Alex had been taken to a side room, where he changed. Then, carrying his backpack with the rest of his clothes and his laptop, he had been escorted through passport control by a puzzled French official. Nobody asked any questions. A second official took a quick glance at his passport, nodded, and Alex suddenly found himself back in Europe and once again on his own. He had always liked the South of France with its palm trees, long beaches and unbroken sunshine. He took a local bus down to Saint-Tropez, arriving shortly before eleven o’clock. First, there was the boring business of checking into a hotel, this one an attractive, dusty pink building behind the main square. It was market day and Alex strolled between the various stalls, picking out fresh croissants, fruit and cheese … some of the best food he had ever eaten. He wolfed it down as he walked. He didn’t want to waste any time.
After that he’d gone directly to the tourist office in the Quai Jean Jaurès. He still had his eye on it now. It was on a corner, set back slightly from the harbour; a large, simple room with two arched windows and a tired-looking agent sitting at a computer. There were posters on the walls, various stands with brochures advertising local attractions – beaches, boat trips, the Butterfly Museum – but no other furniture; no obvious place to sit. Alex spent just five minutes there before coming out and finding a café where he had ordered a glass of grenadine, the bright red drink made from pomegranates that was his favourite drink when he was in France. He needed time to think.
Had Jack really been in Saint-Tropez? Could she have walked into the tourist office, carrying a laptop? Why hadn’t she used her phone? The more Alex thought about it, the more improbable it seemed. Alex had already checked that a signal could be picked up anywhere in the harbour. She could have been anywhere near by. She had started sending a message – and what then? Someone had seen her and stopped her before she could write more than a few words?
And where was she now? The trouble was – Alex had to admit it – Shadia was right. There were no CCTV cameras anywhere near. Jack could have come from any one of a number of directions and nobody would have had any reason to notice her. He considered going to the local police – but what could he ask them? “Have you seen a cheerful, red-haired English woman, aged twenty-nine, carrying a laptop? She was here about a week ago and may have been kidnapped…” They would laugh at him.
He was aware of a rustle of clothing, a light coat, as a woman sat down next to him. She hadn’t asked to share his table and he looked up, annoyed. Then he recognized who it was and he shook his head, accepting the inevitable. He should have expected it.
“How did you find me?” He sighed.
“Please, Alex! Do you really need to ask?”
It had been a long time since he had seen Mrs Jones. When they had last met, it had been at his home in Chelsea. She had come to visit him following the sniper attack at his school and she – along with Alan Blunt – had persuaded him to leave for Cairo. It struck him at once that she had changed. She had always been a darkly serious woman, so wrapped up in her secret world that she seemed out-of-reach, unknowable. But right now, sitting in the sunshine, she looked strangely relaxed. He could tell that she was pleased to see him.
“You can’t fly into a country without being seen,” she said. “Not these days. And certainly not in an Egyptian military jet. I’m actually quite annoyed with Colonel Manzour for not contacting me the moment you turned up in Cairo. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” She had ordered a cup of mint tea. She paused as the waiter brought a teabag and a cup of boiling water to the table, then went on. “As it happens, I was just down the coast in Marseille. A rather dull conference on international border controls. As soon as I heard you’d landed, I called Manzour and he told me where I might find you.” She tore open the wrapper and dipped the bag into the water. Alex remembered that she’d always had a fondness for peppermint. “How are you?” she asked.
“Jack Starbright is alive,” Alex said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m fine.” Alex looked her in the eye. “Jack’s alive.”
“That’s highly unlikely. But if so, you should let us find her.”
“No. She’s my friend. I’m responsible for her.”
“Is that why you left America? I was very sorry to hear it, Alex. You were safe there. Why would you want to put yourself in harm’s way?”
“That never bothered you in the past,” Alex said.
Mrs Jones raised an eyebrow. “Actually, that’s not true. For what it’s worth, I was against the idea of using you from the very start. Oh yes – I could see at once that you were special. Your uncle, Ian Rider, used to talk about you and about all the things he was teaching you. He turned you into a spy without you even knowing it! And then, that first day when you came to Liverpool Street, I saw it for myself. I actually watched you climb out of a window on the fifteenth floor just to get what you wanted. That was Alan’s idea, by the way, that little test. You passed with flying colours.
“Alan knew he’d found the perfect weapon when he sent you after Herod Sayle and, of course, you proved him right, not just on that occasion but time and time again. But I was always concerned. You were a child! Quite apart from anything else, there were the security implications to consider. It would have been quite difficult for us if anyone had noticed that we were employing a minor!” She paused and Alex wondered if she had said more than she intended. “Of course, it was much more than that,” she went on hastily. “I worried about what we were doing to you. You were missing school. You were lying to your friends. You saw things that no young person should ever see. And you were badly hurt. You were almost killed when you were shot outside our office! Maybe it was the mother in me, Alex. I once had children myself. But I knew that what we were doing was wrong and that’s the reason why I’ve tracked you down today. I’m not going to allow it to go on.”
Alex’s ears pricked up when Mrs Jones mentioned her children. He had seen a photograph of them in her flat and had often wondered what had happened to them. But he wasn’t going to ask her about that now. Instead, he said, “I don’t see how you can stop me.”
“I can stop you very easily,” Mrs Jones replied. “I could snap my fingers and in five seconds you’d be bundled into a car and on your way to San Francisco. I hope it won’t come to that.” She sighed. “Things have changed at Special Operations, Alex. Alan Blunt has resigned. I’m in charge now and we’re doing things my way. Smithers has also left, by the way. I thought you might like to know, as I’m aware that he was your friend.”
“What do you want me to do?” Alex asked.
“I want you to go back to America.” She reached into her handbag and took out an envelope, which she laid on the table. “Here’s a single ticket. Nice to San Francisco with Air France. The flight leaves tomorrow morning at seven o’clock.”
“What about Jack?” Alex’s voice was heavy.
“I’ve asked my Chief of Staff, John Crawley, to look into it and he’s putting a team together even now. I’ll be honest with you, Alex. I don’t think you should raise your hopes too high. Even if Razim didn’t kill her, it’s unlikely she’s still alive. You have to ask yourself – where is she? Why hasn’t she tried to contact you a second time?” She glanced at her tea as if she had forgotten it was there. “Do you have your mobile phone with you?”
“Yes.” The question took Alex by surprise.
“Make sure it’s on and keep it with you the whole time. If we have any news, we’ll let you know at once.”
Mrs Jones stood up. She hadn’t drunk anything, not so much as a sip. “I always enjoyed knowing you – and don’t think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done. Although you may not see it this way, I’m doing you a favour. The trouble with danger is that it’s a drug. You get addicted and you keep wanting more, until finally, it kills you, like your uncle. I always thought America was a good idea for you. A fresh start. Stay there. Stay away from us.”
She turned round and walked
back down the quay.
Alex opened the envelope. Sure enough, there was a ticket inside, Air France direct to San Francisco. He noticed that he had been booked in as an unaccompanied minor. After everything he had been through, after missions that had put him in danger all over the world, someone at MI6 had arranged for a member of the cabin crew to meet him at the airport and guide him to his seat! Slowly, deliberately, Alex tore the ticket into about fifty pieces and scattered them in an ashtray. He felt better after that.
There was something that Mrs Jones had said, something that unlocked the puzzle he had been considering when she had sat down next to him. Alex glanced at the teacup with the bag still floating in the water. What was it? He had to think. There was something he was missing and he was sure that she had provided him with the answer.
He retraced his thoughts. Suppose Jack had been here. She would have to be a prisoner – otherwise she would simply have gone to a phone and called him. He imagined her, locked in a room. Somehow, just for a few seconds, she had got her hands on a computer and she had logged in using the nearest signal, the Office of Tourism. Of course she didn’t need to go into the building. She could have simply been somewhere near by. But where? Alex ran his eye over the apartment buildings with their tall windows and balconies. It could have been any one of them. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would they have wanted to lock her up here?
And then, suddenly, he had it. That was what Mrs Jones had said! You can’t fly into a country without being seen. Alex had been smuggled in by the Egyptian Air Force but even so, he had been noticed. With so much fear of terrorism, every airfield was closely monitored, every flight and every passenger checked. But suppose she had come in by boat! It was the obvious answer! From Egypt, it would have been a journey of about seven days, first across the Mediterranean to Malta, then up past Sardinia and finally along the French coast from Monaco to Nice and round to Saint-Tropez. The answer was staring him in the face. Jack had been locked in a cabin, not a room. She had never actually stepped onto the quay.
Alex called for the waiter and took out a twenty-euro note. “Madame a réglé,” the waiter told him. Well, that was something anyway. Mrs Jones had paid for the drinks.
He knew what he had to do. Hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder, he hurried over to the harbour office, which he had already noticed when he had scouted the area. It was housed in an attractive, circular tower on the nearby Quai de l’Epi. Alex was lucky that he spoke excellent French – it was just one of the things that Ian Rider had taught him when he was growing up. He was able to persuade the elderly woman behind the desk that he was working on a school project and needed to know the names of all the large yachts that had been moored in the harbour of Saint-Tropez on a certain Monday.
“What size yachts?” the woman asked. She peered at him through glasses attached to a cord looped behind her neck.
Obviously, it would narrow the search. Alex thought about the long journey from Egypt, perhaps Jack had slipped unnoticed from one cabin to another. “At least sixty metres,” he said. “Maybe bigger.”
The woman tapped a few keys and gazed at her computer screen. “There was only one boat of that size on the day you are asking about,” she said. “It’s September and generally we are less busy here at this time of the year.” She pressed a button, then went over to a printer which spat out a sheet of paper. “Here you are.” She handed it to Alex.
The boat was called Quicksilver. It was huge –around eighty metres long, with four decks, saloons, staterooms, gym, Jacuzzi and swimming pool. Alex looked at the image for a few seconds, then went outside. He found a bench, sat down and took out his laptop. Resting it on his knees, he booted it up, then pressed CONTROL three times and pressed S. Nothing happened. “Shadia?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
The screen flickered and a moment later Shadia appeared. She was sitting in her office. “Hello, Alex. How’s Saint-Tropez?”
“It’s hot.”
“It might be getting hotter. I was going to warn you. MI6 called us. I think they’re looking for you.”
“It’s OK, Shadia. They found me.” Alex got straight to the point. “What can you tell me about a boat called Quicksilver?”
Shadia leaned forward and Alex could imagine her inputting the information into her computer. He could have googled it himself but she was bound to have more on her system. A moment later, she looked up. “Manufactured by Benetti in Livorno, Italy. Seventy-nine metres. Maximum speed – sixteen knots. Range – four thousand nautical miles. It was sold five years ago to an olive oil company called Draco d’Olivo, based in Naples. They paid one hundred and ninety million euros.” She frowned. “That’s interesting. Wait a minute…” There was another pause as she searched her database. Then she looked up again. “Yes. I thought I knew the name. You remember my father told you about the Grimaldi brothers?”
“Yes.”
“They own a great many companies. They use them as a front, hiding behind them. We’re not certain, but there are suspicions that Draco d’Olivo is one of theirs.” She paused. “Why are you asking, Alex? Do you need help?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks, Shadia.” Alex signed off and closed his laptop.
He sat where he was, still holding the piece of paper that the woman in the harbour office had given him. He looked at it one last time, then crumpled it in his hand. He didn’t need the photograph. He had recognized the boat the moment he had seen it. He could see it now. The actual superyacht was right in front of him, moored beside the Quai Jean Jaurès where he had been sitting just a few minutes ago.
He had found it. He might even have found Jack.
Now all he had to do was get on board.
QUICKSILVER
It was a beautiful boat, massive in size and yet somehow sleek and delicate, perching on the water as if it weighed nothing at all. Apart from the tinted windows, the whole thing was a dazzling white with silver railings polished until they gleamed. There was a main deck with outdoor seating, sunloungers and a shaded area with doors opening into the main saloon. An upper deck contained the bridge and the captain’s quarters and a range of aerials and satellite dishes mounted on the roof. There were at least two lower decks with the smallest portholes – crew quarters – closest to the sea.
The wind had dropped and an Italian flag – green, white and red – hung limply at the back. A gangplank sloped down to the side of the harbour. It was the only way in and out. Two guards, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts with sunglasses, stood on the aft deck, guarding it. One was completely bald, with a head that reminded Alex of a punctured football. He was in his late forties. The other was younger – around twenty-five or six, skinny and endlessly fidgeting. They had been standing there for hours.
Alex had positioned himself in another café, a little further down from the one where he had met Mrs Jones, directly opposite the quay where Quicksilver was moored. After he had left the harbour office, he had gone back to the hotel and changed into darker clothes, which would help him with what lay ahead. It might be cold later in the evening, so he put on a crumpled jacket and a long-sleeved shirt. There was no safe in the room so he had brought his passport and wallet with him. They were in his inside pocket. He also had his phone and his laptop in his backpack. He had a nasty feeling he was going to need them.
The sky had changed from red to mauve to the deepest blue. Suddenly it was night. Alex had been sitting where he was for a long time, watching the boat, trying to see who was on board. Apart from the guards, there was nothing; no movement at all. But watching the two of them, he knew that they weren’t ordinary security men. They weren’t there simply to nod politely at the public and keep them moving along. Alex knew it at once from the way they stood, their blank expressions, their empty eyes. The younger man was pale with the sort of vacant, hungry look that reminded him of Colin Maguire, the bully he had taken out in San Francisco. Some sort of skin rash had eaten away at the corner of his mouth and his eyes and if he lay
still, it would be quite easy to mistake him for someone who had recently died. The other man was in charge. He looked ferocious. As well as being completely bald, he had very dark, angry eyes and a nose that seemed to have been pushed back into his face. His T-shirt was stretched out over a bodybuilder’s chest and there was a tattoo – a bright red flame – on the back of his right hand.
These gangsters were all the same. Alex had met them at Herod Sayle’s computer manufacturing plant in Port Tallon, then again at Sarov’s hideaway in Skeleton Key, and on Flamingo Bay, the Caribbean island where Nikolei Drevin had planned to launch his rocket into outer space. Some things never changed. Rich, powerful men surrounded themselves with people who would protect them at any cost. Pay the guards enough money and point them in the right direction and they would kill anyone without a second thought.
This yacht belonged to the Grimaldi brothers – Giovanni and Eduardo. Alex remembered what Colonel Manzour had told him about them. They were ex-Mafia and ex-Scorpia. It was possible that they had killed their own father. Alex smiled grimly: two more charmers to add to the long line of people he had come up against. Well, if they had taken Jack, they had made a big mistake. He wasn’t going to let them stand in his way.
The two guards still hadn’t left, not even to go to the toilet. Alex knew that he was going to have to make his move soon. Apart from anything else, the waiters were getting a little irritated. He had managed to sip his way through two glasses of grenadine and had ordered a cheeseburger and chips, which he had eaten as slowly as he could, but even so, they were wondering how much longer he was going to occupy the table. The trouble was, there was no obvious way he was going to get on board Quicksilver. It wasn’t as if the Grimaldi brothers were throwing a party so he could slip in with the crowd. There had been no deliveries, no chance to pretend he was carrying in supplies. It might be possible to swim round to the bow but he wasn’t sure he would be able to climb up. The main deck was too high and anyway, he would almost certainly be heard.
Never Say Die Page 9