by Chris Ryan
Maybe Felix really was just letting him go.
The night was bitterly cold so he couldn’t stay on the streets. He needed somewhere to spend the night. But where?
– You could always go back to the apartment if you’ve quite finished with your little tantrum.
– No way. Me and Felix are finished.
He saw a cab coming from the opposite direction. Its orange ‘For Hire’ light was on. Ricky started to raise his hand to flag it down, but then he lowered it, aware that he had very little money now. He turned his baseball cap so the peak was pointing forward, then hurried over to the underground station. Down by the ticket barriers, he was about to swipe his Oyster card when he stopped himself again. Could Felix, or the strange, shadowy people he worked for, track him using the Oyster card? It wouldn’t surprise him.
He bought himself a ticket instead, and took a train into Piccadilly Circus. Then he walked through the back streets of Soho – a stone’s throw from Keeper’s House – until he came to a busy little coffee shop on Frith Street that he knew was open all night. For the price of a few hot drinks, he could stay here till dawn.
He took a seat by the steamed-up window and ordered a hot chocolate, which he sipped slowly. There was a free newspaper at his table, which he pretended to read. In reality, his mind was churning over what he’d learned during the past couple of hours. Jacob Cole, MP. Nuclear submarines. These sounded like things that belonged to somebody else’s life, not his. Why should he have to worry about them?
– You’re being childish.
– Well, get over it. I am a child.
– And how long are you going to use that as an excuse for doing nothing with your life? What do you want to be, the oldest pickpocket in town?
– Shut up, Ziggy.
The voice in his head fell silent and Ricky sipped at his coffee. He looked around the café at the other customers. They were a mixed bunch: a few young couples; a little group of teenagers. An older man in the corner nursing a small espresso. A boy about Ricky’s age, maybe a little older, with a red baseball cap worn backwards, sat at a table with a blond-haired man with a serious face. His older brother maybe? None of them paid Ricky any attention. Ricky realized his brain was in record mode, just like Felix had told him it must always be.
The door opened. An old lady shuffled in. She was probably in her seventies, wore tatty clothing and carried a full plastic bag close to her chest. She sat down at the table next to Ricky and started counting out a few coins in her grubby hands. When she was sure she had enough, she flagged down the waiter. Ricky felt sorry for her. He was sure she wouldn’t have enough money to stay here till dawn, and he wondered where she would end up spending the night.
– Maybe you’re not quite as heartless as I thought.
– What are you talking about? I’m not heartless.
– Really? Could have fooled me. You seem quite happy to leave people to die.
– Don’t be stupid, Ziggy. I’ve never left anybody to die.
– Oh, really? And what happens if the wrong people get hold of the codes for those nuclear submarines? Who do you think comes off worse in the disaster that follows? People like Jacob Cole, MP? Or people like her?
Ricky found himself looking at the old bag lady. Then he stared around the café at the other customers. And he realized that the voice in his head was right. It wasn’t Felix he had just deserted – it was ordinary people who knew nothing of what was going on. Ordinary people like his mum and dad and Madeleine, if they had lived. He couldn’t help them; but he could try and stop anyone else losing their family too . . . try and do the right thing.
– You want to pretend it’s not your problem. But it is now. It’s just a question of whether you do anything about it.
– I’m not going to force Izzy Cole to go back to her dad. I saw what he did to her.
– Maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe there’s another way. And in any case, don’t you think Izzy should be allowed to make that choice for herself?
The voice fell silent.
Ricky stirred his hot chocolate. Then, suddenly, he stood up and left, taking his newspaper with him. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn that the boy in the baseball cap had caught his eye as he left.
Jacob Cole sat behind his desk in the first-floor study of the White House. Opposite him were two police officers. They were in full uniform and looked rather uncomfortable.
‘And you’re sure, Mr Cole, that you can think of no reason why Izzy would want to run away?’ one of the police officers asked.
Cole’s lips grew thin and his eyes narrowed. ‘As I have told you and your colleagues more than once,’ he said in little more than a whisper, ‘my daughter is a rather foolish, extremely hot-headed young lady. It would be just like her to do something silly like this. Now, if I were in your position, I would be searching all night for my daughter, under every last stone, not sitting here at almost midnight asking me damn fool questions.’ He said these last words with an emphasis that made the two police officers look anxiously at each other. ‘I should tell you that I am personally acquainted with the commissioner, and I’m quite prepared to speak to him about the high level of incompetence being demonstrated by this investigation.’ Cole stood up and gripped the edge of his desk. ‘Find . . . my . . . daughter . . .’ he said. ‘Now, it’s very late. Please leave.’
The police officers silently stood up and left the room. Cole sat back down again. His blood was boiling with anger. Anger at those idiotic police officers, and anger at his idiotic daughter. Did she have any idea of the problems her stupidity was causing him? Now, of all times, he did not need the glare of publicity shining on him. As it was Christmas, he’d managed to keep Izzy’s disappearance out of the newspapers, but for how long?
He took a key from the pocket of his suit jacket and used it to open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. It contained a manila folder. Cole didn’t remove it. He didn’t even touch it. He just wanted to make sure it was still there. He closed the drawer again and locked it securely.
He stared at the mobile phone on the table, willing it to ring. The sooner he made his deal with the Russians, the better. Once they had the information, they could do what they wanted with it. Cole would have his money, and that was all that mattered.
His wife appeared in the doorway. He noticed that she had been crying again. There were dark streaks under her eyes. She stared at him with loathing, but didn’t say anything before disappearing again.
Stupid woman, he thought. Perhaps, when the deal was done, he would leave her, claim that the stress of their daughter running away had forced them apart. Then he would be free to enjoy his money by himself.
Five minutes after leaving the café, Ricky found himself once more outside the entrance to Keeper’s House. The snow had stopped and his footprints were the only fresh ones in the street. His breath steamed in the cold, but he felt his blood pumping hard. Returning to Keeper’s House was a risk. The Thrownaways could be volatile. More to the point, Hunter didn’t fully trust him. He wouldn’t want to give him access to Izzy.
But Ricky had to try.
He opened up his newspaper and laid it in the snow. Carefully, he folded it in half several times, just like Felix had taught him, until he had a sturdy truncheon. He gave it a couple of whacks against his open palm. Good and solid. No doubt Hunter and his Thrownaways would have more dangerous weapons than this in their basement, but Ricky felt a little bit better now he had something with which to defend himself.
The main door to Keeper’s House was unlocked. It squeaked as he opened it slowly. He crept silently down the stairs into the basement. When he reached the door to the main basement room, he stopped and listened.
Silence.
– Is everyone asleep? Maybe you could wake Izzy without the others knowing . . .?
Very slowly, he pushed the door open with the tip of his newspaper truncheon.
It was completely dark in the basem
ent and Ricky heard nothing but the gentle rise and fall of heavy breathing. He stayed perfectly still for a minute, allowing his eyes to get used to the blackness. Gradually, he made out dark shapes dotted around the room: furniture, and sleeping bodies.
He found himself automatically dividing the dark room into cubes. He scanned each one carefully, looking for movement.
There was none.
– That doesn’t mean they’re all asleep. Be very careful. If Hunter finds you in here, he might get violent . . .
He crept inside, his own shallow breath drowning out the heavy breathing of the others in his ears. He moved very slowly, to keep the sound of his footsteps to a minimum.
Three metres in.
Five metres.
Someone stirred on the far left-hand side of the room. Ricky froze.
Silence again.
He fixed his eyes on the dark, murky outline of the door at the far side of the basement room. It was, he thought, slightly ajar. He started walking again. Creeping, silently, towards it.
– No!
From behind, a hand had clamped over his mouth. Ricky’s instinct was to shout out in alarm, but he managed to stay quiet, though his muscles tensed up – it was as if they knew they might be needed in a fight. He raised his truncheon, ready to strike if he had to . . .
The hand fell away. Cat-like, his truncheon still aloft, Ricky turned round to find another face centimetres from his.
Tommy.
Tommy’s face was hard and suspicious. But he hadn’t raised the alarm, and Ricky took that as good news. Very slowly, he lowered his truncheon and raised one finger to his lips.
Very, very quietly, Tommy whispered: ‘Don’t wake Hunter!’ Then he retreated into the darkness. Ricky inhaled deeply to steady his nerves, then kept walking towards the far door. He slipped silently into the next room, then paused for a moment with his back to the door. Having memorized the layout without even thinking about it, he knew from his previous visit that the floor here was littered with mattresses. His sharp eyes picked them out in the darkness and he started to weave his way in and out of them.
Halfway across the room he stopped again. Something told him he was being watched. He looked up and saw a figure standing up with her back against the wall. It was as if Izzy knew he was coming for her. Or maybe she just couldn’t sleep and he’d disturbed her when he entered the room? Either way, she hadn’t raised the alarm, so Ricky kept walking towards her.
‘We need to talk,’ he whispered when he was just a couple of metres from where she was standing.
‘I’m not going back home,’ she breathed.
‘I know. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to. But can we just talk? Outside, away from here?’
A pause.
Izzy slowly raised her right hand and Ricky took it. Her hand was icy, and it trembled.
‘We need to be quiet. Mustn’t wake Hunter,’ he murmured.
He carefully led her back to the main basement room, where he tried to pick out Tommy in the darkness, but couldn’t. Still holding Izzy’s hand, he headed straight for the door.
But he was only halfway there when the room suddenly filled with light.
Dazzled, Ricky covered his eyes with his right arm, which was still holding the newspaper truncheon. He uncovered them a fraction of a second later, because he had heard Izzy scream.
Hunter was there, five metres away, bearing down on them like a madman. His eyes were wild and angry, his leathery face curled into a vicious snarl. In his right hand he held a wicked-looking knife. Ricky’s mind flashed back to the last time someone had drawn a knife on him: the witch-like woman in Bloomsbury Square. Back then, he’d had Felix to rescue him. But now he was on his own.
‘Run!’ he barked at Izzy. She staggered towards the door. Ricky was aware of the other Thrownaways drowsily waking up. He had to deal with Hunter before any of them decided to come to the man’s aid.
Three metres between them. Hunter was raising his arm, ready to strike.
How had Felix dealt with the witch? Ricky pictured that scene. He’d gone for the wrist of her knife hand with his stick.
Ricky had no stick. But he did have the truncheon.
He moved almost on instinct. Hunter was almost upon him now, just about to strike with the knife. With a sudden movement, Ricky whacked the truncheon against Hunter’s knife hand with all the force he could muster. It connected sharply. Hunter roared out in pain, and the knife went clattering to the floor.
– GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!
Ricky spun round. Izzy was already at the door, but she was staring towards them, her eyes wide and horrified.
‘Move!’ Ricky shouted, and he sprinted in her direction as Hunter, still roaring with pain, scrambled to pick up the knife.
‘Get ’em!’ Hunter yelled. Suddenly Ricky was aware that at least ten of the Thrownaways were on their feet. Tommy was one of them, but he was holding back, clearly reluctant to try to catch Ricky. But Ricky knew that if Hunter forced him, he wouldn’t have a choice. None of them would.
Izzy was halfway up the stairs now and Ricky was already by the door. But Hunter and the Thrownaways were bearing down on him, and some of them had knives – there was no way he could deal with them all using just a rolled-up newspaper.
Again, instinct took over. He dropped the truncheon and plunged one hand into the pocket of his jeans. When he removed it, he was clutching a handful of coins.
‘You can’t pay your way out of this one, sunshine,’ Hunter snarled.
Ricky ignored the threat. What had Felix said? If I throw a handful of coins hard enough at your face, you’re going to know about it . . .
Ricky didn’t hesitate. He hurled the coins towards Hunter and his boys, as hard as he could. As he turned his back on them, he heard several of them shouting in pain. But he was already clattering up the steps after Izzy, taking two steps at a time. He looked over his shoulder. One of the Thrownaways – a small kid with ginger hair – was already at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Move!’ Ricky hissed at Izzy. ‘Move!’
Five seconds later, they burst out of Keeper’s House. Izzy was already out of breath, but they couldn’t stop now. He grabbed her by the hand and yanked her towards the end of the street.
‘They’re following!’ she cried as they turned right onto Berwick Street. ‘They’re following us!’
‘Keep running,’ Ricky hissed. And then he added: ‘In a straight line!’
They sprinted down the slidy, snowy road. Every ten paces or so, Ricky would lose his grip and slip. But somehow he and Izzy managed to keep each other up. The further they ran towards Piccadilly, the more people they encountered. And after three or four minutes, Ricky stopped and looked back, his lungs burning.
‘We’ve lost them,’ he panted.
Izzy was gasping for air. She was shivering too. Hardly surprising. Even though they’d been running, it was freezing outside.
‘Let’s get a hot drink,’ he said.
Izzy nodded gratefully, then said: ‘You’re really not going to tell my dad where I am, right?’
Ricky gave her a serious kind of look. ‘Let’s talk,’ he said. He checked again for any sign of pursuing Thrownaways, but there were none. And so without another word, he took her hand and led her into a nearby McDonald’s.
15
THE BLIND SPOT
McDonald’s wasn’t busy. It was gone midnight on Boxing Day, after all. A few drunk youths were making a noise in the far corner and everyone else in the restaurant – there were fifteen or twenty others – kept their distance and did their best not to look in that direction. Ricky told Izzy to take a seat near the door, and kept half an eye on her as he went to buy hot tea, burgers and fries with the last of his remaining loose change. He didn’t want her to run off.
But she didn’t. When he placed the food in front of her, she devoured it hungrily. While she ate, Ricky looked out of the window. London was still busy, despite the late hour and the snow. A red bus trundled past, a
line of traffic close behind. Everyone was driving carefully in the bad weather. Ricky watched a well-wrapped-up cyclist wobble past, then noticed a second cyclist on the other side of the road – his bike was propped up against a street lamp and he had crouched down to fix something on the drive chain.
Ricky’s senses were immediately ultra-alert. What had Felix told him? Nobody looks twice at a cyclist fiddling with his chain. It means you can stay in the same place, watching and waiting, for ages.
– It’s probably just a regular cyclist, said the voice in his head. You’re being paranoid. But Ricky took careful note of the cyclist’s clothes – black puffa jacket, red scarf. If he saw that figure again, he’d know to be suspicious . . .
He turned back to Izzy and couldn’t help staring at her. She was so like Madeleine. He waited until she had drunk half of her steaming hot tea before even asking her a question.
‘Do you think your dad is up to anything dodgy?’
He watched her face carefully as he said this, looking for any flicker of surprise or annoyance. There was none. But she didn’t answer. She just took another sip of her tea and stared at him over the brim of the cup.
‘I think he is,’ said Ricky.
Izzy put the cup down. ‘How would you know that?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve got a source.’
‘A good source?’
Ricky thought of Felix, limping furiously around the apartment, and all that he had said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘A very good source.’
Izzy bowed her head. ‘He’s a monster,’ she whispered. ‘He only thinks about himself.’
‘Can you remember anything he has ever said about’ – Ricky lowered his voice slightly – ‘nuclear location codes, or any dealings he’s had with Russians?’
Izzy’s eyes widened and she nodded her head. ‘I heard him shouting down the phone. It was just a few hours before I ran away. He was talking to someone called Dmitri, saying that this Dmitri guy wouldn’t get anything until Dad got his money first.’