Eagle Strike (4 page)

He actually felt the crowd catch its breath as the bull began its second attack. It was moving even faster this time, its hooves pounding on the sand. The horns were once again levelled at him. If they hit him, they would cut him in half.

At the very last moment, Alex stepped aside, repeating the movement he had made before. But this time the bull had been expecting it. Although it was advancing too fast to change direction, it flicked its head and Alex felt a searing pain along the side of his stomach. He was thrown off his feet, cartwheeling backwards and crashing down onto the sand. A roar exploded from the crowd. Alex waited for the bull to turn round and lay into him. But he had been lucky. The animal hadn’t seen him go down. It had continued its run to the other side of the arena, leaving him alone.

Alex got to his feet. He put a hand down to his stomach. The jacket had been ripped open and when he took his hand away there was bright red blood on his palm. He was winded and shaken, and the side of his body felt as if it were on fire. But the cut wasn’t too deep. In a way, Alex was disappointed. If he had been more badly hurt, they would have had to stop the fight.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement. Yassen had stood up and was walking out. Had the ten minutes passed or had the Russian decided that the entertainment was over and that there was no point staying to watch the bloody end? Alex checked around the arena. Raoul was leaving too. But Franco was staying in his seat. The man was in the front row, only about ten metres away. And he was smiling. Yassen had tricked him. Franco was going to stay there. Even if Alex did manage to escape the bull, Franco would take out his gun and finish it himself.

Weakly Alex leant down and picked up the cape. The material had got torn in the last encounter and it gave Alex a sudden idea. Everything was in its right place: the cape, the bull, the single
banderilla
, Franco.

Ignoring the pain in his side, he started to run. The audience muttered and then roared in disbelief. It was the bull’s job to attack the matador, but suddenly, in front of them, it seemed to be happening the other way round. Even the bull was taken unawares, regarding Alex as if he had forgotten the rules of the game or decided to cheat. Before it had a chance to move, Alex threw the cape. There was a short wooden handle sewn into the cloth and the weight of it carried the whole thing forward so that it landed perfectly – over the creature’s eyes. The bull tried to shake the cloth free, but one of its horns had passed through the hole. It snorted angrily and stamped at the ground. But the cape stayed in place.

Everyone was shouting now. Half the spectators had risen to their feet and the president was looking around him helplessly. Alex ran and snatched up the
banderilla
, noticing the ugly hook, stained red with the blood of the last bull. In a single movement he swung it round and threw it.

His target wasn’t the bull. Franco had started to rise out of his seat as soon as he’d realized what Alex was about to do; his hand was already scrabbling for his gun. But he was too late. Either Alex had been lucky or sheer desperation had perfected his aim. The
banderilla
turned once in the air, then buried itself in Franco’s shoulder. Franco screamed. The point wasn’t long enough to kill him, but the barbed hook kept the
banderilla
in place, making it impossible to pull out. Blood spread along the sleeve of his suit.

The whole arena was in an uproar. The crowd had never seen anything like this. Alex continued running. He saw the bull free itself from the red cape. It was already searching for him, determined to take its revenge.

Take your revenge another day, Alex thought. I have no quarrel with you.

He had reached the
barrera
and leapt up, grabbed the top and pulled himself over. Franco was too shocked and in too much pain to react; anyway, he had been surrounded by onlookers trying to help. He would never have been able to produce his gun and take aim. Everybody seemed to be on the edge of panic. The president signalled furiously and the band struck up again, but the musicians all began at different times and none of them played the same tune.

One of the men in jeans and black shirts sprinted towards Alex, shouting something in French. Alex ignored him. He hit the ground and ran.

At the very moment that Alex shot out into the night, the storm broke. The rain fell like an ocean thrown from the sky. It crashed into the town, splattered off the pavements and formed instant rivers that raced along the gutters and overwhelmed the drains. There was no thunder. Just this avalanche of water that threatened to drown the world.

Alex didn’t stop. In seconds his hair was soaked. Water ran in rivulets down his face and he could barely see. As he ran he tore off the outer parts of the matador’s costume, first the hat, then the jacket and tie, throwing each item away, leaving their memory behind.

The sea was on his left, the water black and boiling as it was hit by the rain. Alex twisted off the road and felt sand beneath his feet. He was on the beach – the same beach where he had been lying with Sabina when all this began. The sea wall and the jetty were beyond it.

He leapt onto the sea wall and climbed the heavy boulders. His shirt hung out of his trousers; it was already sodden, clinging to his chest.

Yassen’s boat had left.

Alex couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could see a vague shape disappearing into the darkness and the rain and he knew that he must have missed it by seconds. He stopped, panting. What had he been thinking of anyway? If the
Fer de Lance
had still been there, would he really have climbed aboard a second time? Of course not. He had been lucky to survive the first attempt. He had come here just in time to see it leave and he had learnt nothing.

No.

There was something.

Alex stood there for a few more moments with the rain streaming down his face, then turned and walked back into the town.

He found the phone box in a street just behind the main church. He had no money so was forced to make a reverse charge call and he wondered if it would be accepted. He dialled the operator and gave the number that he had found and memorized in Yassen’s mobile phone.

“Who is speaking?” the operator asked.

Alex hesitated. Then… “My name is Yassen Gregorovich,” he said.

There was a long silence as the connection was made. Would anyone even answer? England was an hour behind France but it was still late at night.

The rain was falling more lightly now, pattering on the glass roof of the phone box. Alex waited. Then the operator came back on.

“Your call has been accepted, monsieur. Please go ahead…”

More silence. Then a voice. It spoke just two words.

“Damian Cray.”

Alex said nothing.

The voice spoke again. “Hello? Who is this?”

Alex was shivering. Maybe it was the rain; maybe it was a reaction to everything that had happened. He couldn’t speak. He heard the man breathing at the end of the line.

Then there was a click and the phone went dead.

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCE

L
ondon greeted Alex like an old and reliable friend. Red buses, black cabs, blue-uniformed policemen and grey clouds … could he be anywhere else? Walking down the King’s Road, he felt a million miles from the Camargue – not just home, but back in the real world. The side of his stomach was still sore and he could feel the pressure of the bandage against his skin, but otherwise Yassen and the bullfight were already slipping into the distant past.

He stopped outside a bookshop which, like so many of them, advertised itself with the wafting smell of coffee. He paused for a moment, then went in.

He quickly found what he was looking for. There were three books on Damian Cray in the biography section. Two of these were hardly books at all – more glossy brochures put out by record companies to promote the man who had made them so many millions. The first was called
Damian Cray – Live!
It was stacked next to a book called
Cray-zee! The Life and Times of Damian Cray
. The same face stared out from the covers. Jet-black hair cut short like a schoolboy’s. A very round face with prominent cheeks and brilliant green eyes. A small nose, almost too exactly placed right in the middle. Thick lips and perfect white teeth.

The third book had been written quite a few years later. The face was a little older, the eyes hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, and this Damian Cray was climbing out of a white Rolls-Royce, wearing a Versace suit and tie. The title of the book showed what else had changed:
Sir Damian Cray: The Man, The Music, The Millions
. Alex glanced at the first page, but the heavy, complicated prose soon put him off. It seemed to have been written by someone who probably read the
Financial Times
for laughs.

In the end he didn’t buy any of the books. He wanted to know more about Cray, but he didn’t think these books would tell him anything he didn’t know already. And certainly not why Cray’s private telephone number had been on the mobile phone of a hired assassin.

Alex walked back through Chelsea, turning off down the pretty, white-fronted street where his uncle, Ian Rider, had lived. He now shared the house with Jack Starbright, an American girl who had once been the housekeeper but had since become his legal guardian and closest friend. She was the reason Alex had first agreed to work for MI6. He had been sent undercover to spy on Herod Sayle and his Stormbreaker computers. In return she had been given a visa which allowed her to stay in London and look after him.

She was waiting for him in the kitchen when he got in. He had agreed to be back by one and she had thrown together a quick lunch. Jack was a good cook but refused to make anything that took longer than ten minutes. She was twenty-eight years old, slim, with tangled red hair and the sort of face that couldn’t help being cheerful, even when she was in a bad mood.

“Had a good morning?” she asked as he came in.

“Yes.” Alex sat down slowly, holding his side.

Jack noticed but said nothing. “I hope you’re hungry,” she went on.

“What’s for lunch?”

“Stir-fry.”

“It smells good.”

“It’s an old Chinese recipe. At least, that’s what it said on the packet. Help yourself to some Coke and I’ll serve up.”

The food was good and Alex tried to eat, but the truth was that he had no appetite and he soon gave up. Jack said nothing as he carried his half-finished plate over to the sink, but then she suddenly turned round.

“Alex, you can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened in France.”

Alex had been about to leave the kitchen but now he returned to the table.

“It’s about time you and I talked about this,” Jack went on. “In fact, it’s time we talked about everything!” She pushed her own plate of food away and waited until Alex had sat down. “All right. So it turns out that your uncle – Ian – wasn’t a bank manager. He was a spy. Well, it would have been nice if he’d mentioned it to me, but it’s too late now because he’s gone and got himself killed, which leaves me stuck here, looking after you.” She quickly held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that. I love being here. I love London. I even love you.

“But
you’re
not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three times now you’ve taken time off from school and each time you’ve come back a bit more bashed around. I don’t even want to know what you’ve been up to, but personally I’ve been worried sick!”

“It wasn’t my choice…” Alex said.

“That’s my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world – it’s got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.”

Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina’s dad would never—”

“You can’t know that. Even if you’d called the cops, what could they have done? Remember – nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don’t think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure was writing an article about Damian Cray. Something about a secret meeting in Paris. Maybe he was buying drugs or something.”

But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew they couldn’t be true. Cray hated drugs. There had been advertising campaigns – posters and TV – using his name and face. His last album,
White Lines
, had contained four anti-drugs songs. He had made it a personal issue. “Maybe he’s into porn,” he suggested weakly.

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be hard to prove, Alex. The whole world loves Damian Cray.” Jack sighed. “Maybe you should talk to Mrs Jones.”

Alex felt his heart sink. He dreaded the thought of going back to MI6 and meeting the woman who was its deputy head of Special Operations. But he knew Jack was right. At least Mrs Jones would be able to investigate. “I suppose I could go and see her,” he said.

“Good. But just make sure she doesn’t get you involved. If Damian Cray
is
up to something, it’s her business – not yours.”

The telephone rang.

There was a cordless phone in the kitchen and Jack took the call. She listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Alex. “It’s Sabina,” she said. “For you.”

*    *    *

They met outside Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus and walked to a nearby Starbucks. Sabina was wearing grey trousers and a loose-fitting jersey. Alex had expected her to have changed in some way after all that had happened, and indeed she looked younger, less sure of herself. She was obviously tired. All traces of her South of France suntan had disappeared.

“Dad’s going to live,” she said as they sat down together with two bottles of juice. “The doctors are pretty sure about that. He’s strong and he kept himself fit. But…” Her voice trembled. “It’s going to take a long time, Alex. He’s still unconscious – and he was badly burnt.” She stopped and drank some of her juice. “The police said it was a gas leak. Can you believe that? Mum says she’s going to sue.”

“Who’s she going to sue?”

“The people who rented us the house. The gas board. The whole country. She’s furious…”

Alex said nothing. A gas leak. That was what the police had told him.

Sabina sighed. “Mum said I ought to see you. She said you’d want to know about Dad.”

“Your dad had just come down from Paris, hadn’t he?” Alex wasn’t sure this was the right time, but he had to know. “Did he say anything about the article he was writing?”

Sabina looked surprised. “No. He never talked about his work. Not to Mum. Not to anyone.”

“Where had he been?”

“He’d been staying with a friend. A photographer.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Marc Antonio. Why are you asking all these questions about my dad? Why do you want to know?”

Alex avoided the questions. “Where is he now?” he asked.

“In hospital in France. He’s not strong enough to travel. Mum’s still out there with him. I flew home on my own.”

Alex thought for a moment. This wasn’t a good idea. But he couldn’t keep silent. Not knowing what he did. “I think he should have a police guard,” he said.

“What?” Sabina stared at him. “Why? Are you saying … it wasn’t a gas leak?”

Alex didn’t answer.

Sabina looked at him carefully, then came to a decision. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions,” she said. “Now it’s my turn. I don’t know what’s really going on, but Mum told me that after it happened, you ran away from the house.”

“How did she know?”

“The police told her. They said you had this idea that someone had tried to kill Dad … and that it was someone you knew. And then you disappeared. They were searching everywhere for you.”

“I went to the police station at Saint-Pierre,” Alex said.

“But that wasn’t until midnight. You were completely soaked and you had a cut and you were dressed in weird clothes…”

Alex had been questioned for an hour when he had finally shown up at the gendarmerie. A doctor had given him three stitches and bandaged up the wound. Then a policeman had brought him a change of clothes. The questions had only stopped with the arrival of the man from the British consulate in Lyons. The man, who had been elderly and efficient, seemed to know all about Alex. He had driven Alex to Montpellier Airport to catch the first flight the next day. He had no interest in what had happened. His only desire seemed to be to get Alex out of the country.

“What were you doing?” Sabina asked. “You say Dad needs protection. Is there something you know?”

“I can’t really tell you—” Alex began.

“Stuff that!” Sabina said. “Of course you can tell me!”

“I can’t. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“If you don’t tell me, Alex, I’m going to walk out of here and you’ll never see me again. What is it that you know about my dad?”

In the end he told her. It was very simple. She hadn’t given him any choice. And in a way he was glad. The secret had been with him too long and carrying it alone, he had begun to feel it weighing him down.

He began with the death of his uncle, his introduction to MI6, his training and his first meeting with Yassen Gregorovich at the Stormbreaker computer plant in Cornwall. He described, as briefly as he could, how he had been forced, twice more, to work for MI6 – in the French Alps and off the coast of America. Then he told her what he had felt the moment he had seen Yassen on the beach at Saint-Pierre, how he had followed him to the restaurant, why in the end he had done nothing.

He thought he had skimmed over it all but in fact he talked for half an hour before arriving at his meeting with Yassen on the
Fer de Lance
. He had avoided looking directly at Sabina for much of the time as he talked, but when he reached the bullfight, describing how he had dressed up as a matador and walked out in front of a crowd of a thousand, he glanced up and met her eyes. She was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. She almost seemed to hate him.

“I told you it wasn’t easy to believe,” he concluded lamely.

“Alex…”

“I know the whole thing sounds mad. But that’s what happened. I am so sorry about your dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it from happening. But at least I know who was responsible.”

“Who?”

“Damian Cray.”

“The pop star?”

“Your dad was writing an article about him. I found a bit of it at the house. And his number was on Yassen’s mobile phone.”

“So Damian Cray wanted to kill my dad.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence. Too long, Alex thought.

At last Sabina spoke again. “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said. “I have never heard so much crap in all my life.”

“Sab, I told you—”

“I know you said I wouldn’t believe it. But just because you said that, it doesn’t make it true!” She shook her head. “How can you expect anyone to believe a story like that? Why can’t you tell me the truth?”

“It
is
the truth, Sab.”

Suddenly he knew what he had to do.

“And I can prove it.”

They took the tube across London to Liverpool Street Station and walked up the road to the building that Alex knew housed the Special Operations division of MI6. They found themselves standing in front of a tall, black-painted door, the sort that was designed to impress people coming in or leaving. Next to it, screwed into the brickwork, was a brass plaque with the words:

Sabina had seen it. She looked at Alex doubtfully.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said. “The Royal & General Bank doesn’t exist. That’s just the sign they put on the door.”

They went in. The entrance hall was cold and businesslike, with high ceilings and a brown marble floor. To one side there was a leather sofa and Alex remembered sitting there the first time he had come, waiting to go up to his uncle’s office on the fifteenth floor. He walked straight across to the glass reception desk where a young woman was sitting with a microphone curving across her mouth, taking calls and greeting visitors at the same time. There was an older security officer in uniform and peaked cap next to her.