desperation had perfected his aim. The banderilla turned once in the air, then buried itself in Franco's shoulder. Franco screamed. The point wasn't long enough to kill him, but the barbed hook kept the banderilla in place, making it impossible to pull out.
Blood spread along the sleeve of his suit.
The whole arena was in an uproar. The crowd had never seen anything like this. Alex continued running. He saw the bull free itself from the red cape. It was already searching for him, determined to take its revenge.
Take your revenge another day, Alex thought. I have no quarrel with you.
He had reached the barrera and leapt up, grabbed the top and pulled himself over. Franco was too shocked and in too much pain to react; anyway, he had been surrounded by onlookers trying to help. He would never have been able to produce his gun and take aim. Everybody seemed to be on the edge of panic. The president signalled furiously and the band struck up again, but the musicians all began at different times and none of them played the same tune.
One of the men in jeans and black shirts sprinted towards Alex, shouting something in French.
Alex ignored him. He hit the ground and ran.
At the very moment that Alex shot out into the night, the storm broke. The rain fell like an ocean thrown from the sky. It crashed into the town, splattered off the pavements and formed instant rivers that raced along the gutters and overwhelmed the drains. There was no thunder. Just this avalanche of water that threatened to drown the world.
Alex didn't stop. In seconds his hair was soaked. Water ran in rivulets down his face and he could barely see. As he ran he tore off the outer parts of the matador's costume, first the hat, then the jacket and tie, throwing each item away, leaving their memory behind.
The sea was on his left, the water black and boiling as it was hit by the rain. Alex twisted off the road and felt sand beneath his feet. He was on the beach—the same beach where he had been lying with Sabina when all this began. The sea wall and the jetty were beyond it.
He leapt onto the sea wall and climbed the heavy boulders. His shirt hung out of his trousers; it was already sodden, clinging to his chest.
Yassen's boat had left.
Alex couldn't be sure, but he thought he could see a vague shape disappearing into the darkness and the rain and he knew that he must have missed it by seconds. He stopped, panting. What had he been thinking of anyway? If the Fer de Lance had still been there, would he really have climbed aboard a second time? Of course not. He had been lucky to survive the first attempt. He had come here just in time to see it leave and he had learnt nothing.
No.
There was something.
Alex stood there for a few more moments with the rain streaming down his face, then turned and walked back into the town.
He found the phone box in a street just behind the main church. He had no money so was forced to make a reverse charge call and he wondered if it would be accepted. He dialled the operator and gave the number that he had found and memorized in Yassen's mobile phone.
“Who is speaking?” the operator asked.
Alex hesitated. Then… “My name is Yassen Gregorovich,” he said.
There was a long silence as the connection was made. Would anyone even answer? England was an hour behind France but it was still late at night.
The rain was falling more lightly now, pattering on the glass roof of the phone box. Alex waited.
Then the operator came back on.
“Your call has been accepted, monsieur. Please go ahead…” More silence. Then a voice. It spoke just two words.
“Damian Cray.”
Alex said nothing.
The voice spoke again. “Hello? Who is this?”
Alex was shivering. Maybe it was the rain; maybe it was a reaction to everything that had happened. He couldn't speak. He heard the man breathing at the end of the line.
Then there was a click and the phone went dead.
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCE
« ^ »
ondon greeted Alex like an old and reliable friend. Red buses, black cabs, blue-uniformed policemen and grey clouds … could he be anywhere else? Walking down the King's Road, he felt a million miles from the Camargue—not just home, but back in the real world. The side of his stomach was still sore and he could feel the pressure of the bandage against his skin, but otherwise Yassen and the bullfight were already slipping into the distant past.
He stopped outside a bookshop which, like so many of them, advertised itself with the wafting smell of coffee. He paused for a moment, then went in.
He quickly found what he was looking for. There were three books on Damian Cray in the biography section. Two of these were hardly books at all—more glossy brochures put out by record companies to promote the man who had made them so many millions. The first was called Damian Cray—Live! It was stacked next to a book called Cray-zee! The Life and Times of Damian Cray. The same face stared out from the covers. Jet-black hair cut short like a schoolboy's. A very round face with prominent cheeks and brilliant green eyes. A small nose, almost too exactly placed right in the middle. Thick lips and perfect white teeth.
The third book had been written quite a few years later. The face was a little older, the eyes hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, and this Damian Cray was climbing out of a white Rolls-Royce, wearing a Versace suit and tie. The title of the book showed what else had changed: Sir Damian Cray: The Man, The Music, The Millions. Alex glanced at the first page, but the heavy, complicated prose soon put him off. It seemed to have been written by someone who probably read the Financial Times for laughs.
In the end he didn't buy any of the books. He wanted to know more about Cray, but he didn't think these books would tell him anything he didn't know already. And certainly not why Cray's private telephone number had been on the mobile phone of a hired assassin.
Alex walked back through Chelsea, turning off down the pretty, white-fronted street where his uncle, Ian Rider, had lived. He now shared the house with Jack Starbright, an American girl who had once been the housekeeper but had since become his legal guardian and closest friend. She was the reason Alex had first agreed to work for MI6. He had been sent undercover to spy on Herod Sayle and his Stormbreaker computers. In return she had been given a visa which allowed her to stay in London and look after him.
She was waiting for him in the kitchen when he got in. He had agreed to be back by one and she had thrown together a quick lunch. Jack was a good cook but refused to make anything that took longer than ten minutes. She was twenty-eight years old, slim, with tangled red hair and the sort of face that couldn't help being cheerful, even when she was in a bad mood. “Had a good morning?” she asked as he came in. “Yes.” Alex sat down slowly, holding his side. Jack noticed but said nothing. “I hope you're hungry,” she went on. “What's for lunch?” “Stir- fry.”
“It smells good.”
“It's an old Chinese recipe. At least, that's what it said on the packet. Help yourself to some Coke and I'll serve up.”
The food was good and Alex tried to eat, but the truth was that he had no appetite and he soon gave up. Jack said nothing as he carried his half-finished plate over to the sink, but then she suddenly turned round.
“Alex, you can't keep blaming yourself for what happened in France.” Alex had been about to leave the kitchen but now he returned to the table.
“It's about time you and I talked about this,” Jack went on. “In fact, it's time we talked about everything!” She pushed her own plate of food away and waited until Alex had sat down. “All right. So it turns out that your uncle—Ian—wasn't a bank manager. He was a spy. Well, it would have been nice if he'd mentioned it to me, but it's too late now because he's gone and got himself killed, which leaves me stuck here, looking after you.” She quickly held up a hand. “I didn't mean that. I love being here. I love London. I even love you.
“But you're not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three
