entrance of the church itself. SAS soldiers were already pouring in, searching for Alex.
The bag lady was clearly confused by all this activity; possibly she was also drunk. There was a bottle of cider in one of her hands and she stopped to force the neck between her rotten teeth and drink. She had a repulsive, withered face and grey hair that was long and knotted. She was dressed in a filthy coat, tied around her bulging waist with string. Her other hand clutched two dustbin bags close to her, as if they contained all the treasure in the world.
One of the soldiers saw her. “Get out of here!” he yelled. “You’re in danger.”
“All right, love!” The bag lady giggled. “What’s the matter, then? It’s like bleeding World War Three.” But she shuffled off, out of harm’s way, while the SAS men rushed past her, heading for the church.
Underneath the wig, the make-up and the costume, Mrs Rothman smiled to herself. It was almost incredible that these stupid SAS soldiers should let her walk away, slipping between them in plain daylight. She had a gun hidden under her coat and she would use it if anyone tried to stop her. But they were so busy rushing into the church, they had barely noticed her.
And then one of them called out.
“Stop!”
She had been seen after all. Mrs Rothman hurried on.
But the soldier hadn’t been trying to detain her: he had been trying to warn her. A shadow fell across her face and she looked up just in time to see a blazing rectangle fall out of the sky. Julia Rothman opened her mouth to scream but the sound didn’t have time to reach her Lips. She was crushed, driven into the pavement, flattened like a creature in some hideous cartoon. The SAS man who had shouted could only gaze at the burning wreckage in horror. Then, slowly, he looked up to see where it had come from.
But there was nothing there. The sky was clear.
Freed from the platform and the mooring ropes, the balloon had been blown north, with Alex still clinging beneath it. He was limp and exhausted; his legs and the side of his chest had been burnt. It was as much as he could do simply to hang on.
But the air inside the envelope had cooled and the balloon was coming down. Alex had been lucky that the fabric of the balloon was flame-resistant.
Of course, he might still be killed. He had no control of the balloon at all and the wind might choose to steer him into a high voltage wire. He had already crossed the river and could see Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s Column looming up in front of him. It would be a sick joke to land there and end up getting run over.
Alex could only hang on and wait to find out what was going to happen. Despite the pain in his arms, he was aware of a sense of inner peace. Somehow, against all the odds, he had come through everything alive. Nile was dead. Mrs Rothman was probably a prisoner. The nanoshells were no longer a threat.
And what about him? The wind had changed. It was carrying him to the west. Yes. There was Green Park—just fifty-odd metres below. He could see people pointing up at him and shouting. He silently urged the balloon on.
With a bit of luck he might make it all the way to Chelsea, to his house, where Jack Starbright would be waiting. How much further could it be? Did the balloon have the strength to take him there?
He hoped so, because that was all he cared about now.
He just wanted to go home.
DEEP COVER
« ^ »
It ended—inevitably, it seemed to Alex—in Alan Blunt’s office in Liverpool Street.
They had left him alone for a week but then the telephone call had come on Friday evening, asking him to come in. Asking, not telling. That was at least a change. And they had chosen a Saturday, so he wouldn’t have to miss school.
The balloon had dropped him on the edge of Hyde Park, lowering him to the grass as gently as an autumn leaf.
It was the end of the day and by that time there were few people in the park. Alex had been able to slip away quietly, five minutes before a dozen police cars had come roaring in. It was a twenty-minute walk home and he had more or less fallen into Jack’s arms before taking a hot bath, wolfing down dinner and going to bed.
He wasn’t badly hurt. There were burns on his arms and chest and his wrist was swollen where he had dangled from the balloon. Mrs Rothman had also left her mark on his cheek. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered how he was going to explain the very obvious-shaped bruise. In the end he told everyone he had been mugged. In a way, he felt, he had.
He had been back at Brookland for five days. Mr Grey was one of the first people to see him crossing the school yard before assembly, and he shook his head warily but said nothing. The teacher had taken it as a personal insult that Alex had disappeared on his school trip to Venice, and although Alex felt terrible, he couldn’t tell him the truth. On the other hand, Tom Harris was overjoyed.
“I knew you’d be OK,” he said. “You sounded a bit down when I spoke to you on the phone. That was after that place had blown up. But at least you were still alive. And a couple of days later, Jerry got this humongous cheque for a new parachute. Except it was about five times too much. He’s in New Zealand now, thanks to you.
BASE jumping off some building in Auckland. Just what he’s always wanted!” Tom took out a newspaper cutting. “Was this you?” he demanded.
Alex looked at it. It was a photograph of the hot-air balloon drifting over London. He could see a tiny figure clinging to it. Fortunately the picture had been taken from too far away to identify him. Nobody knew what had happened at the Church of Forgotten Saints. And nobody knew he was involved.
“Yes,” Alex admitted. “But, Tom—you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“I’ve already told Jerry.”
“No one else.”
“Yeah. I know. Official secrets and all that.” Tom frowned. “Maybe I should join MI6. I’m sure I’d make a great spy.”
