sell finger puppets. Sometimes we get work collecting tickets on the buses. Sebastian knows all the drivers and that’s how he’ll get us out tomorrow.”
Pedro fell silent.
“There’s one thing you haven’t told me,” Matt said. “Did you know the river was going to flood?”
“How would I know that?”
“You didn’t get any warning… perhaps the day before?”
“No.”
“When my parents were killed, I knew it was going to happen. I saw it in a dream.”
“I never had dreams like that. Forget it, Matteo. I’m not like you. I don’t have any special powers if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not special… except that I have these stupid dreams in which I see you. And they don’t help much either.”
“You’re coming with me to Ica,” Matt said.
Pedro frowned “I don’t want to. But Sebastian says I can’t stay with him any more. It’s too dangerous. And anyway…” He relaxed a little and the frown left his face. “Now that we’ve found each other, I don’t see how I can walk away… even if I want to. So – yes. I’m coming along.”
“Thank you,” Matt said.
It was all the help he needed. He was no longer alone.
He stood up and at that very instant it was as if the entire dream world had been cut in half by a vast, white guillotine. He felt no pain. There wasn’t even any sense of shock. But suddenly the sea and the island had gone and he was sitting on the floor in the house in Poison Town and he saw that he had just woken up.
He looked across at Pedro, still fast asleep underneath the blanket. The Peruvian boy hadn’t changed but now Matt saw him differently. He knew everything about him. They could have been friends throughout their entire lives. In a way, Matt reflected, they had been exactly that.
Outside, dawn was breaking: the first ribbons of pink light bleeding through the sky, signalling the start of another day.
Midnight in London.
Susan Ashwood was sitting in the spacious living room of a penthouse flat, high above Park Lane. Floor to ceiling windows provided a panoramic view over Hyde Park, an area of dense black, with the lights of Knightsbridge twinkling far behind. She had her back to it. Sometimes she was able to sense the appearance of a city from the way its sounds travelled, from the feel of the breeze against her face, from the smell of the night air. She knew beauty. But tonight all her attention was focused on the woman who owned the penthouse and who was sitting opposite her now.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Susan Ashwood said.
“There’s no need to thank me,” Nathalie Johnson replied.
The American woman was sitting on a sofa with her legs tucked up under her, holding a glass of white wine. Her reddish hair was tied back and she was wearing a simple black dress. She had been about to go to bed when the blind medium had called. This was her home when she was in London. She had a similar apartment overlooking the Hudson River in New York.
“I didn’t know who else to come to.”
“You don’t need to worry, Susan. My door’s always open to you.”
Nathalie Johnson had been a member of the Nexus for eleven years. In that time, she had built up a huge business empire selling low-cost computer hardware, mainly to schools and youth clubs. The newspapers called her the female Bill Gates. She found the description sexist and irrelevant.
“Matthew Freeman is still lost,” Susan Ashwood continued. “But it’s now been confirmed that there was a gun fight near Jorge Chavez Airport. Richard Cole was kidnapped but Matt managed to get away. As far as we know, he hasn’t been seen since.”
“We sent him to Peru because we wanted something to happen,” the American woman said. “It seems that we got more than we bargained for.”
“None of us could have expected this.”
“What shall we do?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I was hoping you might be able to help. You have business interests in South America…”
“I could talk to Diego Salamanda if you like.”
“You said you’d had dealings with him.”
“I’ve never met him but we’ve spoken often on the telephone.” Nathalie Johnson paused. “But I think we should be careful. Salamanda is our number one suspect. It seems more than likely that he’s the one who’s trying to open the gate.”
“Fabian is trying to find Matthew,” Susan Ashwood continued. “He’s worried sick about him and blames himself for not driving personally to the airport. He’s already spoken to the police but he’s not sure he can trust them. He’s suggested an advertising campaign in the national press.”
“Like, ‘Have you seen this boy?’” The idea seemed to amuse Nathalie.
“Someone must know where he is. An English teenager on his own in Peru…”
“Assuming, of course, he’s still alive.” The American put down her wine glass. “I’ll pay for advertisements if that’s what you want,” she said. “My New York office can organize it.”
“There’s something else…” The blind woman paused, trying to collect her thoughts. Her face was grim. “I’ve been thinking about what happened,” she went on. “First there was the business with William Morton. We were the only ones who knew where he was going to be and he told us only twenty-four hours before Matthew met him. But someone still managed to follow him to St Meredith’s. They killed him and took the diary.
“And then there’s Matthew and Richard Cole. They travelled to Peru under false names but it seems that somebody knew they were coming. There was an ambush. Fabian’s driver was almost killed. Richard Cole was taken.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That our enemy knows what we’re doing. Someone is telling him our every move.”
Nathalie Johnson stiffened. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve come to you because I’ve known you for a long time and my instincts tell me I can trust you. I haven’t said this to anyone else. But I think we need to be careful. If there is a traitor inside the Nexus, we could all be in danger.”
“What should we do?”
“First of all we have to find Matthew Freeman. He’s our main priority. The second gate is going to open very soon and he’s the only one who can prevent it. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, Miss Johnson. If we don’t find the boy, we’ve lost.”
The bus station was like a crazy outdoor circus, a jumble of colour and noise with people and packages everywhere, street vendors shouting, old women in shawls sitting behind little piles of papayas and plantains, children and dogs chasing each other around the rubble – and the ancient buses themselves, rumbling at their stands. Nobody was going anywhere yet but everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Great sacks and cardboard packages were being passed from hand to hand before being thrown up, to be tied in towering piles on the buses’ roofs. There were old tickets strewn all over the ground like confetti and fresh ones being sold from cubicles hardly bigger than Punch and Judy stalls. There was an Indian woman cooking cau cau – tripe and potato stew – in a large metal can at the edge of the bus yard and some of the travellers were squatting on their haunches, eating from plastic bowls, the smell of the food fighting with the exhaust fumes.
Matt took this all in as he approached the bus station with Sebastian and Pedro. They had walked here from Poison Town, leaving just after five o’clock. Sebastian already had the tickets and had announced that he would be coming with them as far as Ica. Although he had been drunk when he went to bed, he seemed clear-headed enough when he woke up. In his own way, he was even cheerful.
“There is almost no chance that you will find your friend in Ica,” he had said. “But after you have given your compliments to Senor Salamanda, you can continue down to Ayacucho. I will be waiting for you there.”
They walked past a row of shops and, looking through an open door, Matt noticed a boy standing there watching him. He was his own age, dressed in a bright-green T-shirt with jeans that stopped a few inches below his knees. He had no socks and wore black rubber sandals. The boy had black hair cut in a straight line across his
