Crocodile Tears (9 page)

They were lying on the bare metal, a puddle of water surrounding them. Sabina was almost hidden in her blanket. Edward Pleasure was barely conscious. Alex heard the driver get into the front, and a few seconds later, they moved off. At the same time, he realized that his senses were returning. The man had turned the heat up to full and Alex could actually feel the warm breeze against his skin.

It took them an hour to reach an Inverness hospital, and Liz Pleasure arrived two hours after that. By then, all three of them had been treated for hypothermia and shock and were tucked up in bed with hot water bottles and soup, being looked after by nurses who had agreed to work through New Year’s Eve and who, Alex decided, really were true angels. The man who had rescued them had left without even giving his name. He had told them he was a supplier—on his way to Kilmore Castle. But what had he been supplying so late into the night? Alex didn’t think it right to ask him, but even now it struck him that something didn’t quite add up. After all, the back of the van had been empty.

They were released the next morning, Edward Pleasure blaming himself for the car accident, all of them too shaken to discuss it. Between them, they had decided to cut the vacation short. The Highlands and lochs of Scotland held no attraction after what had happened. They needed the reassurance of the city.

Waiting for the plane that would take them back to London, Alex did wonder if he should tell them what he knew, what he had seen one second before the car swerved and left the road. But in the end he decided against it. He still wasn’t one hundred percent sure. He wanted to believe that he was wrong.

Just before the car had lost control, he had heard a distant cracking sound. And at the same moment, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he’d seen a tiny flash of light in the darkness, behind them and high up above. He hadn’t imagined it. It had been there. And he understood exactly what it meant.

A marksman positioned in the battlements of Kilmore Castle.

Edward Pleasure hadn’t skidded on the ice. One of his tires had been blown out and it had been done quite deliberately by someone who wanted to force them off the road. Anyone else would have thought they were imagining it, but Alex knew better. He had been a target too many times before. Someone had just tried to kill them.

But who?

Desmond McCain? Because he had lost at cards? No—that was insane. There had to be someone else. An old enemy perhaps. Alex had plenty enough of them. Or maybe it had nothing to do with him. Edward Pleasure could have been the target. Journalists, too, had plenty of people who wanted to settle scores.

He said nothing. The last time he had been with the family, in the south of France, they had been attacked. How could he possibly tell them that it had happened a second time? Sabina would never want to see him again. It was much better to persuade himself that he was wrong, that he was tired, that he had an overactive imagination. Anyway, in a few minutes they would be in the air, flying south, leaving it all behind them.

And yet, secretly, he knew that he was lying to himself. As his flight was called and he picked up his carry-on luggage, Alex gritted his teeth. Trouble never seemed to leave him alone. Well, let it follow him to London. He’d just have to be ready for it when it showed up again.

6

NINE FRAMES PER SECOND

ALEX WAS GLAD TO BE HOME.

First of all, Jack was there, waiting for him, surrounded by presents she’d brought back from America. Alex sometimes wondered what people would make of the two of them, living together the way they did. With her baggy clothes, her wild red hair, and her constant smile, Jack was more like a big sister than a housekeeper. And although she was actually his legal guardian, she never nagged or lectured him. They were really just friends and Alex knew that he couldn’t have gotten through the last twelve months without her. She knew what he was doing. She had tried to talk him out of it. But she had never stood in his way.

She’d bought him new jeans, two shirts, a Barack Obama baseball cap, and a pair of fake police sunglasses. And over their first dinner together, he had told her what had happened at Loch Arkaig . . . but with no mention of any sniper.

“I just don’t believe it, Alex!” Jack exclaimed. “You go off for a nice New Year’s Eve party and you end up sixty feet under a frozen loch. Only you could manage that.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Alex protested. “I wasn’t driving.”

“You know what I mean. How’s Edward? How’s Sabina?”

“They’re okay. They were shaken up. We all were.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you know how it happened?”

Alex hesitated. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was lie to Jack. “Nobody’s quite sure. They haven’t gotten the car out yet. It’s possible they never will. But Edward thinks one of the tires blew out. He felt something just before he lost control.”

“And what about the man who helped you?”

“He didn’t hang around. He didn’t even wait to be thanked.”

Alex wouldn’t have mentioned the accident at all, but he knew it would come out the following weekend when he and Jack went to Heathrow Airport to say good-bye to Sabina and her parents, who were finally returning home.

It was an uneasy last meeting, the five of them standing together, hemmed in by the crowds and suitcases and bright lights of Terminal Three.

“We’ll see you again in the spring,” Edward Pleasure said, reaching out and shaking Alex’s hand. “We’ve got a spare room and we can head up the coast. I’m sure you’d enjoy trekking in Yosemite, or we could stay on Big Sur.”

Sabina’s mother gave him a hug. “I know what you did,” she said quietly. “Sabina told me. Edward would still be in that car if it hadn’t been for you.” Alex said nothing. For some reason, it always embarrassed him, being thanked. “I hope you’ll come and see us. And you too, Jack. Maybe you should come over together.”

And then it was Sabina’s turn. She and Alex moved a little to one side.

“Bye, Alex.”

“Bye, Sabina.”

“I thought you were brilliant in the car. When I started to swim up to the surface, I was certain I was going to die. But I knew my dad would be all right because you’d promised you’d look after him.”

“It seems that every time your family meets me, something bad happens,” Alex said. It was true. In Cornwall, the south of France, and now in Scotland . . . sudden violence had never been far away.

“Will you come to San Francisco?”

“There’d probably be an earthquake or something.”

“I don’t mind. I still want to see you.”

Sabina glanced at her parents. They were standing with their backs to her, talking to Jack. She quickly leaned forward and kissed Alex on the cheek. Then, suddenly, the three of them were picking up their carry-on luggage and making their way through to the security checks and passport control. Sabina looked back one last time and waved. Then they were gone.

 

The next day, Alex went back to school and the Christmas holidays were forgotten in a whirl of seating assignments, schedules, textbooks, new teachers, and old friends. Brookland was a sprawling, mixed comprehensive school half a mile north of Chelsea. It had been built only about ten years ago and it prided itself on its modern architecture, with double-height windows and bright primary colors. At the same time, though, it still had an old-fashioned, friendly feel. Everyone wore uniforms . . . sober shades of blue and gray. The school even had a Latin motto:
Pergo et Perago,
which sounded like the story of two Italian cannibals but which actually meant “I try and I achieve.”

“No running in the corridor, Alex.” Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary, greeted Alex with one of her favorite phrases, even though Alex had only been walking quickly. She had stepped out of one of the classrooms, blocking his path.

“Hi, Miss Bedfordshire.”

“It’s good to see you. Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“And do you plan to stay with us for the whole term? It would certainly make a nice change.”

Alex had missed almost half the school year, and Miss Bedfordshire had always had her doubts about the series of strange illnesses that had been listed on his doctor’s notes. “I hope so,” he said.

“Maybe you should eat more fruit. You know . . . an apple a day.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

Alex hurried on his way, aware that the secretary was watching him as he went. Sometimes he wondered how much she really knew.

And then there were twenty minutes of catching up with the usual crowd. Tom Harris was late as usual and looked incredibly scruffy in a new uniform, which was one size too big for him. His parents had recently gotten separated, and he had spent the Christmas holidays with his older brother in Naples. Alex had gotten to know them both when he’d come up against Scorpia for the first time—and Tom was the only boy in the school who was aware of his involvement with MI6. There were a couple of girls with him now, and together they all piled into the sports hall for Year Group Assembly.

This began, as usual, with a hymn, which the principal, Mr. Bray, insisted on—even though every other school in the area had dropped it. There were three hundred of them packed into the hall, and they were horribly out of tune. The last chords faded away and everyone sat down to listen to an uplifting speech, which, as usual, went on too long. This term, it was all about respect. “Respect for others; respect for yourself; above all, respect for the community.” Alex noticed that Tom was listening intently, with one hand resting against the side of his head. Only he could see the white wires of an iPod trailing back down the other boy’s sleeve and could hear the faint
tish-ta-ta-tish
coming from his ear.

Then it was on to school business. Mr. Bray introduced a new class tutor and mentioned a couple of teachers who were leaving. “One last thing,” he announced. “I’m very happy to tell you that the science wing is finally opening again after the mysterious fire that did so much damage back in May.” Alex shifted uncomfortably. He had been at the very center of the fire and knew exactly what had caused it. He was glad that Tom wasn’t listening. Watching Alex squirm, and knowing as much about him as he did, his friend might have been able to put two and two together. “I hope you’ll enjoy the new facilities. I wish you all a hardwork ing and successful term.”

The assembly finished and the lessons began. For Alex that meant history followed by math and then social studies, a cheerful assortment for the first morning of the first day of classes. After lunch, the first lesson of the afternoon was biology with John Gilbert, a young teacher who had only arrived the summer before. He was curly haired with glasses and specialized in brightly colored ties. He hadn’t been teaching long enough to lose his enthusiasm, and it had been he who had given the class the project on genetic engineering that Alex had described in Scotland.

“I hope you’ve all begun to think about this very serious subject,” he began. “I’m going to want to see your written work completed by midterm. And I’ve got some good news.” He picked up a letter and showed it to the class. “At the end of last term, I wrote to the Greenfields Bio Center in Wiltshire. I’m sure you know who they are . . . they’re always in the news. Greenfields is a private organization, one of the world leaders in plant science and microbiology. They’ve been doing more than anyone else to develop new techniques in genetic engineering, and they’ve got a huge facility on the edge of Salisbury Plain. I asked if we could visit, look at their work, and maybe talk to some of their professors—and rather to my surprise, they’ve agreed. To be honest with you, I didn’t think they’d allow school visits because so much of their work is secretive. But we’ll be heading down there in a couple of weeks. I’ll need to get permission from your parents, and I’ll hand out forms at the end of the period. Don’t forget to get them signed!”

He put the letter down and went over to the blackboard.

“Now, I want to find out how you’re coming along with your projects. But first of all, I asked you to come up with some of the good things and the bad things about GM crops. Can anyone give me an example of how this science has helped society?”

GM crops.

Alex couldn’t help himself. He remembered the moment he had told Edward Pleasure about his work just as Desmond McCain had come down the stairs, and suddenly he was back at Kilmore Castle, half an hour before New Year’s. McCain had appeared alarmed about something. But what could it have been, and could it really have led to the gunshot and the near death in Loch Arkaig?

There had been no gunshot. Alex tried to force the idea out of his head. The car had blown a tire, that was all. And yet, he still remembered McCain, the gleaming, bald head, the silver cross, the strange line where the two halves of his head failed to meet.

No. This was crazy. McCain ran a charity. He had made a mistake in his life, but he had paid for it. He wasn’t a killer.

“Rider?”

Alex heard his name, realized it had been called out twice, and forced himself to focus back on the class. Just as he had feared, Mr. Gilbert had asked him something and he hadn’t even heard the question. He’d been miles away.

“I’m sorry, sir?” he said.

Mr. Gilbert sighed. “You don’t turn up to school very often, Rider. But it would be nice if you actually listened when you did. Hale?”

James Hale was another of Alex’s friends, a neat-looking boy with brown hair and blue eyes, sitting at the next desk. He glanced apologetically at Alex and then answered. “GM science can make crops grow extra vitamins,” he said. “And there was a special sort of rice that was changed so that it could grow underwater for a few days without dying.”

“Very good. It was called golden rice, and obviously it was very useful in countries with too much rainfall. Anyone else?”

Alex made sure he concentrated until the end of the lesson. The first day of the term was far too early to get into trouble. Somehow he made it to 3:45 without further incident, and then he was part of the crowd, pouring out of the school gates with his backpack over his shoulder. For once, he hadn’t brought his bike with him. Alex owned a Condor Junior Roadracer that had been built for him as a twelfth birthday present. But he’d noticed recently that it wasn’t giving him a comfortable ride. The truth was that he was growing out of it, and the seat wouldn’t adjust any more. He would be sorry to see it go. It belonged to his old life, before his uncle had died, and there was precious little of that left.