Flowerdew had insisted that Kinch dump the Range Rover and find another car. They needed to use the highways, but the police would be on the lookout for the Range Rover, so a suitable alternative was needed. Kinch trawled around the village and finally chose a metallic silver Lexus RX 450H, which had proved the easiest to spring. It also had the advantage of a silent hybrid engine, meaning it was able to leave the quietest road in the quietest village, disturbing no one at all.
Flowerdew sat in the front with the bag and his briefcase at his feet. Jack and Itch sat in the back, hands tied in front of them with black masking tape. Kinch had advised against gags, given that they’d been sick, and Flowerdew had reluctantly agreed. The backpack, with its canister of xenon anesthetic just under the top flap, lay at Itch’s feet.
It was a hot day and the air conditioning was already working hard. As they pulled onto the M5 expressway, Itch was counting the number of air vents and noting where they were pointing. He could see six at the front, and he and Jack had two pointing straight at them. The GPS was estimating three hours, and 175 miles to Paddington, which suddenly didn’t seem very long or very far. Even if Itch could work out how to empty the xenon into the car, they couldn’t do it when they were driving along at ninety-eight miles an hour.
The M5 turned into the M4, and the miles to their Paddington rendezvous were counting down. Flowerdew seemed in an exultant mood, conducting manically to the classical music on the radio. Under cover of the extraordinary volume of sound put out by the car’s sound system, Jack and Itch were able to have brief, unnoticed conversations.
“We’ve only got about ninety minutes left, Itch! Come on—last chance!”
“I know! Still thinking.”
Thirty minutes later: “Flowerdew being in such a good mood means trouble, doesn’t it?”
“Reckon so.” And then, forty miles out from the capital, “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible, like I’m going to be … sick … again.” They looked at each other and, very slowly, smiled. A proper ear-to-ear smile. They had both thought of the same thing at the same time and turned away, looking out the window in case Kinch or Flowerdew glanced in the mirror.
As they neared the city, the traffic slowed and Flowerdew’s mood changed. He became tense and switched off the radio. The final few miles through West London passed in silence. The GPS said four miles to their destination. As the car inched through one set of traffic lights and then another, Jack started to groan.
“Shut up,” said Flowerdew. “We’re nearly there.”
Itch leaned forward, teeth gritted. “It’s called radiation poisoning,” he snapped. “It’s not something you can start and stop. You get dizzy, nauseated, then you’re sick. Next is hair loss, fever, and maybe blood in your vomit. You’re the brilliant scientist. What would you suggest? I don’t know, but from where I’m sitting, if she’s sick the way she was yesterday, it’s going all over your head, Flowerdew. Whoever you’re meeting to give my rocks to, I’m sure they’ll love you with puke in your hair.”
Flowerdew spun around and glared at them. Anger flashed in his eyes, but he knew Itch was right.
“Damn! All right. Pull over, Kinch—there’s a place just there. Let’s get this over with.”
They pulled off the road, leaving the slow-moving traffic to wend its way toward Shepherds Bush. They were in a small cul-de-sac with parking for a dozen cars, and Kinch pulled into the first space he came to. Flowerdew produced a pocket-knife and, reaching behind, roughly cut the tape that bound Itch’s and Jack’s hands. He nicked the skin on Itch’s left wrist with the point of the blade. “Oops,” he sneered.
Itch ignored the cut, undid his seatbelt and leaned over to undo Jack’s.
“Make it quick. We have an appointment in Paddington. All of us. So stay where we can see you,” said Flowerdew, reaching for his phone. Itch opened his door and jumped out. He dropped his backpack on the road and felt for the xenon canister. For a moment he thought he’d lost it, but his hand closed around the warm metal casing under the flap of the backpack. He quickly went around to help Jack out the other side of the car. As she sat on the pavement, her head between her knees, Itch went back to open the door on the other side of the car and looked at the hinge. It was surprisingly small: a flat black metal connector that ran from the door to the body of the Lexus. The canister would sit neatly on top. He glanced up. Kinch was watching Jack, Jack was retching, and Flowerdew was on the phone. Now was the moment.
He balanced the canister on the hinge and, with his heart thundering and his head pounding, he slammed the Lexus door shut with every ounce of strength he had. There was a sharp metallic screech, and then a crunch as the heavy-duty door made contact with the xenon. It bounced open again. The canister was bent, twisted, and dented—but not punctured. The xenon was still inside.
Flowerdew and Kinch spun around. “What the …?”
“Sorry!” called Itch. “Got the seatbelt stuck in the door!” He held up the metal buckle and put on a “Duh” face. They appeared to accept this and turned back. Itch adjusted the canister slightly so that the weakest-looking part of the casing would take the full force of the steel door. He slammed it again. He felt the door close a little farther, but it still didn’t shut. As he opened it once more, the canister fell onto the car floor and rolled slowly under Kinch’s seat. Itch watched it as the mangled metal rotated twice and then stopped. At its base, where the unreadable words were, was a small but clearly defined gash. Shutting the door quickly—it clicked this time—Itch ran around the front of the car and knelt in front of Jack.
“I think I did it!” he said. “I slammed the door on it and I think it’s been punctured, but I can’t be sure…. And I used all of it, in case you were wondering.”
Jack snorted and coughed. “Was there gas coming out after you shut the door?” she asked from between her knees.
“It’s colorless and odorless, Jack. I was hoping for a hiss or something, but I couldn’t hear anything. We’ll find out sooner or later.”
“How long does it take to work?”
“Don’t know, but keep this up anyway. If it’s going to work it’ll be in the next few minutes.”
“How many is a few?”
Itch put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and looked up at Flowerdew, who was still jabbering into his phone. Catching Itch’s eye, he was waving them back into the car when Jack started vomiting again. Flowerdew watched and then resumed his conversation. Itch offered her the bottle of water he’d been given at breakfast and some tissues, then moved around to sit next to her on the curb. She took both and leaned against him, her eyes closed. Itch looked at Kinch and Flowerdew and sat up, nudging Jack. He was smiling.
“It worked! Jack, look, they’re out cold! Ha!”
He helped Jack to her feet, and they both stood staring at the occupants of the car. The driver and passenger looked as if they had just parked for a nap. Kinch’s head was wedged up against the driver’s side window, his mouth wide open. Flowerdew had slumped back, his head lolling uncomfortably toward Kinch. The xenon had emptied itself into the car and, distributed by the powerful air conditioning system, had been inhaled by Kinch and Flowerdew in sufficient quantities to render them unconscious in two minutes. The cousins stood transfixed by what they had done.
For a few seconds they took turns standing in front of the car and calling Flowerdew every bad word they had ever heard, but feeling they might be attracting attention, Jack pulled at Itch’s shirt.
“Come on—get the rocks. We don’t know how long they’ll stay like that and we have to open the door to get the box. Let’s go.”
Itch held her back. “No, wait a bit. Let the xenon do its work. They’ll be going deeper, I think. In a few minutes we could operate on them and they wouldn’t wake up.”
“Now that is tempting,” said Jack as they stood shakily and counted out about two minutes.
“OK, let’s get the rocks,” said Itch, not able to wait any longer. “This needs to be quick. Hold your breath.” He opened the front passenger door and pulled the lead-lined toolbox, still in the canvas bag, out from under Flowerdew’s feet. Next to it, he spotted the briefcase and took that too. Then he leaned across and removed the key from the ignition, shut the door, and locked the car. Itch threw the key into a nearby bush.
“Sweet,” said Jack. “Now can we go? Give me the backpack.”
Itch chucked it to her and she shouldered it. He picked up the canvas bag and its familiar weight cut into his hands. “Can you take this too?” he asked, handing over Flowerdew’s briefcase.
“That’s stealing, Itchingham Lofte.”
“We’ll give it back,” he said, grinning. “Let’s go.”
As quickly as they could, they left the car with its sleeping occupants behind and headed in the direction of the last Underground station they had passed. Hammersmith was five minutes away; they ran there in two. No one looked twice at two teenagers with a backpack and a couple of bags, even if they were in a hurry.
To reach the train platforms, the cousins had to pass through a large shopping center with many fast food outlets. Jack slowed and then stopped, pulling on Itch’s arm.
“Itch,” she panted. “Bathroom. Now.”
He didn’t argue, and they dodged into a brightly lit burger bar. The fluorescent lights made them both look even more exhausted and pale than they felt, but they tucked themselves into a booth with a table between them. As soon as their bags were safely stowed, Jack headed for the ladies room.
Itch opened Flowerdew’s briefcase and shut it immediately. Then, making sure that no one was watching, he took another look. A laptop, its light still on, Flowerdew’s black cap, some papers, and a lot of money. He removed the cap, putting it on straightaway, and the laptop, which he placed on the table. The shopping center offered free Wi-Fi, and Itch spent a few minutes Googling for train times, making some scribbled notes on a paper napkin. He stopped as Jack appeared, shoving the napkin in his pocket. She walked slowly and unsteadily to the table. He didn’t need to ask and she didn’t need to say.
Itch took some money out of the briefcase and went to get water and two large portions of French fries. He didn’t think they’d feel like eating, but within minutes, between them, every fry had vanished.
As Jack drank her water, some of the color came back to her cheeks, but she started to shake again. “I need to stop, Itch. I’m where Chloe was last night—I need to stop….”
Itch didn’t respond, and she added, “I’m so tired.”
Itch didn’t need to be a doctor to know that Jack’s self-diagnosis was correct. She had had enough and she needed medical help.
“OK, Jack,” he said, “we’ll get you help, but I need your help one last time. I have a train to catch and I might not make it without you. Last time. Promise.”
“Of course, I’ll try. I’m just sorry to let you down.” She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her cheeks. “Remind me why this isn’t the end, though? Haven’t we done what we needed to?”
Itch dug into his pocket and pulled out Cake’s note. He read out loud: “You need to get rid of them. These are dangerous. Don’t trust anyone.” He handed it to Jack, as if for verification, but she pushed it away.
“And what if he’s wrong? What if you actually can trust someone? And what if it’s the police you can trust? We could call them now and they would come and get us. Then we’d be safe—and so would the rocks.”
“I wish that were true, Jack, I really do. But look what’s happened. Cake is dead. We’re sick, Chloe’s sick. Flowerdew and Kinch were happy to see us poisoned and probably dead. Those people back at the mining school—whoever they were—had guns. That’s five people in twenty-four hours who would kill for these.” Itch tapped the canvas bag. “What’s more, they are still out there. And others too who haven’t found us yet. These rocks are a curse, Jack. Look here.” He read from Cake’s note again. “I wish I had never seen them. You need to get rid of them. That’s what he wrote.”
“But Dr. Alexander told us how amazing they were and how much good they could do. In the right hands,” Jack pointed out.
“Does it feel like that to you? He also said the Earth had provided us with a gift! Ha! Some gift.” Itch slurped the remains of his water. “Flowerdew said wars have been fought over less, that even with the best intentions it’ll always be the destructive power of these rocks that wins the day.”
“He said that?”
“In the car, on the phone. Scary stuff. What’s that old Elvis song your dad sings? Return to Sender? Well, that’s what I need to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not sure yet. But I made the wrong call over the arsenic, Jack. I put everyone in our class in danger. I’m not going to make the wrong choice this time.”
“You can’t compare …” started Jack.
“I can. I was protecting myself, that’s all. I keep wondering what would have happened if they had gotten worse. I could have done something—just called the hospital, even—but I didn’t.” Itch looked at his cousin. “I’m going to put that right. Return to sender.”
“But all that stuff about an exciting new energy source—” Jack was struggling to keep much force in her argument.
“Jack, it’s too much, it’s too powerful. Do you remember when we found Cake by the beach huts?”
Jack nodded. “That seems like such a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, he said that everything would change—everyone would want this stuff and we shouldn’t tell anyone. Not friends, not parents, not our own government. I think he was right. It’s too late to keep it a secret, but it’s not too late to stop everything from changing.”
As Itch was speaking, Jack glanced through the burger bar’s large front window. Four policemen had just run into the shopping center. “It’s make-up-your-mind time,” she said.
“Already made it,” said Itch.
A cop on his way to the Hammersmith police station had noticed two sleeping men in a Lexus that had been reported stolen. Back-up arrived quickly; they had, after all, only a few hundred feet to travel. Knocking on the driver’s window produced no reaction, and when the passenger proved impossible to rouse too, a passing ambulance was flagged down. One officer broke the driver’s window, reached inside and opened the door. Both occupants stirred as they were handcuffed. The driver then became abusive and head-butted one of the cops. A quick examination of the car revealed the battered and pierced canister under the driver’s seat, and the senior policeman reached for his radio. At that moment, an elderly woman came out of a nearby house and told them she had seen two teens with bags and a backpack leaving the car and running toward the station. The officer spoke quickly to his dispatcher and then headed for the station.
Two miles away, near Paddington Station, the figures of Christophe Revere and Jan Van Den Hauwe appeared on the conference screen at Greencorps’ London office. Standing in a rough semicircle, watching, were Roshanna Wing, Brad Collins, and Volker Berghahn, now with his sunglasses off, revealing nasty red blisters around his eyes. His short brown hair was singed even shorter, with little lighter brown burned hairs littering his shoulders like dandruff. The three of them stood together at one end of the room, where they were joined by a small number of security officers in suits, whose job it was to protect the interests of Greencorps in the U.K. They looked like security men the world over: alert, poised, watchful. Each of them—Wing counted eight—had cropped hair and an earpiece. They looked suspiciously at the new arrivals, but Van Den Hauwe made the pecking order very clear.
“This is Roshanna Wing. She reports directly to Mr. Revere and me. She takes instructions from us and gives them to you. I’m sure you all understand that. She will tell you more about what—and who—we are trying to locate. Some context from me, and then I’ll leave it to Roshanna. Time is not on our side.” The Dutchman paused, looking uncertain for a moment, then continued. “It is possible the whole of our industry is threatened by these rocks. Therefore Greencorps is threatened—your jobs, and your futures, are threatened. A former colleague has already been taken into custody, we understand. We won’t be seeing him for a while. Find the rocks, gentlemen. Failing that, make sure the agents of the British government don’t get hold of them.” He smiled. “It’s as easy as that. Best of luck.” The screen went blank.
Roshanna Wing turned to address the men, who were now looking at her. “In the last few minutes we’ve picked up reports indicating that former Greencorps chemist, Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew, has been taken into custody by the police in Hammersmith. It appears he was drugged, and the two kids ran off with the rocks toward Hammersmith Station. Let us assume they are heading for one of the mainline stations or possibly Heathrow. We need at least one agent in every station. We are looking for a needle in a haystack, but two tall teenagers carrying a backpack and a large canvas bag between them is at least something to go on. It is likely that there will be others looking for them. We think Flowerdew was in London to trade—almost certainly with one of the Nigerian outfits you have faced before. They will want these rocks very, very badly and will stop at nothing to get them. However, as you heard from Mr. Van Den Hauwe, even this is preferable to the British police or MI6 getting them. Use force only as a last resort—usual Greencorps protocol applies. Brad Collins here will tell you where you are going. Reports to me, please. Now go.”