Max barreled into the dark bulk of one of them. The man cried out, swore, kicked and squirmed and grabbed Max’s ankle. Max couldn’t recover; someone else pinioned him, and his breath got knocked out of him. Something deep inside him exploded, a surge of power; an animal cry echoed through his mind as he gulped air and twisted free, slamming a third man in the chest as he leapt like a wolf.
Then he was gone into the storm with long, open strides, feet barely touching the ground, carrying him into the darkness.
2
“We seem to be out of chocolate biscuits,” Mr. Jackson apologized as he poured hot water into cups. “And it’s only instant, I’m afraid,” he said, handing the scalding mugs of coffee to the two men. He wanted them out of his school as soon as possible and had no intention of making them comfortable. “Now, where’s the sugar? I’m sure these boys sneak in here and help themselves.”
The two MI5 officers were in no mood for hospitality either. Stanton cursed under his breath as the hot liquid spilled. “We’re hoping Max Gordon can help us with information,” he said testily.
“I have to say,” Mr. Jackson said quietly, “that I don’t quite understand how the suicide of a former pupil on the London Underground can involve either this country’s Security Service or Max Gordon. Danny Maguire left here when he was eighteen, and that was well over a year ago, closer to two, in fact. He certainly hasn’t been in contact with anyone here, as far as I know.”
Drew quietly inhaled to ease his impatience. This was supposed to be a straightforward “get in, check the kid and get out” inquiry. And here they were, sitting in overstuffed chairs in front of a blazing log fire in a room crammed with so many books it looked like a country-house library. Fergus Jackson seemed to have a cozy number here, probably whiling away his days until retirement. Soft, cosseted academics. What did they know about the real world?
“Police agencies in South America picked up a flagged word a few months ago during a regular intel sweep of Internet traffic,” he said.
“Intel?” Mr. Jackson asked, looking perplexed, knowing full well what the word meant.
“Intelligence,” Stanton replied. “Look, Mr. Jackson. This is just a routine inquiry. If we could just speak to Max Gordon …”
“I wish I could help, I really do, but he’s on holiday. Half-term. He’s not here. He went to Italy with a friend and his parents,” Mr. Jackson lied. “But what kind of intelligence?” he asked, trying to momentarily divert interest away from Max.
The man answered patiently, humoring Jackson, not wishing to appear too eager to get to Max Gordon. “We think Danny Maguire might have been involved in drug smuggling.”
“Rubbish!” Mr. Jackson couldn’t hold back his incredulity. “Maguire? The boy barely took a headache pill when he was here.”
“I didn’t say he was taking drugs but that he might have been trafficking them. So, if we could at least have a look at Gordon’s room?”
“Of course. What a shocking business. We will endeavor to assist your inquiries as far as possible. Drug smuggling. Who’d have thought it?”
The men stood in anticipation, pleased at last to get past this dithering idiot of a headmaster. The phone rang. Mr. Jackson raised a hand to settle them back down again. He pressed a button. “Yes?”
“It’s Khalif, sir,” Sayid’s voice said into the room.
“I’m very busy on important business, boy. I don’t want to be disturbed. What is it?”
“Matron says that Harry Clark has cut his foot on broken glass.”
“Well, tell her to deal with it. I’m not a doctor. It’s what we pay her for,” Mr. Jackson said, convincingly grumpy.
“She said you might have to call an ambulance.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Very well, I’ll be right there.”
Mr. Jackson ended the call. “This’ll take only a minute,” he said apologetically. “There are some macaroons in that jar. Do help yourselves.”
Moments later he lifted the phone receiver in the staff room and patted Sayid’s shoulder as the boy reported back. “Nothing for Max in the mailroom, sir.”
“Well done. Go and check his room. Make sure there’s no recent mail there. If there is, hide it in your room. And take his laptop as well. Be quick.”
Sayid closed the door behind him as Mr. Jackson dialed a number. The soft voice of a pupil’s father responded.
“Ridgeway.”
“Bob, it’s Fergus. I need your help.”
Robert Ridgeway was a senior man in Britain’s Security Service, and his youngest son excelled at just about everything at Dartmoor High. He knew the value of Fergus Jackson’s care for his charges, and a phone call from him was not something to be taken lightly. He listened to Jackson’s requests, asked him to wait a moment and in less than a minute came back with definitive answers.
There was no known investigation into the death of the Maguire boy by MI5 and no record of any intel on his Internet traffic. As Fergus already knew, officers often dressed scruffily if they were working undercover, so the men’s appearance hadn’t aroused any suspicion, but there were no field operatives by the name of Stanton or Drew. Even if they had been what they’d said, MI5 officers did not have any personal choice of handguns, certainly not the kind of heavy-caliber chromed weapons Fergus had described. And the tattooed name,
“No, don’t do that, Bob. I don’t want armed police here; that might escalate the situation. I’ll get rid of these people. I’ll get their number plate and pass that on so you can check it,” Jackson said.
“As you wish. And what about Max Gordon? Is he in danger?”
Like a huge firework, the mortar flare rocketed into the sky. It burst with a fluttering crackle, and despite the gusting conditions, it would be seen for miles, which was the intention.
Max watched. The road-a curved snake of wet tarmac that led to the soldiers’ assembly point-was clear. Half a dozen army lorries and a hot-food wagon were parked as forty or so soldiers stamped their feet, pleased the whole thing was over as they lined up for hot stew and a mug of tea. Mobile arc lamps flooded light across the men.
He was so close to them he could hear their banter, the crackle of their radios and their slurping of tea.
A good hunter would stalk his prey as near as he could, and Max had wanted this final hour to test himself. How close could he get to the men who had hunted him for the past three days without being seen? Max had broken the outline of his body by snapping off gorse and fern, jamming it into his shirt and belt and the tops of his boots. With stealth and patience, he crawled ever closer, past soldiers who moved across the perimeter, around men whose legs were so close he could have reached out and touched them.
Finally he stood up from the gorse cover, barely five meters from the officer in charge, who carried a clipboard and had a radio operator at his side. Max’s body was covered in slime, his clothing was sodden and his hair matted with something disgusting. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and flecks of dirt. And he stank.
The officer was momentarily taken by surprise at the apparition that emerged from the bogland. Then he smiled. “Lads! He’s here!”
The soldiers jeered and cheered, shouted insults and encouragement-all meant to welcome the boy as he pulled the bits of camouflage free.
“You took your time!”
“Don’t stand upwind, mate!”
