Andy McNab - Crossfire

I followed her through double doors that had been punched through the dividing wall. She offered me a blue velvet two-seater on one side of the low coffee-table and sat down opposite.

The fireplace to my left was tiled. The black grate was far too shiny ever to have been used. The mantelpiece was covered with all the usual pictures of two people's lives together, but instead of picnics on the beach or family gatherings, they featured sailing boats or horses. There were also several of the same boy, from about ten to his teens.

'That Finbar? He's twenty now, isn't he?' There hadn't been much in the file about the boy either, only his name and DOB.

She stared at the row of grinning faces. 'Twenty-one this August.'

'He's the spitting image of you.' I kept my eyes on the frames. 'He still living here, or has he legged it?'

She turned back to her coffee. 'He's gone now.'

'This is the time you get to see more of Dom, eh?'

She gave another weak smile, but concentrated on her cup. The silence quickly became uncomfortable.

'He at uni?'

'He works. He's in the financial sector.' There was no gush of pride from a beaming mother.

'Here in Dublin?'

She put down her cup and gave a couple of short sharp nods instead of an answer. 'Excuse me – my cigarettes.' She waved in the general direction of the kitchen. 'It's a filthy habit, do you mind?'

I stood up with her, all smiles. 'Course not. I won't send you to smoke on the street.'

I sat down again and sipped the brew. She returned in a cloud of smoke. Her hand shook slightly as she sucked at her cigarette. She hadn't brought the packet and the lighter with her. She wanted me out.

I raised my cup. 'Thanks for the coffee, Siobhan. Sorry again to barge in on you. Can I leave my mobile number in case you need to get in touch?'

She went over to a small table covered with style magazines. She pulled open a drawer stuffed with pens, pencils, electricity bills, all the normal shit. Nestling among it all was a grey mobile phone.

I stood up. 'Can I use your loo before I head off?'

She did her general wave once more. 'Through the kitchen, down the stairs. First on the right.'

I left as she pulled out a pen and something to write on.

Once in the toilet the first thing I checked was the window. It was a wooden sash, as I'd have expected in one of these houses, but this one was new. The frosted glass was double-glazed, with a decorative brass latch in the centre of the frame. A hole each side indicated an internal deadlock operated by a star key. It didn't worry me. Keys tend to be left in toilets so no one gets embarrassed after a big hot curry. I dug about in the unit under the sink cabinet and found what I was looking for, right next to the Toilet Duck.

I pressed the flush, and unwound both deadlocks while it was noisy. I left the latch closed, so everything looked normal.

I replaced the key in the cabinet, and washed my hands with plenty of scented liquid soap. I wanted her to know I'd gone where I'd said I would.

As I came out again, a motion detector in the hallway gave me a flicker of blue LED. So did another at the top of the stairs.

The door opposite opened easily. It was a teenager's room. There were posters on the wall but no bedding, just a folded duvet on the mattress.

I took a step inside. Even if Finbar had moved out, there might be something that would give me a clue as to where he was now. I didn't care what the Yes Man had said about the boy not being important. If I found him, I might find Dom. That was why the Yes Man hadn't got a river view.

Nothing stood out at first glance. The laptop looked steam-driven, and the GameBoy wasn't even from this century.

Then something caught my eye. A Vodafone USB modem. They'd only come out a few months ago, but you couldn't move for the adverts.

By the time I rejoined Siobhan, there was a blank index card and a pen waiting for me on the coffee-table. I sat down with a big smile. I could smell the soap on my hands as I wrote out my number.

I got to my feet and handed her the card.

She looked at it as we headed towards the front door. I kept my eyes busy. The alarm-system keypad was midway up the wall. Another little blue light flickered below the picture rail.

I hooked my holdall over my shoulder.

She glanced past me at the dark wet street. 'Don't you want me to call you a cab?'

'It's OK. I'm going to walk for a while.'

We shared a nod. 'Thanks again for the coffee.'

I headed down the steps, and when I hit the street, I turned right. My mobile was out the moment I heard the door shut.

I hit the new number I'd burnt into my brain. It was fine to talk in clear. These mobiles were secure. Calls were masked by white noise, courtesy of the Firm's version of the Brahms secure speech system, developed by GCHQ. Not even the NSA could eavesdrop.

It gave four rings.

I pulled up my collar against the damp. 'You're sure the house only has their two registered mobiles and the landline?'

I heard the rustle of paper at the other end. 'Only three numbers registered. Why?'

'And just a PC desktop on broadband, yeah?'

'Correct.'

'I need to check something out tonight. I'll call you.'

There was no reply. The telephone went dead. Not much of a one for small-talk, the Yes Man.

I didn't give a fuck. I was in control, and I planned to keep it that way.

I must have looked a complete dickhead as I checked into the Conrad with my holdall and the world's supply of cheap shopping bags. The other guests' bags said Gucci and Hugo Boss, but mine were from Spar, a corner chemist's, an electronics shack and a charity shop. The receptionist had raised an eyebrow at the half-drunk two-litre bottle of own-brand cola sticking out of one of the carriers.

It was just as well she hadn't seen the rest of the stuff now spread out on the bed in my very swanky room. There were a couple of shower caps, floral-patterned with some frilly stuff round the sides, a notebook and pencil, a box of forty pairs of surgical gloves, a pair of scissors, a little keyring torch, and a SIM-card reader that I'd have to work out how to use before I left.

I also had some fishing-line. I hadn't been able to find an angling shop, so I'd bought a reel of four-pound breaking-strain stuff off one of the guys on the banks of the Liffey. Twenty-pound would have been ideal, but this would have to do.

There'd been an amazing number of druggies down by the river. Even at this time of night, young guys looking like ghosts shivered under blankets beneath a bridge not a stone's throw from Bertie's Pole. I tried to talk to one to ask where the fishermen hung out, but he just stared back, too out of it to string an answer together. This city really did have a problem. But then again, show me one that didn't.

I had also bought new boxers and socks and a couple of long-sleeved T-shirts. I might be spending the Firm's money on this posh room but even I wouldn't squander it on hotel laundry when it was cheaper to buy new.

Especially for tonight, I'd bought some grey trousers in a charity shop and yet another shitty brown fleece. I'd also picked up a black balaclava I'd found on a shelf of odd gloves and woolly hats. In the old days, the housing-trust shop would have made a few bob selling them in this part of the world. I'd given the old dear at the till a big grin when I'd handed it over. 'Let the good times roll.'

None of the stuff needed much doing to it, apart from a bit of remodelling to the cola bottle. I poured myself another glass before tipping the rest away and giving it a rinse. Then I took off the wrapper, and cut off the top and bottom to leave an open cylinder. It was Blue Peter time. I cut up the side of the cylinder and flattened out the rectangle I'd created on the floor, then cut the biggest circle I could from its centre. It curled into a tight brandy snap as soon as I let it go and that was it, I was almost done.