by Andy McNab
Mr Eddie Moyes was used to waiting. He'd spent countless hours hanging around, drinking endless cups of coffee while he waited for the little titbits of information that sometimes led to a major exclusive. They'd been a lot harder to come by in the last few years.
He'd been made redundant. Eddie Moyes, the man who'd broken more exclusives than the last three governments had broken promises. He'd been The Man. Top Dog. Numero Uno. He'd worked for all the red-tops in his time and was known as one of Fleet Street's finest.
Until the last job. All right, he'd turned forty-five. All right, he liked a drink. But that was all part of the profession, and most of his best bits of information had been skilfully extracted over a friendly pint or three. And a few beers never affected the quality of his work.
His last news editor hadn't seen it that way. He was a whiz kid, one of the new breed who'd taken the cushy university route instead of doing their time on a local rag. He didn't like Eddie from the off and quickly started sending him on stories more suited to an office junior.
They clashed more than once, and when the management announced that redundancies were needed, the whiz kid struck. Eddie had been one of the last in, so he was one of the first out. They could have made him a special case, but they didn't. His record and reputation counted for nothing.
Since then he'd scraped a living as a freelance. But now that he had the chance to get back where he belonged, he was determined to take it. Fergus Watts had cemented his reputation once before and he could do it again. He just had to find him.
Eddie arrived very early at the cafe down the road from Foxcroft. He got himself a black coffee, ordered a bacon sandwich and found a seat at a vacant table by the window. He could see Foxcroft from where he was sitting.
He pulled out rolled-up copies of the Sun, Star and Mirror from his jacket pocket and, with one eye on Foxcroft, speed-read the news pages. Eddie was feeling good. Soon they would all be begging for his services.
His bacon sandwich arrived and Eddie lifted the top slice of soggy white bread and splashed on huge dollops of thick brown sauce. He replaced the bread and hungrily bit into the greasy sandwich. It was delicious, just the way he liked it. A thin stream of brown sauce ran down onto his podgy chin.
Forty minutes and a second coffee later, Eddie was still waiting. He wasn't surprised and it didn't matter. It was just one of those setbacks all reporters have to cope with. He knew he'd been a bit too eager when he met Danny Watts the previous day and had sensed him backing off. That was no problem. He'd found out where Danny lived.
The bacon for another sandwich was already sizzling in the frying pan. Eddie kept his eyes fixed on Foxcroft. A couple of kids had left the building during the past forty minutes, neither of them Danny.
'Bacon sandwich!' called the woman behind the counter.
As Eddie stood up he saw Danny walk out of Foxcroft and turn up the street in the opposite direction.
'Make that to go, will you, love?' said Eddie, slapping a two-pound coin onto the countertop. 'Quick as you can.'
12
It was happening again. Danny was convinced he was being followed on the way to Liverpool Street Station. There was no sign of the TDM motorbike; it was more of a gut feeling. He was being watched.
On the street, on the bus, everyone seemed to be looking towards him and then turning away as he returned their stare. He got off the bus before it reached the station and walked. A man in a brown bomber jacket was following him, Danny was certain. But when he stopped and looked back, the man went into a shop.
Danny thought about running, but decided it would only draw more attention. So he walked faster, went straight past the entrance to the station and kept going. Then he doubled back on himself through side streets and entered the station through the bus pull-in entrance. He went quickly to the ticket office, got a return ticket and went to the platform where the train was waiting.
Late morning was one of the quieter times at Liverpool Street and Danny had the section of the carriage he chose to himself. Within a few minutes the train was pulling away and quickly gaining speed as it moved through east London.
The carriage was grimy and drab, with ripped seats and WEST HAM ARE CRAP – TOTTENHAM RULE gouged into the glass of one of the windows. The train didn't stop as it went through Stratford and Ilford and past the greyhound track at Romford and then out into the commuter land of Essex. First stop was Brentwood. A few people got off and even fewer got on, and Danny was relieved when no one chose the same compartment as him.
The train stopped at every station after that. Shenfield, Billericay, Wickford, and then his stop, Rayleigh. Judging from the website maps, it was the closest to where he wanted to be, but not quite close enough.
Danny jumped from the compartment and ran towards the exit as soon as the train came to a standstill. He didn't look back to see who was following but rushed past the ticket collector and out into the street. He expected to be in the town centre. He wasn't. A long, uphill climb past semi-detached houses eventually brought him to the shops and a one-way traffic system.
He went into a shop and bought a road map for the whole of the area, and a shop assistant told him he had to go back down the hill to pick up the bus he needed. On the way he called Elena.
'Did he make any calls?'
'No, none made or received. Are you all right?'
'Yeah, but I'm being followed again.'
'Have you seen someone then?'
'Well no, but… it's just a feeling.'
Danny could hear the irritation in Elena's voice as she answered. 'Danny, you are really winding me up, and making me nervous. I sit here worrying and waiting for you to call and then all you can say is you think you're being followed. You're not. You're imagining it. Just call when you've got something useful to tell me!'
She hung up. She'd never done that to Danny before. He didn't like it.
The bus carried Danny out of town, past a housing estate and then into a less built-up area. He got off near a large roundabout which connected with the trunk road he'd seen on the website map.
From there it was a question of walking or hitching. He decided to hitch. It was another first: hitching a lift isn't an option in south-east London.
Cars and lorries roared by; the road throbbed with traffic, and then a battered pick-up truck loaded with building material pulled in ahead of him. He ran to the truck and the passenger door creaked open on rusty hinges. The driver was leaning over, his hand still on the door, and Danny spotted the letters H A T E tattooed on the knuckles.
The driver smiled when he saw Danny's look. 'Don't worry, mate, the other one's more friendly.'
He stuck out his right fist. It read L O V E. The driver shrugged. 'Seemed like a good idea at the time. Where you going?'
'I don't know, somewhere down this road.'
It didn't seem an adequate answer, and it wasn't. 'You taking the piss?'
'No. No, honest. I'm not sure where I'm going till I get there.'
The truck driver laughed. 'Sounds like the story of my life, mate. You'd better jump in. I'm Colin.'
They drove for nearly ten minutes while Danny gazed out at the flat, open landscape and listened to Colin's story of how his girlfriend, Cheryl, had almost dumped him when he first revealed L O V E and H A T E.
'She's got used to them now, but it was a nightmare for a while. Wouldn't even talk to me, and as for her mother-'
'Stop!' yelled Danny.
Colin stood on the clutch and brake pedals. The brakes screamed in protest and the truck skidded into the grass verge in a cloud of blue smoke. The smell of burning rubber leaked into the cab and Colin turned to Danny with his eyes blazing. 'What the hell are you playing at? You could have killed us.'
'I'm sorry, I've got to get out. That's it – that place back there.'
They'd driven past a lay-by on the opposite side of the road. At the back of the lay-by stood a roadside cafe with a mobile number painted on the side and a Union Jack flyi
ng above it. Parked alongside was an old blue Fiesta.
Danny opened the door and jumped out. 'I'm sorry about… Thanks.' He pushed the door shut and watched as Colin shoved the truck back into gear and drove away. Then he took out his phone and punched in a text to Elena:
IVE FOUND HIM.
He switched off the phone. He didn't want to be disturbed now, not even by Elena.
13
Frankie didn't make many phone calls. There was no need. He called the cash-and-carry one morning each week to place his regular order of bacon, burgers and whatever else was running low. His pay-as-you-go mobile was switched on during the day for phone-in orders but was always turned off before he left for home.
He was on the line to the cash-and-carry again, checking that the order was ready for collection, when he heard the footsteps approaching. No vehicle had pulled in and Frankie didn't get pedestrian customers. He hung up, put down the phone and let his hand rest on the Alabama lie detector he kept under the counter.
This was the moment Frankie had feared ever since arriving back in England. He hadn't expected it to happen this way, but then he'd been trained to expect the unexpected. He didn't panic. Frankie never panicked.
The footsteps got closer and louder and then stopped completely, just out of Frankie's line of vision. He waited, his fingers tightening on the baton, and then his unexpected, unwanted visitor moved towards him again.
It was Danny – he recognized him instantly. But there was no sense of relief; it simply meant they were both in terrible danger.
Danny's moment of recognition was just as instantaneous. His grandfather looked older, but the face that stared back at him was the face he'd seen so many times over the past few days in the old photograph. And the eyes were just the same as the eyes that stared back at Danny from the mirror each morning.
'Thought I'd never find you, didn't you?' he snarled. 'Thought you could run away from me, didn't you, Fergus Watts?'
Fergus had to try to bluff it out. He smiled. 'I'm sorry, son, I think you're mistaking me for someone else. The name's Frankie, like it says on the van. Frank Wilson. Do you want a cuppa tea or something?'
But Danny was too pumped up and certain to be sidetracked. 'I don't care what you're calling yourself now, but you're Fergus Watts. My granddad. I wish you weren't, but you are.'
It was pointless trying to continue with the subterfuge. Frank Wilson the smiling, friendly roadside tea-bar owner instantly disappeared and Fergus Watts, highly trained and skilled SAS veteran, took over.
The shutter slammed down and Danny heard the click of a heavy padlock. The side door opened and Fergus emerged carrying his jacket and a bunch of keys.
'Get in the car,' he ordered as he locked the van door and fixed another padlock.
Danny pulled his mobile phone from his jacket. 'Piss off! I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm calling the-'
He got no further. Fergus grabbed him by his jacket collar, snatched the phone away and shoved it into a pocket. As Danny struggled, Fergus dragged him to the blue Fiesta, pulled open the door and threw him inside. 'Stay there!' he yelled and slammed the door.
'Stand by, stand by. Jimmy has Bravo One and a definite Fergus towards the car. That's a positive ID on Fergus. He's limping. Jimmy still has the trigger and can give direction at the main. Wait… wait, that's both complete in the car… engine on. That's the car mobile towards the main…'
The Fiesta roared away, spewing up gravel and dust as it raced from the lay-by.
That's blue Fiesta gone left on the main… repeat, left on the main…'
Another voice burst into Jimmy's earpiece.
'Mick has the Fiesta… mobile on the main.'
The team had been all over Danny from the moment he left Foxcroft that morning. It had been difficult once he'd taken the train at Liverpool Street. Fran had followed Danny onto the train, taking a different carriage. She checked at each station to see if Danny had got off and constantly relayed details to the others. The two cars and a motorbike had undertaken a high-speed chase from station to station through the streets of east London and Essex as the train ploughed through the suburbs and into the countryside.
The TDM was no longer part of the operation. Jimmy had realized the machine had become too hot for the follow. He crawled out from under the tangle of bush and scrubby grass fifty metres down the road from the lay-by and ran towards his new vehicle, a Ford Focus.
He'd been following Danny when he was in the pick-up truck and had watched it swerve off the road. He pulled the Focus onto the grass verge round the next bend and then tracked back on foot, finding what little cover he could.
Now, as he ran, he ripped off the Gore-Tex jacket he wore to protect his clothes. He ran hard: the rest of the team needed him back on the follow as soon as possible. Mick was still driving the dark blue Golf, with fresh number plates. He'd picked up Fran at Rayleigh Station, and Brian was now on a motorbike, a Suzuki Ninja. But the third vehicle was vital if Fergus was heading for one of the nearby towns.
Jimmy smiled as he ran back to the Focus. He'd done good work, thinking quickly and reporting everything that happened in the lay-by to the rest of the team. And George Fincham and Marcie Deveraux would have been alerted by now and would be on their way.
Sweat ran down the side of Jimmy's face as he reached the car. He gulped in air as he lifted the tailgate and listened to Fran on the net.
'Stop. Stop. Stop. That's the Fiesta static in a lay-by. He's aware, he's checking vehicles passing him.'
Jimmy threw the Gore-Tex jacket on top of two bags that sat in the boot. One contained Gore-Tex trousers, Wellington boots, extra warm clothes and enough canned food and water for two days. If a follow turned into a surveillance on an isolated building there had to be a trigger on that building 24/7; there was never time to go away and fetch kit.
The other bag held an MP5 automatic machine gun, loaded thirty-round magazines, body armour, night viewing goggles and a trauma pack. The team had to be ready to deal with any situation, including wound-ings. Plastic litre bottles of plasma were part of the pack: if a team member was shot the others knew how to plug the holes and replace the lost blood.
Jimmy slammed down the boot, jumped into the Focus and pulled off the verge and onto the road. He squeezed the radio pressel on the gearstick.
'That's Jimmy mobile and with you in five.'
14
It wasn't working out quite the way Eddie Moyes had planned.
The first part had been easy. Jumping into a cab and telling the driver to 'Follow that bus' felt good, like old times.
Even when the cab driver moaned at him about getting bacon fat on his upholstery, Eddie just mouthed a quick, 'Sorry,' and kept his eyes glued on the bus Danny had taken from close to Foxcroft.
But Eddie had no idea it would be such a long journey, right into the heart of the city. When he saw Danny get off the bus, he quickly drew some crumpled notes from his pocket and thrust them at the cab driver. Parting with that much cash was painful, but it would be worth it.
Trailing Danny on foot was more difficult, specially when he seemed to sense he was being followed and increased his pace. Eddie struggled to keep up and lost Danny completely as he passed Liverpool Street Station. But a few minutes later, as he hung around outside McDonald's, he saw Danny enter the station by the side entrance.
Eddie didn't bother with a ticket, he just followed Danny to the platform for the Southend train and got on, one carriage back. All went well until Rayleigh, where Danny leaped from the train and sprinted through the barrier. But when Eddie tried to follow he was stopped by a ticket inspector. By the time he'd paid his fare and been warned that 'attempting to avoid payment was a serious offence', Danny was gone.
The out-of-condition reporter puffed his way uphill to the town centre, realizing he'd blown it. He asked around in a few shops but no one admitted to seeing a boy fitting Danny's description. So Eddie went to a cashpoint, withdrew enough money to see him through t
he day, and then did what he always did when a story hit a brick wall: he went for a pint and a pie. Hunting an exclusive always made him hungry.
A couple of hours later he was back near the station. He found himself a patch of grass in the shade of some straggly bushes by the car park, unfolded a copy of The Times he'd bought in the town and sat down to do the crossword, and to wait. Danny had to come back at some time, and if Eddie missed him, he'd go back to Foxcroft first thing in the morning, ready to start again.
He was puzzling over seven down when an old blue Fiesta pulled into the car park. He took no notice at first but when the driver got out and looked around, he seemed vaguely familiar. Then the passenger door opened and Danny emerged. Eddie smiled, looked up to the heavens and mouthed a silent 'Thank you.'
He watched as Fergus locked the car, took Danny by the arm and pulled him to the bus lay-by in front of the station where two buses were waiting. They got on the first and a couple of minutes later it pulled away. Eddie was already at the taxi rank, and for the second time that day he told a cab driver to 'Follow that bus'.
Fergus was heading back to the cottage. In the short term, at least. He could pick up cash and emergency supplies and decide on what to do next. He had to figure that Danny had been followed, but there was no point in grilling him about it, he just wouldn't know.
'Listen to me, boy,' Fergus had said as he drove. 'There are people looking for me, and thanks to you, they're probably very close. If they find me I'm dead, and so are you!'
'Me?' said Danny in amazement. 'It's you they want. As soon as you stop this car I'm going to the police-'
'The police can't help you now! No one can, no one but me. So just shut the fuck up and do what I say!'
Danny did shut up, stunned into silence.
Fergus concentrated on trying to see if they were being followed. There were no give-away signs but that meant nothing. He knew they couldn't go all the way back by car: it would give any following surveillance team too much time to lock onto them. He drove to Rayleigh – there were buses that went close enough to the cottage.
