Ark Angel

Drevin put his phone away and stood up. He seemed to notice Alex for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” Alex muttered. He didn’t know what to say.

“There will be other games.” Drevin’s voice was heavy. “If you don’t mind, Alex, I will ask Miss Knight to accompany you home. The driver is waiting outside. I have some business to attend to.” Tamara nodded. “Whatever you say, Mr Drevin.”

Drevin went back into the dining room. Alex took one last look at the stadium, at the great rectangle of bright green grass, at the departing spectators. He knew it was unlikely he would ever have this view of Stamford Bridge again.

Something caught his eye.

The sun glinting off something. Somebody in the crowd.

No. It wasn’t possible.

Alex looked again, then hurried down the steps to the edge of the terrace and looked more carefully, his eyes searching the milling crowd. He knew what he had seen. He just hoped he was mistaken.

He wasn’t.

Silver Tooth was standing on the edge of the pitch. Alex looked down, shocked. The man he’d knocked out with the defibrillator and who had been there with Force Three when he was interrogated was there, in the crowd! He had been watching the game as if that was what he did on a Saturday afternoon when he wasn’t kidnapping people. Alex watched as he slipped something into his jacket pocket and then began moving slowly towards the south stand.

Tamara Knight called out to him. “Alex?”

What should he do? Alex didn’t want any more involvement with Force Three. He was meant to be on holiday, recuperating. But he couldn’t just let the man walk away.

He made his decision. He turned and ran past her. “I’ll meet you at the car!” he called out.

And then he was gone, through the glass doors into the dining room, searching for the way back down.

BLUE MURDER

« ^ »

orce Three were here at Stamford Bridge.

As Alex burst out into the open air, he knew they hadn’t come to watch a football match. They had already attacked Drevin once—through his son. Was it possible they were going to try again, this time by targeting his football team?

Alex reached the edge of the pitch and looked around. The crowd was slowly disappearing through the various exits, like sand trickling out of a leaking bucket, but there must still have been at least ten thousand people in the stadium. Now that he was at ground level, he wondered if he would have any chance of spotting the man he knew only as Silver Tooth again.

Up on the giant television screens, Adam Wright was being interviewed about the missed penalty. The Stratford East captain had a boyish face; he could have been about nineteen. He looked and sounded as if he was sulking.

“…so I don’t really know what happened,” he was saying. “I thought the ball moved just before I kicked it.

The soil was a bit soft around the penalty spot. I don’t know. It’s just one of those things, I suppose. There’s always next time…”

Alex glanced away from the image and that was when he saw him. Silver Tooth was wearing an orange Gore-Tex jacket. Perhaps he thought it was going to rain. There was a large gap between the terraces and the pitch, and Alex saw Silver Tooth as he separated from the crowd. He was walking purposefully round the front of the south stand, not making for any of the exits. Alex was able to examine him properly for the first time. He was in his twenties. Not English. His looks were Middle Eastern. His hair was long and dirty.

It wasn’t just his teeth that needed attention. Alex followed him behind the goal and towards the players’

tunnel. What was the man doing here? He turned the question over and over in his mind.

Silver Tooth reached the tunnel and disappeared from sight. Alex quickened his pace, grateful for the security pass around his neck. A couple of stewards glanced his way but neither of them tried to stop him.

It occurred to him that Silver Tooth must have a pass too. If so, how had he got it? Or was his simply forged?

He reached the tunnel, which was surrounded by a sea of empty blue seats with the press box just above.

Nine steps led down to an old-fashioned metal and wire gate. In normal circumstances Alex would have given anything to be here. He had watched his team emerge countless times from right where he was standing. He could picture the spectators in their thousands, hear the chanting and clapping swelling into a roar of excitement as the players appeared. This really was the lion’s mouth. But he couldn’t feel any excitement. Despite all his resolutions, Alex knew that he was getting into trouble once again. Trouble, it seemed, just wouldn’t let him go.

Alex entered a modern, surprisingly empty area with a ceiling so low it was oppressive, and grey tiles on the floor. There was no sign of Silver Tooth. There were a couple of gleaming silver bins and a bench where injured players could receive immediate physio. The air was cold and sterile, endlessly recycled by a powerful air-conditioning system. Everything smelled brand new, and Alex recalled that the owner of Chelsea had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds smartening the place up. He pushed open a door and found himself looking into the press room, a rectangular space with about twenty seats facing a narrow platform. The journalists had already left. There was an outer room with two walls covered in carefully placed advertisements and he recognized the spot where Adam Wright had been interviewed only a few minutes before.

He tried another door. As he pushed it ajar, he heard voices coming from inside. One was all too familiar.

He held the door open a crack and looked through. Yes. Combat Jacket was there. The last time Alex had seen him, he had been shooting at him with an FP9 single-action pistol, blocking his escape from a blazing building. Now he was standing with his back to the door, hands on hips. Silver Tooth and Spectacles were with him. They were surrounding a fourth man who was sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist.

It was Adam Wright. This was the visiting team’s changing room. Peering through the narrow crack—Alex didn’t dare open the door any wider—he took in the blue padded benches, the lockers, the vending machine filled with water and Lucozade, the ultra-modern showers and toilets on the far side. The ceiling was low here too. Alex could almost feel the weight of the seating in the stand directly overhead.

The Stratford East captain was the only player in the room. The others must have left while he was being interviewed, getting out as fast as they could after losing the game. Adam Wright was looking up at the three men towering over him. He was clearly surprised to see them.

“If you guys don’t mind,” he said, “I was just going to take a shower. We don’t usually have visitors in the players’ changing room.”

“We represent the Stratford East Supporters’ Club,” Combat Jacket said. “And we have something for you.”

“A thank-you present,” Spectacles added.

“That’s right. To thank you for everything you’ve done for the team.” Combat Jacket took a sealed plastic box from his pocket and held it out.

Adam Wright took it. “Well, that’s very kind of you guys. But if you don’t mind, I’ll open it later.”

“We’d prefer you to open it now.”

Alex was only a few metres away from the Stratford East captain, who was sitting facing him. He watched as the player opened the box and took out a gold medallion on a chain. It was an appropriate present.

Adam Wright wore more jewellery than most women: earrings, bracelets and a different necklace every day of the week. But none of this made any sense. The three men in the dressing room were killers. What were they doing offering gifts to a footballer who’d just blown a game?

“It’s really nice,” the Stratford East captain said, holding up the medallion. It was round and chunky, about the size of a mini disc. There was a figure engraved on the front. Himself, heading a ball into a net. “It’s great!” he exclaimed. “Can you tell the fans that, you know, I really appreciate this.”

“Aren’t you going to put it on?” Combat Jacket asked.

“Sure!” Wright slipped it over his head. The medallion rested on his muscular chest. “It’s quite light. What’s it made of?”

“Caesium,” Combat Jacket said.

Adam Wright looked blank. “Is that rare?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Getting hold of it can be murder…”

Something nudged the back of Alex’s neck. Alex stepped backwards, allowing the door of the changing room to close, and he heard no more of the conversation.

There is something about the touch of a gun that is unmistakable. It’s not just the coldness of the metal; it’s the whisper of death that comes with it. Very slowly, Alex turned round. He saw the gun clasped in two hands, one of them swathed in bandages. He knew that the man who held it had broken at least a couple of his fingers. Alex remembered him from the magnetic resonance imaging chamber at St Dominic’s. He was short and very well built. Alex had nicknamed him Steel Watch, but the watch was no longer there. It must have been broken when the man crashed into the MRI machine. Alex was a little surprised that the same thing hadn’t happened to his neck.

“You!” Steel Watch was shocked to see Alex.

Alex raised his hands. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the time?” he asked.

Steel Watch grimaced. He seemed unsure what to do. He had been about to enter the changing room; the other members of Force Three were waiting for him. But he had a personal score to settle with Alex.

He made up his mind. “You and I are going to leave quietly together,” he ordered. “I am going to walk behind you. The gun will never be more than a few inches away. You will not speak; you will not stop. If you try anything—anything—I will put a bullet in your spine. Do you understand?”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a van. I’ll show you. Now move.”

Alex had no choice. He could see that Steel Watch meant exactly what he said. He was going to force him out of the stadium and make him a prisoner for a second time. Alex knew if he got in the van, he’d be dead anyway. Both Combat Jacket and Steel Watch had a score to settle with him. They were adults. Professional killers. He was a child. But he had beaten them twice. They were going to enjoy making him pay.

Steel Watch gestured with his gun and Alex walked down a corridor leading away from the tunnel. He had noticed that the man was wearing a security pass just like his. It had to be fake. There was nobody around, but even if one of the stewards did appear, there would be nothing Alex could do. If he called for help, Steel Watch would kill him and then run. There were still hundreds of people milling around Stamford Bridge; it would be simple to disappear into the crowd.

Briefly Alex thought about Adam Wright and wondered what was going on inside the changing room. But there was nothing he could do for the footballer. He was more worried about himself.

They left the building. The east stand was now behind them, the terraces slanting up at an angle from the ground. There was a high wall straight ahead. Alex knew that the railway ran behind it -the wall had been built to keep out the noise. On the other side of the tracks was a cemetery. Alex had been there when his uncle, Ian Rider, was buried. He had to think. If he didn’t do something soon, he might well end up joining him.

Steel Watch jabbed the gun into the small of his back, deliberately hurting him. He had seen a couple of policemen standing on the other side of the gates that led into the Fulham Road. There was an endless queue of people filtering slowly out of the gates. The bars, restaurants and hotels were open. Alex paused.

He couldn’t believe they were about to walk through the middle of it all.

Steel Watch sensed his hesitation. “We are going to start walking now,” he hissed. “Remember. The gun is out of sight. There’ll be one shot and nobody will know where it came from. You’ll be lying in the gutter and I’ll be gone. Head out of the gates and across the road. I will tell you where to go after that.” Alex began to walk with the wall on his left. He turned the corner and saw the ticket booths and souvenir shop just ahead. The Stratford East fans seemed to have gone, taking their disappointment with them. But the Chelsea supporters were in no hurry. It was a mild evening and this was the place to be, meeting friends, savouring the victory. Alex knew that his situation would get worse with every step he took. Right here, now, there might be something he could do. There were the two policemen, chatting together, unaware that anything was wrong. There would be dozens more on the Fulham Road. But once Alex moved away from the crowds, he would be totally exposed. Steel Watch had mentioned a van. Alex imagined the steel door slamming shut behind him. At that moment he would be as good as dead.

He had to do something now, before it was too late. He glanced over his shoulder. Steel Watch was being careful, keeping a safe distance between them. The man had his hands tucked under his jacket. It didn’t even look as if the two of them were together, but Alex knew that the gun was trained on him. If he tried anything, Steel Watch would fire through the fabric. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t turn. He had to keep moving.

The gates were getting closer. The Fulham Road was beyond. One of the policemen was giving somebody directions. But they weren’t going to help him. What about the crowd? Ahead of him, next to the exit, he caught a glimpse of red and black. Two Stratford East supporters in team shirts. One of them was a skinhead with small, red eyes and a ruddy, pock-marked face. He was scowling at the departing Chelsea fans and Alex could see that he would love to cause trouble. He was swaying on his feet. He’d probably been drinking. But there were too many policemen around. All he had was attitude—and he was showing as much of it as he could.

Alex was heading straight towards him with Steel Watch close behind. And suddenly he had a thought.

Steel Watch was keeping an eye on his every movement. But he couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see what he did with his hands.

But the Stratford East supporter could.

Alex slowed down.

“Keep moving,” Steel Watch ordered in a low, ugly voice.

Alex stared at the skinhead. He had once read somewhere that if you stared at another person hard enough, they’d become aware of you. He had tried it often enough when he was bored in class. Now he focused all his attention on the man even as he continued walking forward, weaving through the crowd.

The man looked up. It wasn’t telepathy; there was no real way he could avoid him. Alex was about fifteen metres away, getting closer all the time. People were crossing in front of him—fathers with their sons, couples, fans dressed in the blue Chelsea strip—but Alex ignored them. His eyes drilled into the Stratford East supporter.

The skinhead noticed him. His own eyes narrowed.

Alex’s hand was against his chest. With his gaze still fixed on the man, he raised two fingers slowly and deliberately, then dropped one of them. Unseen by Steel Watch, he had signalled the score: two-one. And he had left his middle finger standing offensively upright. Alex sneered at the supporter, trying to look as aggressive as he could. The supporter stared. Alex repeated the sign. This was the worst insult he could throw at the man without opening his mouth.

Alex had been right. The Stratford East supporter was drunk. He had watched his team lose with almost as much disgust as Drevin himself, and the botched penalty in the final seconds had enraged him. And here was some cocky little sod, a Chelsea supporter, making fun of him! Well, to hell with the police. To hell with the crowd. He wasn’t going to stand here and take it. He was going to sort him out.

He lumbered forward. Alex felt a spurt of excitement as he saw that his tactic had worked. Behind him, Steel Watch hadn’t realized what was going on. Things had to happen very quickly; Alex needed the element of surprise.

The Stratford East supporter stopped in front of him, blocking his path. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.

Alex came to a halt—he had no choice—and he felt Steel Watch bump into him. There was no longer any distance between them.

“I said—what’s your problem?”

Alex said nothing. He had been instructed not to talk. Instead he twisted his face into a sneer of amusement, mocking the man who stood in front of him.

It worked. The supporter swore at him and lashed out with his right fist. Alex ducked. The fist flew past his head and slammed into the throat of Steel Watch, who had been standing right behind him. The gun went off. The bullet hit the Stratford East supporter in the arm, spinning him round. Panic erupted. Suddenly everyone was screaming and running, aware that somebody had been shot but not knowing who had fired.

The two policemen charged in through the gates. Behind them a third policeman appeared on horseback.

The horse whinnied and began to push through the scattering crowd.

The Stratford East supporter was sitting on the ground, clasping his injured arm. Alex felt sorry for him, but he wasn’t going to hang around. The instant the gun had been fired, he had darted away, diving into the crowd, weaving left and right, hoping Steel Watch wouldn’t have a chance to shoot again.

He had timed it perfectly. Steel Watch didn’t dare try another shot. There were already too many people between him and Alex. And he couldn’t bring out the gun without drawing attention to himself. There were police everywhere. There was nothing more he could do.

Alex ran on, past the Chelsea shop and on towards the entrance where the car had dropped him before the match. Tamara Knight was standing there. She was looking alarmed, and Alex wondered if she had heard the shot. Then he realized she was staring at him. She could tell from his face that something was wrong.

“Alex? What is it?” she demanded.

“Get help!” he exclaimed. “Call the police. Whatever.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve got to send someone to the changing rooms. Adam Wright. I think he’s in trouble.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Force Three.” It was too complicated to explain. Drevin’s personal assistant was looking at him as if he were deranged. Where was he meant to begin? “Just trust me,” he begged. “You need to get security over to the changing rooms. Please! Believe me…”

Tamara gazed at him for a few more seconds, summing him up. She didn’t look as if she believed him. But then she nodded. “All right, then. There’s a steward inside.” She turned and hurried back into the west stand.

But it was already too late.

The three men had left the changing room. Adam Wright was on his own. He fingered the new medallion they had given him. He had more than a dozen of them—in gold and platinum. He’d always liked medallions, even when he was a boy growing up in Essex. He thought they suited him.

It was strange, though. Receiving a gift after a game like that. Adam Wright thought about the missed penalty as he went over to the showers. However you looked at it, he wasn’t having a good season. Maybe it was time to think about another transfer. He had to be careful. If his game began to slip, he might lose some of his advertising and sponsorship deals. And if that happened, how would he pay for his next Ferrari?

He dropped his towel. Glimpsing himself in a mirror, he smiled. He had a perfect body and he liked the way the new medallion lay against his chest. He was looking forward to showing it to Cayenne.

He turned the shower on full. Hot water blasted down. He stepped into the spray and water battered his neck and shoulders. He turned round.

The men who had given Adam Wright the medallion had told him that it was made of caesium. What they hadn’t told him was that caesium is an alkali metal found in group one of the periodic table. It does not occur naturally. It has only one electron in its outer shell. And, like all alkali metals, it reacts extremely violently when exposed to water. The medallion had been given a coating of wax to protect it from the atmosphere, but the wax was now melting in the shower.

Adam Wright knew there was something wrong when he felt an intense burning. For a moment, he thought the water was too hot. Then he looked down and, to his astonishment, he saw a brilliant flame bursting out in front of him. He opened his mouth to scream, and at that moment the caesium medallion exploded. The scream died in his throat. With the water rushing down, he fell to his knees, his hands outstretched, and for a brief instant he looked just like a keeper seconds after he has let the ball into the back of the net. Then he pitched forward and lay still.

Two minutes later, the door of the changing room crashed open and a group of security men rushed in.

There was nothing they could do. Adam Wright was lying on the floor with water all around him. Smoke was rising up beneath his chest, creeping through his armpits.

The Stratford East captain and England striker had taken his last penalty.

And the people who had come for him hadn’t missed.

EXPIRY DATE

« ^ »

he following day, Alex was playing table tennis with Paul Drevin. Once again Paul was beating him. The score was fifteen-eighteen and it was his serve. He fired the ball down the table, trying to put some spin on it. Paul lobbed it back. Alex went for the slam and got it. The ball hit the corner of the table and bounced over Paul’s bat. Sixteen-eighteen. He was in with a chance.

The two boys were playing in the most extraordinary room Alex had ever been in. It was more than sixty metres long but only six metres wide, an oversized cigar tube with porthole windows running along the whole length. Part of the room was carpeted, with luxurious leather chairs arranged around a coffee table, a drinks cabinet and a widescreen TV. Then there was the games area: complete with table-tennis table, snooker table, PlayStation and gym. Next to it was a small but well-equipped kitchen and, on the other side, closed off, a study area with a library and conference table where Nikolei Drevin was now working.

And the whole thing was thirty-six thousand feet above the ground.

Alex and Paul were on their way to America, flying in Drevin’s private 747 which he had adapted to his own needs. Forget cramped seating and microwaved food on plastic trays. The interior of this plane was beyond belief. But for the noise of the engines and the occasional turbulence, it would have been hard for Alex to believe that he was in the air.

He was glad to be out of England.

The death of Adam Wright had naturally made the front page of every newspaper. It had also been the lead story in all the news programmes on TV. This time, Alex had not been involved—and for that he had to thank Tamara Knight. She alone knew that he had seen and followed one of the killers at Stamford Bridge, and when the body in the shower had been discovered, she had decided to keep this information to herself.

As she said to Alex, he’d been through enough. Force Three had already claimed responsibility for the murder, explaining that the footballer had been another victim in their war against Drevin. What difference would it make if Alex was dragged into it once again?

Tamara was on the plane too, sitting in one of the Leather chairs, reading a book. Alex had glanced at the cover and seen the title. She was reading a history of space travel, obviously preparing herself for the launch that was to take place in just three days’ time. She glanced up briefly as he prepared to take his next serve, then turned a page.

Alex lost the serve and, two points later, the game. He wondered if they’d reached the coast of Canada yet.

It had been almost five hours since they had left Heathrow, and even with all the comforts of the 747, he was aware that he was in that strange, empty space, hovering on the edge of the world between two time zones.

“Are you hungry?” Paul asked him.

“No thanks,” Alex replied. The plane had a cook and two stewardesses, who had served a brunch of fresh fruit, coffee and croissants just after they had taken off.

“We can watch a film if you like.”

“All right.”

Paul put down his bat and slumped into one of the nearby chairs. “It’s a shame we won’t have more time in New York,” he said. “I really wanted to show it to you. It’s a cool city just to wander around in. And it’s got great shops. I was going to buy a whole load of gear.”

“How long are we there for?” Alex asked.

“Dad says just one day. He’s got some people to see—or we’d be going straight to Flamingo Bay.” Paul pressed a button in the arm of his chair and a moment later one of the stewardesses appeared.

“Can we watch a film?” he asked.

“Of course.” The stewardess smiled. “I’ll bring you the menu. And would you like something to drink?”

“I’ll have a Coke. Alex?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Alex sat down opposite Paul, avoiding the other boy’s eye. It seemed to him that Paul was more like his father than perhaps he realized. Despite his protests, he fitted comfortably into this billionaire lifestyle, taking the private plane, the houses all over the world and the complete freedom for granted. Right now the two of them should have been at school. Alex thought of Brookland and a big part of him yearned to be with his friends, larking around and getting into trouble—back in the real world.

He was feeling guilty because, although he’d said nothing to Paul, he had already made his decision. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to leave the Drevin household. He felt sorry for Paul. More and more the other boy seemed to be relying on his friendship, taking him for granted like everything else.

Paul hadn’t chosen any of this but he was stuck with it, and one day it would be him jetting around the world, making all the important decisions.

But Alex had had enough. Nikolei Drevin had nothing he wanted. More than that, Alex was becoming increasingly uneasy, aware of an invisible net closing in. He had now encountered Force Three twice. He might not be so lucky a third time. Whatever their argument with Drevin, he didn’t want to be any part of it.

And then there was the question of Drevin himself. There was so much about the man that didn’t add up. If he was so concerned about Paul’s safety, why hadn’t he put any guards in place at St Dominic’s? And was it just coincidence that the kidnappers had taken Alex to a building that Drevin—or one of Drevin’s many companies—actually owned? Alex thought about his meeting with Kaspar. The Force Three leader had been about to cut off one of his fingers—and would have if Alex hadn’t convinced him who he really was.

If Paul Drevin had been kidnapped, he would have been maimed. Why? Was there some sort of private vendetta between Nikolei Drevin and Kaspar that both men were keeping concealed?

Alex didn’t trust Drevin. That was the simple truth. When they had raced against each other, Drevin had tried to kill him. If Alex had flipped over inside the tunnel, he might have been crushed—and all because the Russian didn’t like losing. He had lost again at Chelsea, and as a result a man had died. Was Drevin responsible for that too? Alex remembered seeing him talking on his mobile seconds after the game had ended. And when Alex had spotted Silver Tooth, he had been slipping something into his pocket. Could it have been a phone?

Was it possible that he had been taking his orders directly from Drevin?

Well, he had decided. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to call Jack Starbright, who was only a couple of hours away in Washington. He knew she’d be happy for him to join her, especially if she thought he was in any danger. He would tell Nikolei Drevin that he was homesick. It didn’t matter what excuse he made up. When Drevin and his son flew to Flamingo Bay, they would be travelling without him.

“Is everything all right, Alex?”

Alex looked up and realized that Tamara Knight had been examining him. He still hadn’t worked her out.

She had never been particularly friendly to him and seemed completely devoted to Nikolei Drevin. On the other hand, as far as he knew, she had never told Drevin about his involvement in Adam Wright’s death.

Right now, she was studying him suspiciously. Maybe she was trying to work him out too.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Alex said.

“Are you looking forward to the launch?”

Alex shrugged. “I suppose so.”

Paul had chosen a film. The lights in the centre of the cabin dimmed and a few minutes later it began.

It was just after one o’clock. New York time, when they touched down at JFK Airport. Nikolei Drevin had come out of his study for the last hour of the flight, dictating a letter to Tamara and chatting to Paul. Part of the conversation was in Russian and Alex got the feeling that father and son were talking about him.

The 747 taxied to a holding area. Looking out of a window, Alex saw a chauffeur-driven limousine waiting to meet them. He guessed that a man as rich and influential as Drevin wouldn’t have to queue up at immigration with everyone else, and he was right. The door of the plane opened electronically and two men in suits—customs and immigration—were shown in. One of them had a metal attaché case which contained a computer and an old-fashioned passport stamp.

“Good afternoon, Mr Drevin, sir,” the man said. He was young, clean-shaven, with short blond hair and dark glasses. “Welcome to New York.”

“Thank you.” Drevin held out his passport. The man ran it through the scanner on his computer without so much as glancing at it, then stamped one of the pages. He did the same for Paul and Tamara. He took Alex’s last, gazed at the photograph and lowered it behind the lid of his case. For a moment it was out of sight as he scanned it, but then he was holding it up again with a look of polite puzzlement.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Drevin. “We have a problem here.”

“What problem?” Drevin was annoyed.

“This passport is out of date. It expired two days ago.”

“That’s not possible.” Drevin reached for the passport. He looked at the expiry date, then at Alex. “The man is correct,” he said.

“No.” Alex was shocked. It was true he hadn’t looked closely at his passport for a long time, but he was certain he’d only had it four years. There was an absurd photograph of him aged ten; he remembered going with Jack to have it taken. “It can’t be!” he protested.

Drevin handed him the passport. Alex studied it. It was the same photo. The terrible haircut embarrassed him as it always did. There was his signature, and Ian Rider’s name and address as next of kin. But the immigration man was correct. His passport had expired the day before he left London.

“But how can it have happened?” Alex asked. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. “Why didn’t they notice at Heathrow?”

“I guess they didn’t look closely enough,” the American said.

“What does this mean?” Drevin asked. His voice was cold.

“Well, sir, I’m very sorry but we can’t allow your guest to enter the United States. In normal circumstances he’d be sent back home, but I guess we can work something out. How long do you plan to be here?”

“Less than twenty-four hours,” Drevin replied. “We leave tomorrow.”

“In that case, we can hold Mr Rider here at the airport. It’ll be like he’s in transit. You can pick him up again when you leave.”

“But the child only wishes to stay here one night. Surely he can’t be such a threat to American security that you won’t allow him to stay with me!”

“I’m very sorry, Mr Drevin. It’s like I say. Really he should be on his way back to the UK. I’m stretching things as it is. But I can’t allow him in.”

“I don’t understand it,” Alex insisted. “I only got it four years ago—I’m sure of it.” He was feeling wretched. Both Drevin and his son were staring at him as if this were all his fault, which, he supposed, in a way it was.

“It seems we have no choice in the matter, Alex,” Drevin said. He turned to the immigration officer.

“Where will you hold him?”

“We have rooms here at the airport, sir. He’ll have a TV and a shower. I can assure you he’ll be fine.”

“Then it seems we’ll have to pick you up tomorrow, Alex.”

Drevin got up and left the aircraft. Paul and Tamara followed. The assistant had said nothing throughout the discussion. Alex looked out of the window as they got into the limousine. A moment later they drove away and he found himself alone with the two Americans.

“Do you have any hand luggage?” the immigration man asked.

“No.”

“OK. My name’s Shulsky, by the way. Ed Shulsky. You’d better come with me.” Alex followed the American down onto the tarmac, the customs official close behind. There was another car waiting for them and Alex climbed into the back. Shulsky took the front seat. The other man stayed behind.

“Just relax. This won’t take long,” Shulsky said.

The doors had locked themselves automatically. Feeling far from relaxed, Alex sat back and watched where they were going.

They drove out of the airport, passing through a double barrier and a gate. That already struck him as odd.

Hadn’t Shulsky just said he was going to have to spend the night at JFK? But it seemed they were heading for Manhattan. The driver joined the traffic on the freeway that led to Brooklyn Bridge, and suddenly Alex found himself looking across the water to the most famous skyline in the world. Even now, even in these circumstances, the view couldn’t fail to thrill him, the magnificent arrogance of the skyscrapers packed together on the cramped, chaotic island a monument to power and success and the American way of life.

Alex leant forward. “Where are we going?” he demanded.

“We’ll be there soon,” Shulsky answered.

“I thought you said we were staying at the airport.”

“Relax, Alex. We’ll look after you just fine.”

Alex knew something was going on. There had been nothing wrong with his passport. He was sure of it.

But there wasn’t anything he could do. He was locked in a car on the other side of the world and he might just as well sit back and—as the Americans would say—be taken for the ride.

He looked out of the window as they crossed the bridge and turned north, heading past the terrible empty space where the World Trade Center had once stood. He had visited New York a couple of times and had happy memories of the city. Now he was being driven through SoHo, in south Manhattan.

The car slowed down and he noticed an art gallery with a window full of cartoons, its name printed in gold letters on the glass. They turned into a parking garage. Alex sighed and shook his head. Now he knew exactly where he was.

In Miami they had called themselves Centurion International Advertising. The gallery here in New York was called Creative Ideas Animation. Two different names but the same three letters.

CIA.

The car drove up to the first floor of the garage and stopped. Shulsky got out and opened the door for Alex.

“This way,” he announced.

Alex followed him to a bare metal door that could have led into a storage cupboard or perhaps an electric generator room. A keypad was built into the wall and Shulsky entered a seven-digit code. There was a buzz and the door opened. Alex walked through into an empty corridor with a closed-circuit television camera pointing down at him from above and another locked door at the end. It swung open as he approached.

There was a comfortable reception area on the other side, and, beyond that, open-plan offices filled with phones and computers. Two telephonists sat behind the main desk, and men and women in suits walked along the carpeted corridors. A black man with white hair and a moustache was waiting to greet him. Alex recognized him at once. His name was Joe Byrne. He was the deputy director for operations in the Covert Action section of the Central Intelligence Agency of America.

“Nice to see you again, Alex,” he said.

“I’m not so sure,” Alex replied. He remembered how his passport had briefly disappeared into Shulsky’s attaché case. “You swapped my passport,” he said. “The one you showed Drevin was a fake.” Joe Byrne nodded. “Come this way. Let me show you to my office. I think it’s time you and I had a little chat.”

THE BIGGEST CRIMINAL IN THE WORLD

« ^ »

yrne’s office was identical to the one that Alex had visited in Miami. It had the same ordinary furniture, the same blank walls, the same air-conditioning turned up one notch too high. Only the view was different.

Alex guessed he probably had something similar in just about every major city in America.

“You fancy a drink?” Byrne asked as he sat down behind his desk.

“Some water, thanks.” There were a couple of bottles on a sideboard. Alex helped himself.

“It’s good to see you again, Alex.” Byrne sounded tired. He looked as if he hadn’t been to bed for a week. “I was never able to thank you for the work you did for us on Skeleton Key.”

“I was sorry about your agents.”

“Tom Turner and Belinda Troy. Yeah, it was too bad. I was sorry to lose them. But that wasn’t your fault.

You did a great job.” Byrne ran his eyes over Alex. “You look in good shape,” he went on. “I was sorry to hear you got hurt in London. I told that boss of yours, Alan Blunt, that it wasn’t a good idea getting a kid involved in this sort of work. Of course, he didn’t listen to me. He never does. In a way, that’s why you’re here now.”

“Why am I here now?”

“We had to get you away from Drevin without alerting him to the fact that the CIA was involved,” Byrne explained. “Like you said, we swapped your passport, so now he thinks you’re tied up with customs and immigration. That gives us a chance to have a talk. As a matter of fact, I was rather hoping you might be able to help us.”

“Forget it, Mr Byrne.” Alex shook his head. “I’d already made up my mind before we landed. I don’t want anything more to do with Drevin. So if you don’t mind putting me on a plane to Washington, I’ll say goodbye.”

“Washington?” Byrne raised an eyebrow. “It’s funny you should mention that. But I’m afraid you can’t just walk out of here, Alex. Apart from anything else, you’re an illegal immigrant, remember?” He quickly raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Just hear me out. What I’ve got to say may be of genuine interest to you. And when I’ve finished, then you can tell me what you think. The truth is, right now you’re in a unique situation. You could be very useful to us. And you have no idea how much is at stake.” Alex sighed. “Where have I heard that before?” He opened the bottle of water and sat down opposite the CIA man. “OK. Go ahead.”

“Well, as you’ve probably guessed, this is all about Drevin,” Byrne began. “Nikolei Vladimir Drevin. By our count, he’s the fourth or fifth richest man alive and, of course, the British just love him. He’s bought a soccer team; he’s a big businessman; he gives money to charity. And then there’s Ark Angel. Thanks to him, you British are going to corner the market in space tourism, and that’s a prize worth having. But I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that. You see, for the last eighteen months the CIA and the State Department have been investigating Drevin, and we’ve discovered that he isn’t quite what he seems. I’m talking about organized crime, Alex. And all roads lead straight to him. To put it in a nutshell, we think he’s just about the biggest criminal in the world.”

Byrne paused. Alex showed no reaction. After all he’d been through, he no longer had it in him to be surprised.

“It’s complicated,” Byrne went on. “And even though you flew over here on Drevin’s sky palace, I guess you’re probably jet-lagged. So I’ll give it to you in broad strokes.

“To understand Drevin, you have to go back to the break-up of the Soviet Union in the early nineties.

Communism was finished and the whole country was looking forward to a fresh start. But there was a problem. The new Russian government was broke. It needed money badly and it decided to sell off all its assets, which is to say, its car manufacturing centres, its hydroelectrical plants, its airline and—most crucial of all—its oilfields. They sold them cheap, often for a fraction of their real value. They had no choice, because they needed the money fast and they needed it up front. In the next few years a new group of businessmen appeared. They were in the right place at the right time and they saw that this was a fantastic opportunity. These people weren’t going to become millionaires overnight. As share prices rose, they were going to become billionaires—and that’s exactly what happened.

“Nikolei Drevin was one of these people, but he was very different to the rest. We don’t know a lot about his past. It’s hard to find out anything that’s happened in Russia in the last twenty years. We believe that Drevin started off in the army. He was certainly a senior figure in the KGB. Then we lose track of him until he re-emerges with a successful business selling—of all things—gardening equipment. He also dabbled in shares, particularly oil. He was doing well, but not that well, and when the sale of the century started he didn’t have enough money to cut himself a slice.

“And this was when he had his big idea. His work with the army and the KGB had brought him into contact with the Russian underworld—I’m talking about the mafiya. He knew all the big names and so he went to them for a loan. You see, he was a respectable businessman. He’d seen the future, and with their support he could buy into it big time. He needed about eighty million dollars, enough to buy a controlling interest in Novgerol, one of the big Russian oil companies. The mafiya met with him and decided they liked him, but they didn’t have enough money, so they turned to their friends in Japan. You’ve heard of the yakuza? Well, they were interested too, and just to round things off, the Chinese triads also decided to join the party. Between the three of them they raised the finance and Drevin was in. Suddenly he was a major player.

“So he bought into Novgerol. He got it for a song and the people who suffered in the end were the Russian people. It was their oil and it was more or less stolen from them. I doubt that Drevin lost any sleep over that. His shares doubled and trebled and multiplied by about a hundred, and he was able to pay back all his criminal friends with interest, and that was the end of that. Of course, there were people who got in his way. There were protesters. The police launched an inquiry. And do you know what? They were all murdered. You only had to sneeze at Drevin and someone would call round at your house with a machine gun. Kill you. Kill your family. Kill everyone who knew you. It was easier to keep quiet and, believe me, after a while, people did just that.

“So Drevin is in with the mafiya. He’s in with the yakuza. And he’s in with the triads. And of course, once these people know him, they’re not going to leave him alone. Not that Drevin cares. He’s got as much money as anyone could possibly want; but the funny thing is, people like that—they always want more. So he keeps working with them. He becomes, if you like, the banker for half the criminal organizations in the world. The yakuza are selling Russian energetics weapons to terrorist groups; the triads are running drugs out of Burma and Afghanistan; the mafiya are moving into drugs and prostitution throughout the West: Drevin provides the cash flow. I would say that around the world there are hundreds of dirty deals done every day and Drevin’s money is behind just about all of them.”

“If you know so much about him, why don’t you arrest him?” Alex asked. His head was spinning. He had just spent almost a week living with this man and he was trying to marry what Byrne was saying with what he had himself observed. He had guessed that Drevin was no saint; but he had never suspected anything like this.

“We’re going to arrest him,” Byrne replied. “I told you. We’ve been investigating him for over a year. But when you’re dealing with the really big criminals, Alex, it’s not as easy as you might think. I mean, look at Al Capone. He was one of America’s worst gangsters. Nobody knows how many people he had killed. But despite all the work of the FBI, in the end all they could get him for was fiddling his income tax. It’s the same with Drevin.

“He’s clever; he’s covered his back. A deal here, a deal there—he leaves no trace. We get whispers and hints that he’s involved, but it’s like trying to build a castle out of individual grains of sand. Witnesses are too scared to talk. Anyone who comes forward gets killed. Even so, slowly but surely, we’ve been building a case against him. The State Department has collected over two thousand documents. There are transcripts, tape and video recordings, photographs. There’s been a team of thirty people working round the clock for months; there still is. And they’ve all had to be protected. From the start, we’ve been afraid that Drevin might try to get to them. He might even send people in to destroy the evidence. Mercenaries. Suicide bombers. I wouldn’t put anything past him. So we’ve stored it all somewhere really safe.”

“Where?”

“That’s why I was interested just now when you mentioned Washington. The case against Drevin is lodged in probably the safest place in the United States. Inside the Pentagon.” Byrne got up and helped himself to a bottle of water. All the talking had made him look more exhausted than ever.

“We plan to arrest Drevin one week from today. I hardly need tell you that this information is highly classified. The real problem is Ark Angel. The British government’s invested billions in the space station, and when we arrest Drevin, the whole project could collapse. That’s why we’ve had to wait. We’ve had to be absolutely sure that we’ve tied up all the loose ends before we make our move.

“Of course, MI6 know what we’re doing. There’s no way we could stop them finding out. We’ve shown them the evidence but they don’t want to believe it. They can’t afford to believe it. When Drevin goes down, there’s going to be a scandal that’ll rip the whole financial market apart. But that’s too bad. The man is a crook; he belongs in jail.”

“So why do you need me?” Alex asked.

Byrne sat down again. “Because something’s happened,” he admitted. “Something we don’t understand—

and you seem to be in the middle of it.”

“Force Three.”

“Exactly. Here’s a group of people who call themselves eco-warriors and who seem to have picked a fight with Drevin, supposedly because he wiped out a few bird species on Flamingo Bay. But we don’t know where they came from. We don’t know who they are. We even wonder if Drevin himself isn’t using them as some sort of diversion to distract us from our investigation. Your Mrs Jones is trying to get to the bottom of it right now—but we’re running out of time. I’m worried Drevin is going to pull some kind of stunt in the next seven days and slip through our fingers. Maybe he’s going to disappear. He could head off to South America, or there are parts of Australia where we’d never find him. A man with his connections wouldn’t find it difficult to build himself a new identity. We need to know if he’s planning to leave and, if so, where he might be going. That’s where you come in.

I’ve already got one agent inside his organization, but that’s not enough. Drevin’s too careful. He’s not giving anything away. But you’re different. You’re right in the middle of the family. You’re buddies with Paul Drevin. And the best thing is, they don’t know anything about you. You’re above suspicion. They certainly don’t know about your connection with us.

“Tomorrow they’re going to take you with them to Flamingo Bay. It’s like Skeleton Key all over again. We can’t get anyone in there. He’s got the rocket base on the south of the island and the whole place is protected by his own private security force. It’s not even American soil. The island is ten miles off the coast of Barbados and it just happens to belong to the British. Drevin leased it from your government when he built his space centre there. So we can’t go storming in.

“All I’m asking is for you to hang in there for one more week and report back if you see anything going on.

It’ll just be a vacation as far as you’re concerned. You’re Drevin’s guest—”

“I was Drevin’s guest,” Alex cut in. “I told you. I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

Alex shrugged. “What you’ve told me about him—I didn’t much like him anyway. And now I don’t want to go anywhere near him.”

“You won’t be in any danger.”

“That’s what you said last time, Mr Byrne. And I nearly got killed. Two of your agents did get killed.”

“And if you hadn’t helped us, thousands more people would have died too.” Byrne looked genuinely puzzled. “What’s the matter, Alex? Are you scared? Is it because of what happened with the sniper?” Alex felt a twinge of pain in his chest. It happened every time anyone reminded him of his bullet wound.

Perhaps it always would. “I’m not scared,” he said. “I just don’t like being used.”

“We only use you because you’re so damn good,” Byrne replied. “And this time I’m not lying to you. You’re not working for MI6 and you’re not working for us. I just want you to continue with your vacation and if you see Drevin packing his suitcases or if a submarine turns up in the middle of the night, give us a call.

I’ve already told you, I’ve got an agent on the island and there’ll be a back-up team just ten miles away on Barbados. You’ll be watched all the time. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’m only afraid that somehow Drevin is going to get off the hook. Seven more days, Alex. Then we can make the arrest and you can go home.”

“What about Paul?” It was only now that Alex thought about Paul Drevin. He wondered if he knew the truth about his father.

“Nothing will happen to him. He’ll be well looked after. I guess he’ll go back to his mother.” Alex didn’t speak. He wanted to refuse but something was stopping him. He didn’t want Byrne to think he was afraid. Maybe it was as simple as that.

“One week,” Byrne promised. “Drevin won’t suspect a thing. And just in case you do run into trouble, we’ve got someone here who might be able to help you.”

“Who?”

“He’s waiting for you outside.”

He stood up and Alex followed him out of the office and down a corridor to an open-plan area. There was a man sitting at a table and Alex recognized him instantly. It would have been hard not to. The man was enormously fat. He was bald with a black moustache and a round, smiling face. He was wearing a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt that couldn’t have looked more inappropriate among the dark suits of the CIA operatives. Alex had never seen so many flowers on one piece of material.

“Hello, Alex!” the man boomed.

“Hello, Mr Smithers,” Alex replied.

“What a great pleasure to see you again. You’re looking tremendously well, if I may say so. Mrs Jones sends her best wishes.”

“She knows I’m here?”

“Oh yes. We’ve been keeping an eye on you. As a matter of fact, it was she who sent me here.” Smithers lowered his voice, although it could still be heard across the room. “We thought you might like one or two new gadgets, and although the Americans do produce a few of their own, I rather think we lead the field.

Not that they’d agree, of course!”

“Gadgets…” Alex watched as Smithers reached down and lifted a briefcase onto the table.

“Absolutely. It wouldn’t be any fun without gadgets, would it? And I’ve come up with some quite interesting ideas. This, for example.” He produced an object that Alex recognized immediately. It was an inhaler, identical to the one Paul Drevin used. “Now, we happen to know that Drevin’s son has one of these,” Smithers explained. “So if anyone notices this in your luggage, they’ll simply assume it’s his. But it’s fingerprint sensitive and I’ve programmed it for your personal use. When you press the cylinder, it’ll send out a puff of knockout gas. Effective up to about five metres. Alternatively you can twist the cylinder round twice clockwise; that turns it into a hand grenade. Five-second fuse. I tested it on one of my assistants. Poor old Bennett … he should be out of hospital in a couple of months.” He passed it across and dived back into the case.

“Eavesdropping,” he went on. “Part of your brief is to listen to anything interesting that Mr Drevin may be saying, and for that you’ll need this.” He brought out a slim white box with a set of headphones. Alex picked it up. It was an iPod. At least, it looked like one. “This uses microwave technology,” Smithers explained. “Point the screen at anyone up to fifty metres away and listen through the headphones. You’ll hear every word they say. You can also use it to contact the CIA. Rotate the click wheel three times anticlockwise and speak into it. I’ve got another version, by the way, packed with enough plastic explosive to blow up a building, but Mr Blunt said you weren’t to have it. Shame, really. I call it the i-x-Plod.

“And one last thing. Flamingo Bay is a tropical island with lots of creepy-crawlies. So this might help…” Once again he reached into the case and this time came out with a glass bottle marked: STINGO

Jungle-strength mosquito lotion

“Mosquito repellent,” Alex said.

“Absolutely not,” Smithers replied. “This is a very powerful formulation and it actually does the exact opposite. It attracts mosquitoes. In fact, once you open the bottle, it’ll attract just about every insect on the island. You might find it useful if you need a diversion.” He closed the case and stood up. “I’m off to St Lucia,” he announced. “A little holiday—and it’ll give me a chance to test my shark-repellent swimming trunks. So I won’t be too far away if you need me, although I’m sure you won’t. Chin-chin!” Smithers wandered off down another corridor. Alex was left with Joe Byrne.

“So will you do it?” Byrne asked.

Alex stared at the three gadgets on the table. “It looks like everyone’s already made up my mind for me.”

“That’s great, Alex. Thank you.” Byrne gestured and the blond-haired man who had brought Alex from the airport came over. “You’ve already met Special Agent Shulsky,” he said.

“Call me Ed,” the agent said. Without the dark glasses and the intimidating manner, he seemed a lot more pleasant. Alex guessed he was still in his twenties; he looked as if he hadn’t long graduated from college.

“Agent Shulsky will be heading the back-up operation,” Byrne explained. “He and a dozen people will be based on Barbados. That’s where you’ll be landing, by the way. Flamingo Bay doesn’t have its own airstrip.

The moment you call, they’ll come running.”

Shulsky smiled. “It’s a real pleasure to be working with you, Alex,” he said. “They showed us your file. I have to say, it’s more than impressive.”

“Is there anything else you want to know?” Byrne asked.

“Yes. There is one thing,” Alex said. “This all came about because I just happened to be in the room next to Paul Drevin at St Dominic’s Hospital. But it was no coincidence, was it? Mr Blunt put me there because he hoped I’d meet Paul and become friends with him.”

Byrne hesitated. “I can’t answer that for sure, Alex,” he said. “But I will say this much: Alan Blunt does have a knack of making events work his way.”

So it was true. Alex could have been taken to any hospital in London. But even as he lay there bleeding with a bullet in his chest, the MI6 chief had been planning ahead, engineering his next assignment. It was almost beyond belief. No. Where Blunt was concerned, it was to be expected.

“Shulsky will take you back to the airport,” Byrne added. “We’ll sort you out a temporary passport and Drevin will pick you up tomorrow. Good luck on Flamingo Bay.”

“Just don’t expect any postcards,” Alex said.

He and Ed Shulsky left together. Byrne shook his head and walked slowly back the other way.

FLAMINGO BAY

« ^ »

he six-seater Cessna 195 seaplane circled the island almost lazily before it came in to land. Alex, along with Paul and his father, had been flown from New York to Grantley Adams International Airport on the south-east corner of Barbados. From there they had been taken by car a few miles up the coast to Ragged Point, where the seaplane had been waiting for the final ten-mile flight to Drevin’s private island.

Alex could see it now, his face pressed against the window with the single propeller buzzing noisily and the starboard wing stretching out above his head. From the air, Flamingo Bay looked as ridiculously beautiful as every Caribbean island, the colours almost too intense to be true. There was the dazzling blue of the ocean, the immaculate white beaches, the rich, elemental green of the pine trees and rainforest. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect for the coming launch. As the plane arced for a second time, tilting towards the stretch of water that would be its landing strip, brilliant sunshine blazed in through the window.

“There it is!” Paul Drevin leant past Alex and pointed. “You can see the launch site!” he exclaimed.

The island was about two miles long and shaped like a leaping fish. The rocket gantries stood where the eye should have been. There were two of them, right next to the sea, with about a dozen brick buildings, many of them surmounted with satellite dishes, about a quarter of a mile away. The ground in this area was quite bare, all the vegetation burned away, presumably by rocket exhaust. Alex remembered what Kaspar had told him when he had been a prisoner of Force Three. Four bird species had been made extinct on the island. He was surprised it hadn’t been more.

If the head of the fish was naked, the rest of it was covered with dense rainforest separated by a narrow track which ran the full length of the island. The track led to a tall fence running north to south, with a checkpoint and a series of wooden cabins near by. This was the only way into the launch site. There were watchtowers all over the island, making sure that nobody could approach unseen by sea.

Drevin’s house had been built on what Alex thought of as the fish’s tail. It was a simple white structure, and even from this distance he could see that it was ultra-modern with giant glass windows giving uninterrupted views of the sea. The arched belly of the fish was one long beach with palm trees leaning towards the water. As the plane dipped down, Alex saw a brightly painted wooden jetty, three motor launches and a couple of sailing boats anchored in the shallows. He couldn’t hear music from steel drums or smell the rum—but it was easy to imagine them.

“Fasten your seat belts,” Drevin said. “We are about to land.” Drevin was sitting on the other side of the aisle, wearing a pale yellow open-necked shirt. He hadn’t spoken much on the journey from New York, not even when he had fetched Alex from the departure lounge at JFK. Alex got the impression that Drevin blamed him personally for the mix-up over the passport. Or perhaps he was annoyed with the American authorities for inconveniencing one of his guests.

Now he was deep in thought, tugging at his ring. In the bright sunlight his face looked more pale than ever.

Alex was grateful for the silence. He wasn’t sure how to behave with Drevin any more. Everything Joe Byrne had told him was tumbling around in his head. In the space of just a few days, Drevin had gone from being a reclusive billionaire who didn’t like losing, to the biggest criminal in the world. He was involved with the mafiya and the triads, who—only a few months ago—had tried to kill Alex. People who got in his way died. He was another monster and here he was, sitting just a few seats away.

The Cessna swept down and landed smoothly, water spraying up towards the windows. It taxied towards the jetty and came to a halt. Paul Drevin was the first to stand up, followed by Tamara Knight, who had been sitting directly behind Alex. They made their way out into the soft heat of the Caribbean afternoon.

There was an electric buggy waiting for them, the sort that was normally used on golf courses. Drevin had already explained that there was very little petrol on the island; electric vehicles were easier. Now that he was back on land, he seemed more cheerful.

“We’ll go to the house first and change,” he announced. “Alex, I’m sure you’d like to see around the island.

We can do that before dinner. Tomorrow I’ll be busy with preparations for the launch, so the two of you will have to amuse yourselves. But there’s plenty to do. Swimming, scuba-diving, sailing… Welcome, you might say, to paradise.”

Drevin drove them the short distance to Little Point, the corner of the island where the house stood. The building was as impressive in its own way as every property that Drevin owned. It was almost futuristic, white with huge windows that retracted into the walls, so that at the press of a button it could be either open to the elements or enclosed. It had been raised about half a metre above the ground, presumably to allow the air to circulate. Thick, wooden legs supported it on a rocky shelf facing west. Alex guessed that the sunsets would be spectacular. There were only three bedrooms. Tamara would be staying on the other side of the island. Alex was next door to Paul. His room had two single beds, an en suite bathroom and plenty of space.

Ten minutes later, dressed in a T-shirt, knee-length shorts and sandals, Alex was back in the buggy next to Paul. It was early in the afternoon and the sun was still strong. Drevin drove them along the single track.

Although the island couldn’t have been more than half a mile wide, the sea had disappeared from view, lost behind a seemingly impenetrable screen of vegetation. Here the atmosphere was damp and heavy, and Alex could hear thousands of insects already active among the leaves.

They passed the cabins that Alex had seen from the air, and immediately afterwards came to an electric gate with a checkpoint and three guards on patrol. They were the first guards Alex had seen. They were dressed in pale grey overalls with a logo—a pair of wings and a streak of light—printed on the left side of their chest. They wore combat boots and carried black Mini Uzi 19mm sub-machine guns. Seeing the vicious weapons, Alex felt a twinge of unease. Joe Byrne had made this visit to Flamingo Bay sound very safe and straightforward. He was there to make sure Drevin didn’t run away. Nothing more than that. But if something did go wrong, if Drevin found out that Alex had been in contact with the CIA, he would be trapped. He had no doubt that the motor boats would be neutralized at night. The plane had already left.

Barbados and the CIA back-up team were ten miles away. Once again Alex found himself surrounded by an enemy army and, as usual, he was on his own.

The buggy stopped and a man appeared, dressed in the same grey uniform as the guards. He was an ugly man, aged in his thirties, with round cheeks, thick lips and curling, ginger-coloured hair. There was something about his face that didn’t look quite real. His skin was deathly pale, as if he never stepped out into the sun. Alex could see the man’s paunch pressing against his overalls. He wasn’t just unfit. He looked ill.

“Good afternoon, Mr Drevin,” he said. His voice suited his appearance. The words came out in a strained, unpleasant whisper as if he had something caught in his throat.

“Good afternoon.” Drevin turned to the two boys. “This is one of the most important people on the island,” he explained. “His name is Magnus Payne and he’s the head of security.” He looked at Payne. “You haven’t met my son, Paul; and his friend, Alex Rider.”

The security man nodded at Alex. “Nice to meet you, Alex,” he said, and at that moment Alex was conscious of two things. Although he knew it was impossible, he wondered if he’d met Payne before. And there was something else. Something that felt wrong. But what?

“I should warn you that Payne has complete control over this side of the island,” Drevin was explaining.

“You must do what he tells you. And please don’t try to get past here without his authorization.”

“What’s the point of a security barrier?” Alex asked. “This is an island. If someone wanted to break in, they could just swim round.”

“Razor wire,” Magnus Payne rasped. “Under the water. They could try, but it would be rather painful.” He raised a hand and the gate slid open, activated from inside the checkpoint. Payne climbed into the buggy next to Drevin and the four of them continued to the launch area.

Alex had seen many amazing things in his life, but the sight before him was something he knew he would never forget.

The rocket was right in front of him, on the edge of a flat, empty area, pointing towards the sky and supported by two steel arms reaching out from a huge gantry. It was at least fifty metres tall, slender and more beautiful than anything Alex could have imagined. He had seen rockets in museums; he had watched launches on TV. But this was different. It was surrounded by a vast, blue sky which seemed suddenly endless. And yet, sitting there, it seemed to radiate the power that was contained in the four solid rocket boosters that would, very soon, blast it into space. About twenty people were working around it. The rocket dwarfed them, making them look tiny.

“We call it Gabriel 7,” Drevin said, and he couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “It’s an Atlas 2AS

rocket. You can just make out the payload.” He pointed to a bulging shape close to the rocket’s tip. “It’s covered with an aerodynamic fairing,” he went on. “It has to survive the ascent through the atmosphere.

But underneath, there’s a glass and steel observation module weighing 1.8 tonnes. It will take the Atlas just fifteen minutes to carry it into space, and the day after tomorrow it’ll be up there, three hundred miles above our heads. The heart of Ark Angel!”

Paul shook his head. “It’s really cool!”

“Cool?” Drevin snapped. “I despise this modern teenage slang! You use ghetto language to describe what you can’t even begin to imagine. Coot? Is that all you can say?”

“What about the other rocket?” Alex asked.

He had seen the second gantry from the plane. It was further along the shore, a clear distance from the Atlas. The second rocket, slightly smaller, also seemed to be waiting for blast-off. More people surrounded it, working on the final preparations.

“Mr Payne?” Drevin turned to his head of security.

“We’ve brought forward the launch,” Payne explained in his rasping voice. “We plan to send it up immediately after Gabriel 7.”

“Why?” Alex wondered.

“We are involved in a series of long-term experiments,” Drevin said. “We need to know more about the effects of weightlessness on the human body. The second rocket is a Soyuz-Fregat. It will carry a model of the human system into space.”

“What does that mean?” Alex asked.

“An ape.”

“I didn’t realize you were still allowed to use animals.”

Drevin shrugged. “It’s not ideal. But there’s no other way.” They drove to the first of the brick buildings. It was the largest in the compound, with three satellite dishes pointing up at the sky. “This is the control centre,” Payne told them. “The other buildings are for storage and construction. We also have sleeping quarters and recreation facilities. There are more than sixty people working on the island.”

They went in, along a corridor and into a large room with slanting windows looking out onto the launch site. Above the windows was a giant screen, blank at the moment but ready to transmit pictures of the launch itself. There were about twenty computers, arranged in two groups, facing each other. One group was marked COMMAND, the other TELEMETRY. To one side Alex noticed a conference table, a dozen chairs and another screen. A huge board with hundreds of light bulbs spelt out various information including LTST—local true solar time—the space equivalent of GMT. There was less to the control centre than Alex had imagined. In many ways it was like an oversized classroom.

A man had stood up as they came in. He was short but thickset, and looked either Chinese or Korean with neat black hair, wire-framed spectacles and a pencil moustache. He was dressed like a businessman in a smart jacket and tie. The clothes couldn’t have been less appropriate on a Caribbean island, but of course the climate in the control room was conditioned. Alex could feel the sterile air blowing cold on his bare arms and legs.

Drevin introduced him. “This is Professor Sing Joo-Chan, the flight director here on Flamingo Bay. We were very lucky to be able to recruit him from the Khrunichev Space Centre.”

“How do you do.” Sing spoke with a cultured English accent. He shook hands with Alex and Paul, but the dark brown eyes behind the glasses showed no interest in them at all. They were children. They had no place here. That was what the eyes seemed to say.

“This is where it all happens,” Drevin went on. “We’ll be controlling both the launch and the docking procedure from here. Of course, most of the procedure is computerized. But we have a camera fitted into Gabriel 7’s nose. Travelling three hundred miles at the speed of light, it takes about 0.001 seconds for the images to be relayed back here. It’s a bit like a giant computer game, except when you press a button here you’re manoeuvring about four tonnes of equipment in outer space. You can’t afford mistakes.” Sing shook his head. “There will be no mistakes,” he assured them.

“Have we had the latest weather reports?” Drevin asked.

“Yes, Mr Drevin. I’ve gone over the meteorological charts myself and the conditions are exactly as predicted.”

“Good.” Drevin was pleased. “Nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. It’s a sight you boys won’t forget.”

“Can’t we get any closer?” Paul asked.

Professor Sing looked away, as if the question was too stupid to answer. Alex wondered what it was about the man that he didn’t like. Perhaps it was his complete lack of enthusiasm. There was no emotion in his face—and none in his voice. How could he be in charge of such a huge project and not feel the excitement of it?

“If you were any closer you’d be deafened.” Drevin said. “When Gabriel 7 is launched, the vibration levels will be huge. They’d destroy your eardrums if you were too close. Even in here we’ll need to be completely insulated.”

“I’m afraid I must ask for some time with you, Mr Drevin,” Sing interrupted. “I need to discuss the launch trajectory dispersions.”

Drevin turned to Alex and Paul. “Magnus will show you around the rest of the base if there’s anything else you wish to see. We’ll meet again at dinner.”

“Sure.” Alex tried to smile, but he didn’t look up. He could no longer trust himself to meet Drevin’s gaze.

And there was something else that was worrying him. The more he saw of the island—the rockets, the launch pad, the space centre—the more he felt a nameless sense of dread. It was hard to explain, but Alex was beginning to think that Joe Byrne and the CIA had got it all wrong. Drevin wasn’t behaving like a man about to run away. He had something else in mind. Alex was sure of it.

There were less than forty-five hours until the launch. That might be all the time he had left to find out what it was.

But later that afternoon, Alex was able to forget some of his worries. Paul took him down to the beach and, as promised, gave Alex his first lesson in kite-surfing.

The sport, very simply, combined surfing and kite-flying. As Paul said, you stood on a board and flew a kite, and the wind did the rest. Of course, there was more to it than that. The kite was actually a giant polyester wing—nine metres across—which had to be inflated with a pump. It was connected to Alex by four lines which clipped onto a rubber harness around his waist. Then there was the board, similar to a surfboard but with four fins and twin tips, making it bidirectional. And finally there was the control bar, which he held in front of him. The mechanics were simple enough. The control bar was his steering wheel, which he could raise and lower, turn left and right. The rest was balance and nerve.

Alex was lucky. There wasn’t much wind and the sea was fairly calm. But even so, he soon felt the power of the new sport. He started on the edge of the water with Paul about twenty metres behind him, holding the kite. Paul released it and Alex quickly brought it up until it reached the zenith, directly over his head.

While it was there, the kite was essentially in neutral. Carrying the board, Alex waded into the sea until the water was up to his ankles. He put one foot on the board. Then he lowered the kite into the wind.

And he was away. It was an incredible sensation. He could feel his arms straining at their sockets, his whole body tensing against the pull of the kite. Before he knew it, he was moving very fast, skimming over the surface with the spray flying into his eyes. The board was incredibly flexible. All Alex had to do was pull on the control bar and he could change direction instantly. With the late afternoon sun beating down on him and the palm trees rushing past, all his worries about Drevin, the CIA, Ark Angel and Force Three were forgotten. For the next two hours he was happy, finally enjoying the holiday he had been promised.

After the two boys had exhausted themselves with the kite, they flopped down onto the sand and watched as the sun began its descent. It was still very warm. The breeze, blowing gently across the beach, carried the scent of pine and eucalyptus. From this part of the island it was impossible to see the launch pad and the two waiting rockets. A single grey heron perched sedately on the end of the jetty, its eyes fixed on the water, searching for fish. The sailing boats and motor launches bobbed up and down, jostled by the waves.

Alex was lying on his back, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun. He glanced sideways and noticed Paul staring at his bare chest. The scar left by his surgery had healed quickly but it was still very red.

“You must have really hurt yourself,” Paul said.

“Yes.” Alex was reluctant to talk about his fake bicycle accident.

“You’ve got lots of other cuts and bruises too.”

Alex didn’t even look. Every time MI6 had sent him out on a mission, his body had come back with more souvenirs. He sat up and reached for his T-shirt. “I’m starving,” he said, changing the subject. “When’s dinner?”

“Not for another hour. But we can grab a snack, if you like.”

“No. I’ll wait.”

Alex pulled on his shirt. The sun was a perfect disc, cut in half by the edge of the world. The sea had turned blood red.

“Do you like it here?” Paul asked.

“It’s fantastic. Really great.” Alex did his best to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.

“It makes a real change to have someone like you here.” Paul stared at the horizon as if searching for the right words. “It must be awful not to have parents,” he went on. “But you don’t know what it’s like having a dad like mine. He’s got so much money, and everyone knows who he is. But sometimes I think I don’t even know him myself.”

“Do you enjoy being with your mother?” Alex asked. He wanted to steer the conversation away from Drevin.

Paul nodded. “Yes. I wish he’d let me see more of her. And it doesn’t help being on my own all the time. I sometimes wonder what I’m doing in the middle of all this. It would be a lot easier if there was someone else around.”

Alex was feeling increasingly uneasy. Paul had no idea that his entire life was about to self-destruct and that he—Alex—had been sent here to help make it happen. In less than a week’s time, the CIA would arrest his father. All Drevin’s assets would presumably be seized by the American government. Drevin would go to prison.

And what would happen to Paul? The story would be on the front page of every newspaper all over the world. He’d have to change his name. He’d have to begin all over again, adapting to a completely different life. Somehow he’d have to get used to the fact that he was the son of a ruthless criminal. A killer. But none of this was Alex’s fault. He forced himself to remember that. And Paul had a mother who’d be there to look after him when this whole thing exploded. He’d get through it.

The sun had almost disappeared. A great shadow seemed to stretch out across the sea, and Alex watched as the heron flew off, soaring effortlessly over the palm trees. Paradise? Perhaps the bird knew otherwise.

Alex stood up. “Let’s go in,” he said.

They walked along the beach together, the waves lapping softly near by.

On the other side of the island, another conversation was taking place.

The head of security, Magnus Payne, was standing in a large office overlooking the launch site.

Drevin was sitting on a leather sofa, reading the email that Payne had just handed him.

“Alex Rider is an MI6 agent,” Payne was saying. “He may not be working for them now, but he has certainly worked for them in the past—and not once but several times. If they know he is here, it is quite possible that they have already approached him and asked him to spy on you. I have searched his luggage and found nothing. But that does not mean he isn’t equipped in some way.” Drevin lowered the email. “It’s not possible!” His fingers began to play with his ring. “A spy? He’s fourteen!”

“I agree, of course, that it is unusual.” Payne’s lips twisted in a sneer. “But I can assure you, Mr Drevin, that my contact is completely reliable. After what happened at the hospital, then at Hornchurch Towers and a third time at Stamford Bridge, I felt that the boy was simply too good to be true. There was something about him … so I made enquiries.” He gestured at the email. “That’s the result.”

“The bicycle accident?”

“In fact a bullet wound from his last assignment. That’s what my contact tells me.” Drevin fell silent. Payne could see his mind at work, turning over the possibilities, making evaluations. It was all there in the watery grey eyes.

“That business with the passport in New York,” he said. He snapped his fingers angrily and swore briefly in Russian. “They must have wanted to make contact with him. He was out of my sight for nearly twenty-four hours. They could have been briefing him, telling him what to do.”

“They?”

“The Central Intelligence Agency.” Drevin spoke the words with loathing. “They’re hand in hand with MI6. The boy could be working with either of them. Or both.”

“The question is, what do you want to do with him?”

“What do you suggest?”

“He’s dangerous. He shouldn’t be here. Not now.”

“We could send him away.”

“Or we could kill him.”

Drevin thought for a little longer. He barely seemed to breathe. Magnus Payne waited patiently.

“You’re right,” Drevin said suddenly. “Paul won’t be too happy about it, but that can’t be helped. See to it tomorrow, Mr Payne.”

He got to his feet.

“Kill him.”

DEEP TROUBLE

« ^ »

t was another perfect day. Alex Rider was eating breakfast with Drevin and his son on a terrace perched on the edge of the sea, the waves lapping below them. A servant—all the staff had been brought in from Barbados—had served them cold meat, fruit, cheese and freshly baked rolls. There was a jug of Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica, one of the most delicious and expensive blends in the world. This was the millionaire lifestyle, all right. A stunning house, a private island, Caribbean sunshine … a snapshot of another world.

Drevin was in an unusually good mood. It was the day before the launch and Alex could sense his excitement. “What have you boys got planned for today?”

“Do you want to take the kite out again?” Paul asked Alex. “There might be a bit more wind.” Alex nodded. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you do some waterskiing?” Drevin suggested.

“We could do that too.” Paul was obviously pleased that his father was taking an interest. It seemed to Alex that if Drevin had suggested a sandcastle competition, the other boy would have agreed.

Drevin turned to Alex. “Have you ever dived?”

“Yes.” Alex had been a qualified diver since he was twelve.

“Then why don’t you go out this afternoon? We have all the equipment you need—and you can visit the Mary Belle.” Alex looked puzzled. Drevin went on. “It’s an old transport ship; it was sunk in the Second World War while carrying supplies to the American bases in the Caribbean. Now it’s an excellent dive site.

You can swim into some of the holds.”

Alex had been on wreck dives before. He knew that there was nothing more strangely beautiful, more eerie, than the ghost of an old ship. He turned to Paul. “Do you want to come?”

“I can’t,” Paul said. “My asthma…”

“Scuba is one of the many things Paul is unable to do,” Drevin said. “But I can ask one of the guards to be your buddy. It would be a shame not to see it.”

“Don’t let me stop you, Alex,” Paul added. “Everyone says the Mary Belle is amazing, and I’ve got some homework I’m supposed to do. So you go ahead.”

At that moment, Tamara Knight appeared on the terrace, dressed in a linen jacket and trousers with a pair of sunglasses dangling around her neck. She was carrying a bulging file.

“You’ve got some important correspondence to deal with, Mr Drevin,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Knight. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Drevin nodded at Alex. “Enjoy the dive,” he said, and went into the house.

“You’re diving?” Tamara asked. She sounded surprised.

“Yes.” Alex wasn’t sure what to say.

“Where?”

“The Mary Belle.”

“Oh yes.” Tamara still wasn’t smiling. “You’d better be careful. I understand it’s very deep. And I hope you don’t see any sharks.”

After breakfast, Alex went back up to his room to fetch his trunks. The shutters had been drawn back and the windows were wide open. He had a spectacular view of the whole of Little Point. Looking out, Alex saw Drevin standing by his buggy, talking into some sort of phone. Alex thought for a moment, then went over to his case and drew out the iPod Smithers had given him. He put on the headphones, turned it on, then pointed the screen in Drevin’s direction. Almost at once, he heard Drevin’s voice. It was so clear, he could have been standing right next to him.

“…for the final preparations. I am going over everything again today. I want all the programming to be double-checked.” A pause. “The boat is coming in tonight at eleven. Not at Little Point. The western tip of the island, behind the launch site. I’ll be waiting for it there…” There was a movement at the door. It was Paul. “What are you doing, Alex?” he asked. Alex took off the headphones. “Nothing.” Paul saw the iPod. “Are you taking that down to the beach?”

“No. I’m just checking it’s working.” The two of them left together. For the rest of the morning they swam and snorkelled and went out with the kite. This time there was a little more wind and Paul taught Alex a few tricks—jumps and the handle pass. But Alex found it hard to concentrate. All he could think about was the conversation he’d overheard. A boat was arriving that night at eleven. Why? Drevin obviously didn’t want it to be seen. That was why he wasn’t using the jetty near the house. Could it be that he was planning to leave, and, if so, should Alex alert the CIA now? No. It was too soon. Better to get over to the other side of the island once darkness had fallen and see for himself. That was the reason he was here. It would mean slipping past the checkpoint, but of course, he couldn’t swim round.

Alex remembered what the head of security had told him. There was razor wire concealed in the water.

There had to be another way.

Lunch was at one o’clock: delicious shrimp roti served with salad and rice. Then they rested for an hour, avoiding the worst heat of the sun. At half past three there was a knock on Alex’s door and a young black man appeared, wearing the grey overalls of the security staff.

“Mr Rider?” he asked.

Alex got to his feet. “I’m Alex.”

“My name is Kolo. Mr Drevin said you needed a diving buddy.”

“That’s right.”

“You a certified diver?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go!”

Paul wasn’t around. Alex followed Kolo outside and down to an equipment store underneath the house. It was a large room, a cross between a garage and a boathouse. Here there was spare equipment for the various boats, a few nets and, in a separate area, scuba tanks, BCDs, wetsuits, fins and everything else needed to go diving.

“The water’s warm out there,” Kolo said as he hauled out a couple of tanks. “But the Mary Belle is deep, about twenty-two metres. So I’m going to give you a half-body wetsuit and I’ll check out some weights.” Half an hour later, Alex was dressed in a bright blue neoprene wetsuit that came down to his thighs and halfway down his arms. Kolo was dressed in black. Carrying his equipment, Alex staggered out onto the beach, where a boat with a Bajan skipper was waiting to take the two of them out to sea.

“Good luck, Alex!”

Alex turned to see Paul Drevin standing on the terrace above him, waving. He waved back, then climbed into the boat.

The journey only took a few minutes. In that time, Alex went over his equipment, running through the usual checks. His mask fitted. The BCD was brand new. He turned on his air supply and checked his gauge. He had been given just under 3,000 psi. Alex made a quick calculation. The deeper he went, the more air he’d use. But he was a light breather. At twenty-two metres, the depth of the Mary Belle, he guessed he would have a bottom time of at least half an hour.

He noticed Kolo watching him as he finished his preparations. Alex had been looking forward to visiting the wreck, but suddenly he felt uncomfortable. He had been diving many times with his uncle and once with friends, and each time it had been a happy, sociable affair. Now he was in a boat with a captain who hadn’t said a word and a buddy who had barely spoken either. Two hired hands taking the rich kid for a ride. For a moment, he understood the loneliness that Paul must have felt all his life.

The boat slowed down and the anchor was lowered. The captain raised a flag—red with a white stripe—

signalling that there were divers in the area. Kolo helped Alex put on his equipment. Then it was time for the briefing.

“The Mary Belle is right underneath us,” Kolo told him. “We’ll enter the water over this side and then if everything’s all right, we’ll go straight down. The sea’s a little choppy today and visibility’s not so good, but you’ll soon see the wreck. We’ll start at the stern. You can see the rudder and propeller. Then we’ll swim up the deck and into the second hold. There’s plenty of fish down there. Glassfish, hatchetfish, groupers—maybe you’ll be lucky and see a shark. I’ll signal when it’s time to come back up. Any questions?”

Alex shook his head.

“Then let’s do it.”

Alex drew his mask over his face, checked his respirator one last time, then sat on the edge of the boat with his hands crossed over his chest. Kolo gave him a thumbs up and he tipped over backwards, splashing down into the sea. It was a moment which he always enjoyed, feeling his shoulders pushing through the warm water, rolling in a cocoon of silver bubbles with the fractured light high above. Then his BCD, partly inflated, dragged him back to the surface. He was bobbing in the water, face to face with Kolo. The captain was watching them over the pulpit rail.

“All right?” Kolo shouted.

Alex gave him the universal diver’s sign: finger and thumb forming an O, the other three fingers pointing up. Everything OK.

Kolo responded with a clenched fist, thumb pointing down. Descend.

Alex released the air in his BCD and let his weight belt drag him down. The water rose over his chin, past his nose and eyes. Gently he began a controlled descent, listening to the sound of his own breathing amplified in his ears. It was only now that he remembered he had been operated on just three weeks ago.

What would Dr Hayward think about him scuba-diving? Well, at least it wasn’t something that had been forbidden.

A triggerfish—green with brilliant yellow stripes and a yellow tail—swam past, taking no notice of him.

The water was a deep tropical blue that became darker and murkier the further he descended. He looked at his depth gauge. Eleven metres, twelve metres, thirteen… He was comfortable, in full control. Kolo was a few metres above him, legs crossed. Great bubbles, each one containing a pearl of used air, rose in clusters to the surface.

And suddenly the Mary Belle was there, appearing in front of him as if projected onto a screen. It was always the same underwater. Objects, even ones as big as a sunken cargo ship, seemed to loom out of nowhere. Alex squeezed a little air into his BCD to slow his descent. He checked that he had neutral buoyancy, then he kicked forward and swam to examine this silent witness from the Second World War.

The Mary Belle lay in the sand, slanting to one side. It was in two halves, separated by a jagged, broken area that could have been made by a German torpedo. It was about a hundred and thirty metres long, twenty metres wide, the whole ship covered in algae and brightly coloured coral that would one day turn it into an extraordinary artificial reef. As he swam over the deck, heading for the stern, Alex looked down on the dark green surfaces, the twisting ladders and rails, the anchor winches and blast roof. He passed two railway freight cars lying side by side. Part of a locomotive lay shattered, a few metres away on the sand. At the far end he saw what had to be an anti-aircraft gun, now pointing helplessly at the seabed.

Once, the deck would have been full of life, with young marines running back and forth, the tannoy system barking orders, the wind and the sea spray blowing in their faces. But the Mary Belle had been hit. It had lain here for over half a century. There was nothing in the world more silent. It was the very definition of death.

Alex noticed Kolo signalling to him and he swam under the stern. He had disturbed a shoal of snappers which darted away, zigzagging rapidly out of sight. The propeller was directly above him. When the ship had broken in two, the stern had turned on its side, otherwise it would have been buried in the sand. Kolo signalled again. Are you all right? Alex glanced at his air supply. He had used 500 psi. He signalled back.

Fine.

Slowly they swam round the side of the wreck. Alex had his arms crossed over his chest, his hands clasping opposite arms. This was how he always dived. It helped retain body warmth and stopped him being tempted to touch anything. They rose up over the bridge and followed a ladder—each rung encrusted with new life—back to the upper deck. Kolo pointed at an opening beside one of the freight cars Alex had noticed. A hatchway, with a ladder leading down. It was the entrance to the second hold.

It seemed that Kolo wanted him to go in ahead of him. Alex took out his torch, then kicked down and cautiously swam through the opening, head and shoulders first. Wreck diving is entirely safe provided you know what you’re doing, and Alex knew that the only real danger was getting his air pipes caught or slashing them on a sharp edge. The solution was to do everything very slowly, checking for any obstructions. But the hatch was easily wide enough for him. He followed the ladder down, turned on the torch and looked around him.

He was in a large, cavernous space which ran the full width of the ship and about twenty-five metres of its length. A ghostly green light streamed in through a series of small portholes and Alex flicked off the torch, realizing he wouldn’t need it. The light illuminated an array of objects instantly recognizable even after sixty years beneath the sea. There was a Jeep, parked against a wall, a stockpile of Winchester rifles, a row of boots, a pair of motorcycles. It occurred to Alex that if he had come upon these on land, they would have been rusting and ugly, nothing more than junk. But their long stay underwater had given them a strange beauty. It was as if nature was trying to claim them and magically transform them into something they had never been.

Sound is also different underwater.

Alex heard the clang of metal hitting metal but for a moment he was unsure where it had come from, or indeed what it was. He glanced left and right but nothing was moving. Then he looked back the way he’d come. There was no sign of Kolo. Why hadn’t the other man swum into the hold? Then Alex realized. The hatch that he had come through had been closed. It had swung shut—that was the sound he had heard.

He twisted round and swam back up the ladder. He wasn’t wearing gloves and he was afraid of cutting himself, but when he reached the hatch he put his hand against it and pushed. It didn’t budge.

It was so securely fastened it could have been cemented into place.

What the hell was going on? Alex felt the first stirrings of unease which could all too easily become panic.

But he knew the most important rule of scuba-diving was to remain calm, and he forced himself to breathe slowly, to take everything one step at a time. The support holding back the hatch must have broken. But it didn’t matter. Kolo knew he was here. There was a dive ship directly overhead. He’d just have to find another way out.

Alex backed away from the hatch and swam the length of the hold. He came to a steel wall on the other side of the truck, and although it was pitted with holes, some big enough to get an arm through, there was no way the rest of his body would be able to follow. But there was a door—and it was ajar. Once it would have allowed the crew access from one hold to another. Now it was the exit that Alex needed. He swam over to it and pushed. The door opened about five centimetres but no more. It had been chained shut on the other side. Alex saw something glint. The chain was brand new. That was when he really began to worry.

A new chain on an old door. It could only be there for one reason. Somehow Drevin had found out who he was. Alex had thought he was so clever, eavesdropping with his iPod and snooping round the island. But he had let them put him on a boat and take him out to sea. He had done exactly what they wanted, swimming down into this death trap. And now they had locked the door. They were going to leave him here to drown.

Fury, black and irresistible, surged through him. His heart was thundering; he couldn’t breathe. For a brief moment he was tempted to take the regulator out of his mouth and scream. He was helpless. At the mercy of a single pipe and a diminishing supply of air.

The next ninety seconds were possibly the most difficult of Alex’s life. He had to fight for control, twenty-two metres below sea level, aware that he was quite probably in his tomb. Somehow he had to channel his anger away from himself, back towards Drevin, who had dealt with him as ruthlessly as anyone else who had ever crossed his path.

Another sound. An engine overhead. Alex felt a flicker of hope but quickly clamped down on it. It wasn’t the sound of someone coming to rescue him. Kolo had returned to the surface. He had done his job and now he was leaving.

Sure enough, the noise faded and died away.

Alex was alone.

There was one thing he had to know, although he dreaded looking. He reached down for his instrument console. How much air had he used? The needle told him the worst. He had 1,750 psi left. At 500 psi, the gauge turned red. At that point, a spring-operated shut-off valve inside the tank’s J-valve would close. He would have a few minutes left. And then he would die.

When he was sure he was back in control, he swam forward again. Alex knew that at this depth, he would soon get through what air he had left. But moving too fast, using too much energy, would only quicken the process. How long did he have? Fifteen minutes at most. Already he knew that his situation was hopeless, and he forced himself to ignore the dark whispers in his mind. Nobody knew he was here. There was no way out. But he still had to try. Better people than Drevin had tried to kill him and failed. He was going to find a way out.

The hatch was sealed shut. The windows were too small. The floor, the ceiling and the walls were solid.

There was just the single door that might lead him to safety, and that was chained. Alex looked around, then picked up one of the Winchesters. There was no chance it would fire after all these years underwater, but it might still do. Carrying the old rifle, he swam over to the door and, holding onto the stock, slid the barrel through. He would use it as a crowbar. Maybe he could prise the door open; the chain was new but it was attached to a handle that was old and might be rotten. Using all his strength, Alex pulled. Briefly he thought he could feel the metal giving. He pulled harder and jerked back as something snapped. The rifle.

He had broken the barrel in half.

He swam over to the pile and picked up another. He could feel his gauges dragging behind him, but he didn’t look at them again. He was too afraid of what he would see. He could hear his every breath; it echoed in his ears. And every time he opened his mouth he could see his precious-air supply disappearing in a cloud of bubbles. He was hearing and seeing his own death. It was being carefully measured out all around him.

The second rifle broke just as the first had done. For a moment, Alex went mad. He grasped the door with his hands and wrenched at it as if he could tear it off its hinges. Bubbles exploded around his head.

Blackness swirled around his eyes. When he calmed down, little had changed. His fingers were white, and he had cut the palm of one hand.

And his air supply had dropped to 900 psi. Only minutes left.

He had to move fast. No, moving fast would only bring the end closer. But there had to be another way out. He examined the windows again. The largest of them was irregular in shape—some of the metal had worn away. Alex could just about fit his head and half his shoulder through the gap. But that was it. Even if he took off his tank, his waist and hips would never make it through. He jerked back, fearful that he was going to get stuck and cut through his own air pipe. He hadn’t achieved anything.

And his supply was now down to 650 psi. The needle was only a millimetre above the red.

Alex was cold. He had never been so cold in his life. The wetsuit should have been trapping some warmth for him but his hands and arms were turning blue. There was no sunlight in the hold. He was at the bottom of the sea. But it was more than that. Alex knew he was going to die. He would be found floating in this hellish place, surrounded by rusting machinery and memories of a war long over. This time there was no way out.

500 psi.

How had that happened? Had he somehow missed the last two minutes—two precious minutes when he had so few left? Alex forced himself to think. Was there anything else in the hold that he could use? Maybe the ship had been carrying artillery shells. He had seen an anti-aircraft gun on the deck. Could he perhaps blow his way out of here?

He began to search desperately for ammunition. As he did so he felt something in his throat and knew that it was becoming more difficult to breathe. His air supply was finally running out. He wondered if he would faint before he drowned. It seemed completely unfair. By a miracle, he had survived an assassin’s bullet in London. And was it just for this? For another even worse death just a few weeks later?

Something grey flashed past one of the windows. A large fish. A shark? Alex felt a sense of total despair.

Even if by some miracle he did find a way out, the creature would be waiting for him. Perhaps it already knew he was there. In just a few brief seconds, his situation had become doubly hopeless.

But then he saw the grey shape again and with a shock of disbelief realized that it wasn’t a shark at all. It was a diver in a wetsuit.

Someone was looking for him.

He had to force himself not to cry out. He kicked hard with his fins and reached the last window just as the diver was about to swim by. Alex’s arm pushed through the jagged gap and he caught hold of the diver’s leg. The diver twisted round.

Brown hair floating loose. Blue eyes full of worry behind the mask that covered them. The diver hovered on the other side of the window, and Alex recognized Tamara Knight.

Desperately he made the distress signal that he had been taught years before, chopping with his hand in front of his throat. Out of air. Help! He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe, straining to draw what was left in his tank, aware that his lungs were never more than half filled. Tamara reached into the pocket of her BCD and pulled something out. She passed it through the window. Alex was confused. He was holding one of Paul Drevin’s inhalers. What good was that? Then he realized she must have taken it from his room. It was the gadget Smithers had given him in New York. How had she known about it?

And would it work underwater?

Dizzy, barely in control, Alex swam over to the chained door. He had to struggle to remember how the inhaler worked. Twist the cylinder twice clockwise. Why hadn’t Tamara set it off herself? Of course, she couldn’t. It was fingerprint sensitive. Alex had to do it. Breathe! Now the inhaler was armed. He rested it on the chain, then swam back further into the hold.

10 psi. The needle on his air gauge didn’t have much further to travel.

The door blew open. There was a ball of flame, instantly extinguished, and Alex felt the shock wave hit him, throwing him against the truck. He wasn’t breathing any more; there was nothing left to breathe.

Where was Tamara? Alex had assumed that there was a way out through the next hold, but what if he was wrong?

Everything was going black. Either the blast had knocked him out or he was suffocating.

But then he felt Tamara’s arms around him. She was pulling his regulator out of his mouth. It was useless, and he let it go. He felt something touch his lips and realized she had given him a second regulator, the octopus attached to her own tank. He breathed deeply and felt the rush of air into his lungs. It was a wonderful sensation.

They stayed where they were for a few minutes, their arms wrapped around each other. Then Tamara gently nudged Alex on the shoulder and pointed up. He nodded. They were still a long way down and with the two of them sharing a single tank, it wouldn’t be long before Tamara’s air supply also ran out.

Tamara swam through the broken door and Alex followed. There was an open hatch and they slipped through it, travelling slowly up. They paused when their gauges showed five metres. This was the safety stop that would allow nitrogen to seep out of their bloodstream and prevent them from getting the bends.

Five minutes later they completed their ascent, breaking through the surface into the brilliant afternoon sun.

Alex had no air to inflate his BCD, so he unfastened his weight belt and let it fall. Then he tore off his mask.

“How…?” he began.

“Later,” Tamara said.

It was a long swim back to the island and Tamara wanted to make sure they weren’t seen. They allowed the current to carry them round Little Point, then kicked in for the shore behind the house. Tamara checked there were no guards in sight before they ran across the beach and into the shelter of the palm trees.

Alex heaved off his tank and threw himself down onto the ground. He lay there panting. Tamara was lying next to him. In her wetsuit, with her hair loose and water trickling down her face, she didn’t look anything like a personal secretary … and suddenly Alex realized that she had never really been one.

“That was too close for comfort,” she said.

Alex stared at her. “Who are you?” he asked. But already he knew the answer. “CIA.” Of course. Joe Byrne had told him he had someone on the island.

“I’m sorry I’ve had to be so unfriendly to you,” Tamara said. She gave him a dazzling smile, as if it was something she had been wanting to do all along. “I’m sure you understand. It was my cover.”

“Sure.” It all made sense. “How did you find me just now?” he asked.

“You’d already told me where you were going,” Tamara explained. “I don’t know why, but I was nervous and I decided to follow you. I went into your room and grabbed the inhaler. I thought it might be useful and I was right. Then I swam out. I was just nearing the site of the wreck, when I saw the boat heading back without you and I guessed what must have happened. So I came down to find you.”

“Thank you.” Alex was feeling drowsy. The late afternoon sun was beating down on him and he was already dry. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“I think Drevin may be planning to leave tonight.” Quickly Alex told her about the phone call he had overheard.

But Tamara looked doubtful. “I can’t believe that,” she said. “The launch tomorrow … Ark Angel. It means everything to him. He’s been working on it for months. Why disappear now?”

“I agree. But he definitely mentioned a boat. It’s arriving at eleven o’clock.”

“Then we have to be there. There’s a backup unit waiting in Barbados. If Drevin tries to leave, we can contact them and they’ll be here in minutes.”

“What do we do until then?”

“You’d better wait here. I’ll go back to the house and get you some clothes. And something to eat and drink.” She studied Alex closely. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. Thanks, Tamara. You saved my life.”

“It’s great to be working with you, Alex. Joe told me all about you.” Tamara slipped away, leaving Alex on his own. He watched the waves breaking gently on the white sand.

The sun was beginning to set and the first shadows were already stretching out, reaching towards Alex and silently warning him of the dangers of the coming night.

TROPICAL STORM

« ^ »

t ten o’clock that night, Alex and Tamara were waiting on the edge of the rainforest, looking down the track towards the wooden cabins where the guards got washed and changed. Both of them were dressed in dark clothes. Tamara had picked out combat trousers and a long-sleeved black T-shirt for Alex. He was too hot.

The night had brought with it a clammy heat that clung to his skin, and he could feel the sweat snaking down his back. But this way there was less chance of being seen, and he was protected from the worst of the mosquitoes.

Tamara was also in black. From somewhere she had produced a gun, a slim Beretta, which she was wearing in a holster under her arm. She also had a radio transmitter with which she was planning to contact the CIA back-up team—although she was worried about the reception. The clouds were thick, obscuring the moon, and it looked as if it was going to rain. Getting a decent signal in the middle of a tropical storm wouldn’t be easy.

Alex was glad she was with him. He had been alone too long and it seemed to him that the two of them were well suited. Tamara had told him that she was one of the youngest agents working for Joe Byrne; she had been recruited when she was just nineteen. She didn’t look much older than that now, crouched beside a giant flamboyant, the umbrella-shaped tree common to much of the eastern Caribbean. He sensed that this was one big adventure for her. Maybe that was the difference between them. She enjoyed her work.

There were three cabins, connected by covered walkways, beside the track. They were fairly primitive: dark wooden planks for walls, roofs made from palm fronds. About twenty metres further down, Alex could make out the electric gate and the checkpoint guarding the launch area on the other side. There were three guards on constant patrol, one of them inside the control box, the other two shuffling back and forth in front of the ten metre high metal fence. The whole area was illuminated by a series of arc lights shining down from metal watchtowers. Alex could see hundreds of moths and mosquitoes dancing in the beams.

The guards were relieved at ten fifteen. As Drevin’s personal assistant, Tamara had been able to see the roster and she knew that the second night watch would be arriving at any moment. Alex glanced back down the track in the direction of Drevin’s house. He thought briefly of Paul. Presumably he would have been told that Alex had drowned … a terrible accident. He wondered what Paul would be thinking, and he was sorry that Tamara hadn’t seen him when she’d gone back to the house to fetch him some clothes.

But he couldn’t worry about that now. It was time. The track was still empty; there was no sign of any electric buggies coming either way. Tamara nudged him and he crept forward, keeping close to the undergrowth, making his way to the first of the three cabins. Very carefully he opened the door. There had been no sound or movement for twenty minutes, but even so there could still be someone asleep in there.

The cabin was empty. Alex slipped inside and found himself in a small, rectangular space. There were a couple of old sofas, a fridge and a table with empty beer bottles, some pornographic magazines and a deck of playing cards strewn across the surface. A fan stood in one corner but it was switched off. The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, and the air was sluggish and still.

He passed through this cabin and into the next, an even smaller one with four shower cubicles and a row of wooden benches. The floor was tiled. Damp towels hung on hooks. Again, there was nobody in sight.

It was in the third cabin that he found what he was looking for. This was where the guards got changed for work. Uniforms, freshly ironed, hung in metal lockers; polished boots were neatly lined up against the wall. Exactly as Tamara had described.

Alex couldn’t help smiling to himself as he reached into his pocket and took out the bottle that Smithers had given him. He glanced at the name on the label—STINGO—then opened it and sprinkled the contents over the guards’ uniforms. The liquid was colourless and didn’t smell of anything. The guards wouldn’t have any idea what was about to hit them.

He heard a low whistle from outside: a warning from Tamara. There was a second door leading out of the cabin and Alex slipped through it into the darkness. Outside, he heard an approaching buggy. Perfect timing.

It was the changing of the guard. As Alex rejoined Tamara, a buggy drew up and three men dressed in baggy shorts and T-shirts got out. Alex recognized one of them. It was Kolo, the diver who had left him to die. He was pleased. If anyone deserved to suffer, it was Kolo.

“Is this going to work?” Tamara whispered as the three men disappeared into the changing room.

“Don’t worry,” Alex replied. “Smithers has never let me down.” About five minutes later, the three men reappeared, now dressed in their grey overalls. Alex and Tamara watched as they approached the checkpoint to swap places with the three guards there. They exchanged a few words in low voices, then took up their positions. The three who had been relieved went back into the cabin to change and drove off in the buggy a few minutes later.

“Let’s get closer,” Alex whispered. He was keen to see whatever was going to happen.

Kolo was sitting in the control box, in front of a bank of telephones and monitors. The window was open so that he could communicate with the other two, who were now armed and standing together in front of the fence. It was a thankless task, Alex thought, hanging around all night, waiting for something to happen.

And although none of them knew it, it was about to get worse.

Alex noticed it first. The cloud of insects visible in the beams of the arc lamps had thickened. Before there had been hundreds of them. Now there were thousands. It was impossible to tell what kind of bugs they were: beetles, flies, cockroaches or mosquitoes. They were just black specks made up of frantically beating wings, antennae and dangling legs. There were so many that the light was almost obliterated.

Kolo slapped his face. The sound was surprisingly loud in the thick heat of the night. One of the other guards muttered something and scratched under his arm. Kolo slapped his face a second time, then the back of his neck. The other men were beginning to shuffle around edgily, as if performing a weird dance.

One ran the stock of his machine gun down his chest, then reached over his shoulder, using it to scratch his back. Inside the control box, Kolo was swatting at the air in front of his face. He seemed to be having trouble breathing, and Alex could see why. The air all around him had been invaded by thousands and thousands of insects. Kolo couldn’t open his mouth without swallowing them.

The mosquito lotion that Smithers had created was awesome. Every insect on the island had been attracted to the three unfortunate men. The two outside were out of control, slapping themselves, whimpering, jerking around like electric shock victims. Kolo screamed. Alex could see a huge centipede clinging to his neck. Very little of the man’s skin was visible now. He was covered in a mass of biting, stinging insects.

They were crawling into his eyes and up his nose. Still screaming, he punched himself frenziedly. The other two men were doing the same.

There was a small explosion and a shower of sparks as one of the television monitors, invaded by insects, short-circuited. It was the final straw. Blind and swearing, Kolo staggered to his feet and tumbled out of the control box. The other two guards fell onto him, clinging to him for support, and the three of them began to grope their way towards the showers and the changing room.

A huge cloud of insects followed them.

Suddenly everything was silent.

“You were right,” Tamara observed. “Your Mr Smithers is pretty good.” The two of them hurried past the now deserted checkpoint, through the gate and along the track on the other side. The rainforest soon ended and they could make out the gantries with the rockets ahead. There was still no moon.

Tamara looked up. “We’re going to get wet,” she announced.

She was right. A few minutes later, the clouds opened and they were instantly drenched. The rain was warm and fell from the sky as if poured from an enormous bucket. A sheet of lightning pulsed over the sea, reflected in the ground that was being churned up all around them. Everything had become black and white.

“What will happen to the launch?” Alex shouted. There was no longer any need to whisper. Tamara could hardly hear him against the crashing rain.

She shook water out of her eyes and shouted back, “It won’t make any difference. The rain won’t last long.

Everything will be dry by tomorrow morning.”

In fact, the storm couldn’t have broken at a better time. The launch area was a quarter of a mile of completely open land and Alex had wondered how they would cross it without being seen. He had no doubt that there would be other guards on patrol and probably closed-circuit TV. The rain provided perfect cover. In their dark clothes, he and Tamara were invisible.

The second jetty was on the western point of the island, connected to the rocket gantries and the various control buildings by a white cement track. Alex and Tamara were jogging towards it when a light suddenly burst out, cutting through the rain. It was mounted on a boat that was heading towards the shore, fighting its way through the tumultuous waves.

“This way!” Tamara yelled and pulled Alex towards a brick outbuilding with a tangle of metal pipes and gauges outside. As they ran, she tripped. Alex managed to catch her before she fell, and a few moments later they were safely concealed behind a water tank. The jetty was right in front of them. Alex wondered if Drevin was about to appear.

The boat reached the jetty. The rain was coming down even more heavily and it was difficult to see what was happening. Someone jumped down with a rope. More figures appeared on the deck. Alex had thought that Drevin was planning his exit from the island, but it looked as if the boat had brought new arrivals—

people who didn’t want to be seen.

Alex heard a sound behind him and turned to see Magnus Payne and two guards drive down the track towards the boat. The ginger hair and lifeless skin of the island’s head of security were unmistakable even in a tropical storm. They reached the jetty and Payne got out. Four men climbed down from the boat. Alex grabbed hold of Tamara, shocked. He knew who the men were, even though he had never learnt their real names.

Combat Jacket. Spectacles. Steel Watch and Silver Tooth.

Force Three had come to Flamingo Bay. But why? What did it mean? Magnus Payne was shaking their hands, welcoming them. This was the terrorist group that had sworn to destroy Drevin. But they were being greeted like old friends.

And then a voice crackled out of the storm, amplified by hidden speakers, echoing all around.

“Do not fire! We know you are there. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up.” The five men froze. Two of them pulled out guns. But the words weren’t being addressed to them.

If Alex had any doubts that it was he and Tamara who were being targeted, they were dispelled a few seconds later. Four more buggies had come racing out of the rain. They slid to a halt, facing him, their headlights dazzling him. A dozen black shadows came tumbling out and took up positions around them.

Next to him Tamara tensed, then sprang into action, drawing her gun. There was a single shot, fired from one of the buggies. Tamara cried out. Her gun spun away. Blood began to seep from a wound in her shoulder, spreading rapidly down her sleeve.

“That was your last warning!” the voice boomed. “Stand up and move slowly forward. If you resist, you will be shot.”

How had they been found? Alex thought back and remembered Tamara stumbling. A tripwire. That had to be it. As they had run, she had triggered an alarm.

Magnus Payne pushed his way through the line of guards. The four members of Force Three followed. The whole area had been empty only minutes before; now it was swarming. Tamara was clutching her wounded shoulder. Alex stood next to her, sick at heart.

And then Nikolei Drevin appeared, dressed in a light raincoat and—bizarrely—holding a brightly coloured golfing umbrella that shielded him from the downpour. He seemed relaxed, as if he’d simply decided to go for a late-night stroll. He stood in front of Alex and Tamara. There was very little emotion in his face.

“Miss Knight,” he said, and although he spoke softly, the words carried even above the sound of the rain.

“I always did have my doubts about you. Or rather, I suspected that the CIA would try to infiltrate my operation, and you seemed the most likely choice. How very sad I am to have my fears confirmed.”

“The boy…” Magnus Payne had reached Drevin’s side.

“Yes. It seems your man didn’t quite finish the job.” Drevin stepped forward until he was centimetres away from Alex. Alex didn’t flinch; rain streamed down his face. “Tell me, Alex,” Drevin asked. “I’d be interested to know who you’re working for. Is it MI6 or the CIA? Or perhaps both?”

“Go to hell,” Alex replied quietly.

“I’m truly sorry that you chose to make yourself my enemy,” Drevin continued. “I liked you from the start.

So did Paul. But you have abused my hospitality, Alex. A great mistake.” Alex was silent. Next to him Tamara had gone very pale. She had one hand clamped over her wound and was obviously in pain. But she was still defiant. “The CIA know we’re here, Drevin,” she said. “You do anything to us, they’re going to be crawling all over you. You’re not getting away; you’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Whatever made you think I was planning to go anywhere?” Drevin retorted. “Lock the girl up,” he ordered. “I don’t want to see her again. Magnus—bring Alex Rider to the main hangar. I want to talk to him.”

Drevin turned and walked away. It only took three paces and he had disappeared into the rain.

PRIMARY TARGET

« ^ »

he main hangar was huge. Perhaps this was where the Cessna was kept when it wasn’t in use. The roof was a great curve of corrugated iron. One wall slid back to allow access to the launch site. There were various pieces of machinery and a few oil drums scattered around, but otherwise the hangar was bare. Alex was tied to a wooden chair. Drevin was sitting opposite; Magnus Payne was standing beside him. Combat Jacket, Silver Tooth, Spectacles and Steel Watch were grouped together a short distance away. They had been invited to the party but it was clear that Drevin didn’t expect them to join in.

The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. Alex could hear the water stilt gurgling in the gutters and there were a few last drops pattering on the roof. The air in the hangar was warm and damp. He was soaked. Payne had used a length of electrical wire to bind him to the chair and it was cutting into his flesh.

His hands and feet were numb.

Drevin was wearing a light blue cashmere jersey and cords. He was relaxed, holding a giant brandy glass in one hand, two centimetres of pale golden liquid forming a perfect circle in the bottom. He raised it to his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

“This is a Louis XIII cognac,” he said. “It’s thirty years old. A single bottle costs more than a thousand pounds. It’s the only cognac I drink.”

“I knew you were rich,” Alex said. “I also knew you were greedy. But I didn’t know you were boring as well.”

“There are five men here who would be only too glad to deal with you if I were to allow it,” Drevin replied mildly. “Perhaps you would do better to keep your mouth shut and listen to what I have to say.” He swirled the brandy and took a sip.

“I have to confess, I’m fascinated by you.” The grey eyes studied Alex closely. “When Magnus told me you were an MI6 agent, I laughed. I simply couldn’t believe it. But when I look back over everything that’s happened, it makes perfect sense. I met Alan Blunt once and thought him a most devious and unpleasant individual. This confirms my impression. Even so, I find it hard to accept that he sent you after me. Is that what happened, Alex? Were you planted from the very start?”

“He’d been shot,” Payne growled. “I’ve seen copies of his hospital records. That was real enough.”

“Then perhaps it was no more than an unhappy coincidence. Unhappy, that is, for you. But I’m glad we have this time together. Although I’m afraid that both you and Miss Knight must be dispensed with soon, at least I’ve been given the opportunity to explain myself to you. You see, Alex, I’d like Paul to know about me. I’d like to tell him everything I’m about to tell you. But he’s weak. He’s not ready yet. He might even end up hating me for what I am. But you, I know, will understand.” Drevin lowered his nose into the glass and breathed in deeply.

“I am, as you mentioned just now, a rich man. One of the richest men on the planet. I employ a team of accountants who work for me full-time all the year round, and even they are unsure quite how much I am worth. You have no idea what it’s like, Alex, to be able to have anything you want. I can walk into a shop to buy a suit and decide instead to buy the shop. If I see a new car or ship or plane in a magazine, it can be mine before the end of the day. At the last count I had eleven houses around the world. I can sleep in a different country every day of the week and wake up in yet another little bit of paradise.

“Of course, as you’ve probably been told, this wealth did not come to me in a way that you might describe as honest. Such terms are of no interest to me. I am a criminal; I freely admit it. I have killed many people personally and countless more have died as a result of my orders. Many of my associates are criminals.

Why should this trouble me? There’s not a successful businessman alive who has not at some time cheated or lied. We all do it! It’s just a question of degree.

“I have been hugely successful for the past twenty years, and I fully intend to become richer and more successful in the years to come. However”—Drevin’s face grew dark—“about eighteen months ago I became aware of two small problems, and these have forced me into a particular course of action. They are the reason why you are here now, Alex. They are problems that could all too easily destroy me and which I have spent a great deal of time and money seeking to overcome.”

“Why are you telling me all this if you’re planning to kill me?” Alex asked.

“It is because I’m planning to kill you that I can tell you,” Drevin replied. “There will be no danger of you repeating what you hear. But please don’t interrupt again, Alex, or I shall have to ask Magnus to hurt you.” He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he was fully composed.

“The first problem,” he said, “concerns the State Department of the United States, which decided to investigate some of my financial dealings, particularly those involving the Russian mafiya. Of course, I have been aware right from the start that they were building a ease against me. I have always been a careful man. I avoid written evidence and make sure there are no witnesses who might incriminate me. But even so, it would not be possible to act on the scale that I do without leaving some trace of myself, and I knew that the Americans were squirreling away the bits and pieces, talking to anyone who’d ever met me

—and that sooner or later they were planning to bring me to court.

“The obvious solution to this seemed to be to destroy the US State Department and in particular the men and women whose job it had been to meddle in my affairs. It occurred to me that in one respect they were actually being quite helpful. They had gathered all the evidence together: a case of putting all their eggs in one basket! With a single, well-aimed missile, I could kill all the investigators and destroy all the tapes, files, scraps of paper, telephone records, computer printouts—everything! I could begin again with a completely clean sheet. The more I thought about it, the more grateful I became to the Americans for what they were doing.

“Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy. Because, you see, the investigation was based in one of the most secure buildings in the world—the Pentagon in Washington. The place is nothing more than a huge slab of concrete—and much of it underground. It employs an anti-terrorist force that operates twenty-four hours a day. Every form of monitoring device you could imagine can be found there, and since 9/11, no commercial plane can get anywhere near. The Pentagon is thoroughly protected against chemical, biological and radiological attack. I know, because I considered them all. But even a brief examination showed me that any such approach was doomed to failure.

“And now, if you’ll permit me, I’ll move on to the second problem that I mentioned. It may seem completely unrelated to the first. For a long time, I thought it was. But you will see in a minute how it all connects.”

Alex said nothing. He was aware of Magnus Payne and the men who made up Force Three watching him.

He was still wondering how they fitted into all this. And where was Kaspar, the man with the tattooed skull? Even now, nothing quite added up. Alex shifted in the chair, trying to get some feeling back into his hands and feet.

“My other problem was Ark Angel,” Drevin went on. “Space tourism has always interested me, Alex, and when the British government approached me to go into partnership with them, I must confess I was flattered. I would benefit from the money they would put into the project. I would be at the forefront of one of the most challenging and potentially profitable enterprises of the twenty-first century. And it would provide me with the one thing I most needed: respectability! The Americans might view me as a criminal, but it would give them pause for thought when they saw that I was having supper with the Queen. It occurred to me that they might find it rather more difficult to drag me off to prison when I was Sir Nikolei Drevin. Or even Lord Drevin. Sometimes it helps to have the right contacts.

“And so I agreed to become partners with your government in the Ark Angel project, the world’s first space hotel. It’s above us right now. It’s always above us. And I can never forget it. Because, you see, it has become a nightmare, a catastrophe. Even without the Americans and their investigation, Ark Angel could easily destroy me.”

Drevin frowned and took a large sip of brandy.

“Ark Angel is billions of pounds over budget. It’s sucking me dry. Even with all my wealth I can no longer support it. And it’s all the fault of your stupid government. They can’t make a decision without talking about it for months. They have committees and subcommittees. And when they do make a decision, it’s always the wrong one. I should have known from the start. Look at the Scottish parliament! The Millennium Dome! Everything the British government builds costs ten times as much as it should and doesn’t even work.

“Ark Angel is the same. It’s late, it’s leaking and it’s lost any hope of ever being completed. The whole thing is falling apart. And for months now I’ve been thinking, if only the wretched thing would simply fall out of the sky. I could scrape back at least some of my money because, like every major project, it is insured. More than that, I’d be able to wipe my hands of it. I’d be able to wake up without having it, quite literally, hanging over my head. There were days when I seriously considered paying someone to blow it up.

“And that, Alex, is when I had my big idea. It’s as I told you. Two problems that came together with one single solution.”

Drevin leant forward and at last Alex saw quite clearly the madness in his eyes.

“I wonder how much you know about physics, Alex. Even as we sit here now, there are hundreds of objects orbiting above us in outer space, from small communications satellites to giant space stations such as the ISS and Mir before that. Have you ever wondered what keeps them there? What stops them from falling down?

“Well, the answer is a fairly simple equation consisting of their speed balanced against their distance from the earth. You might be amused to know that, theoretically, it would be possible for a satellite to orbit the earth just a few metres above your head. But it would have to go impossibly fast. Ark Angel is three hundred miles away. It’s therefore able to maintain its orbital velocity at just seventeen and a half thousand miles per hour. But even so, every few months it has to be reboosted. The same was true for Mir when it was in orbit, and for the International Space Station now. Every few months, rockets which are known as progress vehicles have to push all these large satellites back into space. Otherwise they’d come crashing down.

“In fact, some of them do exactly that. The Russian space probe Mars 96 fell out of the sky on 17 November 1996 and the pieces rained down across South America. In April 2000 the second stage of a Delta rocket narrowly missed Cape Town. The world has been very lucky that so far there has been no major catastrophe. Well, almost three quarters of the planet is water. There are huge deserts and mountain ranges.

The chances of a piece of space junk hitting a populated area are relatively small. Even so, most astronomers would agree, it is an accident waiting to happen.

“Are you finding this hard to follow? I’ll make it easy for you. Imagine swinging a conker on a piece of string around your hand. If you slow down, the conker will fall and hit your hand. And there you have it.

The conker is the space station; your hand is the earth. It doesn’t take a great deal to cause one to crash into the other.

“And that is exactly what I intend to do.

“Tomorrow, when Gabriel 7 blasts off, it will be carrying a bomb which has been exactly timed and which must be exactly positioned within Ark Angel. Everything has been worked out on computers and the program is locked in. If you look at a map, you will find that Washington is positioned at around thirty-eight degrees north. The angle of inclination followed by Ark Angel—its flight path—is also thirty-eight degrees. This means that every time it orbits the earth, it passes directly over Washington.

“The bomb wilt go off two hours after Gabriel 7 has docked with Ark Angel—at exactly half past four. This will have the effect of knocking Ark Angel out of its orbit. The space station will begin to topple towards the earth. It will enter the earth’s atmospheric drag and after that things will begin to happen very quickly.

The more atmosphere that surrounds it, the faster it will fall. Soon it will be tumbling—out of control. Or that is how it will seem. In fact, I have secretly programmed what are known as de-orbit manoeuvres into Ark Angel. Although it will seem to be moving haphazardly, it will be as accurate as an independently targeted nuclear missile.

“Can you imagine it, Alex? Ark Angel weighs about seven hundred tonnes. Of course, much of it will burn up as it re-enters the earth’s atmosphere. But I estimate that about sixty per cent of it will survive. That’s about four hundred tonnes of molten steel, glass, beryllium and aluminium travelling at around fifteen thousand miles an hour. The Pentagon is the primary target. The building will be destroyed. All the people working there will die, and every last scrap of information will be incinerated. I rather suspect that the shock wave will destroy most of Washington too. The Capitol. The White House. The various monuments.

The parks. A shame, because I’ve always thought it a rather attractive city. But very little of it will be left.” Alex closed his eyes. Jack Starbright was in Washington, visiting her parents. Maybe she would survive the hideous explosion that Drevin had planned. But thousands of people—hundreds of thousands—would not. Once again Alex found himself wondering how he had got himself into this. Had it really all begun with a doctor ordering him two weeks’ R & R?

“And now I must tell you about Force Three,” Drevin said.

“You don’t need to,” Alex replied. He had worked this part out for himself. “You need someone to take the blame. Force Three don’t exist. You invented them.”

“Exactly.” Drevin waved his glass at the four men standing near by. “I consider Force Three to be the most brilliant aspect of the entire operation. Obviously, if Ark Angel is sabotaged, if it falls on the Pentagon, I will be the main suspect. So I had to create a scapegoat. I had to make sure that I was above suspicion.

“I created Force Three. I hired the men you see here now. Under my instructions, they committed several acts of terrorism that seemed to be directed against capitalist concerns. They blew up a car manufacturing plant in Dakota, a factory in Japan, a GM research centre in New Zealand. I also paid a journalist working in Berlin and a lecturer in London to speak out against Force Three, to warn the world about them. I then promptly had them murdered. Do you see? I was creating the illusion of a ruthless group of eco-warriors who hated anyone involved in big business—and who particularly hated me.”

“You kidnapped your own son!” Alex exclaimed. At last the events at the hospital and Hornchurch Towers were beginning to make sense.

“I told you. I had to be seen to be above suspicion. The world had to believe that Force Three were my enemy. What sort of father would allow his own son to be kidnapped just days after an operation—”

“But they got it wrong,” Alex interrupted. “They took me instead of him.” He thought back to the time when he had been held prisoner and his head swam. “They were going to cut off Paul’s finger! Did you really order them to do that?”

“Of course.” For the first time, Drevin looked troubled. Alex could see him struggling with his emotions, forcing them down. “The threat had to be credible. If Paul had been maimed, nobody would have suspected that I had anything to do with it. And when Force Three attacked me here on Flamingo Bay, I would be the victim.”

“But that’s monstrous!” Alex protested. “He’s your son!”

“Maybe a little pain would have toughened him up,” Drevin retorted. “The boy is too soft. And one day he is going to inherit billions. The whole world will be his. Is one little finger too much to ask in return?”

“It must be great having you as a dad!” Alex sneered.

“You will die very painfully if you continue to speak to me in that way!” Drevin finished his brandy. He was suddenly flushed and out of breath. “The only mistake I made was not providing Kaspar with a photograph of Paul. We knew his room number; we knew there would be no security at the hospital. How could we know that another boy—you—would decide to get involved?”

“Is that why you tried to kill me in the fire?” Alex asked.

“No.” Drevin shook his head. “We needed you alive. That was the whole point. Paul had been saved from his ordeal but we still needed someone to tell the world that it was Force Three behind the kidnap attempt.

Killing you would have been no use to us at all. You were meant to escape. There was a chair in the room so that you could climb up through the ceiling and over the wall into the corridor. The fire was deliberately started away from the stairwell so that you could get out of the building.”

“But one of your people was waiting for me with a gun.” Alex looked at the man he knew only as Combat Jacket. This was the man who had shot the night receptionist at the hospital. He was gazing at Alex with watery eyes that were too small and too close to his broken nose.

Drevin was obviously hearing this for the first time. “Is this true?” he asked.

“He’s lying,” Combat Jacket said. It was the first time he had spoken. “I let him go like you said. I never went near him.”

Alex understood. He’d humiliated Combat Jacket. And the man had disobeyed orders to get his revenge.

He was the one who was lying. It was obvious to everyone there; they could hear it in his voice.

Drevin shrugged. “It makes no difference,” he said, and Combat Jacket relaxed. “You may be wondering why Force Three have come to the island, Alex. It’s because I have one last use for them. The launch is timed for nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The bomb will go off at half past four in the afternoon. And as Ark Angel comes crashing down on Washington, a fight will break out here on Flamingo Bay. Intruders will have been discovered. My men will shoot to kill. And when the authorities come calling and the investigation begins, I will be able to give them the final proof that Force Three were responsible. You have described the men who kidnapped you, Alex. Tomorrow their bullet-ridden bodies will be on display.” Now it was Silver Tooth who spoke. Spectacles and Steel Watch were also looking uneasy. “How are you going to fake that?” he asked.

Drevin smiled. “Who said I was going to fake it?”

The chatter of gunfire was so loud and so close that Alex nearly toppled over in the chair. The four fake terrorists didn’t stand a chance. They were dead before they could react, blown off their feet onto the cold concrete floor. Alex twisted round. Magnus Payne was holding one of the Mini Uzis. There was a dreadful smile on his face. A cloud of smoke hovered around his hands.

“You’re insane!” Alex spat out the words without knowing what he was saying. “You’re never going to get away with it! They’ll know it was you…”

“They may well suspect it was me, but it’s going to be almost impossible to prove,” Drevin retorted. “I’m afraid I’m the victim in all this.”

“But what about me? What about Tamara? If you kill us, the CIA will come after you!”

“The CIA are already after me. What difference will another couple of bodies make? I’m afraid you and Miss Knight wilt be found on the beach. Accidentally caught in the crossfire. A terrible shame. But not my fault.”

“And what about Kaspar?” Why had Alex thought of him? He was the one piece missing from this crazy jigsaw. If Force Three had been working for Drevin all along, then so had Kaspar. But where was he?

“Show him,” Drevin ordered.

Magnus Payne put down the sub-machine gun. He reached up and took hold of his ginger hair. A wig. He pulled it off, then ripped at his skin. Alex should have recognized the latex. He had recently worn a similar disguise himself. He watched in dismay as the head of security seemed to tear his own face apart and the dreadful tattoos appeared underneath. In just a few seconds the magic trick was complete. Magnus Payne was gone; Kaspar stood in his place.

“The tattoos were rather painful and unpleasant,” Drevin commented. “But we had to create a terrorist leader people would remember. I’d say we succeeded, wouldn’t you?” Alex felt utterly defeated. He remembered now his first meeting with Payne on Flamingo Bay. The head of security had disguised his voice, of course. But even so, Alex had been sure he’d seen him somewhere before. And Payne had known immediately who he was. Both he and Paul had been in the buggy when Drevin introduced them, and Payne was supposed to be meeting them both for the first time. But he had known immediately which was which. Of course. He had recognized Alex.

“We’ll arrange the bodies on the beach after the launch,” Drevin said to Kaspar. “And we’ll add the boy and the woman then.” He put down his glass and stood up. “Goodbye, Alex. I enjoyed meeting you very much. I would have liked to get to know you better. But I’m afraid we’ve reached the end.” He tugged at his ring one last time as if there was something he had forgotten to say. The men who had pretended to be Force Three, and whose names Alex would never know, lay sprawled on the floor.

Kaspar stepped forward and grabbed hold of the chair. Alex was helpless as his chair was tilted backwards and he was dragged away.

WIND AND WATER

« ^ »

aspar drove Alex across the compound to a flat, rectangular building with barred windows and a door with steps leading down, just below the level of the ground. Alex could no longer think of the other man as Magnus Payne. Drevin’s head of security hadn’t bothered to replace his wig or mask, and even in the darkness the hideous map of the world still glowed livid on his skin. Alex wondered how much he had been paid to disfigure himself. Whatever the sum, it would probably cost him just as much one day to pay for the laser surgery to remove the tattoos.

Alex had been untied from the wooden chair but his hands were still bound. As they got out of the buggy, he tested the wire, attempting to find some slack. It seemed to him that, given time, he might be able to free himself. Not that it would do him much good. The building in front of him looked like a prison. And Kaspar knew what he was capable of. He wasn’t going to make any more mistakes.

They went down the steps into a large area filled with electronic equipment, computers and workstations.

A model of a space probe—gleaming steel with circuitry spilling everywhere—took up most of the room.

Alex noticed two sets of what looked like tracksuits hanging on a rail. They both had the Ark Angel logo stitched onto the sleeve. He supposed they must be the outfits worn by astronauts.

“This way,” Kaspar grunted. He gestured with his gun towards another flight of stairs leading down.

Alex obeyed and found himself in a wide corridor with two solid-looking cages on either side. As he stepped forward, he heard a screeching and jabbering from the first cage, and to his surprise an orang-utan bounded towards him, crashing its fists against the bars. Then he remembered. Drevin had said he was planning to send an ape into space—some sort of endurance experiment.

“Meet Arthur,” Kaspar said. There was an ugly smile on his face.

“Is he any relation?” Alex asked.

The remark earned him a sharp jab with the gun. But the pain was quickly forgotten. He had looked into the next cage and seen Tamara Knight, still very pale but alive. She smiled at Alex but said nothing while Kaspar opened the door of the cage opposite.

“In here,” he ordered.

Alex had no choice. He stepped inside and waited while Kaspar locked the door behind him. He looked around. The cage was about two metres square. The bars were solid steel. The lock was brand new. Alex had no gadgets on him and his hands were still tied. He was going nowhere.

Kaspar removed the key and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll leave the three of you together.” He glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. “You’ll hear the rocket launch,” he said. “And as soon as it’s gone, someone’ll come for you. They’ll take you to the beach and that’ll be the end.” The corner of West Africa twisted in a grimace of pure hatred.

Alex had seen it all before. The bigger the criminals, the more they resented being beaten by a teenager.

And Alex had beaten Kaspar twice. “I’m just sorry I won’t be the one holding the gun,” Kaspar went on.

“But I’ll be thinking of you. I hope it won’t be too quick.” He walked away. Alex heard his footsteps on the stairs. The main door opened and closed. Arthur the orang-utan stalked to the back of his cage and sat down.

“Charming guy,” Tamara muttered.

“Tamara, are you OK?” Alex had been worried about her, and he was relieved to see her now.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “Was that Magnus Payne just now?” Alex nodded.

“I thought I recognized his voice. What happened to his head?” Alex told her. He also told her about his meeting in the hangar and Drevin’s plan to destroy Washington.

Tamara was kneeling against the door of her cage, listening closely. When he finished talking she let out a deep sigh. It seemed to Alex that even more colour had drained from her face.

“We thought he was going to cut and run,” she said. “We thought he was finished. We never figured he was going to come up with something like this.”

“Can he really do it?” Alex asked.

Tamara thought for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. He’d have to work everything out right down to the last second. The explosion. All the rest of it. But, yes… I’m afraid he probably can.”

“We have to contact Joe Byrne.”

“The guards took my radio transmitter. I imagine they’ll have taken your iPod too.”

“What about the phones?”

“There are radio phones on the island but Drevin will have disabled them, just in case. And ordinary mobiles are no good; you can’t get a signal. I don’t know, Alex. Either we’re going to have to stop him ourselves or one of us is going to have to go for help.”

“Barbados…”

“It’s only about ten miles from here. Ed Shulsky is waiting at Harrison Point; he’s got plenty of back-up.

Maybe you could steal a boat.”

“Why me? Why not both of us?”

Tamara shook her head. “I’m sorry, Alex. But I’ve got a bullet in my shoulder. I’d only slow you down.” Alex lashed out at the cage door with his foot. The bars rattled. It was obvious to him that he wasn’t going anywhere, and he said so.

“Maybe I can help you,” Tamara said. She was wearing trainers and as Alex watched, she reached down and pulled out the laces. “Catch!” She slipped her uninjured arm between the bars of her cage and threw the laces over to Alex.

“What—”

“You’re not the only one with gadgets. There’s tungsten wire inside the laces. Diamond-edged. You can cut through the bars.”

“That’s neat,” he said, though secretly he wished that the CIA had come up with something less clumsy and perhaps a little more efficient.

“They removed my exploding earrings,” Tamara added, as if reading his mind.

Alex took one of the laces and examined the door. The steel bars were strong but they were thin and he would only have to cut through three of them to squeeze through. His job wouldn’t be made easier by the fact that his hands were tied, but perhaps he could deal with that too.

“How much time do we have?” he asked.

“Not much. It gets light around six, and if you’re not out by then, I don’t think you’ll have much chance.”

“Right.”

Alex looped the lace over the wire between his wrists, then grabbed the dangling ends with his teeth. He pulled the lace tight and began to jerk his hands in a vague sawing motion. In less than a minute his wrists were free. He saw Tamara smile. Now he could begin work in earnest.

The bars weren’t so easy. It took well over half an hour to make the first cut, and Alex was disappointed to discover that even after it had been severed near its base, the bar wouldn’t bend. He had to make a second cut—another half-hour’s work—before it finally fell to the floor with a clang. Alex cursed himself. If there were any guards upstairs, the noise would have alerted them. But he was lucky. Nobody came. It seemed that the two of them were on their own.

Tamara hadn’t spoken while he was working but now she nodded at him. “Keep going!” she encouraged.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. They took my watch.”

That was the worst of it. As Alex started on the second bar, he had no idea how much time had passed. All he knew was that he was worn out. He needed to sleep. And he had blisters on his thumbs, his fingers and the heels of his hands where they had rubbed together.

The night dragged on. He sat hunched up in the cage, sawing back and forth. Tamara was watching him.

The orang-utan had turned his back on both of them and seemed to be asleep.

At last it was done. The third bar came loose, leaving enough space for Alex to slip through into the corridor. He went over to Tamara.

“I’m going to get you out,” he said.

“No, Alex.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

Tamara shook her head. “You don’t have a lot of time. Get to Barbados. Find Ed.” She leant back. Although she was trying not to show it, Alex could see that she was in a lot of pain. “I’ll be all right,” she went on.

“I’ve got Arthur to keep me company. Now go, before someone comes.” Alex knew she was right. He picked up one of the loose bars and climbed back up the stairs. Looking through the window, he was alarmed to see streaks of pink light stealing across the inky sky. It must be well after six o’clock, less than three hours to the launch.

He went over to the door and opened it a crack. There was a guard sitting in a chair, wearing grey overalls and a cap. Alex smiled to himself. For once luck was on his side. The man was fast asleep. He gripped the metal bar more tightly. He had thought it might come in useful.

Ten minutes later, dressed in the guard’s uniform and with the cap pulled down low over his forehead, Alex drove an electric buggy back towards the checkpoint. Without slowing down, he held out the guard’s ID, angling his arm so that it covered most of his face. He was prepared to crash through the gate if he had to, and he was relieved when it opened to let him pass. It seemed that security on Flamingo Bay needed a serious overhaul. But then again, he and Tamara were supposed to be locked up. The place was an island, ten miles away from the nearest land. What was there for Drevin or anyone else to worry about?

The buggy was easy to drive, with only two pedals—accelerator and brake—and no gears. He put his foot down and sped through the rainforest, aware that the sky was getting lighter all the time. Drevin’s house and the far end of the island, Little Point, appeared in the distance. Alex turned the wheel and spun off the track, steering the buggy down between the palm trees towards the beach. It made it about halfway before it got stuck in the sand. That was good enough for Alex. He jumped out and ran down to the jetty.

There were two canoes and a boat moored there—a Princess V55 motor cruiser. A canoe would be too slow.

But the boat? It was a beautiful craft, very low in the water, its bow shaped like a knife, built for speed.

Alex looked for the key in the ignition. Why not? One guard had been asleep. Another hadn’t even looked at him as he drove past. A third might have made the clumsiest mistake of all.

But this time he was disappointed. There was no key. He searched all the cupboards and lockers in the main cabin, but there was nothing. Frustrated, Alex rested his hands on the. wheel and forced himself to think calmly. Drevin’s house was in sight. He was tempted to steal in and try to get hold of a telephone. But Tamara had warned him that all the phones on the island would be disabled, and Alex believed her. Might he find a key to the Princess in the house? It was possible but the risk was too great. Alex looked up. The sky was brightening rapidly, the darkness trickling away like spilt ink. Dawn had broken. Drevin might wake up at any moment.

No phones. No boats. Barbados was ten miles away—too far to swim or to paddle in a canoe. Alex knew what he had to do. He had worked it out when he was sawing through the bars of the cage, but he’d hoped he would be able to find another way. Well, there was no other way. He might as well get on with it.

He jumped down from the boat and ran along the beach, making for the house. But he wasn’t going in.

Instead, he went round the back to the equipment store where Kolo had taken him before the dive. It occurred to Alex that he might find a key to the motor launch somewhere inside, but he wasn’t going to waste any more time looking. The store was where Paul Drevin kept his power kite and board. That was what Alex had come for.

But even as he found the kite and began to bundle it out, he wondered if it would be possible. Ten miles was a long way, and after the storm the sea might be rough. At least there was a strong breeze. Alex had felt it when he was on the jetty—and it was also blowing offshore. Most kite boarders avoid an offshore wind; it’s lumpy and difficult, and there’s always a danger it will blow you out to sea. But that was exactly what Alex wanted. He needed to get away. Fast.

He reached for the board and at that moment the door swung open behind him. Alex was already spinning round, his fists raised, preparing for a karate strike, when Paul stepped inside.

“Alex?” The other boy had obviously only just got up. He was wearing shorts and nothing else. He stared at Alex, shocked. “What are you…” He couldn’t find the words. “I thought you’d gone,” he said.

“I’m afraid not.” Alex wasn’t sure how much Paul knew, and he didn’t know what to say. He was aware that the whole situation had changed. Where did he go from here?

“What’s happened to you?” Paul asked. “What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I can’t tell you.” He desperately wished Paul hadn’t found him. “How did you know I was here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I went to the window to get some air—and there you were, on the beach.”

“Do you have a key to the boat? Do you know where it is?”

“No.” All of a sudden Paul was angry. “Dad told me that you’d been sent here to spy on him. I said that couldn’t be true, but he was sure of it. He said he had enemies in New York and they’d paid you to come here, to make trouble.”

“Did he tell you what he did to me?” Alex cut in. He was getting angry himself. Here was Paul, accusing him. But he knew nothing.

“He said he put you on the plane out of here.” Paul looked at Alex uncertainly. “Is it true, Alex?” he demanded. “Are you spying on us?”

“I haven’t got time to talk about this now.” He took a step and Paul’s arm shot out, his hand reaching for a button built into a panel on the wall. Alex hadn’t noticed it before.

“This is an alarm,” Paul told him. “If I press it, there’ll be a dozen guards here in less than a minute. I want you to tell me the truth. What are you doing here? What’s been happening?”

“If you press that button, I’ll be killed.”

“You’re lying…”

“Your father will kill me, Paul. He’s already tried once.”

“No!” Paul was staring at Alex and now there was something else in his face. It wasn’t just disbelief. It was anger. And Alex understood. There was nothing he could say. He could tell Paul everything he knew about Nikolei Vladimir Drevin, and it would make no difference.

Drevin had lied to him. He had taunted him and shown him little affection. But he was still Paul’s father. It was as simple as that. And no matter what the feelings were between them, Paul would defend him.

Because he was Drevin’s son.

Alex knew that he had only seconds before Paul sounded the alarm. He raised his hands, palms upward, as if to prove that he meant no harm. “OK, Paul,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“Don’t come any closer…” Paul’s hand hovered centimetres from the alarm.

Alex risked another step forward. “It’s not what you think. Your dad was wrong about me. So are you.

Your mother asked me to come here.”

“What?”

Alex had mentioned Paul’s mother because he knew the effect it would have. Paul froze, uncertain, and in that split second, Alex lashed out, driving his elbow into the other boy’s temple. Paul crumpled instantly; Alex caught him and lowered him to the ground. He had been learning karate since he was six years old but this was the first time he had struck anyone the same age as himself. He felt ashamed. All Paul had ever wanted was a friend, someone he could look up to—and it had come to this. But what else could he do? He had to leave the island. He had to prevent a whole city from being destroyed.

He forced himself to ignore the unconscious boy, picked up the kite and the rest of the equipment and dragged it down to the beach. The sun was already well above the horizon. Alex pumped up the kite and laid it out along the shore, all the while looking out for any approaching guards. How long would he have before Paul came round? Fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. No matter which way he looked at it, he was running out of time.

And there was still the problem of launching the kite. With two people it had been easy. On his own it would take more time. Quickly Alex stripped off the grey uniform; underneath he was wearing swimming trunks. He picked up the harness and clipped it on. It was a Mystic Darkrider, made out of black rubber with a foam shell. Paul had chosen all the equipment himself and he’d made sure he’d got the best. If only he could have been here to help Alex with it.

How to do it?

Alex checked the wind direction, then laid the kite out on the ground with the lines stretching towards the water’s edge. He scooped up several handfuls of sand and dumped them on the upwind tip of the kite. The other tip he left free.

He picked up the board and control bar and began to walk backwards into the sea. The water, surprisingly cold, lapped around his ankles. The kite, shaped like a crescent moon, was lying flat behind him. It was already flapping like a wounded animal, trying to rise up into the air. Only the sand was holding it down.

Alex laid the board down beside him and pulled one of the lines attached to the downwind tip, gently nudging it into the breeze. Almost at once it began to rise, and the kite inflated, the wind rushing through the vents. Alex stepped deeper into the water. The kite was pulling more strongly, the fabric jerking and throwing off the sand. And then, suddenly, it rose. Alex steered it carefully into the air and neutralized it above his head. It had taken him several minutes to get to this point and he was painfully aware of the time ticking away. But he had done it. He was ready to go.

He hooked the control bar to his harness and then stepped onto the board. Carefully he lowered the kite into the wind. Almost at once he felt the pull, fierce and irresistible. He leant back, letting it take him. He was powered up. A moment later, he was away.

The kite was flying in front of him, about fifteen metres above the sea. Despite everything, Alex experienced the same exhilaration that he had felt with Paul when the two of them were fooling around.

He seemed to be going incredibly fast.

The wind was rushing over him, the spray almost blinding him as it swept into his face. The sun was already hot; he could feel it beating down, warming his arms, chest and shoulders. If he was out here too long, he would burn. But Alex knew that was the least of his problems. Somehow he had to cover the ten miles. And Drevin would be coming after him very soon.

He was heading past Little Point; once round it he would find himself in less friendly waters. He eased the control bar, raising it slightly to slow himself down, then pulled on the two front lines, tilting it to the left.

The moment he rounded the headland, he felt the difference. The waves were suddenly much larger. The view ahead was obstructed by solid blue walls that rose up with alarming speed and threatened to come crashing down on him. Somehow he managed to climb them, one after another. But his arms, taking most of the strain, were already aching. And when he did catch a brief glimpse of the horizon, there was nothing on it, not even so much as a speck. Barbados was still a long way away.

Ten minutes passed. Alex was a good surfer but the experience was very different with a kite. All his concentration was fixed on the soaring black and white Flexifoil wing. If he allowed it to stray outside the wind envelope, he knew it would fall into the sea. He would come to an immediate halt and it would be almost impossible to launch the kite again. He had to stay upright. He was exhausted from lack of sleep.

Ignore it. Stay focused. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself on.

The wind was coming at him sideways now, gusting at around thirty miles an hour. The spray was lashing into him. He wondered if he was going in the right direction and risked a glance behind him. Flamingo Bay was already small and distant. He figured that so long as he kept it over his left shoulder, he must be heading more or less straight.

He looked back again, and felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. He had to fight to keep his balance. He must have travelled at least five miles, he was sure of it. But there was still no sign of Barbados and the worst had happened.

He was being pursued.

Paul must have come round and raised the alarm. Either that or someone had spotted the kite and guessed what had happened. The Princess V55 was knifing through the water, its sleek form powering towards him. It was incredibly fast, moving at almost thirty-nine knots. Forty-five miles an hour. It wouldn’t take very long to catch up with him. And there was more to come. There were two smaller boats with it. As Alex risked another glance behind him he saw them peel away from it, leaping ahead and rapidly closing the distance between the Princess and him.

They were brand-new Bella 620 DC speedboats, Finnish-made and shipped out to the Caribbean.

They were twenty feet long, squat and mean-looking with silver pulpit rails shaped like the nostrils of an angry bull. Each one was equipped with a single 150 horsepower Mercury Optimax Saltwater outboard and Alex knew that they had to be going almost twice as fast as him. They were less than a minute away.

There was nothing he could do. His hands were clamped tight round the control bar and he lowered the kite as much as he dared, desperately trying to pick up speed. Now he could hear the motors above the wind. More walls of water rose up in front of him. His legs trembled with the strain as he fought his way over the waves. The boats flew along, carving through them.

There were two men in each of them, one steering, the other holding a machine gun. They hadn’t come to capture him and take him back. They were here to kill him. Alex heard the first rattle of machine-gun fire, almost lost in the roar of the waves. He slammed the bar into his chest, steering the kite up. At the same time, he transferred his weight to the flat of the board, tensed himself and jumped. Now he was in the air, ten metres above the water. The bullets passed underneath him. The hang time seemed to stretch on for ever. He was flying, his whole body tilted backwards, the soles of his feet towards the sky. The men in the speedboats had been taken by surprise. Thrown around by the sea, they were off balance, half blinded by the spray, unable to aim at a target high above their heads. For a few seconds, Alex was safe.

But he couldn’t defy gravity for ever. Alex braced himself for the splash down, trying to ignore the two boats, which were horribly close. He landed between them, bending his knees to absorb some of the impact, lowering the kite to maintain speed. If he toppled over, he would die. But while he remained standing, the men couldn’t fire. There was too much risk that they would hit each other in the crossfire.

And then Alex saw Barbados. It was there, ahead of him, no bigger than a one-penny piece. If he could survive just a few more minutes, he would be all right.

He was being pulled along between the two boats, all three of them doing the same speed. He was so close to the men that but for the scream of the engines and the booming of the waves he would have been able to call out to them. He could sense his strength beginning to fail him. His arms were aching. All his muscles were straining. He could barely feel the board beneath his feet.

And then the boat on his left edged ahead, allowing the one on his right a clear line of fire. Alex saw the guard raise his machine gun, preparing to shoot. He was a sitting duck skimming across the water, totally unprotected, just a couple of metres away from the man who was about to mow him down.

Alex did the only thing he could. Once again he took to the air, but this time he didn’t jump as high. The man with the gun might think he’d miscalculated. But Alex knew exactly what he was doing. Everything depended on surprise.

As he took off, he let go of the bar with one hand and reached down. There was a handle in the middle of the board and he grabbed hold of it. He was hanging in the air and the board fell away, coming free of his feet. Holding it tightly, Alex swung it beneath him like a club. The board slammed into the man’s head.

Alex knew that it was made of Kevlar, the same material that the SAS used for their body armour. For the man with the machine gun, it was like being hit with a slab of metal. He crumpled. But his finger was still on the trigger. Alex saw the muzzle flash. Bullets tore into the deck of the boat, shattered the windscreen and hit the driver. He jerked and fell forward. The boat went out of control.

Alex slid the board back under him, and managed to get his feet into the straps a second before he hit the water.

The Bella 620 DC had an unconscious passenger and a dead driver slumped over the wheel. It performed a fantastic S-bend, veering first to the right, then back to the left, crossed the open expanse of water and smashed at full speed into the other boat. Alex watched as the two craft collided. There was an explosion of splintering metal and fibreglass, and the second boat was flipped into the air. For a brief moment, it seemed to hang there, and Alex glimpsed the face of the terrified driver, upside down, as he gazed at his own death. Then it pancaked down and there was a huge splash.

It was over. Alex allowed the kite to drag him out of danger. He was suddenly alone.

But not for long. The Princess had been hanging back, waiting for the two speedboats to finish their work.

Now it surged forward. As well as the driver, it was carrying three guards armed with machine guns. The men had seen what had happened; they would be more careful. All they had to do was move into range and they would be able to cut him down.

Alex didn’t have the strength for another jump. Barbados was looming up in front of him but, as if taunting him, the wind had died down. He could feel himself losing speed. He brought the kite as low as he dared but it made no difference. There was nothing more he could do.

He braced himself, waiting for the chatter of the guns and the searing agony that would follow.

There was another explosion. A blast of smoke and burning petrol. Alex toppled sideways, deafened. He wondered for the briefest of moments if he had been hit. Then he plunged into the water as fragments of broken, blackened fibreglass ricocheted all around him like a swarm of bees. His hands no longer had the strength to hang onto the control bar. He was sucked beneath the surface, twisting round and round, broken, finished.

He surfaced.

The Princess was on fire. There was no sign of the driver, no sign of the three armed men. The boat swerved, trailing black smoke, and began to slow down.

Alex was choking. He coughed up water and twisted round. Another boat had appeared, some sort of naval vessel. There was a man standing in the bow, holding a bazooka. Alex recognized the blond hair and chiselled features of Ed Shulsky, the CIA agent he had met in New York.

“Alex!” Shulsky called out. “You want a ride?”

Alex was too weak to respond. His shoulders and face had been burnt by the sun but he was shivering. The boat drew up alongside him and he was pulled on board. There were a dozen men on the deck, all young and tough-looking. Someone produced a large towel and wrapped it around him.

“We were watching the island,” Shulsky told him. “We saw you coming, although we didn’t know it was you at first. To be honest, we couldn’t believe what we were seeing. I still don’t believe it! So we came over to help…”

It was all the explanation Alex needed. “Drevin has Tamara Knight,” he said. “She’s a prisoner. And there’s something you need to know—”

Just then, it happened.

A blinding light so bright that it seemed to blot out the sun, sucking the blue out of the sea and the sky, turning the whole world white. A noise like an explosion, only ten times louder and more sustained. A shock wave that shivered across the water, sending new waves punching into the side of the boat. The very air seemed to vibrate and Alex felt a bolt of pain in both ears.

He turned in time to see a silver pencil blasting into the sky, flame scorching out of its base, rising as if on a cushion of smoke. It was ten miles away, tiny, but even so Alex could sense its awesome power and majesty.

He watched as it disappeared, effortlessly penetrating the upper atmosphere.

He was too late. Gabriel 7 had been launched.

The bomb that was going to bring Ark Angel crashing down onto Washington was on its way.

THE RED BUTTON

« ^ »

t sometimes seemed to Alex that the whole universe was against him. Getting away from Flamingo Bay had almost killed him. It had been an exhausting struggle against time, the elements and Drevin’s firepower.

And now he was going back.

It was the CIA agent, Ed Shulsky, who had made it happen.

“Alex, you know the place. I need you to tell me where they’re holding Tamara. You can give me the layout of the island. Anyway, we don’t have much time. You saw for yourself. The rocket is on its way, and if what you’ve told me is true…”

“It is.” Alex felt a spurt of annoyance. Why should the American doubt, even for a moment, what he had said? Was it perhaps because he was only fourteen?

Shulsky noticed his reaction. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. But this plan of his, Ark Angel …

Washington…” He shook his head. “It’s beyond anything we could have imagined. And that’s why we have to take him out. Right now. We don’t have time to drop you off.”

“But you’re too late,” Alex argued. “Gabriel 7 has gone. What are you going to do? Shoot it down?” Shulsky smiled. “There’s no need for that. All we have to do is find the red button.” Alex looked puzzled.

“The self-destruct! If something went wrong with the launch, Drevin would have had to have a fallback.

We’ll be able to blow it up before it gets anywhere near Ark Angel.” Alex was standing at the bow of the armour-plated Mark V Special Operations Craft, the sleek, streamlined vessel used primarily to carry SEAL combat swimmers into operations. It was equipped with 7.62mm Gatling guns and Stinger missiles and the dozen men had been drafted in from the Special Operations Force, fully armed and ready to invade the island.

He was wearing combat clothes that were a little too big for him; someone had found a spare set on board.

Now he watched as the island drew closer, the familiar landmarks coming into focus. The strange thing was, deep inside, he knew that he would have wanted to come back, even if Shulsky hadn’t made any argument pointless. Tamara Knight was waiting for him. And then there was Paul Drevin. Alex wanted a chance to explain himself. He still felt bad about what he’d done.

“Two minutes!” Shulsky called out.

The men began to check their weapons and body armour. They were heading for the old wooden jetty near the house. Shulsky intended to approach the control centre through the rainforest. It would mean a forced march along the length of the island and would take longer, but after Alex had described the launch area, Shulsky had decided a frontal attack would be too risky. There was no shelter; they would be cut down the moment they left the boat.

Shulsky rejoined Alex at the bow. “I want you to stay on board until the fighting’s over,” he announced.

“What do you mean?” Alex protested. “I thought you wanted me to help.”

“You have helped. Thanks to you, we know where we’re going and what we’re going to do. But this is going to be a war, Alex. And I can’t afford to have my men worrying about you. Stay on the boat and stay out of sight.”

It was too late to argue. They had reached the jetty, and Alex had to admit that Shulsky was right about one thing. This side of the island was deserted. If Drevin had seen them coming, he had concentrated his forces around the launch site; nobody so much as blinked as the boat drew up at the jetty. Alex watched the thirteen Americans disembark. They stomped across the beach and disappeared through the palm trees.

He still wished he had gone with them. He had told them where to find Tamara but he would have liked to be the one to release her himself.

He was left behind. Forgotten. He could see Drevin’s house in the distance, the sunlight sparkling off the windows. Someone had dumped some waterskis and two tow ropes on the sand, but otherwise the beach was empty. The Cessna 195 was bobbing in the shallows but there was no sign of the pilot.

The Cessna.

It hadn’t been there when Alex had set off with the kite. He felt a sense of misgiving. If Drevin knew that the Americans were on their way, his first thought would be to save his own skin. Shulsky and his men had rushed off without stopping to think. They should have disabled the seaplane first.

Alex looked around, searching for a weapon or anything he could use to do the job himself. But the Americans had taken everything and he had no doubt that the Gatling guns would be locked in their mounting positions. What else? Nothing. Just the two canoes sitting peacefully beside the jetty, the waterskiing equipment, and a pelican watching him from a distant wooden post.

The silence was broken by a rattle of machine-gun fire and the pelican took off in fright. It had begun. Alex listened as the shooting intensified. There was an explosion and a column of flame rose up briefly above the trees. A movement caught his eye. A buggy was racing along the track. Alex glimpsed it between the palm trees. Then it broke out into the open and he froze. The buggy was being driven by Nikolei Drevin.

He was alone.

Alex assumed Drevin would make for the seaplane, but he continued to the house. Maybe there was a safe there. Maybe he needed to pick up a few last things. Or perhaps he’d come back for Paul. Alex tried to work out what to do. He wished more than ever that Shulsky had taken him with him—or at least left one of his men behind.

Five minutes later, he approached the house.

Alex knew he was making a mistake, but he had to see for himself what Drevin was doing. Anyway, it was against his nature to sit there, skulking away in an American boat while the fighting continued all around him. He could smell burning. Black smoke was drifting across the forest. There was more gunfire. Alex hurried across the hot sand, knowing that he had arrived at the endgame. The last moves were about to be played.

He reached the side of the building and pressed himself against the wall, keeping out of sight. The terrace where he had eaten breakfast with Drevin and Paul was directly above him. A wooden staircase curved up from the beach and Alex was just considering whether he could risk climbing it to look in through the window, when Drevin appeared round the side of the house, an attaché case in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other.

He saw Alex and stopped. “Alex Rider!” he exclaimed. His eyes were curiously empty. In the last few hours he seemed to have shrunk. “Why did you come back?”

Alex shrugged. “I forgot to say thanks for having me.”

“I am glad to see you one last time. I wonder what it was that brought you and me together. Was it fate?

Was it destiny?”

“I think it was Alan Blunt.”

“MI6? Well, they’ve failed. Gabriel 7 will reach Ark Angel; it can’t be stopped. The bomb will explode and Washington will be destroyed, along with all the evidence against me.”

“They don’t need any evidence against you now,” Alex said. “They all know you’re mad.”

“Yes. It will be necessary for me to disappear. But it will be easy. A man with my wealth, with my contacts…”

“The world’s too small for someone like you to hide.”

“We’ll see.” Drevin raised the gun. “But one thing is certain. We won’t meet again.” He fired.

Alex had been ready for it. He dived down onto the sand. He felt the first hail of bullets pass centimetres over his head—and knew there was no way he could avoid the second.

Drevin groaned.

It was the most terrible sound Alex had ever heard, an animal cry that seemed to come from the very depths of the man’s soul. He looked up, brushing sand out of his eyes. He saw Drevin standing there, quite limp, his eyes staring. Then he looked behind him.

Paul Drevin had come out of the house. He must have heard them talking, and walked round the side of the building just as Drevin had fired. Alex had dived out of the way but Paul hadn’t been so lucky. He had taken the full impact of the bullets, and he was lying on his back, arms and legs spread wide, blood soaking into the sand.

“You…!” Drevin screamed the single word. Then he began to babble. Not in English but Russian. His face was white, twisted in pain and hatred. Tears were seeping out of the corners of his eyes. He pointed the gun at Alex once more. But this time Alex was ready for him.

Before Drevin could pull the trigger, Alex began to roll, spinning over and over, propelling himself towards the house. Bullets kicked up the sand, then slammed into the nearest wall. But Drevin had been caught by surprise. Still rolling, Alex disappeared into the crawl space underneath the house. It was cold and damp here. There might be spiders or scorpions nestling in the foundations. But he was in the dark, out of the range of the bullets. For a moment, he was safe.

Drevin hardly seemed to notice. He fired at the house until the gun clicked uselessly in his hands. It took him a while to realize that he had run out of bullets. Then, with a curse, he threw the gun down and staggered over to his son. Paul wasn’t moving. In the distance, he heard shouting. A buggy was approaching through the rainforest. Drevin turned and ran across the beach towards the waiting plane.

Lying on his stomach, Alex looked out through the gap between the bottom of the house and the sand. He saw Drevin reach the water’s edge and knew that he wasn’t coming back. Slowly, dreading what he was going to find, he crawled back out into the open and went over to Paul.

There was a lot of blood. Alex was certain that the boy was dead, and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness and guilt. But then, to his surprise, Paul opened his eyes. Alex knelt down beside him. Now that he was looking closely he could see that, beneath the blood, the damage might not be as bad as he had feared.

Paul had been shot in the shoulder and the arm but the rest of the bullets must have passed over his head.

“Alex…” he rasped.

“Don’t move,” Alex said. “I’m really sorry, Paul. This is all my fault. I should never have come here.”

“No. I was wrong…” Paul tried to speak but the effort was too much.

Alex heard the sound of the Cessna’s engine and turned round in time to see the plane moving away from the jetty. Drevin was piloting it. Alex could make out the crazed, distorted face behind the controls. At the same time, a buggy screeched to a halt in front of the house and Ed Shulsky and two men jumped out. Alex was relieved to see that Tamara was with them, still pale but looking stronger than when he had last seen her.

“Alex!” she called out, then stopped, seeing Paul.

Shulsky signalled, and the two men sprinted over to the wounded boy, pulling out medical packs as they ran. “What happened here?” he asked.

“Drevin,” Alex said. “He hit Paul instead of me.”

“How bad is it?” Shulsky addressed one of the two men.

“I think he’s going to be OK,” the man replied, and Alex felt a surge of relief. “He’s lost blood, and we’re going to have to helicopter him out as soon as possible. But he’ll live.” Shulsky turned to Alex. “We’ve taken control of the island,” he told him. “Drevin’s men didn’t put up much of a fight. But we lost Drevin. Where is he?”

Alex pointed. The Cessna 195 had reached full speed and was rising smoothly out of the water. Bizarrely, impossibly, two canoes had risen up behind it, as if following it out of the sea and into the sky.

“What the—” Shulsky began.

It was the only thing Alex had been able to do in the time he’d had. Using the tow ropes from the waterskiing equipment, he’d tied the canoes to the seaplane’s floats. He had thought about securing the Cessna to the jetty, but Drevin would have spotted that. Part of him had hoped that the plane wouldn’t be able to take off, but he was disappointed. It was already high up, a bizarre sight with the two canoes dangling underneath it. Alex wondered if Drevin had even noticed. Well, whatever happened, it would make the plane easier to spot, and when it landed, with a bit of luck, the canoes might cause it to overturn.

But then Drevin made his last mistake.

Alex would never know what was in the Russian’s mind. Did he think his son was dead? Did he think Alex was to blame? It seemed he had decided to take revenge. The plane swung round and suddenly it was heading back towards them. With no warning, before there was even any sound, the sand leapt up all around them and Alex realized that Drevin was firing at them, using a machine gun mounted somewhere on the plane. The detonations came a moment later. Everyone dived for cover, the two male agents crouching over the injured boy, protecting him with their own bodies. Bullets smashed into the side of the house; wood splintered and one of the great glass windows frosted and cascaded down. The plane roared overhead and continued towards the rainforest. The canoes bumped and twisted just behind.

Drevin had missed them on the first pass but Alex knew they wouldn’t be so lucky on the second. He looked at Shulsky, wondering what the CIA agent was planning to do. They might be able to make it into the house. But what about Paul? Moving him too quickly would kill him.

The plane began to turn. The canoes dipped down. Drevin was directly over the forest. He hadn’t seen the canoes, so had no idea how low they were. There were two trees close to one another. As Alex watched—

with a shiver of horror—the canoes collided with the trunks and became stuck between them, caught sideways on.

The plane came to an abrupt halt. It was as if it had anchored itself in mid-air. There was the sound of breaking wood. The canoes had smashed—but so had the floats. In fact, the entire undercarriage of the plane had been torn away, and Drevin was left sitting on thin air, surrounded by half a plane. One moment he had been flying forward. The next he simply rotated ninety degrees and swooped vertically down towards the ground. There was a scream from what was left of the engine; the Cessna’s propeller turned uselessly. Alex saw the plane disappear into the forest. There was a crash and then, seconds later, a ball of flame. It leapt up into the sky almost as if it was trying to escape from the devastation below. Two more explosions. Then silence.

For what seemed like an eternity, Alex stared towards the crash site. A fire still raged among the trees and he wondered if it would spread across the island. But even as he watched, the flames started to flicker and die down, to be replaced by a plume of smoke that rose up in the shape of a final exclamation mark. Drevin was dead. There could be no doubt about that.

Alex felt an immense weariness. It seemed to him that everything that had happened, from the moment he had met Nikolei Drevin at the Waterfront Hotel in London, had somehow been leading to this moment. He thought back to the luxury of Neverglade, the go-kart race, the football match that had ended in murder, the flight to America. Drevin had been a monster and he’d deserved to die. Washington was no longer in any danger. Gabriel 7 and the bomb it was carrying would be blown up long before it reached Ark Angel.

But Alex couldn’t feel any sense of victory. He looked back at Paul Drevin. The two agents were busy working on him, one of them wrapping pressure bandages around his wounds while the other fed an IV

needle into his arm. Paul’s eyes were closed. Mercifully he had slipped into unconsciousness and so hadn’t seen what had just happened.

Alex turned back and watched the smoke spread through the air, and suddenly he wanted to be far away from Flamingo Bay. He wanted to be with Jack. The two of them would take a plane home.

It was finally over.

He realized that Ed Shulsky and Tamara were staring at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

The two CIA agents exchanged a look. Then Shulsky spoke. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” he said. “We wanted to have a word with Mr Drevin.”

Alex shrugged. “I don’t think he was planning to hang around for a chat.”

“You may be right,” Shulsky agreed. “But we still needed to speak to him.” He paused. “You remember that red button I was telling you about?”

Alex nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, it seems I was wrong. There isn’t one. We can’t blow up Gabriel 7. There’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

“What?” Alex’s head spun. “But you just said that you’re in control of the island. There must be something you can do.”

Tamara shook her head. “After the launch, Drevin locked down all the computer systems,” she explained.

“He was the only one with the codes. It’s not your fault, Alex. By the time we’d caught up with him it probably would’ve been too late. But right now Gabriel 7 is on its way and we can’t communicate with it.

We can’t bring it back and we can’t divert it. It’s going to dock with Ark Angel in less than three hours from now. The bomb is on a timer. It’s all going to happen exactly as Drevin planned.”

“So what are you going to do?” Alex asked.

Tamara didn’t have the heart to say it. She glanced at Shulsky.

“Alex,” he said. “I’m afraid we need your help.”

ARK ANGEL

« ^ »

o,” Alex said. “No way. Forget it. The answer is no!”

“Let’s go over this again,” Ed Shulsky suggested.

They were sitting in the control centre on the western stretch of Flamingo Bay. Alex had been driven there from Drevin’s house and it was clear that Shulsky’s men were in command. Very little damage had been done. The guardhouse and the gate had been blown up—that was the explosion Alex had heard—but it seemed that Drevin’s men had surrendered quickly. None of them had known what Drevin was really planning. They had been paid to help launch a rocket into space: Drevin had never told them what the rocket actually contained.

At least Paul Drevin was out of it. He had been flown to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Bridgetown, on Barbados. Alex was relieved to hear that he was going to be all right. He had already been given blood and the doctors were waiting for his condition to stabilize before he was flown to America. His mother was apparently on her way to see him. Alex wondered if the two of them would ever meet again. Somehow he doubted it.

Now there were just four people in the room, surrounded by computers, video screens and the blinking lights of the electronic display board. A series of blueprints had been spread out on the large conference table. They showed the overall design of Ark Angel with the different modules—a dozen of them—