Andy McNab: Boy soldier

They scrolled through the websites and got most of the information through old newspaper stories going back eight years. And they didn't make good reading, even though the Fergus Watts story started so well.

He'd been an excellent soldier and was eventually 'badged' into the SAS. He did tours of Northern Ireland at the height of the conflict, and in the first Gulf War was decorated for his work behind enemy lines. He rose to the rank of Warrant Officer and could have got out at the age of forty, but the Regiment was his life and he chose to stay on.

As they delved deeper into the life and history of Fergus Watts, Danny kept reminding himself that this shadowy figure was not just some anonymous stranger, but his own father's father. They were flesh and blood. Family.

Every new fact was a revelation. Fergus Watts's special skill was explosives. He had a natural flair for languages, particularly Spanish. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle without the box cover to guide the way.

The SAS man's skills led him to Colombia and the war against the FARC drugs barons. His ongoing mission had been to lead patrols deep into the rainforest, to seek and destroy drug manufacturing plants. Danny tried to imagine the jungle, the heat, the heroic battles.

But then hero turned villain. Fergus Watts vanished and soon after it was discovered he'd gone over to FARC, purely for the money.

'It's true,' said Danny as they scrolled on to another page. 'It's exactly like the guy at my RCB said, he betrayed the Regiment and his country.'

A long in-depth article from a correspondent in Colombia said that the manufacture and export of cocaine to the USA and Europe was a multi-billion-dollar business, and that in selling his skills and taking the FARC 'blood money', Watts shared the responsibility for the deaths of thousands of young drug users.

'He's no better than a murderer,' said Danny angrily. 'A mass murderer.'

The newspaper stories revealed that the traitor had eventually been captured after a gun battle between his small band of FARC guerrillas and Colombian soldiers. Watts had taken a bullet in the thigh during the fighting and was later tried and thrown into a Colombian prison to rot.

After the trial and jail sentence, the name Fergus Watts disappeared from the newspapers for over four years, but then there was a dramatic return to the headlines:

Since the breakout Watts had never been seen, or heard of, again.

'He's here,' said Danny. 'He's in England.'

'You can't know that,' said Elena. 'He might still be in Colombia – he might even be dead.'

'Yeah? So who was it made the enquiry about me? It had to be him, there's no one else, and I'm gonna find him. I'll phone the SAS to start with and see what they can tell me.'

'Danny, it's a secret regiment. What you gonna do, ring one-one-eight and ask to be put through?'

Danny was in no mood to be corrected. 'Yeah, all right,' he snapped, 'it was a stupid idea. So what do I do?'

Normally, Elena would have snapped back, but she knew Danny was devastated by what he'd learned about his grandfather. 'Try some other army numbers – they must be listed in the phone book. And maybe you should make the calls in the garden. We don't want anyone else knowing about this. I'll see if I can find anything online. But if we do find him, what then? Really?'

'I'll turn him in,' said Danny, picking up the phone directory. 'I want him to suffer the way he's made other people suffer.'

The garden at Foxcroft was like the quiet room, hardly ever used. There was nothing wrong with it; it was beautiful, if you liked flowers and plants that trailed in and out of trellises fixed to the high brick wall completely enclosing the garden. But as most of the residents of Foxcroft couldn't tell a rose from a stick of rhubarb, they generally stayed away.

And that suited Jane Brooker, who tended the garden almost as lovingly as she looked after the kids in her care. The garden was Jane's escape from the stresses and strains of life at Foxcroft. She needed it.

It was almost like being in the countryside. Only the constant thunder of traffic snaking its way to and from the centre of the city and the jagged broken glass cemented into the coping on top of the crumbling brick wall gave away the fact that the garden was in a busy and sometimes dangerous district.

Dave the Rave often joked that the broken glass was there to keep the Foxcroft kids in rather than keep unwanted visitors out. But it wasn't like that. Foxcroft had been burgled many times – not that there was much worth stealing.

The garden was deserted when Danny arrived with his mobile and the phone directory. He sat on a wooden bench and started to look up numbers. He tried the local recruitment office, the Army Pensions Office and even the National Army Museum. No joy.

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.