For the hundredth time, Alex cursed Alan Blunt using language he hadn’t even realized he knew. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, although it could have been five o’clock in the morning: the sky had barely changed at all throughout the day. It was grey, cold, unforgiving. The rain was still falling, a thin drizzle that travelled horizontally in the wind, soaking through his supposedly waterproof
clothing, mixing with his sweat and his dirt, chilling him to the bone.
He unfolded his map and checked his position once again. He had to be close to the last RV of the day – the last rendezvous point – but he could see nothing. He was standing on a narrow track made up of loose grey shingle that crunched under his combat boots when he walked. The track snaked round the side of a mountain with a sheer drop to the right. He was somewhere in the Brecon Beacons and there should have been a view, but it had been wiped out by the rain and the fading light. A few trees twisted out of the side of the hill, with leaves as hard as thorns. Behind him, below him, ahead of him, it was all the same. Nowhere Land.
Alex hurt. The 10-kilogram Bergen rucksack he had been forced to wear cut into his shoulders and had rubbed blisters on his back. His right knee, where he had fallen earlier in the day, was no longer bleeding but still stung. His shoulder was bruised and there was a gash along the side of his neck. His camouflage outfit – he had swapped his Gap combat trousers for the real thing – fitted him badly, cutting his legs and under his arms but hanging loose everywhere else. He was close to exhaustion, he knew, almost too tired to feel how much pain he was in. But for the glucose and caffeine tablets in his survival pack, he would have ground to a halt hours ago. He knew that if he didn’t find the RV soon, he would be physically unable to continue. Then he would be thrown off the course. “Binned” as they called it. They would like that. Swallowing down the taste of defeat, Alex folded the map and forced himself on.
It was his ninth – or maybe his tenth – day of training. Time had
begun to dissolve into itself, as shapeless as the rain. After his lunch with Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones, he had been moved out of the manor house and into a crude wooden hut in the training camp a few miles away. There were nine huts in total, each equipped with four metal beds and four metal lockers. A fifth had been squeezed into one of them to accommodate Alex. Two more huts, painted a different colour, stood side by side. One of these was a kitchen and mess hall. The other contained toilets, sinks and showers – with not a single hot tap in sight.
On his first day there, Alex had been introduced to his training officer, an incredibly fit black sergeant. He was the sort of man who thought he’d seen everything. Until he saw Alex. And he had examined the new arrival for a long minute before he had spoken.
“It’s not my job to ask questions,” he had said. “But if it was, I’d want to know what they’re thinking of, sending me children. Do you have any idea where you are, boy? This isn’t Butlins. This isn’t the Club Méditerranée.” He cut the word into its five syllables and spat them out. “I have you for eleven days and they expect me to give you the sort of training that should take fourteen weeks. That’s not just mad. That’s suicidal.”
“I didn’t ask to be here,” Alex had said.
Suddenly the sergeant was furious. “You don’t speak to me unless I give you permission,” he shouted. “And when you speak to me, you address me as ‘sir’. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex had already decided that the man was even worse than his geography teacher.
“There are five units operational here at the moment,” the officer went on. “You’ll join K Unit. We don’t use names. I have no name. You have no name. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, you tell them nothing. Some of the men may be hard on you. Some of them may resent you being here. That’s too bad. You’ll just have to live with it. And there’s something else you need to know. I can make allowances for you. You’re a boy, not a man. But if you complain, you’ll be binned. If you cry, you’ll be binned. If you can’t keep up, you’ll be binned. Between you and me, boy, this is a mistake and I want to bin you.”
After that, Alex joined K Unit. As the sergeant had predicted, they weren’t exactly overjoyed to see him.
There were four of them. As Alex was soon to discover, the Special Operations Division of MI6 sent its agents to the same training centre used by the Special Air Service – the SAS. Much of the training was based on SAS methods and this included the numbers and make-up of each team. So there were four men, each with their own special skills. And one boy, seemingly with none.
They were all in their mid-twenties, spread out over the bunks in companionable silence. Two of them smoking. One dismantling and reassembling his gun – a 9mm Browning High Power pistol. Each of them had been given a code-name: Wolf, Fox, Eagle and Snake. From now on, Alex would be known as Cub. The leader, Wolf, was the one with the gun. He was short and muscular with square shoulders and black, close-cropped hair. He had a handsome face, made slightly uneven by his nose, which had been broken at some time in the past.
He was the first to speak. Putting the gun down, he examined Alex with cold, dark-grey eyes. “So who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.
“Cub,” Alex replied.
“A bloody schoolboy!” Wolf spoke with a strange, slightly foreign accent. “I don’t believe it. Are you with Special Operations?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that.” Alex went over to his bunk and sat down. The mattress felt as solid as the frame. Despite the cold, there was only one blanket.
Wolf shook his head and smiled humourlessly. “Look what they’ve sent us,” he muttered. “Double O Seven? Double O Nothing more like.”
After that, the name stuck. Double O Nothing was what they called him.
In the days that followed, Alex shadowed the group, not quite part of it but never far away. Almost everything they did, he did. He learned map-reading, radio communication and first aid. He took part in an unarmed combat class and was knocked to the ground so often that it took all his nerve to persuade himself to get up again.
And then there was the assault course. Five times he was shouted and bullied across the nightmare of nets and ladders, tunnels and ditches, swinging tightropes and towering walls, that stretched for almost half a kilometre through, and over, the woodland beside the
huts. Alex thought of it as the adventure playground from hell. The first time he tried it, he fell off a rope and into a pit that seemed to have been filled on purpose with freezing slime. Half-drowned and filthy, he had been sent back to the start by the sergeant. Alex thought he would never get to the end, but the second time he finished it in twenty-five minutes – which he cut to seventeen minutes by the end of the week. Bruised and exhausted though he was, he was quietly pleased with himself. Even Wolf only managed it in twelve.
Wolf remained actively hostile towards Alex. The other three men simply ignored him, but Wolf did everything he could to taunt or humiliate him. It was as if Alex had somehow insulted him by being placed in the group. Once, crawling under the nets, Wolf lashed out with his foot, missing Alex’s face by a centimetre. Of course he would have said it was an accident if the boot had connected. Another time he was more successful, tripping Alex up in the mess hall and sending him flying, along with his tray, cutlery and steaming plate of stew. And every time he spoke to Alex, he used the same sneering tone of voice.
“Goodnight, Double O Nothing. Don’t wet the bed.”
Alex bit his lip and said nothing. But he was glad when the four men were sent off for a day’s jungle survival course – this wasn’t part of his own training – even though the sergeant worked him twice as hard once they were gone. He preferred to be on his own.
But on the eighth day, Wolf did come close to finishing him altogether. It happened in the Killing House.
The Killing House was a fake; a mock-up of an embassy used to train the SAS in the art of hostage release. Alex had twice watched K Unit go into the house, the first time swinging down from the roof, and had followed their progress on closed circuit TV. All four men were armed. Alex himself didn’t take part because someone somewhere had decided he shouldn’t carry a gun. Inside the Killing House, mannequins had been arranged as terrorists and hostages. Smashing down the doors and using stun grenades to clear the rooms with deafening, multiple blasts, Wolf, Fox, Eagle and Snake had successfully completed their mission both times.
This time Alex had joined them. The Killing House had been booby- trapped. They weren’t told how. All five of them were unarmed. Their job was simply to get from one end of the house to the other without
being “killed”.
They almost made it. In the first room, made up to look like a huge dining-room, they found the pressure pads under the carpet and the infrared beams across the doors. For Alex it was an eerie experience, tiptoeing behind the other four men, watching as they dismantled the two devices, using cigarette smoke to expose the otherwise invisible beams. It was strange to be afraid of everything and yet see nothing. In the hallway there was a motion detector which would have activated a machine-gun (Alex assumed it was loaded with blanks) behind a Japanese screen. The third room was empty. The fourth was a living-room with the exit – a set of french windows – on the other side. There was a trip-wire, barely thicker than a human hair, running the entire width of the room, and the french windows were alarmed. While Snake dealt with the alarm, Fox and Eagle prepared to neutralize the tripwire, unclipping an electronic circuit board and a variety of tools from their belts.
Wolf stopped them. “Leave it. We’re out of here.” At the same moment, Snake signalled. He had deactivated the alarm. The french windows were open.
Snake was the first out. Then Fox and Eagle. Alex would have been the last to leave the room, but just as he reached the exit he found Wolf blocking his way.
“Tough luck, Double O Nothing,” Wolf said. His voice was soft, almost kind.
The next thing Alex knew, the heel of Wolfs palm had rammed into his chest, pushing him back with astonishing force. Taken by surprise, he lost his balance and fell, remembered the tripwire and tried to twist his body to avoid it. But it was hopeless. His flailing left hand caught the wire. He actually felt it against his wrist. He hit the floor, pulling the wire with him. And then…
The HRT stun grenade has been used frequently by the SAS. It’s a small device filled with a mixture of magnesium powder and mercury fulminate. When the trip-wire activated the grenade, the mercury exploded at once, not just deafening Alex but shuddering through him as if it could rip out his heart. At the same time, the magnesium ignited and burned for a full ten seconds. The light was so blinding that even closing his eyes made no difference. Alex lay there with his face against the hard wooden floor, his hands scrabbling against his
head, unable to move, waiting for it to end.
But even then it wasn’t over. When the magnesium finally burned out, it was as if all the light had burned out with it. Alex stumbled to his feet, unable to see or hear, not even sure any more where he was. He felt sick to his stomach. The room swayed around him. The heavy smell of chemicals hung in the air.
Ten minutes later he staggered out into the open. Wolf was waiting for him with the others, his face blank, and Alex realized he must have slipped out before he’d hit the ground. An angry sergeant walked over to him. Alex hadn’t expected to see a shred of concern in the man’s face and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Do you want to tell me what happened in there, Cub?” he demanded. When Alex didn’t answer, he went on. “You ruined the exercise. You fouled up. You could get the whole unit binned. So you’d better start telling me what went wrong.”
Alex glanced at Wolf. Wolf looked the other way. What should he say? Should he even try to tell the truth?
“Well?” The sergeant was waiting.
“Nothing happened, sir,” Alex said. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going. I stepped on something and there was an explosion.”
“If that was real life, you’d be dead,” the sergeant said. “What did I tell you? Sending me a child was a mistake. And a stupid, clumsy child who doesn’t look where he’s going … that’s even worse!”
Alex stood where he was, just taking it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wolf half-smiling.
The sergeant had seen it too. “You think it’s so funny, Wolf? You can go clean up in there. And tonight you’d better get some rest. All of you. Because tomorrow you’ve got a forty kilometre hike. Survival rations. No fire. This is a survival course. And if you do survive, then maybe you’ll have a reason to smile.”
Alex remembered the words now, exactly twenty-four hours later. He had spent the last eleven of them on his feet, following the trail the sergeant had set out for him on the map. The exercise had begun at six o’clock in the morning after a grey-lit breakfast of sausages and beans. Wolf and the others had disappeared into the distance ahead of him a long time ago, even though they had been given 25-kilogram rucksacks to carry. They had also been given only eight hours to
complete the course. Allowing for his age, Alex had been given twelve.
He rounded a corner, his feet scrunching on the gravel. There was someone standing ahead of him. It was the sergeant. He had just lit a cigarette and Alex watched him slide the matches back into his pocket. Seeing him there brought back the shame and the anger of the day before and at the same time sapped the last of his strength. Suddenly Alex had had enough of Blunt, Mrs Jones, Wolf … the whole stupid thing. With a final effort he stumbled the last hundred metres and came to a halt. Rain and sweat trickled down the side of his face. His hair, now dark with grime, was glued across his forehead.
The sergeant looked at his watch. “Eleven hours, five minutes.
That’s not bad, Cub. But the others were here three hours ago.” Bully for them, Alex thought. He didn’t say anything.
“Anyway, you should just make it to the last RV,” the sergeant went on. “It’s up there.”
He pointed to a wall. Not a sloping wall. A sheer one. Solid rock rising fifty metres up without a handhold or a foothold in sight. Even looking at it, Alex felt his stomach shrink. Ian Rider had taken him climbing – in Scotland, in France, all over Europe. But he had never attempted anything as difficult as this. Not on his own. Not when he was so tired.
“I can’t,” he said. In the end the two words came out easily. “I didn’t hear that,” the sergeant said.
“I said, I can’t do it, sir.”
“Can’t isn’t a word we use around here.”
“I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve just had…” Alex’s voice cracked. He didn’t trust himself to go on. He stood there, cold and empty, waiting for the axe to fall.
But it didn’t. The sergeant gazed at him for a long minute. He nodded his head slowly. “Listen to me, Cub,” he said. “I know what happened in the Killing House.”
Alex glanced up.
“Wolf forgot about the closed circuit TV. We’ve got it all on film.” “Then why—?” Alex began.
“Did you make a complaint against him, Cub?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to make a complaint against him, Cub?” A pause. Then, “No, sir.”
“Good.” The sergeant gestured toward the rock face, indicating a path upward. “It’s not as tough as it looks,” he assured him. “They’re waiting for you just over the top. You’ve got a nice cold dinner waiting—survival rations. You don’t want to miss that.”
Alex took a deep breath and moved forward. As he brushed past the sergeant, he stumbled slightly, instinctively reaching out for support. “Sorry, sir,” he said.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the summit, and sure enough, K Unit was already there, gathered around three small tents they must have pitched earlier. Two were shared by pairs of men, and the smallest one was designated for Alex.
Snake, a slender, fair-haired man with a Scottish accent, looked up as Alex approached, a tin of cold stew in one hand and a teaspoon in the other.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said, his tone surprisingly warm. For the first time, he didn’t refer to Alex as Double O Nothing.
“Neither did I,” Alex replied.
Wolf was crouched over a pile of kindling, trying to ignite it with two flints, while Fox and Eagle looked on. He was struggling; the stones only produced the faintest sparks, and the scraps of newspaper and leaves were far too damp. Wolf continued to strike the stones, frustration evident on his face as the others watched, their expressions grim.
Alex held out the box of matches that he had pick-pocketed from the sergeant when he had pretended to stumble at the foot of the rock face.
“These might help,” he said.
He threw the matches down, then went into his tent.
