21
“Satan’s Angels,” Kallie’s dad had called the Russian attack helicopters when he fought in the war, and now Kallie was convinced that the black, fast-moving helicopter on the horizon might be closely related to one of them. She was certain it was homed in on her.
Kallie had flown a zigzag route, following trucks from Walvis Bay into the desert. Beneath the clouds of dust a dozen containers were being transported every couple of hours, all of them in convoy, all heading south of the dam project, all disappearing into a huge underground bunker, its entrance like the gaping hole of a vast underground parking garage. It was time to get out of there and report to someone. She just didn’t know who. Mike Kapuo seemed to be in the pay of Peterson in England, and she couldn’t reach Sayid. But her sense of helplessness was shooed away like tumbleweed in a gathering storm when she saw that black bug getting ever closer.
She kicked the rudder pedal and turned the controls into a steep bank, down and away.
Time to hide.
Angelo Farentino’s cigar burned slowly in the ashtray. Another few minutes and it would go out, leaving only ash, and Angelo, aware of the beautiful handwoven Persian rug, did not want the ash to fall and blemish the carpet. Hours ago, he had gazed from the window of his town house-cum-office in Soho Square and noticed the subtle shift of people in the street outside. The gas main van that had set up its barriers around a manhole cover was the first giveaway. There were no gas mains here, and the barriers had been placed around a water inspection manhole. A furniture removal van had stood, causing misery for drivers around the square, and showed no signs of being loaded or unloaded. A big mistake his enemies made was to replace the ugly traffic warden, a man notorious for his relentless issuing of tickets, with a very attractive young woman who looked superfit and who seemed to let drivers stay long overdue, when they should have been towed away. And their fourth and final mistake was to underestimate Angelo Farentino.
His exit strategy had been in place long before anything in this present situation turned ugly. As the gas mains worker gave the “go” into his radio, and his partner the traffic warden moved quickly to Farentino’s front door, half a dozen rough-looking men sprang out of the furniture lorry and covered all the exits. The street was blocked off, the black-gloss front door was smashed open and the gang burst into the beautifully cool, timelessly stylish house. And as the door was smashed open, the last of the cold ash from the cigar fell neatly into the crystal-cut ashtray.
Exactly as Farentino had intended.
Several hours before Max managed to send the vital information, Sayid felt as though the can of worms he’d opened had turned into a barrel of snakes. They were in the headmaster’s room and Mr. Jackson stood, quietly observing from the fireplace, hands shoved into the pockets of his corduroys. Sayid sat with his mother on the creased sofa, with Mr. Peterson opposite them. The uniformed village policewoman had been ushered from the room by both a Detective Chief Inspector of the Devon and Cornwall CID and a regional member of Special Branch. The village Special Constable was a speck in the universe compared to the people who now filled Mr. Jackson’s room.
Sayid watched a couple of men from London: cool-dude number one, in tailored jeans and casual jacket, slightly built but with a look of danger about him; he gazed back without blinking, without a smile on his face-in fact, no one in the room was smiling. A surfer cool-dude, number two, looked as though his feet should be curled over a long board, not jammed into the very expensive trainers he wore. This unlikely pair was MI6. Not exactly the way Sayid imagined Secret Intelligence Service types would look.
And Mr. Peterson, he was the biggest surprise of all.
“Listen, Sayid, what you did was exactly right. A hundred percent,” Mr. Peterson said.
“I’m not in trouble?” Sayid asked.
“MI6 aren’t too happy,” Peterson said, looking at cooldudes one and two, “but I can square it away. Besides, if it wasn’t for you, things could be a lot worse.”
“I thought you were one of the bad guys, and when I listened in on your phone call it sounded as though you were out to get Max, his dad and Angelo Farentino.”
“OK. Briefly, this is how it is.”
Mr. Peterson spelled it out quickly and without fuss. He left out a lot of background information, but the important bits fell quickly into place. He had once served in the army, where he met Max’s dad. They were both adventurers and became firm friends. That was why he had those paintings of the mountains by Max’s dad on his wall. When they left the army, they worked for a government department-not MI6 or MI5, but they were trained by those people and often passed on relevant information to them. The easiest way of explaining it was to say that they were international watchdogs. Anyone-big business, corrupt governments, illegal trading of weapons, destruction of natural resources or threat to endangered species, anything they found that could cause irreparable damage-they tried to stop. But Tom Gordon and his wife, when she was alive, and Peterson with a whole bunch of others realized they could never do their job properly as government employees. So, together with similarly minded scientists, they took on the problems themselves. And there were times when governments used them when they themselves did not wish to be seen to be involved.
It was a win-win situation. And the phone call Sayid heard was Peterson asking for help from MI6-for favors owed. When Tom Gordon took on the investigation in Namibia, there were already signs that it could be extremely dangerous. Peterson had only been at Dartmoor High for a few months and he was working there undercover.
To protect Max.
What he didn’t have was access to the message Tom Gordon had left Max in the vault or the letters Sayid had delivered privately to his best mate. What Tom Gordon hadn’t known was that Peterson had moved in to keep an eye on his son.
“But Angelo Farentino was there to help Max. That’s what his dad’s message meant,” Sayid said.
“No, it was a message warning him against Farentino. I think Max’s dad had realized just who was behind everything-had been for years. A perfect secret life: pretending to be a major environmentalist, but in reality building up a huge power base. I thought Max was really going to Canada, but when I found out he’d gone to Africa, and someone had tried to kill him at the airport, that’s when I knew Farentino must have been involved.”
“I warned Farentino he was being watched.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“But he got away.”
“We’ll find him.”
A scruffy bloke, about twenty-four years old, wearing a V-neck sweater over a T-shirt and ripped designer jeans, flung open the door. Dr. Lee Mathews, an IT expert, had been monitoring Sayid’s computer. “Nothing from Max Gordon, but we’ve had contact from Namibia. Some kid called Kallie van Reenen.” He handed Mr. Peterson a printout. “I patched it through to my guv’nor. UK Eyes Only,” he said.
Sayid stared at the computer whiz-kid. Everyone seemed to be really important around here. And Sayid knew that “UK Eyes Only” meant that this message was destined for the top: the prime minister, the foreign secretary and the head of MI6.
Then it all happened in a hurry. Everyone seemed to know what to do the moment Peterson said, “We’re going. It’s on.”
Cool-dudes one and two had cell phones to their ears in a split second, doors opened, running feet echoed down the corridor. Sayid was almost manhandled by Mr. Peterson as he barreled down the corridor. He’d nodded to Mr. Jackson, who had moved quickly to Sayid’s mother and put a comforting arm around her as her son was whisked away.
“Mr. Peterson! What’s happening?” Sayid asked. “What about Max?”
They were through the doors, and Sayid saw and heard the military helicopter on the school’s rugby pitch. A couple of armed soldiers were waiting, and they slid the helicopter’s door open as Mr. Peterson’s voice rose above
