Boy soldier bs-1 Read online

  While Danny was on the phone, Elena went back to the online search engine. She punched in 'SAS' and was rewarded with a list of sites ranging from Scandinavian Airlines to Surfers Against Sewage.

  'Idiot,' said Elena to herself. 'Use your brain, Elena, be specific.' She typed in 'Special Air Services Regiment'. There were pages and pages dedicated to the Regiment. Most were tribute sites run by wannabe warriors or SAS anoraks.

  But Elena worked quickly online, swiftly deciding which sites could be discounted and which needed checking out. Eventually she logged onto the SAS Association, an organization for ex-members of the Regiment.

  'Nice one,' she said, making a note of the contact phone number. She shut down the computer and hurried out to the garden.

  Danny got through to the SAS Association and after a few brief words was put on hold. He paced impatiently up and down a small patch of grass between two flowerbeds and glanced over at Elena. She had taken his place on the garden bench and was staring at an unopened blue airmail letter she held in both hands. The envelope was addressed to her and bore an unusual stamp.

  'Aren't you gonna open that?'

  Before Elena could answer, the phone line crackled and a woman's voice came on: 'You did say S. Watts, caller?'

  Danny sighed. 'No, F. F for Fergus.'

  'And you say he left the Regiment about ten years ago?'

  'Something like that. I think he'd be about fifty-two or -three now.'

  'Just one moment, caller, I'll check again. You do realize that if he is listed I can't give you an address or number?'

  'He's my granddad. I just want to know if he's still alive.'

  The woman sounded sympathetic. 'Oh, dear, that's a shame. Putting you on hold, then.'

  She was back in less than a minute. 'We do have a Watts, but he's much more recent. Wrong generation completely. They don't all join the association when they leave, you know. Some just seem to… disappear.'

  'Oh great,' said Danny. 'Now what do I do?'

  It was a question that he didn't expect to have answered, but the woman obviously wanted to help. 'Did you say you were calling from London?'

  'Yeah, and I'm running out of credit on my mobile.'

  'Well, you could try the Victory Club. A lot of the old and bold go there. Someone might remember him.' It wasn't much, but it was a lead. 'Thanks, thanks a lot,' said Danny. 'Bye.' He went over to the bench and sat next to Elena. The envelope was still unopened. 'From your dad?'

  Elena didn't sound happy. 'Who else do I know in Nigeria?'

  'Don't you want to know what it says?'

  'I already know. He's realized the money my mum saved is there for me now, and he wants it. Money's the only thing he's ever been interested in.'

  Since turning sixteen, Elena had been allowed to use the money her mum had left her. So far, she had delved into the savings only once, to buy her laptop plus the hardware needed to turn the Foxcroft broadband connection into a hot zone. It meant she could use her machine wire-free anywhere in the building. Elena already had her future mapped out. After university she planned to become a computer scientist, so her state-of-the-art laptop was no toy, it was an investment.

  Danny reached over and checked out the stamp on the letter. 'Read it. Maybe you're wrong, and at least you've got someone who wants to be in contact.'

  Elena hesitated. She'd been disappointed by her father so many times before. The single birthday card she'd received over the past eight years was tucked away at the back of a desk drawer in her room, along with the one letter he'd written to her mum asking for money. He'd even got Elena's age wrong on the card. But now this. She handed the envelope to Danny. 'You read it.'

  'Me?'

  'I've been doing things for you for hours, it's your turn to do something for me. If he mentions the money once, just once, I want you to tell me. Then I can tear it up and throw it away.'

  Danny slipped a thumb under one corner of the envelope and sliced it open. It wasn't a long letter – two pages of cheap, lined paper torn from a notebook – but Danny carefully read every scruffily written word, aware all the time that Elena was deliberately looking in the other direction. When he finished reading, Danny refolded the two sheets of paper and handed them back. 'You don't have to tear it up.'

  Elena said nothing but she was pleased. And relieved. She unfolded the pages and began to read.

  5

  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.'

  6

  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 bus was crowded but Danny managed to find a seat downstairs. He glanced around at the other passengers. Most were gazing zombie-like at the television monitor at the front as it relentlessly repeated adverts for W H Smith and Woolworths.

  But Danny had other things on his mind. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the old photograph of his grandfather with his two army friends. Elena had carefully joined the two halves together with clear sellotape so that the tear was barely visible.

  Danny looked at the bright-eyed young man smiling back at him and saw for the first time that it was almost like staring into a mirror. Fergus would have been in his early twenties when the photograph was taken, not many years older than Danny was now.

  They were so alike in looks, if nothing else. Fergus was a little taller than average, just like Danny. He looked strong, but wiry rather than muscular, just like Danny. His face was lean, his smile was wide and his eyes were clear and piercing, just like Danny's.

  As Danny studied the black-and-white image, he wondered again what had turned the smiling, cheerful-looking young squaddie into the cynical veteran his grandfather had become. But he knew the answer. Money. Nothing more and nothing less. It made him burn with rage. He turned the photograph over. Scribbled in faded ink was: Watts 8654 – 2/6 to pay. He knew that 2/6 was how old money was written but had no idea what the other numbers meant.

  The bus came to a sudden halt as, up ahead, a delivery van double-parked outside a parade of shops.

  That's the bus held in traffic. Jimmy still has. Can't see Bravo One.'

  Jimmy idled the TDM's powerful 8
50cc engine. He didn't like being in situations like this: motorbike riders don't usually hang around in traffic jams.

  Fran was at the kerbside as the Golf drew up. There was no hurry as she got into the car, she did nothing to arouse the interest of any inquisitive passer-by. But the moment they were on the move she went onto the radio net.

  That's Fran complete.'

  Jimmy answered.

  'Roger that. Jimmy still has bus, slow moving towards the lights. Can anyone at the next bus stop?'

  The silver Nissan was just three vehicles behind the TDM.

  'Brian can.'

  'Roger that, Brian. Lights to red, we are going to be held.'

  Mick was steering the Golf through quieter back-streets, following Fran's directions as she checked the route of the 36 bus in one of their map books.

  This is Mick. We'll jump ahead on the bus route.'

  The traffic lights changed and the bus pulled slowly away.

  'Stand by, stand by. Lights to green. Can you now, Brian?'

  'Brian can.'

  Jimmy opened the bike's throttle and squeezed the bike through a gap between the lumbering double-decker and a van travelling in the other direction. On the lower deck, Danny heard the throaty growl of the TDM and glanced through the window as the bike roared by. He was into bikes in a big way and had promised himself one as soon as he joined the army. He shook his head; that was another plan his granddad had cocked up.

  'Brian has the bus. That's indicators on.'

  The bus came to a standstill and Brian pulled in behind a line of parked cars.

  'Stop, stop, stop. Brian has the trigger. Doors open, people getting off. Wait…'

  The rest of the team listened to hear if Danny was about to go foxtrot again.

  'That's doors closed, no sign of Bravo One. Indicators on, that's the bus mobile.'

  The bizarre game of vehicular leapfrog continued through the streets of south-east London and on towards the heart of the capital. As the bus neared Marble Arch, Danny got up from his seat and moved towards the doors.