Andy McNab: Boy soldier

Danny reached over and checked out the stamp on the letter. 'Read it. Maybe you're wrong, and at least you've got someone who wants to be in contact.'

Elena hesitated. She'd been disappointed by her father so many times before. The single birthday card she'd received over the past eight years was tucked away at the back of a desk drawer in her room, along with the one letter he'd written to her mum asking for money. He'd even got Elena's age wrong on the card. But now this. She handed the envelope to Danny. 'You read it.'

'Me?'

'I've been doing things for you for hours, it's your turn to do something for me. If he mentions the money once, just once, I want you to tell me. Then I can tear it up and throw it away.'

Danny slipped a thumb under one corner of the envelope and sliced it open. It wasn't a long letter – two pages of cheap, lined paper torn from a notebook – but Danny carefully read every scruffily written word, aware all the time that Elena was deliberately looking in the other direction. When he finished reading, Danny refolded the two sheets of paper and handed them back. 'You don't have to tear it up.'

Elena said nothing but she was pleased. And relieved. She unfolded the pages and began to read.

About a mile upstream from the Houses of Parliament, on the south side of the river Thames close to Vauxhall Bridge, stands a strangely shaped building known as Vauxhall Cross.

It looks like a beige and black pyramid with its top cut off. There are staged levels with large towers on either side and a terrace bar overlooking the Thames. With a few flashing neon lights added it could easily be mistaken for a casino.

But Vauxhall Cross is no casino. It is the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. Those on the inside rarely, if ever, use the term MI6. As far as they are concerned they work for The Firm'. They are responsible for overseas intelligence gathering and for covert operations. They 'maintain the UK's influence overseas'. They keep the 'Great' in Great Britain.

George Fincham arrived early, as he did most mornings. Dressed, as always, in a smart suit, crisp white shirt and favourite MCC tie, he swiped his identity card through the electronic reader and eased open the single metal door. He carried no briefcase or papers. Staff at Vauxhall Cross do not take their work home with them, not even high-ranking IBs like George Fincham.

He walked down to reception, where the first visitor of the day was waiting to be collected after being issued with a badge that read: ESCORTED EVERYWHERE. Fincham simply nodded a good morning to the two female receptionists seated behind blastproof glass and walked on to the lifts.

His office was high up and at the rear of the building, with a river view up to Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Fincham reached his floor and stepped out of the lift. The long corridor kept its usual secretive silence. The only sounds were the faint hum of the air conditioning and the hardly audible electronic buzz of the fluorescent lighting.

In one of the small staff kitchens, two other early arrivals, their IDs slung on chains around their necks, stood making coffee. They spoke in soft voices. That wasn't unusual: everyone at Vauxhall Cross spoke softly when away from the privacy of their office.

Fincham arrived at his own office, unlocked the heavy wooden door and went inside. He felt at home in here. The room was functional and impersonal. There were no paintings on the walls, just plasma TVs mounted on a wall bracket in one corner. One screen constantly scrolled through Ceefax world news headlines; the other was tuned to BBC News 24, with the sound muted but with subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

The desk stood close to the picture window, which stretched the entire width of the office. Fincham went over to the window and opened the Venetian blinds and the morning sunlight immediately warmed the room. There was little traffic on the Thames; not even the tourist pleasure boats had started their daily journeys up and down the couple of miles of brown, murky river water.

A sharp double knock at the door interrupted Fincham's thoughts as he stared out towards Parliament. He answered in his usual way: 'Come.'

Marcie Deveraux looked immaculate. She always did. Her black trouser suit was definitely not off the peg and was way out of the price range of most female IBs. Fortunately for Deveraux, her expensive tastes didn't depend on the salary she received from the British government. Her family was of West Indian origin and her ancestors had made their fortune way back, by cooperating with the French when they arrived to colonize their island.

With her high-cheekboned exotic looks, closely cropped jet-black hair and slim figure, Marcie Deveraux looked like a supermodel. She could have been. She had it all. Style. Class. Va va voom.

But Marcie Deveraux had always had different ambitions. Her first in Social and Political Sciences at Cambridge had led to her being recruited by the Firm, and she had quickly been identified for accelerated promotion. And she knew that within ten years, with luck and the right breaks, she could make it to 'C, the name given to the head of the Intelligence Service.

But for now she was number two in Fincham's section, which was responsible for the Firm's internal security. That included making sure that no one in the service was selling secrets to the enemy, while at the same time keeping the government from knowing too much about the Firm's activities. It was policy to keep politicians at arm's length. Whenever possible.

'Good morning, sir.'

Fincham turned away from the window, gestured to Deveraux to sit down and settled himself into the high-backed executive chair on his side of the desk.

'What do you have for me, Marcie?'

'It looks as though your plan is beginning to pay dividends, sir.'

She slid a single sheet of paper across the desktop towards Fincham. Danny's army RCB file was also on the desk. His photograph had been removed from the cover.

Fincham picked up the paper and speed-read the small type as Deveraux continued, 'He's already been a very busy boy. Four contacts reported, even the Army Pensions Office. Shows great initiative.'

'And we're watching him?'

'Oh, yes, sir, we're watching him. Closely.'

Fincham allowed himself a half smile. 'Good. Very good.'

A fine summer drizzle was falling. Danny zipped up his leather jacket and turned up the collar. He pulled the Foxcroft front door shut and walked towards the bus stop.

'Stand by. Stand by. That's a possible Bravo One foxtrot. He's gone left.'

The dark blue VW Golf was parked about sixty metres further down the street. It was two up, a man and a woman, both sitting back in their seats. They didn't look at each other. They hardly moved; just glanced down at the copy of Danny's RCB photograph resting on the driver's lap.

A single squeeze of the radio pressel on the gearstick activated the concealed microphone in the surveillance car.

'That's a definite Bravo One, brown leather on blue jeans, still foxtrot on the left, approaching the first junction left.'

The team was four-strong. They used first names only – that way there was no confusion when talking on their radio net. Mick sat in the driver's seat of the Golf, Fran was next to him. They were responsible for initiating the surveillance when the target moved. They were the trigger.

Further back down the main road, Jimmy, dressed in black leathers and clutching a helmet, was perched on the saddle of a black TDM motorbike. Parked nearby in a side street was Brian, at the wheel of a silver Nissan. Both listened to the second-by-second information coming into their radio earpieces. At any moment it could be their turn to take over the follow.