Andy McNab - Boy soldier

Fergus turned the vehicle onto the main road, heading south, and then looked into the rear-view mirror at Danny. 'The man down,' he said. 'He was the reporter, right?'

Danny hadn't uttered a single word since flinging himself into the car. He looked at the mirror and saw his grandfather's eyes boring into him. 'Eddie,' he whispered eventually. 'Eddie Moyes.'

Fergus nodded. 'You deal with it, Danny. Like I told you. Remember? You deal with it.'

Danny didn't reply, but gazed out through the shattered side window and fought back the tears that were beginning to sting his eyes.

They drove on in silence; Fergus planning, Danny and Elena desperately tired but unable to force from their minds the nightmarish visions of the forest.

Fergus skirted around the town of Thetford and crossed from Norfolk into Suffolk. 'Anyone else know you were in Norfolk, Elena?' he said at last.

'Just my dad,' she answered. 'I'm meant to be meeting him back in London today.'

'You will. Go back as if nothing happened. Fincham doesn't know about you, the survivors back in the forest didn't see you, and as for the other woman…' His voice trailed off.

'What about her? Why did she let us go?'

'I don't know. But it means she won't be talking to Fincham about you. Danny and me have to go away – we might need your help again.'

Traffic was beginning to build, most of it travelling in the opposite direction – trucks, cars, some of them towing caravans. The normal, everyday world was closing around them.

Elena looked at Danny, and reached out and took one of his hands in hers. 'Of course,' she said. 'Anything.'

Six months later The spring morning was not just warm, it was hot. Shirtsleeves weather.

The flags hung limply over the burger bar in the still, humid air. Business was brisk, with regulars as well as early season holidaymakers on their way to the south coast.

Burgers and bacon sizzled on the hotplate. Dean was cooking and Frankie was pouring tea.

Two of their regulars, young Londoners called Paul and Benny, were tucking into bacon sandwiches. They were builders, recently arrived in the area with a get-rich-quick plan to buy derelict houses, do them up and sell them on for a big profit. But so far they seemed to be spending most of their time at Frankie's.

'I'm glad we found you, Frankie,' said Paul, stirring sugar into a steaming mug of tea. 'This is the only place round here where you can get a decent cuppa.'

Benny nodded. 'Yeah, and Dean's cooking is almost as good as my mum's.'

Frankie smiled. 'No hay ningun lugar como el hogar.'

Benny swallowed a mouthful of tea. 'What's that mean, then?'

'There's no place like home,' said Dean, turning over a burger on the griddle.

'True. Very true,' said Benny. His friend nodded and they bit into their sandwiches and turned to watch the traffic go by.

Elena had been true to her word. She'd helped, mainly with cash. After Joey had taken his share, much of her remaining money went into funding the escape and the setting up of the new business.

And business was booming. Elena was already getting her cash back, paid through various banks directly into her building society account.

Frankie glanced over at Dean as he refilled the brown sauce bottle on the countertop. He'd seen that distant look many times over the past six months. 'You'll see her again one day,' he said.

'So you keep telling me,' answered Dean. 'But when?'

Frankie turned away; they'd had this discussion before. 'When it's safe.'

The two builders came back to the counter as they finished their sandwiches. 'Two more of these, Dean. You are one great cook.'

Dean smiled and tossed more bacon onto the griddle. As it sizzled and spat he whispered to himself, 'No hay ningun lugar como el hogar.'

*

It was a warm day in London. George Fincham was, as always, in his office early, drinking coffee from his favourite bone-china cup and gazing out of the window, downriver.

There was a knock on the door. 'Come.'

Marcie Deveraux entered, looking as elegant as ever, her face showing no sign of the extensive dental work she'd had since her encounter with Fergus Watts.

She was holding a single sheet of paper. 'Watts and the boy, sir, there's been a possible sighting.'

Fincham remained calm, but he felt his heart quicken. The coffee cup trembled slightly in his hand. 'Where?'

Deveraux slid the sheet of paper across the desk. 'Spain.'

Some time later… Danny stared at the printed sheet and sighed with irritation. 'Look, what's the point in learning this stuff?'

'Because some day we might depend on it. If we can't communicate, we can't operate efficiently. So you need to learn to tap out at least five words a minute.'

Danny laughed. 'Five words! There's mobiles, and e-mails, and MSN, and satellite phones – we can talk for hours. But you've got me learning dots and stupid dashes just so I can send five words in a minute in Morse code. Big deal!'

Fergus wasn't smiling. 'If you spent a bit less time taking the piss and a bit more doing as you're told, you'd make things a lot easier for both of us,' he snarled. 'Those five words could mean the difference between life and death. It works, Danny, always has and always will. Modern technology can let you down, even if you're lucky enough to have it, which we're not.'

'Yeah, but-'

'Just shut up and listen. I was on a job in the Middle East when the sat phone I was using got soaked in a flash flood. That was it, end of sat phone, almost end of me. It was Morse code that got me out in one piece.'

He picked up a pencil and pulled a sheet of paper from Danny's notepad. 'We'll need a couple of code words.'

'Code words? Why?'

'Questions,' sighed Fergus, 'always questions. If ever we do make contact using Morse I'll start with my code word, and that's all I'll give you until you come back with your word. That way we'll be certain we're talking to each other, and no one else.' 'So what are they then, these code words?'

Fergus began writing down the Morse code, groups of dots and dashes, each short series representing a single letter. -….-.-. -…-.

'That's my word,' he said. 'Now yours, and I'll keep it short.' -…-.-.

'So what's it mean?' asked Danny as his grandfather passed the paper to him.

Fergus put down the pencil and sat back. 'Work it out,' he said. 'And then remember it.' www.boy-soldier.co.uk Read an extract from the next thrilling adventure in the Boy Soldier sequence:

McNAB and ROBERT RIGBY

Big Ben struck midday as he walked through Parliament Square. The spring sun was warm, almost hot, but he kept his brand-new puffa jacket zipped up to the neck. A police car siren sounded, and he turned to watch the driver skilfully manoeuvre his vehicle through the snarl of traffic and on towards Westminster Bridge.

He was feeling slightly apprehensive, but at the same time elated. At last he was about to do something meaningful, something significant. Waiting at the pedestrian crossing, he smiled and gently squeezed the few twists of green garden twine nestling in the palm of his right hand. For comfort.

As the traffic lights turned to red and the green man flashed on, he crossed with the rest of the crowd waiting at the kerbside. Japanese tourists walked with their camcorders at arm's length, watching their screens while filming the imposing, magnificent buildings. Motorbike couriers revved their engines, impatient for the lights to change.

He joined the queue outside St Stephen's Entrance, the public access point to the Houses of Parliament. Armed police watched impassively as the line of visitors slowly shuffled towards the wide entrance doors leading to the X-ray machine and the metal detector blocking the corridor about fifteen metres inside the building.