Andy McNab - Boy soldier

And as far as Sonny was concerned it wasn't just Joey and Elena who were benefiting from his benevolence. 'The people back home in Africa are fortunate I can provide this service for them. Of course I make money, I'm a businessman, but I also consider I'm doing my bit for the third-world countries.'

'Yeah, you're all heart, Sonny,' whispered Elena to herself. After nearly an hour she couldn't take any more. She tugged at Joey's sleeve and spoke quietly to him. 'Dad, I'd like to go now. Tell him we'll think about it.'

'Sure, darling,' answered Joey. 'But you sure you learned enough?'

'Yeah, more than enough.'

Sonny wasn't pleased about them leaving; he'd obviously been expecting a quick and easy kill. 'Don't be too long making your mind up,' he called as they went. 'There are other investors looking to get in on this.'

The north Norfolk coastline stretches away from the resorts of Cromer and Sheringham in a long semicircle of flat beaches of fine sand or shingle. The wind blows in from the Russian Steppes, driving away many of the bucket-and-spade brigade.

Serious hikers stride along the shingle banks to catch a glimpse of the seals basking in the sunshine off Blakeney Point. And birdwatchers gaze out through powerful binoculars, hoping for a sighting of some rare feathered visitor to British shores.

But most visitors leave as the sunlight starts to fade. That's what Fergus was counting on. Darkness was approaching as he and Danny walked down the narrow road leading to the isolated stretch of beach he had chosen for their overnight stop. At the bottom of the road was a small deserted car park.

Danny was tired. They'd had a long walk since getting off the train at its end-of-the-line halt. 'There's nothing here,' he said irritably.

'That's the idea,' replied Fergus. 'We won't be disturbed and we're close enough to Meacher's place to get there early in the morning.'

But they weren't quite alone. As they reached the top of the sandy bank that met the beach they spotted two vehicles that had been driven through a gap in the bank onto the beach itself. One was an old Transit, its sides painted with multi-coloured flowers. The other was an even more battered-looking VW camper van, with curtained windows and a roof that opened to give standing room inside.

Near the vans, straggle-haired children played in the sand and a ponytailed guy threw bits of driftwood onto a bonfire.

'Hippies,' said Fergus. 'They won't bother us.'

Fergus led Danny further down the beach where three salt-stained, dark wooden sheds stood. 'Fishermen use these to keep their gear in. It'll do for the night.'

Danny looked at the three doors, each one protected by a heavy padlock. 'And what about the locks?'

His grandfather went to the door of the last shed. The lock was a large round combination with a black disc on the front and numbers from one to a hundred. 'Take off one of your trainers.'

Danny was learning not to question his grandfather's orders, however weird they might sound. As he slipped off one of his Nike Airs, Fergus twisted the lock to expose the shiny steel back. 'Now hit the lock with the heel of your trainer.'

Danny slapped down the trainer, hitting his grandfather's hand as much as the lock. 'Go on, keep hitting it.'

The trainer thumped down on the lock a second and then a third time, and as Danny lifted his arm for a fourth attempt, Fergus unhooked the lock and handed it to his grandson. 'The springs inside these things shake about if you hit them with something soft, like a rubber mallet. Or the soles of trainers.'

Inside, the shed was dark and gloomy. It smelled of fish and looked as though it was rarely used. There were curled lengths of rope, fishing nets, buoyancy floats and a rusting anchor on the floor. But there was plenty of room for Fergus and Danny to spread out their sleeping bags. It would be a reasonably comfortable night.

Eddie Moyes was enjoying himself. He'd taken a slow and leisurely drive up to north Norfolk and was comfortably settled in for the night at a pub with a reputation for good beds and great food.

He was well pleased with his accommodation. Now it was time for dinner. As he sipped his second pint of real ale, there was only one important decision to make: whether to go for the steak or the seafood platter.

The menu informed him that the seafood was locally caught and famed throughout the county. It was tempting, very tempting, but then there was nothing Eddie liked more than a thick, juicy steak, rare to medium and served with onion rings, chips and just a little salad. He didn't like too much green stuff getting in the way of his steak. Eventually he decided to ask for a smaller version of the seafood platter as a starter. Not too much smaller, of course.

During the long drive up Eddie had thought a lot about his recent night out in the country, when Watts's cottage had been hit. He reckoned the hit team were most likely MI6: they were the ones with the ongoing interest in Fergus. But what he couldn't figure out was the total silence ever since. Why no official announcement that a dangerous fugitive was on the run? Eddie's reporter's nose smelled cover-up. And if that was true it made an even better story.

Tomorrow he would talk to Meacher, even though Mrs Meacher had given no guarantees that her husband would agree to an interview. But Eddie was confident that his skills at flattery and persuasion would win through. He reckoned that everyone liked to see their name in print, as long as they were talking about someone else.

According to Mrs Meacher, the colonel was due back on tomorrow morning's tide, but Eddie had changed his mind about telephoning before turning up at their home. That would give Meacher time to think about things and maybe refuse to talk. Eddie's new plan was to be waiting on the quayside when the colonel arrived.

The pub was pleasantly crowded and Eddie was seated on a stool at one end of the bar with his back resting against the wall. He preferred to drink at the bar until his food was ready.

A youngish man walked up to the bar with two empty glasses and ordered two halves of lager. Eddie was in the mood for conversation. 'Nice place, eh?'

The man smiled. 'Very nice. Local, are you?'

Eddie laughed. 'Me? No, I'm up from London on business for a couple of days.' He picked up the bedroom key with its large wooden fob that had been resting on the bar. 'I'm staying here, though. Lovely room they've given me. Ensuite bathroom, double bed, view over the garden, the lot.'

'Sounds tempting.' The man paid for his drinks, nodded a goodbye and went over to a table on the other side of the bar where a second man was already seated. 'Room three. It's just a two-lever key. Easy.'

Fincham's team had followed Eddie from the moment he'd left his flat that morning.

The night air was thick as the oncoming storm slowly built. Danny was sitting on the sand in the darkness. He could just make out the shoreline as the heavy swell relentlessly lifted and turned against the shingle.

Fergus was in the shed, checking the kit and the route for the morning trek to Meacher's house.

From further along the beach the sound of voices and laughter drifted up from the hippy encampment. Four figures sat hunched around the bonfire. The kids had obviously been packed off to their beds. The firelight was inviting and Danny watched for a moment and then stood up.

At first he thought all four people huddled around the fire were women, but as they heard his approaching footsteps and turned towards him, he saw that two of the fire-gazers had beards as well as long hair.

'Hey, man, welcome,' said the closest hippy. 'Come and join us.'

Danny mumbled a 'thanks' and sank down on the sand, close by the fire.

'We saw you arrive earlier,' said the one of the woman. 'I'm Columbine and that's Rosemary. And those two layabouts are Rupert and Clive.'