Dragana Novak gazed curiously at the boy lying on the floor, in the corner. She wished now that he had told her his name before she killed him. Not that it mattered, really, but she was curious. Certainly, he had deserved to die. It wasn’t just that he was an intruder, creeping into her cabin in the middle of the night. He had woken her up! It was particularly annoying, as she had gone to bed with a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed.
She had spent the day shopping in Saint-Tropez. After the drabness of her life in Serbia, she felt she had come alive in the South of France: the sunshine, the bright colours, the shops so full of beautiful things. The pink nightie she was wearing had cost two hundred euros, an incredible sum of money – more than a month’s salary back home. After that, she’d had lunch in a busy restaurant near the seafront. Unfortunately, she had drunk too much wine. The third bottle was definitely a mistake and she had felt quite giddy as she had climbed into the taxi which had taken her back to Quicksilver. She had eaten some chocolates and then collapsed gratefully into bed, falling asleep almost at once.
Who was the boy? And how had the guards let him get past them? Dragana decided that he must be carrying some sort of ID and she would check it before she called them down.
Alex heard the bedsprings creak as the woman stood up. He was lying exactly how he had fallen, his arms and legs splayed, his head to one side. His eyes were closed but he took the risk and opened them just enough so that he could see her coming towards him. He had to know exactly where she was.
She had the most hideous feet. Her toes were stumpy with the sort of nails – thick and yellow – he would expect to see on an elderly man. He could just make out the hem of her nightie. Her lower legs reminded him of joints in a butcher’s shop. Her heel was a lump of dead skin.
Alex was alive because of a combination of luck and trickery. The luck was his wallet and passport in the inside pocket of his jacket. They might just have been thick enough to provide a shield for a bullet. Certainly they had protected him from the dart which, he guessed, must be tipped with some sort of poison. But he’d had to trick the woman too – and he’d done it using something else that he’d once learned from his uncle, Ian Rider. The power of suggestion, Alex. It’s what stage magicians use. They make you think you’ve got a free choice but actually they’re secretly influencing you. That’s what Alex had remembered in the moments before the woman had fired. He had told her to have a heart. A moment later, he had repeated it, “Cross my heart.” When he was pleading with her, he had deliberately tapped his chest. In reality, he was telling her where to aim and, just to be sure, he had turned his body so that the target was obvious. And she had obliged. The tip of the dart hadn’t come anywhere near his flesh. After that, it was simply a case of pretending, providing her with what she expected to see.
The woman was standing over him. Alex didn’t move. He tried not to breathe. She was still holding the gun and it might hold a second needle. He could actually feel the weight of her, pressing down on the floor as she caught her breath. Now he could smell her. She had soaked herself in expensive perfume, presumably bought in Saint-Tropez, and smelled like a flower shop on a hot day. There was a rustle of material as she bent down towards him and that was when Alex knew he had to act. In an instant, his entire body sprang to life. His shoulders crashed into the side of her leg and at the same time, he whipped a hand round her ankle and pulled with all his strength. The woman cried out, losing her balance. Alex rose up, still holding her ankle. The woman struggled, her arms flailing. For a moment her eyes blazed into him. Her mouth was a snarl of rage. Then she toppled backwards.
He had hoped she would hit the floor but for once things didn’t go his way. Her head and shoulders slammed into the bed – and the mattress had the effect of a trampoline, bouncing her up again, back onto him. It was the last thing Alex had been expecting. With a cry of triumph, she launched herself at him, her hands reaching for his throat, and now the two of them fell together. Alex felt the breath being driven out of his lungs as she landed on top of him. He had twisted to one side to stop the needle being pushed through the wallet and the passport but he knew at once that it was the least of his problems.
She was strangling him. The pupils were dancing in her eyes and her lips were stretched in a smile as she used her weight to press him down, her hands gripping tighter and tighter. Alex could see the chocolate smeared on her teeth. Desperately, he reached up, grabbed the needle and pulled it out. He could use it against her. But Dragana had been waiting for the move. She released his throat with one hand and lashed out. The needle was sent spinning away. Dragana giggled and began to strangle him again.
Alex couldn’t breathe. The edges of the room were going dark. He stretched out his hands, searching across the carpet for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. He could no longer see her face. She was going in and out of focus. He had perhaps seconds left. And then his fingers caught hold of something. A wire. His brain was shutting down and it took him a moment to work out what it was. The wire was connected to the bedside light. He pulled and it came crashing down. Somehow his fingers closed around the metal base. With the very last of his strength, he swung it into the side of the woman’s head. He felt metal connect with bone. There was a satisfying clunk and a flash as the bulb shattered. Dragana keeled over and lay still.
It had been very close. Alex tore the woman’s hands from him and backed away, gasping for breath. His throat felt as if it had been through a mangle. He found a plastic bottle of water on a table, tore off the top and forced himself to drink. Gradually, some of the pain subsided. He waited until he could breathe properly again. Finally, he snatched his mobile off the floor, checked it was still working and slid it into his pocket. Only then did he set to work.
Alex was desperate to search the boat. There was every chance that Jack was in the other cabin or in the crew’s quarters below. But first he had to deal with the woman who had just tried to kill him. He examined her briefly. She was lying in a heap, glass fragments in her hair, breathing heavily. Alex went over to the bed, pulled off the top sheet and, using his teeth, tore it into strips. He was worried that the guards would come. Surely they must have heard the struggle, the moment when the lamp fell to the floor. They might discover the pool of water and come down anyway. He would just have to risk it. Using the strips, he tied the woman’s hands and feet. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to wake up. Good. That gave him a bit of time
He found the poison dart and laid it gently on the bedside table. Then he searched the room. The woman had been shopping. There were new clothes and expensive-looking shopping bags everywhere. A half-eaten box of chocolates lay on a table on the other side of the bed and there were chocolate marks on the pillow. She had been reading a fashion magazine. It was resting on top of the bed next to a map of the UK. It showed the towns of Oxford, Cheltenham and Stratford-upon-Avon.
Alex heard a low groan. The woman had woken up. He snatched the dart and went over to her just as her eyes flickered open, staring at him with anger and disbelief.
“Malo kopile! Ubit c’u te!” She realized that she couldn’t move her arms or her legs and swore at him in a language that he didn’t recognize. Her face was ashen grey and there was a nasty bruise forming where she had been hit with the lamp. The nightie had bunched up around her. All in all, she reminded Alex of a potato wrapped in a pink handkerchief.
He showed her the dart. Squatting, he brought it close to her neck. “What is your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She tried to spit at him. Alex pressed the tip of the dart against her throat so that it almost pricked her skin. “Tell me your name,” he said, quietly.
She could feel the tip of the needle and her eyes widened. “Dragana Novak!” She hissed the words at him.
“Where is Jack Starbright?” Alex demanded. She didn’t seem to understand, so he repeated the question. “Where?”
Dragana was close to fainting. There was a terrible throbbing in her head. She felt the needle against her skin and shuddered with fear. Could this really have happened to her? This was just a child but there was a sort of ferocity about him that she had never seen before. “I don’t know this person,” she rasped.
“You’re lying.” Alex pushed the dart a little harder. “You’ve got a map of England on the bed. Is that where Jack is? In one of these towns?”
“No! No! I don’t know who you’re talking about. I haven’t seen him.”
I haven’t seen him. Alex knew she was telling the truth because of that last word. She didn’t know that Jack was actually a woman, so the two of them couldn’t have met. Conscious that the seconds were ticking away, that the guards might still arrive, Alex tried another approach. “Who owns this boat?” he demanded. “Is it the Grimaldi brothers? Where can I find them?”
“I’m not telling you. I tell you nothing!” She glared at him defiantly.
Alex examined the tip of the dart. “What is this dipped in?” he asked. “Is it cyanide or something? Why don’t we find out?”
“They will kill you!” Dragana grinned. “You will never get off this boat. They will find you and they will make you pay, I promise you. They are coming now!”
It was true. Alex heard someone shouting from above. Either the guards had discovered his footprints or they had heard the brief fight. One of them called out her name.
Dragana opened her mouth to reply but Alex was ready for her. He had another piece of the sheet and before she could say anything he shoved it between her lips and behind her neck, tying the ends to gag her. The grey eyes stared at him with all the hatred in the world. Alex stood up, taking one last look around the cabin. There was nothing else here, nothing to help him. He wanted the gun but he couldn’t see it. She had been carrying it when she left the bed. It must have flown out of her hand as she fell. Never mind. It might not have been loaded and he wouldn’t have been sure how to use it anyway. He heard another shout from above. There was no time left. He had to go.
He slipped out of the cabin and back down the corridor, heading the way he had come. The staircase was ahead of him. As he moved forward, lamps came on all around him throwing a soft light that reflected off the polished walls. Did the guards know he was here? Were they already looking for him?
The questions were answered almost at once. Alex reached the top of the stairs just as the two men entered the dining-room. They had taken off their sunglasses to reveal the hard, narrow eyes of trained killers. The bald man was screwing a silencer onto an automatic pistol. Alex noticed the red flame tattoo on the back of his hand. The other one took out his gun and did the same. The two of them saw Alex at the same moment as he saw them. As one, in a single movement, they raised their weapons. Alex turned and plunged back down the stairs as a fan of bullets flashed soundlessly over his shoulders, spitting and snapping into the walls.
They came after him at once, chasing round the table, but the great wooden surface provided Alex with cover. Earlier, when he was in the dining-room, he had pulled out some of the white leather chairs and now they formed a barrier, forcing the two men to continue round the other side, closer to the kitchen. It was exactly what Alex wanted. It was what he had planned.
Neither of the two men saw the length of string about six inches above the floor, stretching out from the dining-room table and disappearing through the open door and into the galley. Neither of them could have known that the end of the string was tied round a large kitchen match, which in turn was tied to a matchbox, the whole thing taped to one leg of the kitchen table. It was the simplest, the clumsiest of booby traps but it was all Alex had been able to rig together in the time he had been given. Pulling the string dragged the match across the striking surface of the matchbox, causing it to spark.
There was more. Before he had left the kitchen, Alex had turned on all the switches on the oven. It was powered by highly flammable butane gas and the rings had been hissing away as he had continued downstairs for his encounter with Dragana. That was at least ten minutes ago. By now, the kitchen was full of gas.
The single spark ignited it. The second explosion of the evening was very different from the one that the two men had seen outside. It was as if the very air had caught fire. There was no loud bang, just the sound that an enormous paper bag might make when it was crumpled. At the same time, a strange, blue fireball came rushing out of the kitchen, utterly devouring them. They both screamed and reeled backwards, crashing into each other. The whole of the bald man’s head seemed to have caught fire. Dropping his gun, he slapped himself again and again, the red flame tattoo on his hand now battling against the real thing. The other man had thrown himself down. He was rolling over and over on the carpet, his clothes blazing. The bald man didn’t try to help him. For a moment he stood where he was. There were tears streaming from his eyes and red scorch marks over the bridge of his nose. With something between a snarl and a sob, he snatched up his gun and launched himself after Alex.
The automatic sprinkler system had been activated, putting out the fire, and as Alex hurtled down the stairs and along the corridor, he found himself fighting his way through a haze of falling water. He glanced back over his shoulder. It was difficult to see. The water was like a screen. Even now he wondered if he might have time to search the last cabin. No. It was out of the question. If either of the two men caught up with him, they would kill him. He had to get out of here.
He knew what he was looking for. He had glimpsed it on the way down and there it was straight ahead of him: a glass door with a staircase on the other side, leading back up onto the main deck. Alex reached for the handle and pressed. That was when he discovered that it was locked. It was the last thing he had been expecting. Because the door was glass, because it only led to a flight of steps, he had assumed it would be open. What now? He saw a fire extinguisher on one of the walls. He could use it to smash the glass. He reached out, water from the sprinklers splattering onto his head and running down his neck and shoulders.
“Arrête!”
The single word came from the end of the corridor. Alex twisted round and saw the bald man who had reached the bottom of the stairs at the other end. His face was streaked with red. Both his eyebrows seemed to be missing and his eyes were angrier than ever. Water was dripping off his chin. He had his gun and he was taking careful aim. In the distance, Alex heard police sirens. That was hardly surprising. There had been two explosions. The local police must have thought that war was breaking out.
There was no way they were going to get here in time. The bald man was going to shoot him. Alex saw that. Furious, in pain, he was going to pay him back for what he had done and then get rid of the body before the police arrived. Alex had nowhere to hide. He was trapped in a narrow corridor with the locked, glass door behind him, the other cabins on his left and right, and the bald man no more than ten paces away. At this range, even with the clouds of water still cascading down, it would be impossible to miss.
Three things happened at once.
Alex lunged for the fire extinguisher. He wasn’t just going to stand there, an easy target. He would go out fighting.
The bald man fired.
And one of the cabin doors burst open. Dragana Novak had managed to free herself. She had picked up her poison gun. She had come searching for Alex.
Screaming, her eyes bulging, she ran into the corridor just as the bullet spat its short distance towards him. She was blocking the way. Alex saw it hit her in the shoulder. She span round, the gun flying out of her hand. Outside, the first police car drew up. Alex actually heard the screech of tyres on the quayside. He had his hands round the fire extinguisher. He wrenched it off the wall and smashed it into the door, which shattered completely, the pieces falling like a curtain that has been cut in half. Dragana was still on her feet, between him and the bald man – who couldn’t risk a second shot in case he hit her again.
Alex was already on his way, bounding up the staircase three steps at a time. Two more bullets ricocheted close to his head and he knew that it wasn’t over yet. He burst out onto the deck, which was now flashing blue-white in the reflected light of a police car. He saw it, parked on the quay. Two uniformed officers were making their way up the ramp. A second police car was tearing through the darkness towards the boat.
He didn’t wait to be seen. If he fell into the hands of the French police, it would all be over for him. Mrs Jones would find out that he hadn’t left and he would be on the next flight out … probably in handcuffs. Without breaking pace, he dived over the edge, his arms outstretched, breaking cleanly through the surface of the water and disappearing into the night-black depths below. He had taken a deep breath as he went and he swam as far as he could – at least ten strokes – before he came up for air. Fortunately, his dive had been almost silent. Nobody had heard or seen him. Looking back, treading water, he saw at least a dozen policemen swarming onto the deck of the superyacht. There were people shouting. Crowds were pouring out of the restaurants to see what was going on.
There was no point staying here. The water was cold and covered with a thin sheen of oil. Alex realized that he would have to buy fresh clothes as soon as the shops opened in the morning. He turned round and began to swim away. As he went, he summed up the evening. On the face of it, he couldn’t say it had been a great success.
He had lost his computer and he hadn’t found Jack. He had also left a calling card, which would warn the enemy that he was close to them. From now on, they would take extra precautions. Nor did he know where the Grimaldis were hiding. He couldn’t even be sure they were in Saint-Tropez.
But in a way, none of that mattered.
He knew what he was going to do next.