Alex hit the ramp that the men had been using to load and unload the boat. He soared upwards and suddenly he was in mid-air, flying. He felt the skateboard fall away from his feet, heard it splash into the sea. But his own momentum carried him forward. He wasn’t going to make it! The boat was moving too fast. Alex was plunging down now, following an arc that was going to miss the stern by centimetres. It would bring him crashing down into the water – and then what? The propellers! They would slice him to pieces. Alex stretched out his arms and somehow his scrabbling fingers made contact with the rail that curved round the back of the boat. His body smashed into the metal stern, his feet dipping into the water above the propellers.
He felt the breath punched out of him. Somebody on the boat must have heard. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He would just have to hope that the noise of the engines had covered the collision. Using all his strength, he pulled himself up and over the rail. And then, finally, he was on the deck, soaked to the knees, his entire body aching from the impact. But he was onboard. And miraculously, he hadn’t been seen.
He crouched down, taking stock of his surroundings. The stern deck was a small, semi-enclosed area, shaped like a horseshoe. In front of him was the saloon cabin with a single window facing back and the door a little further down the side. There was a stack of supplies underneath a tarpaulin and also two large cans. Alex unscrewed one of the lids and sniffed. It was full of petrol. The Salesman obviously planned to be away for some time.
The entire deck, both port and starboard, was overshadowed by a canopy hanging down on either side of the main saloon and there was a wooden lifeboat suspended on two pulleys above his head. Resting briefly against the stern rail, Alex knew he was safe provided nobody actually walked to the back of the boat. How many crew members would there be? Presumably there was a captain at the wheel. He might have someone with him. Looking up, Alex glimpsed a pair of feet crossing the upper deck on the roof of the saloon. That made three. There could be two or three more inside. Six perhaps in total?
He looked back. The port of Miami was already slipping away behind him. Alex got up and slipped off his shoes and socks. Then he crept forward, moving absolutely silently, still nervous about being spotted from the upper deck. The first two windows of the saloon were closed but the third was open and crouching below it he heard a voice. A man was talking. He had a thick Mexican accent and every time he spoke the letter S, he whistled softly.
“You are a foolish man. Your name is Tom Turner. You work for the CIA. And I am going to kill you.”
Another man spoke briefly. “You’re wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alex recognized Turner’s voice. He glanced left and right. Then, with his shoulders against the cabin wall, he levered himself upwards until his head reached the level of the window and he could look in.
The saloon cabin was rectangular, with a wooden floor partially covered by a carpet that had been rolled back – presumably to avoid bloodstains. Unlike the boat, the furniture was modern, office-like. There wasn’t a great deal of it. Turner was sitting in a chair with his hands behind his back. Alex could see that some sort of parcel tape had been used to tie his arms and legs. He had already been beaten. His fair hair was damp and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth.
There were two men in the cabin with him. One was a deckhand in jeans and black T-shirt, his stomach bulging out over his belt. The other had to be the Salesman. He was a round-faced man with very black hair and a small moustache. He was wearing a three-piece white suit, immaculately tailored, and brightly polished leather shoes. The deckhand was holding a gun, a large, heavy automatic. The Salesman was sitting in a cane chair, holding a glass of red wine. He rolled it in front of his nose, enjoying the aroma, then sipped.
“What a delicious wine!” he muttered. “This is Chilean. A Cabernet Sauvignon grown on my own estate. You see, my friend, I am successful. I have businesses all over the world. People want to drink wine? I sell wine. People want to take drugs? They are mad, but that is no concern of mine. I sell drugs. What is so wrong with that? I sell anything that anyone wishes to buy. But, you see, I am a careful man. I did not buy your story. I made certain enquiries. The Central Intelligence Agency is mentioned. And that is why you find yourself here.”
“What do you want to know?” Turner rasped.
“I want to know when we are one hour out of Miami because that is when I intend to shoot you and dump you over the side.” The Salesman smiled. “That is all.”
Alex sank down again. There was no point listening to any more. He couldn’t go into the cabin. There were two of them and only one of him. And although he had a weapon, it wouldn’t be enough. Not against a gun. He needed a diversion.
Then he remembered the petrol. Glancing quickly at the upper deck he prepared to go back to the stern, then froze as the door of the bridge opened and a man came out. There was nothing Alex could do; nowhere he could hide. But he was lucky. The man, dressed in the faded uniform of a ship’s captain, had been smoking a cigarette. He stopped long enough to throw the butt into the sea, then went back the way he had come without turning his head. It had been a close escape and Alex knew it could only be a matter of time before he was noticed. He had to move fast.
He ran on tiptoe to the petrol cans. He tried tilting one of them but it was too heavy. He looked around for a rag, couldn’t find one and so took off his shirt, ripping it apart in his hands. Quickly he pushed the sleeve into the can, soaking it in petrol. Then he pulled it out, leaving only the end still dangling inside; a makeshift fuse. What would happen when he set fire to the petrol? Alex guessed that the explosion would be enough to attract the attention of everyone onboard but not strong enough to kill anyone or sink the boat. Since he was still going to be onboard, he would just have to hope he was right.
He reached into his pocket and took out the book of matches that he had been playing with in the restaurant. Cupping his hand to protect the flame from the breeze, he lit first one match, then the whole book. He touched the flame against the rag that had once been his shirt. The whole thing was alight in a second.
Running forward again, he returned to the saloon cabin. He could hear the Salesman still speaking inside.
“Another glass, I think. Yes. But then I’m afraid I must leave you. I have work to do.”
Alex looked in. The Salesman was standing at a table, pouring himself a second glass of wine. Alex looked back over his shoulder. There was no one there. Nothing had happened. Why hadn’t the petrol caught fire? Had the wind blown out his makeshift fuse?
And then it exploded. A great mushroom of flame and black smoke leapt into the air at the back of the boat, snatched away instantly by the wind. Somebody shouted. Alex saw that the petrol had splashed all over both decks. There was fire everywhere. The canopy right above his head was alight. Whatever had been packed underneath the tarpaulin was also blazing. More shouting. Footsteps thudded towards the stern deck. Now was the time to move.
“See what is happening!”
Alex heard the Salesman snap the command and a second later the deckhand came racing out. He disappeared round the other side of the cabin. That just left the Salesman himself, on his own with Turner. Alex waited a few seconds, then stepped into the doorway, once again reaching into his trouser pocket. Turner saw him before the Salesman. His eyes widened. The Salesman turned. Alex saw that he had put down his glass and picked up a gun. For a moment neither of them moved. The Salesman was looking at a fourteen-year-old boy, barefoot and naked from the waist up. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that Alex could be any threat to him, that it was this boy who had set fire to his boat. And in that moment of hesitation, Alex made his move.
When he brought his hand up, he was holding a mobile phone. He had already dialled two nines before he’d gone in. He pressed the button for a third time as he aimed with the phone.
“It’s for you!” he said.
He felt the phone shudder in his hand and, sil
ently, the aerial spat out of the top, the plastic peeling back to reveal a shining needle. It travelled across the cabin and hit the Salesman square in the chest. The Salesman had reacted fast, already bringing his gun round. But a second later his eyes rolled and he slumped to the floor. Alex jumped over him, picked up a knife from the table and went over to Turner.
“What the hell…?” the CIA man began. Alex could see at once that he wasn’t badly hurt. At the same time, his mood didn’t seem to have improved. He looked from the phone to the unconscious figure of the Salesman. “What did you do to him?” he asked.
“He got the wrong number,” Alex said. He cut through the adhesive tape.
Turner got to his feet and snatched up the gun that the Salesman had dropped. He checked the clip. The gun was fully loaded. “What happened?” he demanded. “I heard an explosion!”
“Yeah. That was me. I set the boat alight.”
“What?”
“I set fire to the boat.”
“But we’re on the boat!”
“I know.”
Before Alex could say any more, Turner moved, twisting round, snapping into combat position, arms up, legs apart. There was a stairwell at the far end of the cabin. Alex hadn’t noticed it before. A figure had appeared, coming up from below. Turner fired twice. The figure crumpled back down. Turner stopped. Black smoke was seeping into the cabin. There was a second explosion and the entire boat rocked as if seized by a sudden squall. There was shouting outside on the deck. Looking out of the window, Alex could see flames.
“That must have been the second petrol tank,” he said.
“How many tanks are there?”
“Just the two.”
Turner seemed almost dazed. He forced himself to a decision. “The sea…” he said. “We’re going to have to swim.”
The CIA agent went first, edging sideways out of the cabin. Suddenly the deck was full of people. There were at least seven of them. Alex wondered where they had all come from. Two of them, young men in dirty white shirts and jeans, were fighting the flames with extinguishers. There were two on the roof, another on the deck. All of them were shouting.
Smoke was trailing into the sky behind the boat. The lifeboat was ablaze. Part of the canopy was on fire. At least nobody knew quite what had happened. Nobody had seen Alex come on board. The explosions had taken them all by surprise and all they cared about was getting the fire under control. However, as Turner came out of the cabin, one of the men on the upper deck saw him. He called out in Spanish.
“Move!” Turner shouted.
He ran for the edge of the boat. Alex followed. There was the deafening chatter of a machine-gun and what was left of the canopy above his head was torn to shreds. Bullets smashed into the deck sending chips of wood flying. A glass bulb exploded. Alex wasn’t even sure who was firing. All he knew was that he was trapped in the middle of smoke and flames and bullets and a lot of men who wanted him dead. He saw Turner dive over the side. There was another burst from the machine-gun and Alex felt the deck rip itself apart centimetres from his bare feet. He yelled out. Splinters slammed into his ankle and heels. He spurted forward and threw himself over the handrail. For what felt like an eternity everything was chaos. He could feel the wind racing over his bare shoulders. There were more gunshots. Then he plunged headfirst into the Atlantic and disappeared beneath the surface.
Alex allowed the ocean to embrace him. After the battlefield that Mayfair Lady had become, its water was warm and soothing. He swam down, a powerful breaststroke that took him ever deeper. Something whizzed past him and he realized that he was still being shot at. The further down he went, the safer he would be. He opened his eyes. The salt water stung but he needed to know how far he was going. He looked up. Light glimmered at the surface but there was no sign of the boat. His lungs were beginning to hurt. He needed to breathe. But still he waited. He would have been happy if he could have stayed underwater for an hour.
He couldn’t. With his body crying out for oxygen, Alex kicked reluctantly for the surface. He came up gasping, with water streaming down his face. Turner was next to him. The CIA agent looked more dead than alive. Alex wondered if he had been hit, but there was no sign of any blood. Perhaps he was in shock.
“Are you all right?” Alex asked.
“Are you crazy?” Turner was so angry that he actually swallowed water as he spoke. He spluttered and fought to keep himself from going under. “You could have gotten us killed!”
“I just saved your life!” Alex was getting angry himself. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You think so? Look!”
With a sense of dread, Alex swivelled round in the water. Mayfair Lady hadn’t been destroyed. The fire was out. And the boat was coming back.
He had been underwater for perhaps ninety seconds. In that time, the ship had continued forward with all hands fighting the flames and nobody at the wheel. The engine had been at full throttle and it was now about five hundred metres away. But the captain had obviously returned to the bridge. The boat was wheeling round. Alex could make out four or five men standing at the bow. All of them were armed. They had seen him. One of them pointed and shouted. He and Turner were helpless, floating in the water with perhaps one weapon between them. Soon the boat would reach them. They were sitting targets, to be picked off like ducks in a fair.
What could he do? He looked at Turner, hoping the older man would produce something, some rabbit out of the hat. Didn’t the CIA have gadgets? Where was the inflatable speedboat or the concealed aqualung? But Turner was helpless. He’d even managed to lose the gun.
Mayfair Lady completed her turn.
Turner swore.
The boat drew closer, slicing through the water.
And then it exploded. This time the explosions were huge, final. There were three of them, simultaneous, in the bow, the middle and the stern. Mayfair Lady was blown into three quite separate pieces, the funnel and main saloon heaving themselves out of the ocean as if trying to escape from the rest of the boat. Alex felt the shockwave travel through the water. The blast was deafening. A fist of water smashed into him, almost knocking him out. Pieces of wood, some of them on fire, rained down all around. He knew at once that nobody could have survived. And with that knowledge came a terrible thought.
Was it his fault? Had he killed them all?
Turner must have been thinking the same thing. He said nothing. The two of them watched as the three sections of what had once been a classic motor yacht sank and disappeared.
There was the sound of an outboard motor. Alex twisted round. A speedboat was racing towards them. He saw Belinda Troy at the wheel. She must have somehow commandeered it and come after them. She was on her own.
She helped Turner out of the water first, then Alex. For the first time, Alex realized that he couldn’t see land. He felt that it had all happened so quickly. And yet Mayfair Lady had managed to put several kilometres between itself and the coast before it was destroyed.
“What happened?” Troy asked. The wind had caught her long hair and spread it all around her. She looked as if she was having hysterics. “I saw the boat blow. I thought you were—” She stopped and caught her breath. “What happened?” she repeated.
“It was the kid.” Turner’s voice was neutral. He was still trying to catch up with the events of the last few minutes. “He cut me free…”
“You were tied up?”
“Yes. The Salesman knew I was with the agency. He was going to kill me. Alex knocked him out. He had some sort of cell phone…” He was stating the facts, but there was no gratitude. The boat rocked gently. Nobody moved. “He blew up the boat. He killed them all.”
“No.” Alex shook his head. “The fire was out. You saw. They’d got the boat under control. They were turning round, about to come back—”
“For God’s sake!” The CIA man was almost too tired to argue. “What do you think happened? You think one of the lights fused and Mayfair Lady just happened
to blow up? You did it, Alex. You set the gas alight and that’s what happened.”
Gas. The American for petrol. It was one of the words they had tested him on at the Snackyard that morning. A century ago.
“I saved your life,” Alex said.
“Yeah. Thanks, Alex.” But Turner’s voice was bleak.
Troy climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. The speedboat turned and they headed back towards the shore.
PASSPORT CONTROL
Alex had a window seat near the front of the plane. Troy was next to him with Turner on her other side, next to the aisle. A family on holiday (on vacation, he reminded himself). Troy was reading a magazine. Turner had a film script. He was meant to be a producer and had spent the journey making notes in the margin, just in case anyone happened to be looking. Alex was playing with a Nintendo DS. He wondered about that. Turner had given it to him just before they’d left Miami. It had been very casual, standing in the departure lounge.
“Here, Alex. Something to keep you busy on the plane.”
Alex was suspicious. He remembered that the last time he’d held a Nintendo DS, it had been filled with gadgets invented by Smithers at MI6. But as far as he could tell, this one was completely ordinary. At least, he’d got to level five of Super Mario and so far it hadn’t exploded in his hands.
He looked out the window. They had been in the air for about an hour. This had been their second flight of the day. They had gone from Miami to Kingston, Jamaica, and had caught the second plane there. They had been given the sort of snack that people expect, but never enjoy, on a plane. A sandwich, a small square of cake and a plastic tub of water. Now the stewardesses returned, hastily collecting the trays.
“This is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seat-belts and return your seats to the upright position. We will shortly be coming in to land.”
Alex looked out of the window again. The sea was an extraordinary shade of turquoise. It didn’t look like water at all. Then the plane dipped and suddenly he saw the island. Both islands. Cuba itself was to the north. Cayo Esqueleto was below it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and for a moment the land mass was perfectly clear, laid out as if on the surface of the world, two patches of emerald green with a coastline that seemed to shimmer an electric blue. The plane tilted. The islands disappeared and the next time Alex saw them the plane was coming in low, rushing towards a runway that seemed almost unreachable, hemmed in by offices and hotels and roads and palm trees. There was a control tower, ugly and misshapen. A low-rise terminal, prefabricated concrete and glass. Two more planes, already on the ground, surrounded by service trucks. There was a jolt as the back wheels came into contact with the tarmac. They were down.
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