Evil Star

DANGER AREA

In the end, it all seemed too easy.

Matt didn’t want any part of it. He would have liked to forget the Nexus, the Old Ones, William Morton, the diary, the second gate and all the other weird things that had somehow closed in on him and taken over his life. Certainly he had no great desire to visit Peru. And yet, here he was at midday, sitting on a British Airways jumbo jet on the runway at Heathrow Airport, on his way to Lima via Miami. Once again, he got the feeling that he hadn’t chosen to be here. It had just happened.

After the death of the bookseller at St Meredith’s church, there had been another meeting of the Nexus – and that was when they had put it to him.

“Matt, we want to send you to Peru.” This time, Miss Ashwood had done most of the talking. Maybe they felt she knew him best. “We’ve lost the diary. It wasn’t your fault but it’s a catastrophe. It means that whoever was bidding for it in South America probably has it, or will have it soon. The diary will show them how to find the gate. Worse than that, it may show them how to open it.”

“There’s nothing Matt can do,” Richard said. “You sending him all the way across the world… what’s the point?”

“I can’t really answer that, Mr Cole. How can I explain? Imagine this was a game of chess. Losing Morton was like losing a pawn. Now, sending you to Peru, it’s as if we’re advancing a knight. In the end, it may be too late. It may not help. But at least it shows we’re still on the attack.”

“The boy and the gate are linked,” Nathalie Johnson said. Matt could see that the American woman had already made up her mind. “He’s part of it. Something is going to happen in Peru and whatever it is, he should be there.”

“Well, Peru’s a big country. Where’s he supposed to begin?”

“In the capital. Lima.”

“Why there?”

“We may have one lead,” the Assistant Commissioner explained. “William Morton had his mobile phone with him when he was killed. Fortunately for us, his killer left it behind. I’ve looked at it and it seems he made a dozen calls in the week before he died. Some of them to us, of course. But three of them were to a number in Lima.”

“We’ve traced the number to Salamanda News International,” the Frenchman said.

“What’s that?” Richard asked.

“It’s one of the biggest businesses on the whole darned continent,” Nathalie Johnson explained. “And the man who fronts it, Diego Salamanda, is one of the richest. I’ve had dealings with him in the past. I’ve never met him. I’ve heard he’s disabled in some way and he keeps himself very much to himself. He runs newspapers, TV and satellite stations, publishing houses and hotels and he does it out of an office in Lima.”

“Was he the one trying to buy the diary?”

“Perhaps,” she continued. “We can’t know for sure. But not much happens within his organization without him knowing it so it probably comes down to the same thing. If it’s Salamanda we’re up against, that’s bad news. He’s powerful. But on the other hand, maybe it’s good that we know who the enemy is. At least it tells us where to start.”

“OK.” Richard nodded. “So you send Matt to Lima. What does he do then?”

“He stays with me as my guest,” Fabian replied. “You will both be welcome in my home. I told you already that I have a house in Barranco. It is a quiet part of the city where many artists and writers live. I’m not far from the beach. You will be safe there.”

“William Morton thought he was safe. And look what happened to him!”

“We don’t know what went wrong,” Miss Ashwood admitted. “None of us knew the meeting place until the day before, and of course we didn’t tell anyone. We can only assume he must have been followed. However, I agree with you. Your safety is of paramount importance – which is why we’ve decided to take extra precautions. Nobody must even know you’ve left England.”

“What about passport control?” Richard asked.

“Exactly!” Miss Ashwood agreed.

“I’m seeing to that.” The Assistant Commissioner had taken over. “I’m going to arrange false passports for you. This man – Salamanda – may not have any agents at Heathrow Airport but he’s sure to have people on the lookout when you arrive in Lima. So you’ll both travel under assumed names. Nobody outside this room will know who you are.”

“It still sounds crazy,” Richard said. “Your plan is that you don’t have a plan. Go to Peru! End of story!”

“No,” Matt interrupted. It was almost the first time he had spoken and the thirteen adults in the room all turned to look at him. “I think Miss Ashwood is right. We can’t just walk away. Not after all that’s happened. The second gate is in Peru. It’s going to open. We have to be there.”

Three days had passed since then. Now, sitting in the plane, Matt wondered why he had been so decisive.

Maybe the twelve members of the Nexus had been right. His life was completely tangled up with the second gate and there seemed to be no escaping it. Or was there part of him that genuinely wanted to help, to fight back against an ancient enemy? Matt wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was sweating and felt sick. As the engines began to roar in the build-up to take-off, he was certain they would fall off the wings. And how could this huge machine with its six hundred passengers, suitcases, meal trolleys and all the rest of it possibly stay up in the air? Matt had only ever flown twice in his entire life and that had been short hops to Marseilles and Malaga with his parents, when he was young. This flight was going to last seventeen hours! He wasn’t afraid of what he might find in Peru, but he was certainly afraid of flying there.

Twenty minutes later, the 747 was well above cloud level, already leaving behind the west coast of England. A stewardess came up to them with a menu.

“Would you like a drink, Mr Carter?” she asked.

It took Matt a moment to realize that she was talking to them. Paul and Robert Carter. Two brothers travelling together. Those were the names on the false passports they had been given.

“I’ll have a beer, thanks,” Richard said.

“Just some water for me,” Matt added.

They were travelling in business class, close to the front of the plane. The tickets had cost thousands of pounds, but then the Nexus had been ready to pay millions for the diary; they obviously weren’t short of cash. Matt settled back in his seat. He had a personal TV with a choice of about ten films as well as a selection of computer games. Richard had also bought him a book and some magazines. But he didn’t feel like doing anything. Sitting there, suspended in the air somewhere above the Irish Sea, he felt empty, disconnected.

“So do you want to talk about it?” Richard asked.

“What?”

“The door. What you saw on the other side.”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it. William Morton chose the church because of something he’d read in the diary. He used the door as a test, to prove I was who he thought I was.”

Richard nodded. “If anyone else went through the door, they’d find themselves standing in a puddle in East London.”

“But I went somewhere else. I’m not even sure I was in England.” Matt thought for a moment. “Do you remember what it said on that news programme? The one we saw on the DVD? It said something about an Internet within the church…”

“It was one of the things in the diary.”

“Well, maybe that’s what it meant. When you sit at a computer, you can click a mouse and go where you like. You can link up with another computer anywhere in the world. Maybe it’s the same sort of thing… only for real.”

“That’s great!” Richard smiled. “So all you have to do is find another church door in Peru and maybe you can go home without having to pay for the return flight.”

The stewardess came with the drinks. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and the smell of lunch was already spreading through the cabin from the galley just behind them. Only four months ago, Matt had been living with his aunt in Ipswich, failing at school, struggling from Monday to Friday and wasting time at weekends. And now he was here. It was hard to believe.

Richard seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“I think I did, Richard.” Matt gazed out of the window. There was nothing to look at. Just the clouds in an empty sky. “Miss Ashwood knew it. Even William Morton. I’m part of this and I think I always have been. I tried to pretend otherwise and I nearly got a whole lot of people killed.” He sighed. “You don’t have to be here. But I think I do.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

“Then we’re stuck in it together.”

The flight seemed endless. Matt watched one film, then another. He read part of his book. He tried to sleep but without success. The noise of the engines was all around him and he couldn’t forget the fact that he was hanging in space with the ground far too far away. They landed at Miami and spent two hours in a characterless transit lounge while the plane refuelled. By now Matt’s inner clock was telling him that it was late in the evening – but it was still light outside. The entire day had been stretched out of shape and he felt exhausted.

They took off again and suddenly the weather turned bad. The sky was dark and a fork of lightning cracked downwards, flashing against the silver skin of the 747. They hit a patch of turbulence and Matt felt his stomach heave as the floor momentarily disappeared from beneath his feet. Inside the business section, the lights had been dimmed. A soft, yellow glow illuminated the passengers, sitting in their seats, trying to look relaxed but at the same time gripping the arm rests with all their strength. Nobody was talking. But as every buffet of wind made the plane shudder, and the tone of the engines rose and fell in the swirling air pockets, one or two of them swore softly or even muttered a silent prayer.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, Matt finally managed to fall asleep. Not that it felt that way. One moment he was next to Richard, half concentrating on yet another film and counting the minutes until they were back on the ground, the next he was somewhere else.

The island. He recognized it at once and knew it so well that he had to remind himself that he had never actually been there, only ever visited it in his dreams. There was the tower of black, broken rock. And there was the sea, as ugly as liquid tar, spreading out all around it. There was no wind, but the clouds were still racing across a darkening sky. Matt wondered what it all meant. Why was he here? Why did he so frequently return?

He looked down and saw the strange reed boat that had been making its way towards him the last time he came here. It had reached the edge of the island and sat, abandoned, on the grey sand.

“Matt!”

Someone had called his name. He turned round and saw the boy from the boat, standing on a rocky shelf just below him. The two of them were about the same age but the boy was smaller and thinner than him, wearing clothes that were little more than rags. Matt opened his mouth to answer. He knew who the boy was and why he was there. He had come to collect him, to take him to the three others who were still waiting on the mainland, just half a mile away.

But the words never came. There was a scream. Matt looked up just in time to see the swan plunging out of the sky, its neck straining forward. It came at him with all the power of a plane crash. Even as he looked, the swan drew closer, its gaping beak filling his vision as if it were about to swallow him whole.

The other boy cried out. Matt felt himself falling.

There was a bump and he opened his eyes.

Richard was sitting next to him.

They had arrived in Lima.

It seemed to Matt that Aeropuerto Jorge Chavez was only half built. After the bright lights and bustle of Heathrow, with its crowds milling between the duty-free shops as if every day was Christmas, he had arrived at a bare, cheerless space where the passengers were invited to queue up at a row of cubicles manned by border guards in black-and-white uniforms. The ceiling of the arrivals lounge was missing tiles and none of the fans were working. A few potted plants sat wilting in the sticky heat. It wasn’t so much welcome to Peru as welcome to nowhere in particular.

Matt was feeling tired and grimy as he waited in line with Richard – looking just the same – next to him. But there was something else. As he watched the passengers moving ahead of him and heard the clunk of the passport stamps as they were admitted into the country, he began to feel nervous. It was only now that he realized that he and Richard were committing a criminal offence. They were travelling with false passports. He supposed the Nexus knew what it was doing, but even so it suddenly seemed less of a good idea.

The two of them reached the front of the queue and found themselves facing a tired-looking official with suspicion etched on his face. Presumably that was his job. To be suspicious of everyone. But Matt felt his heartbeat quicken as Richard handed over their documents. He glanced away. Part of the hall was held up by scaffolding and there was a large sign hanging below: NO CRUZAR. AREA DE PELIGRO. Richard had followed his eyes.

“Don’t cross. Danger area…” he translated.

Matt nodded, wondering if the words might be prophetic.

The border guard had run both the passports through a machine and was studying a monitor. Now he looked up. “What is the purpose of your visit?” He must have asked the same question ten thousand times.

“We’re here on holiday,” Richard lied.

The stamp came down twice more. That was it. They were through and Matt was annoyed with himself for being even slightly worried in the first place.

It had been agreed that Fabian wouldn’t come to the airport himself to collect them. Again, there was always the chance that he might be recognized and followed. Instead, he would send a driver – and sure enough there was a stocky Peruvian in a white, short-sleeved shirt waiting for them after they had picked up their luggage. He was holding up a sign with their false names: Paul and Robert Carter. Two brothers on holiday. Nothing at all to do with Matt Freeman and Richard Cole who had come here to save the world.

“Buenos dias,” he said, reaching out to take the cases for them. “I am Alberto. Mr Fabian sends you his good wishes. I hope you had a good flight.”

“It was long,” Richard said.

The driver laughed. “Long flight. Yes. You have come very far. But Mr Fabian is near. I take you to him.”

He led them out of the airport, pushing through a crowd of noisy people who immediately surrounded them, shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” and trying to snatch at their luggage. Matt was feeling really tired now. It was early evening and a heavy darkness hung in the sky. The air was warm and smelled of diesel. He hoped it wouldn’t take them too long to reach their destination.

Their car was a brand-new people carrier and as the door slid shut and the driver turned on the engine, Matt felt the welcome chill of the air-conditioning. He sank back in the leather seat with Richard beside him.

“Peru,” Richard muttered.

“Yeah.” Matt didn’t know what to say.

“It’s not as Peruvian as I’d imagined. Shouldn’t there be llamas?”

“We’re in the middle of an airport, Richard.”

“Well there ought to be something.” Richard closed his eyes.

Alberto put the car into gear and they moved off.

Matt gazed out of the window. After an endless journey and all the uncomfortable hours spent in the air, it was difficult to believe that he had finally arrived. He was in South America! Not just a foreign country but a whole new continent. A different world.

They drove past some sort of naval base – the airport was close to the sea – and joined a six-lane motorway, blending in with about a thousand other vehicles rushing along on all sides. Brightly coloured buses, just big enough for twenty passengers but carrying twice as many, rumbled past. Toyota vans, also crammed with people, swerved in and out of the traffic, horns blaring. On each side of the road there was a wide strip of wasteland, rubble strewn with old tyres, oil drums and rubbish. Broken walls covered with graffiti dotted the way, along with ancient watchtowers, some of them sprouting the red-and-white Peruvian flag. To Matt it seemed as if a war had been fought here, but a very long time ago, and the people were still clearing up the mess.

Somehow, the tangle of dust, graffiti, traffic and concrete managed to tumble together into something vaguely resembling a city. As they drew closer to the edge of Lima, Matt saw a row of modern office blocks, a garage with its name – REPSOL – flashing in neon, a few shops, still open, with people lolling around outside; signs of everyday life. Green and red taxi-bikes buzzed past them, their own horns blasting out angry little tunes. Billboards carrying advertisements for computers and mobile phones sprung up, blocking the view. And then they turned off and came back once again to the sea, grey and uninviting, breaking against sand that seemed to have been mixed with cement, forming a beach that was barely more attractive than a building site.

“How far is it to Fabian’s house?” Richard asked.

The driver looked up nervously, meeting Richard’s eyes in the mirror. “We don’t go to the house,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We go to the Hotel Europa in Miraflores. Is not far. Mr Fabian meet you there.”

Richard glanced at Matt. He was puzzled by the change of plan: nobody had said anything about a hotel.

They stopped at traffic lights, where the noise was worse than ever. All around them, drivers were leaning on their horns, furious at being kept waiting. There was the crunch of buckled metal: a van colliding with the back of a car. The shrill scream of a whistle as a policeman in a dark-green uniform tried to take control. The jangle of a ghetto-blaster on the back of a motorbike. A figure stepped in front of the car. It was a boy, about his own age, dressed in filthy jeans and a T-shirt, juggling with three balls. He seemed to be enjoying himself, sending the balls spinning in a circle over his head. He performed for a few seconds, then bowed and held out a cupped hand, begging for money. Alberto shook his head and at once the boy was transformed, his face contorted with anger. He swore briefly and spat at the window. The lights changed and they moved off again. Matt was relieved. He had never been anywhere like this before. What had he got himself into?

Now they were driving down a quieter, more residential street, moving away from the sea. Matt had the feeling they were getting close to the hotel.

“What time is it?” he asked Richard.

“I don’t know.” Richard turned his wrist to look at his watch. Matt realized that he had just nodded off. Both of them were half asleep, half awake, caught somewhere between the two. “My watch is still on English time. But right now it’s…”

He never finished the sentence.

The car stopped abruptly. Both Matt and Richard were thrown forward. The driver rapped out something guttural in Spanish. Matt saw what had happened. A blue van had driven at speed out of a side street, blocking the way ahead. At first, he thought it was just an accident, but then he saw the doors of the van open. Four men piled out and began to run towards them and at that moment he knew there was nothing accidental about it. They had driven into some sort of trap. These people had been waiting for them.

Alberto knew it too. With a sense of unreality, Matt saw him reach into the glove compartment and bring out a gun. Fabian must have been afraid of it from the start. He must have suspected that they might be attacked on the way into the city. Maybe that was why he had changed their destination. And why else would he have ensured that his driver was armed?

He wasn’t the only one. Two of the men coming at them from the van were carrying handguns. Everything was happening so quickly that Matt only glimpsed their faces – dark and determined, with long black hair. They were wearing jeans and open-necked shirts, the sleeves rolled up. Then somebody fired a shot and the front windscreen became a frosted maze of cracks with a single hole, a deadly eye, at the centre. Alberto cried out. He had been hit in the shoulder. His blood splattered against the back of his seat. But now he brought his own gun round and fired three times. The front window collapsed, the glass cascading onto the bonnet. The men from the van hesitated, then took cover.

And that was when Richard acted. Grabbing hold of Matt with one hand, he threw open the door with the other. He was in the right-hand side of the car, the side furthest from the van.

“Move!” he shouted.

“No, senor!” Alberto twisted round in the front.

Richard ignored him. Dragging Matt with him, he slid out of the car and into the street. Matt didn’t resist. His head was spinning. He didn’t know what was happening. But he agreed with Richard. He would feel safer in the open air.

Two more shots. From the corner of his eye, Matt saw Alberto heave himself clumsily out of the car and run off into the evening gloom, one hand clutching his wounded shoulder. He was abandoning them! They were in a street with houses on either side, but nobody had come out to see what was happening. Nobody wanted to help.

“Run!” Richard shouted. “Just keep moving! Don’t stop for anything!”

Matt didn’t need telling twice. He stumbled away from the car and began to run back up the street, heading in the direction from which they’d come. It was dark now. Streetlamps threw an ugly, artificial light over them, turning everything yellow. And it had become even hotter. Matt could feel the sweat trickling underneath his clothes.

The men were coming after them. Who were they? Who had sent them? Matt didn’t dare look round but he could hear their trainers hitting the tarmac, knew they were getting closer.

Richard cried out.

Matt stopped and turned. Two of the men had grabbed hold of the journalist. Matt saw one of them quite clearly. A round, almost feminine face. Unshaven. A small scar next to one eye. He was holding Richard around the neck. The two other men were coming up fast behind.

Richard was struggling and somehow, for just a brief moment, he managed to break free. “Keep going, Matt!” he shouted. “Move!”

He lashed out with a foot, kicking one of the men in the stomach. The man groaned and collapsed. But the second man, the one with the scar, had grabbed Richard again. Matt watched as the others reached them, making it three against one. There was no way to save Richard. Matt twisted round and began to run. He heard one of the attackers calling out to him and although he couldn’t be certain, he thought he heard them using his name. His real name. So they knew who he was! The trap must have been set up long before they arrived.

Matt turned a corner and sprinted down an alleyway. At the end, he turned again, came to a main road and crossed it, weaving recklessly between the traffic. Someone yelled at him. A bus shot past, punching at him with a fist of warm air. He came to a patch of wasteland and ran across it. A dog, dirty and half starved, barked at him. A few local women watched with idle curiosity.

At last he stopped, his breath rasping in his throat. He was covered in sweat. His shirt seemed to have glued itself to him. And he was weary with jet lag. He could feel it, sitting on his shoulders, trying to hammer him into the ground. But at least he was alone. He looked back across the wasteland at the main road and the traffic in the distance. Nobody was coming after him. He had escaped.

It was only then that the enormity of his situation struck him. He was in a strange country, with no money and no luggage. The driver who had been sent to collect him had run off, saving his own skin, and his only friend had been kidnapped by an unknown enemy. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know how to get to where he was supposed to be. It was night. And he was on his own.