Tunnels 04, Closer

he had a full, gray-tinged beard, and his hair was surprisingly long, although he was balding on top. His eyes were lively, and twinkled as he approached Drake. He stopped in front of him, looking him over. Releasing his breath through his lips, as if he was slightly exasperated, he then began to scrutinize the rest of them. There was something in the way he sized them up that spoke of hard-won experience, as if nothing in the world could surprise him. He lingered on Mrs. Burrows, the only one in the group who didn't meet his gaze.
    Noticing that Will kept glancing at the full-length portrait of a man in military uniform above the fireplace, he went over to join the boy. "That was my father. Fine-looking figure of a man, wasn't he?" he said.
    Will nodded, now looking at the tartan kilt and the beige beret the figure was wearing, and also the fact that -- quite out of the norm for this type of portrait -- the background wasn't a darkened room or the rolling English countryside, but a few palms. "Is that a Land Rover?" Will asked, indicating the vehicle parked by the oasis.
    "Yes -- they were called Pink Panthers -- long before the cartoon character existed. They were kitted out of long-range reconnaissance work in the desert. My father helped with the spec of the vehicles. He was one of David Stirling's first recruits from his old crew at No. 8 Commando, when he first formed The Regiment in 1941.
    Will frowned. " The Regiment?"
    The man nodded. "Yes, and I bet I don't have to tell you what that winged dagger on my old man's beret means, do I, lad? He pointed at the portrait with his cane.
    "Er, the SAS?" Will answered.
    "Yes, that's it -- the Special Air Service. It was my regiment too. It's called The Regiment, because it's the best damned regiment in the world, even in these namby-pamby times."
    The old man wasn't looking at the portrait any longer, but staring absently at the clean-swept grate in the fireplace. "Stirling used to bring the men up here to train in secrecy before they were dropped behind enemy lines, on sabotage missions." He chuckled. "To make the exercises more realistic, all the employees on the estate at the time had to play the part of Jerry soldiers. You'll find that Old Wilkie, the only member of staff I have left these days, is still remarkably proficient in German." The man cleared his throat with a grunt, realizing he was talking too much, then swiped his cane carelessly through the air. "But I expect you all need something to eat and drink after your journey. If you'll go through to the dining room, I'll bring you some tea and sandwiches," he said.
    "Still doing all your own cooking and washing?" Drake asked, grinning. "Why you don't get yourself a housekeeper, I don't kn--"
    "Rubbish!" the man barked. "Waste of bloody money. When the day comes that I need some old harpy round the place, poisoning me with her fodder, I hope I'll be toes up and long in the ground." He turned away from Drake and addressed Will and the rest of the group. "By the way, you can call me Parry, because that's my real name, unlike some around here." He twisted back to Drake, hiking an eyebrow as if something absurd had just occurred to him. "And what in Heaven's name possessed you to call yourself after a flipping duck?"
    Before anyone knew it, he'd hunched like a boxer and swung at Drake, catching him in the stomach with a full-bodied punch. Will, Chester and Elliott moved toward Drake, in case they needed to come to his assistance, but went no further as the old man backed off.
    Drake was almost bent double as he tried to get his breath. But, to everyone's surprise, when he straightened up again, he was both laughing and gasping.
    "You hit like a girl, you geriatric bruiser!" he wheezed.
    "Hey! Watch what you're saying!" Elliott exclaimed. "Or I'll show you how hard this girl can hit!"
    "Oh, please," Drake said, holding out his hand as if to fend her off , still laughing. "I can't take the two of you on at once." He turned to Parry. "What was that for, anyway?"
    "That," the man boomed, "was for not sending me a single ruddy birthday card in five years, and then ringing me completely out of the blue yesterday to ask for help, you ungrateful little bastard. You know, when I didn't hear from you, I got some of my old crew to ask around and find out what you were up to." Parry studied the hand he'd used to strike Drake, flexing his fingers. "They told me they couldn't find any trace of you, and that you'd probably