Python Adventure

by Anthony McGowan

  ‘It’s Miranda – she’s the traitor in TRACKS …’

  She began telling the story in a rapid, staccato voice, but halfway through a sentence a recorded voice said, ‘Voicemail full,’ and she was cut off.

  ‘Clear your messages, Frazer, you imbecile!’ she yelled. But then she realized that all she had to do was to get the story to Drexler. He would know what to do.

  Amazon got dressed as smartly as she could manage – the last thing she wanted was to stand out. She found one of her school skirts at the bottom of her case and a pair of unladdered tights, and a blouse that she had no recollection of ever having bought or worn. She washed the furious tears from her face, brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth and, finally, shone her shoes with her dirty T-shirt. She checked herself in the mirror.

  She’d never looked quite this uncool.

  It didn’t matter. Getting to Drexler was all that counted. She opened the door to her room and found the servant there, blocking the doorway.

  ‘I need to get to Doctor Drexler,’ she said imploringly. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’

  The servant just stared at her, and when she tried to push past him he put his hand on her arm and forced her – gently – back. Then he pointed at the ornate clock on the wall and grunted.

  ‘I know it’s not time, but I need to see … oh, what’s the use.’

  And then she twisted away and made a dart for the door. But the servant was too quick and caught her before she could escape. He pushed her back inside and locked the door. She beat against the heavy wood until her knuckles were raw, to no avail.

  There must be another way out. She looked over her balcony, but there was no way down, not even a drainpipe to cling on to. So she would have to wait the twenty minutes till the banquet before she could tell Drexler what she knew. And what a story it was.

  The message of the diary was clear. The dying embers of the fire under which it was hidden had done much damage, but the fake burn and ageing effects had been put there to disguise the still legible truth that she had read in her father’s writing.

  Ling-Mei saw it first. We’d found out from Sergei that the animals were being smuggled out and sent to some sort of secret reserve. Except it’s not a reserve. We don’t yet know exactly what its purpose is, but we do know it is not to preserve anything except the profits of the investors.

  I didn’t want to believe the evidence, but Ling-Mei doesn’t have my … history. She pointed out that only one organization had links here in central Asia, in Siberia, in Africa and in Oceania. And then there was the evidence of the paperwork, the documents. Not all the animals had been smuggled out illegally. Some of them seemed to have the correct permits. And those permits had been authorized by someone at TRACKS.

  There are only two alternatives. Either TRACKS is an evil organization, with my brother the monster-in-chief or there’s a traitor deep in the heart of the organization, betraying it and my brother and everything they stand for.

  A few pages later came another revelation.

  It’s Kaggs. I know it now. Somehow he’s in league with the traitor at TRACKS. Together they are spiriting animals away from their natural environment, and taking them … where?

  There was that name Kaggs again. Amazon drummed her fingers impatiently on the laptop. Uncle Hal had told her he was evil, that he had tried to kill the Hunt brothers many times. And now he was working together with the TRACKS traitor. The traitor that Amazon knew was Miranda Coverdale.

  Although it had been a shock at first, on reflection it seemed so obvious. She was never particularly friendly, never open, never revealed anything of herself. Amazon didn’t even know where she was from.

  Well, that didn’t matter now. Amazon knew where she and this villain Kaggs were going: straight to jail.

  At that moment there was a knock at the door. She went to it and the silent servant beckoned her. He touched her hand as she passed, giving it a gentle squeeze. Amazon was astonished by the gesture, but somehow it comforted her – made her feel a little less alone. She tried to smile at him, but his back was to her as he led her down the corridor.

  As they walked, other guests appeared in the hallway, emerging from rooms into which she glanced, and saw were even grander and more ornate than her own. There were Indian ladies draped in golden jewellery, their fine saris glittering in the candlelight – for yes, the palace was lit both with electric chandeliers and by thousands of candles that had appeared since Amazon had arrived. The ladies were escorted by tall Indian men, some in military uniform, others in traditional dress, with white turbans and the long, intricately embroidered coats called sherwanis.

  There were also Europeans and Americans, some smartly dressed, others more casual. Most of them seemed to be men. Amazon followed her guide down the huge staircase – even more imposing now that the space below it was busy with people and dancing with the golden light of the candles.

  But Amazon was determined not to be distracted. She had to tell Drexler about the traitor. She strained to look for him through the crowd. But she had never felt so small, and all she could see once she reached the bottom of the stairs was the backs of the adults, as they all formed a pulsing, glittering stream, headed towards the dining room.

  They entered another huge room, Amazon bobbing and weaving, trying to get to Drexler. This room was as long as a cathedral aisle, with a roof beautifully painted, showing elephants and tigers battling together, and more processions of beautiful maidens and handsome princes. A table, almost as long as the room, was set with heavy silver cutlery, crystal wine glasses and white plates with golden rims.

  Despite her agitation and frustration, Amazon sensed that this was quite the most beautiful dining arrangement she had ever seen, although in truth that wasn’t saying much. The dining room at her boarding school was grey and tatty and grubby, and everything smelled of cabbage.

  She suddenly found that she was being guided into a seat – she wasn’t quite sure how, just that there was a subtle pressure on her, both pulling and pushing. She was sitting almost at the head of the great table, with a tall elderly lady on one side and a small kindly-looking man on the other. He was wearing a tweed jacket and an old shirt, a little frayed at the collar. With his reading glasses on a chain around his neck, he looked like an absent-minded professor.

  ‘How nice to have young people at the table,’ said the tall lady, in a voice loud enough to stop a charging rhino. And her tone managed to convey the message that in fact it was not at all nice to have young people at the table or anywhere else for that matter. ‘I expect,’ she continued, ‘that you’re one of the Maharaja’s little projects.’

  Amazon was about to reply that she was nobody’s little project, but the lady was already talking across her at the sweet little man.

  Amazon looked round the table and finally saw Drexler. He was right at the far end. He appeared to be deep in conversation with a senior army officer on one side and a tall African gentleman on the other. But she got the distinct impression that he was secretly keeping a close eye on her. She mouthed, ‘I NEED TO TALK,’ at him and began to stand up, but he made a calming motion with his hands. At the same time she heard a gentle voice from her side.

  ‘I do so hate these formal events. If it were up to me, I would only ever eat my supper on a tray in front of the TV.’

  Amazon was sure that the man had been speaking to her, but the tall lady replied, ‘Oh, I quite agree, Maharaja. I myself am a great fan of Ready Steady Cook and X Factor. I …’

  ‘Lady Stanmoor,’ said the little man, ‘would you mind terribly if I talked for a short while with my friend here? We have many things to discuss.’

  And Amazon realized that she was sitting next to the owner of the palace.

  ‘I am very, very pleased to meet you, Amazon,’ he said. ‘I knew your father and your grandfather well. We often spent time together collecting animals back when I was only a little older than you.’

  ‘You knew my dad …?
’ said Amazon. Ever since her parents had disappeared, she cherished any scraps of information about them, the way that a starving child might nurse a crust of bread.

  ‘Oh, indeed. In a reversal of expectation, the American taught the Indian how to ride an elephant! He was something of a natural at the art.’

  ‘I didn’t think maharajas rode their own elephants,’ replied a smiling Amazon. ‘Don’t you have a mahout to do that for you, while you sit on that nice comfy cabin on the back …?’

  ‘The howdah. Indeed, you are right, young lady. And I believe it somewhat scandalized the servants. Is that not so, Mehmet?’

  The Maharaja was looking at the space behind Amazon. She turned and saw that the silent servant was there, standing to attention. He seemed flustered by the Maharaja’s direct address and merely bowed.

  ‘So he knew my father too?’ Amazon said excitedly. ‘I’d love to speak to him … Oh, but he can’t seem to speak English …’

  ‘No, he cannot,’ said the Maharaja sadly. ‘I’m afraid he has literally lost his tongue. An accident, long ago.’

  ‘How terrible!’ gasped Amazon. She desperately wanted to know what sort of accident, but stopped herself from asking. It seemed such bad manners …

  Over the next fifteen minutes the Maharaja asked her many questions about her school and other aspects of life in England, and then about her work with TRACKS. He seemed very well informed about their activities. He already knew all about the family of Amur leopards they had rescued in the far east of Russia, and about the baby leatherback turtles they had saved in Polynesia. He even knew about their most recent adventure in the Canadian wilderness. He asked her about the animals they had encountered, and she told him about the bears and mountain lions and wolves. The Maharaja’s eyes lit up, and he said, ‘Ah, what fine additions they would make to any collection. …’

  As they spoke, the food arrived. Amazon had supposed that they would be served European cuisine at such a grand occasion, but all the dishes were Indian, with grilled meats and wonderful hot curries coming thick and fast, all cooked with such delicacy and precision that Amazon could taste each complex flavour separately, even as they blended together to form a harmonious whole. Even the rice tasted good – not bland and stodgy like she was used to back at school, but light and fluffy and bursting with taste. She hadn’t realized that something so simple could be so delicious.

  The wonderful food didn’t make her forget that she had to go and tell Drexler about her discovery, but, each time she tried to move, the Maharaja would ask her another question, pinning her to her seat. She was just too polite and well brought up to walk away while he was talking to her.

  At that moment, banquets were the very last thing on Frazer Hunt’s mind.

  What was at the forefront of his mind was how deeply unpleasant it might feel to be killed by a giant reticulated python in the humid murk of the jungle.

  He knew that he had been stupid. He had wandered along under the trees, looking upwards, trying to get a precise fix on where the snake was from the behaviour of the langurs. And he was ninety-nine per cent sure that it was the snake that had got the monkeys worked up into such a lather. Snakes were ambush predators, which meant that they were essentially harmless as long as the prey knew that they were there, and could keep them in sight. The langurs had obviously spotted the snake and were letting the whole jungle know about it.

  Frazer did have one small worm of doubt wriggling in the back of his mind. Ninety-nine per cent is not quite the same as one hundred per cent. That one per cent floating around could just be the one per cent that killed him.

  His dad had always told him that safety first was the principle he should apply to everything – and that meant meticulous preparation and rational risk minimization. It didn’t matter that, when Hal was a boy, he had done a thousand reckless and lunatic things himself – that’s if even half the stories told by and about him were true. But he had drilled the idea into Frazer that he should at least be aware of possible dangers, and so Frazer knew that there was always the chance that the langurs hadn’t spotted the snake, but some other hunter. A leopard or even a tiger. If that were the case, then he would be in serious trouble.

  But no, surely there wouldn’t be more than one top predator in this one little patch of jungle …

  Suddenly he felt a pain of such intensity that all the complicated clutter of thoughts and images and half-formed ideas and future hopes and dreams that jostled in his head was instantly obliterated, to be replaced by a single, intense white light.

  At last she had her chance. A man with a spotted bow tie, and a moustache like a hairy snail crawling across his face, had finally managed to get the host’s attention, and was now talking at him about the Maharaja’s famous collection of vintage cars. At that moment she saw Drexler wipe his mouth on a napkin, excuse himself and leave the table.

  Amazon darted quickly after him before he could reach the bathroom or wherever he was headed. She caught up with him in one of the many corridors snaking away from the dining room like the tentacles of an octopus.

  ‘Doctor,’ she panted, ‘I have to tell you –’

  Drexler, clearly sensing the urgency and importance of whatever it was that Amazon wanted to say, looked nervously around, and silenced her with a raised hand.

  ‘Not here,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not safe. Follow me.’

  He opened a door leading off from the corridor and they entered a room. It was a library, the shelves going all the way from floor to ceiling. Heavy leather chairs were scattered around.

  Drexler sat in one chair and told Amazon to sit down opposite him. ‘What is this, Amazon?’ he asked, in his usual unemotional way. ‘And do please be concise – we mustn’t be away from the banquet for too long …’

  And then, in a gush, Amazon told him what she knew.

  ‘There’s a traitor in TRACKS. Someone is helping this Kaggs character to steal animals and smuggle them to some place where … I don’t know, where something terrible happens to them. It’s all in my father’s diary. When Uncle Hal rescued it from the fire, it looked pretty bad. But whoever digitized it managed to rescue most of the text. But then they covered it all up again, in fact, made it worse. And they left their digital signature on it. It was Miranda – Miranda Coverdale. We’ve got to tell Uncle Hal. She’s with them now, looking for that snake. Who knows what she’s going to do …’

  Drexler was not one to show his emotions. At the mention of Miranda Coverdale his eyes opened a little more widely behind his rimless spectacles.

  ‘You say you have proof of all this?’

  ‘Yes, on my laptop. I …’

  Then Amazon stopped herself. She just couldn’t admit that she’d copied the document from Drexler’s laptop. ‘I, er, emailed it to my laptop from my iPad. And then I was able to analyse it properly.’

  ‘I see.’

  Drexler said nothing for what seemed like ages to Amazon then he sprang to his feet with surprising energy.

  ‘Wait here. I will go and get a message sent to Mr Hunt. It may take a little while to get through, but that can’t be helped.’

  He swept from the room, leaving Amazon feeling a little bewildered. She stood up and went over to the stacks of books. Most were ancient leather-backed editions. Multi-volume works of history and geography. There were also many beautiful books about animals. One giant book of bird paintings came up to Amazon’s waist. She heaved it up on to a desk and looked through it. The paintings were all life-sized.

  Amazon’s hands were in her pockets as she gazed at a wonderfully vibrant and dramatic picture of a bald eagle – it reminded her of those she had seen in Canada, not very long ago. Then her fingers brushed against a scrap of paper. She pulled it out and unfolded it. The writing was neat and careful, but also curiously awkward, as if written by someone whose first language was not English.

  Little Lady,

  Dr Drexler is very bad man. You must run away. I was friend of your father many y
ears ago. He saved my life from tiger. I owe him this. I cannot help more. All here is bad. Run, run fast away.

  Friend of her father … Could it have been the mute servant, what was his name …? Mehmet? Amazon thought perhaps that she remembered him brushing against her …

  She stared at the note, not quite believing what it was saying. And then, without consciously understanding the reasons why, she knew she had to do as the note ordered and run. She reached the door just as it was opening.

  In front of her she saw the kindly face of the Maharaja. Now he was standing up, she could see just how tiny he was – the same height as her.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she gushed. ‘I need your help. My father … he’s in danger. Doctor Drexler is …’

  ‘My dear girl,’ said the Maharaja, ‘I know quite well what Doctor Drexler is.’

  And then Amazon saw that, in the darkness behind him, other figures loomed. The Maharaja came forward into the library. Two more of his men were with him – they looked like the mounted guards Amazon had seen at the gates – as tall and intimidating as the Maharaja was short and gentle. And behind them, in turn, came Dr Drexler, his face frozen and emotionless.

  ‘But … but …’ was all that Amazon could say.

  ‘I truly am sorry, my dear child,’ said the Maharaja with a little giggle. ‘We had hoped that there would be no need to involve you in all this unpleasantness. I have no desire, truly, to harm innocents. But you have forced our hand.’

  ‘You,’ said Amazon, looking at Drexler. ‘You’re the traitor, aren’t you?’

  Her voice was filled with bitterness, loathing, despair.

  ‘Traitor? No, not traitor,’ said Drexler, his voice now drier, colder, deader than ever.

  ‘But you’ve betrayed my Uncle Hal and everything TRACKS stands for. And for what? Money?’

  ‘Money? No, never money.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘We have a little time, so I will tell you a story,’ said Drexler, calmly returning to the leather chair he had previously occupied. ‘I helped to set up TRACKS with your father and your uncle. They, of course, took all the credit, garnered all the glory. It was their profiles that appeared in the colour supplements of the Sunday newspapers. I was always working in the background. But I did not mind, did not complain, because of my dedication to science. All along I had a great scheme, a plan, an opportunity to make TRACKS the most illustrious scientific organization in the world. I had laid down the theoretical foundation for a breakthrough of earth-shattering impact.