there for a while and then got a taxi back to civilization. Then a train home. He's there now – sleeping, I would imagine.'
Fincham looked at the plasma TV churning through its Ceefax list of news headlines. 'I do not want anything appearing in the press, Marcie.'
Deveraux shook her head. 'I don't think it will, sir. He's only got half a story, and being a freelance he's got to make the most of his information. Once he files his first report he'll have the whole of Fleet Street chasing this.'
'So what do you suggest?'
'Surveillance, sir. His phones, his PC. And a CTR on his flat. I went there at four this morning and carried out a locks recce. Let's find out what he knows and use it to our advantage.'
Fincham stood, went to the coffee machine that sat on a small side table and poured more coffee into a fresh cup. 'Excellent, Marcie. Moyes will never get to file this story.' He glanced over at her. 'Coffee?'
17
The bus journey passed in silence, both Fergus and Danny deep in their own thoughts.
But when they arrived in Southend, Fergus surprised Danny by leading him straight to another bus. 'Too many CCTVs here,' he said as they took their seats at the back, out of earshot of the few other passengers on board. 'We'll pick up a train somewhere quieter.'
'You do what you want,' said Danny as the bus drew away. 'The only train I'm getting is the one back to London.'
Fergus spoke quietly. 'You still don't get it, do you, Danny? You can't go anywhere without me any more. You know the truth, even if you don't believe it yet. And if he catches you now, he'll kill you.'
'Who? Who will?'
'George Fincham, the man you said you'd seen before.'
'But . . . but how do you know him?'
'Because George Fincham was the desk officer in Bogota. George Fincham was the traitor, he was the one giving the information to FARC. You think he'll let either of us live, when we know that?'
Danny looked stunned. 'You are unbelievable. You've been sitting there inventing all this stuff because I don't believe a word you say. The guy was at my army RCB: he was the one who told me about you.'
'Yeah, and I bet he was the one who gave you the idea of finding me. They've been tailing you – how else did they turn up at the cottage?'
The bus lurched to one side as the driver swerved to avoid a cyclist. 'Bloody bikes,' yelled the driver. 'Ought to be banned from the road.' There were a few murmurs of agreement from the front of the bus.
'I met Fincham too,' said Fergus quietly. 'At an embassy do, long before I was recruited as a K. I thought he was a clever, cunning bastard then. And he was; clever enough to find out that I had been recruited, even though it was meant to be classified. Face it, Danny, he set you up, and you fell for it.'
'Even if he did set me up, that doesn't mean he was the traitor,' said Danny. 'Why should I believe you?'
'Because it's the truth.'
Danny sneered. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and punched you in the mouth.' But he was no longer quite as certain as he sounded. George Fincham – if that really was his name – had planted the idea of finding Fergus; Danny had sensed he was being followed; and the cottage had been raided.
Fergus knew there was more than just the question of truth or lies standing between the two of them. There was also their history, or their lack of a history. They had to talk it through. 'Look, I understand the way you feel about me, Danny. I was a total disaster as a dad, and I've been no better as a granddad.'
'I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.'
'You really expect me to believe that?'
'Yeah,' answered Danny angrily, 'like you expect me to believe everything you say!' He looked away. 'Why? Why did you leave my dad?'
Fergus took a deep breath. He was a loner, a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his feelings and emotions in check. A man who'd avoided justifying many of his actions even to himself, let alone to the grandson he'd only just met. 'I was eighteen when
Fincham looked at the plasma TV churning through its Ceefax list of news headlines. 'I do not want anything appearing in the press, Marcie.'
Deveraux shook her head. 'I don't think it will, sir. He's only got half a story, and being a freelance he's got to make the most of his information. Once he files his first report he'll have the whole of Fleet Street chasing this.'
'So what do you suggest?'
'Surveillance, sir. His phones, his PC. And a CTR on his flat. I went there at four this morning and carried out a locks recce. Let's find out what he knows and use it to our advantage.'
Fincham stood, went to the coffee machine that sat on a small side table and poured more coffee into a fresh cup. 'Excellent, Marcie. Moyes will never get to file this story.' He glanced over at her. 'Coffee?'
17
The bus journey passed in silence, both Fergus and Danny deep in their own thoughts.
But when they arrived in Southend, Fergus surprised Danny by leading him straight to another bus. 'Too many CCTVs here,' he said as they took their seats at the back, out of earshot of the few other passengers on board. 'We'll pick up a train somewhere quieter.'
'You do what you want,' said Danny as the bus drew away. 'The only train I'm getting is the one back to London.'
Fergus spoke quietly. 'You still don't get it, do you, Danny? You can't go anywhere without me any more. You know the truth, even if you don't believe it yet. And if he catches you now, he'll kill you.'
'Who? Who will?'
'George Fincham, the man you said you'd seen before.'
'But . . . but how do you know him?'
'Because George Fincham was the desk officer in Bogota. George Fincham was the traitor, he was the one giving the information to FARC. You think he'll let either of us live, when we know that?'
Danny looked stunned. 'You are unbelievable. You've been sitting there inventing all this stuff because I don't believe a word you say. The guy was at my army RCB: he was the one who told me about you.'
'Yeah, and I bet he was the one who gave you the idea of finding me. They've been tailing you – how else did they turn up at the cottage?'
The bus lurched to one side as the driver swerved to avoid a cyclist. 'Bloody bikes,' yelled the driver. 'Ought to be banned from the road.' There were a few murmurs of agreement from the front of the bus.
'I met Fincham too,' said Fergus quietly. 'At an embassy do, long before I was recruited as a K. I thought he was a clever, cunning bastard then. And he was; clever enough to find out that I had been recruited, even though it was meant to be classified. Face it, Danny, he set you up, and you fell for it.'
'Even if he did set me up, that doesn't mean he was the traitor,' said Danny. 'Why should I believe you?'
'Because it's the truth.'
Danny sneered. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and punched you in the mouth.' But he was no longer quite as certain as he sounded. George Fincham – if that really was his name – had planted the idea of finding Fergus; Danny had sensed he was being followed; and the cottage had been raided.
Fergus knew there was more than just the question of truth or lies standing between the two of them. There was also their history, or their lack of a history. They had to talk it through. 'Look, I understand the way you feel about me, Danny. I was a total disaster as a dad, and I've been no better as a granddad.'
'I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.'
'You really expect me to believe that?'
'Yeah,' answered Danny angrily, 'like you expect me to believe everything you say!' He looked away. 'Why? Why did you leave my dad?'
Fergus took a deep breath. He was a loner, a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his feelings and emotions in check. A man who'd avoided justifying many of his actions even to himself, let alone to the grandson he'd only just met. 'I was eighteen when
Similar Books
