Never Say Die

by Anthony Horowitz

  The two brothers briefly discussed his demand between themselves. Slavko had thought they might turn nasty and was surprised when they had agreed. In fact there seemed to be no hard feelings whatsoever … quite the opposite. They gave him a cheque there and then, drawn from a bank in Panama City. Slavko had rarely seen so many noughts at the end of a number. He had twenty thousand Serbian dinar in his personal bank account but he was painfully aware that was the equivalent of about a hundred and forty pounds. The cheque was folded in half and lodged in his top pocket like a good-luck mascot. He would cash it in once this was over.

  Now Slavko noted his position and pressed down with his right foot, adjusting the tail rotor. The helicopter responded immediately. Despite its huge size, the Sikorsky really was quite a delicate machine. He had just nine minutes left to reach his destination. He had been told that he would be tracked and guessed that the RAF would already be scrambling its fighter aircraft at its bases in Northolt, Brize Norton, High Wycombe and everywhere else.

  Nine minutes. Then he had to disappear.

  About ten metres underneath him, Alex Rider was, quite simply, clinging on for dear life.

  As they rose away from the ground, the air became colder and the currents much stronger and if he had tried to hang on to the coach with his hands alone, he would have been quickly ripped away and sent spinning to his death. But the underbelly of the Mercedes-Benz Tourismo was a strange labyrinth of twisting pipes and brackets with thick cylinders, shelves and ridges. He identified an area that provided a sort of crawl space above the main axle and, using all his strength, he managed to bring his legs up and fold them into it so that he was tucked inside a metal box, protected from the rush of the wind. He still had to hold on. If he relaxed for a moment, he would fall away. The compartment was filthy, covered with the oil and dirt that had built up over years. Alex could feel the massive weight of the coach, which seemed to be crushing him even though right now it was effectively weightless.

  He risked a look over his shoulder and wished at once that he hadn’t. They were thousands of feet above the ground. The roads were little more than scribbles, the cars moving dots. The fields had turned into a multicoloured patchwork and they were a very, very long way away. He had no idea where he was heading but he saw a city, surrounded by fields, a railway line twisting through it, neat houses in rows, a cathedral. Was it Bath? Gloucester? He closed his eyes and focused instead on the bottom of the coach, keeping his grip, not moving, his whole body locked into place. The noise of the helicopter was deafening. He could feel the vibrations from the blades. He wondered about the children inside the coach. They would be terrified. How long was this journey going to last? Were they leaving the country? No. Surely that was impossible. The RAF would intercept them. Their fighter planes must already be on the way.

  They were dipping down. Alex hadn’t dared look for the last few minutes but he felt the change of pressure in his ears and opened his eyes to see that they had descended several thousand feet. They were flying over countryside – fields and mountains with a few scattered houses and farms. For some reason he thought they might be in Wales. He didn’t have much of a view. His head was crushed against the underside of the coach, thick oil clogging his hair, and he had to twist round to look over his own shoulder. The wind battered his eyes, making it painful to keep them open. His arms were getting very tired. How long had he been hanging here? And where exactly were they going to land?

  Adjusting his grip, Alex took another look and saw that they were following a single-track railway line. It was running directly beneath them, cutting through fields that were green and ancient with low flint walls and grazing sheep. There was a train a couple of miles ahead of them and he realized they were chasing it. Alex lowered himself a little, hanging down so that he could see more. It was a steam locomotive. From this height it looked exactly like a toy – something from long ago. In fact, it could have come straight out of a museum. He could see the driver leaning out of the side and the clouds of smoke puffing out of its chimney. Behind the main locomotive there was a tender, piled high with coal. And behind that, a single wagon had been attached. It was a low-loader – nothing more than a long, wooden platform with open sides. As they closed in on it, Alex’s heart began to race. He understood exactly what was going to happen.

  They caught up with the locomotive. The helicopter was only five hundred feet above the ground and the coach, at the end of the magnetic hoist, was much nearer. For Alex, the situation had suddenly become far worse as the wind whipped the smoke up and into the underbelly of the coach, burning his eyes and making it difficult to breathe. He was blinded, drowning upside down in a thick fog that stank of soot. He was coughing uncontrollably and what little strength he had left was rapidly draining out of his arms. Vaguely, he was aware of the sleepers rushing past, each one blurring into the next. The helicopter edged forward and began to drop and at last the smoke cleared. Now Alex saw the wooden platform, right underneath him. That was where the helicopter was going to position the coach! It was a brilliant scheme. The locomotive train would carry the coach on the next leg of its journey while everyone kept following the helicopter. But by the time they caught up with it – if they ever did – they would be too late. The coach would be miles away, carried in a completely different direction.

  They dropped lower and Alex was seized by a new terror. There couldn’t possibly be enough room between the bottom of the coach where he was clinging and the platform that was travelling beneath him. From the very start he had felt as if he was being crushed, but now it was actually going to happen. He wondered if he could drop down and somehow roll out of the way, but he knew that would be just another way to commit suicide. All he could do was stay where he was and hope for the best. But the weight above him was almost beyond comprehension … tonnes and tonnes of it. The platform was solid, unforgiving. He felt like an insect trapped between the pages of a slowly closing book. Part of him wondered how he had got into all this. All he had ever wanted was to find Jack!

  It was very dark. The low-loader, the tyres, the huge bulk of the coach – between them they had blotted out the light. Now he was so close to the platform, he could see the knots in the wood. Even with the roar of the helicopter, he could hear the train’s wheels clanking as they rolled over the sleepers. The coach touched down. Alex cried out as the wooden surface touched his shoulders. This was where it ended. This was death. The huge rubber tyres bulged, taking the weight. There was just enough space for him after all! Then the coach rose slightly and Alex knew that it had been released from the magnetic hoist. Almost at once, the sound of the helicopter grew fainter and the chuffing of the steam locomotive took over. He had passed from one technology to another – two centuries apart.

  He was still trapped. Alex had briefly hoped that once the coach had been set down, he would simply wait for the right moment and then steal out of his hiding place. For now, that was impossible. He was still being carried forward and he could only stay where he was until they arrived wherever they were going. At least he didn’t have to cling on any more. He let go of the metal bar and sank gratefully onto the platform below. Looking through the sides, he could see grass and gravel rushing past. They had to be somewhere rural and isolated. The fact that the railway could accommodate a steam train spoke for itself. This couldn’t be a main line. It belonged to the Victorian age. If this was Wales, perhaps it might lead to an old mine?

  The sound of the train amplified and in a split second everything went dark. Once again Alex found himself choking on thick, black smoke and for a moment he was confused. What had happened? How had day turned into night? Then he understood. They had entered a tunnel, a long one. The train was slowing down. Now it stopped. As Alex lay there, fighting the sense of being buried alive, he wondered what he was going to find when they finally came out on the other side.

  It had all gone perfectly.

  Slavko Novak wanted to laugh out loud. He had plucked a moving coach
off a motorway, carried it a hundred and twenty miles across the country and deposited it on a moving train. It had taken an extraordinary amount of skill and almost nobody in the world would have been able to pull it off. That made him think of his cousin, Dragana. He briefly wondered what had happened to her, then put her out of his mind. Her loss was his gain. And now he knew what he was going to do with the money. There was a barmaid he knew at a little place in Pazinska Street in Belgrade. He had always liked her. Perhaps he would invite her to come away with him for the weekend. Of course, he wouldn’t tell his wife.

  It wasn’t quite over yet. He had been instructed to fly north towards Shropshire, keeping low to avoid the radar. There was a red button mounted on the control panel in front of him. The Grimaldis had instructed him to press it as soon as he was within five miles of his destination – transmitting a signal to the car that would be waiting for him just outside the town of Montgomery. That was where he was to land the helicopter. By the evening, he would be back on his way home.

  He checked his bearings. Seven miles … six miles … five… He was finally within range. He leaned forward and pressed the button although, even as he did so, it occurred to him that it was rather odd. Why did it need this extra device? Surely the car would be able to see him anyway?

  They were the last thoughts he ever had.

  Two Tornado jet fighters from RAF Brize Norton had caught up with him and were swooping down from fifty thousand feet. But neither of them was close when the bomb, activated by the red button, exploded. The pilots saw the missing Super Stallion tear itself apart in a gigantic ball of flame. A few moments later, scattered pieces began to fall out of the sky onto the fields below.

  But as the pilots radioed in what had happened, they were also able to confirm a negative sighting – repeat, a negative sighting – of the coach. It seemed impossible but the Mercedes-Benz Tourismo and fifty-two children from Linton Hall had simply disappeared mid-flight.

  “How is it possible?” Mrs Jones demanded.

  She was back in her office. Just two men were with her: John Crawley and Ben Daniels. It was hard to tell which of the two of them was looking more uncomfortable.

  “The Super Stallion was last seen over Gloucester and then over Monmouth,” Crawley replied. “It seems to have been heading into the Brecon Beacons. Unfortunately, it dipped down after Abergavenny and that’s when we lost it. It was actually flying under the radar. The area around there is very hilly and that would have helped.”

  “And then?”

  “It reappeared briefly. We have reports from two pilots that the coach had been detached. The magnetic hoist was still in view but it was empty. And a moment later, the helicopter blew up. It’s very lucky there was no one underneath. Only the pilot was killed.”

  “Do we know who the pilot was?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But the helicopter must have landed somewhere. It was heading towards the Welsh borders with a bright blue Mercedes-Benz Tourismo dangling underneath it! So how come nobody has seen it?”

  Crawley sighed. “We’re still trying to work it out, Mrs Jones. You’re right. A coach like that would stand out like a sore thumb in the Welsh countryside and we’ve had half a dozen aircraft searching the entire area. But there’s nothing. They must have gone to ground.”

  “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Crawley. We had over seventy personnel watching the Ashmolean Museum and the whole city of Oxford on lockdown. We made complete fools of ourselves.” She turned to Daniels. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Alex worked it out but we got to the motorway too late,” he said.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I told you to look after him. And by that I didn’t mean that you should fire him into the air over a crowded motorway and allow him to get snatched by the opposition!”

  Ben Daniels met her eye. “Do you want me to resign, Mrs Jones?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice softened. “I don’t want either of you to resign. This is my fault as much as yours. This is the first major situation we’ve had to face since Alan Blunt left and so far I’ve made a complete hash of it.”

  “What next?” Crawley asked.

  “We look for the coach. It’s not easy because, as far as I can see, it could be anywhere. We’re recovering the black box from the wreckage of the helicopter and that may give us a clue – but that’s going to take time and I have a feeling that time is something we don’t really have.”

  As if on cue, the telephone rang. Mrs Jones snatched it up and listened for about a minute, then slowly lowered it. Her face showed no emotion at all. “We’ve heard from the Grimaldis,” she said.

  “What do they want?” Ben asked.

  “They didn’t identify themselves, of course. Half an hour ago, the school received a video file. It was sent over the Internet and Special Branch are examining it but it’s going to be nearly impossible to trace.”

  John Crawley had a laptop with him. He passed it to Mrs Jones who tapped in the access code she had just been given. At once, a film began to play. The image showed the Mercedes-Benz Tourismo as it dangled underneath the Super Stallion, flying over the English landscape.

  “This is a message to the parents of fifty-two children from the Linton Hall Preparatory School,” a voice announced. It was flat, emotionless and had been electronically distorted to disguise whoever was speaking. “The children are being held in a secure environment,” the voice continued. “They have not been harmed. They are being well looked after.

  “However, we will kill every one of these children in forty-eight hours if the ransom we demand has not been paid. We are asking for the sum of two hundred and sixty million pounds. This is the equivalent of five million pounds per child. The money is to be paid into a bank in Panama. The details of the bank will appear at the end of this short video.

  “Please be aware that we are treating the children as a single unit and we are demanding one single payment. If any of the parents refuse, or are unable, to pay, then it is for the other parents to make up the shortfall. And if the exact amount of money is not received by the time stated, all the children will die. There will be no exceptions.

  “Do not attempt to find the children. We are extremely well armed and will fight back if we find ourselves under attack. You can be certain that, in this eventuality, none of the children will survive.”

  On the screen, the helicopter and the coach had disappeared into the distance.

  “Do not attempt to negotiate with us,” the voice concluded. “Do not ask for more time. I repeat. The sum of money is two hundred and sixty million pounds. You now have forty-seven hours and fifty-eight minutes. That is all.”

  The screen went black and a name came up. It was a bank: the Caja España in Panama City. Written beneath it were the details of the bank account into which the money had to be paid. Mrs Jones had no doubt that it would be untraceable.

  For a long time, nobody spoke.

  It was Ben who broke the silence. “Two hundred and sixty million!” he said. “Can they afford that?”

  “From what I understand, there are parents at Linton Hall who could afford the full amount on their own,” Mrs Jones replied. “Some of them will have insurance for exactly this sort of eventuality. There may be a few who find five million a stretch … although anyone who can afford to educate their children at a cost of thirty-thousand pounds a year probably isn’t going to be too hard up.” She paused. “The Grimaldis have been very clever. By treating the children as a single package – all or nothing – they’ve made it absolutely certain that the parents will raise the money. They may argue among themselves but they have no choice.”

  “Forty-eight hours,” Crawley muttered. “That’s not a lot of time.”

  “No.” Mrs Jones flicked open a box of peppermints and took one out. “But they’ve made one mistake.”

  “Alex Rider.”

  “Exactly. Wherever they are, he’s with them
– and they don’t know it.” She slipped the peppermint into her mouth. “It seems that once again he’s our only hope.”

  SMOKE CITY

  Alex had no idea how long he had been in the tunnel. He was wearing a watch but his face and eyes were so blackened by soot that he was barely able to open them to look at it. He was only breathing with difficulty. The steam engine might not be moving but it was still burning coal and the smoke had wrapped itself around him, smothering him. They were about a hundred metres from the entrance and a single draught of cool air was making its way down the length of the shaft towards him. Alex knew he owed his life to it. The entrance was also providing a small amount of daylight. Otherwise, he would have been completely blind.

  He heard footsteps. Two men were walking along the side of the track between the train and the tunnel wall, talking to each other in low voices. Alex was crushed between the bottom of the coach and the low-loader, with barely enough room to turn. Looking over the crook of his arm, he could just make out the lower parts of their legs as they came to a halt. For a moment they were so close that he could have reached out and touched them. Then the coach door opened with a hydraulic hiss and they climbed out of sight.

  “All right! Listen up, everyone!” It was difficult to make out the man’s voice but Alex knew it wasn’t one of the Grimaldi brothers. He was talking to the schoolchildren and, although Alex could only hear half of what he said, the general sense was clear. “You’re going to have to wait here another twenty minutes … no need to be scared. We’re not going to hurt you if you behave yourselves … need to cover the bus. It’s going to get dark. Move soon. You’ll be staying with us a couple of days … return to your families … dinner and bed when you arrive.”