Crocodile Tears

wanted.

“Is that the best you can do? Send a drum to run me over? You are a child, aren’t you? This isn’t a game, Alex. Do you know how many years I spent planning this operation?” McCain asked. His voice carried across the short distance. He was leaning forward, one foot still perched on the drum, his elbow resting on his thigh. “Do you have any idea what it meant to me? All I wanted was my rightful place in the world. Money is power and I was going to have more than you could possibly imagine.

“And now you are going to pay. I’m going to shoot you now. Not once but several times. And then I’m going to walk away.” He lifted the gun. “Good- bye, Alex. You’re going on a slow journey to hell.”

“Let me know what it’s like,” Alex said.

The fuel drum exploded. In the seconds before he had sent it rolling, Alex had attached the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him to the metal surface. He had activated it with a thirty-second fuse.

And it had worked. One moment, McCain was taking aim, the next he had disappeared in a pillar of flame that roared into the sky. It really was like a judgment from heaven. He didn’t even have time to scream.

Alex was already twisting away, trying to put as much space between himself and the inferno as he could. He was too close. Blazing droplets of aviation fuel rained down from the sky. He felt them hit his shoulders and back and with horror realized he was on fire. But the grass had recently been watered.

It was cool and damp under his hands. Alex rolled over again and again. His skin was burning. The pain was horrific. But after spinning half a dozen times, he had put out the flames.

He looked back at the tarmac. The charred, unrecognizable figure that had once been the Reverend Desmond McCain was on its knees. One final prayer. The silver earring had gone. There wasn’t very much of him left.

He heard shouting. Police and airport workers were running toward him. Alex couldn’t see them. He was stretched out on the grass, trying to bury himself in it. Was it really over at last, the journey that had begun in a Scottish castle and had led to an airport in Africa? How had he ever gotten himself into this?

He couldn’t move. And he was barely aware of the men who lifted him as gently as possible, laid him on a stretcher, and carried him away.

25

SOFT CENTERS

THE SNOW THAT HAD BEEN PROMISED in London had finally arrived.

Only a few inches had fallen during the night, but as usual, it had brought chaos to the streets. Buses had stayed in their depots, the subway system had shut down, schools were closed, and half the workforce had decided to take a day off and stay at home. Snowmen had appeared suddenly in all the London parks, standing under trees, leaning against walls, even sitting on benches . . . like some invading army that had come and seen and decided to take a well-earned rest before it set out to conquer.

It was the second week in February, and the winter had taken a grip on the city and seemed determined never to let go. The streets were empty, the parked cars huddled beneath their white blankets, but Jack Starbright had managed to persuade a taxi to bring her to St. Dominic’s Hospital in one of the northern suburbs of the city. She had been here before. It was a favorite place of the Special Operations Division of MI6 when its agents were injured in the field. This was where they sent them to recover. Alex had spent two weeks here after he had been shot by Scorpia.

Mrs. Jones was waiting for her in the reception area. She was wearing a black full-length coat with leather gloves and a scarf. It was hard to say if she had just arrived or if she was on her way out.

“How is he?” Jack asked.

“He’s much better,” Mrs. Jones said, and it occurred to Jack that she could have been talking about someone who had just recovered from a bad cold. “The burns have healed up and he won’t need any skin grafts. He won’t be playing any sports for a while. He fractured his ankle at Laikipia airport. But he has amazing powers of recovery. The doctors are very pleased with him.” She smiled. “He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Where is he?”

“Room nine on the second floor.”

“That’s the same room as last time.”

“Maybe we should name it after him.”

Jack shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. He won’t be coming back.” The two women stood facing each other, each one waiting for the other to speak.

Mrs. Jones could see the accusation in Jack’s eyes. “This really wasn’t our fault,” she said. “Alex met McCain quite by accident. That business in Scotland had nothing to do with us.”

“But that didn’t stop you from sending him to Greenfields.”

“We had no idea that McCain was involved.”

“And if you had—would that have stopped you?”

Mrs. Jones shrugged. She had no need to answer.

There was a plastic bag resting on a chair. Mrs. Jones picked it up and handed it to Jack. “You might like to give this to Alex. It’s from Smithers. Some chocolates . . .”

“Oh yes? And what do they do? Explode when he puts them into his mouth?”

“They’re soft centers. Smithers thought he might enjoy them.” Jack took the bag. She glanced toward the elevator, then back at Mrs. Jones. “Promise me that this will be the end of it,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, this time it was worse than ever. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Do you have any idea what this must be doing to him . . . inside his head, I mean?”

“Actually, I have a very good idea,” Mrs. Jones countered. “I asked our psychiatrists to run a few tests on him.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. But I mean it, Mrs. Jones. Alex has done enough. I want you out of his life.”