He knew what Rahim had in mind. But he couldn't do it. Alex would be torn in two.

Another explosion of concrete and water. Part of the dam tumbled like a house of cards, sinking into itself. The ground tilted crazily. Once again, Alex had to struggle to stay on his feet.

The plane was so close that Alex could see the concentration on Rahim's face as he fought to keep himself in the air. The end of the rope was skimming the surface of the lake, snaking a line through the water. The plane looked slow, but the rope was whipping toward him, almost a blur.

There was no other way.

Blindly, Alex reached up and felt something lash into his chest and the side of his neck. The plane howled over him, so close that it nearly took off his head. The wheels rushed past. Somehow, his scrabbling hands caught hold of the rope, tearing the skin off his palms. The end twisted around him. And then he was jerked into the air, so hard that he felt like he was being split in half. Pain jolted through his arms and down his spine. His shoulders felt completely dislocated. He was blacking out.

But his feet were in the air. He was being dragged up and now there was nothing beneath him except white foam, the bellowing water, crashing cement. Higher and higher. He wasn't even sure how he was holding on. Somehow the rope had tied itself around him. The ground was rushing past.

Behind him, the Simba Dam disintegrated and the lake surged forward, free at last, hundreds of thousands of gallons pouring down into the valley. All the remaining Kikuyus were swept with it, mercilessly battered to death before they could even drown.

Dangling from the plane, Alex was carried away.

The water, blood red in the setting sun, continued pouring into an ever-widening sea.

In London, the prime minister was on the telephone.

"Yes." He listened for a moment, a tic of anger beating in his forehead. "Yes, I quite understand. Thank you for keeping me informed."

He put the phone down.

"Who was that?" Charles Blackmore, the director of communications, was in the office with him. It was 5:15 in the evening, but the day's work at Downing Street wouldn't end for a while yet. There were papers to be signed off, a planned phone call with the president of the United States, and at six o'clock, a c.o.c.ktail party being held for all the people who had been working on the London Olympics. The prime minister was looking forward to that. He still enjoyed seeing himself in the newspapers, particularly when he was supporting a popular cause.

"It was the RAF in Cyprus," the prime minister said.

"Is there a problem?"

"Not exactly." The prime minister frowned. "It seems that this whole business in Kenya was a complete waste of time."

"Oh yes?"

"We actually deployed three Phantom jets down to this place . . . the Simba Valley. The pilots had the exact coordinates. Fortunately, they decided to take a visual sighting before they fired off their missiles. And just as well . . ."

Blackmore waited, a look of polite inquiry on his face.

"There were no wheat fields . . . no sign of any crop at all. There's just a giant lake there. They circled over the entire area, to be sure that there wasn't any mistake. So either the information given us by MI6 was inaccurate, or this boy, Alex Rider, made the whole thing up."

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, he's only a child. I suppose he was seeking attention. But it just shows that I was absolutely right. Remind me to call the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I think I should have a word with them about Alan Blunt. I'm afraid this puts a serious question mark over his judgment."

"I agree, Prime Minister." Blackmore coughed. "So what did the Phantoms do?"

"What else could they do? They turned around and went home. The whole thing was a complete waste of time and money. Perhaps we should start looking for someone else to head up Special Operations." The prime minister stood up. "How long until the party, Charles?"

"We have forty-five minutes."

"I think I might change. Put on a new tie. What do you think?"

"Maybe the blue one?"

"Good idea."

The file that Blunt had brought to the office was still on the desk. There was a photograph of Alex Rider clipped to the first page. The prime minister closed it and slid it into a drawer. Then he went out to get changed.

24.

UNHAPPY LANDING.

THE AIRPORT WAS ON THE OUTSKIRTS of a small town made up of brightly colored houses and shops and seemed to be a stopping point for tourists on their way to or from safari. There were half a dozen private planes lined up beside the single runway and a fancy clubhouse with wooden tables and sunshades where pa.s.sengers could wait. Everything was very neat. The lawns and the hedges could have belonged to an English country house. There was a small playground with swings and a seesaw, and the children who were playing there were well-dressed and quiet. The evening was completely calm, with the sun setting behind the great ma.s.s of Mount Kenya, and the occasional clatter of a propeller starting up or the buzz of a plane landing seemed strangely inappropriate. Surely they could find somewhere else to go about the business of air travel!

Alex Rider took this all in as the Piper J-3 Cub came in to land. They flew low over a row of chalets with the word LAIKIPIA painted in large letters across the roofs, and he guessed that this must be the name of the town. They had been flying for about an hour, heading southeast. He knew they couldn't have gone much farther. Looking over Rahim's shoulder, he had watched the needle on the fuel indicator begin its downward journey. It had arrived at zero a while ago.

After everything he had been through, climbing into the rear seat of the Piper had almost been too much. Pulling himself up the rope, inch by inch, while being whipped through the air at eighty miles per hour and six thousand feet above the ground, he had forced his mind to go blank, to concentrate-totally-on what he had to do. He didn't look down. He wasn't sure he had the stomach for it. But nor did he look up. That would only taunt him with how far he still had to go. All he could do was cling to the rope with his hands and his feet, trying to pretend that this was just a PE cla.s.s at Brookland, that there was no wind rush on his face, no engines buzzing in his ears, and that when he got to the top he would be given a quick round of applause and then allowed to get changed for French.

The whole thing would have been impossible if the crop duster had been equipped with a closed c.o.c.kpit. But there were no windows or doors, and when Alex reached the top of the rope, he was able to grab the edge of the plane and pull himself over and into the backseat. He landed awkwardly, his face and shoulder burrowing into the soft leather-but it felt wonderful. He was safe. And he was leaving the Reverend Desmond McCain, the Kikuyus, and the Simba Dam far behind him.

"Untie the rope!"

Rahim had turned around and shouted at him, the wind s.n.a.t.c.hing the words away even as they were spoken. Alex did as he was told, untying the rope from the wing strut and letting it fall back to earth. He watched it dwindle in the distance until it was no more than a wriggling worm and reflected that it could all too easily have been him, free-falling down to the earth far below. He couldn't believe what he had just been through. He sank back into the seat, belted himself in, and let out a deep sigh of relief.

The RAW agent hadn't spoken again, and Alex was grateful. He was utterly drained and although sleep was impossible with the wind battering against him, he tried as best he could to relax, somehow to recharge his batteries, to put this whole business behind him. He wanted to go home. With his eyes half open, he watched the landscape slide away beneath him, the different patches of green and brown crisscrossed by roads and dirt tracks with tiny buildings scattered here and there and hinting at some sort of life-normal life-carrying on in the vastness of the Kenyan bush. The Piper's engine droned on. Rahim was wearing his camouflage jacket. Alex only had his shirt and pants, and as the evening drew in, he began to shiver. Very soon it would be night.

But even though the sun had gone, the sky was still glowing softly when Rahim suddenly shouted into his headset, getting permission from air traffic control at Laikipia to land. The little plane wavered in the air as if finding its balance. The ground, a long strip of tarmac, rushed toward them. Then they b.u.mped down and taxied to a halt. A few airport workers, dressed in bright yellow overalls with TROPICAIR stenciled across their chest, glanced curiously in their direction. It wasn't often they saw such an old-fashioned aircraft here. And a crop duster! There weren't any crops for miles. A few tourists sitting outside the clubhouse stood up and watched them come in. A couple of them unfastened their cameras and took pictures.

Rahim turned off the engine and the propeller began to slow down. He took off his headset and twisted around. Alex wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he was taken aback by the anger in the agent's face.

"What did you think you were doing?" Rahim exploded. He still had to shout to make himself heard, but from the look of him, he would have shouted anyway. "You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten me killed!"

"Rahim . . . ," Alex began. He wanted to climb out of the plane. Couldn't they have this argument over a cold drink and something to eat?

But Rahim was in no mood to go anywhere. "You stole my equipment. I cannot believe what you did. You left me there-"

"I had to do it."

"No! My job was to kill McCain. That was all. We could have dealt with his plan afterward. You disobeyed my instructions, Alex. Do you have any idea of the damage you've caused? And how do you think my people are going to explain all this to the Kenyan authorities? You took out an entire hydroelectric and irrigation system!"

"Well, maybe you can tell them we saved thousands of lives. They might like that."

"McCain is still out there. He got away."

"I left you your gun. Why didn't you just go and shoot him?"

"Because I had to come after you." Rahim shook his head in exasperation. "I should have left you to the crocodiles."

There was a brief silence. The propeller was still turning, but more slowly.

"Where are we?" Alex asked. "What are we doing here?"

"This is Laikipia. We have to refuel. I'm leaving you here. I've contacted my people and they'll arrange for you to be picked up."

"What about you?"

"I'm going-"

That was as far as he got. To Alex, it appeared as if Rahim had snapped his head around the other way. At the same time, he was aware of a sudden spray of red vapor filling the air in front of him. Alex looked back to see Desmond McCain, dressed in a brown linen suit, walking toward him, the Mauser pistol in his hand. He turned back to Rahim. The agent was dead. He had collapsed forward over the controls. There was a gaping wound in the side of his head.

Alex felt a wave of anger and disgust. He was also sorry. Despite everything, Rahim had come back for him and saved him . . . for the third time. Alex hadn't even had a chance to thank him.

The propeller stopped.

McCain stood beside the plane, right next to the wing. The gun was now leveled at Alex. How had McCain gotten here? Alex was too shocked to think, but it occurred to him that if Rahim had chosen this airfield to refuel, then McCain might have landed here for exactly the same reason. All around him, he was aware of people-aircrew, tourists, children-running for cover, in panic. They had just seen a stumbling giant of a man, with a silver crucifix in his ear, appear from nowhere and commit murder for no obvious reason. They must think he was insane. If they only knew!

McCain didn't seem to know where he was-or even to care. He had seen Alex and he had come to settle the score. Nothing else mattered.

"Get out of the plane," McCain said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, the skin around his face stretched tight. He was trembling slightly. He was doing his best to control it, but the muzzle of the gun gave him away.

Alex stayed where he was.

"What do you want, Mr. McCain?" he demanded. "I'm not going anywhere. Nor are you. Your wheat field is at the bottom of a lake. There isn't going to be any plague. It's all over."

"Get. Out. Of. The. Plane," McCain repeated. His finger tightened on the trigger. He was holding the gun as if he were trying to crush it.

"Why?"

"I want to see you kneeling in front of me. Just for once, I want you to behave like an ordinary child. You're going to cry and beg me not to hurt you. And then I'm going to put this gun between your eyes and shoot you dead."

"Then you might as well shoot me here. I'm not playing your games."

McCain dropped the gun a few inches so that it was aiming at Alex's legs. Alex knew that the skin of the Piper Cub would offer no protection at all. "I can make it slow . . . ," McCain said.

Alex nodded. He took one more look around him. It didn't seem as if anyone was going to come to his rescue. The whole airfield had emptied. The other planes-and now he spotted the Skyhawk that had first brought him to Simba River Lodge-were silent, unmoving. Surely someone would have called the police by now . . . a.s.suming that there were any police operating in a remote town like Laikipia.

"All right," he said.

He unbuckled his belt, gripped the sides of the plane, and began to pull himself out. At the same time, he glanced into the front of the plane, past the slumped figure of the pilot. He knew that Rahim had a gun. But there was no sign of it and no way he could search around without receiving a bullet himself.

What else? His eyes fell on the metal lever between the two seats. He thought of the two rubber pipes running underneath his feet, connected to the plastic tanks at the back of the plane. The pipes that had sprayed a wheat field with death.

The whole system must work on pressure, with the tank pumped up by the engine. They had been flying for an hour, so there had to be enough pressure in the tubes. But was there any of the mushroom spore left in the tanks? Alex didn't dare turn around and look. McCain was still standing under the wing, waiting for him to climb down.

Alex stood up. As he swung his leg over the side, he pretended to stumble. His hand shot out, slamming the lever down. At once he heard a hiss-and a mere second later, a film of gray, slimy liquid squirted out of the pipes. McCain was taken by surprise. For a moment he was blinded, caught in the middle of the shower, the mushroom brew splashing over his head and into his eyes.

McCain fired his gun-but missed. After slamming the lever, Alex had thrown himself the other way, tumbling over the far side of the plane and down to the gra.s.s below. He heard the bullet thwack into the fuselage, inches from his head. At the same time, he hit the ground and cried out, a white flash blazing behind his eyes. He had landed badly, twisting his ankle beneath him. Worse still, the tanks had only contained a few dregs. Alex had barely got to his feet and begun to limp away before the shower stopped and McCain, cursing and wiping his eyes, was after him.

Alex could barely do more than hobble. His foot wouldn't take his full weight. Every step was an agony that shot up his leg and all the way to his neck. He knew he wouldn't be able to go much farther, and anyway, there was nowhere to go. Behind him, the gra.s.s and the landing strip stretched out, flat and empty. The perimeter was fenced off with an open gate leading to the edge of the town, but it was too far away. He would never reach it. McCain didn't seem to be moving fast, but like a figure in a nightmare he was getting closer with every step.

Alex came to a line of drums stacked up on the gra.s.s right next to the tarmac, each one marked TOTAL ESSENCE PLOMBeE. Leaded fuel. Why was it written in French? McCain fired five times. The nearest drum shivered and fuel began to splash out, spouting in five directions. Alex dived for cover behind it. His ankle burned with pain. He wondered if he would be able to get up again.

McCain stopped about ten paces away, as if this was a game and he had all the time in the world. Casually, he took out a fresh ammunition clip and reloaded the gun. Meanwhile, the fuel continued to gush out.

"You can't hide from me, child," McCain shouted. " 'Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord.' That's Romans chapter twelve. A vengeful G.o.d . . . isn't that a wonderful thing? And now, finally, the time for my vengeance has come. Let me see you."

Alex tested one of the drums. It was full of fuel and too heavy to move. But the drum that McCain had punctured was emptying rapidly. Lying on his back, he pressed both feet against it and pushed with all his strength. It toppled over. Now Alex was exposed. There was nothing between him and McCain's gun. He got to his knees, leaned on the drum, then rolled it over the tarmac toward McCain.

McCain smiled. He walked forward and place a single foot on the drum, stopping its progress. He had a clear view of Alex and at this range he couldn't miss. Alex was still kneeling on the ground. It was just what he wanted.

"Is that the best you can do? Send a drum to run me over? You are are a child, aren't you? This isn't a game, Alex. Do you know how many years I spent planning this operation?" McCain asked. His voice carried across the short distance. He was leaning forward, one foot still perched on the drum, his elbow resting on his thigh. "Do you have any idea what it meant to me? All I wanted was my rightful place in the world. Money is power and I was going to have more than you could possibly imagine. a child, aren't you? This isn't a game, Alex. Do you know how many years I spent planning this operation?" McCain asked. His voice carried across the short distance. He was leaning forward, one foot still perched on the drum, his elbow resting on his thigh. "Do you have any idea what it meant to me? All I wanted was my rightful place in the world. Money is power and I was going to have more than you could possibly imagine.

"And now you you are going to pay. I'm going to shoot you now. Not once but several times. And then I'm going to walk away." He lifted the gun. "Good-bye, Alex. You're going on a slow journey to h.e.l.l." are going to pay. I'm going to shoot you now. Not once but several times. And then I'm going to walk away." He lifted the gun. "Good-bye, Alex. You're going on a slow journey to h.e.l.l."

"Let me know what it's like," Alex said.

The fuel drum exploded. In the seconds before he had sent it rolling, Alex had attached the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him to the metal surface. He had activated it with a thirty-second fuse. And it had worked. One moment, McCain was taking aim, the next he had disappeared in a pillar of flame that roared into the sky. It really was like a judgment from heaven. He didn't even have time to scream.

Alex was already twisting away, trying to put as much s.p.a.ce between himself and the inferno as he could. He was too close. Blazing droplets of aviation fuel rained down from the sky. He felt them hit his shoulders and back and with horror realized he was on fire. But the gra.s.s had recently been watered. It was cool and damp under his hands. Alex rolled over again and again. His skin was burning. The pain was horrific. But after spinning half a dozen times, he had put out the flames.

He looked back at the tarmac. The charred, unrecognizable figure that had once been the Reverend Desmond McCain was on its knees. One final prayer. The silver earring had gone. There wasn't very much of him left.

He heard shouting. Police and airport workers were running toward him. Alex couldn't see them. He was stretched out on the gra.s.s, trying to bury himself in it. Was it really over at last, the journey that had begun in a Scottish castle and had led to an airport in Africa? How had he ever gotten himself into this?

He couldn't move. And he was barely aware of the men who lifted him as gently as possible, laid him on a stretcher, and carried him away.

25.

SOFT CENTERS.

THE SNOW THAT HAD BEEN PROMISED in London had finally arrived.

Only a few inches had fallen during the night, but as usual, it had brought chaos to the streets. Buses had stayed in their depots, the subway system had shut down, schools were closed, and half the workforce had decided to take a day off and stay at home. Snowmen had appeared suddenly in all the London parks, standing under trees, leaning against walls, even sitting on benches . . . like some invading army that had come and seen and decided to take a well-earned rest before it set out to conquer.