She was strangling him. The pupils were dancing in her eyes and her lips were stretched in a smile as she used her weight to press him down, her hands gripping tighter and tighter. Alex could see the chocolate smeared on her teeth. Desperately, he reached up, grabbed the needle and pulled it out. He could use it against her. But Dragana had been waiting for the move. She released his throat with one hand and lashed out. The needle was sent spinning away. Dragana giggled and began to strangle him again.
Alex couldn’t breathe. The edges of the room were going dark. He stretched out his hands, searching across the carpet for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. He could no longer see her face. She was going in and out of focus. He had perhaps seconds left. And then his fingers caught hold of something. A wire. His brain was shutting down and it took him a moment to work out what it was. The wire was connected to the bedside light. He pulled and it came crashing down. Somehow his fingers closed around the metal base. With the very last of his strength, he swung it into the side of the woman’s head. He felt metal connect with bone. There was a satisfying clunk and a flash as the bulb shattered. Dragana keeled over and lay still.
It had been very close. Alex tore the woman’s hands from him and backed away, gasping for breath. His throat felt as if it had been through a mangle. He found a plastic bottle of water on a table, tore off the top and forced himself to drink. Gradually, some of the pain subsided. He waited until he could breathe properly again. Finally, he snatched his mobile off the floor, checked it was still working and slid it into his pocket. Only then did he set to work.
Alex was desperate to search the boat. There was every chance that Jack was in the other cabin or in the crew’s quarters below. But first he had to deal with the woman who had just tried to kill him. He examined her briefly. She was lying in a heap, glass fragments in her hair, breathing heavily. Alex went over to the bed, pulled off the top sheet and, using his teeth, tore it into strips. He was worried that the guards would come. Surely they must have heard the struggle, the moment when the lamp fell to the floor. They might discover the pool of water and come down anyway. He would just have to risk it. Using the strips, he tied the woman’s hands and feet. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to wake up. Good. That gave him a bit of time
He found the poison dart and laid it gently on the bedside table. Then he searched the room. The woman had been shopping. There were new clothes and expensive-looking shopping bags everywhere. A half-eaten box of chocolates lay on a table on the other side of the bed and there were chocolate marks on the pillow. She had been reading a fashion magazine. It was resting on top of the bed next to a map of the UK. It showed the towns of Oxford, Cheltenham and Stratford-upon-Avon.
Alex heard a low groan. The woman had woken up. He snatched the dart and went over to her just as her eyes flickered open, staring at him with anger and disbelief.
“Malo kopile! Ubit c’u te!” She realized that she couldn’t move her arms or her legs and swore at him in a language that he didn’t recognize. Her face was ashen grey and there was a nasty bruise forming where she had been hit with the lamp. The nightie had bunched up around her. All in all, she reminded Alex of a potato wrapped in a pink handkerchief.
He showed her the dart. Squatting, he brought it close to her neck. “What is your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She tried to spit at him. Alex pressed the tip of the dart against her throat so that it almost pricked her skin. “Tell me your name,” he said, quietly.
She could feel the tip of the needle and her eyes widened. “Dragana Novak!” She hissed the words at him.
“Where is Jack Starbright?” Alex demanded. She didn’t seem to understand, so he repeated the question. “Where?”
Dragana was close to fainting. There was a terrible throbbing in her head. She felt the needle against her skin and shuddered with fear. Could this really have happened to her? This was just a child but there was a sort of ferocity about him that she had never seen before. “I don’t know this person,” she rasped.
“You’re lying.” Alex pushed the dart a little harder. “You’ve got a map of England on the bed. Is that where Jack is? In one of these towns?”
“No! No! I don’t know who you’re talking about. I haven’t seen him.”
I haven’t seen him. Alex knew she was telling the truth because of that last word. She didn’t know that Jack was actually a woman, so the two of them couldn’t have met. Conscious that the seconds were ticking away, that the guards might still arrive, Alex tried another approach. “Who owns this boat?” he demanded. “Is it the Grimaldi brothers? Where can I find them?”
“I’m not telling you. I tell you nothing!” She glared at him defiantly.
Alex examined the tip of the dart. “What is this dipped in?” he asked. “Is it cyanide or something? Why don’t we find out?”
“They will kill you!” Dragana grinned. “You will never get off this boat. They will find you and they will make you pay, I promise you. They are coming now!”
It was true. Alex heard someone shouting from above. Either the guards had discovered his footprints or they had heard the brief fight. One of them called out her name.
Dragana opened her mouth to reply but Alex was ready for her. He had another piece of the sheet and before she could say anything he shoved it between her lips and behind her neck, tying the ends to gag her. The grey eyes stared at him with all the hatred in the world. Alex stood up, taking one last look around the cabin. There was nothing else here, nothing to help him. He wanted the gun but he couldn’t see it. She had been carrying it when she left the bed. It must have flown out of her hand as she fell. Never mind. It might not have been loaded and he wouldn’t have been sure how to use it anyway. He heard another shout from above. There was no time left. He had to go.
He slipped out of the cabin and back down the corridor, heading the way he had come. The staircase was ahead of him. As he moved forward, lamps came on all around him throwing a soft light that reflected off the polished walls. Did the guards know he was here? Were they already looking for him?
The questions were answered almost at once. Alex reached the top of the stairs just as the two men entered the dining-room. They had taken off their sunglasses to reveal the hard, narrow eyes of trained killers. The bald man was screwing a silencer onto an automatic pistol. Alex noticed the red flame tattoo on the back of his hand. The other one took out his gun and did the same. The two of them saw Alex at the same moment as he saw them. As one, in a single movement, they raised their weapons. Alex turned and plunged back down the stairs as a fan of bullets flashed soundlessly over his shoulders, spitting and snapping into the walls.
They came after him at once, chasing round the table, but the great wooden surface provided Alex with cover. Earlier, when he was in the dining-room, he had pulled out some of the white leather chairs and now they formed a barrier, forcing the two men to continue round the other side, closer to the kitchen. It was exactly what Alex wanted. It was what he had planned.
Neither of the two men saw the length of string about six inches above the floor, stretching out from the dining-room table and disappearing through the open door and into the galley. Neither of them could have known that the end of the string was tied round a large kitchen match, which in turn was tied to a matchbox, the whole thing taped to one leg of the kitchen table. It was the simplest, the clumsiest of booby traps but it was all Alex had been able to rig together in the time he had been given. Pulling the string dragged the match across the striking surface of the matchbox, causing it to spark.
There was more. Before he had left the kitchen, Alex had turned on all the switches on the oven. It was powered by highly flammable butane gas and the rings had been hissing away as he had continued downstairs for his encounter with Dragana. That was at least ten minutes ago. By now, the kitchen was full of gas.
The single spark ignited it. The second explosion of the evening was very different from the one tha
t the two men had seen outside. It was as if the very air had caught fire. There was no loud bang, just the sound that an enormous paper bag might make when it was crumpled. At the same time, a strange, blue fireball came rushing out of the kitchen, utterly devouring them. They both screamed and reeled backwards, crashing into each other. The whole of the bald man’s head seemed to have caught fire. Dropping his gun, he slapped himself again and again, the red flame tattoo on his hand now battling against the real thing. The other man had thrown himself down. He was rolling over and over on the carpet, his clothes blazing. The bald man didn’t try to help him. For a moment he stood where he was. There were tears streaming from his eyes and red scorch marks over the bridge of his nose. With something between a snarl and a sob, he snatched up his gun and launched himself after Alex.
The automatic sprinkler system had been activated, putting out the fire, and as Alex hurtled down the stairs and along the corridor, he found himself fighting his way through a haze of falling water. He glanced back over his shoulder. It was difficult to see. The water was like a screen. Even now he wondered if he might have time to search the last cabin. No. It was out of the question. If either of the two men caught up with him, they would kill him. He had to get out of here.
He knew what he was looking for. He had glimpsed it on the way down and there it was straight ahead of him: a glass door with a staircase on the other side, leading back up onto the main deck. Alex reached for the handle and pressed. That was when he discovered that it was locked. It was the last thing he had been expecting. Because the door was glass, because it only led to a flight of steps, he had assumed it would be open. What now? He saw a fire extinguisher on one of the walls. He could use it to smash the glass. He reached out, water from the sprinklers splattering onto his head and running down his neck and shoulders.
“Arrête!”
The single word came from the end of the corridor. Alex twisted round and saw the bald man who had reached the bottom of the stairs at the other end. His face was streaked with red. Both his eyebrows seemed to be missing and his eyes were angrier than ever. Water was dripping off his chin. He had his gun and he was taking careful aim. In the distance, Alex heard police sirens. That was hardly surprising. There had been two explosions. The local police must have thought that war was breaking out.
There was no way they were going to get here in time. The bald man was going to shoot him. Alex saw that. Furious, in pain, he was going to pay him back for what he had done and then get rid of the body before the police arrived. Alex had nowhere to hide. He was trapped in a narrow corridor with the locked, glass door behind him, the other cabins on his left and right, and the bald man no more than ten paces away. At this range, even with the clouds of water still cascading down, it would be impossible to miss.
Three things happened at once.
Alex lunged for the fire extinguisher. He wasn’t just going to stand there, an easy target. He would go out fighting.
The bald man fired.
And one of the cabin doors burst open. Dragana Novak had managed to free herself. She had picked up her poison gun. She had come searching for Alex.
Screaming, her eyes bulging, she ran into the corridor just as the bullet spat its short distance towards him. She was blocking the way. Alex saw it hit her in the shoulder. She span round, the gun flying out of her hand. Outside, the first police car drew up. Alex actually heard the screech of tyres on the quayside. He had his hands round the fire extinguisher. He wrenched it off the wall and smashed it into the door, which shattered completely, the pieces falling like a curtain that has been cut in half. Dragana was still on her feet, between him and the bald man – who couldn’t risk a second shot in case he hit her again.
Alex was already on his way, bounding up the staircase three steps at a time. Two more bullets ricocheted close to his head and he knew that it wasn’t over yet. He burst out onto the deck, which was now flashing blue-white in the reflected light of a police car. He saw it, parked on the quay. Two uniformed officers were making their way up the ramp. A second police car was tearing through the darkness towards the boat.
He didn’t wait to be seen. If he fell into the hands of the French police, it would all be over for him. Mrs Jones would find out that he hadn’t left and he would be on the next flight out … probably in handcuffs. Without breaking pace, he dived over the edge, his arms outstretched, breaking cleanly through the surface of the water and disappearing into the night-black depths below. He had taken a deep breath as he went and he swam as far as he could – at least ten strokes – before he came up for air. Fortunately, his dive had been almost silent. Nobody had heard or seen him. Looking back, treading water, he saw at least a dozen policemen swarming onto the deck of the superyacht. There were people shouting. Crowds were pouring out of the restaurants to see what was going on.
There was no point staying here. The water was cold and covered with a thin sheen of oil. Alex realized that he would have to buy fresh clothes as soon as the shops opened in the morning. He turned round and began to swim away. As he went, he summed up the evening. On the face of it, he couldn’t say it had been a great success.
He had lost his computer and he hadn’t found Jack. He had also left a calling card, which would warn the enemy that he was close to them. From now on, they would take extra precautions. Nor did he know where the Grimaldis were hiding. He couldn’t even be sure they were in Saint-Tropez.
But in a way, none of that mattered.
He knew what he was going to do next.
TWO RED ROSES
The Villa Siciliana was in the hills above Saint-Tropez, about five miles from the sea. It was a very private place, surrounded by pine trees and cedars and enclosed by a high stone wall. An electronic gate opened onto a drive that swept past a guardhouse with CCTV cameras mounted on either side so that nobody could enter or leave without being seen. During the day, armed guards patrolled the grounds. At night, infrared beams swept through the undergrowth searching for intruders. It was a lot of security for what was, after all, nothing more than a second home – but then the South of France is full of people who demand privacy at any cost.
The house itself was very beautiful; pink and white with old wooden shutters and ivy growing up the walls. A living room ran the entire length of the ground floor but all the windows folded back so that the interior could actually spill out into the garden. A dining-room table with seating for at least twenty people had been placed outside beneath a stone balcony that provided shade from the sun. A series of lawns rolled gently down the hillside with several terraces, an outdoor bar, a tennis court, a helicopter pad and, of course, a king-sized swimming pool surrounded by sunloungers. There were flowers everywhere – lavender, sunflowers and late-summer roses – filling the air with their scent.
The owners of the house were sitting at a table by the pool, eating the breakfast that had been brought to them by a servant, formally dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. Both of them had exactly the same: a soft-boiled egg, a croissant, a plate of melon and yoghurt, a cup of strong black coffee. They were identically dressed in white linen trousers and polo shirts. They were facing each other and, at a glance, it would have been easy enough to imagine that there was only one man there; that the other was his reflection. One was left-handed and the other right-handed and they often moved at the same time, which only added to the illusion.
Giovanni and Eduardo Grimaldi were twin brothers. They were exactly fifty years old. They had been born five seconds apart and often said that they had never been separated for any longer. Even as babies, they had been incredibly close. They had shared a pram. Otherwise they screamed. They’d eaten at the same time or not at all. They’d slept in the same cot and always fallen asleep and woken up at the same moment. Only once – when they were six years old – had a nanny tried to separate them as a punishment for making too much noise. Nobody was quite sure what happened, but that same day the nanny fell out of a third-floor window. The two
little boys were seen walking past her body, hand in hand. Both of them were smiling.
It was no surprise that violent death was part of their childhood. Their father was Carlo Grimaldi, one of the most notorious Mafia bosses in North America and the founder of a family that briefly controlled all the illegal gambling, the loan sharks, the drugs and the protection rackets in Detroit. For ten years, Carlo was number three on the FBI’s most-wanted list. His own parents were numbers one and two. But he had so many judges, policemen and politicians working for him that nobody could arrest him. He wasn’t just above the law. In Detroit, he was the law.
Despite their names, the twins were actually American. They had been born in Detroit and grew up in a huge house in Palmer Woods, one of the richest parts of the city. The house was a mansion built in an English style with black timber beams and no fewer than twelve chimneys. Every day they were driven to school by an armed chauffeur and they sat next to each other in every lesson. They never did any work. They understood very little. But their teachers were too nervous to give them a bad report. In fact, they came equal first in every subject. Even so, they left school as soon as they could and didn’t bother with college.
They were far more interested in their father’s business. Even as teenagers, they loved the idea of becoming gangsters and had actually helped their father on occasion – for example, carrying drugs inside their teddy bears on international flights.
Carlo Grimaldi had recognized his sons’ unique talents and when they were sixteen, he promoted them both to capos – short for caporegime, a senior commander in a Mafia family. Before they were old enough to get married, both boys were carrying guns – and had used them. Each one of them owned a solid-silver 9mm semi-automatic pistol with ivory hand-grips, made specially for them by the Italian firm, Beretta. They liked to have their initials engraved on the bullets they used. They said it made death more personal.