there, checking each invitation.
Alex watched all this from the other side of the square. He was crouched behind one of the miniature trees with Tom, the two of them outside the pool of light thrown by the torches. It hadn’t been easy to persuade Tom to come. Alex’s disappearance before lunch had been noticed almost immediately, and Tom had been left to make up an unconvincing story about a stomach ache in front of an angry Mr Grey. Alex should have been in serious trouble when he finally met up with the group back at the hotel, and if it hadn’t been for Miss Bedfordshire—
who was still grateful to him for recovering her handbag—he would have been grounded for the night. Anyway, this was Alex. Everyone knew they could rely on him to act oddly.
But to disappear again! It was the last evening of the trip and the group had been given two hours’ free time which they were meant to spend in San Lorenzo, in the cafes or the square. Alex had other plans. He had found everything he needed in Venice that afternoon before he went back to the hotel. But he knew he couldn’t do this alone. Tom had to come too.
“Alex, I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Tom whispered now. “Why is this party such a big deal anyway?”
“I can’t explain.”
“Why not? I don’t understand you sometimes. We’re meant to be friends but you never tell me anything.” Alex sighed. He was used to this. When he thought of all the things that had happened to him in the last six months, the way he had been dragged into the world of espionage, a web of secrecy and lies, this was the worst part. MI6 had turned him into a spy. And at the same time they had made it impossible for him to be what he wanted—an ordinary schoolboy. He had been juggling two lives, one day saving the world from a nuclear holocaust, the next struggling with his chemistry homework. Two lives, but he had ended up trapped between them. He didn’t know where he belonged any more. There was Tom, there was Jack Starbright and there was Sabina Pleasure—although she had now moved to America. Apart from them, he had no real friends. It wasn’t his choice, but somehow he had ended up alone.
Alex made up his mind. “All right,” he said. “If you’ll help me, I’ll tell you everything. But not yet.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m going to Naples tomorrow to stay with my brother.”
“Before you go.”
Tom considered. “I’ll help you anyway, Alex,” he said. “Because that’s what friends are for. And if you really do want to tell me, you can save it until we’re back at school. OK?” Alex nodded and smiled. “Thanks.”
He reached behind him for the sports bag he had brought with him from the hotel. Inside it were the various items he had bought that afternoon. Quickly he stripped off his shorts and T-shirt, then pulled on a pair of loose- fitting silk trousers and a velvet waistcoat that left his arms and chest bare. Next he took out a tub of what looked like jelly, except that it was coloured gold. Body paint. He scooped some out and rubbed it between his palms, then smeared it over his arms, neck and face. He signalled to Tom, who grimaced and then finished his shoulders. All his visible skin was now gold.
Finally he brought out gold sandals, a white turban with a single mauve feather, and a plain half-mask, just big enough to cover his eyes. He had asked the costume shop to supply him with everything he would need to become a Turkish slave. He hoped the overall effect didn’t make him look as ridiculous as he felt.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Tom nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You know, you do look a bit sad,” he muttered.
“I don’t care … so long as it works.”
“I think you’re completely mad.”
Alex watched as more people arrived at the palace. If his plan was going to work, he had to choose the right moment. He also had to wait for the right guests. They were still coming thick and fast, milling around the main entrance while the guards checked their invitations. He glanced over at the canal. A water taxi had just pulled in and a couple were climbing out, a man in a frock coat and a woman in a black cloak that trailed behind her.
Both were masked. They were perfect.
He nodded to Tom. “Now.”
“Good luck, Alex.” Tom took something out of the sports bag and darted forward, making no attempt to avoid being seen. Seconds later Alex stole round the edge of the square, keeping to the shadows.
There was a snarl-up at the entrance. A guard was holding an invitation and questioning one of the guests. That was helpful too. Alex needed as much confusion as possible. Tom must have seen that this was the right moment, because suddenly there was a loud bang and all heads turned to see a boy capering in the square, laughing and shouting. He had just let off a firework and, with everyone watching, he lit another.
“Come stai?” he shouted. How are you? “Quanto tempo a vuole per andare a Roma?” How long does it take to get to Rome? Alex had picked the phrases out of a guidebook. They were the only Italian Tom had been able to learn.
Tom threw the second firework and there was another bang. At the same time, Alex hurried down to the canal just as the two guests climbed the steps to the square. His sandals flapped on the paving stones as he ran, but nobody noticed him. They were all staring at Tom, who was singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at the top of his voice. Alex bent down and picked up the train of the woman’s cloak. As she headed towards the main entrance he walked behind her, holding the material off the ground.
It worked exactly as he had hoped. The crowd quickly tired of the mad English boy who was making a fool of himself. One of the guards had already been sent to deal with him. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Tom turn and run away. The couple reached the door and the man in the frock coat handed over their invitation. A guard glanced at the new arrivals and ushered them through. He had assumed that Alex was with the guests; they had brought a Turkish boy with them as part of their disguise. Meanwhile, the guests had assumed that Alex worked in the palace and had been sent to escort them in. Why else would he have appeared?
The three of them passed through the door and into a grand reception hall with a domed, mosaic-covered ceiling, white columns and a marble floor. A pair of double-height glass doors opened onto a courtyard with a fountain surrounded by ornamental shrubs and flowers. At least a hundred guests were gathered there, chatting, laughing and drinking champagne from crystal glasses. It was obvious they were all pleased to be there.
Servants, dressed identically to the ones outside, circulated with silver trays of food. A man sitting at a harpsichord played Mozart and Vivaldi. In keeping with the atmosphere, all the electric lights had been turned off, but there were beacons mounted on the walls as well as dozens of oil lamps, their flames bowing and dancing in
