times now you've taken time off from school and each time you've come back a bit more bashed around. I don't even want to know what you've been up to, but personally I've been worried sick!” “It wasn't my choice…” Alex said. “That's my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world—it's got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.” Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina's dad would never—”
“You can't know that. Even if you'd called the cops, what could they have done? Remember—
nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don't think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don't mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You're lucky you weren't killed.”
She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure was writing an article about Damian Cray. Something about a secret meeting in Paris. Maybe he was buying drugs or something.” But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew they couldn't be true. Cray hated drugs. There had been advertising campaigns—posters and TV—using his name and face. His last album, White Lines, had contained four anti-drugs songs. He had made it a personal issue. “Maybe he's into porn,” he suggested weakly.
“Whatever it is, it's going to be hard to prove, Alex. The whole world loves Damian Cray.” Jack sighed. “Maybe you should talk to Mrs Jones.”
Alex felt his heart sink. He dreaded the thought of going back to MI6 and meeting the woman who was its deputy head of Special Operations. But he knew Jack was right. At least Mrs Jones would be able to investigate. “I suppose I could go and see her,” he said.
“Good. But just make sure she doesn't get you involved. If Damian Cray is up to something, it's her business—not yours.”
The telephone rang.
There was a cordless phone in the kitchen and Jack took the call. She listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Alex. “It's Sabina,” she said. “For you.” They met outside Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus and walked to a nearby Starbucks. Sabina was wearing grey trousers and a loose-fitting jersey. Alex had expected her to have changed in some way after all that had happened, and indeed she looked younger, less sure of herself. She was obviously tired. All traces of her South of France suntan had disappeared.
“Dad's going to live,” she said as they sat down together with two bottles of juice. “The doctors are pretty sure about that. He's strong and he kept himself fit. But…” Her voice trembled. “It's going to take a long time, Alex. He's still unconscious—and he was badly burnt.” She stopped and drank some of her juice. “The police said it was a gas leak. Can you believe that? Mum says she's going to sue.”
“Who's she going to sue?”
“The people who rented us the house. The gas board. The whole country. She's furious…” Alex said nothing. A gas leak. That was what the police had told him.
Sabina sighed. “Mum said I ought to see you. She said you'd want to know about Dad.”
“Your dad had just come down from Paris, hadn't he?” Alex wasn't sure this was the right time, but he had to know. “Did he say anything about the article he was writing?” Sabina looked surprised. “No. He never talked about his work. Not to Mum. Not to anyone.”
“Where had he been?”
“He'd been staying with a friend. A photographer.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Marc Antonio. Why are you asking all these questions about my dad? Why do you want to know?”
Alex avoided the questions. “Where is he now?” he asked.
“In hospital in France. He's not strong enough to travel. Mum's still out there with him. I flew home on my own.”
Alex thought for a moment. This wasn't a good idea. But he couldn't keep silent. Not knowing what he did. “I think he should have a police guard,” he said.
“What?” Sabina stared at him. “Why? Are you saying … it wasn't a gas leak?” Alex didn't answer.
Sabina looked at him carefully, then came to a decision. “You've been asking a lot of questions,” she said. “Now it's my turn. I don't know what's really going on, but Mum told me that after it happened, you ran away from the house.”
“How did she know?”
“The police told her. They said you had this idea that someone had tried to kill Dad … and that it was someone you knew. And then you disappeared. They were searching everywhere for you.”
“I went to the police station at Saint-Pierre,” Alex said.
“But that wasn't until midnight. You were completely soaked and you had a cut and you were dressed in weird clothes…”
Alex had been questioned for an hour when he had finally shown up at the gendarmerie. A doctor had given him three stitches and bandaged up the wound. Then a policeman had brought him a change of clothes. The questions had only stopped with the arrival of the man from the British consulate in Lyons. The man, who had been elderly and efficient, seemed to know all about Alex. He had driven Alex to Montpellier Airport to catch the first flight the next day. He had no interest in what had happened. His only desire seemed to be to get Alex out of the country.
“What were you doing?” Sabina asked. “You say Dad needs protection. Is there something you know?”
“I can't really tell you—” Alex began.
“Stuff that!” Sabina said. “Of course you can tell me!”
“I can't. You wouldn't believe me.”
“If you don't tell me, Alex, I'm going to walk out of here and you'll never see me again. What is it that you know about my dad?”
In the end he told her. It was very simple. She hadn't given him any choice. And in a way he was glad. The secret had been with him too long and carrying it alone, he had begun to feel it weighing him down.
He began with the death of his uncle, his introduction to MI6, his training and his first meeting with Yassen Gregorovich at the Stormbreaker computer plant in Cornwall. He described, as briefly as he could, how he had been forced, twice more, to work for MI6—in the French Alps and off the coast of America. Then he told her what he had felt the moment he had seen Yassen on the beach at Saint-Pierre, how he had followed him to the restaurant, why in the end he had done nothing.
He thought he had skimmed over it all but in fact he talked for half an hour before arriving at his meeting with Yassen on the Fer de Lance. He had avoided looking directly at Sabina for much of the time as he talked, but when he reached the bullfight, describing how he had dressed up as a matador and walked out in front of a crowd of a thousand, he glanced up and met her eyes. She was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. She almost seemed to hate him.
“I told you it wasn't easy to believe,” he concluded lamely.
“Alex…”
“I know the whole thing sounds mad. But that's what happened. I am so sorry about your dad.
I'm sorry I couldn't stop it from happening. But at least I know who was responsible.”
“Who?”
“Damian Cray.”
“The pop star?”
“Your dad was writing an article about him. I found a bit of it at the house. And his number was on Yassen's mobile phone.”
“So Damian Cray wanted to kill my dad.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Too long, Alex thought.
At last Sabina spoke again. “I'm sorry, Alex,” she said. “I have never heard so much crap in all my life.”
“Sab, I told you—”
“I know you said I wouldn't believe it. But just because you said that, it doesn't make it true!” She shook her head. “How can you expect anyone to believe a story like that? Why can't you tell me the truth?”
