Andy McNab - Brute force

Shouts in Spanish echoed around the ship. Their search had begun. I sucked in more air and tightened myself up, as if that was going to make me smaller behind the lockers.

The doors opened and a torch beam flicked around the engine room. The main lights came on. Two seconds later, the muzzle of a 5.56mm assault rifle was pressing into my cheek.

I let them shout and holler. It was pointless trying to explain, even if they did speak English. I put my hands behind my head. It's always best to do that.

They pushed me down onto the floor, and gave me a proper going over. My hands were plasticuffed behind my back. A couple of unseen hands hauled me to my feet and dragged me towards the stairs. Lads were already at work on the device. I wasn't the only one who'd been well briefed. I just hoped I was part of their int.

I came out of the door into brilliant sunshine. I squinted like a mole. There wasn't a cloud in the blue Mediterranean sky.

The ship bobbed up and down in the swell. There were a couple of coastguard cutters tied up alongside. I looked down onto the deck of the first one and saw five pairs of eyes burning up at me. It didn't take a brain surgeon to work out what had happened. Duff's eyes burned the fiercest.

The Spanish boss looked over at me too. There was lots of nodding and more shouting. He had a series of pictures on a clipboard. He bellowed something at his troops and I was pushed to my knees. Then, like a fucking idiot, he gave me a nod and carried on. That was me well and truly fucked, even if there were a couple of lads in the crew who couldn't work out what I was.

I was helped down into the second cutter. As soon as I was aboard, the handcuffs were taken off and I was given a bowl of hot chocolate.

'You fucking shite! We'll get you one day!' Duff yelled his farewell as we pulled away.

He might have been right, for all I knew. But they'd have to join the queue.

Dun Laoghaire, Republic of Ireland December 2007 If I drank any more tea I was going to die of tannin poisoning, but how could I turn her away? Ruby was getting too much of a kick out of going up to the counter and ordering like a grown-up. Besides, it was fun watching the eight-year-old coping with the motion of the ferry as she waitressed the cups back to us.

She waved excitedly at Tallulah and me from the queue and then grinned and pulled a face at a girl behind her who seemed to be doing a Steven Spielberg of her trip with a handheld camcorder. They both laughed and fell into the kind of animated conversation that girls of any age seem to be able to have with complete strangers.

'How old is that girl behind Ruby? Or is she a woman? When do you start calling a girl a woman? Twenty? Thirty?'

Tallulah looked up from her magazine and followed my gaze. 'Depends, I guess. Some are women at twenty. Some are still girls at thirty.'

I looked out of the window. Only a few minutes ago all I could see was slate-grey sea and clear blue sky; now a frost-covered Ireland was filling it up fast. Last time I did this crossing by boat, I was a young squaddie aboard a Royal Corps of Transport ferry from Liverpool docks. The boats were flat-bottomed for beach landings, which turned the Irish Sea into a rollercoaster – and the ride usually lasted all night. Catamarans with jet engines were definitely the way to go. Stena Line's finest had whisked us here in ninety minutes flat. In fact, the crossing had taken us less time than it had to get from Tallulah and Ruby's house to the M4. The traffic leaving London had been so bad I wondered if I'd missed an announcement about an outbreak of the Ebola virus in Piccadilly.

Ruby delivered the latest two cups with a theatrical flourish as the tannoy announced we would soon be docking at Dun Laoghaire. Would all car passengers kindly return to their vehicles?

Or, in our case, Avis's vehicle: a supercharged Mercedes C Class estate, with all the bells and whistles. They were so proud of it when I collected it from the Mayfair office, I didn't like to trouble them with the news that I was taking it out of the UK.

'So what were you plotting and scheming with your new best friend up there?'

'She's nice. I said about the surprise. I said me and Tally don't even know where we're going for our holiday!'

'What did she say to that?'

'She said have a happy Christmas.'

'And that's exactly what we will do.'

'Where?'

I pretended to start spilling the beans but caught myself just in time. 'Nearly got me!'

'That's lovely! The whole family. Come on, Ruby, say cheese!' Up close I could see that Ruby's new friend looked more Eastern European than Irish, but the accent was pure Belfast.

Ruby turned and started waving at the lens.

I stood up and smiled apologetically. 'Just off to the toilet.' Old habits died hard; I just never felt comfortable in front of a camera.

'What's your mammy and daddy's names then?'

Tallulah wasn't impressed. 'Sorry, I feel uncomfortable about you filming my daughter. Please stop.'

By the time I'd got back Tallulah had gathered up the dozen or so magazines she'd bought at various motorway service stations yesterday and Miss Spielberg had gone.

Tallulah was on edge. 'I just don't like it. You never know where the footage could end up. There are some weird people out there.'

I wasn't about to disagree. Ruby's dad Pete had caught me on film not so long ago in Iraq, and when he was killed I'd ended up on a nationwide TV tribute to the guy. I was only on screen for a nanosecond, and I doubted I'd have featured in Gary Glitter's personal collection, but I didn't like it one bit.

I'd forgotten what it was like to travel with an eight-year-old. Ruby had a bladder the size of a walnut and we'd had to stop at almost every service station on the way to the ferry yesterday. Every time we did, Tallulah had found another couple of magazines she needed. I kind of understood, but couldn't help feeling that Heat and Grazia weren't going to fill the void left by Pete's death; it was the size of the Grand Canyon. I felt it too, and I'd only known him for about five minutes.

This had been a bit of a last-minute affair, so we hadn't been able to fly; every seat had been booked on every plane out of the UK since about September, and so had every hotel room from Land's End to the tip of Jockland. I'd only phoned Tallulah a few days ago to see how she and Ruby were doing, and discovered that actually neither of them was doing very well at all. Tallulah couldn't bear the thought of their first festive season alone without Pete, so I'd offered to take them away. Luckily for us, the cottage was still available, and since Brits were wary of the Irish Sea in winter there was space on the ferry.

Tallulah stood up. She was tall, and her long wavy blonde hair made her seem even taller. She looked and dressed like a Notting Hill trust-fund hippie, but nothing could have been further from the truth. She and Pete had worked hard for everything.

The car deck was freezing and stank of diesel fumes. Coats and bags were stuffed into impossibly small spaces and doors and tailgates slammed before the wacky races to get out of the docks and onto the motorway began.

We squeezed between a couple of trucks to get to our gleaming Merc. It had cost a fortune to hire – even though I hadn't bothered with the insurance waivers – but I couldn't just cram these two into a budget hatchback after all that they'd been through in the last few months.

The car was packed to the gunwales with towels and duvets and brightly coloured suitcases. Somewhere underneath it all was my stuff: toothbrush – one; pants, socks, T-shirts – three: one on, one clean, one in the wash. Including their present, it fitted into a small holdall.