station. It would have made a nice surprise for the authorities, he had thought. Instead the boat was now hanging over the conference center that be had seen from Putney Bridge. But at the end of the day, he supposed it didn’t make much difference. The result would be the same.
He stretched his arms and relaxed, waiting for the trapdoor to burst open. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.
And then he heard the tearing sound.
The metal stanchion that protruded from the end of the deck had never been designed to carry the entire weight of the barge. It was a miracle that it had lasted as long as it had. As Alex watched, openmouthed, the stanchion tore itself free. For a few seconds it clung by one edge to the deck. Then the last metal rivet came loose.
The five-ton barge had been sixty yards above the ground. Now it began to fall.
In the Putney Riverside Conference Center, the chief of the Metropolitan Police was addressing a large crowd of journalists, TV cameramen, civil servants, and government officials.
He was a tall, thin man who took himself very seriously. His dark blue uniform was immaculate, with every piece of silver—from the studs on his epaulettes to his five medals—
polished until it gleamed. This was his big day. He was sharing the platform with no less a personage than the home secretary himself. The assistant chief of police was there as well as seven lower-ranking officers. A slogan was being projected onto the wall behind him.
WINNING THE WAR AGAINST DRUGS
Silver letters on a blue background. The chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.
‚We have overlooked nothing!' he was saying, his voice echoing around the modern room.
He could see the journalists scribbling down his every word. The television cameras were all focused on him. ‚Thanks to my personal involvement and efforts, we have never been more successful.' He smiled at the home secretary, who smiled toothily back. ‚But we are not resting on our laurels. Oh, no! Any day now we hope to announce another breakthrough.'
That was when the barge hit the glass roof of the conference center. There was an explosion.
The chief of police just had time to dive for cover as a vast, dripping object plunged down toward him. The home secretary was thrown backward, his glasses flying off his face. His security men froze, helpless. The boat crashed into the space in front of them, between the stage and the audience. The side of the cabin had been torn off, and there was the laboratory, exposed, with the two dealers sprawled together in one corner, staring dazedly at the hundreds of policemen and officials who now surrounded them. A cloud of white powder mushroomed up and then fell onto the dark blue uniform of the police chief, covering him from head to toe.
The fire alarms had all gone off. The lights blew out. Then the screaming began.
Meanwhile, the first of the construction workers had made it to the crane cabin and was gazing, astonished, at the fourteen-year-old boy he had found there.
‚Do you…?' he stammered. ‚Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?'
Alex glanced at the empty hook and at the gaping hole in the roof of the conference center, at the rising smoke and dust. He shrugged apologetically.
‚I was just working on the crime figures,' he said. ‚And I think there’s been a drop.'
SEARCH AND REPORT
THE CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.
It was the day after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his protests, his hair had been cut so short that he almost looked like a skinhead, and his right ear had been pierced. He could still feel it throbbing underneath the temporary stud that had been put in to keep the hole from closing.
The car had reached a set of wrought iron gates, which opened automatically to receive it.
And there was Haverstock Hall, a great mansion with stone figures on the terrace and seven figures in the price. Sir David’s family had lived here for generations, Mrs. Jones had told him.
They also seemed to own half the Lancashire countryside. The grounds stretched for miles in every direction, with sheep dotted across the hills on one side and three horses watching from an enclosure on the other. The house itself was Georgian: white brick with slender windows and columns. Everything looked very neat. There was a walled garden with evenly spaced beds, a square glass conservatory housing a swimming pool, and a series of ornamental hedges with every leaf perfectly in place.
The car stopped. The horses swung their necks around to watch Alex get out, their tails rhythmically beating at flies. Nothing else moved.
The chauffeur walked around to the trunk. ‚Sir David will be inside,' he said. He had disapproved of Alex from the moment he set eyes on him. Of course, he hadn’t said as much.
But he was a professional. He could show it with his eyes.
Alex moved away from the car, drawn toward the conservatory on the other side of the drive. It was a warm day, the sun beating down on the glass, and the water on the other side looked suddenly inviting. He passed through an open set of doors. It was hot inside the conservatory. The smell of chlorine rose up from the water’ stifling him.
He had thought that the pool was empty, but as he watched, a figure swam up from the bottom, breaking through the surface just in front of him. It was a girl, dressed only in a white bikini. She had long, black hair and dark eyes, but her skin was pale. Alex guessed she must be fifteen years old and remembered what Mrs. Jones had told him about Sir David Friend. ‚He has a daughter … a year older than you.' So this must be her. He watched her heave herself out of the water. Her body was well shaped, closer to the woman she would become than the girl she had been. She was going to be beautiful. That much was certain. The trouble was, she already knew it. When she looked at Alex, arrogance flashed in her eyes.
‚Who are you?' she asked. ‚What are you doing in here?'
‚I’m Alex.'
‚Oh, yes.' She reached for a towel and wrapped it around her neck. ‚Daddy said you were coming, but I didn’t expect you just to walk in like this.' Her voice was very adult and upper class. It sounded strange, coming out of that fifteen-year-old mouth. ‚Do you swim?' she asked.
‚Yes,' Alex said.
‚That’s a shame. I don’t like having to share the pool. Especially with a boy. And a smelly London boy at that.' She ran her eyes over Alex, taking in the torn jeans, the shaven hair, the stud in his ear. She shuddered. ‚I can’t think what Daddy was doing, agreeing to let you stay,'
she went on. ‚And having to pretend you’re my brother! What a ghastly idea! If I did have a brother, I can assure you he wouldn’t look like you. '
Alex was wondering whether to pick the girl up and throw her back into the pool or out through a window when there was a movement behind him, and he turned to see a tall, rather aristocratic man with curling gray hair and glasses, wearing a sports jacket, open-neck shirt, and cords, standing just behind him. He too seemed a little jolted by Alex’s appearance, but he recovered quickly, extending a hand. ‚Alex?' he demanded.
‚Yes.
‚I’m David Friend.'
Alex shook his hand. ‚How do you do,' he said politely.
‚I hope you had a good journey. I see you’ve met my daughter.' He smiled at the girl, who was now sitting
