Never Say Die by Anthony Horowitz
“What the hell are you doing here?” Alex demanded, spluttering water. “How did you find me?”
“Not now, Alex.” Ben was still holding on to him. “We’ve got a mother ship about a mile away. We need to get you on board.”
The two of them were treading water together. Alex was beginning to shiver. But still he had to know. “Did Mrs Jones send you?”
Ben smiled. “Of course she did. She told you to go back to America but she knew you wouldn’t listen to her.” He glanced ruefully at Alex as the IRC drew up. “I’m afraid she’s not going to be at all pleased.”
The IRC took them to an old fishing trawler that was anchored around the corner, a short way up the coast. It was eighteen metres in length, painted white and blue, beaten about by the years it had spent at sea. There was a main mast with a seemingly impossible tangle of rigging, a bulky wheelhouse with a funnel, half a dozen portholes and a deck strewn with nets and cables. Only the sophisticated radio masts – there were three of them – and the single satellite dish hinted that it might be more than it seemed. Alex saw its name: Liverpool Lady. He had to smile. MI6 Special Operations had offices in Liverpool Street, London and Mrs Jones was very much their lady.
Ben Daniels and the other man barely spoke during the brief journey and Alex was grateful to them. His teeth were chattering – partly because of the shock of what he had been through, partly because he was cold. A third man was waiting for them and took Alex below. The galley was filled with sophisticated equipment: computers, radar and solar monitoring systems, satellite communications and the rest of it. Liverpool Lady was a spy ship – nothing more, nothing less. He wondered what it had been doing in the South of France.
He was shown into a cabin where he was able to take a hot shower. A pair of trousers and a jersey had been left out for him. They were both too big but Alex didn’t complain. He still had a ring of steel and a padlock attached to his ankle but he struggled into the clothes. After he had got dressed there was a knock at the door and one of the men came in. He was young, fair-haired, very tanned. “I’m Pete,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Alex. Can I get rid of that for you?” He was holding a picklock – a proper one rather than a loose nail – and set to work at once.
Ten minutes later, Alex was sitting on one side of a table in the galley with a cup of hot chocolate. Ben Daniels was opposite him. He had changed out of scuba gear and wore a polo shirt and shorts. All the men on the boat were informally dressed. Ben was smiling at him but Alex could see how worried he had been. It had all been perilously close. Another few seconds and he wouldn’t have made it.
“How are you, Ben?” Alex asked. “You got shot. I heard you were in hospital.”
“That’s right.” Ben tapped his own stomach gently. “I’ve still got the souvenirs of my last outing with you. Fortunately, Winston Yu was a rotten shot.”
“Are you still with the SAS?”
“No. I’ve moved over to Special Operations now.” He paused and once again the concern was there in his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got a thousand questions, Alex, and you need to rest. So I might as well spit it all out and if there’s anything else you want to know, you can ask me then. OK?”
“Fine.”
Alex sipped his hot chocolate. It was thick and sweet. He couldn’t think of anything he would rather be drinking.
“All right. Mrs Jones saw you in Saint-Tropez yesterday. As I understand it, she gave you a ticket back to San Francisco. Of course you didn’t use it. She guessed you wouldn’t – but she checked out the plane just to be sure. She’d already told me to come down here. We keep a few boats in the Med just like this one. You never know when they’re going to be needed.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you as best I can. We know you were on Quicksilver. And I was able to track you to the hospital…”
“Have you bugged me?” Alex asked.
“There was no need.” Ben grinned. “We simply hacked into your mobile and used it against you. I’m sure you know, Alex, the software’s not that complicated. We can turn anyone’s phone into a tracking device. It’ll tell us exactly where they are. We can activate the camera and watch you. We can listen to everything you say, even across the room.”
Alex remembered Mrs Jones asking him if he had his mobile phone. He had thought it odd at the time. Make sure it’s on and keep it with you. That was what she had said. Now he understood what had been on her mind.
“We were always just a few steps behind you,” Ben went on. “We tracked you down to the Villa Siciliana and we were able to hear everything that those two creeps said when they captured you. It was lucky they told you what they were planning. As soon as we heard Needle Point get a mention, we shot round in Liverpool Lady. I slipped into my scuba gear and I was waiting for you when they threw you in.”
“I’m very grateful,” Alex said, but at the same time he wondered why they had waited so long. Why hadn’t they simply arrested Frankie Stallone and the man with the phone while they were on land?
Ben knew what he was thinking. “I decided it was better, all in all, if they thought you were dead,” he said. “And it was safer for you. If we’d started a gunfight at the villa or up at Needle Point, you might have been killed.”
“What about the Grimaldi brothers?”
“They’ve already gone.” Ben frowned. “We tipped off the French police but I’m afraid they were completely incompetent. It took them ages to get round to the villa and by the time they arrived, the birds had flown. It’s very annoying. We still don’t know exactly what they’re up to … this operation of theirs. But we’re fairly certain it’s taking place on our own turf, in England. That’s why Mrs Jones wants you back for a debrief – immediately.”
“You said she wasn’t pleased.”
“Well, she’s glad you’re still alive. But she had rather hoped you’d stay out of all this and go back to America. Speaking personally, I’m delighted we’re together again. That was quite an adventure, wasn’t it, that oil rig out in the Timor Sea. With a bit of luck, Mrs Jones will change her mind and let us go after Giovanni and Eduardo together. Another bit of Scorpia bites the dust!”
“There’s one thing I have to ask,” Alex said. “Have you heard anything about Jack Starbright?”
Ben Daniels shook his head, the smile fading from his face. “Didn’t the brothers tell you anything?”
“No. They didn’t even say if she’s dead or alive.”
“If they’ve got her, we’ll find her, Alex. They think you’re dead. They have no idea we’re on their tail. We could only hear part of the conversation at the Villa Siciliana. You’re going to have to remember the rest of it.”
There was the sound of feet coming down the steps from the main deck and the man called Pete appeared, leaning into the galley. “Where to, sir?” he asked, addressing Daniels.
“Back to Nice Airport,” Daniels replied. He rested a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “We’re heading home.”
BACK HOME
“It’s a beautiful house. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”
The estate agent spoke over her shoulder as she came down the stairs. This was the third family she’d shown round the house in Chelsea but this time she’d known at once that they were going to buy it. Mr and Mrs Bogdanov were from Moscow. They were moving to London for business reasons, they’d said, although they had been careful not to tell her what that business was. They had hardly talked at all. Mr Bogdanov was not a friendly man. In fact he seemed to go out of his way to be actively unfriendly, grim and unsmiling, looking around the house as if it were some kind of slum. His wife was a great deal younger than him, far too thin and wearing too much make-up. She was clearly nervous of her husband, gabbling in a high-pitched voice to cover his silences.
But they were cash buyers. They had made that clear from the start. Mr Bogdanov hadn’t been in the house five minutes before he had nodded and muttered the single word, “Da!” The Russian for yes.
It
Of course, the estate agent hadn’t mentioned anything about this to her clients. The house was in a quiet street, just a short walk from the famous King’s Road. It was also close to Chelsea Football Club, if you happened to be a supporter. There were three spacious bedrooms and two bathrooms. The ground floor had an open-plan kitchen and living room with double doors opening onto a pretty garden. Another staircase led down to a basement, which had been converted into a work area. Mrs Bogdanov, who worked as a designer, had taken dozens of photographs on her mobile phone. She had explained that she was going to strip the place bare. She liked very bright colours and chandeliers. This room was going to be turned into a home cinema with a full-sized snooker table going over there. The bar would go in that corner. A Jacuzzi on the roof. “Da!” Mr Bogdanov had agreed, although he hadn’t looked pleased. But then, of course, he was paying for it all.
“How quick we get our builders in?” Mrs Bogdanov asked. She had a heavy Russian accent. Her English was not good.
“Well, it will have to be a few weeks.”
“But we pay cash!”
“Even so…”
She stopped. They had reached the entrance hall and a boy was standing there, looking at them with tired, watchful eyes. His clothes looked crumpled, as if he had slept in them, and there was a backpack on the floor beside his feet. How had he got in? The estate agent was certain she had locked the front door before she had started the tour of the house. “Excuse me…” she began.
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
“I’m Corinne Turner from Fleming Estates.” The boy said nothing so she went on. “We’re selling the house.”
“I’m afraid it’s not for sale.”
“I’m sorry?” The estate agent was confused. “It’s been on the market now for quite some time…”
“You leave!” Mr Bogdanov pushed her out of the way. He jabbed a stubby finger in the direction of the intruder. “This my house. We agree sale.”
“It’s my house,” the boy replied and there was something dangerous in his voice. “And I’ve decided not to sell it. Do you mind leaving now?” He glanced apologetically at the estate agent. “I’ll call your office this afternoon. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Are you Alex?” the estate agent asked. She had seen the name on the deeds.
“That’s right.”
“We’ll leave at once.”
The strange thing was that, despite what she had been thinking a moment ago, Corinne Turner was quite glad that the boy had returned. She had taken an immediate liking to him. And even though she had just lost the sale, it also seemed to her that he belonged here in a way that Mr and Mrs Bogdanov didn’t – and never would. With a smile, she went over to the front door and opened it. The two Russians scowled but said nothing. A moment later, all three of them had gone.
Alex stood where he was. He was holding the spare key that he had taken out of its hiding place: a fake brick, which rotated if you pressed it in the right place. It felt so strange to be back in a house he had thought he would never see again. He was just glad that it had remained untouched. The estate agents had thought it would sell more easily if it looked as if someone was still living there so all the furniture was still in place; the pots and pans stacked up in the kitchen, the beds made. Even his clothes would still be hanging in the wardrobe. And yet he felt that the house hadn’t quite welcomed him back. It was unnaturally quiet, as if it was annoyed that it had been abandoned. Alex realized that it would take both of them a while to get used to each other again.
He went upstairs and into his old room. There were just a few thing missing: a couple of photographs and a football signed by the Chelsea squad, which he had taken with him to America. Maybe Edward Pleasure would send them back one day … if he stayed in London. Right now his entire future looked uncertain. Part of it depended on what MI6 had in mind. But at the end of the day, he still didn’t know if Jack Starbright was alive or not – and that was what mattered to him most.
He threw off his clothes, padded into the bathroom and took a long shower. The hot water was still on automatic timer and it felt good, standing there with the water hammering down on him, washing away some of the memories of the last few days. He got out, dried, then opened a drawer to reveal all his T-shirts neatly ironed and folded. Jack would have done that for him before she left for Egypt.
He got dressed and then, on an impulse, went into Jack’s room, which was at the far end of the corridor, overlooking the garden. Usually, he never came in here. It was her space and the two of them had an unwritten rule that they would respect each other’s privacy. The room was strangely unfamiliar to him. Jack had a double bed with a brightly-coloured duvet and a one-eyed teddy bear sprawling limply on the pillow. Everything was very neat and tidy. There were a lot of books in the room. She was always reading something. Every surface was covered with photographs. Alex looked at all the pictures in a variety of frames. There was an elderly couple, her parents, and next to them a woman with three children. This was her sister. The two of them looked similar.
Alex hadn’t spoken to any of Jack’s family after he had lost her in Siwa. Edward Pleasure had done all that for him. But looking at the photographs, he felt ashamed. He should have got in touch.
Many of the photographs were of him, starting at the age of seven and continuing all the way to just a few months ago. Here he was with Ian Rider, on a skiing holiday at Gunpoint, Colorado. He remembered it well. And here he was again, standing with Jack outside the Old Vic theatre in London. They’d gone to see a Christmas show. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable being in her room. He went out, closing the door behind him.
It had been a short journey from the South of France but he wouldn’t have been able to travel at all without the help of MI6, as he had lost his passport along with everything else. The clothes he was wearing and the new backpack he was carrying had been bought for him in Nice. Ben Daniels had flown with him – a commercial flight – but they had parted company at Heathrow Airport where two cars had been waiting to take them their separate ways. Alex had felt a mix of emotions, driving into west London along the M4, past the huge advertising hoardings and the new buildings around Hammersmith. He was back home. Part of him was excited by that. But despite everything that had happened, he still hadn’t found Jack.
The car was waiting outside. He had been given just thirty minutes to get ready before he was driven to a crisis meeting at MI6. Mrs Jones would be there. She was insisting on a full debrief. Alex was hungry but he knew there would be no food in the house. There was no point hanging around. He glanced at himself in the mirror, then let himself out again. He wondered if he could persuade the driver to stop at a McDonald’s on the way.
They met, not in Mrs Jones’s office but in a conference room on the twelfth floor. It was a very ordinary room – but then every room in the building was designed to look ordinary. It suited the secret work that was being done. There were no pictures on the walls, only a seventy-inch television screen built into the wall. A large window looked out on Liverpool Street with hundreds of people pouring in and out of the station far below. Alex knew that the glass would have been treated so that no camera or listening device could penetrate. It was probably bulletproof too.
He was sitting at the end of a long, polished table. His v
There were two other men he hadn’t met before, both of them in uniform. One had been introduced as Chief Marshal Sir Norman Clarke. He had as many titles as he had medals across his chest. He was gruff and clearly uncomfortable addressing a fifteen-year-old. The other man’s name was Chichester. He was from naval intelligence and seemed to be the more pleasant of the two.
“Let me sum up, then,” Mrs Jones was saying, finally giving Alex a chance to rest his voice. “We now know that the Super Stallion helicopter was stolen by Dragana Novak, acting on the instructions of the two brothers, Giovanni and Eduardo Grimaldi. She also murdered the American pilots. You’ve received my security briefing on Ms Novak. She was formerly a pilot with the Serbian Air Force but was court-martialled following a bar-room brawl. She is now deceased. The Grimaldi brothers are well known to us through their association with Scorpia. It’s a great shame that we were unable to pick them up in the South of France.”
“How did that happen?” Sir Norman demanded. From the tone of his voice, it could have been Mrs Jones who was to blame.
“We tipped off the French police as soon as we had the information,” Ben Daniels said. “But they were too slow. By the time they got to the Villa Siciliana, the brothers had gone.”