And then Alex wondered if the same thing would one day happen to him. Was that what MI6
were preparing him for? First they had turned him into a spy; next they would turn him into one of them. Perhaps they already had an office waiting with his name on the door. The windows were closed and it was warm in the room, but he shuddered. He had been wrong to come here with Sabina. The office on Liverpool Street was poisonous, and one way or another it would destroy him if he didn't stay away.
“We couldn't allow you to bring that girl here, Alex,” Blunt was saying. “You know perfectly well that you can't just show off to your friends whenever—”
“I wasn't showing off,” Alex cut in. “Her dad was almost killed by a bomb in the South of France.”
“We know all about the business in Saint-Pierre,” Blunt murmured.
“Do you know that it was Yassen Gregorovich who planted it?” Blunt sighed irritably. “That doesn't make any difference. It's none of your business. And it's certainly nothing to do with us!”
Alex stared at him in disbelief. “Sabina's father is a journalist,” he exclaimed. “He was writing about Damian Cray. If Cray wanted him dead, there must be a reason. Isn't it your job to find out?”
Blunt held up a hand for silence. His eyes, as always, showed nothing at all. Alex was struck by the thought that if this man were to die, sitting here at his desk, nobody would notice any difference.
“I have received a report from the police in Montpellier, and also from the British consulate,” Blunt said. “This is standard practice when one of our people is involved.”
“I'm not one of your people,” Alex muttered.
“I am sorry that the father of your … friend was hurt. But you might as well know that the French police have investigated—and you're right. It wasn't a gas leak.” “That's what I was trying to tell you.”
“It turns out that a local terrorist organization—the CST—have claimed responsibility.”
“The CST?” Alex's head spun. “Who are they?”
“They're very new,” Mrs Jones explained. “CST stands for Camargue Sans Touristes.
Essentially they're French nationalists who want to stop local houses in the Camargue being sold off for tourism and second homes.”
“It's got nothing to do with the CST,” Alex insisted. “It was Yassen Gregorovich. I saw him and he admitted it. And he told me that the real target was Edward Pleasure. Why won't you listen to what I'm saying? It was this article Edward was writing. Something about a meeting in Paris. It was Damian Cray who wanted him dead.”
There was a brief pause. Mrs Jones glanced at her boss as if needing his permission to speak. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Did Yassen mention Damian Cray?” she asked.
“No. But I found his private telephone number in Yassen's phone. I rang it and I actually heard him speak.”
“You can't know it was Damian Cray.”
“Well, that was the name he gave.”
“This is complete nonsense.” It was Blunt who had spoken and Alex was amazed to see that he was angry. It was the first time Alex had ever seen him show any emotion at all and it occurred to him that not many people dared to disagree with the chief executive of Special Operations.
Certainly not to his face.
“Why is it nonsense?”
“Because you're talking about one of the most admired and respected entertainers in the country.
A man who has raised millions and millions of pounds for charity. Because you're talking about Damian Cray!” Blunt sank back into his chair. For a moment he seemed undecided. Then he nodded briefly. “All right,” he said. “Since you have been of some use to us in the past, and since I want to clear this matter up once and for all, I will tell you everything we know about Cray.”
“We have extensive files on him,” Mrs Jones said.
“Why?”
“We keep extensive files on everyone who's famous.”
“Go on.”
Blunt nodded again and Mrs Jones took over. She seemed to know all the facts by heart. Either she had read the files recently or, more probably, she had the sort of mind that never forgot anything.
“Damian Cray was born in north London on 5 October 1950,” she began. ”That's not his real name, by the way. He was christened Harold Eric Lunt. His father was Sir Arthur Lunt, who made his fortune building multi-storey car parks. As a child, Harold had a remarkable singing voice, and aged eleven he was sent to the Royal Academy of Music in London. In fact, he used to sing regularly there with another boy who also became famous. That was Elton John.
“But when he was thirteen, there was a terrible disaster. His parents were killed in a bizarre car accident.”
“What was bizarre about it?”
“The car fell on top of them. It rolled off the top floor of one of their car parks. As you can imagine, Harold was distraught. He left the Royal Academy and travelled the world. He changed his name and turned to Buddhism for a while. He also became a vegetarian. Even now, he never touches meat. The tickets for his concerts are made out of recycled paper. He has very strict values and he sticks to them.
“Anyway, he came back to England in the seventies and formed a band—Slam! They were an instant success. I'm sure the rest of this will be very familiar to you, Alex. At the end of the seventies the band split up, and Cray began a solo career which took him to new heights. His first solo album, Firelight, went platinum. After that he was seldom out of the UK or US top twenty.
He won five Grammys and an Academy Award for Best Original Song. In 1986 he visited Africa and decided to do something to help the people there. He arranged a concert at Wembley Stadium, with all proceeds going to charity. Chart Attack—that was what it was called. It was a huge success and that Christmas he released a single: „Something for the Children'. It sold four million copies and he gave every penny away.
“That was just the beginning. Since the success of Chart Attack, Cray has campaigned tirelessly on a range of world issues. Save the rainforests; protect the ozone layer; end world debt. He's built his own rehabilitation centres to help young people involved with drugs, and he spent two years fighting to have a laboratory closed down because it was experimenting on animals.
“In 1989 he performed in Belfast, and many people believe that this free concert was a step on the way towards peace in Northern Ireland. A year later he made two visits to Buckingham Palace. He was there on a Thursday to play a solo for Princess Diana's birthday; and on the Friday he was back again to receive a knighthood from the Queen.
“Only last year he was on the cover of Time magazine. „Man of the Year. Saint or Singer?' That was the headline. And that's why your accusations are ridiculous, Alex. The whole world knows that Damian Cray is just about the closest thing we have to a living saint.”
“It was still his voice on the telephone,” Alex said.
“You heard someone give his name. You don't know it was him.”
“I just don't understand it!” Now Alex was angry, confused. “All right, we all like Damian Cray.
I know he's famous. But if there's a chance that he was involved with the bomb, why won't you at least investigate him?”
“Because we can't.” It was Blunt who had spoken and the words came out flat and heavy. He cleared his throat. “Damian Cray is a multimillionaire. He's got a huge penthouse on the Thames and another place down in Wiltshire, just outside Bath.”
“So what?”
“Rich people have connections and extremely rich people have very good connections indeed.
Since the nineties, Cray has been putting his money into a number of commercial ventures. He bought his own television station and made a number of programmes that are now shown all around the world. Then he branched out into hotels—and finally into computer games. He's about to launch a new game system. He calls it the Gameslayer, and apparently it will put all the other systems—PlayStation 2, GameCube, whatever—into the shade.”
“I still don't see—”
