He picked up his glass and emptied it. “How is the goat?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The stew. The meat is goat. It was a recipe of my mother’s.”
“She must have been an unusual woman.”
Herod Sayle held out his glass and Mr Grin refilled it. Sayle was gazing at Alex curiously. “You know,” he said. “I have a strange feeling that you and I have met before.”
“I don’t think so—”
“But yes. Your face is familiar to me. Mr Grin? What do you think?”
The butler stood back with the wine. His dead, white head twisted round to look at Alex. “Eeeg Raargh!” he said.
“Yes, of course. You’re right!”
“Eeeg Raargh?” Alex asked.
“Ian Rider. The security man I mentioned. You look a lot like him. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I never met him.” Alex could feel the danger getting closer. “You told me he left suddenly.”
“Yes. He was sent here to keep an eye on things, but if you ask me he was never any bliddy good. Spent half his time in the village. In the port, the post office, the library. When he wasn’t snooping around here, that is. Of course, that’s something else you have in common. I understand Fräulein Vole found you today…” Sayle’s pupils crawled to the front of his eyes, trying to get closer to Alex. “You were off limits.”
“I got a bit lost.” Alex shrugged, trying to make light of it.
“Well, I hope you don’t go wandering again tonight. Security is very tight at the moment and, as you may have noticed, my men are all armed.”
“I didn’t think that was legal in Britain.”
“We have a special licence. At any rate, Alex, I would advise you to go straight to your room after dinner. And stay there. I would be inconsolable if you were accidentally shot and killed in the darkness. Although it would, of course, save me four thousand pounds.”
“Actually, I think you’ve forgotten the cheque.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow. Maybe we can have dinner together. Mr Grin will be serving up one of my grandmother’s recipes.”
“More goat?”
“Dog.”
“You obviously had a family that loved animals.”
“Only the edible ones.” Sayle smiled. “And now I must wish you goodnight.”
At one-thirty in the morning, Alex’s eyes blinked open and he was instantly awake.
He slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in his darkest clothes, then left the room. He was half-surprised that the door was unlocked and the corridors seemed to be unmonitored. But this was, after all, Sayle’s private house and any security would have been designed to stop people coming in, not leaving.
Sayle had warned him not to leave the house. But the voices behind the metal door had spoken of something arriving at two o’clock. Alex had to know what it was.
He found his way into the kitchen and tiptoed past a stretch of gleaming silver surfaces and an oversized American fridge. Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought to himself, remembering what was being served for tomorrow’s dinner. There was a side door, fortunately with the key still in the lock. Alex turned it and let himself out. As a last-minute precaution he locked the door and kept the key. Now at least he had a way back in.
It was a soft, grey night with a half-moon forming a perfect D in the sky. D for what, Alex wondered. Danger? Discovery? Or disaster? Only time would tell. He took two steps forward, then froze as a searchlight rolled past, centimetres away, directed from a tower he hadn’t even seen. At the same time he became aware of voices, and two guards walked slowly across the garden, patrolling the back of the house. They were both armed and Alex remembered what Sayle had said. An accidental shooting would save him four thousand pounds. And given the importance of the Stormbreakers, would anyone care just how accidental the shooting might have been?
He waited until the men had gone, then took the opposite direction, running along the side of the house, ducking under the windows. He reached the corner and looked round. In the distance, the airstrip was lit up and there were figures – more guards and technicians – everywhere. One man he recognized, walking past the fountain towards a waiting truck. He was tall and gangly, silhouetted against the lights, a black cut-out. But Alex would have known Mr Grin anywhere. They come in tonight. At 0200. Night visitors. And Mr Grin was on his way to meet them.
The butler had almost reached the truck and Alex knew that if he waited any longer he would be too late. Throwing caution to the wind, he left the cover of the house and ran out into the open, trying to stay low and hoping his dark clothes would keep him invisible. He was only fifty metres from the truck when Mr Grin suddenly stopped and turned round as if he had sensed there was someone there. There was nowhere for Alex to hide. He did the only thing he could, and threw himself flat on the ground, burying his face in the grass. He counted slowly to five, then looked up. Mr Grin was turning once again. A second figure had appeared … Nadia Vole. It seemed she would be driving. She muttered something as she climbed into the front. Mr Grin grunted and nodded.
By the time Mr Grin had walked round to the passenger door, Alex was once again up and running. He reached the back of the truck just as it began to move. It was similar to trucks he had seen at the SAS camp. It could have been army surplus. The back was tall and square, covered with tarpaulin. Alex clambered on to the moving tailgate and threw himself in. He was only just in time. Even as he hit the floor, a car started up behind him, flooding the back of the truck with its headlamps. If he had waited even a few seconds more, he would have been seen.
In all, a convoy of five vehicles left Sayle Enterprises. The truck Alex was in was the last but one. As well as Mr Grin and Nadia Vole, at least a dozen uniformed guards were making the journey. But to where? Alex didn’t dare look out the back, not with a car right behind him. He felt the truck slow down as they reached the main gate and then they were out on the main road, driving rapidly uphill, away from the village.
Alex felt the journey without seeing it. He was thrown across the metal floor as they sped round hairpin bends, and he only knew they had left the main road when he suddenly found himself being bounced up and down. The truck was moving more slowly. He sensed they were going downhill, following a rough track. And now he could hear something, even over the noise of the engine. Waves. They had come down to the sea.
The truck stopped. There was the opening and slamming of car doors, the scrunch of boots on rocks, low voices talking. Alex crouched down, afraid that one of the guards would throw back the tarpaulin and discover him, but the voices faded and he found himself once again alone. Cautiously, he slipped out the back. He was right. The convoy had parked on a deserted beach. Looking back, he could see a track leading down from the road which twisted up over the cliffs. Mr Grin and the others had gathered beside an old stone jetty that stretched out into the black water. He was carrying a torch. Alex saw him swing it in an arc.
Growing ever more curious, Alex crept forward and found a hiding-place behind a cluster of boulders. It seemed they were waiting for a boat. He looked at his watch. It was exactly two o’clock. He almost wanted to laugh. Give the men flintlock pistols and horses and they could have come straight out of a children’s book. Smuggling on the Cornish coast. Could that be what this was all about? Cocaine or marijuana coming in from the Continent? Why else would they be here in the middle of the night?
The question was answered a few seconds later. Alex stared, unable to believe quite what he was seeing.
A submarine. It had emerged from the sea with the speed and impossibility of a huge stage illusion. One moment there was nothing and then it was there in front of him, ploughing through the sea towards the jetty, its engine making no sound, water streaking off its silver casing and churning white behind it. The submarine had no markings, but Alex thought he recognized the shape of the diving plane slashing horizontally through the conning tower and the shark’s
tail rudder at the back. A Chinese Han Class 404 SSN? Nuclear-powered. Armed, also, with nuclear weapons.
But what was it doing here, off the coast of Cornwall? What was going on?
The tower opened and a man climbed out, stretching himself in the cold morning air. Even without the half-moon, Alex would have recognized the sleek, dancer’s body and the close-cropped hair of the man whose photograph he had seen only a few days before. It was Yassen Gregorovich. The contract killer. The man who had murdered Ian Rider. He was dressed in grey overalls. He was smiling.
Yassen Gregorovich had supposedly met Sayle in Cuba. Now here he was in Cornwall. So the two of them were working together. But why? Why would the Stormbreaker project need a man like him?
Nadia Vole walked to the end of the jetty and Yassen climbed down to join her. They spoke for a few minutes, but even assuming they were speaking in English, there was no chance of their being overheard. Meanwhile, the guards from Sayle Enterprises had formed a line stretching back almost to the point where the vehicles were parked. Yassen gave an order and, as Alex watched from behind the rocks, a large metallic silver box with a vacuum seal appeared, held by unseen hands, at the top of the submarine’s tower. Yassen himself passed it down to the first of the guards, who then passed it back up the line. About forty more boxes followed, one after another. It took almost an hour to unload the submarine. The men handled the boxes carefully. They didn’t want to break whatever was inside.
By three o’clock they were almost finished. The boxes were now being packed into the back of the truck that Alex had vacated. And that was when it happened.
One of the men standing on the jetty dropped one of the boxes. He managed to catch it again at the last minute, but even so, it banged down heavily on the stone surface. Everyone stopped. Instantly. It was as if a switch had been thrown, and Alex could almost feel the raw fear in the air.
Yassen was the first to recover. He darted forward along the jetty, moving like a cat, his feet making no sound. He reached the box and ran his hands over it, checking the seal, then nodded slowly. The metal wasn’t even dented.
With everyone else so still, Alex heard the exchange that followed.
“It’s OK. I’m sorry,” the guard said. “It’s not damaged and I won’t do that again.”
“No. You won’t,” Yassen agreed, and shot him.
The bullet spat out of his hand, red in the darkness. It hit the man in the chest, propelling him backwards in an awkward cartwheel. The man fell into the sea. For a few seconds he looked up at the moon as if trying to admire it one last time. Then the black water folded over him.
It took them another twenty minutes to load the truck. Yassen got into the front with Nadia Vole. Mr Grin went in one of the cars.
Alex had to time his return carefully. As the truck picked up speed, rumbling back up towards the road, he left the cover of the rocks, ran forward and pulled himself in. There was hardly any room, but he managed to find a hole and squeeze himself into it. He ran a hand over one of the boxes. It was about the size of a tea chest, unmarked, and cold to touch. He tried to find a way to open it, but it was locked in a way he didn’t understand.
He looked back out of the truck. The beach and the jetty were already far below them. The submarine was pulling out to sea. One moment it was there, sleek and silver, gliding through the water. Then it had sunk below the surface, disappearing as quickly as a bad dream.
DEATH IN THE LONG GRASS
Alex was woken up by an indignant Nadia Vole knocking at his door. He had overslept.
“This morning it is your last opportunity to experience the Stormbreaker,” she said.
“Right,” Alex said.
“This afternoon we begin to send the computers out to the schools. Herr Sayle has suggested that you take the afternoon for leisure. A walk perhaps into Port Tallon? There is a footpath that goes through the fields and then by the sea. You will do that, yes?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good. And now I leave you to put on some clothing. I will come back for you in … zehn minuten.”
Alex splashed cold water on his face before getting dressed. It had been four o’clock by the time he had got back to his room and he was still tired. His night expedition hadn’t been quite the success he’d hoped. He had seen so much – the submarine, the silver boxes, the death of the guard who had dared to drop one – and yet in the end he still hadn’t learned anything.
Was Yassen Gregorovich working for Herod Sayle? He had no proof that Sayle knew he was here. And what about the boxes? They could have contained packed lunches for the staff of Sayle Enterprises for all he knew. Except that you didn’t kill a man for dropping a packed lunch.
Today was 31st March. As Vole had said, the computers were on their way out. There was only one day to go until the ceremony at the Science Museum. But Alex had nothing to report and the one piece of information that he had sent – Ian Rider’s diagram – had also drawn a blank. There had been a reply waiting for him on the bottom screen of his Nintendo DS when he turned it on before going to bed.
UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE DIAGRAM OR
LETTERS/NUMBERS. POSSIBLE MAP
REFERENCE BUT UNABLE TO SOURCE
MAP. PLEASE TRANSMIT FURTHER
OBSERVATIONS.
Alex had thought of transmitting the fact that he had actually sighted Yassen Gregorovich. But he had decided against it. If Yassen was there, Mrs Jones had promised to pull him out. And suddenly Alex wanted to see this through to the end. Something was going on at Sayle Enterprises. That much was obvious. And he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t find out what it was.
Nadia Vole came back for him as promised and he spent the next three hours toying with the Stormbreaker. This time he enjoyed himself less. And this time, he noticed when he went to the door, a guard had been posted in the corridor outside. It seemed that Sayle Enterprises wasn’t taking any more chances where he was concerned.
One o’clock arrived and at last the guard released him from the room and escorted him as far as the main gate. It was a glorious afternoon, the sun shining as he walked out on to the road. He took a last look back. Mr Grin had just come out of one of the buildings and was standing some distance away, talking into a mobile phone. There was something unnerving about the sight. Why should he be making a telephone call now? And who could possibly understand a word he said?
It was only once he’d left the plant that Alex was able to relax. Away from the fences, the armed guards and the strange sense of threat that pervaded Sayle Enterprises, it was as if he was breathing fresh air for the first time in days. The Cornish countryside was beautiful, the rolling hills a lush green, dotted with wild flowers.
Alex found the footpath sign and turned off the road. He had worked out that Port Tallon was a couple of miles away, a walk of less than an hour if the route wasn’t too hilly. In fact, the path climbed upwards quite steeply almost at once, and suddenly Alex found himself perched over a clear, blue and sparkling English Channel, following a track that zigzagged precariously along the edge of a cliff. To one side of him fields stretched into the distance, their long grass bending in the breeze. To the other there was a fall of at least fifty metres to the rocks and water below. Port Tallon itself was at the very end of the cliffs, tucked in against the sea. It looked almost too quaint from here, like a model in a black and white Hollywood film.
He came to a break in the path, a second, much rougher track leading away from the sea and across the fields. His instincts would have told him to go straight ahead, but a footpath sign pointed to the right. There was something strange about the sign. Alex hesitated for a moment, wondering what it was. Then he dismissed it. He was walking in the countryside and the sun was shining. What could possibly be wrong? He followed the sign.
The path continued for about another quarter of a mile, then dipped down into a hollow. Here the grass was almost as tall as Alex, rising up all around him, a shimmering green cage. A bird suddenly
erupted in front of him, a ball of brown feathers that spun round on itself before taking flight. Something had disturbed it. And that was when Alex heard the sound – an engine getting closer. A tractor? No. It was too high-pitched and moving too fast.
Alex knew he was in danger the same way an animal does. There was no need to ask why or how. Danger was simply there. And even as the dark shape appeared, crashing through the grass, he was throwing himself to one side, knowing – too late now – what it was that had been wrong about the second footpath sign. It had been brand-new. The first sign, the one that had led him off the road, had been weather-beaten and old. Someone had deliberately led him away from the correct path and brought him here.
To the killing field.
He hit the ground and rolled into a ditch on one side. The vehicle burst through the grass, its front wheel almost touching his head. Alex caught a glimpse of a squat black thing with four fat tyres, a cross between a miniature tractor and a motorbike. It was being ridden by a hunched-up figure in grey leathers, with helmet and goggles. Then it was gone, thudding down into the grass on the other side of him and disappearing instantly, as if a curtain had been drawn.
Alex scrambled to his feet and began to run. There were two of them. He knew what they were now. He’d ridden similar things himself, on holiday, in the sand-dunes of Death Valley, Nevada. Kawasaki four by fours, powered by 400cc engines with automatic transmission. Quad bikes.
They were circling him like wasps. A drone, then a scream, and the second bike was in front of him, roaring towards him, cutting a swathe through the grass. Alex hurled himself out of its path, once again crashing into the ground, almost dislocating his shoulder. Wind and engine fumes whipped across his face.