And luckily for him, this crane was a Liebherr 154 EC-H, one of the most modern in the world. The Liebherr is incredibly easy to use, and also remarkably accurate. Even sitting so high above the ground, the operator can pick up a tea bag and drop it into a small china pot. Now Alex pushed sideways with his left hand and gasped as the crane swung around. In front of him he could see the jib stretching out, swinging high over the rooftops of London. The more he Alex settled himself in the chair and pulled back, wondering what would happen next.
Inside the boat, Skoda was opening a bottle of gin. He’d had a good day, selling more than a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of merchandise to the kids at his old school. And the best thing was, they’d all be back for more. Soon, he’d sell them the stuff only if they promised to introduce it to their friends. Then the friends would become customers too. It was the easiest market in the world. He’d gotten them hooked. They were his to do with as he liked.
The fair-haired man working with him was named Beckett. The two had met in prison and decided to go into business together when they got out. The boat had been Beckett’s idea. There was no real kitchen and no toilet, and it was freezing in winter … but it worked. It even amused them to be so close to a police station. Sometimes they enjoyed watching the police cars or boats going past. Of course, the pigs would never think of looking for criminals right on their own doorstep.
Suddenly Beckett swore. ‚What the…?'
‚What is it?' Skoda looked up.
‚The cup…'
Skoda watched as a cup of coffee, which had been sitting on a shelf, began to move. It slid sideways, then fell off with a clatter, spilling cold coffee on the gray rag that they called a carpet. Skoda was confused. The cup seemed to have moved on its own. Nothing had touched it. He giggled. ‚How did you do that?' he asked.
‚I didn’t.'
‚Then…'
The fair-haired man was the first to realize what was happening—but even he couldn’t guess the truth. ‚We’re sinking!' he shouted.
He scrabbled for the door. Now Skoda felt it for himself. The floor was tilting. Test tubes and beakers slid into each other, then crashed to the floor, glass shattering. He swore and followed Beckett—uphill now. With every second that passed, the gradient grew steeper. But the strange thing was that the barge didn’t seem to be sinking at all. On the contrary, the front of it seemed to be rising out of the water.
‚What’s going on?' Skoda yelled.
‚The door’s jammed!' Beckett had managed to open it an inch, but the wire on the other side was holding it firm. ‚Check the other door!'
But the second door was now high above them. More bottles rolled off the table and smashed. In the kitchen, dirty plates and mugs slid into each other, pieces flying. With something between a sob and a snarl, Skoda tried to climb up the mountainside that the inside of the boat had become. But it was already too steep. The door was almost over his head. He lost his balance and fell backward, shouting as, one second later, the other man was thrown on top of him. The two of them rolled into the corner, tangled up in each other. Plates, cups, knives, forks, and dozens of pieces of scientific equipment crashed into them. The walls of the barge were grinding with the pressure. A window shattered. A table turned itself into a battering ram and buried itself at them. Skoda felt a bone snap in his arm and screamed out loud.
The barge was completely vertical, standing in the water at ninety degrees. For a moment it rested where it was. Then it began to rise…
Alex stared at the barge in amazement. The crane was lifting it at half speed—some sort of override had come into action, slowing the operation down—but it wasn’t even straining. Alex could feel the power under his palms. Sitting in the cabin with both hands on the joysticks, his feet apart and the jib of the crane jutting out ahead of him, he felt as if he and the crane had become one. He had only to move an inch and the five-ton boat would be brought to him. He could see it, dangling on the hook, spinning slowly. Water was streaming off the bow. It was already clear of the water, rising up about five yards per second. He wondered what it must be like inside.
And then the radio beside his knee hissed into life.
‚Crane operator! This is base. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Over!' A pause, a burst of static. Then the metallic voice was back. ‚Who is in the crane? Who’s up there? Will you identify yourself…'
There was a microphone snaking toward Alex’s chin and he was tempted to say something.
But he decided against it. Hearing a teenager’s voice would only panic them more.
He looked down between his knees. About a dozen construction workers were closing in on the base of the crane. Others were pointing at the boat, jabbering amongst themselves. No sounds reached the cabin. It was as if Alex were cut off from the real world. He felt very secure.
He had no doubt that more workers had already started climbing the ladder and that it would all be over soon, but for the moment he was untouchable. He concentrated on what he was doing. Getting the barge out of the water had been only half his plan. He still had to finish it.
‚Crane operator! Lower the hook! We believe there are people inside the boat and you are endangering their lives. Repeat. Lower the hook!'
The barge was almost two hundred feet above the water, swinging on the end of the hook.
Alex moved his left hand, turning the crane around so that the boat was dragged in an arc along the river and then over dry land. There was a sudden buzz. The jib came to a halt. Alex pushed the joystick. Nothing happened. He glanced at the computer. The screen had gone blank.
Someone at ground level had come to his senses and done the only sensible thing. He had switched off the power. The crane was dead.
Alex sat where he was, watching the barge swaying in the breeze. He hadn’t quite succeeded in what he had set out to do. He had planned to lower the boat—along with its contents—safely into the parking lot by the police station. It would have made a nice surprise for the authorities, he had thought. Instead the boat was now hanging over the conference center that be had seen from Putney Bridge. But at the end of the day, he supposed it didn’t make much difference. The result would be the same.
He stretched his arms and relaxed, waiting for the trapdoor to burst open. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.
And then he heard the tearing sound.
The metal stanchion that protruded from the end of the deck had never been designed to carry the entire weight of the barge. It was a miracle that it had lasted as long as it had. As Alex watched, openmouthed, the stanchion tore itself free. For a few seconds it clung by one edge to the deck. Then the last metal rivet came loose.
The five-ton barge had been sixty yards above the ground. Now it began to fall.
In the Putney Riverside Conference Center, the chief of the Metropolitan Police was addressing a large crowd of journalists, TV cameramen, civil servants, and government officials.
He was a tall, thin man who took himself very seriously. His dark blue uniform was immaculate, with every piece of silver—from the studs on his epaulettes to his five medals—
polished until it gleamed. This was his big day. He was sharing the platform with no less a personage than the home secretary himself. The assistant chief of police was there as well as seven lower-ranking officers. A slogan was being projected onto the wall behind him.
WINNING THE WAR AGAINST DRUGS
Silver letters on a blue background. The chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.
‚We have overlooked nothing!' he was saying, his voice echoing around the modern room.
He could see the journalists scribbling down his every word. The television cameras were all focused on him. ‚Thanks to my personal involvement and efforts, we have never been more successful.' He smiled at the home s
ecretary, who smiled toothily back. ‚But we are not resting on our laurels. Oh, no! Any day now we hope to announce another breakthrough.'
That was when the barge hit the glass roof of the conference center. There was an explosion.
The chief of police just had time to dive for cover as a vast, dripping object plunged down toward him. The home secretary was thrown backward, his glasses flying off his face. His security men froze, helpless. The boat crashed into the space in front of them, between the stage and the audience. The side of the cabin had been torn off, and there was the laboratory, exposed, with the two dealers sprawled together in one corner, staring dazedly at the hundreds of policemen and officials who now surrounded them. A cloud of white powder mushroomed up and then fell onto the dark blue uniform of the police chief, covering him from head to toe.
The fire alarms had all gone off. The lights blew out. Then the screaming began.
Meanwhile, the first of the construction workers had made it to the crane cabin and was gazing, astonished, at the fourteen-year-old boy he had found there.
‚Do you…?' he stammered. ‚Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?'
Alex glanced at the empty hook and at the gaping hole in the roof of the conference center, at the rising smoke and dust. He shrugged apologetically.
‚I was just working on the crime figures,' he said. ‚And I think there’s been a drop.'
SEARCH AND REPORT
THE CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.
It was the day after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his protests, his hair had been cut so short that he almost looked like a skinhead, and his right ear had been pierced. He could still feel it throbbing underneath the temporary stud that had been put in to keep the hole from closing.
The car had reached a set of wrought iron gates, which opened automatically to receive it.
And there was Haverstock Hall, a great mansion with stone figures on the terrace and seven figures in the price. Sir David’s family had lived here for generations, Mrs. Jones had told him.
They also seemed to own half the Lancashire countryside. The grounds stretched for miles in every direction, with sheep dotted across the hills on one side and three horses watching from an enclosure on the other. The house itself was Georgian: white brick with slender windows and columns. Everything looked very neat. There was a walled garden with evenly spaced beds, a square glass conservatory housing a swimming pool, and a series of ornamental hedges with every leaf perfectly in place.
The car stopped. The horses swung their necks around to watch Alex get out, their tails rhythmically beating at flies. Nothing else moved.
The chauffeur walked around to the trunk. ‚Sir David will be inside,' he said. He had disapproved of Alex from the moment he set eyes on him. Of course, he hadn’t said as much.
But he was a professional. He could show it with his eyes.
Alex moved away from the car, drawn toward the conservatory on the other side of the drive. It was a warm day, the sun beating down on the glass, and the water on the other side looked suddenly inviting. He passed through an open set of doors. It was hot inside the conservatory. The smell of chlorine rose up from the water’ stifling him.
He had thought that the pool was empty, but as he watched, a figure swam up from the bottom, breaking through the surface just in front of him. It was a girl, dressed only in a white bikini. She had long, black hair and dark eyes, but her skin was pale. Alex guessed she must be fifteen years old and remembered what Mrs. Jones had told him about Sir David Friend. ‚He has a daughter … a year older than you.' So this must be her. He watched her heave herself out of the water. Her body was well shaped, closer to the woman she would become than the girl she had been. She was going to be beautiful. That much was certain. The trouble was, she already knew it. When she looked at Alex, arrogance flashed in her eyes.
‚Who are you?' she asked. ‚What are you doing in here?'
‚I’m Alex.'
‚Oh, yes.' She reached for a towel and wrapped it around her neck. ‚Daddy said you were coming, but I didn’t expect you just to walk in like this.' Her voice was very adult and upper class. It sounded strange, coming out of that fifteen-year-old mouth. ‚Do you swim?' she asked.
‚Yes,' Alex said.
‚That’s a shame. I don’t like having to share the pool. Especially with a boy. And a smelly London boy at that.' She ran her eyes over Alex, taking in the torn jeans, the shaven hair, the stud in his ear. She shuddered. ‚I can’t think what Daddy was doing, agreeing to let you stay,'
she went on. ‚And having to pretend you’re my brother! What a ghastly idea! If I did have a brother, I can assure you he wouldn’t look like you. '
Alex was wondering whether to pick the girl up and throw her back into the pool or out through a window when there was a movement behind him, and he turned to see a tall, rather aristocratic man with curling gray hair and glasses, wearing a sports jacket, open-neck shirt, and cords, standing just behind him. He too seemed a little jolted by Alex’s appearance, but he recovered quickly, extending a hand. ‚Alex?' he demanded.
‚Yes.
‚I’m David Friend.'
Alex shook his hand. ‚How do you do,' he said politely.
‚I hope you had a good journey. I see you’ve met my daughter.' He smiled at the girl, who was now sitting beside the pool, drying herself and ignoring them both.
‚We haven’t actually introduced ourselves,' Alex said.
‚Her name is Fiona.'
‚Fiona Friend.' Alex smiled. ‚That’s not a name I’ll forget.'
‚I’m sure the two of you will get along fine.' Sir David didn’t sound convinced. He gestured back toward the house. ‚Why don’t we go and talk in the study?'
Alex followed him back across the drive and into the house. The front door opened into a hall that could have come straight out of the pages of an expensive magazine. Everything was perfect, the antique furniture, ornaments, and paintings placed exactly so. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen and even the sunlight, streaming in through the windows, seemed almost artificial, as if it was there only to bring out the best in everything it touched. It was the house of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has the time and money to get it.
‚Nice place,' Alex said.
‚Thank you. Please come this way.' Sir David opened a heavy, oak-paneled door to reveal a sophisticated and modern office beyond. There was a desk and two chairs, a pair of computers, a white leather sofa, and a series of metal bookshelves. Sir David motioned at the chair and sat down behind the desk.
He was unsure of himself. Alex could see it immediately. Sir David Friend might run a business empire worth millions—seven billions—of dollars, but this was a new experience for him. Having Alex here, knowing who and what he was, he wasn’t quite sure how to react.
‚I’ve been told very little about you,' he began. ‚Alan Blunt got in touch with me and asked me to put you up here for the rest of the week, to pretend that you’re my son. I have to say, you don’t look anything like me.'
‚I don’t look anything like myself either,' Alex said.
‚You’re on your way to some school in the French Alps. They want you to investigat
e it.'
He paused. ‚Nobody asked me my opinion,' he said, ‚but I’ll give it to you anyway. I don’t like the idea of a fourteen-year-old boy being used as a spy. It’s dangerous—'
‚I can look after myself,' Alex cut in.
‚I mean, it’s dangerous to the government. If you manage to get yourself killed and anyone finds out, it could cause the prime minister a great deal of embarrassment.' Sir David sighed. ‚I advised him against it, but for once he overruled me. It seems that the decision has already been made. This school—the academy—has already telephoned me to say that the assistant director will be coming here to pick you up next Saturday. It’s a woman. A Mrs. Stellenbosch. That’s a South African name, I think.'
Sir David had a number of bulky files on his desk. He slid them forward. ‚In the meantime, I understand you have to familiarize yourself with details about my family. I’ve prepared a number of files. You’ll also find information here about the school you’re meant to have been expelled from—Eton. You can start reading them tonight.' Alex took them and he went on. ‚If you need to know anything more, just ask. Fiona will be with you the whole time.' He glanced down at his fingertips. ‚I’m sure that in itself will be quite an experience for you.'
The door opened and a woman came in. She was slim with dark hair, very much like her daughter. She was wearing a simple mauve dress with a string of pearls around her neck.
‚David,' she began, then stopped, seeing Alex.
‚This is my wife,' Friend said. ‚Caroline, this is the boy I was telling you about. Alex.'
‚It’s very nice to meet you, Alex.' Lady Caroline tried to smile but her lips managed only a faint twitch. ‚I understand you’re going to stay with us for a while.'
‚Yes, Mother,' Alex said.
Lady Caroline blushed.
‚He has to pretend to be our son,' Sir David reminded her. He turned to Alex. ‚Fiona doesn’t know anything about MI6 and the rest of it. I don’t want to alarm her. I’ve told her that it’s connected with my work … a social experiment, if you like. She’s to pretend you’re her brother, to give you a week in the country as part of the family. I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell her the truth.'
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