Davy remembered the prick of a needle. Dream or reality, he did not care. Peculiar sensations raced around his mind. He wandered, lost in a maze of shadows where faces appeared and faded. Oblivion overtook him as he tumbled into a black hole

In the dark, he awoke confused. Fear grew as bitter memories of the orphanage gushed from the jumble of his mind. An aching head and a parched throat hurt. He winced when he touched the Band-Aids on his upper arms. The crispness of cotton sheets gave him the impression of a hospital bed. He groped for his watch but found nothing. In desperation, he pulled himself upright. Had they moved him to another room? He slid out of bed and lowered his feet to the floor. The sensation of a deep-pile carpet confused his thoughts. When his left hand touched a smooth wall, and he began edging his way along. He searched for a door or a light switch; there did not appear to be either. After what seemed an age, he bumped into the bed and sat on its edge

Frightened, he pondered his plight. Without warning, the room turned brilliant white. With his right hand, he shielded his eyes. Ten minutes elapsed before he could see. To his amazement, there, fitted into a wall of this windowless room, was a door. With no hesitation, he slid off the bed and started to walk.

"Return to your bed," ordered an unknown voice.

He obeyed, sat and waited until a tall, thin man in his mid-fifties with grey hair entered. The way he carried a metal-framed chair indicated he could take care of himself. Davy noticed his immaculate dark pinstripe suit and the light which reflected off his polished shoes.

The man stared at him and, in a well-educated voice, asked, "Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It's a hot day. Much less formal. It's David, isn't it?" His voice was calm but had an edge to it.

Davy sat motionless, wondering if it was worth risking a run for freedom. The door was still open. His eyes moved in that direction.

"Don't even try." The man turned his head, 'Harry.'

A shorter and much younger man dressed in an identical suit came into view. Harry Falkus nodded his bald head and moved out of sight.

"I imagine you're confused? I know money is your god. It's gone, the yacht, the money, the woman, and you're dead" He paused. "My, my, you've gone quiet. You must have a million questions to ask."

Davy studied the man, but his composure worried him. "What's it to you? Why are you keeping me here?"

"Ah, two good questions! This," he made a circle in the air with his hands, "is your prison cell until we reach an agreement. What do I want? I demand your diligence and loyalty. I'm telling you that when you make a pact with the devil, no one will miss you. I am your God, and I choose if you live, or die. What's your real name? I must say, your fake passport is brilliant, although this David Jones died at the age of twelve."

Davy shrugged

The grey-haired man leaned forward and fixed him with a stare. "I don't give a toss, but this meeting will decide if you have a future."

Davy grimaced. "I am what I am."

"Harry," The other man entered with an attaché case, placed it on the floor and left.

"Pick it up, David, and open it. You'll find its contents interesting."

He picked up the case and placed it on the bed. On opening, it revealed a folder filled with photographs detailing the destruction of the Red Mafia house.

"Not that you knew, my team were, undertaking surveillance on properties belonging to the Mob. You ruined months of hard work. Your escape plan was interesting, and we did wonder where you were going. The storm was a dividend. I own you: You're mine to do with, as I want. The arrangement is simple: it's time you did something for your country. You have a while to decide."

Davy struggled to overcome his fear and shouted, "Kiss my arse and take a long hike off a short pier.

"You poor sod," said the man, his face expressionless. "No one knows you are here. You have no rights. Murder is ethical if you are on the right side."

Davy squirmed. "What do you want from me?"

"I have a proposition for you," said the unsmiling man. "Join the drugs trade? It's profitable, and you could keep whatever money you make."

"I don't do drugs. You might as well kill me."

"That answer may have saved your life. Understand this; I don't play the game by anyone's rules but my own. I use people with no past and no future unless I consider otherwise. From what we know, you're bright and possess physical strength. You've hidden your past well, but it doesn't matter. With the right training, you might be useful."

"Useful. I feel as useful as a chocolate teapot in the Sahara."

"I'm Ronald Harman-Smith. My Agency needs to infiltrate an organisation with a large power base founded on drug trafficking. We already have an agent on the inside, though she's in a limited position. She'll make contact and introduce you as her boyfriend, a petty thief released from prison a month ago. You'll work together, gathering undeniable proof which will take these bastards to jail for a long time."

"What's in it for me?"

"A new life and identity, with the slate wiped clean. It's your choice. Do not forget you are dispensable."

Davy believed this man meant what he said. Wherever he went, there was no escape. "Do you make friends everywhere you go? What if I do a runner?"

Harman's expression hardened. "There are four Band-Aids, two on each arm. One conceals an implanted microchip. This unique little gadget will enable us to track you. I can't tell you how but be assured it can. You have two choices. One of them will be wrong."

"Do I have a choice?"

"I offer you the choice of life or death."

"Okay, I'll play your game, but I don't speak French."

"It's not necessary. David! I presume you prefer that name, as it's the one on your passport. I guessed you'd agree with my little proposal. Now, this accommodation is a touch Spartan. Please follow me."

With Harry, a few steps behind, they walked along a bare concrete corridor. Harman-Smith stopped and pressed a panel on the wall; a door slid open. "Here we are, home sweet home. One thing you'd better remember Jones when you accept my hospitality, you do as I say."

Davy peered through the doorway; this was larger and better furnished. It could have been any commercial hotel room in the world except for the lack of windows.

"The bathroom's en suite. Tomorrow your training begins. Harry will wake you with breakfast and clean clothes."

Davy managed a weak smile as the two men left. He folded his arms, shook his head and wondered what the hell was happening, and then the lights went out. He groped in the dark, found the bed, relaxed, closed his eyes, and was soon asleep.

He awoke when Harry entered.

"You've got an hour, and I'll be back," Harry remarked in a controlled tone, placing a tray of food and a bundle of clothes on the floor.

Davy was hungry, having eaten nothing since the hospital. When he finished the meal, he examined the clothes: one pair of khaki overalls, underwear, thick woollen socks and cheap trainers. The fact these were ex-army was obvious. Why someone removed the labels was a mystery. He went for a shower, dressed and waited.

The door opened with a metallic click, and Harry entered. "Please follow me." He turned and left the room.

Davy jumped to his feet and, in a few strides, was alongside Harry. He tried his winning smile. "Where are we going?"

"Follow me, shut the fuck up and don't try to be a smartarse."

Davy scrutinised his surroundings. Ventilation ducts and a mass of wiring covered the ceiling, and the environment controlled. On entering a room, Harry left, locking the door.

Once alone, he searched for a way out. The view from the curtained windows false, and cameras monitored his movements.

A voice came from a speaker. "Sit in the red chair and remove the folders in the top drawer."

As instructed, he picked up a pencil, opened the folder and started to read. The voice continued, "Know thy enemy, and you will succeed. Study this information, for as you begin to understand, you will learn that these people kill because they can. Your task is to infiltrate the organisation and become a trusted lieutenant in their army. We're not winning the drugs war. Do you know eight hundred organised gangs throughout this world deal in narcotics? From the growers to the pushers, drugs of every description are worth eight billion pounds. Two tons of cocaine has a street value of two hundred million. These people corrupt politicians and bribe governments. The way they operate, you could end your life in a solid concrete block."

He stopped tapping his pencil and pointed to the overhead camera, shouting, "Fuck off and let me concentrate."

"Impertinence will get you killed," boomed the voice. "But if you're well informed, you have the edge. It's the difference between life and death. Once you survived in a world based on rules. From now on, you make your own. Do we understand each other?"

"This might be easier face to face?"

"The fewer agency people you recognise, the better."

"Who's the woman with William Kent?" the voice asked.

"Isobel Alfonin, a major drugs dealer, lives in Spain and a high official in ETA. A man-eater from what I've read."

"You have been attentive. Tea or coffee with your lunch? I'll leave you to continue your studies."

The constant grilling and pressure drove Davy mad. Days turned into weeks.

One morning, Harry arrived with Davy's breakfast together with a battered suitcase. "You've done okay. The boss says you're leaving. Try on the clothes for size; if they're a bad fit, we may be able to change them. There's a new passport, driving licence and a few quid. Your contact will brief you."

The clothes were rudimentary, and he promised himself something better. Breakfast was a mixture of greasy bacon, rubber eggs and soggy beans. Nevertheless, he ate every scrap. The coffee was hot, and its gritty substance washed away the grease. He tried to focus as his head spun. Like a rag doll, he collapsed onto the bed as the tray hit the floor. The dark returned.