Boy Soldier

by Andy McNab

  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:

  YOU WANNA TRY IT GOLA? I KNOW YOU WANT TO. I GOT THE SCRIPT. Y OR N?

  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.

  YOU WANNA SEND IT? Y OR N?

  This time Elena didn't stop to think. She hit Y again.

  There was a delay of a few seconds and then the progress bar came up on the screen and the download started.

  REMEMBER GOLA, YOU GET CAUGHT ITS REAL JAIL TIME.

  The pop-up disappeared as the bar slowly filled. About halfway it stopped; nothing was happening. Elena kept her hands off the keyboard, fearing she might mess up if she tried to intervene. She was nervous and the thought struck her that perhaps she'd been discovered and the police were on their way.

  But Black Star came back:

  GOLA, YOU'RE IN! YOU WANNA EXECUTE THE SOFTWARE?

  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.

  Joey was sitting in the garden, drinking an early morning cup of tea and smoking one of the disgusting black cheroots he'd brought with him from Nigeria.

  'Morning, darling,' he beamed as Elena approached. 'Sleep good?'

  'Can you drive, Dad?' asked Elena urgently.

  'Drive? Sure I can drive, honey.'

  'Have you got a licence?'

  Joey gave his daughter a reproachful look. 'Elena, you should know by now, I don't do nothing illegal.'

  'I need you to drive me to Norfolk.'

  'What!' Joey almost choked on his cheroot.

  'It's in East Anglia.'

  'I know where it is, darling, I lived here, remember? But why—?'

  'My best friend is in trouble and I have to help. The house is in the middle of nowhere so I can't get there quickly by train. We'll hire a car – I'll pay, but we must—'

  'Slow down, slow down,' said Joey, getting up from the bench. 'We have things to do, Elena. Sonny's waiting for a decision and we can't just leave—'

  'You can have the money!'

  Joey stared. 'What?'

  'You can have the money,' said Elena again. 'Some of it. And you can do what you want with it. Spend it, invest it, give it to Sonny, I don't care. But first you've got to take me to Norfolk.'

  Joey took a last drag of his cheroot and threw the butt onto the ground. 'I'll go get my driving licence.'

  Thunder rolled around the sky as Eddie Moyes sat in the hotel overlooking Blakeney Quay and watched the rain beat against the windows.

  Eddie was in a foul mood. He'd woken up with indigestion and a well bad hangover, but had forced himself out of bed and driven to Blakeney to meet the incoming tide, and Colonel Meacher.

  But although the tide arrived, Meacher didn't. Eddie waited and watched on the quayside, and when the storm broke he retreated to the hotel and a much needed black coffee. But still not a single boat came up the creek.

  Eddie sat and nursed his coffee as another clap of thunder boomed out overhead. He knew what had gone wrong. Meacher must have had a mobile phone on the boat and his wife had called to warn him that a reporter would be waiting when he returned. So he'd gone into one of the other little harbours along the coast. And no doubt Mrs Meacher would have been waiting in the car to drive the colonel home.

  So Eddie sipped his coffee and worked out Plan B. He was going to drive over to the colonel's house and doorste
p him if necessary. And he wouldn't leave until he had the information he wanted. But not just yet. He needed at least two more black coffees. And maybe a couple of biscuits.

  The windscreen wipers on George Fincham's Mercedes were going at double speed. They were already in Norfolk, having made good time along the M11 and then the All trunk road through Cambridgeshire and into Norfolk. They reached a place called Brandon, where they were held up for the first time as a train passed over a level crossing.

  They had spoken very little since leaving London, Fincham preferring to listen to the rolling news on Radio Five Live. That suited Marcie Deveraux. This was a difficult and delicate job, and the more time she had to think and prepare herself for all possibilities the better.

  The car phone rang as they cleared Brandon and the last stretches of Thetford Forest. It was already switched to hands-free and Fran responded instantly to Fincham's curt 'Yes?'

  'Last night's job completed with no problems, sir. The body was discovered early this morning and the police are treating it as an accident.'

  Deveraux turned to Fincham. 'Body? What body?'

  Fincham took his left hand from the steering wheel and gestured for Deveraux to wait. 'And Moyes?'

  'Still in Blakeney, sir.'

  'Well done, Fran. Wait out, I'll call you back.'

  The rain was beginning to ease. Fincham ended the call and switched the windscreen wipers back to normal speed. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road as he spoke to Deveraux. 'Meacher was a serious security risk, an old man who knew too much. Had Moyes talked him into revealing details of the deniable operators policy it could have led to severe embarrassment. Questions in the House, newspaper scandal. Best avoided.'

  'So we killed him?' Deveraux was struggling to keep her temper in check. 'Just in case he said the wrong thing?'

  Fincham still didn't look towards her as he replied. 'Meacher died in a tragic boating accident, Marcie.'

  'But you could have consulted me on this, sir. Asked my opinion.'

  This time Fincham did turn to Deveraux when he spoke. His eyes were cold and hard. 'I have high hopes for you, Marcie, very high. But I run the section my way and I make the decisions. Remember that.'

  Deveraux didn't respond. There were many things she could have said, and wanted to say, but her ongoing mission was more important. So she held her tongue and regained her usual composure before speaking again. 'Sir, as you knew what was happening last night, why are we going through with this trip?'

  'We're going to offer Mrs Meacher our condolences and at the same time we can establish exactly what she does or doesn't know.'

  He saw Deveraux glance quickly towards him and smiled at her. 'No, Marcie, I'm not anticipating any sort of unfortunate accident as far as Mrs Meacher is concerned. Get back to Fran, will you? Tell her to lift off Moyes for now. I want the team to get a trigger on Meacher's house so that it's secure for our arrival. I don't want any interruptions.'

  Deveraux reached for the car phone. 'And what about Moyes, sir?'

  'We'll pick him up later. Once he learns of Meacher's demise, he'll concentrate on finding Watts, which is exactly what we want him to do.'

  The rain had stopped and the windscreen wipers squeaked over dry glass. Fincham switched them off. 'And then we can bring this operation to a satisfactory conclusion.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Deveraux softly. 'Exactly.'

  30

  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.'