‘On the east coast somewhere. Look, where are you calling from?’
‘Glasgow. I’ve got Dad’s bike.’
‘Wow! Scotland’s obviously the in place right now. Dad flew up there last night for an urgent meeting. Mum’s that mad about it. They’ve got a party today and he’s left her to deal with it on her own. Hang on a minute, I’ve got a brainwave. Beau’s down.’
‘Down?’
‘From Oxford, you wally, got in half an hour ago. I’d lay you any odds he’s off to the mainland for the weekend and has stopped in here en route.’
Covering the mouthpiece, Scott whispered to Hilary, ‘Travers’s brother, Beau, he flies everywhere. He might take us. You think he’ll give us a lift?’ he asked his friend.
‘Don’t see why not. You know Beau, anything for a lark. It’ll probably cost me lunch in Paris though and it’ll send Mum spare with Dad away. Still Beau won’t care. I’ll ring you back when I’ve asked him.’
Scott said into the handset. ‘Can you bring me some money, too?’ His words were greeted by silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Travers? You there?’
Travers’s voice sounded again. ‘Look here, Scott, I know I’m pretty thick but you have to be in some real-serious bother if you are a: six hundred miles from home; b: have your dad’s bike, is illegal if you’re not sixteen, like you; c: have no money and d: have a girl with you and e: sound devilish worried.’
Scott laughed. ‘I am, but I promise you it’s not what you’re thinking. I haven’t run off to Gretna Green with Hilary. But if I tell you, you’ve got to swear not to tell a soul – not your parents – Beau – nobody.’
Travers grunted.
‘My dad’s been kidnapped. I think he’s in Lisse in Holland. Hilary’s helping – actually she saved my life – but that’s another story.’
A long whistle sounded. ‘Brilliant! Now pull the other one.’
Hilary grabbed the phone, her tone fierce. ‘Travers? Look, Scott is telling you the sanitised version. I work for the American Secret Service and Scott’s in real danger. Now will you help?’
‘What did you do that for?’ Scott yelled. ‘It’s so far-fetched he’ll never believe a story like that in a million years.’ He took the phone back. ‘Travers, you still there?’
Travers lazy tones for once sounded serious, as they did when his side was behind on points in a rugby match. ‘Scott, I don’t know what’s going on but something must be. Stay right there. I’ll track Beau down and ring you back.’
Scott snatched up the phone as it rang out, anxious not to disturb Hilary who, exhausted, was using the table for a pillow, her head resting on her arms.
‘Beau says he can pick you up at Prestwick about ten in the morning,’
‘Not to-day?’ said Scott, his voice cracking with tiredness.
‘No can do,’ Travers chuckled, the deep sound resonating through the mobile. ‘Mum would excommunicate us but she agreed on tomorrow. Beau will drop you off on his way to Belgium.’
There’d been more but Scott had blanked that out – a day’s delay – would his dad even be alive by then? ‘Where’s Prestwick?’ he said, interrupting the chatty monologue.
‘I asked Beau that. He says from our house it’s straight up and on the left.’
‘Thanks, Travers.’
‘Haven’t done anything yet. But your story had better be a real blockbuster.’
More like the stuff of nightmares, Scott thought as he clicked the phone off.
Hilary blinked and sat up. ‘I was asleep,’ she admitted.
‘Doesn’t matter, it’s all sorted,’ Scott smiled at her. ‘Now all we need do is sleep – if that’s okay with you.’
Hilary shook her head at him. ‘First, I’ve got to find out about Sandy.’
That had started another argument though one Scott was happy to lose; insisting that trying to locate a patient in hospital, without knowing their surname, was impossible: ‘like looking for A needle in a haystack,’ he argued.
Ignoring his objections, Hilary continued to phone round the hospitals. Ten minutes later, beaming with triumph, she informed Scott that there had actually only been one gun-shot patient admitted the night before. And yes, his name was Sandy. The starchy nurse at the other end of the phone, on learning they weren’t relatives only concerned friends, had relented long enough to admit that her patient was out of danger and well on the road to recovery.
It was a small success, but it brought with it the feeling that perhaps the tide had turned and, at long last, things might go their way.
Beau, as his brother had predicted, had not been the slightest bit put out by being asked to fly four-hundred miles north, before changing direction and flying south-east across the North Sea. Nor had he turned a hair when Travers and Mary elected to go with him, and the twin-engined Cessna, a present from his parents on his eighteenth birthday, had been early.
Out of breath, after a frustrating chase round and round the airport trying to locate the right building, Scott and Hilary fell through the terminal doors in time to see their friends push open the swing doors at the far end, having left the aircraft in its parking bay twenty metres or so from the building.
‘We got lost,’ Scott exclaimed.
Hilary rushed over to give Mary a hug.
‘I’ve raided both our wardrobes,’ Mary called out. ‘Bless Travers, love him to bits and all that, but I knew he’d never think of clothes.’
Beau, the middle one of the three Randals, their elder sister at modelling school in London, had always been Scott’s absolute hero, ever since his first day at secondary school, when his friend’s brother had been chosen to speak in assembly, to welcome the new intake from the local primary. Now, piloting his own plane made him even more awesome.
Scott smiled shyly at him, venturing, ‘We nearly ended up in Ireland,’ to excuse their precipitate arrival.
‘You’d be amazed at the places I’ve ended up,’ Beau said, the sarcastic ring to his voice at odds with his casual air. It reminded Scott of the day he’d been hauled up in front of him, knees quivering, for dropping an easy catch. Tall like his father, Beau possessed the fine bones of his mother, his face attractively ugly where a broken nose and jaw had destroyed its symmetry; Travers openly boasting that his brother had been earmarked for fly-half in the England squad, before a skiing accident had scuppered his chances. ‘And he’d have been pretty magical too,’ he told his friends.
‘One time I was listening so hard to an England-France game I ended up back where I started,’ Beau elaborated, keenly aware that to an impressionable teenager he resembled some species of superhero. ‘So how did you get yourself in this mess? Travers said you were due to meet up with your father at the Keukenhof yesterday and you’ll never hear the last of it, if you don’t hightail it p-d-q.’ He nodded at Scott in a friendly fashion. ‘Knowing you youngsters, I don’t believe a word.’ He raised a shoulder in the direction of his brother. ‘But they did, and kindly came along to ride shotgun.’
Scott flashed Travers a grateful glance, receiving a grin in return.
‘Right! They’re your problem now, at least for the weekend. I’ll pick them up on the way back on Sunday. I’ve a girl waiting in Brussels and a younger brother will cramp my style,’ Beau continued. ‘Go grab some coffee and a sandwich while I file my flight plan, then we’ll be off.’
‘What’s been happening?’ Mary hissed, as soon as Beau was out of earshot.
‘I’ll tell you when we’re aboard, but honestly, Mary, do you think you should have come? It might be dangerous.’
‘You think I should stay home while Travers swans off to the mainland – I should say so. In any case I can chaperone Hilary, sounds like she needs it. Travers said you’d been visiting Gretna Green.’
Scott blushed while Hilary laughed.
‘Travers, you wait till I get you on your own,’ Scott growled.
Travers’s dark eyes glinted mischievously. He held up one hand in surrender. �
�Don’t blame me, your tale was that garbled, you could well be Mr and Mrs Anderson for all I know.’
‘Except my name’s not Anderson,’ said Scott.
‘NOT …’
‘Shush, Mary! Forget I said that. I’ll tell you when we’re airborne.’
Scott stared at the back of Beau’s head. ‘You sure Beau can’t hear?’
Head phones on, blocking out sound from the cabin behind, Travers’s brother seemed in a world of his own, dominated by the sky ahead. Every so often he spoke a few words into the mouthpiece of his radio or tapped the glass on one of several-dozen circular dials that formed the control panel of the modern aircraft. Despite state-of-the-art technology, the engine noise on either side of the narrow fuselage remained considerable, drowning out anything other than particularly clear and precise enunciation.
‘No way! I can only just hear you and I’m sitting right next to you. In any case, this bit of the North Sea’s so congested Beau says it’s like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. He’ll be up to his neck till we land in Holland. But I wish you’d include him, he’s the best if you’re in a jam.’
Scott voice was determined. ‘No! The fewer people that know, the better.’
‘That’s rot. It’s the opposite. The more people that know, the less the danger – if there is danger. Were you pulling my leg about being Secret Service?’
‘No! I really am.’ Hilary gave a wry smile.
‘Wow! Hilary! But that’s so exciting,’ Mary burst out. ‘Ever since Travers told me … well, he didn’t exactly tell me. To be fair, I sort’a dug it out of him. Anyway I’ve been dying to see you. This has to be the most exciting thing to happen in Cornwall for ever. My life’s deadly dull by comparison.’
Scott hid a grin, knowing full well that Travers could never keep a secret where Mary was concerned. Even birthday gifts had to be a last-minute purchase otherwise Mary’s digging for clues spoiled the surprise.
‘So how did it happen, you know becoming a spy?’
‘Shut up, Mary.’ Her boyfriend groaned. ‘Our flight plan gives us less than three hours and I refuse to spend it listening to girls’ gossiping, when I could be plunged into an exciting whodunit that will keep me on the edge of my seat. Go on, Scott. But first of all put us out of our misery, you definitely aren’t married?’
It was out in the open at last. Travers and Mary had listened, their faces expressing a series of tumultuous emotions. But telling the story a second time, and being able to explain some of its mysteries, had made it sound more credible. Even so Mary had grabbed Hilary’s hand holding it tightly, concerned that her friend had been so bullied by such powerful forces.
Scott began to feel optimistic, especially after Travers announced it was a good job Mary had brought along their clothes, since wild horses wouldn’t send him back to England before the mystery had been solved. Of course, that didn’t mean they would be able to solve the mystery but four heads were definitely better than two.
Travers acting as unofficial steward got to his feet, handing out Cokes. He tapped Beau on the back to attract his attention. Beau held up an opened water bottle.
‘How long?’ Travers mouthed.
‘Twenty minutes or so, but don’t make anything hot, have a gander at that lot.’ He pointed downwards to where densely packed layers of swirling brown cut off their view of land.
‘They look solid,’ Travers said staring at the clouds.
‘They feel it sometimes. Get strapped in I would, and warn the others it’ll be a bit rocky. Tell them not to worry though, Isadora is more than capable.’
‘Beau says it’s going to be a bit bumpy,’ Travers said, relaying his brother’s message.
Mary hastily strapped herself in, looking nervous. ‘How bumpy?’ she squeaked.
Travers held his Coke bottle high in the air, waves of liquid fizzing against its side, as the small jet dived into a venomous-looking cloud, buffeting the fuselage and swinging its tail from side to side. ‘That bumpy!’ He showed her the bottle, dribbles of liquid overflowing down the sides. ‘So to while away the last few moments, how about A tale of espionage, Hilary? How did you get into it?’
‘You mean I’m now licensed to thrill,’ she joked. ‘It’s pretty dull, after what we’ve gone through the last few days. My mum brought me up. My dad was in the service. He was killed when I was ten.’
‘And there’s your application to the school saying both your parents are alive,’ Mary interrupted, her voice tight. She peered anxiously through the porthole, swirling fingers of cloud clinging to the fuselage like the tendrils of a giant octopus.
‘How did you see my application form?’ Hilary glared at her friend. She shrugged. ‘I guess it doesn’t matter now. Whatever happens I won’t be going back. That was my cover story, two parents, ordinary family; Dad’s work brings him to Cornwall.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No, Dad died and a few years later Mum and me – we stopped getting on and I ran away. Anyway, to cut a long story short …’
Hilary’s head jerked up nervously as the light aircraft dropped into a hole in the clouds. The plane lurched sideways before steadying again. ‘Hate this stuff,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘Flying over the Atlantic was really rough, clear air turbulence is the worst.’
‘Beau said ignore it,’ Travers said calmly, undisturbed by the bumps. ‘Go on.’
‘Um … well … to cut a long story short,’ Hilary repeated, ‘Mum got in touch with Sean Terry …’ Her voice faded away again as the plane danced a tango, lasting several long minutes. She swallowed and kneaded her ears. ‘He knew Dad well and tracked me down.’
‘Where were you?’ Mary said, clutching Travers’s hand. ‘How long’s this going on for?’ she gasped wildly. ‘I’ll need a sick bag if there’s much more, my stomach’s already heaving.’
‘It’s not going to hurt you,’ Travers pointed out, ‘as long as you can hear the engines.’ He grinned over at Scott and winked. Mary groaned holding her head in her hands. ‘Keep talking, Hilary,’ he said.
‘I was living in Washington.’ Hilary started again her manner half-hearted, obviously more concerned with what was happening outside the plane, than her story. ‘Are you sure Mary’s okay, Travers? She’s gone awfully white.’
Mary shut her eyes. ‘Ignore me, Travers is. But when we get on terra firma he’s for it,’ she threatened. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known it was going to be this rough.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ Travers said indignantly. ‘I’m not responsible for the weather.’
‘What were you doing in Washington?’ Scott said, hoping that talking would keep Hilary’s mind off the turbulence.
‘Living rough. But I wasn’t into drugs or anything like that,’ she protested. ‘There’s always work if you want it. No one bothers about age in the US. All the kids work – waiting tables, washing-up, factory work – that sort of thing. Sean told me that kids from age fourteen were being recruited to report on classroom activity, because terrorism has to start somewhere. I got the training and found myself back in school. Two months after that I got a crash course in English and sent to London. You know the rest.’
‘So where you used to live, there wasn’t a river?’ Hilary’s laugh sounded false and she wrapped her arms round her middle, as if she was hanging on to her insides, holding them steady against the relentless pounding.
‘And how I hated you, Scott, keeping on about it,’ she said trying hard to create the impression of being relaxed. ‘If you really want to know I’d never even seen a river till I was ten and I watched a video about London on the flight to Dublin.’
Travers roared with laughter. ‘I’m not surprised she got mad, Scott, asking all those questions.’
‘But you still think there’s a mole in your outfit,’ Mary said. She swallowed and swung round in her seat to stare at Beau’s back, as if wanting to check for herself that he remained unconcerned about the plane’s acrobatics. The drone of the engines sounded solid and re-assuring, not vary
ing at all despite the wind’s furious pummelling. She looked round again, appearing a shade calmer as the plane steadied.
‘Definitely! You can’t explain any of this without.’
‘I’ve gone over and over it. It has to be Sean Terry,’ Scott insisted. ‘You’ve avoided his name, Hilary, skirting round and round it, saying headquarters. You know that’s no longer possible,’ he accused.
Hilary said miserably. ‘But I still don’t think …’
‘Because he brought you into the service?’ Travers helped out.
‘I guess that and because he knew my dad.’
‘I agree,’ said Mary. ‘So it has to be somebody else.’
‘But until we know who,’ Scott added, ‘we’re on our own, which might sound great, except we’re four kids in a strange country.’
Travers grinned at him. ‘Look at it this way. If you’re the underdog, you’ve nothing to lose.’ He peered out of the window. ‘We’re down – never felt Athing. Told you Beau was good.’
Beau declined the offer of food, maintaining that lunch in an airport terminal was something he preferred to skip.
‘Well, a sandwich then,’ suggested Mary.
‘No, thanks. I’ll head straight off. Compared to oysters in Bruges, a sandwich just doesn’t grab you.’ Beau grinned and ruffled Travers’s hair, much to his brother’s annoyance. ‘Enjoy yourselves, kiddles. Give me a ring if you are still there after the weekend and need a lift back. But don’t ring before, okay.’
He watched the little group walk across the tarmac towards the terminal buildings. As the brown cloud base had promised, rain fell in stair rods, puddles already gathering on the runway surface. He hesitated a moment, waiting for the doors to close behind the four teenagers, then dialled Anumber on his mobile. There was no reply, except for the recorded voice of the answer machine suggesting he left a message.
‘Dad? Pity you’re not there. You know that boy you were looking for? Well, I’ve just deposited him at Lisse airport. Seems like he’s on his way to meet his father. Thought you’d like to know.’
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