'Just tell her I'll think about what she's said, but there's no guarantees, take it or leave it! Then get offline we don't know who else is looking at that. Do it. Now! Now!'

'But-'

Fergus had already walked away to pay for their drinks and the use of the PC. Danny angrily typed in his grandfather's final instruction and then reluctantly logged off without waiting for Elena's goodbye. He pushed the flimsy chair back, sc.r.a.ping it across the floor, and as he got up, it went crashing down.

All eyes in the cafe turned towards Danny, and he saw his grandfather glaring at him from the counter. He knew exactly what Fergus was thinking: Brilliant, Danny, just the way to avoid drawing attention to us Brilliant, Danny, just the way to avoid drawing attention to us.

'Sorry,' he mumbled as he joined his grandfather. 'But we've got to go back. For Elena. We've got to get her away from Foxcroft, so she's safe.'

Fergus was staring out of the window. 'Not now, Danny. You know what has to be done now and you know the drill.'

Danny nodded. His grandfather was right. Someone had got to Elena; she'd said it was the woman from the safe house, but they couldn't be certain of that.

'Someone may be telling Elena exactly what to write,' said Fergus. 'This could be a trap: getting you two online to locate us through the machine. It only takes seconds. We need to get out. Fast. For all we know, the team could be on their way.'

They took a narrow alleyway leading away from the busier part of town.

After six months of training Danny was well schooled in anti-surveillance and third-party awareness techniques. He checked behind them as they turned into a street leading towards the old town, but all the while he was worrying about Elena.

Fergus was thinking about the woman from the safe house. She had given them the chance to run six months earlier and had been prepared to ruthlessly execute one of her own team to give them that chance.

'It might not be her,' he said as he walked. 'Could still be Fincham himself. We don't know, and making wild guesses won't get us anywhere.'

'But we are going back, aren't we?' asked Danny as they turned at another junction.

Fergus said nothing and they walked in silence for a while until they reached a wide boulevard dotted every twenty metres or so with tall palm trees and clumps of oleander. Fergus found a hiding place in bushes close to a bus stop and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Danny to join him. They would be on the next bus to arrive, wherever it was heading.

'So are we going back?' asked Danny impatiently as he sat down. 'We can't just leave Elena.'

'Could already be too late for Elena,' said Fergus quietly. 'Could be they've had what they needed from her.'

Danny's skin went cold as the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. 'You mean she might be... ?'

Fergus shrugged. 'Like I said, it's pointless making wild guesses.'

'But it probably is that woman,' said Danny desperately. 'She knows what's happened here and she wants to help us again.'

Fergus didn't answer. A bright yellow bus was approaching and he stood up.

Danny grabbed his grandfather's arm as he got to his feet. 'It is is that woman, I'm certain it is. We have to trust her.' that woman, I'm certain it is. We have to trust her.'

The morning sun was slanting over the tall buildings lining one side of the boulevard. The bus drew to a halt and the door swung open. Fergus looked at Danny. 'We trust no one, Danny. No one.'

CHAPTER 11

George Fincham was seated at his desk, and for once the man famed for keeping his cool seemed close to losing it. He was on his mobile, but was staring up at the two plasma TVs.

Marcie Deveraux was also looking at the TV screens. The volume was turned up on both channels, where Sky and BBC News 24 were giving details of the latest suicide bomber, now confirmed as sixteen-year-old Adam Hollis, a Catholic boy from Manchester.

Dudley had been correct in his prediction of a media frenzy on the release of the ident.i.ty of the second teenage bomber. Since the first explosion at Parliament a constant stream of news pundits and armchair experts had been wheeled into every television and radio studio to fuel speculation that it was the work of Muslim extremists.

Now live TV was filled with a whole new raft of pundits. Islamic fundamentalists were still top of the list of suspects. After all, claimed one expert, the Islamic faith was the fastest growing religion on the planet. In the US state of Texas alone, more than half a million people had converted to Islam since 9/11. Who was to say that many impressionable British youngsters were not doing the same? But there were other theories too: everyone and everything from mad mullahs to bizarre suicide cults was getting a mention.

However, the urgency and excitement of the television voices were nothing compared to George Fincham's as he shouted into the phone. 'Missing? Why didn't you tell me that before? You're saying that not only is he alive and out of our control but he has explosives? What the f.u.c.king h.e.l.l are you doing over there? You may as well get your a.r.s.es back here. Wait out!'

He looked at Deveraux. 'I should have sent you you to handle this. The only reason I didn't is because of your apparent obsession with allowing the two of them to live.' to handle this. The only reason I didn't is because of your apparent obsession with allowing the two of them to live.'

'Only because of the information Watts may have to give us, sir.'

Fincham ignored Deveraux's comment and turned to look at a screen as the sound of the explosion burst out of the plasma's speakers. One of the news programmes was replaying the fatal moment as the camera fixed for the kick-off shuddered at the impact of the bomb and then panned to the right to settle on the scene of devastation.

Deveraux picked up the remote on Fincham's desk. 'May I, sir?'

Fincham nodded and Deveraux hit a b.u.t.ton to mute the sound from both screens.

In the Pimlico surveillance house Curly and Beanie were on the early shift. They smiled as they hovered over their TV monitors; Fincham and Deveraux's conversation would now be as crystal clear as the picture they were watching.

'Way to go, Marcie,' said Curly.

Steaming mugs of coffee stood untouched on the tabletop. The job could be tedious hour after boring hour of watching nothing. But this morning the two operators had front-row seats at their very own reality TV extravaganza. Beanie checked that the recording gear was running smoothly as they listened to Deveraux speak.

'I think we should keep the team in Spain, sir,' she said to Fincham. 'Watts will know they planted the device. He has nothing to gain by coming back to the UK: it's too much of a risk. If I were in his situation, I would be looking for a new safe house and keeping a low profile. My suggestion is that we keep all our resources in Spain and attempt to find him. If he gets away again, we may lose him for good.'

In the surveillance house Curly unwrapped a Snickers bar and dunked it in his coffee. 'You tell him, Marcie.'

Fincham sat back in his chair as a police helicopter flew low past his window, following the line of the river. 'But where do we start?' he asked Deveraux.

'Inform the Spanish we have a warrant for their arrest; get their Intelligence and police to help us find Watts and the boy.'

Both surveillance operators were leaning in towards the monitor, willing Fincham to agree. 'Come on, Georgie-boy,' said Beanie. 'Do that thing. Keep those knuckle-draggers in Spain.'

But Fincham wasn't yet convinced. 'I don't want the Spanish turning this into a full-scale operation.'

Deveraux had worked out her plan carefully. 'I don't see it as a problem, sir. We tell Spanish intelligence that it's connected with anti-terrorism, the suicide bombings. Watts has explosives; Danny is another potential bomber. We explain that our people will collect the two suspects and bring them back to the UK without our respective governments knowing. It wouldn't be the first time.'

'And what about their police?'

'We make it clear to Spanish intelligence that as far as their police are concerned, Watts and the boy are just a couple of criminals who need to be rounded up and thrown out of the country. That way the police help us in the hunt without knowing too many details.'

Fincham stood up and went to the window stretching the length of his office. He looked out for a few moments before turning back. 'All right. Contact the Spanish and keep the operation covert. Tell them we just need to know where Watts and the boy are and we will do the rest.'

Deveraux nodded and got up from her chair. 'Yes, sir.'

Fincham reached for his mobile; then, as Deveraux headed for the door, her Xda began to ring. She looked at the phone and saw that it was the call she was expecting. Before she left the room and answered it, she glanced up at the TV screens and smiled slightly.

In the surveillance room both operators started to clap their hands, applauding Deveraux's performance.

Curly blew a kiss at the screen just before she disappeared from view. 'I think she fancies me,' he said with a laugh.

CHAPTER 12

Fergus and Danny lay on the sandy earth next to the long stretch of tarmac road cutting through the remote stretch of Andalusian countryside. It was an hour before first light, the time when the night seems to be at its darkest.

Fergus had paced the distance from the road junction several kilometres back. They had not begun the long march until after dark and had left their final approach until Fergus stood off from the area and observed it from higher ground to ensure they were not walking into a trap. When he was sure it was safe, they moved in. Now they were in exactly the right position at exactly the right time.

The faint drone of an engine broke the silence.

'Our lift,' said Fergus quietly. 'When I get up, you follow, and stay directly behind me.'

Danny could feel the tension as the adrenalin began pumping round his body. The moment he had dreamed of for so long had finally arrived. 'Why did you decide we should go back?' he asked.

Fergus gave a short, ironic laugh. 'Because basically, whichever way you look at it, we're in the s.h.i.t. Sometimes, for all the training and preparation, you have to go with your gut feeling. My gut feeling is we take the ride that's been offered. At least this way we're doing something active, instead of running away. And you can't run away for ever didn't you tell me that once?'

'Yeah,' answered Danny nervously.

'And anyway,' said Fergus as the noise of the engine grew louder, 'I never much fancied a boat trip. Always been a c.r.a.p sailor. But it is a gamble, Danny and remember, if there's more than one person in there, we don't get in. I go first, and if I push you away, you run, and you don't look back.'

Fergus had a lot of experience with what they were about to do. Back in the days when he had infiltrated FARC, the drug runners had used this system to avoid government helicopter gunships as they covertly moved their processed cocaine out of Colombia.

The engine noise was coming closer and Danny couldn't stop himself from clambering to his knees to get a first glimpse. 'I can't see a thing where is it?'

Fergus reached up, grabbed Danny and pulled him to the ground, as the roar of the aircraft's engine was suddenly just a couple of metres above them. 'There!' shouted Fergus. 'Stay down!'

They felt the back blast of the propeller and then heard the tyres screech as they made contact with the tarmac. Danny still couldn't see the aircraft as it carried on along the improvised LS. Fergus was holding onto him tightly. 'Stay behind me!' he yelled. 'I don't want you walking into that propeller.'

He'd seen it happen before. A lot of pumped-up, over-eager young men had died needlessly by running around in the dark and getting chopped to death by the unseen propeller.

The sound of the Cessna grew louder again as it taxied back along the road towards Fergus and Danny. One wing pa.s.sed over their p.r.o.ne bodies and then the plane turned again to face into the wind. The pilot had landed into the wind; take-off had to be the same to obtain extra lift.

The back blast of the propeller sent sand and grit flying into the air. Danny felt it hit his face, making his skin sting, as his nose filled with the smell of aviation fuel. He shouted at his grandfather, 'What's happening? Does he know we're here?'

Fergus ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on the aircraft. He knew the pilot was looking at them at that moment. The reason they had lain right next to the road was so that he could see them on his approach. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have landed.

A red torchlight began to flash. Fergus pulled Danny to his feet and, bending low, moved towards the light in a direct line. The pilot had opened the c.o.c.kpit's rear door. Fergus looked inside, saw that the man was alone, then pushed Danny into the aircraft and climbed in after him. He slammed the door and slapped the pilot twice on the shoulder, indicating that they were ready to go.

The engine roared, the Cessna gathered speed and within seconds they were climbing into the dark sky.

In the c.o.c.kpit Danny could smell coffee and see the dull glow coming from the instrument panel. He realized why the pilot hadn't needed landing lights: he was wearing NVGs. They looked like a pair of miniature binoculars, suspended about two centimetres in front of the pilot's eyes by a head harness.

A green glow was coming from the NVGs. The pilot could see as well as he could in daylight; the only difference was that everything appeared like a green negative film. And Fergus knew that the plane must also be fitted with a Nitesun torch, an infra-red searchlight which, together with the NVGs, had made them and the road perfectly visible during the landing.

Danny peered out of a window. Far below he could see clumps of lights where there were villages or small towns. In a few places vehicle headlights cut through the darkness.

The pilot took off his NVGs and switched on the aircraft's navigation lights. Bright flashes appeared at the end of each wing.

Fergus was looking down at the shape of the coastline, traced by the lights hugging the sh.o.r.e. They were heading north.

Without looking back, the pilot pa.s.sed a flask over his shoulder. Fergus took it and began to pour out the hot, sweet-smelling coffee.

The aircraft climbed higher and Danny's spirits soared with it. He was going home. At last.

CHAPTER 13

Elena had never had too much to say about her dad that was good. There had been too many let-downs, disappointments and broken promises, not to mention the fact that he had long ago deserted both Elena and her mum. As far as Elena was concerned, Joey Omolodon had been unfailingly consistent as a dad he was a disaster.

But despite everything, and no matter how hard she tried, Elena had always found it impossible to actually dislike Joey. There was too much about him that was likeable. He was charming, funny, confident, good-looking. True, he could drive you crazy one minute, but then he'd have you holding your sides and rocking with laughter the next. Joey was a one-off, a larger-than-life character. Or at least he had been, until going into Brixton prison.

As Elena sat in the taxi and watched her dad emerge from the prison gate, she was struck by the thought that Joey had suddenly become smaller. Shrunken somehow. He stood there clutching a plastic bag containing his few possessions, looking bewildered and disorientated.

Elena wound down the window and called, 'Dad,' and Joey gazed across the road, gave a little wave of recognition and a half smile and came shuffling towards the cab. He stepped off the kerb and immediately leaped back as a car horn sounded and a vehicle went hurtling by.

The cab driver laughed. 'That's not unusual when they first come out. I saw a bloke get knocked down once. One minute of freedom and he walked straight under a bus.' He nodded towards Joey. 'Been in long, has he?'

'Mind your own business,' snapped Elena as she threw open the taxi door and went hurrying across the road towards her dad.

Joey had been held in prison for four months while the prosecution case against him was prepared. Each time Elena had visited, he was sadder, more depressed and more resigned to spending many years behind bars. At first he had protested his innocence to Elena; when that didn't work he said his so-called partner had set him up. Elena was having none of it: 'You did it, didn't you, Dad? You're guilty,' she said. And eventually Joey had just nodded.

What Joey didn't do was say he was sorry for attempting to smuggle cocaine into the country. He was saving that for the trial because he was terrified by the thought of a long prison stretch. Joey valued freedom more than anything else in life; the freedom to come and go where he wanted whenever he wanted. He'd spent his whole life doing exactly that.

Now he was walking to freedom, thanks to his daughter, and Elena thought he'd be elated, despite those first few tentative steps. But he didn't look elated.

'All right, Dad?' she asked, grabbing the plastic bag and taking Joey by the arm to lead him over to the taxi.

'Yeah, fine, babe,' he answered half-heartedly. 'I'm good.' He didn't look good. He looked scared.