Ark Angel

by Anthony Horowitz

  He had to do something now, before it was too late. He glanced over his shoulder. Steel Watch was being careful, keeping a safe distance between them. The man had his hands tucked under his jacket. It didn’t even look as if the two of them were together, but Alex knew that the gun was trained on him. If he tried anything, Steel Watch would fire through the fabric. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t turn. He had to keep moving.

  The gates were getting closer. The Fulham Road was beyond. One of the policemen was giving somebody directions. But they weren’t going to help him. What about the crowd? Ahead of him, next to the exit, he caught a glimpse of red and black. Two Stratford East supporters in team shirts. One of them was a skinhead with small, red eyes and a ruddy, pock-marked face. He was scowling at the departing Chelsea fans and Alex could see that he would love to cause trouble. He was swaying on his feet. He’d probably been drinking. But there were too many policemen around. All he had was attitude – and he was showing as much of it as he could.

  Alex was heading straight towards him with Steel Watch close behind. And suddenly he had a thought. Steel Watch was keeping an eye on his every movement. But he couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see what he did with his hands.

  But the Stratford East supporter could.

  Alex slowed down.

  “Keep moving,” Steel Watch ordered in a low, ugly voice.

  Alex stared at the skinhead. He had once read somewhere that if you stared at another person hard enough, they’d become aware of you. He had tried it often enough when he was bored in class. Now he focused all his attention on the man even as he continued walking forward, weaving through the crowd.

  The man looked up. It wasn’t telepathy; there was no real way he could avoid him. Alex was about fifteen metres away, getting closer all the time. People were crossing in front of him – fathers with their sons, couples, fans dressed in the blue Chelsea strip – but Alex ignored them. His eyes drilled into the Stratford East supporter.

  The skinhead noticed him. His own eyes narrowed.

  Alex’s hand was against his chest. With his gaze still fixed on the man, he raised two fingers slowly and deliberately, then dropped one of them. Unseen by Steel Watch, he had signalled the score: two–one. And he had left his middle finger standing offensively upright. Alex sneered at the supporter, trying to look as aggressive as he could. The supporter stared. Alex repeated the sign. This was the worst insult he could throw at the man without opening his mouth.

  Alex had been right. The Stratford East supporter was drunk. He had watched his team lose with almost as much disgust as Drevin himself, and the botched penalty in the final seconds had enraged him. And here was some cocky little sod, a Chelsea supporter, making fun of him! Well, to hell with the police. To hell with the crowd. He wasn’t going to stand here and take it. He was going to sort him out.

  He lumbered forward. Alex felt a spurt of excitement as he saw that his tactic had worked. Behind him, Steel Watch hadn’t realized what was going on. Things had to happen very quickly; Alex needed the element of surprise.

  The Stratford East supporter stopped in front of him, blocking his path. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.

  Alex came to a halt – he had no choice – and he felt Steel Watch bump into him. There was no longer any distance between them.

  “I said – what’s your problem?”

  Alex said nothing. He had been instructed not to talk. Instead he twisted his face into a sneer of amusement, mocking the man who stood in front of him.

  It worked. The supporter swore at him and lashed out with his right fist. Alex ducked. The fist flew past his head and slammed into the throat of Steel Watch, who had been standing right behind him. The gun went off. The bullet hit the Stratford East supporter in the arm, spinning him round. Panic erupted. Suddenly everyone was screaming and running, aware that somebody had been shot but not knowing who had fired. The two policemen charged in through the gates. Behind them a third policeman appeared on horseback. The horse whinnied and began to push through the scattering crowd.

  The Stratford East supporter was sitting on the ground, clasping his injured arm. Alex felt sorry for him, but he wasn’t going to hang around. The instant the gun had been fired, he had darted away, diving into the crowd, weaving left and right, hoping Steel Watch wouldn’t have a chance to shoot again.

  He had timed it perfectly. Steel Watch didn’t dare try another shot. There were already too many people between him and Alex. And he couldn’t bring out the gun without drawing attention to himself. There were police everywhere. There was nothing more he could do.

  Alex ran on, past the Chelsea shop and on towards the entrance where the car had dropped him before the match. Tamara Knight was standing there. She was looking alarmed, and Alex wondered if she had heard the shot. Then he realized she was staring at him. She could tell from his face that something was wrong.

  “Alex? What is it?” she demanded.

  “Get help!” he exclaimed. “Call the police. Whatever.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve got to send someone to the changing rooms. Adam Wright. I think he’s in trouble.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Force Three.” It was too complicated to explain. Drevin’s personal assistant was looking at him as if he were deranged. Where was he meant to begin? “Just trust me,” he begged. “You need to get security over to the changing rooms. Please! Believe me…”

  Tamara gazed at him for a few more seconds, summing him up. She didn’t look as if she believed him. But then she nodded. “All right, then. There’s a steward inside.” She turned and hurried back into the west stand.

  But it was already too late.

  The three men had left the changing room. Adam Wright was on his own. He fingered the new medallion they had given him. He had more than a dozen of them – in gold and platinum. He’d always liked medallions, even when he was a boy growing up in Essex. He thought they suited him.

  It was strange, though. Receiving a gift after a game like that. Adam Wright thought about the missed penalty as he went over to the showers. However you looked at it, he wasn’t having a good season. Maybe it was time to think about another transfer. He had to be careful. If his game began to slip, he might lose some of his advertising and sponsorship deals. And if that happened, how would he pay for his next Ferrari?

  He dropped his towel. Glimpsing himself in a mirror, he smiled. He had a perfect body and he liked the way the new medallion lay against his chest. He was looking forward to showing it to Cayenne.

  He turned the shower on full. Hot water blasted down. He stepped into the spray and water battered his neck and shoulders. He turned round.

  The men who had given Adam Wright the medallion had told him that it was made of caesium. What they hadn’t told him was that caesium is an alkali metal found in group one of the periodic table. It does not occur naturally. It has only one electron in its outer shell. And, like all alkali metals, it reacts extremely violently when exposed to water. The medallion had been given a coating of wax to protect it from the atmosphere, but the wax was now melting in the shower.

  Adam Wright knew there was something wrong when he felt an intense burning. For a moment, he thought the water was too hot. Then he looked down and, to his astonishment, he saw a brilliant flame bursting out in front of him. He opened his mouth to scream, and at that moment the caesium medallion exploded. The scream died in his throat. With the water rushing down, he fell to his knees, his hands outstretched, and for a brief instant he looked just like a keeper seconds after he has let the ball into the back of the net. Then he pitched forward and lay still.

  Two minutes later, the door of the changing room crashed open and a group of security men rushed in. There was nothing they could do. Adam Wright was lying on the floor with water all around him. Smoke was rising up beneath his chest, creeping through his armpits.

  The Stratford East captain and England striker had taken his last penalty.


  And the people who had come for him hadn’t missed.

  EXPIRY DATE

  The following day, Alex was playing table tennis with Paul Drevin. Once again Paul was beating him. The score was fifteen–eighteen and it was his serve. He fired the ball down the table, trying to put some spin on it. Paul lobbed it back. Alex went for the slam and got it. The ball hit the corner of the table and bounced over Paul’s bat. Sixteen–eighteen. He was in with a chance.

  The two boys were playing in the most extraordinary room Alex had ever been in. It was more than sixty metres long but only six metres wide, an oversized cigar tube with porthole windows running along the whole length. Part of the room was carpeted, with luxurious leather chairs arranged around a coffee table, a drinks cabinet and a widescreen TV. Then there was the games area: complete with table-tennis table, snooker table, PlayStation and gym. Next to it was a small but well-equipped kitchen and, on the other side, closed off, a study area with a library and conference table where Nikolei Drevin was now working.

  And the whole thing was thirty-six thousand feet above the ground.

  Alex and Paul were on their way to America, flying in Drevin’s private 747 which he had adapted to his own needs. Forget cramped seating and microwaved food on plastic trays. The interior of this plane was beyond belief. But for the noise of the engines and the occasional turbulence, it would have been hard for Alex to believe that he was in the air.

  He was glad to be out of England.

  The death of Adam Wright had naturally made the front page of every newspaper. It had also been the lead story in all the news programmes on TV. This time, Alex had not been involved – and for that he had to thank Tamara Knight. She alone knew that he had seen and followed one of the killers at Stamford Bridge, and when the body in the shower had been discovered, she had decided to keep this information to herself. As she said to Alex, he’d been through enough. Force Three had already claimed responsibility for the murder, explaining that the footballer had been another victim in their war against Drevin. What difference would it make if Alex was dragged into it once again?

  Tamara was on the plane too, sitting in one of the leather chairs, reading a book. Alex had glanced at the cover and seen the title. She was reading a history of space travel, obviously preparing herself for the launch that was to take place in just three days’ time. She glanced up briefly as he prepared to take his next serve, then turned a page.

  Alex lost the serve and, two points later, the game. He wondered if they’d reached the coast of Canada yet. It had been almost five hours since they had left Heathrow, and even with all the comforts of the 747, he was aware that he was in that strange, empty space, hovering on the edge of the world between two time zones.

  “Are you hungry?” Paul asked him.

  “No thanks,” Alex replied. The plane had a cook and two stewardesses, who had served a brunch of fresh fruit, coffee and croissants just after they had taken off.

  “We can watch a film if you like.”

  “All right.”

  Paul put down his bat and slumped into one of the nearby chairs. “It’s a shame we won’t have more time in New York,” he said. “I really wanted to show it to you. It’s a cool city just to wander around in. And it’s got great shops. I was going to buy a whole load of gear.”

  “How long are we there for?” Alex asked.

  “Dad says just one day. He’s got some people to see – or we’d be going straight to Flamingo Bay.” Paul pressed a button in the arm of his chair and a moment later one of the stewardesses appeared. “Can we watch a film?” he asked.

  “Of course.” The stewardess smiled. “I’ll bring you the menu. And would you like something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke. Alex?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Alex sat down opposite Paul, avoiding the other boy’s eye. It seemed to him that Paul was more like his father than perhaps he realized. Despite his protests, he fitted comfortably into this billionaire lifestyle, taking the private plane, the houses all over the world and the complete freedom for granted. Right now the two of them should have been at school. Alex thought of Brookland and a big part of him yearned to be with his friends, larking around and getting into trouble – back in the real world.

  He was feeling guilty because, although he’d said nothing to Paul, he had already made his decision. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to leave the Drevin household. He felt sorry for Paul. More and more the other boy seemed to be relying on his friendship, taking him for granted like everything else. Paul hadn’t chosen any of this but he was stuck with it, and one day it would be him jetting around the world, making all the important decisions.

  But Alex had had enough. Nikolei Drevin had nothing he wanted. More than that, Alex was becoming increasingly uneasy, aware of an invisible net closing in. He had now encountered Force Three twice. He might not be so lucky a third time. Whatever their argument with Drevin, he didn’t want to be any part of it.

  And then there was the question of Drevin himself. There was so much about the man that didn’t add up. If he was so concerned about Paul’s safety, why hadn’t he put any guards in place at St Dominic’s? And was it just coincidence that the kidnappers had taken Alex to a building that Drevin – or one of Drevin’s many companies – actually owned? Alex thought about his meeting with Kaspar. The Force Three leader had been about to cut off one of his fingers – and would have if Alex hadn’t convinced him who he really was. If Paul Drevin had been kidnapped, he would have been maimed. Why? Was there some sort of private vendetta between Nikolei Drevin and Kaspar that both men were keeping concealed?

  Alex didn’t trust Drevin. That was the simple truth. When they had raced against each other, Drevin had tried to kill him. If Alex had flipped over inside the tunnel, he might have been crushed – and all because the Russian didn’t like losing. He had lost again at Chelsea, and as a result a man had died. Was Drevin responsible for that too? Alex remembered seeing him talking on his mobile seconds after the game had ended. And when Alex had spotted Silver Tooth, he had been slipping something into his pocket. Could it have been a phone? Was it possible that he had been taking his orders directly from Drevin?

  Well, he had decided. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to call Jack Starbright, who was only a couple of hours away in Washington. He knew she’d be happy for him to join her, especially if she thought he was in any danger. He would tell Nikolei Drevin that he was homesick. It didn’t matter what excuse he made up. When Drevin and his son flew to Flamingo Bay, they would be travelling without him.

  “Is everything all right, Alex?”

  Alex looked up and realized that Tamara Knight had been examining him. He still hadn’t worked her out. She had never been particularly friendly to him and seemed completely devoted to Nikolei Drevin. On the other hand, as far as he knew, she had never told Drevin about his involvement in Adam Wright’s death. Right now, she was studying him suspiciously. Maybe she was trying to work him out too.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Alex said.

  “Are you looking forward to the launch?”

  Alex shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  Paul had chosen a film. The lights in the centre of the cabin dimmed and a few minutes later it began.

  It was just after one o’clock, New York time, when they touched down at JFK Airport. Nikolei Drevin had come out of his study for the last hour of the flight, dictating a letter to Tamara and chatting to Paul. Part of the conversation was in Russian and Alex got the feeling that father and son were talking about him.

  The 747 taxied to a holding area. Looking out of a window, Alex saw a chauffeur-driven limousine waiting to meet them. He guessed that a man as rich and influential as Drevin wouldn’t have to queue up at immigration with everyone else, and he was right. The door of the plane opened electronically and two men in suits – customs and immigration – were shown in. One of them had a metal attaché case which contained a compute
r and an old-fashioned passport stamp.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Drevin, sir,” the man said. He was young, clean-shaven, with short blond hair and dark glasses. “Welcome to New York.”

  “Thank you.” Drevin held out his passport.

  The man ran it through the scanner on his computer without so much as glancing at it, then stamped one of the pages. He did the same for Paul and Tamara. He took Alex’s last, gazed at the photograph and lowered it behind the lid of his case. For a moment it was out of sight as he scanned it, but then he was holding it up again with a look of polite puzzlement.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Drevin. “We have a problem here.”

  “What problem?” Drevin was annoyed.

  “This passport is out of date. It expired two days ago.”

  “That’s not possible.” Drevin reached for the passport. He looked at the expiry date, then at Alex. “The man is correct,” he said.

  “No.” Alex was shocked. It was true he hadn’t looked closely at his passport for a long time, but he was certain he’d only had it four years. There was an absurd photograph of him aged ten; he remembered going with Jack to have it taken. “It can’t be!” he protested.

  Drevin handed him the passport. Alex studied it. It was the same photo. The terrible haircut embarrassed him as it always did. There was his signature, and Ian Rider’s name and address as next of kin. But the immigration man was correct. His passport had expired the day before he left London.