In fact, Alex rang the hotel at half past seven. He was, he said, on his way to England. He had got homesick and had decided to leave early. Mr Grey took the call.
“Alex,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. I’m meant to be responsible for you. When I brought you on this trip, I trusted you. You’ve completely let me down.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Alex sounded wretched and that was how he felt.
“That’s not good enough. Because of you, I may not be allowed to take other kids on future trips. You’re spoiling it for everyone.”
“I didn’t mean this to happen,” Alex said. “There are things you don’t understand. When I see you next term, I’ll try to explain it to you … as much as I can. I really am sorry, sir. And I’m grateful to you for the way you’ve helped me this summer. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
There were a lot of things Mr Grey wanted to say but he stopped himself. He had got to know Alex well in all their hours together and liked him. He also knew that Alex was like no other boy he’d ever met. He didn’t believe for a minute that Alex was homesick. Nor did he think he was on his way back to England. But sometimes, just occasionally, it was better not to ask.
“Good luck, Alex,” he said. “Look after yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The rest of the school party had been told that Alex had already left. Miss Bedfordshire had packed his bags for him, and everyone else had been too busy sorting out their own things to think about him any more. Only Tom knew that Alex was lying. They had been sharing a room in the hotel, and Alex’s passport was still on the bedside table. Acting on impulse, Tom had taken it with him. He had given Alex his brother’s address in Naples. There was still a chance he might show up there.
The scenery flashed past, as uninteresting as scenery nearly always becomes when seen through the grimy window of a train. Tom had parted company with the school party outside the hotel. They were flying back to England. He had a ticket to Naples, where his brother would be waiting to meet him. He had about six hours to kill. There was a Game Boy in his backpack and a book – Northern Lights. Tom didn’t much like reading but everyone in his class had been told they had to get through at least one novel during the summer holidays. There were just a few days left until the start of term and he was only on page seven.
He wondered what had happened to Alex. And why had Alex been so determined to break into the Widow’s Palace in the first place? As the train rattled on, leaving the outskirts of Venice behind, Tom thought about his friend. They had met two years ago. Tom – who was about half the size of anyone else in his year – had just been beaten up. This was something that seemed to happen to him quite often. In this case it was a bunch of sixteen-year-olds led by a boy called Michael Cook who had suggested he should use his lunch money to buy them cigarettes. Tom had politely refused and a short while later Alex had come across him sitting on the pavement, picking up his tattered books and wiping blood from his nose.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a broken nose. I’ve lost my lunch money. And they’ve told me they’re going to do it all again tomorrow. But otherwise I’m fine.”
“Mike Cook?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I should have a word with him.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”
“I’ve got a way with words.”
Alex had met the bully and two of his friends behind the bike shed the following day. It was a short meeting but Michael Cook never bothered anyone else again. It was also noticed that, for the following week, he limped and spoke in a strangely high-pitched voice.
That was the start of a close friendship. Tom and Alex lived near each other and often cycled home together. They were in lots of teams together – despite his size, Tom was extremely quick on his feet. When Tom’s parents started talking about divorce, Alex was the only person he told.
In return, Tom probably knew more about Alex than anyone at Brookland. He had visited his house a few times and had met Jack, the cheerful, red-haired American girl who wasn’t exactly his nanny or housekeeper but seemed to be looking after him. Alex had no parents. Everyone knew that Alex had lived with his uncle – who must have been rich, judging from the house. But then he had died in a car accident. It had been announced in school assembly and Tom had gone round to the house a couple of times, hoping to find Alex, but he had never been in.
After that, Alex had changed. It had started with his first long absence from school in the spring term, and everyone assumed that he must have been knocked off balance by his uncle’s death. But then he had disappeared again in the summer term. There was no explanation. Nobody seemed to have any idea where he went. When the two of them had finally met again, Tom had been surprised how much his friend had changed. He had been hurt. Tom had seen some of the scars. But Alex also seemed to have got a lot older. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he had seen things he would never be able to forget.
And now this business in Venice! Maybe Miss Bedfordshire was right after all, and Alex really did need to see a shrink. Tom reached for his Game Boy, hoping to put the whole thing out of his mind. He knew he ought to continue with the book, and he promised himself he would go back to it in two or three hundred miles’ time … after they had gone through Rome.
He became aware that someone was standing over him, and automatically fumbled for his ticket. He looked up and gaped. It was Alex.
He was dressed in old-fashioned jeans and a baggy jersey, both one size too big. He was dirty; his hair was matted and untidy. Tom glanced down and saw that he was barefoot. He looked worn out.
“Alex?” Tom was almost too shocked to speak.
“Hi.” Alex gestured to an empty seat. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“No. Sit down…” Tom had a whole table to himself – which was just as well. The other passengers were staring at Alex in horror. “How did you get here? What happened? Where did you get those clothes?” Suddenly the questions were tumbling out.
“I’m afraid I stole the clothes,” Alex confessed. “I nicked them off a washing line. I couldn’t get any shoes, though.”
“What happened to you last night? I saw you go into the palace. Did they find you?” Tom wrinkled his nose. “Did you fall in a canal or something?”
Alex was too tired to answer any of his questions. “I’ve got a favour to ask you, Tom,” he said.
“Do you want me to hide you from the police?”
“I need to borrow some money. I couldn’t buy a ticket. And I’m going to have to get some new clothes.”
“That’s OK. I’ve got plenty of money.”
“And I need to stay with you – with your brother – for a while. Is that going to be all right?”
“Sure. Jerry won’t mind. Alex…”
But Alex had slumped forward, his head cradled in his hands. He was sound asleep.
The train picked up speed, curving round the Gulf of Venice and continuing its journey south.
* * *
When Alex woke up, the train was still travelling through the Italian countryside. He slowly uncurled himself. Already he was feeling better. The train hadn’t just left Venice behind, it had carried him away from his experiences of the night before. He sat up and saw Tom staring at him. A sandwich, a bag of crisps and a Coke sat on the table between them.
“I thought you’d be hungry,” Tom said.
“I’m starving. Thanks.” Alex opened the can of Coke. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t mind. “Where are we?” he asked.
“We went through Rome about an hour ago. I think we’ll be there quite soon.” Tom waited while Alex drank. He put his book down. “You look terrible,” he commented. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night?”
“Sure.” Alex had decided before he even got on the train that he was going to have to tell Tom everything. It wasn’t just that he needed T
om’s help. He was tired of lying. “But I’m not sure you’re going to believe it,” he added.
“Well, I’ve been reading my book for the last two and a half hours,” Tom said, “and I’m only on page nineteen. So I think I’d prefer listening to you, whatever you’ve got to say.”
“All right…”
Alex had only ever told one other person the truth about himself, and that had been his friend Sabina Pleasure. She hadn’t believed him – not until she’d found herself knocked out and tied up in the basement of the country mansion owned by the insane multimillionaire Damian Cray. Now Alex told Tom everything he had told her, starting with the truth behind the death of his uncle and continuing all the way up to his escape from the flooded chamber the night before. The strange thing was that he enjoyed telling his story. He wasn’t boasting about being a spy and working for secret intelligence. Quite the opposite. For too long he had been a servant of MI6, forced by them to keep quiet about everything he had done. They had even made him sign the Official Secrets Act. By telling the truth, he was doing exactly what they didn’t want him to do and it came as a relief, a great weight off his shoulders. It made him feel that he was the one in control.
“… I couldn’t go back to the hotel. Not without money. Not without shoes. But I knew you were taking the train to Naples, so I walked up to the station and waited for you. I followed you onto the train. And here I am.”
Alex finished and waited nervously for Tom’s response. Tom had said nothing for the last twenty minutes. Would he, like Sabina, walk out on him?
Tom nodded slowly. “Well, that makes sense,” he said at last.
Alex stared. “You believe me?”
“I can’t think of any other reason to explain everything that’s happened. Missing so much school. And all those injuries. I mean, I thought your housekeeper might be beating you up, but that didn’t seem likely. So, yes. You must be a spy. But that’s pretty heavy, Alex. I’m glad it’s you, not me.”
Alex couldn’t help smiling. “Tom, you really are my best mate.”
“I’m happy to help. But there’s one thing you haven’t told me. Why were you interested in Scorpia in the first place? And what are you doing now, coming to Naples?”
Alex hadn’t mentioned his father. That was the one area that still troubled him. It was too private to share with anyone. “I’ve got to find Scorpia,” he began. He paused, then continued carefully. “I think my dad may have had some sort of involvement with them. I never knew him. He died shortly after I was born.”
“Did they kill him?”
“No. It’s difficult to explain. I just want to find out about him. I’ve never met anyone who knew him. Even my uncle never talked much about him. I just have to know who he was.”
“And Naples?”
“I heard Mrs Rothman talking about a company in Amalfi. That’s not too far from Naples. I think it’s called Consanto. I saw the name in a sort of brochure in her desk, and the person she was talking to had his photograph inside. She said she’d be there in two days. That’s tomorrow. I’d be interested to know why.”
“But, Alex.” Tom frowned. “You met this black guy, Nile.”
“Actually, he wasn’t exactly black. He was more sort of … black and white.”
“Well, the moment you mentioned Scorpia, he locked you in a cellar and tried to drown you. Why go back? I mean, it sounds to me like they’re not that keen to meet you.”
“I know.” Alex couldn’t deny that Tom was right. And he had learnt very little about Mrs Rothman. He couldn’t even be certain that she was connected to Scorpia. The one thing he did know was that she – or the people who worked for her – was utterly ruthless. But he couldn’t leave it. Not yet. Yassen Gregorovich had shown him a path. He had to follow it to the end. “I just want to take a look, that’s all.”
Tom shrugged. “Well, I suppose you can’t be in any worse trouble than you are with Mr Grey. When you get back to school, I think he’s going to murder you.”
“Yeah. I know. He didn’t sound too happy on the phone.”
There was a brief silence. The train rushed through a station, a blur of neon and concrete, without stopping.
“It must mean a lot to you,” Tom said. “Finding out about your dad.”
“Yes. It does.”
“My mum and dad have been shouting at each other for ages. All they ever do is fight. Now they’re splitting up and they’re fighting about that. I don’t care about either of them any more. I don’t think I even like them.” For a brief moment Tom looked sadder than Alex had ever seen him. “So I think I understand what you’re saying, and I hope you find out something good about your dad, because right now I can’t think of anything good about mine.”
Jerry Harris, Tom’s elder brother, met them at the station and took them by taxi to his flat. He was twenty-two years old and had come to Italy on his gap year but had somehow forgotten to return. Alex liked him immediately. Jerry was totally laid-back, thin to the point of scrawny, with bleached hair and a lopsided smile. It made no difference to him that Alex had turned up uninvited, and he didn’t comment on Alex’s appearance or the fact that he seemed to have made the journey from Venice without shoes.
He lived in the Spanish Quarter of the city. It was a typical Naples street: narrow, with buildings five or six storeys high on both sides and washing lines strung out between them. Looking up, Alex saw a fantastic patchwork of crumbling plaster, wooden shutters, ornate railings, window boxes and terraces with Italian women leaning out to chat with their neighbours. Jerry was renting a top-floor flat. There was no lift. The three of them climbed a twisting staircase with a different smell and sound on each floor: disinfectant and a baby crying on the first, pasta and a violin playing on the second…
“This is it,” Jerry announced, unlocking a door. “Make yourselves at home.”
Home was an open-plan space with hardly any furniture, white painted walls, a wooden floor and views over the city. There was a kitchen in the corner, every surface piled high with dirty plates, and a door leading to a small bedroom and bathroom. Somehow, someone had dragged a battered leather three-seater sofa all the way up. It sat in the middle of the room surrounded by a tangle of sports equipment, only some of which Alex recognized. There were two skateboards, ropes and pitons, an oversized kite, a mono-ski and what looked like a parachute. Tom had already told Alex that his brother was into extreme sports. He was teaching English as a foreign language in Naples, but only to pay for his trips mountaineering, surfing or whatever.
“You two hungry?” Jerry asked.
“Yeah.” Tom slumped down on the sofa. “We’ve been on a train for, like, six hours. You got any food?”
“You’ve got to be kidding! No. We’ll go out and get a pizza or something. How’s things, Tom? How are Mum and Dad?”
“The same.”
“As bad as that?” Jerry turned to Alex. “Our parents are complete crap. I’m sure my brother’s told you. I mean, calling him Tom and me Jerry. How crap can you get?” He shrugged. “What are you doing down here, Alex? You want to visit the coast?”
On the train Alex had impressed on Tom the importance of not repeating anything he’d said. Now he winced as Tom announced, “Alex is a spy.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah. He works for MI6.”
“Wow. That’s awesome.”
“Thanks.” Alex wasn’t sure what to say.
“So what are you doing in Naples, Alex?”
Tom answered for him. “He wants to find out about a company. Constanza.”
“Consanto,” Alex said.
“Consanto Enterprises?” Jerry opened the fridge and took out a beer. Alex noticed that, apart from beer, there was nothing else in the fridge. “I know about them. I used to have one of their people learning English. He was a research chemist or something. I hope he was a better chemist than he was a linguist, because his English was awful.”
“Who are Consanto?” Alex asked.
“They’re one of these big pharmaceutical companies. They make drugs and biological stuff. They’ve got a plant near Amalfi.”
“Can you get me in?” Alex was hopeful.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I doubt the pope could get in. I drove past once and it’s this really high-tech sort of place. It looks like something out of a sci-fi film. And it’s got all these fences and security cameras and stuff.”
“They must have something to hide,” Tom said.
“Of course they’ve got something to hide, you dimwit,” Jerry muttered. “All these drugs companies are coming up with new patents and they’re worth a fortune. I mean, like, if someone discovers a cure for Aids or something, it would be worth billions. That’s why you can’t get in. The guy I was teaching never said anything about his work. He wasn’t allowed to.”
“Like Alex.”
“What?”
“Being a spy. He’s not allowed to say anything about that either.”
“Right.” Jerry nodded.
Alex looked from one to the other. Despite the fact that there were eight years between them, the two brothers were obviously close. He wished he could spend more time with them. He felt more relaxed now than he had in a long time. But that wasn’t why he was here. “Can you take me to Amalfi?” he asked.
“Sure.” Jerry shrugged and finished his beer. “I haven’t got any lessons tomorrow. Would that be OK?”
“It would be great.”
“It’s not that far from Naples. I can borrow my girlfriend’s car and drive you down there. You can see Consanto for yourself. But I’m telling you now, Alex, there’s definitely no way in.”
CONSANTO
Standing beside the car, in the full heat of the mid-morning sun, Alex had to admit that Jerry Harris was right. Consanto had certainly done everything it possibly could to protect whatever it was hiding.
There was a single main building, rectangular in shape and at least fifty metres long. Alex had seen the picture in the brochure and he was struck by how much the actual building resembled it – as if the photograph had been blown up a thousand times, cut out, and somehow made to stand up. It wasn’t quite real. Alex was looking at a wall of reflective glass. Even the sunlight couldn’t seem to find a way in. It was a huge silver block with a single sign – CONSANTO – cut out of solid steel.
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