Boy Soldier (7 page)

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.'

The team had been all over Danny from the moment he left Foxcroft that morning. It had been difficult once he'd taken the train at Liverpool Street. Fran had followed Danny onto the train, taking a different carriage. She checked at each station to see if Danny had got off and constantly relayed details to the others. The two cars and a motorbike had undertaken a high-speed chase from station to station through the streets of east London and Essex as the train ploughed through the suburbs and into the countryside.

The TDM was no longer part of the operation. Jimmy had realized the machine had become too hot for the follow. He crawled out from under the tangle of bush and scrubby grass fifty metres down the road from the lay-by and ran towards his new vehicle, a Ford Focus.

He'd been following Danny when he was in the pick-up truck and had watched it swerve off the road. He pulled the Focus onto the grass verge round the next bend and then tracked back on foot, finding what little cover he could.

Now, as he ran, he ripped off the Gore-Tex jacket he wore to protect his clothes. He ran hard: the rest of the team needed him back on the follow as soon as possible. Mick was still driving the dark blue Golf, with fresh number plates. He'd picked up Fran at Rayleigh Station, and Brian was now on a motorbike, a Suzuki Ninja. But the third vehicle was vital if Fergus was heading for one of the nearby towns.

Jimmy smiled as he ran back to the Focus. He'd done good work, thinking quickly and reporting everything that happened in the lay-by to the rest of the team. And George Fincham and Marcie Deveraux would have been alerted by now and would be on their way.

Sweat ran down the side of Jimmy's face as he reached the car. He gulped in air as he lifted the tailgate and listened to Fran on the net.

'Stop. Stop. Stop. That's the Fiesta static in a lay-by. He's aware, he's checking vehicles passing him.'

Jimmy threw the Gore-Tex jacket on top of two bags that sat in the boot. One contained Gore-Tex trousers, Wellington boots, extra warm clothes and enough canned food and water for two days. If a follow turned into a surveillance on an isolated building there had to be a trigger on that building 24/7; there was never time to go away and fetch kit.

The other bag held an MP5 automatic machine gun, loaded thirty-round magazines, body armour, night viewing goggles and a trauma pack. The team had to be ready to deal with any situation, including wound-ings. Plastic litre bottles of plasma were part of the pack: if a team member was shot the others knew how to plug the holes and replace the lost blood.

Jimmy slammed down the boot, jumped into the Focus and pulled off the verge and onto the road. He squeezed the radio pressel on the gearstick.

'That's Jimmy mobile and with you in five.'

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'.

Fergus was heading back to the cottage. In the short term, at least. He could pick up cash and emergency supplies and decide on what to do next. He had to figure that Danny had been followed, but there was no point in grilling him about it, he just wouldn't know.

'Listen to me, boy,' Fergus had said as he drove. 'There are people looking for me, and thanks to you, they're probably very close. If they find me I'm dead, and so are you!'

'Me?' said Danny in amazement. 'It's
you
they want. As soon as you stop this car I'm going to the police—'

'The police can't help you now! No one can, no one but me. So just shut the fuck up and do what I say!'

Danny did shut up, stunned into silence.

Fergus concentrated on trying to see if they were being followed. There were no give-away signs but that meant nothing. He knew they couldn't go all the way back by car: it would give any following surveillance team too much time to lock onto them. He drove to Rayleigh – there were buses that went close enough to the cottage.

They took seats near the back of the bus. Fergus pushed Danny into the window seat so that he couldn't try to make a quick exit. But Danny wasn't planning on trying to get away. Not any more. He was scared.

Fergus spoke quietly. 'How did you find me?'

Danny didn't answer.

'I need to know, boy,' hissed Fergus. 'Don't mess me about.'

'Your phone,' said Danny at last. 'I got the number from Kev Newman's mobile and traced where you were on the Internet.'

'But how?'

'A phone location company.'

'But . . . but you'd need my PIN number for that.'

'It's your army number, last four.'

'How did you . . . ?' Fergus shook his head. 'Kev warned me that you were a persistent little shite.'

The bus was deep in the countryside when Fergus leaned across the aisle and pushed the stop button. 'This is us.'

They got off and hid in the tree line that followed the road. Soon after, two cars went by, one of them a mini cab. Fergus watched them disappear into the distance. The smell of the nearby salt marshes hung in the air and the only sounds came from the cawing of huge black crows as they wheeled their way across the early evening sky.

Danny's anger was growing again. 'Are we just gonna stand here?'

'Shut it,' answered Fergus as he started to walk quickly along the road. Danny noticed his grandfather's limp for the first time and realized it must be the result of the gun battle in Colombia. It made him even angrier.

They reached a long, muddy track leading off the road. Just visible down at the end of the track was a cottage, and when Fergus headed towards it, Danny had little alternative but to follow. He watched, bemused, as Fergus looked under the old chicken coop and confirmed for himself that the mini Maglite wasn't on. He moved on and Danny trailed behind, not spotting any of the cameras, lights or motion detectors.

At the gate Fergus checked that the matchstick was still in place. It was. He opened the front door, pulled Danny inside and closed the door. The sitting-room door was half open, exactly as it was meant to be. Danny could see through to the small bank of TV monitors showing the muddy track. He turned to his grandfather. 'What is all this?'

Fergus didn't reply but grabbed Danny by the collar of his jacket, dragged him into the kitchen and pushed him against the wall. 'Stand there and don't move. Don't even think about moving.'

He stomped away and went upstairs. Danny heard his footsteps moving from room to room. A couple of minutes later he came thundering down the stairs and back into the kitchen, not even looking at Danny as he lifted the rug and revealed the opening to the cellar. He picked up the torch on the top step. 'Stay there,' he growled, disappearing into the gloom.

Danny leaned against the kitchen wall and looked at the back door, thinking about making a run for it.

Then the bleepers began to sound, loud and shrill and piercing.

Fergus came hurtling up from the cellar and rushed to the monitors. Two cars were coming down the track at high speed. Mud flew from their wheels and the beams of their headlights seemed to bounce off the trees. The front vehicle was a Ford Focus. Fergus cursed, turned back to Danny and pushed him towards the open trapdoor. 'Get down there, quick!'

Danny stumbled down the stairs into the cellar and stood in semi-darkness and a pool of water as Fergus pulled shut the trapdoor, turned on the torch and went straight to the boxes against the wall. He yanked them aside and shone the torch into the tunnel. 'In there, boy, get in!'

It was no time to argue. Danny scrambled into the hole and
Fergus followed, pulling the boxes back against the wall and switching off
the torch to save the batteries. They were plunged into total darkness and
Fergus pushed Danny further into the cold, wet, muddy tunnel. 'Get going,
boy, hurry up!'

Eddie Moyes was feeling pleased, tired and hungry as he leaned against the chicken coop and stared up towards the cottage. The first hint of night was beginning to slither over the landscape. That suited Eddie: it would make his approach easier. He took a Snickers bar he'd kept in reserve from his pocket and decided to enjoy it before continuing on up the track. Before the chocolate bar had even reached his mouth, Eddie heard the cars screaming up the road and saw the first one turn towards him. The Snickers bar dropped into the mud as Eddie ducked down behind the chicken coop.

Brian and Jimmy were in the Focus, Fran and Mick barely bumper distance behind in the Golf. All four members of the team wore dark blue body armour and had MP5s on slings across their chests. Jimmy also had a sawn-off, pump-action shotgun with seven solid-shot rounds in the tubular magazine below the barrel. He was the MOE man.

Both cars skidded to a halt just short of the garden fence. Jimmy was first out, even before the Focus had stopped. He jumped the fence and ran to the front door, not looking to see what was around him, totally focused on the door. He looked for the hinge side, knowing he had to get it right first time. The slightest delay would give anyone inside priceless escape time.

He heard Brian behind him as he jammed the muzzle of the shotgun into the frame a third of the way down the door where the top hinge should be. He pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared and jolted back and splinters of wood sprayed over Jimmy and Brian. Jimmy was already on his knees reloading as Brian waited, his eyes and MP5 trained up at the first-floor windows.

Mick and Fran came running up as Jimmy jammed the shotgun muzzle into the lower hinge area of the frame, a third of the way up from the bottom. The second shot seemed even louder, and showers of jagged splinters flew into the air. Jimmy dropped the shotgun and moved away as Mick charged the door. It fell away easily and Mick tumbled into the hallway with it.

Fran was directly behind. With her weapon up in the aim, she jumped over Mick and moved into the hallway. She stayed right, clearing the door area, so the others could make their entry. Jimmy and Brian went by, into the kitchen. Their job was to clear the ground floor while Fran and Mick took the upstairs.

Fran kept low, safety catch off and finger on the trigger, looking for any sign of movement from the top of the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time, weapon now up high and pointing at the landing. Mick was close behind.

They could hear the other two as they checked each ground-floor room. 'Clear!'

Fran reached the landing and stayed there, covering the two doors in front of her. Mick went past, reached the first door and pushed it open so that Fran could move into the room. 'Clear!'

They reversed roles for the second room. Mick had the door covered as Fran went by, grabbed the handle and pushed open the door. Mick could see inside immediately.

Weapon up, both eyes wide, chest heaving for oxygen, safety catch off and finger on the trigger, he pushed his way into the bathroom. 'Clear! Top floor clear!'

An answering shout came from below: 'Ground floor clear!'

Eddie wasn't a brave man, but he was a reporter through and through. His nose for news meant he had to get closer to find out exactly what was going on inside the cottage.

It was getting darker. Eddie scrambled over the rough ground, lost his footing and slid into a muddy ditch before he was halfway to the cottage. He was wet through and covered in mud but it didn't matter. This was the story he'd been waiting and praying for. He couldn't wait to offer the exclusive to one of the nationals. He couldn't wait to see the faces of the so-called journalists who'd rejected him, especially that jumped-up little apology for a news editor.

He moved closer and sheltered in a hedgerow fifteen metres from the cottage. As he considered his next move he saw the headlights of a third vehicle approaching along the track. Sweaty and muddy, Eddie ducked down low to await the new arrivals.

The car was drawing to a standstill as Fran led the team from the house to their vehicles. They went to their ready bags and took out NVGs in preparation for a long night in the cuds searching for their targets.

A man and a woman got out of the car. Both were smartly dressed – Eddie could see that these were no knuckle-draggers like the other four. The governors had arrived.

Marcie Deveraux walked towards the house, shouting out to the team, 'Stop! You won't find him, he's gone. There'll be an escape route from the house somewhere. Find it.' She turned back to Fincham. 'Should we go back and get a trigger on the car, sir?'

Fincham stared out across the fields. Trees and bushes were
merging into the darkness as the night swiftly closed around them. 'The car's
history, he won't go anywhere near it now.'

Twenty metres away, the camouflaged manhole cover was raised just a few centimetres above ground level, but Fergus heard the voice and saw George Fincham clearly in the light that spilled from the cottage windows.

Danny sat a couple of metres back along the tunnel. He was trembling, with fear and from the cold. The black, wet mud on all sides closed in on him; the air was stale and rank. He could hardly breathe. The sounds of the shotgun had terrified him. The yells and crashes from inside the cottage had terrified him. But most of all, Fergus terrified him.

Fergus raised the manhole cover a little more as he watched Deveraux and then Fincham follow the team back into the house. He turned to Danny. 'They get one sight of us now and we're dead. We've got to get away from here before they find the tunnel. Understand?'

Danny nodded and Fergus slowly moved the manhole cover to one side and climbed out, taking with him the black bin liner containing his escape and evasion kit. Then he reached back into the tunnel and hauled Danny out of the damp, black hole.

The sound of voices wafted over from the cottage and Fincham appeared in the front doorway. Fergus pushed Danny down into the mud, fell down by his side and hissed into his ear, 'Stay down.'

They could both see Fincham, framed in the doorway, as he peered into the gloom. He stood still, looking in every direction. He seemed to look straight at them for heart-pounding seconds. But then he turned away and went back into the cottage.

'Move, now,' breathed Fergus, pulling Danny to his feet.

'I've seen that man before,' whispered Danny as they dodged into the tree cover.