted but with subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

The desk stood close to the picture window, which stretched the entire width of the office. Fincham went over to the window and opened the Venetian blinds and the morning sunlight immediately warmed the room. There was little traffic on the Thames; not even the tourist pleasure boats had started their daily journeys up and down the couple of miles of brown, murky river water.

A sharp double knock at the door interrupted Fincham's thoughts as he stared out towards Parliament. He answered in his usual way: 'Come.'

Marcie Deveraux looked immaculate. She always did. Her black trouser suit was definitely not off the peg and was way out of the price range of most female IBs. Fortunately for Deveraux, her expensive tastes didn't depend on the salary she received from the British government. Her family was of West Indian origin and her ancestors had made their fortune way back, by cooperating with the French when they arrived to colonize their island.

With her high-cheekboned exotic looks, closely cropped jet-black hair and slim figure, Marcie Deveraux looked like a supermodel. She could have been. She had it all. Style. Class. Va va voom.

But Marcie Deveraux had always had different ambitions. Her first in Social and Political Sciences at Cambridge had led to her being recruited by the Firm, and she had quickly been identified for accelerated promotion. And she knew that within ten years, with luck and the right breaks, she could make it to 'C, the name given to the head of the Intelligence Service.

But for now she was number two in Fincham's section, which was responsible for the Firm's internal security. That included making sure that no one in the service was selling secrets to the enemy, while at the same time keeping the government from knowing too much about the Firm's activities. It was policy to keep politicians at arm's length. Whenever possible.

'Good morning, sir.'

Fincham turned away from the window, gestured to Deveraux to sit down and settled himself into the high-backed executive chair on his side of the desk.

'What do you have for me, Marcie?'

'It looks as though your plan is beginning to pay dividends, sir.'

She slid a single sheet of paper across the desktop towards Fincham. Danny's army RCB file was also on the desk. His photograph had been removed from the cover.

Fincham picked up the paper and speed-read the small type as Deveraux continued, 'He's already been a very busy boy. Four contacts reported, even the Army Pensions Office. Shows great initiative.'

'And we're watching him?'

'Oh, yes, sir, we're watching him. Closely.'

Fincham allowed himself a half smile. 'Good. Very good.'

A fine summer drizzle was falling. Danny zipped up his leather jacket and turned up the collar. He pulled the Foxcroft front door shut and walked towards the bus stop.

'Stand by. Stand by. That's a possible Bravo One foxtrot. He's gone left.'

The dark blue VW Golf was parked about sixty metres further down the street. It was two up, a man and a woman, both sitting back in their seats. They didn't look at each other. They hardly moved; just glanced down at the copy of Danny's RCB photograph resting on the driver's lap.

A single squeeze of the radio pressel on the gearstick activated the concealed microphone in the surveillance car.

'That's a definite Bravo One, brown leather on blue jeans, still foxtrot on the left, approaching the first junction left.'

The team was four-strong. They used first names only � that way there was no confusion when talking on their radio net. Mick sat in the driver's seat of the Golf, Fran was next to him. They were responsible for initiating the surveillance when the target moved. They were the trigger.

Further back down the main road, Jimmy, dressed in black leathers and clutching a helmet, was perched on the saddle of a black TDM motorbike. Parked nearby in a side street was Brian, at the wheel of a silver Nissan. Both listened to the second-by-second information coming into their radio earpieces. At any moment it could be their turn to take over the follow.

'Bravo One at the junction, still straight.'

Fran got out of the Golf, checked that her jacket hadn't ridden up and exposed her pistol and the two spare thirteen-round magazines attached to her jeans belt, and walked in the same direction as Danny. Mick went on the net.

That's Fran foxtrot. Mick still has Bravo One.'

Fran was fifty metres behind Danny as she hit the pressel sewn into the shoulder strap of her handbag to activate her personal covert radio. The mic sewn into the bag easily picked up her softly spoken words.

'Fran has Bravo One, halfway to the next junction left. He's not aware.'

Mick could see that, should Danny turn round and look back up the road, he was directly in his line of sight. It was time to shift. He started up the Golf, drove off and took the first turning right.

Danny reached the bus stop. Fran hit her pressel again.

'Stop. Stop. Stop. Bravo One static at the bus stop on the left.'

Fran kept walking, making sure she didn't catch Danny's eye. There was nothing unusual about the way she moved or looked. Everything was natural. Normal. Ordinary. The whole team were experts at being ordinary. It was all part of the training. Avoid causing suspicion. Make sure there's a reason for every action. Be third party aware.

On this job, 'third party' meant anyone but Danny. The last thing the team wanted was some do-gooder spotting that he was being watched or followed and then phoning the police. That would compromise the whole operation.

Fran still had her finger on the radio pressel as she neared the bus stop.

'I see bus number thirty-six, I've got to keep foxtrot, I'm gonna lose him.'

The team had to keep the target in sight at all times. Brian, in the Nissan, and Jimmy on the TDM were both about to move when Mick came onto the net.

'Mick's going for the trigger.'

Mick had taken the first right and two quick left turns. He was driving back towards the main street looking for a parking space with a sight line to the bus stop. He had to find a space quickly; Fran was too near to Danny to continue. She turned left at the side road close to the bus stop, spotted a shop and headed towards it.

'Fran no longer has Bravo One.'

Mick pulled on the handbrake and switched off the Golf's engine.

'Mick has the trigger, Mick has the trigger.'

He'd made it.

'Bravo One still static at the bus stop. Reading bus times� now checking his watch. That's hands in pockets, he looks unaware.'

While Mick had been racing to get into position, Brian had gone online with his Nokia and had found the information the team needed.

The thirty-six goes from Camberwell to Victoria, Marble Arch, Paddington and ending at Queen's Park. That's along-'

Mick cut in on the net.

'Stand by! Stand by! That's a thirty-six towards Bravo One. He's getting money ready. Last three on the plate romeo bravo alpha and the back of it has a dark green Nikon advert. Here we go.'

The bus pulled into the kerbside. The air pumps hissed and the doors opened.

'That's Bravo One cash in hand. Stepping on the bus, now unsighted in the bus. Wait� wait� that's doors closed and indicators on. Stand by. Stand by� that's the bus mobile.'

Jimmy, the TDM rider, cut in on the radio net by pressing a button that was part of the motorbike's light selection console.

'Jimmy has the bus, mobile towards the first set of lights.'

Jimmy had taken control of the surveillance. Brian, in the silver Nissan, was also on the move as Mick drove off to collect Fran. The operation was going smoothly: the target was correctly triggered away.

The interior of the Victory Club took Danny by surprise. From the outside it looked old and established like most of the other buildings in the street, but once through the automatic double doors he saw that it was all black wood, steel and mirrors. Some trendy designer had been hard at work giving the place a makeover.

To the left was an open door leading into a canteen-style dining room, where a few old boys were having lunch. They didn't look much like old soldiers to Danny, but then he had no idea what old soldiers were meant to look like.

Straight ahead was a mirrored reception desk. But between Danny and the desk stood a massive security guy in a black suit. He was checking the names of three other smartly dressed men against a list he held.

Glancing down at his jeans and leather jacket, Danny wondered if maybe he should have worn a tie. It was too late to worry, and anyway, there was a much bigger problem � his name wasn't on that list. He thought quickly. 'Use your initiative,' that's what they'd told him at the army officers' selection board. He glanced around the entrance hall and spotted an information board detailing the events in the various conference rooms. At the top it read: TRAFALGAR ROOM. ARMY RESETTLEMENT SEMINAR.

As the three visitors were given the OK to go into the club, Danny strode confidently after them. He didn't even look at the security guard and for a couple of seconds it seemed as though he'd got away with it.

Then a surprisingly high-pitched voice said, 'Excuse me, can I help you?'

'I'm here to see my dad,' answered Danny as he turned back, smiling innocently. 'He's on the army resettlement course. Said he'd meet me in the bar at lunch time.'

'And your name is�?'

Danny hadn't thought that far, but there was another room mentioned on the information board. It would have to do. 'Carisbrook. Danny Carisbrook.'

The security guard studied his list. 'No Carisbrook on here. I'm sorry, your dad hasn't signed you in.'

Danny silently told himself what a dickhead he'd been. He shouldn't have made up a name; he could have just said he was looking for his missing grandfather.

But his luck was in. The security guard looked up from his list and winked. 'Tell you what, you go through to the bar and when your dad arrives get him to come and sign you in. You see, the thing is, being a military club we have to be very aware of security.'

'Yeah, I can see that,' answered Danny, trying not to laugh and moving quickly off towards the bar. 'I'll get my dad to come out.'

The bar room was smart. Gleaming. And virtually deserted, almost as though the club members didn't want to use it for fear of spoiling the newness of the furniture and fittings. The carpet even smelled new.

Behind the bar itself, an operation was being carried out with military precision. The barman was polishing glasses, patiently putting a shine on each one and then adding it to a row on the bartop. They made a perfect line, like they were on parade, a credit to the proud barman, who sighed loudly and deliberately as Danny approached. The boy was interrupting important work. 'Can't serve you.'

'Eh?'

'Not unless you're accompanied by a member.'

'But I don't want a drink,' said Danny.

Another glass was added to the row and its position was adjusted slightly. 'That's what we do here. Serve drinks. Wines, beers, spirits, even soft drinks. That's why I'm here.' He picked up another glass.

Danny sighed. 'I'm looking for someone, trying to find him.'

'Member, is he?'

'I don't think so. But he might have been.'

The barman reluctantly stopped polishing and put down the glass, realizing that Danny wasn't going to go away until his questions were answered. 'Name?'

'Watts. Fergus Watts.'

The stare was hard and suspicious. 'And you are?'

'I'm his grandson, Danny. And I need to find him, it's really urgent.'

The hard features softened. 'I'm Harry,' said the barman with a nod and a smile. His face became a mask of concentration as he scrolled through his mental filing cabinet of familiar and half-forgotten names. 'Fergus Watts� Fergus Watts.' Eventually he shook his head. 'Doesn't mean anything to me, and I know them all here.'

Danny reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, took out the photograph and handed it over. 'My granddad's the one in the middle. It's an old photo but he can't have changed that much.'

Harry studied the faded photograph and then turned it over and saw the writing on the back. He laughed. 'Two and six. Half a crown, we called it. Those were the days.'

'But those other numbers,' said Danny quickly, not wanting to be drawn into a long conversation about the good old days, 'the ones after his name � what do they mean?'

'Probably his last four,' answered Harry with a shrug.

'Last four? Last four what?'

Harry smiled indulgently. 'Everyone gets an eight-digit number in the army. There might have been a few Wattses in his unit so they just wrote the last four with the name. Last four avoids confusion, specially in the Welsh regiments with all those Joneses and Davises. No one ever forgets their number.'

He beckoned Danny a little closer and continued, 'Between you and me, I use my last four on my cash card. It's easy to get confused at my age so-'

'But do you know him?' interrupted Danny. Getting a simple answer to a simple question wasn't proving an easy task.

Harry looked at the photo again. 'I'm sorry, son, I don't. And I can tell you for a fact that he's never been in here because I go back longer than anyone. They reckon I'm part of the furniture, and I'm talking about the old furniture, not this new fancy stuff.'

It had all been a complete waste of time and the only lead had led absolutely nowhere. Danny took back the photograph and started to put it into his pocket.

Harry picked up his tea cloth. 'You need to have a word with Big Kev.'

'Who?'

'The tallest bloke in the photo, the one on the right. He's a lot younger there but I'd know Big Kev anywhere.'

Danny stared at the photograph again. He'd never taken the slightest interest in the two young men standing on either side of his grandfather. Not until now.

'That's Kev Newman,' said Harry, picking up a glass and beginning his polishing again. 'He'll be in tomorrow. There's a funeral for an ex-Regiment man and the wake's here afterwards. And Big Kev never misses a piss-up.'

Most days, business was over at Frankie's burger bar by mid afternoon. The white vans were heading back to their depots and the last of the reps had called in for a mug of tea and a chat. Turning off the hot water, cleaning the griddles, washing up and locking up didn't take very long.

Frankie could drive home in less than twenty minutes. But Frankie never went straight home. His anti-surveillance drill meant a long and complicated journey.

He unlocked the driver's door of his dark blue Fiesta, took a last look in both directions, climbed into the car and started the engine. The car was old and boring but in good nick, and that was just how Frankie wanted it. He never took unnecessary risks or drew attention to himself. Being stopped by the police for a routine check was taking an unnecessary risk, so the tyres on the Fiesta were legal, the lights worked, the tax disc was on display and the MOT was up to date.

On the drive towards Rochford, Frankie stuck to the speed limits, regularly checking his mirrors and taking a mental note of the make and colour of the vehicles following. Three miles from the town he pulled into a lay-by and pretended to look for something in the foot well. With no junctions for a quick turn-off, the following vehicles were committed to passing. Frankie clocked them all as they went by.

Back on the road he drove twice around the roundabout just outside the town, looking at the road signs as if he were confused. The roundabout was an obvious changeover place for a surveillance team, the ideal spot for one vehicle to peel off so that another could take over the follow. The double turn around the roundabout gave Frankie another chance to check on following vehicles.

He drove into a new residential area of flats and houses behind the town centre. The network of quiet streets gave him a wide choice of overnight parking places. He chose a different one every evening. He parked up, got out of the car and walked quickly across the road and through an alleyway towards the shops.

Frankie knew the surveillance game only too well. The most difficult time for a team is going foxtrot, so the quicker he got out of sight the harder it was to get the trigger on him. He moved as swiftly as he could but remained third party aware, never looking back to see what was happening behind.

Hiding his limp completely was impossible, and the faster he walked the more apparent it became. He'd been stuck with it ever since the bodged operation in Colombia. It was with him for life and a real bonus for any watching surveillance team. A VDM that helped pick out Frankie in a crowd.

He went into a shop and bought an evening newspaper. Standing in the queue to pay, he glanced out through the windows, looking for even the smallest sign that he was being followed. Signs like someone hovering for a moment too long by the doorway or apparently talking to themselves when walking by � a basic error. Surveillance operators are trained in not moving their lips when talking on the radio net.

Frankie saw nothing suspicious, but that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't being followed. It could mean that the team was good.

He left the shop and crossed the small town square. He went through another alleyway into a small car park, pulling from his jacket a green nylon waterproof and a rolled-up flat cap. His ancient, three-gear bicycle was locked to a railing. He quickly unlocked the bike, put on the waterproof and flat cap and cycled away.

It was a long ride home, but Frankie was used to it.

'Your granddad was a good bloke.'

'Was?'

Kev Newman shrugged, took a long drink from his pint of bitter and sat back in his chair. It seemed to have difficulty in containing him. 'Figure of speech.'

It was easy to see why he was known as Big Kev. He was massive. He'd looked tall in the photograph but in the years since then he'd bulked up in a big way. Now muscle was gradually turning to fat, but with hands like shovels, Kev still looked like the wrong man to pick an argument with.

The Victory Club was heaving, very different from Danny's first visit. The 'old and bold', the name given to ex-SAS men, had turned out in their droves to give their mate a good send-off. Ties were loosened, jackets were draped over the backs of chairs, the beer was flowing and the room was alive with animated conversation and laughter. The funeral was over and the wake was well and truly underway.

Getting into the Victory had been easier for Danny second time around. He'd arranged for Harry the barman to sign him in under the name of Carisbrook and it had been no problem, specially as he was more suitably dressed in jacket and tie.

He spotted Kev Newman as soon as he walked in with a bunch of his mates. Big Kev wasn't easy to miss. The group got in their first round of drinks, and as they made their way towards a corner table, Kev was waylaid by another veteran. Danny waited until Kev was alone and then moved in and introduced himself.

If the big man was surprised he didn't show it. He looked at Danny and nodded, as if seeing the similarities between grandson and grandfather. Then he shook hands, almost crushing Danny's fingers in his giant fist, and invited him to join the group at the table. When they pulled up their chairs Kev simply said to the others, 'This is Danny.' Nothing more.

Since then they'd been talking quietly, sitting slightly apart from the rest. But the conversation wasn't getting very far. Danny leaned in closer to Big Kev. 'Do you know where my granddad is?'

The answer came immediately. 'Haven't a clue.'

'But you were his friend.'

'Best mates. That photo you've got was taken before we even made it into the Regiment. We went all the way together, joined up at the same time and then-'

Whatever Kev was about to say went unspoken as he stood up, almost spilling his beer in the process. As Danny looked on, bewildered, the other veterans stood up too. Then he saw why.

'No need to stand, chaps. Not any more.'

Kev was almost standing to attention. 'Old habits, sir.'

'Sir' was tall, grey-haired and distinguished-looking, and he had such a presence that, without knowing why, Danny found himself standing as well.

'Just wanted to let you chaps know that my wife and I are leaving now � long drive back.'

'Good of you both to come, sir,' said Kev.

'Not at all, least we could do.' He noticed Danny. 'Hello, who's this? A new recruit?'

'Friend of a friend, sir,' answered Kev before Danny could speak.

Sir smiled at Danny. 'Don't let this lot of reprobates lead you astray. Goodbye to you all then.'

The veterans chorused their 'Bye, sir's and retook their seats.

Big Kev finished his pint and Danny took a swig of his Coke. 'Who was that?'

'Old CO. Colonel. A good bloke.'

Danny couldn't stop himself from replying, 'Like my granddad?'

Kev didn't answer. He was a man of few words, and most of those he seemed to want to keep to himself. But everyone else had plenty to say. The room was getting noisier by the minute; the old and bold were enjoying sharing stories and memories of their glory days.

Danny almost had to shout. 'I know what he did. In Colombia.'

'Do you?' said Kev, so softly that Danny struggled to hear. 'Well, maybe you do and maybe you don't.'

Kev was giving nothing away and Danny's temper was building. 'Look, I've got to find him.'

One of the men on the far side of the table heard Danny. 'Find who? Who's he on about, Kev?'

The noise in the bar was so loud now that Danny did have to shout. 'My granddad.'

An outburst of raucous laughter from the group at the next table gave the veteran no chance of hearing. He shouted back, 'Who?'

What happened next was one of those freak moments: it probably wouldn't have happened again if it had been rehearsed a hundred times. But just as Danny cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted there was a total drop in the level of chatter and laughter.

The two words boomed out: 'Fergus Watts!'

A great swathe of the room went completely silent and all eyes turned towards Danny. He turned to Kev. 'What? What did I do?'

The answer was softly spoken. 'Not a very popular name in the Regiment these days, son.'

Gradually the conversation and laughter resumed but two tables away one man kept his eyes firmly fixed on Danny. 'Fergus Watts,' he whispered. 'Now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time.'

Maybe it was the intensity of his stare that made Danny turn and look, maybe it was just chance. Whatever the reason, their eyes met. The staring man gave Danny an exaggerated smile, raised his glass and silently mouthed, 'Cheers.'

It was unsettling, spooky, and Danny looked away as Big Kev stood up and called over to one of his friends, 'I need a gypsy's. Get a round in, will you, Tone, and one for the lad?' He glanced at Danny. 'Unless it's time for you to go?'

Danny wasn't going to be pushed out. 'I'm not in any rush.'

Kev shrugged and moved off and Tone collected the glasses and headed for the bar.

Danny sat back in his chair and gazed around at the old and bold. They were a tough-looking bunch, but in some ways they were as different as they were similar.

He had half expected them all to be like Kev Newman: big, brawny, muscular; but physically they came in a variety of shapes and sizes. They had one thing in common though, they all looked hard. More than that, they looked hardened, as though what they had seen and done had given them a different attitude to life from ordinary people.

Danny couldn't figure out what it was that made them want to join the SAS. The regular army was different; he still desperately wanted that for himself. The army meant a career, a lifestyle, worldwide travel. There was the possibility of danger, but not on an almost daily basis, and maybe never at the same level as in the SAS.

But the SAS was like saying, 'Put me in danger. I want to risk my life every time I go on an operation. I want to go into the most dangerous places and face up to guerrillas and terrorists and whatever they can throw at me.'

As the noise got louder and the booze flowed faster, Danny decided that maybe there wasn't any special quality that marked out an SAS man, just a special kind of madness.

His eyes rested on the door leading out to the lobby. Danny stared. Through the glass section at the top of the door he could see Big Kev. He hadn't gone to the toilets at all. He was talking on a mobile.

That was when Danny realized. Big Kev did know where his granddad was. And the phone call he was making � it was to Fergus Watts. Danny knew that for sure, but even as he thought of running out to the lobby to confront Kev, the big man came pushing his way through towards the table.

He slipped his mobile phone into a pocket of his jacket, which was hanging over the back of his chair, and glanced towards the crowded bar. 'What's wrong with that Tone? He hasn't even ordered the drinks yet.'

Tone was standing near to the bar, empty glasses in hands, talking to two other veterans.

'If you want something doing, do it yourself,' growled Big Kev and stomped off towards the bar.

It took no more than three seconds. A glance around to check that no one was watching and Kev's mobile was out of the jacket pocket and in Danny's hands. He didn't hang around but slid the mobile into one of his own pockets and headed off towards the toilets. He had to find the last number called on the mobile.

The toilets were empty but Danny went into a cubicle and locked the door. Finding the last number dialled was simple, even though Kev's mobile was ancient, a total brick.

But Danny had no way of keeping or storing the number. His own mobile had run out of credit and he hadn't bothered bringing it. He didn't even have a pen on him. 'Think, Danny,' he whispered. 'Think.'

Danny made his phone call to Elena from a public phone box. The conversation was brief, and fifteen minutes later he was in an Internet cafe. He bought himself a Coke and chose a computer with a view out onto the street. When he went online and logged on to MSN, Elena was waiting for him. She regularly changed her screen name and since her GCSE results had started calling herself 'A star'. Modest as always. Danny stuck to Danny. A star says: (4:34:09 pm) so wots all the mystery, yor call spooked me Danny says: (4:34:18 pm) think im being followed A star says: (4:34:26 pm) o yeah right Danny says: (4:34:47 pm) im serious. a motorbike, u know i always spot bikes. Saw it twice yesday & more today. same bike same rider A star says: (4:35:01 pm) y should any1 want 2 follow u Danny says: (4:35:13 pm) dunno� really freakin me tho

Danny glanced out through the window. He was sure he'd seen the black TDM at least three times that day, the last time soon after he left the Victory Club. A star says: (4:35:28 pm) danny calm down yr making me nervos. tell me what happened @ club Danny says: (4:35:43 pm) saw big kev. got a mobile number, sure its my gdads A star says: (4:35:51 pm) wot big kev gave u the number Danny says: (4:36:06 pm) not exactly. kev called him, i got number from his mob A star says: (4:36:15 pm) r u gonna call Danny says: (4:36:27 pm) dunno. not sure wot 2 do A star says: (4:36:40 pm) don't call. might scare hm off. give me number Danny says: (4:36:48 pm) y A star says: (4:37:13 pm) mayb i can trace where kev made call 2, I mean the location, where yor gdad woz wen he took call Danny says: (4:37:24 pm) like how A star says: (4:37:36 pm) police do it. if plod can A star can. gimme number

Danny fished out the scrap of paper and sent the mobile number over to Elena. A star says: (4:37:56 pm) wot u do while i go 4 this Danny says: (4:38:28 pm) this bloke at club, said he might be able help find fergus. names eddie moyes, said id meet 2morrow but dunno if I trust him, gonna check something A star says: (4:38:43 pm) u r getting para!!!!!! Danny says: (4:38:54 pm) maybe but dnt trust any1 but u A star says: (4:39:06 pm) w8 there & dnt panic!!!!

They both stayed logged on to MSN but set their status to 'away'.

Danny still felt edgy. At any moment he expected to hear the growl of the TDM as it passed the window or see a man in black bikers' leathers walk through the door. The cafe wasn't busy � just a youngish businessman checking or sending e-mails and a couple of Australian girls online to friends back home. Their online conversations must have been interesting: the two girls kept shrieking with laughter and then whispering to each other. Elena was always up to speed with the latest developments in online technology. She knew all about companies providing GSM location services. It was a relatively simple operation. They just traced which mobile mast the phone was connected to, and from that could locate the phone to within a hundred metres. The police had been operating the system for years and had used the location of tracked mobiles as evidence in court cases.

Now the system was available to the public, and Elena was ready to give it a shot. There were plenty of online companies offering the service. She logged on to one and read the welcome-page boast that from now on parents could keep track of their kids and companies could always know exactly what their employees were up to.

Elena went to the main page and got the bad news: to use the system, subscribers needed not only the phone number but also the phone user's four-figure PIN number. 'Should have realized they wouldn't make it easy,' she said to herself.

She decided to take a chance. She paid her?4.99 fee online using her cash card and got four attempts at the correct PIN number.

'Maybe he's stupid,' said Elena as she tried the obvious combinations: 1234, 4321, 1111, 2222.

But Fergus Watts obviously wasn't stupid. For another?20 she could try twenty more times.

They logged off quickly. Danny wanted to get back to Foxcroft to share the information and decide what to do next.

He was feeling better as he left the Internet cafe. He'd sussed out Eddie Moyes and there was no sign of the TDM. Maybe no one was following him at all. Maybe it was just his imagination. He turned to the right and walked towards the bus stop.

'Stand by, stand by. That's Bravo One foxtrot, he's gone right from Internet cafe. Fran's foxtrot.'

'I don't understand. He's in the same place as before but it's in the middle of nowhere. It's just a road. No buildings. Nothing.'

Danny and Elena had skipped breakfast and had logged on to the phone search company again. It clearly showed that Fergus � and Danny was convinced that it was Fergus � was in the same spot as on the previous day with his phone switched on. But the onscreen map showed no houses or larger factory buildings, not even a roadside filling station. Just road.

Elena was sitting at her laptop, frowning at the screen. 'Maybe he parks his car in the same place every day and waits for his calls. But why?'

The question went unanswered. Danny leaned against the door frame in the open doorway of Elena's room. They were bending the Foxcroft rules again. He wasn't supposed to be in the room. And he wasn't, not actually in it.

Elena turned from the computer. 'So what next?'

Danny had already made up his mind. 'I'm going there. Today. I can get a train from Liverpool Street, and then a bus, and then walk or hitch if I have to.'

'To a bit of road? It might be a total waste of time.'

'I'm going, Elena, and I'll find him.'

'I'll come with you.'

Danny shook his head. 'No way. But I do need your help.'

Elena logged off from the website, shut down her computer and they went down to the quiet room. It wasn't very quiet. Lucy, the Jamaican woman who helped Jane with the cleaning, was doing her best Kylie Minogue impression as she danced round with the hoover.

She spotted them in the doorway and broke off from singing just long enough to shout, 'Five minutes, darlings, that's all I need. Then it's all yours.'

Without waiting for an answer, Lucy went back to her version of 'Can't Get You Out of My Head'. When Lucy liked a song, she liked it, it didn't matter how old it was, and the Kylie classic was an all-time favourite. Danny and Elena didn't hang around for the chorus � it wasn't easy listening. They went out into the garden and sat side by side on a bench.

Danny had made his plans. 'You stay here, check the site again during the day and let me know if he takes any more calls.'

'But what about that reporter bloke? You're meant to be meeting him.'

Danny smiled. 'That's what he thinks. But Mr Eddie Moyes is in for a long wait.'

It was happening again. Danny was convinced he was being followed on the way to Liverpool Street Station. There was no sign of the TDM motorbike; it was more of a gut feeling. He was being watched.

On the street, on the bus, everyone seemed to be looking towards him and then turning away as he returned their stare. He got off the bus before it reached the station and walked. A man in a brown bomber jacket was following him, Danny was certain. But when he stopped and looked back, the man went into a shop.

Danny thought about running, but decided it would only draw more attention. So he walked faster, went straight past the entrance to the station and kept going. Then he doubled back on himself through side streets and entered the station through the bus pull-in entrance. He went quickly to the ticket office, got a return ticket and went to the platform where the train was waiting.

Late morning was one of the quieter times at Liverpool Street and Danny had the section of the carriage he chose to himself. Within a few minutes the train was pulling away and quickly gaining speed as it moved through east London.

The carriage was grimy and drab, with ripped seats and WEST HAM ARE CRAP � TOTTENHAM RULE gouged into the glass of one of the windows. The train didn't stop as it went through Stratford and Ilford and past the greyhound track at Romford and then out into the commuter land of Essex. First stop was Brentwood. A few people got off and even fewer got on, and Danny was relieved when no one chose the same compartment as him.

The train stopped at every station after that. Shenfield, Billericay, Wickford, and then his stop, Rayleigh. Judging from the website maps, it was the closest to where he wanted to be, but not quite close enough.

Danny jumped from the compartment and ran towards the exit as soon as the train came to a standstill. He didn't look back to see who was following but rushed past the ticket collector and out into the street. He expected to be in the town centre. He wasn't. A long, uphill climb past semi-detached houses eventually brought him to the shops and a one-way traffic system.

He went into a shop and bought a road map for the whole of the area, and a shop assistant told him he had to go back down the hill to pick up the bus he needed. On the way he called Elena.

'Did he make any calls?'

'No, none made or received. Are you all right?'

'Yeah, but I'm being followed again.'

'Have you seen someone then?'

'Well no, but� it's just a feeling.'

Danny could hear the irritation in Elena's voice as she answered. 'Danny, you are really winding me up, and making me nervous. I sit here worrying and waiting for you to call and then all you can say is you think you're being followed. You're not. You're imagining it. Just call when you've got something useful to tell me!'

She hung up. She'd never done that to Danny before. He didn't like it.

He switched off the phone. He didn't want to be disturbed now, not even by Elena.

Frankie didn't make many phone calls. There was no need. He called the cash-and-carry one morning each week to place his regular order of bacon, burgers and whatever else was running low. His pay-as-you-go mobile was switched on during the day for phone-in orders but was always turned off before he left for home.

He was on the line to the cash-and-carry again, checking that the order was ready for collection, when he heard the footsteps approaching. No vehicle had pulled in and Frankie didn't get pedestrian customers. He hung up, put down the phone and let his hand rest on the Alabama lie detector he kept under the counter.

This was the moment Frankie had feared ever since arriving back in England. He hadn't expected it to happen this way, but then he'd been trained to expect the unexpected. He didn't panic. Frankie never panicked.

The footsteps got closer and louder and then stopped completely, just out of Frankie's line of vision. He waited, his fingers tightening on the baton, and then his unexpected, unwanted visitor moved towards him again.

It was Danny � he recognized him instantly. But there was no sense of relief; it simply meant they were both in terrible danger.

Danny's moment of recognition was just as instantaneous. His grandfather looked older, but the face that stared back at him was the face he'd seen so many times over the past few days in the old photograph. And the eyes were just the same as the eyes that stared back at Danny from the mirror each morning.

'Thought I'd never find you, didn't you?' he snarled. 'Thought you could run away from me, didn't you, Fergus Watts?'

Fergus had to try to bluff it out. He smiled. 'I'm sorry, son, I think you're mistaking me for someone else. The name's Frankie, like it says on the van. Frank Wilson. Do you want a cuppa tea or something?'

But Danny was too pumped up and certain to be sidetracked. 'I don't care what you're calling yourself now, but you're Fergus Watts. My granddad. I wish you weren't, but you are.'

It was pointless trying to continue with the subterfuge. Frank Wilson the smiling, friendly roadside tea-bar owner instantly disappeared and Fergus Watts, highly trained and skilled SAS veteran, took over.

The shutter slammed down and Danny heard the click of a heavy padlock. The side door opened and Fergus emerged carrying his jacket and a bunch of keys.

'Get in the car,' he ordered as he locked the van door and fixed another padlock.

Danny pulled his mobile phone from his jacket. 'Piss off! I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm calling the-'

He got no further. Fergus grabbed him by his jacket collar, snatched the phone away and shoved it into a pocket. As Danny struggled, Fergus dragged him to the blue Fiesta, pulled open the door and threw him inside. 'Stay there!' he yelled and slammed the door.

'Stand by, stand by. Jimmy has Bravo One and a definite Fergus towards the car. That's a positive ID on Fergus. He's limping. Jimmy still has the trigger and can give direction at the main. Wait� wait, that's both complete in the car� engine on. That's the car mobile towards the main�'

The Fiesta roared away, spewing up gravel and dust as it raced from the lay-by.

That's blue Fiesta gone left on the main� repeat, left on the main�'

Another voice burst into Jimmy's earpiece.

'Mick has the Fiesta� mobile on the main.'

It wasn't working out quite the way Eddie Moyes had planned.

The first part had been easy. Jumping into a cab and telling the driver to 'Follow that bus' felt good, like old times.

Even when the cab driver moaned at him about getting bacon fat on his upholstery, Eddie just mouthed a quick, 'Sorry,' and kept his eyes glued on the bus Danny had taken from close to Foxcroft.

But Eddie had no idea it would be such a long journey, right into the heart of the city. When he saw Danny get off the bus, he quickly drew some crumpled notes from his pocket and thrust them at the cab driver. Parting with that much cash was painful, but it would be worth it.

Trailing Danny on foot was more difficult, specially when he seemed to sense he was being followed and increased his pace. Eddie struggled to keep up and lost Danny completely as he passed Liverpool Street Station. But a few minutes later, as he hung around outside McDonald's, he saw Danny enter the station by the side entrance.

Eddie didn't bother with a ticket, he just followed Danny to the platform for the Southend train and got on, one carriage back. All went well until Rayleigh, where Danny leaped from the train and sprinted through the barrier. But when Eddie tried to follow he was stopped by a ticket inspector. By the time he'd paid his fare and been warned that 'attempting to avoid payment was a serious offence', Danny was gone.

The out-of-condition reporter puffed his way uphill to the town centre, realizing he'd blown it. He asked around in a few shops but no one admitted to seeing a boy fitting Danny's description. So Eddie went to a cashpoint, withdrew enough money to see him through the day, and then did what he always did when a story hit a brick wall: he went for a pint and a pie. Hunting an exclusive always made him hungry.

A couple of hours later he was back near the station. He found himself a patch of grass in the shade of some straggly bushes by the car park, unfolded a copy of The Times he'd bought in the town and sat down to do the crossword, and to wait. Danny had to come back at some time, and if Eddie missed him, he'd go back to Foxcroft first thing in the morning, ready to start again.

He was puzzling over seven down when an old blue Fiesta pulled into the car park. He took no notice at first but when the driver got out and looked around, he seemed vaguely familiar. Then the passenger door opened and Danny emerged. Eddie smiled, looked up to the heavens and mouthed a silent 'Thank you.'

He watched as Fergus locked the car, took Danny by the arm and pulled him to the bus lay-by in front of the station where two buses were waiting. They got on the first and a couple of minutes later it pulled away. Eddie was already at the taxi rank, and for the second time that day he told a cab driver to 'Follow that bus'.

It was first light. Danny sprawled, exhausted, just off the road by a clump of bushes, but his grandfather was still standing. Watching. Listening.

Through the long hours of darkness Danny had discovered the difference between walking quickly and a forced march. Fergus was fit and strong and, despite his limp, his pace was relentless.

They cleared the immediate area of the cottage and then travelled in what seemed to Danny to be a straight line across fields and open countryside. They made a brief stop while Fergus delved into his black bin liner and took out a brand-new, compactly folded day sack, still in its packaging. Most of the contents of the bin liner were transferred to the day sack. Smaller items and cash went into pockets.

Then they moved on, and just when Danny was beginning to think they were out of danger, Fergus told him they were doubling back � 'looping the track', he called it. That way, he said, they would know, and possibly even see, if they were being trailed.

There was no sign of followers and eventually Fergus was satisfied that they could head in the direction he wanted to take. Not that Danny knew what direction that was. He had no idea. Fergus walked in silence, and on the few occasions Danny tried to speak he was abruptly told to shut up and save his energy. After a while he realized it was wise advice.

They didn't stop again until first light broke the skyline.

Fergus took the day sack from his shoulders and looked over at Danny, who was lying back in the rough grass, eyes closed. 'No time for sleep, I want you awake.'

'I'm not sleeping, I'm resting my eyes,' answered Danny, eyes still closed.

Fergus allowed himself the slightest of smiles. He sat down next to Danny on the grass and then delved into the day sack and pulled out a couple of small tins. Baked beans with mini sausages. He took the ring-pulls off both tins and placed one tin on Danny's stomach. 'Breakfast. Get it down your neck.'

Danny opened his eyes. 'I don't do breakfast.'

'You do now. Need to keep your strength up.'

Danny sat up, clasped the tin in one hand and looked at the beans and sausages. 'But they're cold.'

'That's right, they're cold. And I'm not a boy scout so I won't be building a fire to heat them up. And before you ask, no, I haven't got plates or cutlery or a bottle of Daddies sauce. So just eat.'

'But I don't like-'

'Eat!'

They sat in semi-darkness and ate. Slowly. It wasn't a pretty sight. But as Danny devoured the sausages and beans he realized he was ravenously hungry.

And while he ate, he looked at his grandfather. Studied him for the first time. There hadn't been a chance before. He looked just like any other bloke. Middle-aged, ordinary, past his prime. His face was lined, and his short, cropped hair was mostly grey. The sort of man you'd expect to see taking his grandchildren for a walk in the park. Or talking to his mates about retirement and the football results.

But Danny knew his grandfather was no ordinary bloke. He'd done terrible things. Almost unimaginable things. He'd killed people on battlefields and in back streets. Shot them. Fought with them. Life-and-death stuff, hand to hand, face to face. He'd seen for himself the results of his awesome combat skills. The gaping wounds, the ripped flesh. He'd watched men die, seen their blood, smelled it, tasted it.

Danny had had a few fights in his time � most had been of the playground variety. A lot of posturing, barging, shoving, threats. But once there had been a real fight. A kid called Peter Slater had goaded him into it for weeks. In the end he couldn't back down. It was set up for after school, behind the gym. Slater boasted all day about what he was going to do to Danny. Everyone in the school was talking about it, everyone wanted to be there.

There must have been a couple of hundred watching when the time came, as many girls as boys. They gathered, shouting and cheering, in a huge circle, with Danny and his mates on one side and Slater and his on the other.

When it began, they both prowled around the circle, feinting, advancing, throwing a few punches that mainly missed or brushed against raised arms or fists. The crowd bayed for more action. The blows got harder and found their target more often as the fighters started to tire.

Slater did the first serious damage, thumping Danny in the guts, forcing out every bit of his breath. Danny staggered back, gasping, and a shout went up: 'Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!'

Slater grinned as he moved in for the kill. Maybe he was over-confident: his guard was down and he walked straight into the hopeful punch that Danny threw. Pain jarred up through Danny's arm into his shoulder as his fist smashed into Slater's nose. It crumpled and squashed like a rotten tomato, exploding in a fountain of blood. Slater went down, blood everywhere � on his face, on his clothes, staining his white school shirt. And all over Danny's throbbing hand.

A girl screamed and turned away and then the whole crowd went silent, staring at Slater, pale-faced and spark out on the ground with blood pumping from his busted nose.

This was real fighting. It was bloody. It was horrible. And it was there, in their faces. Not on a cinema screen or a video game.

Slater came round quickly enough. All he said to Danny afterwards was, 'Respect.' Pretty soon he was boasting about his permanently damaged and crooked nose. It was like a battle honour, a medal.

But Danny knew that his one experience of real violence was another world, another planet, another universe to the things his grandfather had seen and done.

Fergus seemed to sense that Danny was staring at him. He looked up. 'What?'

Danny shook his head and went back to finishing the beans while Fergus delved into his day sack again and took out two small bottles of water.

'There's a bus stop a couple of hundred metres down the road from here,' he said, giving Danny one of the bottles. 'First bus is in an hour. We'll be on it.'

'To where?'

'Southend. Plenty of people there to get lost in.'

'I've had enough of this, I'm going home.'

Fergus laughed. 'You don't get it, do you, boy-?'

'Stop calling me boy!' yelled Danny. 'Just 'cos you're a killer it doesn't mean you're a man. I'm more of a man than you are. I haven't worked for drug dealers and made a fortune out of people's misery.'

When Fergus replied his voice was almost a whisper. 'I see you've been doing your research� Danny. You know, I was younger than you are when I joined up. Sixteen. They called us boy soldiers in those days.'

'I don't give a shit what they called you then,' snarled Danny, 'just what they call you now. A coward and a traitor. You're family, the only family I've got, and I'm ashamed of it.'

Fergus took a swig from the bottle of water. 'Maybe you are, but if you want the truth I'll tell you. And if you want to survive, you've got a lot to learn. And quickly.'

'I know the truth, I've read it all. And there's nothing you can teach me, nothing worth knowing.'

Fergus's mind went back eight years, to the hot, humid Colombian jungle and the group of surly, ill-tempered boys standing in line, none of them wanting to learn a thing from him. And then he saw the youngest boy lying dead on the jungle floor, with a bullet through his brain. He wouldn't let that happen to Danny, no matter what his grandson thought of him.

'Just listen to me. You can have your say when I've finished.'

'I don't wanna hear-'

'Shut it!'

The way Fergus glared at Danny gave him no option but to do as he was ordered.

'I was SAS, I'd been in Colombia for two years. We were chasing FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. They're drug traffickers; they control all the cocaine coming out of their country.'

'I know all that,' snapped Danny. 'I've read all about you. Everything.'

Fergus ignored him. 'We were trying to destroy their manufacturing plants but getting nowhere fast. That's when I was recruited by the Firm.'

'The what?'

'The Firm, the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6. Different names, same set-up. When I went over to FARC, I was actually working for our side, for the Firm.'

'You were a traitor, it said so in the papers,' said Danny. 'Everyone knows it, even your old mates.'

'Forget what it said in the papers, I was-'

The sound of an approaching vehicle stopped Fergus mid sentence. He grabbed the day sack in one hand and Danny with the other and they ducked down low behind the bushes. A few seconds later a milk van went by, bottles shaking and rattling and radio blaring.

Fergus continued the moment the van turned the corner. 'I was what's called a K, a "deniable operator". That meant-'

'You're just trying to confuse me,' said Danny angrily. 'Baffling me with words, and excuses.'

Fergus moved like lightning, grabbing Danny's jacket in both hands and yanking him forward so that their faces were just inches apart. 'This is not bullshit! I told you you'd get the truth and you are!'

He pushed Danny away and took a long drink of water. 'Deniable operator means what it says. It's dirty work, stuff that can't be officially sanctioned by our government. So if your cover is blown, you're on your own. It's the risk you take. My job was to gain the rebels' confidence, locate the DMPs and get out. I was almost there, nearly ready to come out. And I'd discovered something else, something even more important.'

Fergus paused as he drank some more of the water. He glanced at Danny, who was staring back with a look of scorn and disbelief. 'So what was it? What was so important?'

'The FARC leaders were being fed information about anti-drug operations against them by the Firm's desk officer back at the British Embassy in Bogota. He must have been copping a small fortune, and that was why the rebels had always been one step ahead of us. What I didn't know was that by the time I was ready to move, the desk officer had found out I'd been sent in as a K.'

Fergus finished the last few drops of water and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'He lets his friends at FARC know and suddenly I'm sent on this training mission with a bunch of kids. FARC don't give a toss about losing a few raw recruits so they tip off the anti-narcotics police, exact location, everything. We didn't stand a chance.'

'Why should they do that?' said Danny. 'If FARC found out about you from this desk officer, why didn't they just kill you?'

'Because it all worked out perfectly for them. What better way is there to protect a traitor than by exposing a traitor? I was the fall guy, and best of all, I was a deniable operator. No one was gonna come to my rescue. That's the truth, Danny, believe it or not. It's up to you.'

Danny got up and walked to the roadside, turning the story over in his mind. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe every word. He wanted to believe that his grandfather was a hero and think of him with pride instead of shame. Slowly, he turned back and stared at Fergus. 'You're a liar. You were the traitor. You were then and you are now. And you'll never make me believe anything else.'

George Fincham stood in his office, cradling a delicate, bone-china cup in both hands and staring out through the window, upriver towards Parliament.

He never tired of this view, his personal picture of the home of government, the seat of all power. Power which he had long ago pledged to protect and maintain. Fincham had worked tirelessly and ruthlessly for many years to achieve his own position of power and influence.

As head of the security section, he was an important figure within the Firm. And if he hadn't risen quite as high in the set-up as he believed he deserved, there was still time. As long as there weren't too many repeats of last night's botched operation to be rid of Fergus Watts.

Watts was an irritation, like a fly buzzing around Fincham's head. But soon the fly would be swatted. Squashed. Killed. The cover story would be that he died trying to avoid capture. No fuss. Cleanly and efficiently over, just as Fincham liked it. He prided himself on the efficiency of his section.

He could depend on the loyalty of all his operators, particularly the four assigned to the Watts operation. They had been with him for a long time and he had selected them personally for this job. They knew his methods and never questioned them, and they took pride in the reputation of the section.

And then there was Marcie Deveraux, the latest recruit to the section, but already invaluable. Fincham could depend on Marcie too. She was like him. Ambitious. Ruthless. And she knew that he was her route to the top.

Fincham finished his coffee, turned away from the window and sat at his desk. He was an intensely private man who never revealed even the smallest detail of his personal life within the Firm. Only his few close acquaintances � Fincham had acquaintances rather than friends � knew that he was a collector of things of rare and exotic beauty. His bachelor flat contained his small but stunning collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings as well as many exquisitely bound, first edition antiquarian books. They were rarely seen by anyone but their owner.

There was a knock at the door. 'Come.'

For someone who had worked throughout the night, Marcie Deveraux looked incredible. Fresh and totally unruffled. She took the seat on the opposite side of the desk. 'We have the identity of the runner, sir.'

'Tell me.'

'Eddie Moyes. Freelance reporter, bit of a has-been. Hangs around the Victory Club quite a lot looking for SAS stories, which probably explains how he latched onto young Danny. We've pulled old stories he did about Fergus Watts off the Internet.'

Fincham nodded. 'And?'

'The team followed him to a pub. He stayed there for a while and then got a taxi back to civilization. Then a train home. He's there now � sleeping, I would imagine.'

Fincham looked at the plasma TV churning through its Ceefax list of news headlines. 'I do not want anything appearing in the press, Marcie.'

Deveraux shook her head. 'I don't think it will, sir. He's only got half a story, and being a freelance he's got to make the most of his information. Once he files his first report he'll have the whole of Fleet Street chasing this.'

'So what do you suggest?'

'Surveillance, sir. His phones, his PC. And a CTR on his flat. I went there at four this morning and carried out a locks recce. Let's find out what he knows and use it to our advantage.'

Fincham stood, went to the coffee machine that sat on a small side table and poured more coffee into a fresh cup. 'Excellent, Marcie. Moyes will never get to file this story.' He glanced over at her. 'Coffee?'

The bus journey passed in silence, both Fergus and Danny deep in their own thoughts.

But when they arrived in Southend, Fergus surprised Danny by leading him straight to another bus. 'Too many CCTVs here,' he said as they took their seats at the back, out of earshot of the few other passengers on board. 'We'll pick up a train somewhere quieter.'

'You do what you want,' said Danny as the bus drew away. 'The only train I'm getting is the one back to London.'

Fergus spoke quietly. 'You still don't get it, do you, Danny? You can't go anywhere without me any more. You know the truth, even if you don't believe it yet. And if he catches you now, he'll kill you.'

'Who? Who will?'

'George Fincham, the man you said you'd seen before.'

'But� but how do you know him?'

'Because George Fincham was the desk officer in Bogota. George Fincham was the traitor, he was the one giving the information to FARC. You think he'll let either of us live, when we know that?'

Danny looked stunned. 'You are unbelievable. You've been sitting there inventing all this stuff because I don't believe a word you say. The guy was at my army RCB: he was the one who told me about you.'

'Yeah, and I bet he was the one who gave you the idea of finding me. They've been tailing you � how else did they turn up at the cottage?'

The bus lurched to one side as the driver swerved to avoid a cyclist. 'Bloody bikes,' yelled the driver. 'Ought to be banned from the road.' There were a few murmurs of agreement from the front of the bus.

'I met Fincham too,' said Fergus quietly. 'At an embassy do, long before I was recruited as a K. I thought he was a clever, cunning bastard then. And he was; clever enough to find out that I had been recruited, even though it was meant to be classified. Face it, Danny, he set you up, and you fell for it.'

'Even if he did set me up, that doesn't mean he was the traitor,' said Danny. 'Why should I believe you?'

'Because it's the truth.'

Danny sneered. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and punched you in the mouth.' But he was no longer quite as certain as he sounded. George Fincham � if that really was his name � had planted the idea of finding Fergus; Danny had sensed he was being followed; and the cottage had been raided.

Fergus knew there was more than just the question of truth or lies standing between the two of them. There was also their history, or their lack of a history. They had to talk it through. 'Look, I understand the way you feel about me, Danny. I was a total disaster as a dad, and I've been no better as a granddad.'

'I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.'

'You really expect me to believe that?'

'Yeah,' answered Danny angrily, 'like you expect me to believe everything you say!' He looked away. 'Why? Why did you leave my dad?'

Fergus took a deep breath. He was a loner, a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his feelings and emotions in check. A man who'd avoided justifying many of his actions even to himself, let alone to the grandson he'd only just met. 'I was eighteen when I got married. Your dad was on the way, so we had to � that's what happened in those days. But I was too young, just a kid. I wanted to be off soldiering with my mates. So I left. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did. After I left, it was the odd visit, and later on the occasional letter.'

Danny stared out through the window as the bus ploughed through the suburbs of Southend and his grandfather continued with his halting, hesitant confession. 'I got this letter from your dad, first one for a long time. I was in Malaysia, up in the north. He told me that he was getting married and that your grandmother had died of cancer. I was� I was sorry about it, of course I was, but� it was like another life. There didn't seem any point in coming back for the wedding.'

'But he was your son.'

'Yeah, and he must have hated me.'

Danny turned back from the window and glared at his grandfather. 'Don't expect me to feel sorry for you! You always had a choice in all this; I never did.' He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the old photograph he'd been carrying around for days and handed it to Fergus. 'And he didn't hate you. He always kept that.'

Fergus was still looking at the photograph when he spoke again. 'I didn't even know he had it. I was in Colombia when I got news of the car crash. The funeral had already happened. It was too late to say I wish it could have been different.'

They were silent for a few moments as Fergus stared at the old photograph. He turned it over and saw the numbers written there. 'My last four.' He looked at Danny. 'That's how you knew.'

Danny said nothing as Fergus handed back the photograph.

Mick and Fran had drawn the short straw. They were on surveillance outside Foxcroft but as far as they could see there was no way Danny would return. Fergus Watts was far too experienced to allow that.

But they had to be there, just in case. Resources were stretched. Jimmy and Brian were with Marcie Deveraux, preparing for the CTR on Eddie Moyes's flat. George Fincham had chosen not to bring in extra manpower on this job. And if the governor had his reasons for keeping this one to his chosen few, that was fine by them. It was a compliment.

The lack of sufficient manpower on the surveillance meant they were using technology to plug the gaps. Earlier, Mick had parked a white Transit van on the corner of a side road close to Foxcroft.

The back of the van faced the building, and in one of the rear doors were several tiny holes, so small they were invisible to the naked eye. Fibre optic cables ran from the holes into a sophisticated camera system with face-recognition software, rigged inside the battered van. The ends of the fibre optics were trained towards Foxcroft, and Danny's image had been loaded into the system.

A single click of recognition would be enough to alert Mick and Fran, who were in the blue Golf, cruising the area. Staying close, but not too close to alert any inquisitive third party. But if Danny was pinged inside, or coming out of Foxcroft, they could be there in seconds.

London Bridge Station was getting busier by the minute. Thousand upon thousand of homeward-bound commuters bustled and pushed their way in and glanced up at the departures board to see if the train they were hoping to catch was still on the platform.

The lucky ones went sprinting onwards in the faint hope of getting a seat rather than having to stand as usual. Others gave a sigh or a shrug of resignation and settled for finding a little comfort in a drink or a burger and some fries.

The crowded station made perfect cover. Fergus stood by the ticket machines, watching. He was over an hour later than the agreed rendezvous time.

He'd ordered Danny to wait by Burger King but to move on after thirty minutes. After that, he was to walk past every half hour for the next three hours until he saw Fergus. He was simply to make eye contact and keep walking. Fergus would catch up.

Fergus saw Danny just as the station announcer seemed to take particular delight in the news that another departure was delayed due to a signalling failure. When Danny spotted his grandfather there was a flicker of recognition and for a moment it looked as though he was going to change direction and walk straight towards him. Then he remembered his instructions. He's learning, thought Fergus. There was a lot to learn.

They were well outside the station when Fergus caught up. Most people were walking in the opposite direction so it was a few minutes more before they were actually side by side. Danny didn't look at Fergus when he spoke. 'I thought you'd be at the back of Foxcroft. Was there a problem?'

Fergus smiled to himself before answering, happy to let Danny remain ignorant of the events near Foxcroft. 'No. No problem at all. I just fancied a ride on one of those bendy buses.'

Danny had to stop himself from staring at his grandfather. 'Yeah?' He shrugged. 'Dave was cool about me being away, so it all went pretty easily, didn't it?'

'Piece of cake.'

'Where we going now, then?'

'We need to buy a few things,' answered Fergus softly. 'Then we find a desirable residence for the night to hide up in. And then we'll talk about this Colonel Meacher plan of yours.'

Danny grinned. 'Oh, that's sorted, Elena's finding him for us.'

'What!' Fergus moved swiftly, grabbing Danny by the arm and bundling him into a shop doorway. 'What the hell have you done now?'

Danny shook himself free. 'If we have to hide like you keep saying, we need someone to find out things and get us what we need.'

Fergus looked around, anxious not to draw the attention of any passer-by. 'It's bad enough having you with me; now you're dragging someone else into it. If you want to survive, just do what I tell you, and that's all.'

'You weren't there, so I made a decision,' snapped Danny. 'And I'm not dragging her into it, she wants to help.'

'What have you told her?'

'That we have to find Colonel Meacher. She'll search on the Internet and then be online between eight and nine in the morning to report back. Seemed a good idea to me.'

Fergus pushed Danny away from the doorway and they started to walk again. 'You've got to learn to obey orders. Operational security. The less anyone knows, the safer it is for us. That's the way we operate, so get it into your head.' He reached into a pocket, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Danny.

'What's this?'

'A shopping list. Maybe you can get that right. Just get what it says on the list.'

Danny departed towards a Spar shop with the list and two ten-pound notes, while Fergus went off to a camping and ski shop that stayed open late and made most of its money from frustrated commuters dreaming of distant holidays.

In the Spar, Danny kept the baseball cap pulled low, aware of the CCTV and the eyes of the two men behind the counter. It was a weird shopping list. The ring-pull cans of food and bottled water made sense, but cling film and baby wipes? But Danny obeyed orders and bought everything on the list. And nothing more. When they met up again Fergus headed away from the station, following the line of the railway tracks that snake out of the terminus. The tracks were thirty metres above, perched on top of grime-covered, brick elevations, with massive arches supporting the whole structure.

Over the years front and back walls had been added to the arches, creating instant business premises. Close to the station they were trendy wine bars and shops, but soon Fergus and Danny had left the lights, the noise and the crowds behind them.

'Start counting your paces from here.'

'What?'

'Just count.'

Rain began to fall as they started to walk along a narrow, dark road with potholes and years of grease. There were still converted arches to their right; high above, the trains rumbled away towards commuter land.

Trucks lined the dingy road. They had moved quickly into a different world, where cash-only businesses operated and no one ever noticed what was happening around them. There were garage workshops, car radio installers and locked-up arches without any identifying signs. It was dark and damp and threatening.

'Where are we going?' Danny's voice was unnaturally loud as it bounced back off the towering brickwork.

'You'll see when I find it,' replied Fergus quietly.

They continued down the narrow street until they reached an open archway full of wooden pallets. On the wall a hand-painted sign said the owners would pay good money for more of the same.

'Stop counting and remember the number.'

'But what's it for?'

Fergus didn't even glance at him. He pulled Danny behind a rubbish skip full of flattened cardboard boxes and then looked carefully at the archway and up and down the road. He leaned closer to Danny and whispered, 'I'm going in there. If you hear any shouting, or if I don't come out in fifteen minutes, go back to the ERV and do the same drill until we meet up.'

Without waiting for a reply, he put down the sleeping bags and the other kit bought from the camping shop, walked over to the arch and disappeared into the darkness.

The minutes dragged by as Danny waited. He heard the rumble of trains and the occasional blast of a car horn from distant streets, but he kept his eyes fixed on the archway as raindrops dripped steadily from the peak of his baseball cap.

After ten long minutes that felt more like an hour, Fergus emerged from the dark archway. He walked quickly to Danny and picked up his bags. 'Come on.'

They went into the archway. Inside there was a strong stench of wood and grease from the pallets. It was completely dark and reminded Danny of the nightmare experience of being in the tunnel back at the cottage. 'I can't see,' he whispered.

Fergus put a hand on his shoulder. 'Stand still � we'll wait for our night vision to come.'

After a few minutes Danny could make out the shapes of the pallets, the brick walls � even his grandfather's face. He nodded and Fergus began to climb up the pallets; Danny clambered after him.

They reached the top of a high stack with a gap of only two metres between them and the top of the arch. Fergus moved about, checking out his lines of sight and his potential escape route. When he was satisfied they were safe, he sat down next to Danny. 'We're staying here tonight, this is our LUP.'

'Our what? Don't you ever speak normal English?'

'I am � my English, and you'd better start learning it. All you need to know now is that if we really are going to find Meacher, we have to live like this. And there are SOPs you've got to learn and stick to. Like tonight, one of us has to be awake at all times. On stag.'

He saw Danny's confused look. 'On guard. And if we get bumped we leave everything and get out the back way. I'll show you.'

Danny didn't bother asking what 'bumped' meant: he had a pretty good idea. They crawled to the rear of the stack where, many years earlier, a back wall had been added to the archway. There was a hole in the brickwork where at one time there had been a window. 'Stick your head out and look to the right,' said Fergus.

A rusty old ladder was set into the brickwork. It went up to the railway track as well as down to the ground.

'We go down that and bomb burst, you right, me left. Then we RV at Burger King.'

They went back to the front of the pallets so that they could see out to the front of the archway. 'LUP means lay-up point,' said Fergus. 'Always check out the area of a possible LUP first. There could have been a couple of homeless guys in here wanting to get out of the cold and wet.' He nodded towards their entrance point. 'Make sure that from the LUP you can see if anyone is approaching so that you can escape. To do that, you need an escape route, like the one I just showed you.'

There was a lot to take in, but Fergus was far from finished with Danny's lesson in SAS fieldcraft skills. 'Everything you take into the LUP goes out with you. You leave absolutely nothing to show you were there.'

He delved into a heavy-duty carrier bag from the camping shop and handed Danny a brand-new Leatherman knife. 'I never gave you anything before and you ought to have one of these. Look after it. There's an old saying, "You're only as sharp as your knife." It's true.'

'Thanks,' said Danny. He was examining the knife when Fergus threw over a small day sack, followed by a sleeping bag and an empty water bladder. 'Get comfortable, we'll eat soon.'

Danny unravelled the sleeping bag and then held up the water bladder. 'What's this for?'

'Think about it. You'll probably need it before you turn in for the night.'

As Fergus unfolded his own sleeping bag, his grandson worked out the precise purpose of the bladder. And as he did so, he was struck by another thought. 'But what if� what if�?'

Fergus grinned. 'You got the baby wipes and the cling film, didn't you?'

'I got everything on the list.'

'Good. So, like I said, we leave absolutely nothing to show we've been here.' He glanced towards the carrier bags Danny had carried up to their hideaway. 'Shall we eat?'

Danny had suddenly lost his appetite.

But they did eat. As the trains rumbled by overhead, they consumed the contents of the ring-pull cans, followed by chocolate bars. When they finished, Fergus packed the empty cans, wrappings and bottles into a carrier bag as the rain bounced off the tarmac outside. Danny watched as his grandfather checked and then double checked that not a scrap of evidence of their makeshift meal had been left behind.

'I just realized something,' said Danny. 'I don't know what to call you.'

Fergus shrugged. 'It's a bit late for Granddad, and it's not a good idea anyway. Neither is Fergus. Don't call me anything if you can avoid it, but if you have to, stick to Frankie. And I'll call you� Derek.'

'Derek!' said Danny, horrified. 'No way, I'm not being called Derek.'

'You pick something then, beginning with a D. It's easier to remember it that way.'

Danny thought for a few moments. 'Dean. I don't mind Dean.'

'Fair enough, Dean it is.'

'And there's something else,' said Danny.

A train passed overhead, the first for several minutes � the rush hour was long over. Fergus looked out to the front of the archway to check that it was clear before settling down on his sleeping bag. 'Go on, then, ask.'

'If we have to use the ERV again and you're not there, I have to walk by every half hour for three hours, right?'

'That's right.'

'So what if you don't turn up after three hours? What does that mean? And what do I do?'

Fergus nodded. 'It would most probably mean Fincham and his team have got me. If it happens, you don't go to the police, they'd only hand you over to Fincham. You go to the press, one of the tabloids, the Sun or the Mirror. And you tell them everything I've told you and everything that's happened. It'll cause such a stink that Fincham won't dare come after you. Now get some sleep. I'll take first stag.'

Marcie Deveraux parked the battered old Mazda in a line of cars that looked in even worse condition. She switched off the windscreen wipers and looked across the road towards the drab, rundown housing estate. It made a depressing view, but Marcie Deveraux wasn't concerned with that. There was a job to be done and she was dressed and kitted out to do it.

Her designer clothes had been replaced with trainers, jeans and black cotton jacket � cotton rather than nylon because nylon meant noise. Her hair was unusually ruffled, almost scruffy, and fell over her ears. But there was a reason for that too. There were earpieces in both her ears and the tousled hairstyle hid them perfectly. One was connected to the personal radio that kept her in contact with her team. The other was blue tooth and was connected to a mobile she wore on a cord around her neck. That was for Fincham. He wanted to know everything Deveraux was about to learn, as she learned it.

The rain beat down on the windscreen as she checked that the Nike bag on the passenger seat was zipped up. Then she made sure the cord attaching the Maglite torch to her jacket was firmly fixed. She had to be certain that nothing would be left behind when the job was complete. The Maglite lens was covered with black duck tape, with a hole cut in it. She wouldn't need much light, and the more light the bigger the chance of compromise.

Deveraux had to be sterile of any ID, so she checked her pockets were empty. She already knew they were, she'd been through them before leaving her flat, but as always, she double-checked.

A couple out walking a dripping dog went by, heads bent low. They didn't look into the car � they were much too anxious to get home and out of the rain. Deveraux watched them hurry away into the dark night as she pulled on a pair of clear plastic surgical gloves. She was ready.

The message she was waiting for came a few minutes later.

'Brian has Moyes now complete the Victory Club. Marcie acknowledge.'

With Mick getting treatment for broken front teeth and Fran nursing a busted nose, the surveillance team was down to two tonight. It was lucky for them that Eddie Moyes had travelled to the Victory Club by car. Deveraux pressed the small button that led from a wire under her watchstrap into her hand.

'Roger that. Marcie's foxtrot.'

She grabbed her bag, got out of the car and locked up before crossing the road towards the housing estate and Eddie Moyes's flat. Jimmy and Brian had followed him to the Victory Club; they had the trigger and would warn Deveraux when he left. There was plenty of time for her to get in and out of the flat for the CTR.

It wasn't much to look at from the outside. In his glory days Moyes had been the proud owner of a loft apartment in Docklands. Now he could just afford the rent on a housing association flat in east London.

Deveraux climbed the stairs, passing a teenager sitting in the rubbish-filled stairwell, his face pushed into a crisp packet. The bag moved in and out as he breathed and the strong smell of glue drifted upwards.

Moyes lived on the first floor. Rain had dampened the front half of the exterior balcony so Deveraux walked close to the doors as she headed for number 34. She didn't want to leave any wet marks inside the flat. The windows of the flats she passed had metal grilles covering them; some even had them in front of the doors.

Deveraux had learned which two locks were on the front door of number 34 during her four a.m. recce. There was a standard Yale, the normal pin tumbler type. That would take seconds to defeat. The second one would take longer and needed to be tackled first. It was the four-lever type, the sort that had to be turned into the locked or unlocked position. Deveraux had used her mini Maglite during the recce to peer into the lock and decide which master keys to bring. She unzipped the bag and brought out three lever-lock keys on a ring.

As she reached the blue front door, Brian came back in her earpiece.

That's Moyes no change. Still complete the Victory Club. His vehicle still static.'

Entry to the flat had to be quick. Deveraux slid in the first key. It didn't work. She quickly tried the second and the key turned and unlocked the four-lever. The keyring went back into the bag and Deveraux pulled out a Yale gun. It looked a bit like a chunky pistol with two thin-bladed picks instead of a barrel. She pushed the picks into the top lock and began to squeeze the trigger repeatedly. The picks rattled about and on the fourth squeeze the lock turned and Deveraux pushed open the door.

She slipped noiselessly into the dark hallway, gently closed the door and the Yale clicked back in position.

Fergus and Danny left their archway LUP at 0745 hours. They took everything with them, even though the plan was to return later that day. They left by the escape route, climbing down the rusted metal ladder fixed to the brickwork.

Between the arches and the already busy main road was a stretch of open waste ground strewn with empty cans and takeaway food cartons. But they were hidden from inquisitive eyes by the towering advertising billboards that fronted the road.

By 0805 hours they had found an e-mail phone at London Bridge and were ready to go online to Elena. The station was heaving: the same weary-looking commuters who had pushed and battled their way out of the city the previous evening were now pushing and battling their way back in.

'Do you use your real name on that?' asked Fergus as Danny prepared to log on.

'Usually. I never know what name to expect with Elena. Depends what mood she's in.'

Fergus frowned. He hadn't told Danny, but he was prepared for this to be the first and last contact with Elena. To ignore her now would be a mistake: she might panic and start shooting her mouth off. But depending on how she responded this could well be a 'thanks but no thanks'.

'Use a different name.'

'No one can get into this, it's just me and Elena.'

'I know that, but do it anyway.'

'She'll laugh if I call myself Dean.'

'Then use your imagination, think of something else.'

Danny was still thinking as he went online, but as usual Elena was one step ahead. Oakeley says: (8:10:15 am) have info

Fergus was looking over Danny's shoulder. 'Oakeley? What's that?'

Danny smiled. 'We have these houses at school � you know, meant to encourage teamwork and all that. Oakeley is Elena's house. I'll use mine.' Stockwell says: (8:11:19 am) good. how did u find it Oakeley says: (8:11:49 am) internet whos who, easy. will get other stuff u need now, travel arrangements, etc. how do u want it delivered

Fergus nodded. He was impressed. 'Good. She's thinking, not rushing in and blurting everything out.'

'I told you we could trust her.'

'Tell her I'll speak to her next.' Stockwell says: (8:15:24 am) my friend wants 2 talk now Oakeley says: (8:15:35 am) ok

Fergus replaced Danny at the keypad. He typed slowly deliberately and precisely. To him, it was the information that mattered, not the speed or the way it was typed. Stockwell says: (8:17:06 am) Put what you have in black bin liner secured with elastic band. Go to London Bridge station, then to top of Magnis Street, station end with station on your right. Start walking down street between 1755 and 1800 hrs. That's between five to six and six pm.

He sent the first part of the message and then turned to Danny. 'What was the pace count last night?'

'One four seven.'

Before Fergus could start typing, Elena came back to him. Oakeley says: (8:17:26 am) i have heard of the 24 hour clock

Danny grinned but Fergus simply ignored the interruption and continued with the information. Stockwell says: (8:19:11 am) Count the paces as you walk. After 147 paces you will see on your left a rubbish skip filled with cardboard boxes. An archway with wooden pallets will be on your right. Toss the bin liner into the skip and keep walking. Don't look around or look nervous. Be natural, you're just on your way somewhere. Think of it as acting, but don't overact. Got that? Oakeley says: (8:19:24 am) i'll try mi v best

Fergus looked at Danny. 'What does that mean?'

Danny laughed. 'She's winding you up.'

Once again, Fergus ignored Elena's sarcasm. Stockwell says: (8:20:43 am) Keep walking to housing at the end of the street and then make your way back home. And make sure the bin liner is secured tightly so no rain gets in. That's it. And thanks.

Fergus made Danny sign off before Elena had the chance to ask any questions. She had all the information she needed and it was time for them to move on.

'You've never thanked me for anything,' said Danny as they headed out of the station.

Fergus didn't look at his grandson. 'I'm waiting for you to get something right.'

He didn't see the V sign Danny made behind his back.

'So this Elena,' said Fergus as they walked, 'she's a real computer buff, is she?'

'Yeah,' answered Danny. 'You could say that.'

Eddie Moyes had ordered breakfast. The Big One. Double eggs, bacon, two sausages, beans, mushrooms, fried bread and three rounds of bread and butter. He preferred bread and butter to toast. It made mopping up the egg yolk, beans and tomato sauce that much easier.

He was working while he waited. A half-drunk mug of tea stood on a table next to the pay phone in one corner of the cafe. Eddie's 1997 notebook rested on the shelf beneath the phone, and he was writing as he spoke. He was using the remaining pages of the notebook he'd used on the original stories so that he could refer back quickly and easily if necessary.

Eddie Moyes was no fool, he'd been around far too long for that. He was trying to track down Fergus Watts and he knew he wasn't alone in that. The others, whoever they were � and he suspected MI5 or MI6 � might well know by now that he was also on the hunt. Nothing escaped the security services for very long.

So just in case, Eddie was being careful. This call was important: better to make it from a public box than use his home phone or mobile. And Eddie had struck lucky � not quite the result he wanted, but he was making definite progress. He was writing quickly. 'Sailing?� No, you wouldn't even get me on a rowing boat in the park� Yes, I've got that, the morning tide� You've been very helpful, Mrs Meacher, thank you� The day after tomorrow, then� Yes, I'll call first� Goodbye.'

He replaced the receiver with a satisfied smile. And then his breakfast arrived. He was chewing slowly on his favourite combination of egg yolk and sausage when the door opened and a young woman walked in. Eddie noticed the cuts and bruises on her face but paid her little more attention. It was a busy cafe, used by all sorts of people, and they usually had a story to tell if anyone was prepared to listen. All the tables were in use, so it was no surprise when Eddie glanced up from his plate a few minutes later and saw the young woman standing there with a mug of tea in one hand.

She smiled. 'You look as though you're enjoying that.'

Eddie swallowed the final mouthful of sausage. 'Always get a good breakfast here.'

'D'you mind if I sit down?'

'Be my guest,' said Eddie, picking up the last slice of bread and butter and commencing the mopping-up operation. It didn't take long, and the young woman was polite enough not to look until it was all over.

Eddie had enjoyed his meal. He was full � replete, as he liked to call it. He picked up his mug and drained the last of the tea. As he put it down he saw that the young woman was looking at him. He smiled. 'You not eating?'

The young woman returned the smile and gently touched her face. 'Bit difficult at the moment.'

'Oh, yeah, sorry, I, er� well, I couldn't help noticing the bruises. Accident, was it?'

'Mmm, I walked into a door.'

Of course you did, thought Eddie. I've heard that one a thousand times. But it was nothing to do with him. If she had an abusive boyfriend � Eddie had already clocked that there was no wedding ring � and chose to let him get away with it, that was up to her.

'Actually,' said the woman softly, 'it was my boyfriend. I dunno why I should protect him.'

Oh no, thought Eddie, a talker. Still, he was in a good mood and in no great rush. If she had something she needed to say, Eddie was prepared to sit and listen. 'You shouldn't stay with him, love. In my line of work I've seen this sort of thing happen too many times.'

'Really? What, are you a social worker or something?'

Eddie smiled. 'Hardly. I'm a reporter.'

The young woman was wide-eyed. 'Honest? Oh, that must be so exciting. D'you do murders and things?'

'Well, I don't actually do them,' said Eddie with a laugh. 'I report them. I report all sorts of things.'

The notebook Eddie had been using was on the table-top and the young woman glanced towards it. 'Do you know, I wondered why you had a notebook with you.'

Eddie picked up the notebook and slipped it into his coat pocket. 'You're very observant,' he said with a smile. 'Make a good reporter yourself.' Forty minutes later the woman was sitting in her car, dialling a number on her mobile. It rang three times.

'Yes?'

'You were right, he's got the missing notebook with him. It's got July '97 � SAS Traitor Watts written on the front.'

'Well done, Fran. Good work. Where is he now?'

'Back at his flat with all the dailies. Looks like he's settled in for a while.'

'And how are the bruises, and the nose?'

'Painful. I can't wait to meet up with our friend Watts again. Did Mick call in?'

'Yes. He'll join you later, once the swelling goes down a bit.'

Fran smiled. 'It's his own fault � should have kept his legs together. How about the governor? Has he got over us losing Watts for a second time?'

'He's not happy, Fran, but this should convince him that last night's CTR wasn't a complete waste of time. Wait out and I'll come back to you.'

She hung up. It was true, George Fincham wasn't happy, and wouldn't be until Fergus Watts had been eliminated.

Marcie Deveraux, on the other hand, was not unhappy with the way the operation was progressing.

'This girlfriend of yours-'

'She's my friend. Can't you just accept that?'

'All right, friend. She was the one who located my phone?'

'Yeah, and it was her idea.'

'Could she do more than that? Like� like listen in on calls?'

'I doubt it. Why?'

'We need information, Danny. If we can find out anything, anything at all, about what Fincham's doing, we can maybe stay one step ahead.'

They were on the way back to the LUP. It had been a long day. After the MSN conversation with Elena they couldn't return to the LUP while people were on site, so Fergus said they should split up for a while. Fincham's team were looking for the two of them. Together. Apart they were less conspicuous. He gave Danny some cash, told him to 'keep his head down and not talk to anyone', and arranged to meet later at the usual RV.

Danny followed his instructions. He wandered around, got himself a pizza at lunch time and saw a film during the afternoon.

Fergus drank a lot of coffee and later did a couple of walk-bys of the archway. There wasn't much activity. The first time he saw a man on a fork-lift shifting a few pallets from one place to another while his workmate leaned against a wall and sipped tea from a mug. The second time, just after four thirty, the two men were getting ready to leave.

There was nothing happening at any of the neighbouring arches, so by five thirty Fergus and Danny were making their way back.

'What about e-mail?' said Danny. 'What if she hacked into Fincham's?'

'Could she do it?'

Danny smiled. 'I bet she'd wouldn't mind having a go.'

Fergus was impressed when he saw the contents of the black plastic bag. It was similar to a target pack he would have been given when he was in the Regiment. Elena had given them the exact position of the target, with maps and information on how to get there.

They'd waited until dark before fetching the sack from the skip and then Fergus decided there was no point in taking the risk of hanging around in London for another night. They had everything they needed to locate Colonel Meacher. It was time to move.

On the late train to Norwich, they took all the operational precautions that were by now beginning to become familiar to Danny. Staying third party aware, travelling in separate carriages until Fergus was confident they were not being followed.

When he eventually took the seat opposite Danny he nodded but said nothing. The train ploughed on through the night. They didn't speak, but caught snatches of conversation from other weary travellers. The final stop before Norwich was at the small town of Diss. Doors opened and slammed shut and the train moved slowly away. Danny stood up and looked around the carriage. They were alone. He slumped back down onto the seat and felt his bruised shoulder jar, painfully reminding him of his meeting with the three muggers.

'You told me I should run away from a fight,' he said, shifting in the seat to get comfortable. 'But you were SAS, you didn't run away. You� you killed people.'

Fergus reached into his bag, took out a couple of pre-packed sandwiches and handed one to Danny. 'The Special Forces aren't all about killing. It happens, but mostly it's about gaining information and destroying strategic targets. Most times, if you get into a contact with the enemy, it's because they're blocking your mission or your escape route and you've run out of other options.'

'A contact?' said Danny. 'You mean a fight?'

Fergus nodded.

'And what then?'

'Then you react with extreme speed and violence, so they're scared shitless. And you kill them before they kill you.'

He saw Danny's eyes widen and he smiled. 'You asked, Danny,' he said. 'And seeing me limping around now probably makes it hard to believe. But that's what I was trained to do. Listen, when I was in the Regiment, every soldier I knew would rather dig a hole and hide than get involved in a contact with the enemy. It's all about survival, staying alive � exactly what we have to do. Now, are you gonna eat that sandwich or are you gonna sit there gawping at me all night?'

Danny finished his sandwich just as the train arrived in Norwich. The station was quiet; the shops and bar were closed. They found a computer phone they could use to go online to Elena in the morning and then made their way out into the night.

The city lights bounced off the dark river. Hordes of young people headed noisily towards nearby clubland. Girls wobbled along in micro skirts and high heels and shouted even louder than the leering, jeering lads shouting at them.

Fergus took in the new surroundings. 'We need to find a-'

'I know,' said Danny. 'LUP.'

Behind the station was a Big W superstore. At the back was a bin area, filled with plastic wrapping and empty boxes. It would do.

They went through the security drill before settling down and Danny volunteered for first shift on stag. He was feeling anxious. Uneasy. And when it was his turn to rest he found it impossible to sleep. Eventually he did drift off, but his dreams were troubled and violent, dreams of 'contact with the enemy'.

Elena was having the day from hell.

Joey didn't come straight out with it. He spent the first few hours 'getting to know his beautiful daughter', as he put it.

They went out for that big English breakfast he'd been looking forward to ever since he stepped off the plane from Nigeria. And then his 'get the cash' campaign began. Joey was smiling, joking, saying how wonderful it was they'd found each other again.

And at first Elena was almost taken in. She did enjoy being with her dad. They went sightseeing and he told her stories of the family she'd never met back in Africa. She was fascinated and intrigued, just as he meant her to be.

It wasn't until mid afternoon that the subject of money and her inheritance came up. He was so pleased that her dear mum had managed to leave a few pounds for her and he only wished he had money to spare too.

'It doesn't matter, Dad,' Elena replied. 'It's just great to see you after all this time.'

But Joey wasn't finished. 'But I can help, darling, and I want to � it's my duty as a father. There's an investment I have lined up that will double your money, guaranteed, maybe even treble it. Much better than leaving it in the building society with its miserable couple of per cent interest.'

Elena's heart sank. If only he hadn't said that. If only Joey really had made the long journey back to England to see her and be with her.

She listened in silence as he went on and on about the great wealth they would make by investing in his friend Sonny's scheme to export second-hand 'white goods' � fridges, freezers and washing machines � back to Nigeria.

'You see, darling, in Africa we repair old white goods so they can be reused. It's not like the UK, where people throw them out after a few years because they want a new style or colour. It's a winner, babe, I'm absolutely certain of it. And believe me, I wouldn't risk your inheritance if I didn't trust Sonny like a brother.'

Elena nodded and smiled and eventually agreed to go and speak with Sonny. There was no way that Joey or his friend were going to get their hands on a single penny of her savings, but at that moment she was too tired, disappointed and disillusioned to even argue.

'We'll go now then, shall we, darling?' said Joey with a huge grin. 'No time like the present.'

'Yeah, all right.' Elena just wanted the whole thing over and done with.

They set off with Joey convinced he was at last on the way to the fortune he deserved, and with Elena wishing that he would go home and never come back.

She liked Sonny exactly as much as she had expected to � not at all. He was loud and self-important and dripping with chunky gold. And he spent most of their visit telling them how lucky they were to have the opportunity of coming in on his moneymaking scheme.

They wandered around his lock-up, staring at old fridges, freezers and washing machines that looked as though they should have been carted off to the rubbish dump instead of taking up valuable cargo space on a freighter to Africa.

And as far as Sonny was concerned it wasn't just Joey and Elena who were benefiting from his benevolence. 'The people back home in Africa are fortunate I can provide this service for them. Of course I make money, I'm a businessman, but I also consider I'm doing my bit for the third-world countries.'

'Yeah, you're all heart, Sonny,' whispered Elena to herself. After nearly an hour she couldn't take any more. She tugged at Joey's sleeve and spoke quietly to him. 'Dad, I'd like to go now. Tell him we'll think about it.'

'Sure, darling,' answered Joey. 'But you sure you learned enough?'

'Yeah, more than enough.'

Sonny wasn't pleased about them leaving; he'd obviously been expecting a quick and easy kill. 'Don't be too long making your mind up,' he called as they went. 'There are other investors looking to get in on this.'

Eddie Moyes was enjoying himself. He'd taken a slow and leisurely drive up to north Norfolk and was comfortably settled in for the night at a pub with a reputation for good beds and great food.

He was well pleased with his accommodation. Now it was time for dinner. As he sipped his second pint of real ale, there was only one important decision to make: whether to go for the steak or the seafood platter.

The menu informed him that the seafood was locally caught and famed throughout the county. It was tempting, very tempting, but then there was nothing Eddie liked more than a thick, juicy steak, rare to medium and served with onion rings, chips and just a little salad. He didn't like too much green stuff getting in the way of his steak. Eventually he decided to ask for a smaller version of the seafood platter as a starter. Not too much smaller, of course.

During the long drive up Eddie had thought a lot about his recent night out in the country, when Watts's cottage had been hit. He reckoned the hit team were most likely MI6: they were the ones with the ongoing interest in Fergus. But what he couldn't figure out was the total silence ever since. Why no official announcement that a dangerous fugitive was on the run? Eddie's reporter's nose smelled cover-up. And if that was true it made an even better story.

Tomorrow he would talk to Meacher, even though Mrs Meacher had given no guarantees that her husband would agree to an interview. But Eddie was confident that his skills at flattery and persuasion would win through. He reckoned that everyone liked to see their name in print, as long as they were talking about someone else.

According to Mrs Meacher, the colonel was due back on tomorrow morning's tide, but Eddie had changed his mind about telephoning before turning up at their home. That would give Meacher time to think about things and maybe refuse to talk. Eddie's new plan was to be waiting on the quayside when the colonel arrived.

The pub was pleasantly crowded and Eddie was seated on a stool at one end of the bar with his back resting against the wall. He preferred to drink at the bar until his food was ready.

A youngish man walked up to the bar with two empty glasses and ordered two halves of lager. Eddie was in the mood for conversation. 'Nice place, eh?'

The man smiled. 'Very nice. Local, are you?'

Eddie laughed. 'Me? No, I'm up from London on business for a couple of days.' He picked up the bedroom key with its large wooden fob that had been resting on the bar. 'I'm staying here, though. Lovely room they've given me. Ensuite bathroom, double bed, view over the garden, the lot.'

'Sounds tempting.' The man paid for his drinks, nodded a goodbye and went over to a table on the other side of the bar where a second man was already seated. 'Room three. It's just a two-lever key. Easy.'

Fincham's team had followed Eddie from the moment he'd left his flat that morning.

George Fincham and Marcie Deveraux were waiting in London when the scanned pages of Eddie's notebook came through. Mick had gone back to the car, plugged the scanner into the lead from his Blackberry and sent it by e-mail.

Fincham read the pages quickly, looking for a sign, a clue, anything that would help unravel the mystery of what Eddie Moyes was up to and why he was in Norfolk. And then he saw the name. 'Meacher. Of course, Meacher.'

'Meacher, sir?' asked Deveraux.

'Watts's CO when he was in the Regiment. He would have known that Watts had been recruited as a K.'

'It must have been a kick in the teeth to him and the Regiment when Watts turned traitor.'

Fincham didn't reply immediately and Deveraux watched her boss intently. His face remained impassive when he eventually spoke. 'There are security issues here, Marcie, and I don't want Moyes stirring up things with Meacher. These Regiment men stick together. Who knows what he might say?'

'What could he say, sir?'

The question was straight and direct but Deveraux didn't get a straight and direct answer.

Fincham was looking through the scanned pages of the notebook, reading Eddie's notes of his conversation with Mrs Meacher. 'We'll go up to Norfolk in the morning and speak to Meacher. Remind him of his loyalties. Official Secrets Act, that sort of thing.'

'If you think it necessary, sir.'

'I do.'

'Then shouldn't we go now?'

Fincham was still looking at the notes. 'Meacher is away sailing. Coming in to Blakeney on the morning tide.'

He went to the window and looked out into the darkness and the slow-moving river Thames. 'I've sailed there myself. It's a difficult entry at the best of times, but highly dangerous in the darkness at low water. He won't risk it tonight; he'll be anchored on the bar just off Blakeney Point now.'

'And this is significant, sir? Only I'm not much of a sailor myself.'

Fincham turned from the window and smiled. 'Highly significant, Marcie. It means that we can both go home and get a few hours' sleep. Be ready to leave first thing.'

Deveraux got up from her chair. 'Very well, sir. I'll see you in the morning then.'

Fincham nodded a goodnight and Deveraux left the room. Fincham waited in the silence for a few moments and then picked up his mobile phone and punched in a number. The call was answered after two rings.

'Yes, sir?'

'Fran, good work tonight, well done.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'But it's brought to my attention a serious security risk. There's more for you to do.'

For a few seconds Fergus thought he heard the deep rumbling of distant thunder out at sea. But only for a few seconds. Then he realized what was actually happening. The throaty roar of the leading motorbike, instantly followed by the sounds of other engines, told him it was an early morning attack.

Instinctively he dived for his day sack and the pistol he had kept hidden from Danny since the fight outside Foxcroft.

Danny watched, speechless, as his grandfather pulled back the top slide all the way and then let it go, to crash forward back into position. He pulled back the top slide again, but this time just a few millimetres to 'check chamber'. He needed to see that the shining brass case of a round had been picked up when the top slide sprang back into position and was now pushed into the chamber of the barrel, ready to fire. If he had to pull the trigger the last thing he wanted was to hear the 'dead man's click' as the firing pin went forward but had no round to fire.

He let the slide push back into position and, with his right thumb, pushed the safety catch up to safe. He checked the magazine was firmly in place before crouching at a gap in the wooden planking wall to peer outside, trying to get some idea of the number of attackers they were facing.

Danny said nothing, unable to take his eyes off the black pistol nestling comfortably in his grandfather's right hand.

Outside the shed, the roar of the engines got louder and merged with the sounds of shouting voices.

But then Fergus stood up and turned back to his grandson. He saw Danny staring at the pistol but offered no words of explanation about where it had come from. He simply removed the magazine and pulled back on the top slide. The round from the chamber was ejected and went spinning in the air. Fergus caught it in mid air and placed it back in the magazine. The weapon was now made safe and Fergus put both pistol and magazine back in his day sack. 'Come on, we're leaving.'

'But what is it? What's happening?'

Fergus was rolling up his sleeping bag. 'Local dispute. Gang of bikers don't seem to like the Peace and Love brigade as much as you do. Nothing to do with us.'

Danny crouched at the gap in the wall. Across the beach he could see five motorbikes circling the two vans on the beach, their riders shouting and jeering. It looked like a scene from an old Western movie where the Indians circle the wagon train.

As Danny watched, one of the hippies � he thought it was Rupert � emerged from the Transit van and tried to talk over the noise of the roaring engines and jeers. It was useless. A biker rode closer and, without stopping, lashed out with a boot and kicked Rupert in the thigh. The peace-loving hippy crumpled onto the sand.

Danny turned back to Fergus. 'They're hurting them. We've got to help.'

Fergus finished packing his day sack and stood up. 'None of our business and we can't get involved. We'll go the other way up the beach.'

Danny stared in disbelief. 'But we can't just leave them.'

'We can and we are! Now, get your gear and let's go. I told you last night, stick to SOPs.'

'You can shove your SOPs,' snarled Danny, and before Fergus could stop him, he opened the shed door and went running across the sand.

The bikes had come to a standstill and their swaggering riders had switched off the engines and dismounted. Their ginger-bearded leader still reeked of last night's beer. 'We told you to clear out, we warned you, but you didn't listen. Now we're gonna have to show you we won't stand for weirdo scum messing up our beaches.'

Give was standing over the fallen Rupert and the two women were by the VW van, trying to keep the children inside. 'Please let us go,' shouted Columbine. 'You're frightening the children.'

'Better keep them in the van then, darling. And stay in there yourself � this won't be for the squeamish.'

One of Ginger's mates saw Danny hurtling across the sand towards them and shouted a warning. 'Look out, Ginge, reinforcements.'

When Ginger turned, Danny was almost on top of him with no idea of what he was going to do. He just kept running and thudded into the biker's gut, bounced off and ended up on his arse.

Ginger glared down at him with a look that said he was about to be ground into the sand. Then he saw Fergus limping towards them. Ginger laughed. 'Hello,' he shouted. 'It's Dad's Army. Don't panic! Don't panic!'

The rest of the gang thought it was hilarious, but Fergus wasn't smiling. 'Leave them alone, eh, lads? They're not hurting anyone.'

'Piss off, Granddad,' said Ginger menacingly. 'While you've still got one good leg to stand on.'

Fergus sighed and spoke quietly to Danny. 'Don't do or say anything. You've got us into enough trouble.' He walked towards Clive and Rupert, still hoping he could calm down Ginger and his gang. 'Come on, lads, you've had your fun. Just let them go, eh?'

'I told you to piss off, old man,' said Ginger. 'Or do you want some as well?'

Fergus ignored the threat and just kept walking towards Clive and Rupert. 'It's all right, Clive, get him into the van. I'll give you a hand.' The two hippies looked petrified, their eyes going back and forth between Fergus and Ginger.

The gang leader was used to his word being law. He moved towards Fergus. 'Right, that's it. I warned you. Who the fuck do you think you are? Batman?'

They were just five paces from each other. Fergus kept his head down, jaw clenched and body tensed to take any hit. He couldn't count on his injured leg holding up in a fight, and this time there was no element of surprise to help. He had to depend on speed and experience.

He kept walking, staying just to the left of Ginger, and as they met, he quickly grabbed him behind the neck with his left hand and at the same time rammed his right palm under the big man's chin. Ginger's head cracked back as Fergus held onto him and kept walking. When he let go, Ginger couldn't stop himself from toppling back onto the sand.

There was a stunned silence as the other bikers stared in surprise. Then they started to jeer and laugh.

The big biker stood up and shook the sand from his hair and beard. Eyes blazing, he ran at Fergus, who waited, legs bent and spread and feet firmly planted in the sand, ready to take the impact of the giant lumbering towards him.

Ginger lashed out with a kick as he approached, but Fergus just stepped aside, grabbed the leg with both hands and twisted it, sending the big man sprawling for a second time. He tried to kick out at Fergus as he fell but missed and ended up looking like a crab flailing around on its back.

The rest of the gang sat back on their bikes, enjoying the spectacle. 'You're the one wanted to come and sort out the weirdos, Ginger. You can't even sort out an old dosser!'

Ginger picked himself up again, realizing that his status as gang leader was declining fast. 'You're dead, old man! Dead!'

Fergus was bored with the unequal contest now. He smiled at his lumbering opponent. 'Come on then, son, give it your best shot.'

Even Danny smiled at that. Ginger lunged towards Fergus, throwing a wild punch at his face. It was a sloppy attempt, Fergus didn't even have to move to avoid it. He brought his left forearm across his body to deflect the blow and the biker toppled forward under his own steam. He was halted mid fall as a hand gripped his throat like a vice. He crumpled to his knees, struggling and choking and clawing helplessly at the hand clamped around his neck.

Fergus looked towards the rest of the gang to make sure they were still laughing and not coming to join in as he bent down and whispered into Ginger's ear, 'Give it up, son. I don't want to hurt you. What's that going to prove, eh?'

The bikers were getting restless. Their leader had been humiliated and all the motivation for the attack on the hippies had gone. One by one they got onto their machines and rode away. As the bikes disappeared through the gap in the sand bank, Fergus released his grip on Ginger's neck and let him fall to the ground.

He walked back to Danny. 'Did as you were told, for once. Come on, let's get out of here, before we're thanked with rosehip tea and carrot cake.'

Danny looked over at the hippies. They were gathering their things together and quickly packing them into the vans. Ginger was still sprawled on the sand, gasping and gulping in oxygen.

'But why didn't you stop him straight away? Why let him keep attacking you?'

'Sometimes it's better not to meet force with force,' said Fergus as they walked back to the shed. 'The rest of the gang saw old Ginger being made to look stupid so they laughed. That's what I wanted. If I'd hurt the lad they might have joined in, and I couldn't have handled that.'

They went into the shed and began to pack their day sacks. Danny stared at his grandfather. 'Have you ever really been scared?'

Fergus went to the doorway and looked out. Ginger had stumbled back to his motorbike and was riding away, a lot slower than when he had arrived. 'There's nothing wrong with being scared. It's natural and I've always owned up to it. Apart from once.'

'When was that?'

'Later, Danny. We need to get moving.'

They stepped out onto the sand and Fergus replaced the combination lock on the door. As they walked along the sand, the storm that had been threatening for the past couple of days suddenly broke. Thunder rumbled overhead, and out at sea a jagged flash of lightning arced down to the water. Danny felt the first heavy drops of rain on his face.

Elena slept before making her second attempt at cracking the Firm's Intranet. She was desperately tired and knew she had to be wide awake and alert when trying again. She used the excuse of a raging headache to escape from her dad and went for an early night.

The headache wasn't invented. Joey had been driving her insane since they left Sonny's, droning on and on about how they needed to get in quickly on the wonderful investment opportunity.

The alarm was set for three thirty in the morning: Elena wanted to allow herself at least four hours online before the rest of Foxcroft started to stir. She put the clock under her pillow so that the girls in the adjoining rooms wouldn't be disturbed when it rang. But Elena was awake even before the alarm sounded.

Back online, she spoofed her IP address again, but this time she gave herself the screen name of Gola. She just liked the sound of it.

She went quickly into the Deep Web, started to hit links and was bounced around for nearly an hour as she searched for someone who had made the Firm their exploit.

A hacker by the name of Red Dawn had posted some information about his exploit into the Firm's internal system at Vauxhall Cross but there was no script to show Elena a way in.

Elena read the information that was posted and was about to go elsewhere when a pop-up window came up on her screen: YOU REALLY WANNA GO FOR IT? ITS PRETTY COOL IN THERE. READ WHAT BLACK STAR HAS FOR YOU!

Elena stared. Someone was there. Someone was watching her, tracking her attempts to get to the Firm.

She pressed the link that took her to Black Star's page. There was a list of exploits, ranging from British Nuclear Fuel to Ticket Master � Black Star never paid to see a band!

Elena went to the link giving details of his exploit into the Firm.

He said he had found root access to the internal system by tunnelling over the firewalls. Firewalls were almost like fire doors in the real world, and sometimes they were not securely closed but propped open, leaving them vulnerable to tunnelling.

Another pop-up came onto the screen:

Elena sat back on her chair. Black Star was offering her a way in. She knew there was no way she could talk back to this genuine hacker somewhere out there in the Deep Web; she just had to make a choice. She hit Y.

A download progress bar popped up and the files began to download.

Black Star sent another pop-up page: TRY THIS COOL SCRIPT. IT'LL FIND THAT OPEN FIRE DOOR FOR YOU AND GET YOU IN WHERE YOU WANNA BE. HAVE FUN IN THERE'.

When the script was downloaded, Elena opened up pages of numbers and coding.

She knew what that meant. A firewall had been tunnelled and the script was about to be placed into the Firm's system. She hit Y, the pop-up disappeared and the bar began to move again.

Elena glanced at the time bar at the top of her computer. It was already seven fifteen. There were sounds of footsteps from the floor above. Another day was beginning at Foxcroft.

The bar filled and then disappeared.

Black Star came back for the last time: YOUR PRIVILEGES HAVE BEEN ELEVATED SCRIPT KIDDIE AND YOU HAVE ROOT ACCESS! I LOVE MY JOB, HAVE FUN IN THERE. THAT'S ME OUTTA HERE.

The pop-up disappeared as pages of index bounced onto the screen. Elena was in, free to roam what was supposedly one of the world's most secure sites. The temptation to explore was almost irresistible but Elena did resist and concentrated on the task she'd been given by Danny.

Fincham's e-mail was easy to locate and access, but at first it looked as though the whole exhausting process would lead to nothing.

Fincham wasn't a big e-mail user. Elena checked his sent mail. There was nothing much of interest � internal memos and replies to invitations to various functions, including an acceptance for a reception at the House of Commons for that very evening. But there was nothing at all about Fergus Watts.

She moved on to his inbox, and again quickly discounted most of the mail. Then she opened an e-mail received the previous night. It was blank, but there was an attachment.

She downloaded the file and the first thing she read, in bold handwriting was, July '97 � SAS Traitor Watts. At the bottom of the first page was another name, written in the same hand: Eddie Moyes.

Elena scrolled to the next page, quickly realizing that these were the scanned pages of a notebook belonging to the reporter. His handwritten notes of the original Fergus Watts stories. There were pages and pages: details, different events, government statements, highlighted quotes from various sources. And each separate note had an identifying dateline. It was like seeing a notated version of the stories Danny and Elena had read online. She scanned through as quickly as she could, trying not to miss anything that might be important.

The notes jumped from the battle in the jungle to the escape from the Colombian prison, and then, in the turn of the page, came into the present time. The final note, on the last page, bore the previous day's date.

Elena's eyes widened as she saw the name Meacher, his address, phone number � all the details she had given Fergus and Danny. She read of his sailing trip and of his scheduled arrival at home that morning. Moyes had underlined it three times and then written, 'Must be there!!!'

Moyes was planning to see Meacher. But worse, much worse than that, Fincham had read the notes; he was probably on his way there too. To the very place that Fergus and Danny were heading.

Elena exited the Firm carefully, hoping desperately she hadn't left any telltale signs of her exploit. Then she shut down her computer and hurried from the room.

According to the map Elena had provided, the derelict brick and flint barn was less than a mile from Meacher's house. Fergus decided it was the perfect place to carry out the final preparations for the OP on the house.

The storm had rolled on inland but water was still tipping through the holes in the remaining roof tiles as Fergus and Danny started to unzip their day sacks.

'We'll make this place the ERV,' said Fergus. 'If we get split up make your way back here and wait for six hours. If I don't show up you get out and go to the press. Remember that � and don't go back to Foxcroft.'

'There was a reporter at the Victory Club when I was there,' said Danny. 'Bloke called Eddie Moyes. He wrote stories about you when you were in Colombia.'

'Then find him. But you make sure you get the story to one of the nationals.'

Danny nodded and took the food they'd bought on their last shopping trip from his bag. 'So what do you want me to do with this stuff?'

'Take the Mars bars from their wrappers and open the cans of luncheon meat and wrap everything in cling film.' He saw Danny's puzzled look. 'We can't just walk up to Meacher's and knock on the door, we need to know exactly who's there. We might be waiting a long time, and I get hungry, even if you don't.'

'Yeah, but why the cling film?'

'Noise. The OP could be close enough to the house to spit at. And that's why we're taking still water in plastic bottles � no cans of fizz to give us away. Until this morning we've been staying away from danger areas; now we're going into one. We've been reacting; it's time to act.'

Danny felt a surge of fear as the reality of what his grandfather had said hit home. But Fergus seemed unconcerned; he was checking the items he'd bought from the garden centre and a hardware store. He looked up and saw that Danny was staring at him. 'Something wrong?'

Danny hesitated before he replied. 'You said you'd tell me about the time you didn't own up to being scared.'

Fergus's clipped reply was tinged with irritation. 'Why d'you want to know all this? We need to get on.'

'Because� because I'm scared.'

Fergus dropped the hammer and bag of nails he was holding into his day sack. He nodded. 'Yeah. Yeah, course you are,' he said a lot more gently. 'Look, leave that stuff for a minute. Come and sit down.'

The steady flow of rainwater streaming down the ancient walls was beginning to slow, and they sat side by side on a pile of fallen brick and flint. 'I was nineteen, a lance corporal in South Armagh leading a foot patrol. Reckoned I was dead hard with my bayonet and my tin hat. Suddenly I turned a corner and there's a group of guys wearing masks, getting ready to ambush another patrol.'

He shook his head as he remembered the chaos of what had followed. 'All the training, slick weapons drills, everything just went out of the window because I was shitting myself. The terrorists were too. One guy � I saw his eyes go wide under his mask, we were that close � I was firing at him; he was firing at me. Firing and firing, until he went down. I killed him, but it could just as easily have been me dead in the road.'

Danny was staring down at his trainers, unable to look at his grandfather as he finished the grisly story. 'After the contact, none of my mates wanted to talk about fear. That's what young infantry battalions are like, all bravado. They just wanted the war story, maybe because they were frightened of their own fear. I wasn't man enough to say I'd been scared, terrified, I just told them what they wanted to hear.'

Fergus got up and gathered together his sleeping bag and spare clothes. 'What I learned later, as I got older, is that everyone is scared in a contact. It's fear that makes you react when you're being fired at, it's fear that makes you move towards the enemy, and it's fear that makes you do what you do to survive.' He looked at Danny. 'Being scared is good. Anyone who tells you they're never scared is a liar.'

Danny went back to his bag and continued wrapping the food in cling film. But there was something more he needed to ask. 'How many people have you killed?'

'Blimey, you don't want much, do you?' said Fergus. 'Look, that's� it's private� personal. Something I have to live with, and something I don't talk about, not even to you.'

'But how do you cope with seeing someone killed?' said Danny. 'I'm trying to understand.'

'You just deal with it,' answered Fergus as he gathered together the spare kit and clothes. 'You don't have a choice. You just deal with it.'

He hid the kit and clothes behind the pile of brick and rubble. 'We'll take only what we need, in the day sacks. We can pick up this stuff later, but I'll take the rest of the cash, just in case someone finds what we leave here. Now, let's go.'

The team were on their way to Meacher's. Fran checked her map and gave her orders over the net as she drove.

'Mick, it looks like a long driveway. I want you to get a trigger on where it meets the road. I want to know who drives in and out.'

'Mick, roger.'

'Roger that. Jimmy and Brian, I want you to get a trigger on the house itself. I want to know who's in there before the boss arrives. Roger so far?'

'Jimmy, roger.'

'Brian, roger.'

All four members of the team were taking different routes towards Meacher's house. Fran was in the area first. She pulled her VW Polo into a lay-by next to a small river and parked near where a couple of families were feeding the ducks.

That's Fran static about seven hundred metres south of the target. At the bridge over the river. I'll stay complete.'

Fran knew that Jimmy and Brian would have to go foxtrot to do their job. Mick might need to do the same, so someone had to be with their vehicle, ready to react if there was a drama. She opened the glove compartment and took out a sweaty cheese and onion sandwich bought from a garage the previous day for the journey to Norfolk. There had to be an innocent reason for stopping in the lay-by, so she walked towards the ducks, breaking off bits of the sandwich and throwing them onto the riverbank.

Some of the ducks came waddling towards her, squawking and flapping, but after a few half-hearted pecks at the bits of sandwich they turned away and went back to the other food on offer. Maybe they just didn't like onion.

Jimmy parked up about a hundred metres from the driveway, down a muddy track that led into a wooded area. The track was just wide enough for a vehicle and was deeply rutted with tyre marks. Where it petered out, flies buzzed around an overflowing bin surrounded by tied-up plastic bags. This was dog-walking territory.

Jimmy got on the net to organize an RV with Brian, who was parking up nearby.

'Jimmy's foxtrot.'

Fran went back to her car as the families drove away. She sat in the driver's seat with the door open. A few of the ducks waddled around nearby in the hope of picking up something more appetizing than cheese and onion. Fran got on the net.

'Mick, you there yet?'

He was working his way through the undergrowth opposite the entrance to the driveway. It wasn't ideal � Fran would have preferred two cars ready to react to any situation � but it was the only way he could get a trigger. His Gore-Tex gave him some protection from the wet foliage and leaf litter but it was hard going. Finally he could see the driveway.

'Mick has the trigger on the driveway. I can't see all the way up to the house but I can see in both directions along the road.'

Jimmy and Brian settled on a place to climb over the garden wall on the green side of the house. The wall was over three metres high at that point, but there were trees still in full leaf on the far side that broke the line of the top. They would give them cover as they crossed.

Jimmy got his back against the wall, bent his legs and cupped his hands between his thighs. Brian stepped back a little, jammed his right foot into Jimmy's hands and, using his partner's hands as a stepping stone, launched up at the wall. He grabbed the top and hooked his arms over to anchor himself. As Jimmy pushed Brian's foot upwards, he turned to face the wall.

It took a few seconds before Brian was bent over the wall. He stayed low, using the tree foliage for cover and turned round so that his legs were dangling down on the garden side and his top half was bent down towards Jimmy. Then he held his arms out. Jimmy jumped up and, like acrobats, they grabbed each other's wrists. Jimmy walked up the wall, almost turning upside down before he got one leg over the top so that Brian could let go of his wrists and grab his body to pull him up.

They dropped gently into the garden and then stopped, and listened, and tuned in to their new environment.

'That's Jimmy and Brian garden side. On green side of house.'

'Roger that.'

The two men began crawling forward, staying behind a row of shrubs that mirrored those on the opposite side of the garden. They decided on an OP at the end of the shrubs. It gave them an adequate view of the front of the house, the garden on the opposite side of the drive and the two parked vehicles.

'Jimmy and Brian have the trigger on the house. No sign of life. Two vehicles. Silver Nissan Micra, November Papa Charlie six-four-zero November. The other's a police patrol car.'

Jimmy could clearly see the wet gravel beneath the police car.

'It arrived after the rain; the Nissan hasn't moved all night.'

In Fincham's car Marcie Deveraux was also listening in on the net through her earpiece. She relayed the information to her boss.

Fincham shrugged. 'The local plod giving Mrs Meacher the news of her husband's unfortunate accident. I do hope she's not the hysterical type, I want to get this over quickly.'

Jimmy came on the net.

'Stand by. Stand by. That's the front door opening� two police, towards their car. A possible Mrs Meacher at the door. She's gone inside, door closed. That's the police complete� engine on� wait, now mobile towards the main. Now unsighted.'

Deveraux listened intently while checking the map on her lap. They were just a few miles away. 'The police have just left Meacher's house.'

Fincham nodded. 'Tell Fran that if the team give the all clear we'll go straight there.'

Deveraux had to wait while the police were taken out of the area by the team. Mick picked up the patrol car as it reached the end of the drive.

That's the police at the main. Wait. Wait. That's gone right towards you, Fran.'

He continued watching until the vehicle disappeared along the road.

That's now unsighted.'

In their OP, Fergus and Danny watched as Mrs Meacher went back to the side room, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

'What's going on?' whispered Danny.

'Dunno. But I'd like to know what that call's about.'

Mrs Meacher spoke for about five minutes. Soon after she had put down the receiver, the Mercedes swept up the drive and came to a halt where the police car had been a little earlier. Fincham and Deveraux stepped out of the car and went to the front door.

'Him,' breathed Danny. 'How could he know we're here?'

'He doesn't. Maybe they've come to warn the colonel about us.'

Mrs Meacher came to the door. Fincham, looking solemn and concerned, shook hands and then introduced Deveraux. Mrs Meacher led them into the house and they entered the side room.

On the other side of the garden, Jimmy and Brian kept the rest of the team informed of everything they were seeing.

'That's all three complete the house. Now unsighted.'

Norfolk was losing its appeal for Eddie Moyes, even though he was feeling a little better. He'd enjoyed a couple of coffees and had even managed a prawn sandwich, just to settle the stomach. But he'd had more than enough of Blakeney, of boats and of sea air. Personally, he'd never seen the attraction of a life on the ocean wave; he liked the feel of solid earth beneath his feet.

It was time to get on with the job. Meacher would be at home with his wife by now. Eddie had given him plenty of time to settle in.

He strolled over to his blue and rust Sierra; the old girl had done wonders getting him all the way up to Norfolk. Eddie was looking forward to returning to London. He'd write his story tonight and then tomorrow he would open negotiations with the tabloids.

The door creaked open and Eddie lowered his bulky body into the driver's seat. Realizing he was puffing and blowing a bit, he decided that he really should start that diet. The Atkins Diet � the one where you eat as much fried food as you like � sounded just the business. Tomorrow would be soon enough, after he'd sold his story.

The car coughed into life at the third attempt and Eddie took his last look at the coast and drove away.

Deveraux had given two clicks for 'lift'. It was her only option. The order was clear: lift Danny.

Jimmy and Brian broke cover, ran across a stretch of grass and crunched onto the gravel of the driveway. Danny had slipped from their view as he reached the red side of the house but they knew exactly where he was.

Fergus turned and saw them the moment he heard the noise. His decision was instant. He had to save Danny.

He kicked back at the bung, grabbed the kit and forced his way out of the bush, making as much noise as he could. Leaping to his feet, he made sure that Jimmy and Brian spotted him. Then he ran, as best he could, down the drive.

The two operators instantly changed direction, chasing full speed after Fergus.

'We got Watts on the drive! Watts on the drive! Towards you, Mick.'

Mick had already moved across the road and got into the bushes just off the track. He held his pistol in both hands as he waited to hear the runner on the gravel. He was looking forward to meeting Watts again.

Danny was just to the side of the window when he heard the shouts and then saw Fergus hobbling down the drive as the two men chased after him. He saw the pistols in their hands. Instinctively Danny stood up and started to run to help his grandfather. But he could almost hear Fergus shouting at him: 'Stick to SOPs! Get to the ERV!'

He looked towards the window. A woman was standing there staring at him, the woman who had gone into the house with Fincham. 'Go,' she mouthed at him silently. 'Run.'

She held his gaze for a few seconds more before turning her back on him. But she didn't move away from the window. It was as though she was deliberately hiding what was going on outside to the others in the room. Danny turned and ran. Hard.

They were gaining on Fergus quickly. He strained every muscle and pain jarred through his leg with each stride. But every extra metre meant a few more seconds for Danny.

And then Mick stepped out of the bushes, pistol aimed at Fergus's head. 'Stand still! Drop the kit, hands up!'

Fran's car screeched to a halt at the end of the drive at the same time as Jimmy and Brian pushed Fergus to the ground. She left the engine running and the door open as she sprinted over to the group. 'Leave him!' she shouted to Jimmy and Brian. 'Find the boy. Go, go!'

They went. Without a word. Tearing back towards the house as Mick started kicking Fergus in his stomach. There was nothing Fergus could do but grit his teeth, tighten his body and take the pain. But it didn't last long.

Fran pulled Mick away. 'There'll be time for that.'

Mick covered with his pistol as Fran dragged Fergus towards the Polo. 'Get in the back and cover him,' she shouted to Mick. 'We'll pick your car up later.'

She banged Fergus's face a couple of times against the roof before shoving him into the back of the car. 'Fucking arsehole!'

The sweeping, tree-lined driveway, the elegant lawns and garden, the brand-new Range Rover parked close to the beautiful double-fronted red-brick house were all very impressive. Joey sat back in the driver's seat of the hire car and nodded. If this was the sort of place where Elena's friends were to be found then his daughter had obviously inherited many of his own ambitious characteristics.

It was a perfect picture of peaceful English country life. Joey guessed that probably the most exciting thing that ever happened in this garden was a gentle game of croquet followed by high tea in the shade of one of those huge shrubs that sprawled across the lawn.

Elena was standing at the front door, having told her dad to wait in the car. Joey didn't mind; he reckoned that once the house owners learned they had driven all the way from London to find his daughter's friend, they'd be invited in for 'refreshments'. And then maybe asked to stay the night. The English were famous for their manners and hospitality.

The front door opened and a youngish man appeared and began talking to Elena. Joey saw him look over in his direction so he smiled broadly, raised his right hand and gave a friendly wave. The man ignored him and went back to talking to Elena. Joey wasn't disappointed. He knew the man was just following the rules of proper, polite etiquette and was waiting until they were formally introduced.

Joey was partly right. The man was being polite but there was no chance of an introduction. 'I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about,' he said to Elena. 'The only visitors here today have been� have been official visitors. And the police.'

Elena felt her heart thud in her chest. 'The� the police?'

The man took a deep breath and Elena could see that he was struggling to hold back tears. 'My father died last night, a boating accident. So if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my mother. I hope you find your friend, but I'm afraid we can't help you.'

'I� I'm sorry.' It was all Elena could say.

The man nodded and closed the door. Elena turned away and walked slowly back to the car. Meacher was dead. A boating accident. It had to be too much of a coincidence. They'd killed him. They must have. Before Fergus and Danny could get to him. But what had happened to Danny and Fergus? Where were they? Elena could only hope they had seen the police at the house and got away quickly.

'What's going on, darling?' asked her dad as she fastened her seat belt. 'We not staying for tea?'

'No, Dad,' said Elena softly. 'Danny's not here, and he won't be coming now.'

'Not even a cup of tea? What happened to English hospitality?'

Joey started the car. 'So what now?'

'We find somewhere to stay for the night. I might be able to contact him online in the morning.'

Joey sighed. At the end of the driveway he turned right onto the narrow road. The car crossed a small bridge across the river and a few minutes later they passed a derelict brick and flint barn set well back from the road.

'Where are you, Danny?' whispered Elena.

From the outside the safe house looked derelict, but inside, the building was clean but basic. The concrete floors, walls and ceilings were all painted white. Stairs leading from the entrance door led up to two interrogation rooms situated behind closed steel doors on either side of the stairwell.

The interrogation rooms were bare, apart from a couple of chairs, a desk and a wooden pallet. In one corner was an exposed toilet.

The building was not designated purely as a safe house for interrogation; it could also double up as an FOB. The hard-standing outside, with sufficient space to land a helicopter, meant it could be used to house Special Forces in the event of a terrorist incident in the area.

The entire compound was protected by a sophisticated security system. Along the mud access track, UGSs were buried at hundred-metre intervals. Their warning sensors could be set for vehicles or for people. Those in the track were set for vehicles; the lighter setting could easily lead to them being tripped by forest wildlife.

More UGSs were buried at fifty-metre intervals in the ditch running alongside the compound. These were set for humans: no deer would walk the length of the ditch, only someone using it as cover to get close to the house.

The UGS wiring was also buried and ran back to a monitoring system in the ground-floor, left-hand room of the house. The room was equipped with little else � just a sink, a kettle, portable electric heaters, an electric student hob and camp beds. The room opposite had further camp beds, rolled up, and a shower and toilet.

Fran's team were in this room. Jimmy was preparing an instant meal of Pot Noodles, sliced bread and cheap, thin ham, to be followed by muesli bars.

Fincham and Deveraux were in the room opposite.

Jimmy poured boiling water onto the Pot Noodles just as the door opened and Fincham and Deveraux appeared.

'Grub's up, sir,' said Jimmy to Fincham. 'Sure we can't tempt you to one of these? We usually throw in a dollop of brown sauce and some Branston pickle to spice them up a bit.'

Fincham made little attempt to disguise his look of distaste. 'Thank you, but no. I'll eat later in London.'

'Won't be anything like this though, sir.'

Fran and Mick were sitting on camp beds. They shared a smile. Everyone knew exactly how uncomfortable their boss was in these surroundings and Fran couldn't resist joining in the wind-up. 'There's extra camp beds in the other room, sir. You could always doss down with us if you'd rather stay.'

The suggestion was ignored. 'I'll see Watts now. Brian, bring some of that� food. We won't starve our guest to death.'

Brian grabbed one of the Pot Noodles and followed Fincham up the stairs, winking at Deveraux as he passed.

Fergus was in the room to the left of the stairs. Mick and Fran had enjoyed themselves interrogating him and he wasn't a pretty sight. His face was a swollen, bloodied mess. Blood that hadn't dried into his stubble had dripped over his shirt and onto the floor. His lips were split and fresh blood ran from his nose into his mouth. He was blindfolded with photographic blackout material and he wore no shoes. Both wrists were plasticuffed to the pallet and his hands were swollen where the cuffs had cut into the skin.

Fergus heard footsteps on the stairs and the key turning in the lock before the door opened. He felt his legs being dragged sideways and back towards his body and his feet were plasticuffed to the pallet. Only then did Brian free his hands and rip the blackout material away from his eyes. Fergus flinched and then squeezed his eyes tightly together; the glare of the fluorescent light was dazzling.

The door closed and Fergus heard footsteps going back down the stairs. Slowly he opened his eyes. As they gradually adjusted to the light, a figure sitting on a chair a metre away came into focus.

Fergus and Fincham were face to face for the first time in years.

'It's been a long time,' said Fincham quietly.

Speech came painfully for Fergus. 'Not long enough.'

Fincham indicated the steaming Pot Noodle on the floor next to Fergus. 'My colleagues assure me that it is edible.'

Fergus knew the tactics. Fincham in control, relaxed, sitting back in the chair, watching silently while he dug pathetically at the food with his fingers. All meant to increase his sense of despair and humiliation. But he didn't care. He was hungry, despite the beating he'd taken, and he knew he had to eat and keep his strength up to have any chance of survival.

Fighting back the pain as the hot spices burned into the cuts on his lips, Fergus swallowed the food as quickly as he could, just in case Fincham chose to kick it away and get on with the interrogation. Fincham watched in silence as Fergus tipped the container up to his mouth to make sure every last scrap went down his neck.

At last Fincham leaned forward in his chair. 'I'm going to ask you this just once. Who else knew you were operating as a K?'

'Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you,' said Fergus through a mouthful of noodles. He forced a smile. 'Maybe there are others. You'll have to sweat it out, Fincham, like I have for all these years.'

The room smelled stale and fetid. Fincham got up and walked to the window. The metal frame would open only a few centimetres before hitting the steel mesh fitted on the outside. But Fincham needed what fresh air he could get. The smell of blood offended him just as much as the sight of it. He stared through the mesh towards the forest. 'You're going to die, Watts, you realize that, don't you?'

When Fergus didn't reply Fincham continued without looking back. 'Of course I should have had you killed in Colombia, but after you'd ruined my little operation I quite enjoyed the thought of you rotting away in squalor. And I didn't anticipate the jailbreak. That was remiss of me.'

'You won't have the balls to kill me yourself, Fincham,' said Fergus, spitting blood and noodles from his mouth. 'But before your trained monkeys do it, I'll make sure they know what you really did in Colombia.'

Fincham took a deep breath of fresh air, turned away from the window and went back to the chair. 'The last desperate ramblings of a man who knows he's about die and will say anything to save his life. You'll be wasting your final breaths, Watts. But I am going to give you a chance.'

He saw Fergus squint at him through bruised and half-closed eyes. 'Oh no, Watts, not to live, your death is inevitable now. No, I'm going to give you the chance to not have to watch your grandson die.'

Fergus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 'You really are an evil, sadistic bastard, Fincham. But you won't find Danny, he's long gone.'

'Oh yes, I'll find him,' said Fincham calmly. 'Tomorrow, or the next day. And he will have to be eliminated. But you won't have to watch, Watts, not if you tell me what I need to know.'

He stood up. 'Think about it. There was Meacher, and he's no longer a problem. Who else was there?'

When there was no response, Fincham glanced at his watch. 'I'm expected at the House for a reception. Goodnight, Watts. I'm sure my friends will look after you.'

He left without looking back. A few minutes later the Mercedes purred into life and Fincham drove away from the compound.

Fergus heard the clang of the gates as they were closed. He glanced towards the window, desperately hoping his grandson had followed his orders.

'So where exactly are you?'

'Place called Sheringham; it's not far from where you are.'

Elena and Joey had booked into a B &B and were walking around the seaside town when Danny called Elena's mobile.

When she answered and heard Danny's, 'It's me,' Elena couldn't stop herself from screaming, 'Danny!'

Half of Sheringham turned to stare and Elena realized she needed to be just a bit more discreet.

Before making the call, Danny told Eddie he wanted to find out if his friend had managed to hack into Fincham's e-mail. He figured any information at all might be helpful as he prepared for the rescue attempt. What he didn't tell Eddie was that, despite his brave words, he was totally petrified at the thought of what lay ahead and he desperately needed to hear Elena's voice before he set out.

Elena listened as patiently as she could while Danny told her what had happened at Meacher's house and in the hours since.

'You know Meacher's dead, don't you?' said Elena, unable to stop herself from interrupting. 'They killed him before Eddie Moyes or your granddad could speak to him.'

Danny turned to Eddie to relay the news. 'Meacher's dead. That must be why the police were at the house.'

He went back to the phone and Elena explained what she'd discovered online and how she'd made her dad drive to Norfolk in the hope of warning Fergus and Danny off.

'But I was too late. I stayed here because I hoped I'd get you online in the morning.'

'Elena, I'm gonna try and get my granddad out.'

'I knew you'd say that. I'm coming with you.'

'No, you can't.'

'Don't argue with me, Danny. You can't do it alone, and if that reporter bloke won't help, you'll need someone.'

Danny glanced towards Eddie, who tapped his watch, indicating that he was anxious to get on the road.

'But� but what about your dad?'

Joey was sitting on a bench, looking perfectly content as he sat in the late afternoon sunshine and smoked one of his cheroots. Elena moved a little further away and spoke quietly into the phone. 'I've been to the building society and got him five hundred quid. That's just for a start � I had to order the rest to collect tomorrow. I'll tell him I'm staying the night with you and� and your dad. He won't care; it'll give him a chance to start spending his money.'

Danny hesitated. 'Are� are you sure. It'll be-'

'Dangerous. Yeah, I guessed that. Where do we meet?'

'I'll ask Eddie. But can you go to the shops for me first?'

'Shops?'

'There are a few things we might need.'

They were on their way. At last. Eddie counted the miles taking them closer to the target and worried about the suicidal rescue attempt, while Danny and Elena sat in the back, packing Elena's purchases into a day sack.

They were animated, excited. Elena's arrival seemed to have given Danny fresh confidence and assurance. Eddie drove in silence, partly cursing himself for his own cowardice and partly thinking that he should just head straight for London without stopping. But he knew it would be pointless. Danny was so set on trying to rescue his grandfather, he would probably fling open the door and leap from the car.

Danny had given Elena a long shopping list which included two hand-sized blocks of wood, a hammer and some five-inch nails.

He took one of the blocks and started hammering a nail into it as Elena watched, and Eddie looked in his rear-view mirror to see what was going on.

'I didn't ask why when you said you wanted this stuff,' said Elena over the sound of hammering, 'but, er� why?'

'Shit!' said Danny, as he missed the nail and hit his thumb with the hammer. 'I'm making climbing dumars. My granddad told me how to do it.'

'Climbing? Danny, you may not have noticed, but this is Norfolk. There's no mountains.'

Danny ignored her and hammered a nail into the second block of wood. When both nails were all the way into the blocks, with their heads flat against one side, he took out his Leatherman knife and pulled out the pliers attachment. He bent over the ends of the two nails to form hooks, leaving a straight section of nail between hook and wood block.

Next he took two orange nylon straps, the sort normally used for securing things to roof racks, from his day sack. He wrapped one end of each strap around the straight part of each nail. Then he formed one-metre loops and wound the other end of the straps around the nails and secured them with the buckles. The dumars were finished.

'I think that's right,' said Danny, as he packed them carefully into the day sack.

'If they don't work you could always hit someone with them,' said Elena. 'They look lethal.'

Just outside Thetford they pulled into a filling station. Danny told Eddie to park off the forecourt because of the security cameras and then went into the garage shop in search of Landranger Map 144.

'Can't you get him to give up on this stupid idea?' said Eddie to Elena as they waited in the car.

Elena laughed. 'When Danny wants to do something, he does it. Doesn't matter what anyone else says. Don't worry about us, vicar, we'll be all right.'

The reporter turned in his seat, glaring angrily at Elena. 'You think this is all a laugh, don't you, like a game! It's not. You could get killed! Killed! Can't you get that into your head!'

Elena looked away and stared out through a side window. 'I know it's no game,' she said quietly.

They sat in silence until Danny returned to the car. 'Last one they had,' he said as he opened up the map and found the six-figure reference Eddie had written in his notebook.

'There's nothing there,' said Elena, looking up from the map. 'It's just forest.' She pointed at two words printed in the target area. 'See that?'

The two words read: DANGER AREA.

'It's an army training area,' said Danny. 'They put that to warn the public off.'

Eddie started up the car. 'Yeah? Well, it's working on me.'

'You're sure you wrote down exactly what the woman said?'

'I'm a reporter, that's what I do.' Eddie made one last attempt at warning them off the rescue attempt. 'Look, it's dark, it's late, and you've got no idea what you're up against. Come back to London with me. I can probably get this on the television news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. They won't do anything to Fergus then.'

'We're wasting time, Eddie,' said Danny, refolding the map. 'Just get us as close as you can to the map reference.'

Eddie crunched the gears as he shoved the Sierra into first gear and pulled away.

Jimmy was at the wheel of the car. He'd been to an all-night Tesco to get more supplies. He hit the gear-stick pressel.

'That's Jimmy approaching the house.'

Brian was on stag, monitoring the surveillance devices protecting the compound.

'Roger that, Jimmy, I have you now.'

One of the screens in front of him showed a line drawing of the mud track leading to the house. Jimmy had driven over the first set of UGSs and set off the alarm. A second white light blinked on and off, followed by the third, as Jimmy got closer to the compound.

He stopped the car just after the third set of UGSs and switched off his lights. Then he drove slowly into the clear area and along the concrete track. He took his time, waiting for Brian to come out and unlock the gates.

Fran and Mick were also in the surveillance room. They'd moved on to sandwiches now that the supply of Pot Noodles was exhausted. They weren't particularly hungry just bored. Eating helped pass the time on a long, routine job like this.

Marcie Deveraux was alone in the room opposite. She knew she had to stay awake, but rest was important. She turned off the light, lay down on the camp bed and clasped her hands together behind her head. As she stared up into the darkness, Deveraux heard the door to the surveillance room open and then footsteps going up the stairs.

Fran had taken over on stag. Her first job was to check on Fergus. At the top of the stairs she unlocked the door, pushed it open and then smiled mockingly at the prisoner sprawled on the floor with his feet plas-ticuffed to the wooden pallet. 'Comfy?'

Fergus stared back defiantly as Fran walked into the room, casually removed her Glock 9mm from its holster and pointed it at the spot directly between his eyes. 'I'm looking forward to finishing you. It's always a pleasure to get rid of another drug trafficker.'

She touched her still bruised nose with the Glock's barrel and then checked that Fergus was securely cuffed to the pallet before going back to the door. 'We'll pick up the boy soon enough. Shame about him, but he'd probably turn out like you, anyway. It's in the blood, I reckon.' She grinned. 'You sure you've got nothing you want to tell the governor?'

Fergus made eye contact with her. 'Fincham set me up. He's the one who should be sitting here. He's the real-'

'Yeah, I was waiting for that one,' interrupted Fran. 'Now, you got anything sensible you want to say, or what?'

Fergus knew he was wasting his time. He looked away.

'Suit yourself, it's your funeral, although you won't exactly get a funeral.' She stepped out of the room, closed the door and re-locked it, leaving the key in the lock so that there was no chance of it getting lost.

Downstairs, Fran went outside and checked the padlock on the gate before walking a circuit of the fence line, looking for cuts. It was routine SOP at the start of a two-hour stag and she was soon back in the surveillance room, staring at the UGSs on the monitors.

The kettle was coming to the boil and Mick was spooning instant coffee into mugs lined up on the worktop. 'You want one, Fran?'

'Yeah,' she answered, turning away from the monitors. 'Oh, by the way, our friend upstairs reckons he's an innocent man and the governor's the one who should be in the frame.'

'Yeah, course he should,' said Mick as he poured the steaming water into the mugs. 'And you're the Queen of Hearts.'

Danny was going nowhere � at least not as long as he could hang onto the drainage pipe. He reached down, pulled out his Leatherman and carefully slid it between one of the rectangles in the mesh. 'You're only as sharp as your knife,' he breathed.

Despite his fury, Fergus grabbed at the knife and pulled it through.

'Four guards,' whispered Danny. 'All in the room under this one. And four cars. Can you hot-wire?'

Fergus nodded.

'Elena and Eddie are with me.'

'Elena and�? Danny, what the hell do you think-?'

'I couldn't do it on my own,' hissed Danny. 'I'm not perfect like you.' He was finding it hard to hold onto the pipe; his legs were shaking under the strain. 'Wait out until I give the signal, then try to get out of there and down to the cars.'

'What's the signal?'

'I don't know yet, and it may be quite a while. But you'll know when you hear it.'

He couldn't hold on any longer and began slithering down the pipe.

'Danny, just get away and-'

But he was gone. Fergus closed the window and carefully moved the pallet back to its original position. He hid the knife in his jeans and fixed his eyes on the door and the lock. He could see the tip of the key, held in the key well.

Five minutes earlier he'd been thinking about dying, preparing himself as well as he could. He'd been in many near-death situations. This time there had seemed no hope and too much time to think about it. Now there was hope. Faint, slight hope. But there were no experienced, highly trained SAS veterans out there fighting for him. Fergus's life was in the hands of his seventeen-year-old grandson.

Eddie was on the way, gunning his car through the forest as quickly as the rusty chassis would take. He was scared, terrified, but he was on his way. And he was eating, chewing on the last of the emergency Mars bars he kept in the glove compartment.

The trek back through the forest had been a nightmare, but he'd kept going, knowing he only had to follow the track to be sure of the direction. He'd stumbled, tripped, fallen, cursed, snagged his clothes on branches and been petrified by the hooting of an owl. But he hadn't rested. Not once.

The car bounced and clattered on the mud track and Eddie switched the headlights onto full beam. He wanted everyone in the house to see the car when he arrived. If they didn't, he'd sound the horn, and as soon as they came running from the building, he'd turn the Sierra round and clear out. With any luck, and Eddie reckoned he was due some luck, he'd be back on the main road and away before they got near him.

Brian was on stag. He switched on the kettle for a brew. The rest of the team were asleep and the monitors were blank. Nothing was moving outside. The kettle came to the boil at the same time as the first set of UGSs started to blink on the screen. Brian did nothing but watch and wait. It could have been a malfunction. Then the second set of UGSs further along the track started to blink.

'Stand to! Stand to! We got a vehicle!'

The team jumped from their maggots and grabbed their weapons. Fran was first out of the main door as they bomb burst from the building.

Danny and Elena heard the shouts and then footsteps coming their way. Danny grabbed Elena's hand and dragged her along the back of the building and they turned into the dead ground of green. It wasn't meant to happen like this. They should have heard Eddie's car approaching.

Vehicles started up in the Nissen hut and the gates rattled as they were pulled open.

Fergus also heard the 'stand to', and the engines starting. It had to be the signal. He cut the plasticuffs and crawled to the door, his legs stinging with pins and needles as blood began to circulate freely. He pulled the nail-file from the Leatherman, knowing that if a key is in a lock it can be turned from either side.

Marcie Deveraux sat on her camp bed. And waited.

Safe house SOPs had kicked in. Fran and Mick were already in their vehicles, speeding out of the compound, MP5s on their laps and pistols on their belts. Jimmy had his MP5 and was running out of the gate and heading towards the ditch to check if anyone was hiding there, and Brian was at the gate, his eyes scanning the open ground around the compound.

As Eddie drove out of the forest and onto the concrete track, he saw two cars heading straight for him. His eyes widened in horror. 'Oh, shit!'

There was no chance of turning the car. He stood on the brakes and clutch and the Sierra screeched and skidded to a standstill. Eddie jumped from the car and dived into the ferns.

Danny peered round the corner of the building and saw that all four of the team were outside. 'We're going in,' he said to Elena.

Elena nodded and they ran along white and into the house. They went straight into the room where Danny had seen the team. 'Look for keys!' yelled Danny. 'We need a car.'

They heard footsteps coming down the stairs and Fergus came into the room. He saw them frantically rifling through bags and jacket pockets.

'Keys!' yelled Danny. 'We're looking for car keys.'

'No time!' shouted Fergus. 'Go! Go!'

As they started to turn, they glimpsed the movement in the doorway. 'Hands up! Get 'em up! Now!'

Brian had his pistol aimed at Danny's head. 'Do as I say, Watts, or I'll kill him first and then-'

'All right!' shouted Fergus, beginning to raise his hands.

'Nice and slow,' said Brian. 'Don't move or do-'

He got no further. There was a double tap from the hallway. Brian lurched forward as though he had been punched in the back of the head, and then dropped like liquid.

Danny and Elena had no chance to take in the horror of what had happened as Marcie Deveraux moved into the doorway, her Glock pointing at Fergus. 'Me! Look at me!' she screamed at them, knowing that if they looked down at Brian's body and saw the blood pumping from the shattered skull they were likely to panic and run.

They stared at Deveraux, eyes bulging. Deveraux fixed her eyes on Fergus. 'It isn't time for you to die yet, Watts. Go. While there's a chance.'

Her eyes flicked down to Brian. 'He drove the Toyota. Keys must be on him. Take them.'

Fergus reached down, grabbed the keys from Brian's jeans and bundled Danny and Elena towards the door.

'Wait!' said Deveraux, dropping her pistol and turning to Fergus. 'You know what you have to do,' she said. 'Make it look good.'

She closed her eyes and Fergus pulled back his arm and punched her hard on the side of the chin. Deveraux went down, spitting out blood.

Fergus grabbed the weapon from the floor. 'Move,' he yelled to Danny and Elena.

Outside, in the ferns on the other side of the ditch, Jimmy had heard the double tap from the building. He was sprinting back towards the compound when he saw three figures in the gloom of the Nissen hut.

Fergus pressed the fob and the lights on the blue Toyota began to flash. They jumped into the car, Danny and Elena in the back seat, and the engine roared. 'Down! Keep down!' shouted Fergus. He put his foot down and as the vehicle leaped from the hut it took out the wing mirror of the green Renault parked alongside.

Jimmy was nearly at the gates as the Toyota thundered out of the compound. He brought his MP5 up into the aim and got his sights just ahead of Fergus's head, hoping that the moving vehicle would bring him into the line of fire.

They heard the dull ping, ping, ping as the rounds hit the vehicle. Fergus stayed as low as he could, and kept driving. A side window shattered and glass sprayed over Danny and Elena.

Up ahead, the track was blocked by three cars, doors open.

'Hold on,' shouted Fergus. He steered the car onto the mud at the right of the track. The Toyota bounced about, flattening the ferns as Fergus fought with the wheel to bring it back onto the track.

They were almost into the forest when Danny lifted his head and looked back through the rear window. Fran and Mick had found Eddie; they were dragging him through the ferns towards the cars. 'Stop! Stop!' yelled Danny.

Fergus instinctively stood on the brakes, but before he too had time to look back, Danny had grabbed the pistol, leaped from the car and was running towards the three vehicles.

'No, Danny! No!' screamed Elena while Fergus slammed the car into reverse and sent it hurtling backwards.

Fran spotted Danny as he ran past the Sierra. She instantly released her grip on the terrified reporter and sprinted for Danny as the Toyota skidded to a standstill by the three vehicles and Fergus leaped out. 'Stay there and stay down!' he yelled at Elena.

Eddie saw his chance. He kicked and punched himself away from Mick and started to run. He got no more than three steps. Mick clinically raised his pistol and double tapped the reporter in the head.

Eddie was dead before he hit the concrete.

Danny stopped running. Shock and horror, numbing and overwhelming, swept through his entire body. He couldn't move; everything became unreal and distant. His ears buzzed � he didn't hear the shouts or the noise as his brain struggled to make sense of what was happening. The pistol hung limply from his right hand as he stared at the lifeless body sprawled on the ground.

Fran was less than twenty metres away. As she raised her own pistol there was a burst of automatic fire from behind Danny. The thunderous noise exploded in his brain, dragging him back to reality. He glimpsed Fran diving into the ferns for cover and turned to see Fergus firing a second short burst from behind the Sierra. In his hands was the MP5 he had grabbed from the passenger seat of Fran's car.

The thump of the automatic fire echoed away through the trees and Danny heard a more urgent, screaming noise. He looked back along the track towards the compound. The green Renault was coming straight at him.

Fear, absolute terror, made Danny turn and run, harder than he had ever run before.

Fergus fired short, three-round bursts into the car's windscreen. The brakes screeched and smoke burned from the tyres. Jimmy was at the wheel. He took a round as Fergus fired again. The car lurched and swerved and ploughed into the back of another of the vehicles. But it was moving too fast to be stopped. The front end lifted and the car bucked and span and flipped over onto its roof. Fuel spewed from the ruptured fuel tank.

As the car burst into flames, Danny tore past his grandfather and flung himself into the back of the Toyota. Fergus fired into the tyres of the other cars and then, as he stood to follow Danny back to the Toyota, sent a final burst into the ferns to keep Fran and Mick's heads down.

He reached the car and jumped into the driver's seat. The tyres smoked as he put his foot down and they tore into the forest. 'Never go off SOPs!' he yelled furiously, as he battled to keep the speeding vehicle on the mud track. 'How many times have I told you! How many times!'

Danny still had the pistol gripped in his right hand, although he hardly knew it was there.

'Put it down!' shouted Fergus. 'Put the weapon down!'

Without speaking, without even acknowledging that he'd heard his grandfather's order, Danny slowly released his hold on the pistol and let it drop to the floor.

The car reached the end of the mud track and they emerged from the dark and gloom of the forest into early sunlight. It was morning.

Fergus turned the vehicle onto the main road, heading south, and then looked into the rear-view mirror at Danny. 'The man down,' he said. 'He was the reporter, right?'

Danny hadn't uttered a single word since flinging himself into the car. He looked at the mirror and saw his grandfather's eyes boring into him. 'Eddie,' he whispered eventually. 'Eddie Moyes.'

Fergus nodded. 'You deal with it, Danny. Like I told you. Remember? You deal with it.'

Danny didn't reply, but gazed out through the shattered side window and fought back the tears that were beginning to sting his eyes.

Six months later The spring morning was not just warm, it was hot. Shirtsleeves weather.

The flags hung limply over the burger bar in the still, humid air. Business was brisk, with regulars as well as early season holidaymakers on their way to the south coast.

Burgers and bacon sizzled on the hotplate. Dean was cooking and Frankie was pouring tea.

Two of their regulars, young Londoners called Paul and Benny, were tucking into bacon sandwiches. They were builders, recently arrived in the area with a get-rich-quick plan to buy derelict houses, do them up and sell them on for a big profit. But so far they seemed to be spending most of their time at Frankie's.

'I'm glad we found you, Frankie,' said Paul, stirring sugar into a steaming mug of tea. 'This is the only place round here where you can get a decent cuppa.'

Benny nodded. 'Yeah, and Dean's cooking is almost as good as my mum's.'

Frankie smiled. 'No hay ningun lugar como el hogar.'

Benny swallowed a mouthful of tea. 'What's that mean, then?'

'There's no place like home,' said Dean, turning over a burger on the griddle.

'True. Very true,' said Benny. His friend nodded and they bit into their sandwiches and turned to watch the traffic go by.

Elena had been true to her word. She'd helped, mainly with cash. After Joey had taken his share, much of her remaining money went into funding the escape and the setting up of the new business.

And business was booming. Elena was already getting her cash back, paid through various banks directly into her building society account.

Frankie glanced over at Dean as he refilled the brown sauce bottle on the countertop. He'd seen that distant look many times over the past six months. 'You'll see her again one day,' he said.

'So you keep telling me,' answered Dean. 'But when?'

Frankie turned away; they'd had this discussion before. 'When it's safe.'

The two builders came back to the counter as they finished their sandwiches. 'Two more of these, Dean. You are one great cook.'

Dean smiled and tossed more bacon onto the griddle. As it sizzled and spat he whispered to himself, 'No hay ningun lugar como el hogar.'

*

It was a warm day in London. George Fincham was, as always, in his office early, drinking coffee from his favourite bone-china cup and gazing out of the window, downriver.

There was a knock on the door. 'Come.'

Marcie Deveraux entered, looking as elegant as ever, her face showing no sign of the extensive dental work she'd had since her encounter with Fergus Watts.

She was holding a single sheet of paper. 'Watts and the boy, sir, there's been a possible sighting.'

Fincham remained calm, but he felt his heart quicken. The coffee cup trembled slightly in his hand. 'Where?'

Deveraux slid the sheet of paper across the desk. 'Spain.'

Some time later� Danny stared at the printed sheet and sighed with irritation. 'Look, what's the point in learning this stuff?'

'Because some day we might depend on it. If we can't communicate, we can't operate efficiently. So you need to learn to tap out at least five words a minute.'

Danny laughed. 'Five words! There's mobiles, and e-mails, and MSN, and satellite phones � we can talk for hours. But you've got me learning dots and stupid dashes just so I can send five words in a minute in Morse code. Big deal!'

Fergus wasn't smiling. 'If you spent a bit less time taking the piss and a bit more doing as you're told, you'd make things a lot easier for both of us,' he snarled. 'Those five words could mean the difference between life and death. It works, Danny, always has and always will. Modern technology can let you down, even if you're lucky enough to have it, which we're not.'

'Yeah, but-'

'Just shut up and listen. I was on a job in the Middle East when the sat phone I was using got soaked in a flash flood. That was it, end of sat phone, almost end of me. It was Morse code that got me out in one piece.'

He picked up a pencil and pulled a sheet of paper from Danny's notepad. 'We'll need a couple of code words.'

'Code words? Why?'

'Questions,' sighed Fergus, 'always questions. If ever we do make contact using Morse I'll start with my code word, and that's all I'll give you until you come back with your word. That way we'll be certain we're talking to each other, and no one else.' 'So what are they then, these code words?'

Fergus began writing down the Morse code, groups of dots and dashes, each short series representing a single letter. -�.-.-. -�-.

'That's my word,' he said. 'Now yours, and I'll keep it short.' -�-.-.

'So what's it mean?' asked Danny as his grandfather passed the paper to him.

Fergus put down the pencil and sat back. 'Work it out,' he said. 'And then remember it.' www.boy-soldier.co.uk Read an extract from the next thrilling adventure in the Boy Soldier sequence:

McNAB and ROBERT RIGBY

Big Ben struck midday as he walked through Parliament Square. The spring sun was warm, almost hot, but he kept his brand-new puffa jacket zipped up to the neck. A police car siren sounded, and he turned to watch the driver skilfully manoeuvre his vehicle through the snarl of traffic and on towards Westminster Bridge.

He was feeling slightly apprehensive, but at the same time elated. At last he was about to do something meaningful, something significant. Waiting at the pedestrian crossing, he smiled and gently squeezed the few twists of green garden twine nestling in the palm of his right hand. For comfort.

As the traffic lights turned to red and the green man flashed on, he crossed with the rest of the crowd waiting at the kerbside. Japanese tourists walked with their camcorders at arm's length, watching their screens while filming the imposing, magnificent buildings. Motorbike couriers revved their engines, impatient for the lights to change.

He joined the queue outside St Stephen's Entrance, the public access point to the Houses of Parliament. Armed police watched impassively as the line of visitors slowly shuffled towards the wide entrance doors leading to the X-ray machine and the metal detector blocking the corridor about fifteen metres inside the building.

Ahead of him was a small group of young women, some with babies in carriers strapped to their fronts, brandishing leaflets warning of the health hazards created by a newly opened landfill site and chatting animatedly about the imminent meeting with their local MP.

The queue was in a suntrap, and tiny beads of sweat dotted his upper lip, but still he kept his chunky Gap jacket zipped up. He looked smart: his hair was neatly combed, his trousers were immaculately pressed and his black shoes still shone with newness.

A thin trickle of sweat ran down the side of his head as he turned and smiled politely at a group of pensioners who were beginning to line up behind him. The women wore their best dresses and light coats and the men were in blazers, their old regimental insignias sewn onto the breast pocket and their highly polished medals hanging proudly above.

'You here for the tour too?' asked one of the men, fishing out a letter of invitation from his blazer pocket and unfolding it to reveal the embossed letterhead reading: HOUSE OF COMMONS.

'No,' he answered softly.

'How old are you, son?' said the man.

'Seventeen.'

The man nodded his admiration. 'Well, it's good to see a youngster with an interest in politics,' he said. 'Makes a nice change these days.'

'Oh, yes,' he replied, his fingers caressing the twine in his hand. 'I'm very interested in politics.'

He turned back as the queue moved closer to the large doors opening onto the grand corridor, where statues of statesmen through the ages lined both sides. Reporters and visitors were showing their credentials for entering the public areas before placing briefcases and bags on the X-ray machine and then stepping through the detector.

The group of young women was stopped by a white-shirted security guard and asked about the purpose of their visit. They named their MP and showed their letter of invitation and were allowed to move into the corridor towards the security checks.

The new shoes were pinching slightly, chafing his heels, but nothing could stop his joy as he stepped over the ancient threshold of Parliament, where a security guard was waiting to question him. 'And what business do you have here today, sir?'

He smiled at the security guard and whispered a single word: 'Martyrdom.'

The guard leaned closer. 'Sorry, sir, what name was that?'

He didn't reply, but pulled sharply at the twine that ran up his arm. St Stephen's Entrance erupted in a hail of flying glass, shattered statues and broken bodies.