Andy McNab - Avenger

Jeff's particular interest was freight trains. He would spend hours watching the seemingly endless trains, with their double engines front and back, snake their way around the hills overlooking Pittsburgh. He would check engine numbers, count the freight wagons, note the type of freight and write everything down in a little book. He never ceased to wonder at the fact that the trains were so long that the front section had crossed Pittsburgh and disappeared into the hills while the rear trucks were still on the other side of the city.

Kiyoshi's special fascination was for the sleek, aerodynamic, high-speed trains that carried up to four million people a day in and out of Tokyo's Shinjuku Station.

Both teenagers had told Black Star about their love of trains and railways during their early online conversations. And it was their enthusiasm that had given Black Star the ghoulish idea of devising and preparing their suicides for exactly the same moment.

A synchronized act of terrorism was right and fitting for Black Star, as it was the synchronized act of terrorism on 9/11 that had sparked the quest for revenge.

So, at 7:30 a.m., as the early commuters began spilling from a train at Shinjuku Station, Kiyoshi went to the middle of the platform, pulled the twine in his right hand and exploded the device strapped to his body.

Jeff's suicide had actually taken place a few minutes earlier: the time in Pittsburgh was 6:24 p.m. It should have been equally spectacular. Jeff had picked the precise spot where he would lie down on the tracks and explode the device as the freight train approached. He knew the device would not be enough to destroy the train itself. But Jeff's bomb was going to blow away a whole section of the track. The approaching train would be derailed and much of it would then tumble down the hillside towards the city.

But Jeff got it wrong. He prepared the device, just as he had been instructed, strapped it to his body, and had the detonating twine ready. He borrowed his dad's car, drove off into the hills and found his parking spot.

As he switched off the car's engine, opened the driver's door and got out, something made him take the twine in his right hand and pull it gently, just to test the pressure.

But the pull was not gentle enough. The bomb exploded. A few minutes later, at exactly 6:30 p.m., the freight train began to pass by. The train driver looked out of his cab and saw the smouldering hulk of a burning Ford.

Jeff had simply disappeared. Later they found the remains of his body. And his notebook.

Deveraux's boss at MI5 arrived first thing the following morning and was swiftly in conversation behind a locked door with Deveraux, Fergus and Dr Jacobson.

Dudley – he was known only as Dudley, and few people in the Secret Service knew for certain whether it was his first or his second name – was the one who had convinced Danny and Elena that their help with the mission was vital. They hadn't seen him since then. They were unlikely to see him now.

He tossed a copy of the Mirror onto the desk. Its headline was similar to the ones splashed across the front page of every other daily newspaper.

'We must move this on now, sir,' said Deveraux urgently. 'We have to get Elena to push Black Star into giving us more to go on. We know now that these kids are making the devices themselves. Something Black Star tells Elena will give us the clues we need.'

The air in the operations room was already stale and heavy. The desktops were cluttered with empty coffee cups, discarded newspapers and opened files of the most recent data.

'I'm aware of your views, Marcie,' said Dudley. 'But I have to take into consideration other opinions.' He looked at the psychiatrist. 'Doctor, is there any more you can tell us about Black Star?'

Dr Ruth Jacobson's regular presence at the hotel had a dual purpose. Not only was she overseeing Elena's emotional welfare and ensuring she wasn't succumbing to Black Star's grooming, she was also attempting to put together a psychological profile of the bomb master. It was a major part of her job, and during her career she had helped police and the security services to track down a number of highly dangerous criminals, ranging from serial killers to terrorists.

There were those within the police and the security services who regarded her work as a waste of both time and resources and thought that her success was based on little more than lucky hunches and educated guesses. But others – and fortunately they were in the majority – knew the full value of Ruth Jacobson's incisive mind.

Since Elena had resumed her online conversations with Black Star, Dr Jacobson had been fully involved, studying transcripts of the conversations and analysing every single word in her attempt to form a picture of the bomb master.

'I'm fairly certain now that Black Star is a man,' she said, leafing through the transcripts.

Deveraux looked unimpressed. 'I've known that all along.'

Dr Jacobson was not thrown by Deveraux's dismissive attitude; she was fully aware that the high-flying MI5 agent was one of the sceptics. 'But I think now that he's not a young man. He's middle aged, at least.'

Deveraux suddenly seemed interested. 'And what makes you think that?'

Dr Jacobson put the papers she was holding down on the desk. 'For a start he seems… experienced. And some of the phrases he uses – they're more… mature.'

She pointed to a line in the typed transcript of the last conversation. 'Look at this. He says, "It's my role to help others." Role is an unusual word these days. I think a young man would have said "job". And look here, in the next sentence. He says, "I understand completely." It's grammatically correct, but most people today would say, "I completely understand" – particularly young people. There are other examples in earlier conversations.'

Deveraux said nothing for a moment as she tried to form her own mental picture of a middle-aged man, sitting in front of a computer screen somewhere in the world, luring teenagers to their deaths. It was irritating to admit to herself that Dr Jacobson was probably right. 'Sick bastard, whoever he is.'

'Mentally disturbed, certainly. Perhaps unhinged in some way by a catastrophe in his own life.'

'Are you asking me to feel sorry for him?' snapped Deveraux.

'I'm giving you my professional opinion,' replied Dr Jacobson calmly. 'My thinking at the moment is that he's carefully learned to converse online like young people. To make them feel as though they're communicating with one of their own. But personal history always leaves its traces.'

Dudley nodded. 'Have you said anything to Elena about this?'

Dr Jacobson glanced at Fergus and then at Deveraux before replying. 'No. Elena is a remarkable young girl, but we have to remember her age and the fact that she's gone through an extremely traumatic time over the past few years – losing her mother, then the business with her father…'

Fergus spotted the almost unnoticeable look that passed between Deveraux and Dudley.

'But you do feel she is strong enough to continue?' said Dudley to Dr Jacobson. 'And to carry this on to the second phase, if it is necessary?'

'As I said, she is a remarkable young woman. She's coping, but I have concerns.' She glanced at Deveraux. 'She's doing OK for the moment, but some news of her father would help.'

'There is no news,' said Deveraux impatiently. 'Joey Omolodon is a loser. He's either lying low somewhere or has skipped the country.'

'Nevertheless, if you hear anything-'

'Then Elena will be the first to know. Now, can we get back to business.'

Dudley picked up his coffee cup and drank the last mouthful of the cold, bitter liquid. He grimaced as he placed the cup carefully back on its saucer. 'Should we put someone else at the computer? Danny perhaps?'