Boy soldier bs-1

by Andy McNab

  'Four days,' replied Columbine. Danny didn't notice the slight change in her voice as she glanced at the others before continuing. 'It's probably time to move on tomorrow though. The summer's almost over.'

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Perhaps it was the sound of the waves against the shore, or perhaps it was the way he moved, but they didn't hear Fergus as he approached. But suddenly he was there, on the edge of the light from the fire, his eyes firmly fixed on Danny. No words were necessary. Danny knew exactly what his grandfather was thinking.

  'You must be Frankie,' said Columbine. 'Come and have some stew.'

  'No, no, you're all right,' replied Fergus quietly. 'I just came to get Dean.'

  'Oh, please stay for a while,' urged Rosemary. 'There's plenty left in the pot. Dean's been telling us about your walking trip.'

  Fergus appeared to relax a little, sensing that Danny hadn't given away any secrets.

  'Well, all right. It's kind of you.' He sat by the fire and took the bowl of stew that Columbine offered him and smiled as Rosemary made the introductions for a second time.

  'On holiday from work, are you?' asked Rupert.

  Fergus didn't hesitate. 'No, I don't work. Used to be a mechanic but I took early retirement when I got the chance.'

  When they'd finished eating, Rupert and Columbine stood and went to the Transit van. They were back a couple of minutes later. Rupert was carrying an acoustic guitar covered in Greenpeace and Save the Whale stickers and Columbine held a cardboard box. 'We usually have a bit of a sing-song after dinner,' she said as she took a tambourine from the box and gave it to Rosemary.

  She delved into the box again, took out what looked like a little tortoise with holes in its shell and offered it to Danny. 'Do you play the ocarina?'

  Danny shook his head, relieved to see that the tiny instrument she was holding was actually made of clay. Columbine smiled. 'You just put your fingers over the holes and blow.'

  Fergus stood up. 'We ought to be getting back. We're making an early start in the morning.'

  The hippies tried to change his mind, but this time Fergus insisted they leave. Back in the gloom of the shed Danny took the bollocking he was expecting. 'What the hell were you playing at? How many times do I have to tell you, we never, ever go off SOPs!'

  'I know! I just wanted to be with some normal people for a while.'

  'Normal? You think Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme back there are normal?'

  'They're a lot more normal than you.'

  'Look, Danny,' said Fergus angrily. 'You talked me into this, and I'm glad, because I can't run away for the rest of my life. But we have to do things my way, and that means sticking to SOPs.' He picked up Danny's sleeping bag and unravelled it. 'Now get some sleep. I'll take first shift on stag.'

  Danny crawled into his sleeping bag and lay in the darkness. The sounds of the sea mingled with the music of the hippies. One of the men was singing a song that droned on and on, and every so often the others joined in loudly, singing something about the times changing.

  They're wrong, thought Danny. The times already have changed.

  Getting into Eddie Moyes's room took Mick no more than a few seconds. His MOE wallet was about the size of a Filofax. Inside were basic master keys. The old-fashioned two-lever didn't even resist Mick's first selection as he turned the lock.

  Inside the room he used his mini Maglite and found what he was looking for in less than a minute. The notebook was inside Eddie's overnight bag.

  Mick put the notebook on the bed. He had plenty of time to work. Downstairs, Brian and Jimmy were keeping an eye on Moyes as he worked his way through his steak. Fran was outside in one of the vehicles.

  Hidden beneath the sweatshirt tucked into Mick's jeans was a hand-held digital scanner. It was about half the length of a sheet of A4 paper and a little wider. He pulled out the machine, switched on the power and pressed the scan button. A blue light shone through a semicircle of glass at the bottom of the scanner.

  Mick picked up the notebook with his free hand and began the quick and simple operation. He placed the scanner at the top of each page and ran it evenly down the paper. Every word on every page was captured and retained. As he worked, Mick felt twinges of pain from his back and his broken teeth. He managed a smile as he thought of the revenge he planned to take on Fergus Watts when he caught up with him.

  He scanned the final page and then carefully replaced the notebook exactly where he'd found it. Then he went on the net.

  'That's Mick finished. I'm coming out.'

  Eddie had finished his steak. He sat back in his chair, licked his lips and then drained the last of his pint. He was too content for the moment to go to the bar for another.

  The bar was getting rowdy. A group of leather-jacketed bikers had turned up earlier and had gradually got louder and more boisterous, especially the big one with the beer-soaked ginger beard. Drops of beer were dripping down onto his grubby Hell's Angels T-shirt.

  Eddie heard the sound of a glass breaking as the waitress arrived to take his dessert order. He frowned. 'Not the sort you'd expect in a nice place like this.'

  'Bunch of yobs,' replied the waitress. 'They act like they own this village. We've barred them once before and I can see it happening again before the night's out.'

  'You get them everywhere,' said Eddie with a sigh. 'I'll have the Death by Chocolate.'

  27

  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.'

&n
bsp; The last diners had left the hotel restaurant overlooking Blakeney Quay. The last drinkers had made their way from the pub. The last lights in the waterfront cottages had been extinguished.

  The team was ready, about to 'borrow' one of the RIBs moored to the quayside. It would have been easy just to steal the boat, power up the engine and hurtle off down the creek towards the sea. But the job Fincham wanted carried out had to look like an accident, so taking the boat had to be done covertly.

  The plan was simple. The RIB had been identified and selected an hour earlier, when there was still movement on the quayside. Now it was deserted.

  Jimmy had done a walk-by to check that nothing had changed since the boat was chosen. Now he was standing in the shadow of a building on one side of the quay. Mick was out of sight on the opposite side. They had the whole area covered. Fran and Brian were sitting in their vehicle waiting for the go-ahead.

  Jimmy got on the net.

  'Jimmy's static. All clear.'

  'Mick's static. All clear.'

  It was time for Fran and Brian to move. Fran went on the net.

  'Fran and Brian foxtrot.'

  They got out of the vehicle. No interior light came on to attract inquisitive eyes. On the back seat of the car were two red plastic fuel cans. There was an outboard on the RIB but no owner in his right mind would have left fuel in it.

  Fran locked the car and they walked towards the RIB. There was no need to talk or look around: Jimmy and Mick were covering them.

  Brian climbed down into the boat and then turned and took the fuel containers from Fran, who followed Brian into the RIB. He was already sitting on the boat's rubber side, starting to connect the fuel line that led from the massive Yamaha 75 engine to the first fuel container.

  The RIB was tied up to the quay in the conventional way with a knotted bowline, but then doubly secured with a motorbike lock and chain. Fran got busy with her MOE wallet. She put her Maglite in her mouth so she could use both hands and quickly found a key that worked.

  The RIB was almost ready to go. All Fran needed to do was study and remember the bowline knot. It had to be retied in exactly the same way when the boat was returned.

  Brian slowly removed the two paddles that were latched down on each side of the boat as Fran untied the knot. Then she went on the net.

  'That's Fran ready to go.'

  'Jimmy's foxtrot.'

  He picked up the sports bag at his feet and headed towards the RIB.

  Mick was also carrying a bag.

  'Mick's foxtrot.'

  They reached the quayside together and slowly got down into the boat before opening the bags. Inside were four sets of Gore-Tex jackets and trousers taken from their ready bags.

  Fran and Brian pushed the boat away from the quayside and began to paddle gently towards the sea while Mick and Jimmy started to get changed.

  28

  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.