there was a film set, an African village. But why? What’s the point?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. McCain runs a charity. First Aid. They have appeals all over the world.
Maybe that’s his plan. He wants to raise money for something that hasn’t happened.”
“A fake charity appeal.”
“Exactly. He shows a film of some village that doesn’t exist. People send in money. He gets to keep it.” Jack thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. “It wouldn’t work, Alex. These days, everything is on TV or in the newspapers. People would find out soon enough if it wasn’t true.”
“Can you think of anything else?”
“No. But I think we should go back to MI6 and leave it to them this time.” She glanced meaningfully at him. “Okay?”
Alex smiled. “That’s what I’d already decided,” he said. “Do you mind going back?”
“Of course not,” Jack replied. “I’m beginning to wonder where this is all going to end. You go to a party in Scotland and you end up at the bottom of a lake. A school field trip almost lands you in the hospital. And now this!” She took one of Alex’s toast slices and bit it in half. “The trouble is, you’ve got too much of the spy in you. It’s all your uncle’s fault. And your father’s. And your grandfather’s.
For all we know, he was probably a spy too.”
Alex looked at his watch. It was a quarter past eight. “I ought to be on my way to school,” he said.
“Yes.” Jack nodded. “Let’s not get into any more trouble with Mr. Bray.” Alex ran up to his room, collected his books, and put on the spare jacket. He was about to leave when he noticed the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him resting on his desk. On impulse, he slipped it inside his pocket. He knew that Tom Harris would get a kick out of seeing it.
He hurried back downstairs and out through the hall, calling out a last “Good-bye!” as he went.
“Don’t forget your scarf!” Jack called back.
She was too late. It was cold outside but dry, and there was no wind. Alex hoisted his knapsack over his shoulder and made his way along the backstreets that would lead him to the King’s Road.
This part of Chelsea was full of elegant townhouses standing side by side with expensive cars parked outside. In a few months, the trees would blossom and the wisteria would tumble down the brickwork.
Ian Rider had liked being here because it was quiet and private and yet still in the middle of the city.
He’d always had a hatred of the suburbs. “A nice place for children and vets.” Alex could still hear his slightly cryptic remark.
There was a FedEx van at the end of the street, badly parked across the corner, and two men dressed in overalls examining a clipboard that they held between them. They were obviously lost, and as Alex approached, one of them came over to him.
“Excuse me, mate,” he said. “We’ve got a delivery for Packard Street. You wouldn’t know where it is, would you?”
Alex shook his head. “There’s no Packard Street around here.”
“Are you sure? That’s what it says here.” The man held out the clipboard, inviting Alex to take a look.
It was the empty van that alerted him.
The doors of the van were open, and if they were making a delivery to an address in Chelsea, why was there nothing inside?
Alex jerked back, but it was already too late. The two men had maneuvered Alex between them so that they were perfectly placed, one of them in front of him, one of them behind. He heard the clipboard hit the sidewalk. It was just a prop. They didn’t need it anymore.
One of the men grabbed him by the throat. Alex twisted around, trying to break free. At the same time, he saw something that sent a chill up his spine. The second deliveryman had produced a hypodermic syringe. They weren’t here to kill him. They were here to take him. The van was for him.
Alex put everything he had been taught into action. He knew that it would be almost impossible even for two grown men to drag him into the van . . . unless they made contact with the needle. That was what he had to avoid. So he didn’t waste any energy trying to break free of the neck lock. It was too strong anyway. Instead, he used the man’s own strength against him, levering himself back, raising both legs off the ground and lashing out. The man with the syringe had been looking for somewhere to plant it, and with a smile of satisfaction, Alex saw the soles of his shoes smash into it, breaking it against the man’s chest. If they’d been planning to knock him out, they could forget it. Now it would be twice as hard to make him disappear.
So far, no more than about ten seconds had passed since the attack had begun, and Alex knew that time was on his side. The streets of Chelsea might be quiet, but it was eight thirty in the morning and people would be on their way to work. He couldn’t call for help. He was still being strangled. But someone would see what was happening. They had to.
Sure enough, a figure turned the corner and Alex was overjoyed to see the blue-and-silver uniform of a policeman. Alex felt the man behind him loosen his grip as the policeman ran forward, and he gratefully sucked in air.
“What’s going on here?” the policeman demanded.
“They . . . ,” Alex began, and stopped as he felt something stab him in the back, just above his waist. A second needle! The man who had been holding him must have taken it out of his pocket. But surely . . .
The policeman wasn’t doing anything, and even as the strength drained out of him and his legs buckled, Alex understood. The policeman wasn’t any more real than the deliverymen had been. They were all in it together. Alex had been tricked and there was nothing he could do as whatever drug had been pumped into him coursed through his system. He saw the street tilt and then turn sideways and knew that the only reason he wasn’t lying flat on the sidewalk was because the deliverymen had caught him and were carrying him into the van.
