“I’m not sure, but he was last heard of in Africa, and this note he sent you confirms that he’s trying to contact me. He’s laying a trail for me. Sayid, listen, mate, you’ve got to keep this to yourself. I mean, things are pretty bad…. I didn’t just wander into the Danger Zone tonight. I was running from a bloke who was trying to kill me.”
Sayid Khalif knew the gut-wrenching fear that assassins had brought into his own life. Only he and his mother had survived an attack in Saudi Arabia, and if Max and his dad were targets then he felt the fear as keenly as Max. “I won’t say a word, promise.”
“Not even to your mum.”
“Especially not Mum, she’d be frantic for you and your dad.”
“Thanks. Right, well, I reckon that once I’ve opened my box in the vault tomorrow morning I’ll be off. My guess is Dad has left me another clue in there.”
“You leave school, and Mum’ll find out your dad’s missing.”
“No, Mr. Jackson will tell everyone it’s compassionate leave, that Dad’s sick or something. Don’t tell her the truth, Sayid, I’m already putting you in danger by telling you.”
“I could come with you.”
“No you couldn’t. Besides, I’ll need someone back here I can trust. Can you sort something out computer- wise, a decent code system or something? Then you can act as my backup.”
When it came to computer science and technology, it was Sayid everyone turned to. He’d come close to causing a major scandal and a national security alert when he hacked into the Ministry of Defense’s computer system which the government had paid hundreds of millions to create. Their computer analysts had chased Sayid through a labyrinth of code and almost got to him, before he led them down a dead end with a trapdoor and self- destructed his whole program. Had they caught him, the repercussions would have been enormous: a fourteen- year-old kid from Saudi, inside the heart of the British defense security system! Only he and Max knew about it. That was a secret worthy of real friendship.
“I’ll be here. I’ll set up a rerouting system so any message you send will be hard to trace.”
“Make that ‘impossible to trace,’ Sayid. My life might depend on it.”
3
The vault was one hundred and thirty-three steps below the ground floor. It was amazingly dry and damp- free because the granite walls were so thick and the warm air from the geothermal heating unit was channeled into the school from beneath there. Mr. Jackson stood back a respectful distance as Max opened his safe-deposit box. The envelope inside was security-stamped and tagged with a tamper-proof clip. Max tore open the envelope. Inside was a USB memory-stick MP3 player that would hold his father’s message. Max’s passport was there, a credit card with a PIN and account number and what looked like a couple of thousand pounds in cash. There was also a lawyer’s letter, which stated that Max’s father had few assets other than the country cottage in France; his dad always rented a furnished apartment during his brief stays in London. All of which, Max realized, meant he was pretty much broke and that Max’s legal guardian was to be someone in Toronto whom he had never heard of-Jack Ellerman. Max looked again at the packet that held the envelope with the money and credit card. But if Dad was stony broke, what was all this about? Then he saw the symbol on the envelope: a small drawing of an Egyptian hieroglyphic-the jackal-headed figure of Anubis, god of the underworld. Underworld. Hidden from view. His dad was sending him a message to hide the contents of the envelope. Max pushed the money and the credit card under his jacket and then turned. Mr. Jackson was right behind him, had he seen Max hide the envelope?
“Everything all right, Max?”
Max held up the USB player and the letter. “Seems Dad’s broke and he’s sending me somewhere I really don’t want to go.”
Mr. Jackson put a protective arm around Max as he read the letter from the lawyer. “I see. Well, that’s why we hold a parents’ contingency fund. We’ll arrange that ticket for you. But there’ll be enough in your school trust fund to cover the rest of this term; we wouldn’t force you to leave. We can make a plan, Max. A lot of the boys have scholarships to be here.”
Max smiled gratefully, but shook his head. “Once I’ve heard Dad’s message I suppose I’d better do as he asks.”
They started their long walk up from the vault-ascending from the underworld-and Max remembered that Anubis was also the Egyptian god of the dead.
* * *
Max said his goodbyes to Sayid and his mother, then Mr. Peterson drove him to the station for the London train. Three hours later, he was in London, a modest-sized rucksack on his back with everything he needed-which was little more than a change of clothes. He’d listened to his dad’s voice on the recording three times, but it was only twenty minutes’ worth. There were no clues, no hint as to what his dad might have expected to happen to him. It was mostly about Mum and how much they’d always loved him, and how his dad hoped that the school had been the right choice … how much he missed Max. It was all a bit vague. But his father’s secret message on the envelope made Max extra cautious.
When Max got off the intercity train, he turned as if making for the Heathrow Express platform, but then he cut around a fast-food stand and backtracked, towards the short tunnel that led to the taxi rank. There was a long queue but he lingered for a while, casually watching to see if anyone was following him. Then he moved quickly back inside the building and went down to the tube station. He kept looking; there didn’t seem to be anyone familiar, but then he saw a man in his twenties-quite scruffy, possibly a musician or art student, listening to his iPod. His rough-cut hair and worn clothes blended in well, but Max noticed that he was wearing a pretty expensive- looking watch, which he checked frequently. Max suddenly realized that he had seen him hanging around the Heathrow train platform.
Max squeezed into the carriage and the iPod man, using another door, got into the same one.
His senses now sharpened, Max looked up and down the carriage, through the connecting doors. He noticed a middle-aged woman, quite smartly dressed, her expensive fashion bag over her shoulder. Max realized she had been about ten places in front of him in the taxi queue.
Someone must be after something he had. But what? Why would they have tried to kill him on Dartmoor if he had something important they wanted? It made no sense. Not yet, anyway. The important thing now was to make sure no one followed him to his father’s contact.
When the train arrived at Charing Cross Underground station there was the usual push-and-shove as those on the crowded platform tried to get on board. Max watched. iPod Man was trying to observe him, looking sideways so there was no direct eye contact. And Smart Bag Woman was doing the same. Half a dozen people managed to squeeze in just as Max pressed towards the doors and the throng on the platform. The doors were closing when he shouldered his way through, and as his feet touched the platform he turned and saw the man and woman push their way out. So, they
As the train pulled away he saw the look of surprise and panic on his watchers’ faces. He’d beaten them. How many more were there to get past before he could reach Farentino?
Outside the National Gallery he jumped on a tour bus full of foreign tourists and took a seat upstairs in the open-topped Routemaster. It was too cold for most people, but he wanted a clear view to see if he was still being followed-besides, he didn’t mind the cold; he was used to it.
As the bus made its way along the Embankment, the Thames seemed to be flowing faster than the traffic, so he jumped off, sprinted up the steps near the Courtauld Institute, dodged across the traffic snarled up in the Strand and into the fringe of Soho. At last he felt sure he had put enough distance between himself and whatever teams of
