Evil Star

by Anthony Horowitz

  It had been agreed that Fabian wouldn’t come to the airport himself to collect them. Again, there was always the chance that he might be recognized and followed. Instead, he would send a driver – and sure enough there was a stocky Peruvian in a white, short-sleeved shirt waiting for them after they had picked up their luggage. He was holding up a sign with their false names: Paul and Robert Carter. Two brothers on holiday. Nothing at all to do with Matt Freeman and Richard Cole who had come here to save the world.

  “Buenos dias,” he said, reaching out to take the cases for them. “I am Alberto. Mr Fabian sends you his good wishes. I hope you had a good flight.”

  “It was long,” Richard said.

  The driver laughed. “Long flight. Yes. You have come very far. But Mr Fabian is near. I take you to him.”

  He led them out of the airport, pushing through a crowd of noisy people who immediately surrounded them, shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” and trying to snatch at their luggage. Matt was feeling really tired now. It was early evening and a heavy darkness hung in the sky. The air was warm and smelled of diesel. He hoped it wouldn’t take them too long to reach their destination.

  Their car was a brand-new people carrier and as the door slid shut and the driver turned on the engine, Matt felt the welcome chill of the air-conditioning. He sank back in the leather seat with Richard beside him.

  “Peru,” Richard muttered.

  “Yeah.” Matt didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s not as Peruvian as I’d imagined. Shouldn’t there be llamas?”

  “We’re in the middle of an airport, Richard.”

  “Well there ought to be something.” Richard closed his eyes.

  Alberto put the car into gear and they moved off.

  Matt gazed out of the window. After an endless journey and all the uncomfortable hours spent in the air, it was difficult to believe that he had finally arrived. He was in South America! Not just a foreign country but a whole new continent. A different world.

  They drove past some sort of naval base – the airport was close to the sea – and joined a six-lane motorway, blending in with about a thousand other vehicles rushing along on all sides. Brightly coloured buses, just big enough for twenty passengers but carrying twice as many, rumbled past. Toyota vans, also crammed with people, swerved in and out of the traffic, horns blaring. On each side of the road there was a wide strip of wasteland, rubble strewn with old tyres, oil drums and rubbish. Broken walls covered with graffiti dotted the way, along with ancient watchtowers, some of them sprouting the red-and-white Peruvian flag. To Matt it seemed as if a war had been fought here, but a very long time ago, and the people were still clearing up the mess.

  Somehow, the tangle of dust, graffiti, traffic and concrete managed to tumble together into something vaguely resembling a city. As they drew closer to the edge of Lima, Matt saw a row of modern office blocks, a garage with its name – REPSOL – flashing in neon, a few shops, still open, with people lolling around outside; signs of everyday life. Green and red taxi-bikes buzzed past them, their own horns blasting out angry little tunes. Billboards carrying advertisements for computers and mobile phones sprung up, blocking the view. And then they turned off and came back once again to the sea, grey and uninviting, breaking against sand that seemed to have been mixed with cement, forming a beach that was barely more attractive than a building site.

  “How far is it to Fabian’s house?” Richard asked.

  The driver looked up nervously, meeting Richard’s eyes in the mirror. “We don’t go to the house,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “We go to the Hotel Europa in Miraflores. Is not far. Mr Fabian meet you there.”

  Richard glanced at Matt. He was puzzled by the change of plan: nobody had said anything about a hotel.

  They stopped at traffic lights, where the noise was worse than ever. All around them, drivers were leaning on their horns, furious at being kept waiting. There was the crunch of buckled metal: a van colliding with the back of a car. The shrill scream of a whistle as a policeman in a dark-green uniform tried to take control. The jangle of a ghetto-blaster on the back of a motorbike. A figure stepped in front of the car. It was a boy, about his own age, dressed in filthy jeans and a T-shirt, juggling with three balls. He seemed to be enjoying himself, sending the balls spinning in a circle over his head. He performed for a few seconds, then bowed and held out a cupped hand, begging for money. Alberto shook his head and at once the boy was transformed, his face contorted with anger. He swore briefly and spat at the window. The lights changed and they moved off again. Matt was relieved. He had never been anywhere like this before. What had he got himself into?

  Now they were driving down a quieter, more residential street, moving away from the sea. Matt had the feeling they were getting close to the hotel.

  “What time is it?” he asked Richard.

  “I don’t know.” Richard turned his wrist to look at his watch. Matt realized that he had just nodded off. Both of them were half asleep, half awake, caught somewhere between the two. “My watch is still on English time. But right now it’s…”

  He never finished the sentence.

  The car stopped abruptly. Both Matt and Richard were thrown forward. The driver rapped out something guttural in Spanish. Matt saw what had happened. A blue van had driven at speed out of a side street, blocking the way ahead. At first, he thought it was just an accident, but then he saw the doors of the van open. Four men piled out and began to run towards them and at that moment he knew there was nothing accidental about it. They had driven into some sort of trap. These people had been waiting for them.

  Alberto knew it too. With a sense of unreality, Matt saw him reach into the glove compartment and bring out a gun. Fabian must have been afraid of it from the start. He must have suspected that they might be attacked on the way into the city. Maybe that was why he had changed their destination. And why else would he have ensured that his driver was armed?

  He wasn’t the only one. Two of the men coming at them from the van were carrying handguns. Everything was happening so quickly that Matt only glimpsed their faces – dark and determined, with long black hair. They were wearing jeans and open-necked shirts, the sleeves rolled up. Then somebody fired a shot and the front windscreen became a frosted maze of cracks with a single hole, a deadly eye, at the centre. Alberto cried out. He had been hit in the shoulder. His blood splattered against the back of his seat. But now he brought his own gun round and fired three times. The front window collapsed, the glass cascading onto the bonnet. The men from the van hesitated, then took cover.

  And that was when Richard acted. Grabbing hold of Matt with one hand, he threw open the door with the other. He was in the right-hand side of the car, the side furthest from the van.

  “Move!” he shouted.

  “No, señor!” Alberto twisted round in the front.

  Richard ignored him. Dragging Matt with him, he slid out of the car and into the street. Matt didn’t resist. His head was spinning. He didn’t know what was happening. But he agreed with Richard. He would feel safer in the open air.

  Two more shots. From the corner of his eye, Matt saw Alberto heave himself clumsily out of the car and run off into the evening gloom, one hand clutching his wounded shoulder. He was abandoning them! They were in a street with houses on either side, but nobody had come out to see what was happening. Nobody wanted to help.

  “Run!” Richard shouted. “Just keep moving! Don’t stop for anything!”

  Matt didn’t need telling twice. He stumbled away from the car and began to run back up the street, heading in the direction from which they’d come. It was dark now. Streetlamps threw an ugly, artificial light over them, turning everything yellow. And it had become even hotter. Matt could feel the sweat trickling underneath his clothes.

  The men were coming after them. Who were they? Who had sent them? Matt didn’t dare look round but he could hear their trainers hitting the tarmac, knew they were getting clos
er.

  Richard cried out.

  Matt stopped and turned. Two of the men had grabbed hold of the journalist. Matt saw one of them quite clearly. A round, almost feminine face. Unshaven. A small scar next to one eye. He was holding Richard around the neck. The two other men were coming up fast behind.

  Richard was struggling and somehow, for just a brief moment, he managed to break free. “Keep going, Matt!” he shouted. “Move!”

  He lashed out with a foot, kicking one of the men in the stomach. The man groaned and collapsed. But the second man, the one with the scar, had grabbed Richard again. Matt watched as the others reached them, making it three against one. There was no way to save Richard. Matt twisted round and began to run. He heard one of the attackers calling out to him and although he couldn’t be certain, he thought he heard them using his name. His real name. So they knew who he was! The trap must have been set up long before they arrived.

  Matt turned a corner and sprinted down an alleyway. At the end, he turned again, came to a main road and crossed it, weaving recklessly between the traffic. Someone yelled at him. A bus shot past, punching at him with a fist of warm air. He came to a patch of wasteland and ran across it. A dog, dirty and half starved, barked at him. A few local women watched with idle curiosity.

  At last he stopped, his breath rasping in his throat. He was covered in sweat. His shirt seemed to have glued itself to him. And he was weary with jet lag. He could feel it, sitting on his shoulders, trying to hammer him into the ground. But at least he was alone. He looked back across the wasteland at the main road and the traffic in the distance. Nobody was coming after him. He had escaped.

  It was only then that the enormity of his situation struck him. He was in a strange country, with no money and no luggage. The driver who had been sent to collect him had run off, saving his own skin, and his only friend had been kidnapped by an unknown enemy. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know how to get to where he was supposed to be. It was night. And he was on his own.

  HOTEL EUROPA

  Matt hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he began to wake up again. He groaned quietly and curled up, not wanting to return to full consciousness. He wasn’t ready to face reality quite yet. He was utterly drained. His entire body felt as if it had been hollowed out. Maybe it was the jet lag. More likely it was the shock of what had happened. His arms and shoulders were aching and his mouth was dry. What had woken him? Oh yes – a hand in his jacket pocket. Just to add to his troubles, he was being robbed.

  Matt opened his eyes and saw a dark-haired boy leaning over him. At the same time, the boy’s own eyes widened in alarm. Matt cried out and pushed the boy away. The boy had been crouching on his heels. He lost his balance and fell over backwards. Matt sprang to his feet.

  “Get off me!” he shouted. “Who are you? Leave me alone!”

  The boy said nothing. Of course, it was unlikely that he spoke a word of English. Matt looked down at him and, despite everything that had happened, and all the confusion in his mind, he thought he knew him. It seemed to Matt that they had met long ago, but then he remembered – in the car, on the way from the airport. He was the boy who had been juggling at the traffic lights and who had sworn at them.

  “No hacía nada. Solo intentaba ayudarte!” the boy said.

  He was protesting his innocence, but Matt didn’t believe him. It was there in his eyes – deep brown and suspicious – in the way he held himself like a cornered animal, as if he was going to lash out at any moment. The boy was all bone. If Matt grabbed hold of his arm, he was fairly sure his thumbs and fingers would meet. He was wearing a yellow T-shirt that advertised a drink called Inca Cola, but the words had faded and the fabric had worn away into holes. His jeans were disgusting, tied with a piece of rope around the waist. He was wearing sandals made of black rubber.

  The boy stood up and brushed himself down, as if the action could remove months of accumulated dirt. Then he looked balefully at Matt.

  “No he tomada nada.” He showed his empty hands to make the point. He hadn’t taken anything.

  Matt felt in his pockets. He’d had ten pounds when he came from England and fortunately he had kept it in his trousers. It was still there. His passport was still in his jacket. That was something, anyway. The boy was looking at him with injured pride, as if to say “How can you possibly mistrust me?” But Matt was sure that if he’d slept for another thirty seconds, he would have woken up with nothing.

  He looked around. He had been sitting, slumped against a low, brick wall beneath a tattered poster advertising mobile phones. The wasteland that he had crossed was in front of him, with a row of partly built houses on the other side. All the buildings looked as if they had been cut in half with a knife. Wires and metal poles sprouted out where the roofs should have been. It was still dark, the area lit by ugly arc lamps, curving out of concrete posts. But the first grey fingers of the morning light were already creeping through the sky. Matt glanced at his watch. It wasn’t there. The boy shuffled uneasily.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got the time?” he asked.

  The boy held out his hand. Matt’s watch was on his wrist.

  It was five o’clock in the morning.

  Matt didn’t even try to take the watch back. He was a little surprised that the boy hadn’t run off and abandoned him. Perhaps he was curious. A foreign tourist lost in a city. And one who was about his own age. Perhaps he could see a chance to make more money. Well, it was possible that he might come in useful – even if he was a thief. After all, he was Peruvian. He knew the city.

  It was time to think.

  Matt had to get back in contact with the Nexus … and in particular with Fabian, who must be searching for him even now. The trouble was, nobody had counted on Richard and Matt being separated. Richard had money and credit cards. He had phone numbers for reaching Fabian day or night. But he hadn’t given them to Matt.

  Apart from the ten pounds, Matt had nothing. Perhaps if he could work out how to use directory enquiries he might be able to get a number for Susan Ashwood back home in Manchester… But even that seemed complicated and somehow unlikely. How about the police? That was the obvious choice, although Matt doubted that the Peruvian boy would be too keen to show him the way to the nearest station. Perhaps he could find his way to Barranco, the suburb where Fabian lived. It couldn’t be too far from here.

  Then Matt remembered what the driver, Alberto, had said. Fabian was waiting for them at a hotel. What was its name? It took Matt a few moments to get his brain back into gear. The Hotel Europa. That was it. The Hotel Europa in Miraflores.

  The boy was still waiting for him to say something. Matt tapped himself on the chest. “Matt,” he said. There was no point in hiding behind a false name now.

  The boy nodded. “Pedro.”

  So that was what he was called. And the strange thing was that Matt knew his name before he said it. Could he have heard it when he was asleep?

  “Do you know the Hotel Europa in Miraflores?” he asked.

  Pedro looked blank.

  Matt tried again, more slowly. “Hotel Europa.” He pointed to himself. “I go.”

  “Hotel Europa?” This time Pedro got it. “Si…”

  “Can you show me the way?” Matt gestured down the street. “Do you understand?”

  Pedro understood. But he wasn’t agreeing to anything. Matt saw the doubt in his eyes. Why should he help this foreign boy?

  Matt took out the ten pounds. “If you take me there, I’ll give you this. It’s a lot of money.”

  Pedro’s eyes zeroed in on the banknote. It was what he had been looking for in the first place. He nodded a second time. “Hotel Europa,” he repeated.

  “Let’s go.”

  The two of them set off.

  It took them an hour to reach the hotel: a modern building, twelve storeys high, with a drive that swept up to the front door, where a uniformed doorman was already standing waiting to receive early-morning guests. M
iraflores was one of the most exclusive parts of Lima. The streets were quiet and ran between well-manicured lawns decorated with palm trees and fountains. There was an expensive-looking arcade boasting the sorts of shops and restaurants that wouldn’t have been out of place in London. The whole suburb was perched on the end of a miniature cliff. Far below, the sea formed a giant crescent, stretching into the distance with the rest of the city barely visible, a mile away.

  Hotel Europa. Matt felt a surge of relief as he saw the name written in large, white letters above the entrance lobby. And there was something else. He hadn’t noticed them at first, but there were two police cars parked outside. He had no doubt at all that they were there because of him. Fabian would have been waiting for him and Richard to arrive. When they hadn’t, he must have raised the alarm.

  Matt started forward but Pedro reached out and grabbed hold of him.

  “Yeah. All right.” Matt took out the ten-pound note and offered it to the other boy. “Here you are. Thanks.”

  “No!” Pedro was looking scared. He pointed at the two cars and uttered the single word that was almost the same in so many different languages. “Policía!”

  “It’s OK, Pedro. I want to see them. It’s not a problem.”

  But Pedro was worried. He shook his head and seemed unwilling to let Matt go.

  Matt broke free, pocketing the note. “I’ll see you around,” he said, knowing that he never actually would.

  He walked up the drive and into the hotel. The doorman glanced briefly in his direction and then decided to let him in. He was a child and he was scruffy – but he was a European and that was all that mattered. Somewhere inside himself, Matt knew that Pedro wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near.

  The front doors opened onto a large reception area with leather sofas, antique tables, oversized potted plants and mirrors. Matt had hardly ever been inside a luxury hotel before – and never on his own. He felt uncomfortable walking into this enormous space. The Hotel Europa was a place for rich tourists and businessmen and he was neither. There were two smartly dressed women standing behind the slab of marble that served as a reception desk and they watched him with faces of frozen politeness as he walked over to them.