If there was one good thing to come out of all this, at least Jack would know that he hadn’t been hurt.
He quickly read the page over and pressed Send.
He looked up. Rahim had slumped forward. Alex went over and examined him. The RAW agent wasn’t exactly asleep. He was unconscious, breathing heavily. He had been knocked out—either by the fever or by the medicine he had been taking to fight it. Alex eased him gently to the ground, then looked back in the direction of the lodge. Everything was silent in the bush as even the animals slept in the midday sun. It was very hot, but at least Rahim was tucked away in the shade of the sausage tree.
What would MI6 do when they received the news?
Alex had visions of Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones conferring with the appropriate ministers at Downing Street. A new government had recently been voted in. They probably wouldn’t even know he existed, so they would have to be persuaded he was reliable, that his information was accurate. And then they would have to make a decision . . . but what exactly were their options? They could send in troops with flamethrowers, but that might take days. In fact, Alex couldn’t even be certain that the Indian secret service would pass the message on in time. After all, they had their own agenda. They simply wanted McCain dead.
He didn’t like it, but he knew what he had to do. He took the map out of Rahim’s backpack and studied it. Simba River Camp was clearly marked—and there was the track that he had seen from the air. It led all the way to the dam, rising up the side of the valley. He could follow the river for the first mile and then cut across the countryside using the compass. It wouldn’t be too difficult to pick up the track.
There was electricity up there. He had seen one of the pylons. If he could find it again, it would lead him to the dam.
Finally, Alex examined the bomb. It wasn’t very complicated either. All he would have to do is set the timer, which operated like an ordinary alarm clock, then activate it by throwing a single switch. What was it that Rahim had told him? He had to locate one of the two main valves. That was where he would place the bomb.
Alex took out the medicine, then put on the backpack and tightened the straps. He felt bad just walking out on Rahim, particularly after the agent had just saved his life. But at least he could make sure that he wasn’t found by the Kikuyu tribemen. He would follow the path back to the river where he had first been taken. He would do his best to cover his tracks, and then he would set off in another direction, making sure that he disturbed the vegetation as much as possible. If McCain did realize that Beckett was missing and sent his men after him, they would follow the new path. Rahim would be left alone and Alex had no doubt that, once he woke up, he would be able to look after himself.
The decision was made. Alex looked up at the sky. The sun was directly overhead, beating down on him. It was midday. Before long it would begin its journey down.
Alex took a swig out of the water bottle and set off. Two miles in this unfamiliar countryside would take him as many hours. He just hoped he wasn’t already too late.
22
MARGIN OF ERROR
ONE O ’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON, London time.
The navy blue Jaguar XJ6 drove around Trafalgar Square and then headed down Whitehall, in the direction of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The weather forecasters had been predicting snow, but so far it had held back. Even so, it was a hard, cold day, with the wind skittering along the sidewalks. Inside the car, the heat had been turned up and the windows were tinted. Both of these helped keep the winter at bay.
The Jaguar passed the famous Banqueting House, where the first King Charles had lost his head, and turned onto Downing Street. The black steel gates opened automatically to admit it. It stopped outside Number Ten and two people, a man and a woman, got out. As always, there was a handful of news reporters in the street, making their broadcasts against the backdrop of the most famous door in the world, but none of them noticed the two new arrivals, and if they had, it would have been extremely unlikely that they would have recognized them. Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones had never been photographed. Their names didn’t appear on any government profiles.
Neither of them needed to knock. The door swung open as they approached and they passed into the brightly colored entrance hall with a surprisingly long corridor stretching out in front of them. They made no sound at all as they walked along the plush carpets, beneath the chandeliers, toward the far staircase. As usual, the walls were lined with paintings that had been borrowed from a central government reserve. They were by British artists, most of them modern and rather bland.
Blunt examined them as he continued forward, not because he was interested in art—he wasn’t—but because they might give him some insight into the mind of the man who had chosen them. There was a new prime minister in Downing Street. He had been voted in just a month before, And what did the paintings say about him? He liked the countryside, fox hunting, and windmills. His favorite color was blue.
Of course, Blunt already knew everything about the new man—from the state of his marriage (happy) to the last payment he had made on his credit card (?97.60 for a meal at The Ivy). There wasn’t a single prime minister in England who hadn’t been thoroughly checked by MI6: their families, their friends and associates, what websites they liked to visit, where they took their vacations, how much money they spent every week. There was always a chance that the information might reveal a security risk or something that the prime minister didn’t want anyone to know.
The two of them reached the staircase and began to climb up to the first floor, passing the painted portraits and photographs of past prime ministers, spaced out at regular intervals. There was a man in a suit waiting at the top, gesturing toward an office. The building was full of young men in suits, some of them working for Blunt, although they probably didn’t know it. Blunt and Mrs. Jones went into the office and there was the prime minister, waiting with two advisers, sitting behind a desk.
“Mr. Blunt . . . please, take a seat.”
The prime minister wasn’t happy, and it showed. Like all politicians, he didn’t entirely trust his spy masters and he certainly didn’t want one sitting opposite him now. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been in power very long. It was certainly too soon for his first international crisis. There were two men sitting with him, one on each side. They were trying to look relaxed, as if they just happened to be passing and had decided to pop in for the meeting.
“I don’t think you’ve met Simon Ellis,” the prime minister said, nodding at the fair-haired, rather plump man on his left. “And this is Charles Blackmore.” The other man was also young, though with prematurely gray hair. “I thought it might be helpful if they joined us.” Blunt hadn’t met either of them, but of course he knew everything about them. They had both been at Winchester College with the prime minister. Ellis was now a junior civil servant in the Treasury.
Blackmore had left a career in television to become director of strategy and communications. The two men
