Crocodile Tears

by Anthony Horowitz

  Alex took a swig out of the water bottle and set off. Two miles in this unfamiliar countryside would take him as many hours. He just hoped he wasn’t already too late.

  22

  MARGIN OF ERROR

  ONE O ’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON, London time.

  The navy blue Jaguar XJ6 drove around Trafalgar Square and then headed down Whitehall, in the direction of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The weather forecasters had been predicting snow, but so far it had held back. Even so, it was a hard, cold day, with the wind skittering along the sidewalks. Inside the car, the heat had been turned up and the windows were tinted. Both of these helped keep the winter at bay.

  The Jaguar passed the famous Banqueting House, where the first King Charles had lost his head, and turned onto Downing Street. The black steel gates opened automatically to admit it. It stopped outside Number Ten and two people, a man and a woman, got out. As always, there was a handful of news reporters in the street, making their broadcasts against the backdrop of the most famous door in the world, but none of them noticed the two new arrivals, and if they had, it would have been extremely unlikely that they would have recognized them. Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones had never been photographed. Their names didn’t appear on any government profiles.

  Neither of them needed to knock. The door swung open as they approached and they passed into the brightly colored entrance hall with a surprisingly long corridor stretching out in front of them. They made no sound at all as they walked along the plush carpets, beneath the chandeliers, toward the far staircase. As usual, the walls were lined with paintings that had been borrowed from a central government reserve. They were by British artists, most of them modern and rather bland.

  Blunt examined them as he continued forward, not because he was interested in art—he wasn’t—but because they might give him some insight into the mind of the man who had chosen them. There was a new prime minister in Downing Street. He had been voted in just a month before, And what did the paintings say about him? He liked the countryside, fox hunting, and windmills. His favorite color was blue.

  Of course, Blunt already knew everything about the new man—from the state of his marriage (happy) to the last payment he had made on his credit card (£97.60 for a meal at The Ivy). There wasn’t a single prime minister in England who hadn’t been thoroughly checked by MI6: their families, their friends and associates, what websites they liked to visit, where they took their vacations, how much money they spent every week. There was always a chance that the information might reveal a security risk or something that the prime minister didn’t want anyone to know.

  The two of them reached the staircase and began to climb up to the first floor, passing the painted portraits and photographs of past prime ministers, spaced out at regular intervals. There was a man in a suit waiting at the top, gesturing toward an office. The building was full of young men in suits, some of them working for Blunt, although they probably didn’t know it. Blunt and Mrs. Jones went into the office and there was the prime minister, waiting with two advisers, sitting behind a desk.

  “Mr. Blunt . . . please, take a seat.”

  The prime minister wasn’t happy, and it showed. Like all politicians, he didn’t entirely trust his spy masters and he certainly didn’t want one sitting opposite him now. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been in power very long. It was certainly too soon for his first international crisis. There were two men sitting with him, one on each side. They were trying to look relaxed, as if they just happened to be passing and had decided to pop in for the meeting.

  “I don’t think you’ve met Simon Ellis,” the prime minister said, nodding at the fair-haired, rather plump man on his left. “And this is Charles Blackmore.” The other man was also young, though with prematurely gray hair. “I thought it might be helpful if they joined us.”

  Blunt hadn’t met either of them, but of course he knew everything about them. They had both been at Winchester College with the prime minister. Ellis was now a junior civil servant in the Treasury. Blackmore had left a career in television to become director of strategy and communications. The two men loathed each other. The prime minister didn’t know this. They were also loathed by almost everyone else.

  “Well . . . ,” the prime minister began. He licked his lips. “I’ve read your report on the situation in Kenya and it does seem to be very alarming. But the first question I really do have to ask you is—why did your agent feel it necessary to send his information via the Indian secret service?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Blunt replied. “We only know what you know, Prime Minister. It’s all in the file. Our agent was kidnapped and smuggled out of the country against his will. Somehow he must have managed to break free and fell in with an agent from RAW.”

  “Research and Analysis Wing,” Blackmore muttered helpfully.

  “We have no idea what RAW was doing in Kenya, and so far they’ve refused to tell us. I’m afraid foreign intelligence agencies are always overcautious when it comes to protecting their own. But if I may say so, Prime Minister, it’s completely irrelevant. What matters is the report itself and the very serious threat it contains.”

  The prime minister picked up a sheet of paper that had been lying in front of him. “This was sent by e-mail,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And it suggests that this man, Desmond McCain, is engaged in a plot to poison the wheat crop in Kenya for his own financial gain.”

  Blunt blinked heavily. “I’m glad you had time to read it,” he muttered.

  The prime minister ignored the rudeness. He put the paper down. “What makes you believe this information is reliable?” he asked.

  “We have absolutely no reason to doubt it.”

  “And yet I understand that this agent of yours, the one who sent the report—which, incidentally, has no fewer than three spelling mistakes—is only fourteen years old.”

  There was a long pause. The two advisers glanced at the prime minister, urging him on.

  “Alex Rider. Is that his name?” the prime minister asked.

  “He’s never let us down in the past,” Mrs. Jones cut in. She was carrying a slim leather case, which she opened. She took out a thin file marked TOP SECRET in red letters and handed it across. “These are the details of just four of the assignments he’s undertaken on our behalf,” she continued. “The most recent of them was in Australia.”

  “Shouldn’t he be in school?”

  “He called in sick.”

  “Let me have a look . . .” The prime minister opened the file and read it in silence. “You certainly seem to have a very high opinion of him,” he remarked. “And let’s say for the sake of argument that it’s justified. Let’s assume that everything that he has told you is true—”

  “Then by four o’clock this evening, the wheat field will have been activated,” Blunt said. In fact, Alex’s e-mail had crossed two time zones. He had sent it at midday. It had arrived in New Delhi at half past two, Indian time. They had kept it for three hours before they had sent it to MI6 where it arrived at noon, UK time. Four o’clock in England would be seven o’clock in Kenya, and sunset. They had less than three hours in which to act. “The wheat will have been turned into a million doses of ricin,” Blunt went on. “At the same time, the spores that McCain sprayed onto the field will take off and begin to spread across the rest of Kenya. It will settle on the next field and then the one after that. It’s impossible to say how many millions of seeds Greenfields has supplied over the past five years. All we know for sure is that within three months, the entire country will be poisoned.”

  “We can let McCain know we’re onto him,” Ellis said. “There’s not going to be any charity appeal. Once he knows that, there’ll be no point in going ahead.”

  “I agree.” Blackmore nodded his head, secretly annoyed that he hadn’t spoken first.

  “We don’t have any way to contact McCain, short of parachuting into Simba River Camp,” Blunt replied.
“And anyway, we’re too late. There’s a biological clock that’s already ticking. The damage has been done.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “We need to speak to the Kenyan government and send in troops. The field has to be neutralized, probably with flamethrowers. And we also have to find Alex Rider. We’ve heard nothing more from him. I want to know he’s safe.”

  Although she didn’t show it, Mrs. Jones was surprised. It was the first time she had ever heard Blunt show any concern for Alex. Even when he had been shot, Blunt’s main concern had been keeping the story out of the newspapers.

  “I’m not sure that’s possible, Mr. Blunt.” The prime minister shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It might be a bit awkward explaining to the Kenyan authorities that a British citizen has just launched a biochemical attack on their country . . . and let’s not forget that Greenfields actually receives government funding! Of course, it wasn’t my government that agreed to it, but even so, the political fallout could be appalling. Frankly, the less said the better. And I definitely think we ought to handle the situation ourselves.”

  “I have an SAS task force on standby,” Blunt said.

  “It would still take too long to fly them to Africa,” Blackmore said. He glanced at the prime minister, waiting for permission to continue. The prime minister nodded. “But in my view, we can do better than that,” he said. “We have an RAF Phantom squadron in Akrotiri, Cyprus. They’re already fueling. They can be in the air in half an hour.”

  “And what do you intend to do with them?” Blunt asked.

  “It’s very simple, Mr. Blunt. We’re going to bomb the entire wheat field. After all, thanks to your agent, we know exactly where it is.”

  “But won’t the bombs do McCain’s work for him? You’ll actually blow the spores into the air. You’ll spread them all over Africa.”

  “We don’t believe so. The Phantoms will be carrying AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface tactical missiles with infrared tracking. They’ll be able to pinpoint the target exactly. Each plane has six missiles. Each missile contains eighty-six pounds of high explosive. The advice we’ve been given is that there’s a 99.5 percent probability that every single one of the spores will be destroyed in the firestorm.”

  “That still leaves room for error,” Blunt said.

  “And what about Alex?” Mrs. Jones added. “For all we know, he could still be in the area. Are we going to launch a missile strike against him too?”

  “I don’t think we have any choice,” Ellis said. He reached down and picked a speck of dust off his tie. “There’s no reason to believe he’s anywhere near the target area.”

  “And if he is?”

  “I’m sure you’d agree that we can’t allow one life to get in the way. Not when we’re trying to save thousands.”

  There was a brief silence. The prime minister was looking more uncomfortable than ever. But then he spoke again. “I think we’ve come to a unanimous decision, Mr. Blunt.”

  “You certainly have,” Blunt muttered.

  “And before you leave, there is one thing I do have to ask you. Exactly how many agents do you have who are underage . . . which is to say, sixteen years old or younger?”

  “We have only one,” Blunt replied. “There is only one Alex Rider.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it.” The prime minister looked apologetic. “To be honest, I was rather horrified to discover that the British secret service would even consider employing a minor. I can see from his file that he’s been tremendously useful to you and he certainly deserves our gratitude. But putting children into danger, no matter how compelling the reason . . . well, I’m not sure the public would stand for it. In my view, recruiting him in the first place was a serious error of judgment.”

  “Well, if your Phantom jets manage to kill him, that won’t be a problem anymore, will it,” Blunt said. He was speaking evenly and without emotion, but it was the nearest Mrs. Jones had ever seen him come to losing his temper.

  “I hope it won’t come to that, Mr. Blunt. But whatever happens, I want to make it clear that my government will not tolerate this sort of thing again. This is Alex’s last assignment, do you understand me? I want him back at school.”

  The meeting was over. Blunt and Mrs. Jones stood up and walked out of the room, back down the stairs, and out into the street where their car was waiting for them.

  “The man is an idiot,” Blunt snapped as they swept through the gates at the end of Downing Street. “He talks about a 0.5 percent margin of error. But I spoke to Redwing, and she thinks it’s much higher. These missiles of his won’t kill the disease. They’ll spread it . . . farther and faster than anyone could imagine.”

  “What about Alex?” Mrs. Jones asked.

  “I’ll talk to RAW the moment we get back. But their man has gone silent. Nobody knows what’s happening in Kenya.” He glanced briefly out of the window as they turned into Whitehall. “It looks as if, once again, Alex Rider is on his own.”

  “Where did you find this?”

  Desmond McCain was sitting behind the folding table that he used as a workplace in his own private cabin at Simba River Camp. The room was similar to the one in which Alex had been kept, except that there was no bed and the walls were decorated with photographs of the office buildings that McCain had once developed in the east end of London. Although the fan had been turned to full speed, the air was still hot and sluggish. There was sweat on his head and on his face. It was seeping through the shoulders of his jacket.

  He was looking at a leather shoe, one he recognized. The last time he had seen it, it had been on Myra Beckett’s foot. In fact, it still was. The foot, bitten off just above the ankle, was still inside.

  “It was beside the river, sir.”

  Njenga was also in the room, standing with his legs apart and his hands behind his back. He had become the leader of the dozen men working for McCain. The rest of them spoke only Bantu, but he had been to school in Nairobi and spoke fluent English. McCain took one last look at all that remained of his fiancée. A single tear stole out of his eye and crept down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Also on the table was a scrap of material, part of Alex’s shirt. McCain examined it. “What about this?” he asked.

  “It was in the same place.”

  “By the river.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McCain held the shirt in his huge hands, tugging at it with his fingers. It had been more than two hours since he had noticed that Myra was missing and had sent out his men to find her. They had come back with this. What could possibly have happened? He had left her standing on the observation platform, waiting for the child to come to the end of his strength and to fall as, inevitably, he must. There was no way that Alex Rider would have been able to reach her. Nor could he have escaped. It had all been too carefully arranged. And yet there was something . . .

  “There is no blood on this shirt,” he said. “We’ve been tricked. Somehow, the child got away.”

  Njenga said nothing. The rule here was to speak only when it was essential.

  “He can’t have gone far, even with a two-hour start. He has nowhere to go. He won’t have crossed the river, not knowing what’s in it. So it should be a simple matter to track him down.” McCain had come to a decision. “I want you to take the men—all of them—and set off after him. I’m not asking anything clever. I want you to bring him back to me alive if you possibly can. I would like to have the pleasure of finishing this once and for all. But if you think he’s going to get away, then kill him and bring me back his head. Do you understand? This time, I want to be sure.”

  “Yes, sir.” Njenga showed no concern about killing and decapitating a child. All that mattered to him was the money that would come to him at the end of the month.

  “Go now. Don’t come back until the job is done.”

  A few minutes later they all left, twelve men carrying a variety of weapons, including spears, knives, and mache
tes. Half of them had guns. Njenga himself carried a German-manufactured Sauer 202 bolt-action hunting rifle equipped with a Zeiss Conquest scope. He knew he could shoot the eye of an antelope out at two hundred yards. He had done so many times.

  They found two tracks at the river. The first one went into the bush and came back again. The second, which was much clearer, headed off toward the north. This was the path they chose. Alex Rider had a two-hour start, but they were Kikuyu tribesmen. They were taller, faster, and stronger than him. They knew the land.

  They set off at a fast run, dodging through the undergrowth, confident that they’d catch up with him in no time at all.

  23

  SIMBA DAM

  THE BIRDS PERCHED HIGH UP in the camphor tree were definitely vultures. The shape was unmistakable—the long necks and the bald heads—and the way they sat, hunched up and still. There were about ten of them, ranged across the branches, black against the afternoon sky. But the question Alex had to ask himself was: Were they waiting for him?

  He had no idea how long he had been running for, but he knew he couldn’t go on much longer. He was dehydrated and close to exhaustion, his arms covered in scratches, his face burned by the African sun. The bits of his school uniform that he was still wearing couldn’t have been less well suited to this sort of terrain. The black polyester pants trapped the heat, and his lace-up dress shoes had caused him to slip twice. Each time he had come crashing down to the ground, he had wearily reminded himself that there was a bomb strapped to his back. Not that he could have forgotten it. The weight of Rahim’s backpack was dragging him down, the straps cutting into his shoulders. Well, if the bomb went off, the vultures would have their feast. It would just come in snack-sized pieces.

  The journey should have been simple. After all, he had seen where he had to go from the air. Unfortunately, the landscape looked very different at ground level when he was stuck in the middle of it. The sudden rising hills, the thick vegetation, the spiky shrubs that forced him to turn another way . . . all these had been flattened out when he was in the Piper Cub. The bush had swallowed him up. The dam, the pylons, the track had all disappeared.