The light was fading fast and a fine drizzle was beginning to fall. ‘I think we should get back to the tent before we get soaked. Let’s get that campfire lit. We may as well keep warm while we think of a plan.’
By the time they had a fire going, wisps of cloud were rolling over the ridge, licking the edge of the forest. They huddled close to the fire and ate chicken curry out of tins heated over the flames. The sound of a distant chainsaw was coming from the woods below.
‘So,’ said Joel. He didn’t need to elaborate.
‘I guess we could just walk up to the gates and ask to buy some ice cream and see what happens?’ said Maggie doubtfully.
‘Or,’ said Joel, ‘we could scale the fence and break in, find Tom, get us all past the guards and get him out?’
‘Off you go, then, Johnny English!’ said Maggie, laughing. ‘I’ll stay here and watch.’
The sound of the chainsaw was closer. She poked the fire with a stick, sending a column of sparks into the black above. ‘Strange time to be chopping down trees.’
Joel suddenly looked panic-stricken. ‘Those aren’t chainsaws! They’re motorbikes. And they’re getting closer.’
They listened to the hoarse engines echoing through the trees. The drizzle had turned to a steady rain. The engines were roaring now somewhere close, bursts of sound on the fringes of the forest.
‘Shall we make a run for it?’ Maggie yelled.
It was too late. Three headlights were beaming into the rain from the edge of the wood. Maggie held an arm in front of her face to stop herself being dazzled as three dirt bikes slewed along the embankment towards them. The bikes skidded to a stop in a semicircle around them, hemming Maggie and Joel in, their backs to the tarn, so close the exhaust fumes burnt their throats.
CHAPTER 30
Rufus Clay pushed his glasses firmly on to his face and waited for Tom to speak. He’d said he had a meeting to go to. Tom had to keep the conversation going till he left.
‘Why do you want to kill the Queen anyway?’
‘Ah, motives!’ He smiled. ‘People go on about motives, as if that explains everything.’ Rufus Clay leant back in his chair with his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling. He sucked his teeth for a moment, as if trying to decide something. ‘OK, why not? It can’t do any harm, I suppose.’
Tom said nothing, but he was relieved at the change of tack and found himself wanting to know.
‘You will no doubt have assumed that we are your typical common or garden terrorists, with some kind of cause. An axe to grind against the British government, or the entire western world, or some wretched “ideology” they insist everyone should follow. Yes?’
Tom nodded.
‘Boring!’ said Rufus Clay, shaking his head. ‘Boring, tedious and dull. And stupid too, if you think about it. How can you win people round to your cause by terrorizing them? No, no. Some might call me a mercenary, but that’s a little pejorative. Really, Tom, I’m just a humble salesman. After leaving the army, I worked for a telecoms company for a while. But it was, quite frankly, unfulfilling. So I began to dabble in a bit of trading.’ He stared at Tom over his glasses, as if checking he was taking it all in.
‘Trading?’ said Tom.
‘Oh, don’t get the wrong idea – I wasn’t selling crates of AK-47s to Somali pirates, or anything so sordid. It was top-end hardware that western governments did not want to see in the hands of certain undesirables. Submarine detectors, minesweepers, stealth systems, graphite bombs, sonic weapons. Anything that promised to give people that little edge over their adversaries. But more recently, UAVs.’
He looked over the rim of his glasses again.
‘Drones, Tom. Drones. Oh, they are going to be big, you have no idea. And now we are developing tiny micro-drones that can be minutely targeted and are virtually untraceable.’
Tom glanced at his stick, which was leaning on the desk. He knew all about micro-drones, but he tried to look blank.
‘It’s a revolutionary technology that enables the kind of surgical precision we could only have dreamt of a few years ago.’
Rufus Clay was getting into his stride, like someone making a sales pitch.
‘We do a range of antipersonnel devices that can target an individual with minimal collateral damage, as well as more powerful ones that can destroy buildings and ships by actually getting inside them undetected. All for a fraction of the price of smart bombs and guided missiles, of course.’
‘And birds, because they are undetectable to radar?’ said Tom.
Rufus Clay puckered his lips with a self-satisfied look. ‘Exactly. No one sees them coming. Conventional radar, which looks for shifts of position, is not good at spotting slow-moving and low-flying objects. Birds give a further visual advantage in case they are seen. This is the future, Tom. One day, instead of cruise missiles blasting from one place to another with all that nasty expense and mess, there will be swarms of little drones with miniature warheads – chemical, biological, nuclear, take your pick! They’ll be as invisible to the enemy as a flock of sparrows. They will come out of nowhere and wreak devastation with pinpoint accuracy. Which means that the theatre of war can be almost infinitely extended – into the heart of a city, into a hospital, into a school, or even . . .’ he said, peering over his glasses again, and forcing Tom to look away, ‘on to a boat on an English lake!’
Tom looked at his hands, trying to think of how to keep the conversation going before the questions turned back on him.
‘But why the Queen?’ he said at last.
‘As I said, Tom, I am a salesman. And to sell things you have to advertise them. But how do you do that in my business?’ He broke off in a chuckle. ‘You can’t simply bung these things on eBay. But everyone needs a shop window somewhere.’
‘So it was all a demonstration?’ said Tom incredulously. He thought of the Bentley in the quarry, and what Maggie had overheard on Benson Isle. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘Exactly. It was going to be the opening of our little trade show. The meeting later is with some potential buyers. Honestly, Tom,’ he jabbed a finger at the door and continued in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘there’s never been such a ragtag collection of crackpots in one place. ISIS, North Korea, the Taliban, al-Qaeda, al-Shabaab, and half a dozen African republics. That’s why I had to buy an island on the lake as well as this place. I use it as a second rendezvous and delivery location. I’m selling weapons to mutual adversaries, you see. Some of them would slit each other’s throats without hesitation if they came face-to-face! It’s a great business, Tom, a great business. And as long as human beings want to kill each other – which will be for as long as they roam this good earth – I will have my customers!’
Tom looked at the man across the desk from him, appalled. ‘But why someone as famous as the Queen? Wouldn’t you have been found out eventually?’
‘That’s the thing, dear boy. Because she is so high profile, they would have given it their best shot. But if we had been successful that would have been a huge coup in proving our product’s USP globally. I would have had every demented dictator and wacky warlord from around the world queuing up to empty their Swiss bank accounts into mine! Which is why I am so upset that you –’ he searched for a word, rolling his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, as if tasting something unpleasant – ‘that you spoilt everything!’
He looked directly at Tom and despite the calmness of his tone, Tom saw that his eyes were reservoirs of fury. Tom flinched, and heard himself say, in a pathetic voice that came out as little more than a squeak: ‘I told you. I didn’t do anything. I saw some birds. That’s all.’
This was followed by a lengthy pause in which Tom could hear Rufus Clay draw in a long breath from across the table. ‘Right ho,’ he said, standing up. He paced around and then came back to the desk and rocked on tiptoe with his hands behind his back.
‘As you might have guessed, I already know a fair bit about you.’ He pressed the notebook open wi
th three arched fingers. ‘Your name is Thomas James Hopkins and you live at Cedar Holme, Watertop, with your greataunt who is now your official guardian. Your father was Wing Commander Anthony James Hopkins who served in the RAF but is now listed as missing, presumed dead or captured by the Taliban.’ He let out a low chuckle and looked Tom hard in the eye. ‘Which, let’s face it, amounts to the same thing.’ Tom dug his fingernails into the leather arms of the chair. ‘Your mother died when you were two. So far, so tragic.’
He sat down again, watching Tom, waiting for a response.
‘So I think you might be interested in the second part of our trade show, which is to demonstrate a rather different animal. Larus – the seagull drone – is the ultimate stealth system. It glides without a motor, making it totally silent and virtually invisible to even the latest detection systems. But there is always a small margin of error with gliders. Hence the need for multiple launch sites. Falcon 03, however, is a self-propelled tactical system, designed specifically to intercept fast jets.’
He suddenly reached for the polished wooden box and lifted the lid. He peered inside, like someone selecting a chocolate, then reached in and brought out a perfect scale model of a Hawk aeroplane in Red Arrows livery. It wasn’t like Tom’s wonky Airfix kit model – it was a perfect replica of the real thing, complete with RAF markings and a little pilot in the cockpit.
‘Yes, yes, I think you will be interested,’ he said, standing up. ‘Watch, Tom, watch.’
Tom watched as Rufus Clay lifted eight more model aeroplanes from the box and went over to the map of the lake on the table, and arranged them on the map in formation.
‘I love the Red Arrows, don’t you, Tom? The pride of the RAF. And rightly so. As you know, the Queen’s visit marked the opening of the Lakes Summer Festival. And the end of the festival – on Sunday at two o’clock – will be marked with a display by the Red Arrows over the lake.’ He moved some of the Hawks over the map to rearrange the formation. ‘Except this time they will augment their famous display of flying skills with a brand new manoeuvre.’ He picked up three of the aeroplanes in one hand and clenched his fist around them. ‘Right at the end of the show, three of them will simultaneously explode and disappear into the lake.’ As he said this he hurled the three model aeroplanes to the other side of the room, where they glanced off the wall and fell to the carpet with a dull thud. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful display of symmetry.’
Tom forced himself to meet his eyes. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
Rufus Clay looked at him, blinking.
‘You’re not going to let me go, are you?’
He made a sympathetic face, head tilted to one side. ‘No.’
‘So why should I tell you anything?’
There was a long silence. Rufus Clay looked at the ceiling and scratched his neck with a middle finger. ‘Right ho,’ he said again, more to himself this time. He must have seen some flicker of fear flash across Tom’s face because he held up a palm and smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to torture anyone or anything like that. I don’t go in for all that nonsense – far too messy. But I do have drones primed and ready that will sweep gracefully down upon your home, and the nice little holiday house next door, and blow them both to oblivion.’
He took off his glasses, breathed on them and wiped them with a tissue.
‘Do we understand each other, Mr Hopkins?’
Tom hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
Clay reached under the desk and pressed a button. ‘Good. Mike will escort you back to your room. And if you are not prepared to speak by the time my meeting is finished . . .’ He stood up and went over to the tall cabinet, opened the door and pulled out a tie. For some time the sound of the tie flapping around as he deftly tied it, using a mirror on the back of the cabinet door, filled the room. While the cabinet was open Tom caught sight of a black torpedo-shaped object at the bottom. It was the size of a large fire extinguisher, with handles on the side and an enclosed propeller at the back. It looked like some kind of miniature submarine. Rufus Clay tightened the knot of his tie, shut the cabinet and turned back to Tom. ‘. . . I will give you your own personal computer screen so that the last thing you will do on this earth is watch – in crystal clear HD video, of course – your dear Aunt Emily, and anyone who happens to be living within so much as a seagull’s squawk of her home, meet sudden and terrifying deaths.’
CHAPTER 31
The three riders cut their engines and got down from their dirt bikes. The smallest of them pulled off his helmet and stepped towards them.
‘Hello again,’ said Snakey. ‘You should have listened to me when I said we’d find you. Hop-Hop-Hop-Hop-Hopkins isn’t the only one to mysteriously know stuff.’
The wind was stirring up sparks from the fire and sending swirls of smoke along the ground before dispersing it into the darkness. ‘You! But how—’
‘I’m sorry, Maggie,’ Joel was saying to her, despair in his voice. ‘I should have worked it out sooner!’
‘What?’
‘Snakey never took the memory card at all. It was Tom’s phone he took – from his boat. And we sent him the grid references to this exact spot. That’s why they’ve come to get us, just like Snakey said they would.’
‘That’s right,’ sneered Snakey, waggling Tom’s phone at them. ‘Scared now, are we?’
Maggie stepped closer. She felt like an over-inflated balloon.
‘It’s you who’s scared, you little loser!’ The words burst out of her, spit flying into Snakey’s face, making him wince. ‘You’re a bag full of fear. You’re afraid of anyone who’s different. You’re afraid of anyone who might be a threat to your ego. You think you’re someone because you have two parasites who live in your shadow. But it’s you who’s scared, Snakey. Scared of being exposed as the pathetic little nobody that you are.’ She kept moving closer till her fringe almost touched his nose, but he stood his ground. She sensed Sam and Podge position themselves either side of herself and Joel.
‘And you know what?’ Her voice sounded hollow, blown away by the wind, and her knees were shaking. She could feel Archie pressing his body against her calves. ‘We are not –’ she poked Snakey in the chest with a finger – ‘going anywhere!’
Maggie fixed her eyes on his, looking for any sign of retreat, but she could only see the angry flare of the fire reflected in them. She could feel, rather than hear, Archie’s steady growl in her legs.
‘Grab them!’ Snakey said.
She saw Podge yank Joel’s arms behind his back. Sam did the same to her, but there was something half-hearted about it. Snakey walked calmly to his bike, which was the one closest to Maggie, and came back with a hefty motorbike chain. He clicked the combination lock round with his thumb, like some cowboy flicking the barrel of a gun before a shoot-out. Maggie willed herself to see him for the scared little loser she had just called him. But, as she felt the darkness pressing in around them, she couldn’t suppress the fear that was tightening her insides, and she realized they were trapped.
Snakey smiled dangerously. ‘Podge, Noyley, hold them down and I’ll tie them together with this.’
‘Come on, Snakey,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve scared them, like you wanted. Let’s go home now.’
Maggie saw Podge glance at Sam Noyland uncertainly. Neither boy moved.
‘Come on, you wimps,’ Snakey shouted. ‘Hold them down!’
Podge made a move to push Joel on to the floor, but Sam Noyland hesitated. It was no more than a blink – but it was enough. Maggie wrenched herself free and looked at him.
‘Why do you do what he tells you? Can’t you see what total muppets that makes you?’
Snakey’s face was clenched in anger. ‘Hold them down or I’ll—’
‘Or what?’ said Sam, swivelling on his feet to face him, the awe suddenly gone.
Just then Podge let go of Joel and moved to the edge of the circle of firelight, like someone getting ready to watch a boxing match. His face w
as crumpled with confusion.
‘Yeah,’ he said weakly. ‘Or what?’
Snakey looked at them both with disgust and reached down to the fire to pick up a burning branch. He gritted his teeth in pain as he raised the flaming torch in the air, and turned to Podge.
‘Or I’ll burn your bike, that’s what,’ he said simply.
Maggie watched in horror as Snakey began to walk over to where Podge’s dirt bike was propped up on its stand. She had to put a stop to this before he set the whole forest on fire and alerted the terrorists in their farm on the other side of the ridge, or before someone got killed.
While Snakey’s back was turned she dashed to his bike and jumped on. She pushed a button on the handlebar and the engine fired up. Then, taking a guess at which pedal to press with her foot, she managed to kick it into gear. The machine jolted and lurched like a frightened horse.
‘Get on, Joel!’ Maggie shouted.
Joel grabbed Archie with one hand, Maggie’s neck with the other, and swung on to the seat behind her. She desperately gunned the engine to bend around the fire, a stream of sparks trailing behind. Podge and Sam were just shadows on her left, lost in the smoke. She headed straight for Snakey, who was rooted to the spot, his face melting in dismay, and as she passed by, she let go of the handlebar with one hand and grabbed the burning stick from him. Somehow, wobbling and skidding, she kept her balance, straightened up, and raced away along the spit, the burning branch held in the air away from Joel and Archie. Moments before curving away from the tarn she tossed it into the water and headed for the trees, the dark belt of the wood looming towards them, just distinguishable below the rim of sky.
They crashed through the first line of trees. She felt branches tearing her scalp, then the wood seemed to tilt and lift, the engine screamed, and as she hit the ground, everything was dark.
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