On his return from Gibraltar, Ghashide contacted Angie. She answered the instant her mobile rang.

 "Angie Symes."

"It's Mark. I must see Davy. Can you come round as soon as possible?"

"No problem. I'll give him a call." She replaced the receiver and mouthed, why?

Within half an hour, they were outside Ghashide's apartment block.

The concierge system gave them access. She held his hand as they entered the lift. Ghashide was waiting. "Come in. I have good news." He opened the door to his lounge and followed them in. "I'll get straight to the point as I'm in a rush. William has accepted your method of shifting the merchandise and suggested you take over the delivery and transportation of our operation in England. At the start, I'll give you the necessary introductions and guidance."

Davy nodded. "Brilliant. Do I get a pay rise?"

Ghashide laughed. "It's a bit of a jump, but if it goes well, and I'm sure it will, we'll both be the richer for it. From tomorrow, we're a team. Introductions to my contacts will be necessary. They'll take orders from you. Any problems. I'll sort them out."

Davy listened and wondered. Did he have enough information to return to everyday life? "Okay, what's in it for me?

Ghashide paused, "Don't get too excited, but I'd expect you to make more than half a million pounds by the end of the year. Is that acceptable?"

Davy was shocked. "Tonight, we celebrate."

"Don't go overboard with the booze. From first thing tomorrow, it's business and hard work. I see you to the door."

Neither Davy nor Angie said a word until they were clear of the building. "Will Smith keep his word if I go along with this?"

"You'll have achieved the objective, but I'm sure the bastard will want his pint of blood."

"Why? I've kept my part of the bargain. He said, get the information on this drugs' cartel, and I'm a free man."

"He'll say what you want to hear. Remember that bastard can dispose of you in an instant. The dead never complain. Let's play his game until we are ready to run."

Davy needed time to think. Angie was right. Play the game and stay alive. Later, when they had money, it might be possible to run and hide. He squeezed Angie's hand. "Let's go back to my flat."

***

Janice pressed the keys on her mobile. "Hi, Jimmy, I need more information on our Mr Harman-Smith and where he works?"

He chuckled. "God almighty, Janny, I might as well grab 'im by the balls and bring 'im to you. Tell yer what, I'll do a bit of snooping on me own and see what I can come up wiv. Normal rates."

"Yes, but nothing against the law."

"Me, Janny? I'm as onest as the day is long." He was still laughing when the call ended.

While talking, a thought crossed her mind. It might be a government centre, but an ordnance survey map of the location might reveal more information.

One telephone call and her secretary brought the most up-to-date map she could find to her office.

Janice studied it in detail, but it wasn't easy to pinpoint the narrow lane that led to the centre. It took time to figure out there was nothing there. She noted the date of issue, October 2004. She grabbed her coat, left the office and walked to the local library. In the extensive reference section were copies of maps dating back centuries. With the help of a librarian, she found several dating from 1950 onwards. A 1962 publication gave her the information she needed. The Americans had built an underground command centre at the exact location while they operated from RAF Brize Norton. She studied the map whilst myriad different thoughts rampaged through her mind: three lost sailors, a bank robbery, a missing person, a funeral for the wrong man, and the mysterious Harman Smith. It made no sense. For now, she would be patient.

***

Jimmy spent the morning preparing. In his rucksack, he placed the book of British birds, a pair of binoculars, a notebook and pens. A birdwatcher could go anywhere without raising suspicion.

In a hired car, he drove to a village not far from the Centre. He booked himself in for three days at the one pub come hotel.

Well wrapped against the weather, Jimmy began asking the owner about different species of birds in the area.

A muscular, swarthy character with the face of a retired fighter, withdrew but Jimmy recognised he had little interest in birds of the feathered variety.

A deerstalker and binoculars hung around his neck made him look the part. It took twenty minutes hard walking to reach the outer limits of the Centre. He surveyed the perimeter fence, amazed at its condition. Most had rusted through and collapsed. Often, he stopped, peered through his binoculars, and made comments in his book. All afternoon, he mooched around making mental notes of access points. He returned to the pub and changed into casual clothing for his evening meal.

At the bar, the owner enquired about his day.

Jimmy commented on the lack of birdlife in the hedgerows and blamed it on weed killers and fertilisers.

Indifferent about birds, the man excused himself and returned to serving the other customers.

Jimmy smiled, finished his meal, and shifted to a table where he could see the comings and goings. While he sat sipping at a glass of beer, two men in RAF uniform entered and stood by the bar.

Jimmy waited a minute before he strolled across and seated himself on a barstool next to the men. He finished his pint and ordered another of local the local craft bitter. From what he overheard, it seemed they could not wait to return to Brize Norton.

"Been there and done that," interrupted Jimmy. "When I did my national service back in the fifties, I wandered from one guardroom to another. Bloody boring."

"What airfield?" asked the man, nearest?

"Here and there. In those days, one airfield looked the same as the next. I tell yer, I was glad when I received my discharge papers. Bullshit and brass."

The lads laughed. The one standing next to Jimmy became talkative. "We're doing a stint of guard duty not far from here. Eight-hour shifts in a brick room no bigger than a telephone box, checking identity cards of civilian staff. It's the same faces day in and day out. Nothing changes. Those who come and go are a right bunch of mean bastards. We don't even get a cup of tea. We must take a thermos.

"If it's not top-secret, what are you guarding?" asked Jimmy.

The nearest man said, "The joke is we don't know. It's supposed to be an accident research centre. I don't give a shit. My month's up in two days."

Jimmy slid off the stool. "Well, lads, it's been nice talking to you. I'm off to me bed."

The boys nodded and carried on drinking. Jimmy had learned enough information for it to be helpful.

Jimmy rose early, ate a full English breakfast and walked to the fields surrounding the Centre. The weather was typical for the time of year. Neither hot nor cold. Black rain clouds covered the sky. He went straight to an area where the fencing was non-existent. With his binoculars up to his eyes, he strolled over the rusted remains and stopped; nothing happened. Bored, he scanned the locale, trees and more trees.

He edged forward and dropped his notebook. On one knee, he stooped to retrieve it. In one move, he rolled onto his front and crawled to the crest of a rise. From his vantage point, he understood why the Centre was almost invisible. He peered into a central compound. An earth dam encompassed the whole centre. At the far end, a brick-built tunnel led to a gated entrance.

He watched, undecided on what to do next. Without warning, strong hands grabbed his ankles and lifted his feet. Men laughed as they dragged him across the damp earth.

"Let me go, you fucking bastards, let me go. If I get me 'ands on yer, I'll fucking kill yer."

Two men lifted and tossed him into the rear of a Land Rover.

"Bastards,"

One shouted, "Shut it, granddad or else I'll shut it for you."

The vehicle charged across the rutted field. On the smooth floor, Jimmy slid from one side to the other. Five minutes later, the same man opened the rear door. "Get out and keep your mouth shut."

"Don't worry about me, mate. I can't stand the sight of blood, especially me own."

The man sneered. "I told you to shut the fuck up. Follow me."

They were in the centre and walking along a corridor with closed doors on either side.

The man shoved Jimmy into a brightly lit room. Another man in a suit seated behind a desk pointed to a chair.

Jimmy recognised Harman-Smith.

Harman-Smith half rose to his feet and leaned across his desk. "James Roden, also known as Jimmy-the-Rat. Why didn't you knock on the front door instead of engaging in this stupid subterfuge? Look at you, covered in mud, and that thing on your head makes you look stupid. Harry, coffee for our guest. Black or white, Jimmy?"

Taken aback by their civility, he said, "Black wiv two sugars, fank you."

The telephone on the desk rang.

"Yes," Harman Smith snapped. "No," he slammed the receiver in its cradle.

"Now, you old bastard," said Harman-Smith. "What am I to do with you? We are both men who have spent our lives tracking the activities of others."

Harry arrived with the coffee.

"Thanks, mate," said Jimmy as he took the cup.

Harman-Smith checked his watch and stood.

The cup slipped out of Jimmy's hands as he tumbled to the floor.

When he awoke, darkness surrounded him, and he had one hell of a headache. He was in a comfortable bed with crisp cotton sheets. His fingers touched a plaster on his cheek.

The lights came on, cutting short his recovery. A voice asked him how he was.

"I'm okay but confused. What do you want wiv me? All I did was walk on MOD land. You can't 'ang me for that."

"Jimmy, you've forgotten the little matter of shadowing someone and arriving at the gatehouse. Didn't you see the cameras? Who's paying you?"

Jimmy sat up in bed. "What' appens if I don't tell yer?"

"How long have you been asleep?" the voice asked. "Well, let me tell you. You've checked out of your hotel, the bill's paid, and your car returned to the rental company. I doubt if anyone will begin asking questions for a long while. After all, you often disappear for weeks on end, don't you? Half a million people disappear every year. Who will miss you? This Agency has its own rules and agenda. It means we can do what we like, when we like, and how we like. So, who are you working for?"

The door opened, and Harman-Smith walked in, followed by Harry carrying a tray with a teapot, one cup and a plate with biscuits.

"Thought you might like a cuppa," said Harman-Smith. "It makes everything far more civilised."

There was silence as Harry poured the tea.

"Why can't you be reasonable Jimmy, you're not a hero, and it will save us a lot of aggro if you tell me why you keep turning up where you're not wanted."

"Couldn't agree more," said Jimmy." Er name's Janice Porter. She works for a paper in Southampton. She paid me to find out where yer lived. I decided to come 'ere and have a gander. She ad nuffing to do wiv it."

"Thank you, Jimmy. Now wasn't that easy?"

"Well, I didn't 'ave a lot of fucking choice, did I?"

"No, and I'd like you to relax and enjoy our hospitality. When you've rested, I have a proposal you might want to consider. We'll have a longer chat later."

Both men left Jimmy to his thoughts. When the door clicked shut, the lights died.