that Alex must be somewhere near.
But Alex was already passing him and the bullets went wide, slicing into the first Bandit and killing the driver instantly. Somehow the second Bandit managed to get through, but then there was a thud, a scream and the sound of metal smashing into brick. The clatter of bullets stopped and Alex smiled grimly to himself, realizing what had happened. The man with the machine gun had just been run over by his friend on the bike.
His smite faded as yet another Smart car appeared from nowhere, still some distance away but already getting closer. How many of them were there? Surely Cray's people would decide they'd had enough and give it a rest. But then Alex remembered the flash drive in his pocket and knew that Cray would rip all Amsterdam apart to get it back.
There was a bridge ahead of him, an old-fashioned construction of wood and metal with thick cables and counterweights. It crossed a much wider canal and there was a single barge approaching it. Alex was puzzled. The bridge was far too low to allow the barge to pass. Then a red traffic light blinked on; the bridge began to lift. Alex glanced back. The Smart car was about fifty metres behind him and this time there was nowhere to hide, nowhere else to go. He looked ahead of him. If he could just get to the other side of this canal, he really would be able to disappear. Nobody would be able to follow—at least not until the bridge had come down again.
But it looked as if he was already too late. The bridge had split in half, both sections rising at t he same speed, the gap over the water widening with every second.
The Smart car was accelerating.
Alex had no choice.
Feeling the pain, and knowing that he had reached the last reserves of his strength, Alex pushed down and the bike picked up speed. The car's engine was louder now, howling in his ears, but he didn't dare look back again. All his energy was focused on the rapidly rising bridge.
He hit the wooden surface when it was at a forty-five degree slant. Insanely he found himself thinking of some long-forgotten maths lesson at school. A right-angled triangle. He could see it clearly on the board. And he was cycling up its side!
He wasn't going to make it. Every time he pushed down on the pedals it was a little harder, and he was barely halfway up the slope. He could see the gap—huge now—and the dark, cold water below. The car was right behind him. It was so close he could hear nothing apart from its engine, and the smell of petrol filled his nostrils. He pedalled one last time—and at the same moment pressed the red button in the bell: the ejector seat. There was a soft explosion right below him.
The saddle had rocketed off the bike, propelled by compressed air or some sort of ingenious hydraulic system. Alex shot into the air, over his side of the bridge, over the gap and then down onto the other side, rolling over and over as he tumbled all the way down. As he spun round, he saw the Smart car. Incredibly, it had tried to follow him. It was suspended in mid-air between the two halves of the bridge. He could see the driver's face, the open eyes, the gritted teeth. Then the car plunged down. There was a great splash and it sank at once beneath the black surface of the canal.
Alex got painfully to his feet. The saddle was lying next to him and he picked it up. There was a message underneath. He wouldn't have been able to read it while the saddle was attached to the frame.
Carrying the saddle, Alex began to limp back to the hotel. He was too tired to smile.
EMERGENCY MEASURES
When Alex opened his eyes at eight the following morning, he found himself lying on a bed in a small, irregularly shaped room on the top floor, built into the roof. He hadn't folded the shutters and sunlight was streaming in through the open window. Slowly he sat up, his body already complaining about the treatment it had received the night before. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair but he couldn't remember putting them there. He looked over to the side and saw a note taped to the mirror.
breakfast served until ten. Hope you can make it downstairs! J xxx He smiled, recognizing Jack's handwriting.
There was a tiny bathroom, hardly bigger than a cupboard, leading off the main room and Alex went in and washed. He cleaned his teeth, thankful for the taste of the peppermint. Even nearly ten hours later he hadn't quite forgotten the taste of the snake's blood. As he got dressed, he thought back to the night before when he had finally limped into the reception area to discover Jack waiting for him in one of the antique chairs. He hadn't thought he had been too badly hurt but the look on her face had told him differently. She had ordered sandwiches and hot chocolate from the puzzled receptionist, then led him to the tiny lift that carried them up five floors. Jack hadn't asked any questions and Alex had been grateful. He was too tired to explain, too tired to do anything.
Jack had made him take a shower, and by the time he had come out she had somehow managed to get her hands on a pile of plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. Alex was sure he needed none of them and he was relieved when they were interrupted by the arrival of room service. He had thought he would be too tired to eat, but suddenly he found that he was ravenously hungry and wolfed down the lot while Jack watched. At last he had stretched out on the bed.
He was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
Now he finished dressing, checked his bruises in the mirror, and went out. He took the creaking lift all the way down to a vaulted, low-ceilinged cellar underneath the reception area. This was where breakfast was served. It was a Dutch breakfast of cold meats, cheeses and bread rolls, served with coffee. Alex saw Jack sitting at a table on her own in a corner. He went over and joined her.
“Hi, Alex,” she said. She was obviously relieved to see him looking more like his old self. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a log.” He sat down. “Do you want me to tell you what happened last night?”
“Not yet. I have a feeling it'll put me off my breakfast.” They ate, and then he told her everything that had happened from the moment he had entered Cray's compound on the side of the truck. When he finished, there was a long silence. Jack's last cup of coffee had gone cold.
“Damian Cray is a maniac!” she exclaimed. “I'll tell you one thing, Alex, I'm never going to buy another of his CDs!” She sipped her coffee, grimaced and put the cup down. “But I still don't get it,” she said. “What do you think he's doing, for heaven's sake? I mean … Cray is a national hero. He sang at Princess Diana's wedding!”
“It was her birthday,” Alex corrected her.
“And he's given zillions to charity. I went to one of his concerts once. Every penny he made went to Save the Children. Or maybe I got the name wrong; maybe it was Beat Up and Try to Kill the Children! Just what the hell is going on?”
“I don't know. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes.”
“I don't even want to think about it. I'm just relieved you managed to get out of there alive. And I hate myself for letting you go in alone.” She thought for a moment. “It seems to me you've done your bit,” she went on. “Now you have to go back to MI6 and tell them what you know.
You can take them the flash drive. This time they'll have to believe you.”
“I couldn't agree with you more,” Alex said. “But first of all we have to get out of Amsterdam.
And we're going to have to be careful. Cray is bound to have people at the station. And at the airport for that matter.”
Jack nodded. “We'll take a bus,” she said. “We can go to Rotterdam or Antwerp. Maybe we can get a plane from there.”
They had finished their breakfast. Now they packed, paid and left the hotel. Jack used cash. She was afraid that with all his resources, Cray might be able to track a credit card. They picked up a taxi at the flower market and took it out to the suburbs, where they caught a local bus. Alex realized it was going to be a long journey home, and that worried him. Twelve hours had passed since he had heard Cray announce that Eagle Strike would take place in two days' time. It was already the middle of the morning.
Less than thirty-six hours remained.
Damian Cray had woken early and was sitting up in a four-poster bed with mauve silk sheets and at least a dozen pillows. There was a tray in front of him, brought in by his personal maid along with the morning newspapers, specially flown over from England. He was eating his usual breakfast of organic porridge, Mexican honey (made by his own bees), soya milk and cranberries. It was well known that Cray was a vegetarian. At different times he had campaigned against battery farming, the transportation of live animals and the importation of goose liver pate.
