Gerald crouched at the end of the toilet roll and peered back towards the beach, planning his path. The horizon was beginning to glow; moonrise was not far away. Okay, Gerald thought, time to save the world. He pulled the compass from his pocket, slid out a striker pin and hit it against the flint. One, two, three times.
Pockets of sparks burst onto the toilet paper and a ribbon of blue flame raced through the trees. Gerald didn’t wait to see the result—he took off for the beach, keeping low and hoping the dark background of the headland would camouflage his arrival on the sand. He dived headlong behind a line of boulders and poked his head around the end. Three guards were relaxing by the campfire about fifty metres to his right. Their faces were just visible in the soft light of the flames. They were playing cards. The dim light burst into a violent orange flash as the supply dump went up with a colossal FOOM!
Gerald flinched at the sound. A burst of heat rolled out of the jungle. If that was the result of half a bottle of jet fuel catching fire, what was going to happen when twelve drums of the stuff went up? Gerald could hardly wait.
He looked back to the campfire. The three guards were on their feet, staring at the enormous blaze that raged in the jungle. They looked at each other for a moment, confused. One rushed into the tent and emerged a second later with a fire extinguisher. Then all three disappeared into the trees.
It was time for Gerald to move. He sprinted out from his hiding place down to where the inflatable was parked nose-first on the sand. He clamped both hands onto the stern transom by the outboard motor and heaved. The boat barely shifted a centimetre. Gerald gritted his teeth and pulled again, his shoulders straining. The runabout slipped in the sand and Gerald landed hard on his backside. In the jungle, the fire raged on. Shouts echoed out from the guards trying to get it under control.
Gerald scrambled back to his feet and through sheer determination managed to haul the boat to the water. He spun its nose out towards the reef wall, and pulled up a rope that had fallen over the side, bundling it back on board. The gum in his mouth was now a chewy blob. Gerald grabbed the throttle on the outboard motor and wound it fully open, then jammed it in place with the wad of gum. All he had to do was start the motor and it would take off like a champion greyhound. But first, to rescue his friends.
He turned and went to run up the beach to the tent. But the tangle of rope by the side of the boat lassoed his ankle, tripping him up and sending him face first into the sand with a jangling twang. Gerald lay stunned for a moment and wiped the grit from his eyes. But then a thunderous roar had him turning around—the outboard motor had somehow sprung to life. The rope must have pulled taut across the starter switch; the propeller was spinning furiously in the shallows, spitting up a wet slurry of sand. Then the prop bit into the water and the boat took off, pulling Gerald behind it.
He was belly-dragged feet first into the bay. The runabout was doing exactly what Gerald had wanted it to do: churn straight and fast towards the reef—only he had not planned on being towed behind it like the world’s worst water skier.
Gerald spun through the bay, tugged and buffeted in the speeding boat’s wake. His head emerged into the air for a second and he sucked in a watery lungful before disappearing back beneath the surface. All he could think about was what the coral reef would do to his bare back when he hit it at top speed. He tried to drag his hands to his tethered ankle, tried to free himself from the rope that snarled about his leg, but the force of the water was too much. Gerald strained to get his head back to the surface, desperate for air. The roar of the motor filled his ears and the water plugged his nose. His backpack, still strapped to his shoulders, was working like an underwater parachute, dragging him deeper and deeper into a smothering darkness. He had to free himself.
Then the tone of the motor changed, pitching higher. Something had happened. Gerald felt the tension ease around his ankle but he was still moving through the water. His head bobbed up and broke into the night air. He opened his mouth to breathe and he saw that the inflatable had slammed into the back of the motor yacht, launching itself halfway onto the rear deck. Gerald spun forward, a victim of momentum, still hurtling through the wash and directly towards the propeller that chopped at the water.
His eyes peeled back and he flailed his arms and legs, desperate to stop. The spinning blades sprayed water across his cheeks as his soft pink flesh moved inexorably closer to them. Gerald screwed his eyes shut. The propeller was just centimetres from his face when the rope that snared his ankle snagged around the propeller shaft and the churning blades ground to a halt. Gerald floated on and gently head-butted the pointed hub of the propeller.
‘Ouch,’ he said, and blinked. He had been dragged all the way to the motor yacht. Back on shore, the fire from the burning supplies seemed to have been brought under control. All that remained was a tall column of grey smoke rising from the trees. Gerald swore silently to himself and managed to free his leg from the rope. It looked like it was time to initiate Plan B: make it up as you go along.
He climbed the inflatable like a ladder and slithered up onto the yacht’s deck. Ruby’s makeshift bandage around his head had washed away so all Gerald was left with was a waterlogged backpack, a pair of ragged board shorts and some squelching runners. He kicked off the shoes and pulled the pack from his shoulders, all the time watching for any movement from inside the yacht.
It was as quiet as a school in summer.
Gerald pulled the black case from his backpack and popped the brass latches. He had no idea what Plan B was going to involve, but at least he would have a weapon. He took the flare gun, cracked open the chamber and inserted a single orange flare, then closed it with a metallic click. The door to the rear cabin was closed. He gripped the flare gun and moved across the deck. He put a hand to the doorknob, turned it and pushed.
Gerald stood in the doorway and aimed the flare gun straight into the room. His eyes bulged at what he saw.
Seated around a large table enjoying a feast were Ruby, Sam and Felicity. And Ursus.
Ruby turned her head and paused as she was about to shove a forkful of roast chicken into her mouth. ‘Gerald!’ she said, and waved at him with a flourish. ‘Come in! There’s been the most terrible misunderstanding!’
Chapter 16
Gerald did not move from the doorway. He stared in disbelief at the faces that smiled up at him from around the table.
‘You can lower the gun, Gerald,’ Ursus said. ‘There is nothing to fear.’
Gerald tightened his hold around the grip. ‘What’s going on, Ruby?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me he hasn’t drugged you all or got you sitting over a shark tank or some other bizarre stunt. Because this little scene is very hard to believe.’
Ruby placed her fork on her plate and patted the seat next to her. ‘Come join us,’ she said. ‘You must be starving.’
Gerald’s eyes flicked to the food on the table. As well as the chicken, there were roasted potatoes and pumpkin, bread rolls, a mountain of peas and a bowl overflowing with sliced bananas, mangoes and pawpaw. Sam’s head could only just be seen from behind a mound of pies and sausage rolls.
‘Are those sweet potatoes?’ Gerald asked, his belly again growling like an ill-tempered bear.
‘Yes, and there’s gravy as well,’ Ursus said. ‘Have something to eat and let me explain everything.’
Gerald did not move. ‘Sam, toss me over a sausage roll and I’ll listen from here,’ he said.
Sam shrugged, picked up a roll and hurled it across the room. Gerald caught it in one hand and bit deep into the golden pastry. It tasted so good he thought his head was going to melt. ‘So what’s this great misunderstanding?’ Gerald said to Ursus. ‘It’s pretty hard to misunderstand bullets.’
‘Can you please not point that thing at me,’ Ursus said, nodding at the flare gun. ‘It’s a little off-putting.’
Gerald almost choked on his sausage roll. ‘Off-putting?’ he said. ‘You know what’s off-putting? Having half a dozen arm
ed men swarm out of the darkness and hijack your yacht. But that’s what you get from Sir Mason Green and the people who work for him.’
Ursus leaned back in his seat and looked at Gerald in surprise. ‘Sir Mason Green? That murdering cheat. Whatever makes you think I have anything to do with him?’
Gerald almost choked again. ‘Are you saying that he’s not your boss?’
Ursus placed a hand over his heart. ‘I have never worked for Mason Green,’ he said.
Gerald’s brain spun like a runaway top. ‘If you don’t work for Green, who do you work for?’
‘My employer is a very private individual,’ Ursus said. ‘I would prefer not to identify him.’
Gerald leaned against the doorjamb, not believing a word that he was hearing.
‘I can understand your confusion,’ Ursus continued. ‘Your friends were wary as well, and I don’t blame them.’
‘Listen to him, Gerald,’ Felicity said. ‘It all makes perfect sense when you hear the full story.’
Gerald pointed the flare gun at Ursus. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Talk. And Sam?’
Sam looked up from a half-eaten steak and kidney pie. ‘Yes?’
‘Toss me another sausage roll.’
Gerald ate while Ursus explained. ‘The first thing you need to understand is I have been sent here to protect you.’
‘Protect me from what?’ Gerald asked.
‘From Sir Mason Green. That’s why I’m surprised you thought I worked for him. Quite the opposite: everything I have been doing over the last few months has been to protect you from him. The whole episode with the crystal pendant in Prague, when I instructed you over the phone to give it to Tycho Brahe…do you remember?’
Gerald well remembered being dragged behind a speeding motorcycle across a snow-strewn square when he handed the pendant to Brahe. He still had nightmares about it.
‘That was to keep the pendant out of Sir Mason’s hands,’ Ursus said. ‘If he was able to get it and translate the Voynich manuscript, there’s no telling what damage he would do.’
Gerald furrowed his brow. ‘But I spoke on the phone to Green in Prague. And he wanted me to give the pendant to Brahe too.’
Ursus nodded with vigour. ‘Precisely—he planned to steal it from Tycho, together with the manuscript. It was his plan to get the two prizes at once.’
‘But you turned up in that cellar under the farmhouse in Sweden and stole the manuscript and the pendant,’ Gerald said.
‘Of course,’ Ursus said. ‘Again, to keep it out of Green’s hands.’
Gerald was starting to get a headache. ‘But Green told me just the other night that he has the manuscript and that Professor McElderry is helping him decipher it.’
Ursus smiled again. ‘You are such a trusting boy. Sir Mason Green is an accomplished liar, Gerald. You should never believe a word he says. My employer was worried that Green was about to launch an attack on your yacht to steal the plans for the curiosity machine. That’s why I came. To protect you.’
‘How do you know about the plans?’ Gerald asked, but Ruby interrupted him. She stood from the table and walked slowly to Gerald, as if every footstep required tremendous concentration. ‘Mr Ursus explained it all when he found us on the other side of the island,’ Ruby said, placing a hand on Gerald’s shoulder as much for support as for emphasis. ‘All this time we were running away from the people who were trying to keep us safe. Our parents are all fine. They’re on the Archer continuing on their way to the Caribbean. Mr Fry is on his way in the helicopter now to take us back to them. We didn’t need to escape in the submarine at all.’
Gerald was not convinced. ‘What about Felicity’s mum and dad?’ he asked.
Felicity looked up from the table and sipped from a glass containing a dark liquid. ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine. Mr Ursus’s people found them on an island someplace and rescued them. It turns out I was mistaken about the whole threat thing. They’re just’—she struggled to find the right word—‘fine.’ She pressed her fingertips to her lips and belched. ‘And Ruby and I are fine too. Aren’t we, Ruby? Everything and everyone is just fine.’
Gerald frowned. ‘How about Sam’s eye? He looks like he’s been punched in the head. And what about the gunshot that shattered the window on the Archer, and the men trying to batter down the door to the submarine room?’
‘A champagne cork broke the window, Gerald,’ Ruby said, leaning heavily on his shoulder for support. ‘And those men were worried that we might accidently flood the submarine launch room, which we did. Everything can be explained.’ She reached out for the gun and eased it from Gerald’s fingers. ‘You don’t need this anymore. Horrible bangy thing. Come and have something to eat.’
Sam held up a bottle of the same dark drink that Felicity had in her glass. ‘Try some of this juice,’ he said. ‘It’s deliciousness.’
Gerald took an uncertain step into the cabin. ‘Well, if you say so.’
Ruby smiled at him and squeezed his arm. ‘That’s the way,’ she said, waving the gun about in her other hand. She looked at the weapon, as if surprised that it had suddenly appeared in her grasp. ‘I guess we can get rid of this,’ she said, and tossed it out the door. The pistol turned through the air and landed with a sharp clunk on its butt. A brilliant orange flare burst from the rear deck of the motor yacht and into the night sky. Inside, Felicity and Sam pressed their noses to the window watching the flare as it traced its way across the stars, looping up high above the beach—‘Oooh, fireworks,’ Felicity said—then floating peacefully and irresistibly down into the middle of the circle of jet fuel drums.
After that, everything got just a little bit confused. Gerald could remember the flash of light; it burned its image into the back of his eyeballs like the world’s largest Polaroid camera. And of course there was the bang. His head still rang to the after effects of that particular punch to the eardrums. The fuel dump had gone up like every New Year’s Eve fireworks display in history condensed into a single, spectacular event. The initial explosion sat Gerald down hard on his backside. After he regained some composure, he crawled across the floor to where Felicity and Sam had been thrown by the force of the blast. They were covered in shattered safety glass but did not seem to be hurt. Sam sat with his back to a wall, saying ‘Wow!’ over and over.
Ruby stumbled across to them and plopped down next to Gerald, the hair on one side of her face fanned out like a peacock’s tail, as if she had been told only half of a scary story. She grinned at Gerald. ‘That was awesome! Can we do it again?’
Gerald blinked to clear his vision and found Ursus had appeared by his side. Gerald went to get up but Ursus placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back to the floor. ‘Drink this,’ Ursus said to Gerald, handing him a cup. ‘It will settle your nerves.’ Gerald stared at the dark contents, not really sure if taking anything from Ursus was a good idea. He sniffed the liquid—it reminded him of burnt caramel—and he took a sip. He licked his lips. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’ Then he drained the cup.
Gerald tried to stand, but found that his legs were ignoring him. ‘Come on,’ he urged them. ‘We need to get moving.’
Strange, he thought. They’ve always listened to me before.
Then the notion of sleep seemed to be a tremendous idea. And his eyelids had no hesitation in agreeing to a general shutdown.
The fwoop-fwoop-fwoop of helicopter blades slicing the air cut through Gerald’s slumber. His eyelids drew back like reluctant curtains. His head rested on someone’s shoulder, but without sitting up there was no telling whose it was, and the burning in his brain convinced him that sitting up was the last thing that he wanted to do. He was content to swivel his eyes in their sockets.
Gerald was in the back bench-seat of a helicopter. That much was clear. He looked down and discovered he was not wearing a shirt. It took him a moment to remember he had used it as a wick to drain fuel from the drums near the beach. His eyes rolled towards his feet. Someone had
gone to the trouble of putting his runners back on. So that was something. He could see the top of two heads in the front seats. One looked like it could be Mr Fry, wearing his favourite Archer Corporation baseball cap. Gerald couldn’t be certain but he was fairly sure the other head belonged to Ursus. He screwed up his eyes and convinced himself to sit up.
Gerald found he had been sleeping on Sam’s shoulder. His friend’s lips buzzed in slumber. Next to him, Ruby and Felicity were curled together, also asleep. Gerald looked out the window and saw they were flying over a vast tract of deep blue ocean. There was not a speck of land to be seen.
‘Where are we?’ he asked, but neither of the men in the front responded. Gerald reached behind him to pull down a set of headphones, which he clamped over his ears. He positioned the wing microphone in front of his mouth and asked again, ‘Where are we?’
The response to his question was startling. At the sound of Gerald’s voice, Ursus spun in his seat and looked back with surprise. A moment of panic flared in the man’s eyes, then faded just as fast.
‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a while yet,’ Ursus said. ‘You were very tired.’ Gerald saw a water bottle tucked into the seatback in front of him, and he took a sip. He was slipping the bottle into the backpack at his feet when he had a sudden pang of guilt. ‘Look, about the fuel dump—’ he began.
Ursus held up a hand. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘Luckily no one was hurt, so there was no harm done.’
‘But that explosion was huge,’ Gerald said. ‘It must have ripped apart half the beach.’
The Curiosity Machine Page 13