‘Not really.’ He began to loosen a spark plug with a spanner. ‘Well, I guess we need to work out what to do now the memory card’s gone. That’s what I was thinking about.’
‘Me too. What about getting the memory card back?’
‘How?’
‘Go to Snakey’s house and make him give it to us?’
‘What? And tell him we’ll burn his house down unless he gives it back?’ Tom found himself smiling at the idea.
‘Well, that would be fair, after what he did to our tent!’ She laughed. ‘Or we could search his place and find it ourselves. Don’t you have a drone or something that can do it?’
‘Well, there’s Gnat, I suppose, but how would we—’
‘Gnat?’
‘A micro-drone. But how would we know where—’
‘A micro-drone?’ Tom could feel her looking at him with those laser eyes. ‘You’ve got to show me this!’
Tom put the spanner down and picked up his walking stick, which was resting on the side of the workbench. He unscrewed the handle and brought out of it a metal cylinder, about the size of two corks put end to end. He squeezed a lever on the side of the cylinder and a pair of rotor blades sprung into position with a click. He handed it to Maggie, who cradled it in open palms. ‘This is Gnat.’
He twisted the detached end of the stick to reveal a tiny control panel and screen, which he now held like a small game controller. He pressed a button and the machine whirred to life in Maggie’s hands like a fragile bird and lifted into the air, ruffling her hair with the breeze of the rotors.
‘It has a little extendable hook on the bottom for picking things up. It’s only got a payload capacity of fifty grams, but it’s enough to make the occasional item of homework mysteriously disappear from certain people’s school bags! The batteries are charged by kinetic energy. The movement of the stick.’
‘Love it! But why are you stealing homework, Tom?’
‘Revenge. Sometimes if you want to fight back, you have to be creative.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, you do! It’s like something out of a spy movie.’
‘It does the job,’ said Tom, plucking it from the space between them and folding the rotor blades up. But inside he was smiling. He slotted Gnat into the tube again. ‘I don’t think we’ll be able to find the memory card, though. Snakey will have hidden it.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘I think,’ said Tom, screwing the handle back on to his stick, ‘that it’s time we paid a visit to Jim Rothwell. Apart from anything else, he makes the best cakes you’ve ever tasted.’
CHAPTER 19
Later that evening, as the breeze was dying, they pulled into the quiet bay where Jim Rothwell’s houseboat, Matilda, was berthed. The old wooden boat, with her tarred hull and lime-washed decks, blended into the surroundings as easily as the twisted alders that fringed the shore. Tom killed the engine and let Maggot drift into the rope fender. They caught the smell of baking coming from inside, and Tom rapped on the galley window, before climbing aboard.
After quick introductions Maggie and Joel were squashed together on a bench on one side of the table, while Jim got to work in the galley. Tom paced about in the living area, absently looking at the framed photos that lined the walls.
‘Food first, talk second,’ Jim had replied when Tom told him they needed his advice about an urgent matter. He brought out a bottle of home-made elderflower cordial and some fizzy water, and began chopping potatoes, while he asked Maggie and Joel about themselves. Tom looked on, amazed at how effortlessly Jim could get to know new people. Their mum was born in China, but had come to the UK to study. Their parents met at university. Maggie and Joel had both been born in Manchester, where their father worked as a vet. Joel had been homeschooled by his mum for a few years. Jim didn’t ask why. They both spoke fluent Mandarin Chinese.
While they talked, the hot smell of fat leaked into the air from a small electric fryer. Jim plunged the chips into the fat with a hiss. Then he brought out a long grey fish with a pink underbelly.
He took a sharp knife and proceeded to fillet the fish with practised precision.
‘Jim, we need to—’
‘It’s OK, Tom.’ Jim raised a calming hand. ‘No one thinks well on an empty stomach. You agree, don’t you, boy?’ he added, rubbing Archie’s muzzle.
Tom fiddled with his untouched glass.
Jim placed the fillets in a frying pan, tearing up a couple of bay leaves and scattering them on the fish and the cabin filled with an aroma that made their mouths water.
‘Now,’ Jim said, raising his voice above the sizzling and spitting coming from the pan. ‘These will only take a couple of minutes and then we’ll be ready for char and chips, chez Matilda!’
As they ate the pearly flesh and burnt their mouths on the chips, Tom filled Jim in on everything they knew, with the others adding bits and pieces as they remembered them. As always, instead of telling him the answers, Jim gave him space to think.
And now everything seemed terrifyingly clear.
Tom pushed his plate away and looked at the others. ‘If you think about it logically, we only have one option tomorrow.’
‘I told you you’d think better having eaten,’ said Jim. He looked at Maggie. ‘You see, while we were chattering away, Tom’s got it all worked out!’
‘It’s clear the police aren’t interested,’ Tom continued. ‘And it’s not surprising why: an overheard conversation; a theory about missiles launched from mountaintops coordinated (maybe) by an ice cream van! It sounds ridiculous. No one would ever take that seriously without some proof.’
‘And now there’s no time to get the memory card back from Snakey,’ said Maggie.
Joel wiped the oil from his plate with a piece of bread. ‘And we’re not sure we can trust the authorities anyway,’ he said, ‘because your helicopter pilot has the same Mercury tattoo as our friendly ice cream man, Mike McCain. A small, but possibly significant, detail.’
‘We can’t sit back and do nothing,’ said Maggie.
‘No. We can’t do nothing,’ said Tom. ‘If we can’t convince the police, we need to be the police, and prevent the attack ourselves.’
‘Yes,’ said Joel, rather too matter-of-factly, Tom thought, given the enormity of what this was going to involve.
Maggie picked up the last chip with her fingers, mopped up some salt with it, and crunched it. ‘Well?’
‘Remember when you were on Ransome Holme and you thought the island was surrounded by police boats?’
Joel turned his head slowly to face him in a way that reminded Tom of the rotating turret of a tank, swivelling his neck a hundred and eighty degrees, while keeping the rest of his body completely still. ‘That was you? I should have guessed!’
‘Just a couple of adapted multi-rotors with blue lights.’
‘But the voice wasn’t yours.’
‘Digital voice filter.’
‘Very cool,’ said Joel.
‘So we tell them that they’re surrounded, and the game’s up?’ said Maggie.
‘Exactly. Even though we don’t know how the attack is going to work in detail, we know enough to make sure we can be at the right place at the right time. As soon as the men appear on the trig points we can buzz them simultaneously using Skylark and two hexacopters.’
‘What about SBS?’ added Maggie. ‘What if that lot show up and get in the way?’
Tom turned to Jim. ‘Jim, would you be happy to row about in Swallow as an extra pair of eyes and ears? We’ll have to coordinate things from the workshop.’
Jim wiped his mouth on a napkin and reached for his pipe. Tom knew what this meant and he kept quiet. Maggie was looking at the snapshots of Jim’s life in the framed photographs on the wall. There was a picture of Jim standing in a boat, looking up at the camera, holding a huge pike by the gills. It was one Tom had taken when he was first testing Skylark. Next to it was a picture of a younger Jim, suntanned, surrounded by African children,
in front of a rough wooden building. Then there was one of a bride and groom – Jim standing next to a young woman with a kind, open smile and long blonde hair, and they were beaming at the camera. Tom saw Maggie glance at Jim’s left hand, as he raised the lighted match to his pipe, head bowed in concentration. He still wore his wedding ring after all this time.
He puffed out a cloud of blue smoke. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tom. You see I’m going to be on the Teal myself tomorrow.’
Tom heard himself whisper: ‘No, Jim.’
Jim held up his palm again. ‘Tom, do you remember I told you that Brian Wilkins, the head chef at the Damson Howe Hotel, was after a big char, like the one we’ve just eaten? Well, fortunately I caught another whopper. He wants it for the very special lunch they are going to serve the very special guest, whom you now all know is to be Her Majesty the Queen. They want to showcase some local delicacies, you see. Now, let me see if I can remember what he said. There’s going to be my char, poached with a wood sorrel sauce, followed by a leg of local Herdwick lamb, slow roasted, served with Lyth Valley damson sauce. And Kendal Mint Cake ice cream with Grasmere Gingerbread for pudding.’ He sucked his cheeks in and then expelled a jet of smoke towards the ceiling.
The others found themselves watching the thinning cloud swirl about against the wood panelling of the cabin, as if somehow the smoke carried Jim’s thoughts.
‘But that led to an invitation. They need to be able to wheel out a crusty old dinosaur with a bit of local knowledge. As the Teal swings out of the bay, I’ll be standing on the port side giving a little talk about the lake, its history, industry, flora and fauna and so on and so forth. So, by a remarkable coincidence, as the clock strikes three minutes past three, I will be the human being in closest physical proximity to Her Majesty. If all else fails, I’ll be there to stand in her path.’
Tom gave a start, knocking over an empty glass. ‘But, Jim, you won’t be able to stand in the path of these people. I saw the cruiser sink in seconds. That’s what they’re going to do to the Teal. Everyone on the boat is going to die.’
‘We’ll see.’
Joel was opening and shutting his mouth. ‘Wow,’ he said at last. ‘Do you love the Queen that much? I’m sure she’s a great woman, and she’s – well, she’s the Queen – but I can’t imagine feeling that way about someone I don’t even know.’
‘Oh!’ Jim waved his hand at Joel as if he were casually swatting away a fly. ‘Joel, my lad, love is not always a feeling. Sometimes it’s a decision.’
‘But . . .’ stammered Tom.
Jim smiled, teeth clamped on pipe resolutely. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said from the corner of his mouth, looking around the room at each of them in turn, his eyes sparkling. ‘I said if all else fails. But I know you won’t fail.’
Tom knew it wasn’t up for discussion. Jim brewed some tea and brought out a huge rhubarb and custard cake, still warm from the oven, which he served in generous slabs with cream, and the conversation moved on to Rufus Clay and his possible motivation for killing the Queen, and then back to the plan for the following day, until the darkening shadows outside the window told Tom it was time to head home.
As he steered Maggot back across the lake, a low halfmoon was rising behind Raven Howe, and Tom tried to picture in his mind the events that were about to unfold in the next twenty-four hours. He could imagine vivid streaks of smoke emanating from the peaks; the missiles noiselessly swooping down from three sides; a sudden screaming roar, and then impact.
The sound of the propeller bubbling away behind him was soothing. But he had a nagging sense that he had overlooked something – that there was some piece of information he had allowed to slip away. Like trying to bring up a forgotten name to match to a familiar face, he knew it was there, but he couldn’t reach it.
And he knew his plan was hopeless. There were too many unknowns, too many weak links. He needed a safety net that, however drastic, would protect the Teal, and all her passengers – including Jim Rothwell – from harm. If all else fails, Jim had said, he would be willing to die to protect the Queen. Tom remembered, with horror, how the Clementine had been overwhelmed within seconds. There was nothing Jim would be able to do to save the Queen if the attack on the Teal came the same way. Which meant only one thing: Tom must not fail. But how? In the end, the drones were no more than eyes. How could they compete with the technology of experts like Rufus Clay and his terrorist organization, whoever they were? How had he been so stupid as to leave the memory card exposed like that? He felt the urge to lash out at something or someone, to throw Snakey’s slate with its pathetic skull and crossbones back in his stupid face.
He looked across at Maggie, who was huddled in the bow, her arms wrapped around Archie’s neck. The dog pulled his head away from her and yawned. Then, as if it were catching, Maggie yawned too, long and deep, and shut her eyes.
Instantly, Tom knew what he had to do. With a twist of his wrist, he powered up to half throttle and no one spoke over the roar of the engine until they were back on the stone walls of the harbour at Cedar Holme. They arranged to meet at eight the next morning. Then Tom disappeared into the workshop and closed the door firmly behind him.
CHAPTER 20
Tom was leaning over the bow rails of the Teal. He was flying, the wind lashing his hair, cold spray in his face, as the boat lurched over the water. But he was tight with fear, not laughing in exhilaration as he remembered he had been before. He grabbed the cold metal of the railings with white knuckles. The boat was too high above the water, travelling impossibly fast, bounding off the waves like a dinghy. He looked for his father behind him, but there on the bridge was Rufus Clay, spinning the wheel like a madman. On the foredeck, Snakey was presenting the Queen with a huge silvery fish on a platter. The fish had a bomb inside it. He opened his mouth to scream, but his voice was a hoarse whisper that was whipped away by the wind. The fish burst into flames, and instantly the whole boat was on fire. The Queen was engulfed in black smoke but, high above on the bridge, Tom could still see Rufus Clay spinning the wheel, laughing as the boat began to sink. Someone was saying his name: ‘Tom. Tom. Wake up!’
Maggie was leaning over him. ‘It’s OK, Tom. You were having a bad dream.’
‘What’s the time?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes.
‘Nearly eight o’clock. What time did you go to sleep?’
‘Six, I think.’
‘You were yelling something about a fish.’
Tom had worked furiously all night, sawing, drilling, soldering, programming. Then testing and retesting and testing again, until he was too exhausted to do anything but curl up on the old sofa, as the sun was breaking over the eastern fells.
Maggie looked around the workshop with wide eyes. The custard-coloured teddy that had sat on the corner of Tom’s bed since he was a toddler was sitting on a workbench, covered in little darts, like a pin cushion. On another bench there was a smoking soldering iron, a couple of hacksaws, a blowtorch and a scattering of syringes. Strewn on the floor were bits of sawn-up metal tube of different lengths, Aunt Emily’s hair dryer and the remains of some brown goose feathers. An air compressor hissed softly in a corner.
On the long workbench near the window, three drones stood in a line: Skylark and two multi-rotors. Each had been painted a matt grey and were plugged into charging sockets. Behind each drone was a computer monitor and keyboard. Maggie’s nostrils flared and she propped the door open with a fire extinguisher.
‘This place stinks.’ She pulled a dart out of the bear and it slumped on its side, as if dead. She looked at the dart suspiciously. Its tip was a short section of hollow needle, the kind used for injections, stuck into a rubber bung, with a neat array of goose feathers for a tail.
There were footsteps on the gravel path, and Joel appeared in the doorway. ‘Wow,’ he said, looking around. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Tom swung his legs over the sofa and ran a hand through his hair.
‘After thinking it through
last night, I realized the plan had too many holes. The people we are dealing with are not a bunch of schoolboys like Snakey’s SBS. They’re pros. What if they don’t come quietly when we turn up pretending to be the police? What if they don’t care? Maybe they’re like the suicide bombers you see on the news.’
‘Willing to sacrifice everything for their cause,’ put in Maggie. ‘I wondered about that too.’
‘Exactly. Or what if they can disable the drones? Shoot us down or jam the control signal? Or even track us to our base? It’s too risky.’
‘So you think we need a “nuclear option”?’ said Joel, looking at the bear with interest.
‘It’s probably best if I show you.’
Tom placed Skylark on the floor and sat at its screen. The workshop filled with wind as the drone lifted slowly off the ground. Tom watched the two faces that appeared on the screen as they noticed the cluster of metal tubes, like sawn-off shotguns, that had sprouted overnight from the centre of the machine. The drone stopped in front of the bear. The blinking red light caught in its eyes and gave it a startled expression. Tom pressed a button and there was a pneumatic hiss, like a sharp intake of breath, followed by a pop, and the dart struck the bear where its heart would be.
The weapon was sickeningly quiet. The others watched him solemnly, as he landed the drone and shut it down. Outside, a blackbird was singing cheerfully in the garden. ‘It was kind of your idea, Maggie. You asked if it had any weapons.’
‘I guess that will do for the nuclear option,’ said Joel. ‘But what about the other two terrorists?’
Tom gestured to the two other drones, each parked innocently in front of its own monitor, each with its new weapon.
‘Listen carefully, because we don’t have long and we can’t afford to get anything wrong. We agreed that the reason there are three people on three trig points is probably to give them a better chance of getting a hit between them. But can you see what that means?’
‘They only need to get one hit to be successful,’ said Joel. ‘Which means—’
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