by Andy McNab
'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.'
16
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 hav
e 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?'
17
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.
They got off the bus at a place called Westcliff. To Danny it seemed just an extension of Southend. A bit quieter, more old fashioned. There were a lot of old people out for their early morning stroll along what was exotically named the Boulevard. Most seemed to be wandering aimlessly, stopping every now and then to gaze into the same shop windows they'd probably gazed into a thousand times before.
It was the perfect place to do a runner. Fergus couldn't have stopped Danny, not with his limp and not without stirring one of Westcliff's finest into calling the police.
But Danny didn't run. 'Can I have my mobile?' he asked as they walked slowly away from the bus stop.
'You know you can't,' answered Fergus without looking at him.
'Don't worry,' said Danny. 'I'm not planning on calling Fincham. I have to let Elena know what's happening.'
Fergus stopped walking. 'Who the hell is Elena?'
'She's my friend, at Foxcroft. She helped me find you.'
'Oh, terrific. And who else knows about this?'
'No one. Just Elena. And I trust Elena a lot more than I trust you.'
Fergus reached into a pocket and took out the phone. 'Is this pay as you go?'
'Course it is, I can't afford a contract phone. I'm an orphan, remember?'
'Don't make any calls, just check your messages,' said Fergus, handing Danny the phone. 'If you can find a way of locating phones, I'm sure Fincham can. But we'll be well away from here long before it's any good to him.'
Danny switched on the mobile. He had five new voicemails and three texts. 'They'll all be from Elena.'
'Just check the texts, the voicemails will take too long.'
Danny checked the first text and Fergus read it with him: Wher r u amp; y dont u ans fone. Its v 18. Im worried
'Stupid bloody language,' said Fergus as he worked out what the message meant.
The second text read: Danny!!! Wots going on?? DTR asking questions. Please call!!!
'What's DTR mean?' asked Fergus.
'It stands for Dave the Rave, the bloke who runs Foxcroft. He's all right.'
The final text had been sent at nine o'clock that morning. Something bad must hve hapened 2 u. If i dnt hear in nxt hour im telling dave wots bin going on. I must so please please call.
Fergus looked at his watch. It was nine forty-two. 'She sounds a bit flaky.'
'Flaky?' said Danny angrily. 'Elena's not flaky, she's worried about me. A lot more worried than you've ever been.'
'Yeah, all right, enough,' snapped Fergus. 'You've done the hurt grandson bit and I've got the message. But what I am worried about now is keeping us both alive.'
'Us? You keep saying us. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I'm out of this. You do what you like, I'm going back to London.'
'I can't let you do that.'
Danny laughed. 'How you gonna stop me? Tie me up? Shoot me? Fill me with cocaine?'
Their raised voices were beginning to attract the attention of Westcliff's strolling pensioners and Fergus decided to take a different line. 'All right. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe once Fincham knows you're back home and I'm nowhere around he'll question you and then leave you alone.'
'He will. And… and I won't tell him anything. I'm not saying I believe what you've told me, but…'
Fergus nodded. He had absolutely no intention of letting Danny walk into danger. For the moment, he was buying time. 'Tell you what, I'll come with you. Just to see you safely back.'
'There's no need.'
'Probably not, but let me anyway. Then I'll get out of your life. Send your friend one text. Tell her not to worry and that you'll be back in about three hours. And tell her-'
'Yeah, I know,' interrupted Danny. 'Tell her not to make any more calls or send texts to this phone.' He switched on the phone and punched in his text, knowing that Elena would be furious at getting such a brief message.
When Danny had finished, Fergus took the phone and removed the simcard. 'I'll get you another one later. But now I'm going to buy you some new clothes.'
'What?'
'You want to look your best when you get back, don't you?
They obviously had very different ideas on what constituted 'looking your best'.
On the main shopping drag Fergus found a charity shop, and after checking there was no CCTV installed, led Danny inside. He went straight to the racks of clothes.
'See anything you fancy?'
'I'm not wearing these rejects.'
Fergus grabbed an anorak from the clothes rail and thrust it into Danny's hands. 'Do this for me, Danny. I don't want you picked up outside Foxcroft. You were followed all day yesterday, so they know what you were wearing. So choose some gear and let's get out of here.'
Five minutes later they left the shop with a carrier bag full of clothes. 'We can change on the train,' said Fergus, who was already wearing a newly purchased flat cap.
'You look a right dickhead in that,' said Danny as they walked down to the small station.