miracle that it had lasted as long as it had. As Alex watched, openmouthed, the stanchion tore itself free. For a few seconds it clung by one edge to the deck. Then the last metal rivet came loose.
The five-ton barge had been sixty yards above the ground. Now it began to fall.
In the Putney Riverside Conference Center, the chief of the Metropolitan Police was addressing a large crowd of journalists, TV cameramen, civil servants, and government officials.
He was a tall, thin man who took himself very seriously. His dark blue uniform was immaculate, with every piece of silver—from the studs on his epaulettes to his five medals—
polished until it gleamed. This was his big day. He was sharing the platform with no less a personage than the home secretary himself. The assistant chief of police was there as well as seven lower-ranking officers. A slogan was being projected onto the wall behind him.
WINNING THE WAR AGAINST DRUGS
Silver letters on a blue background. The chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.
‚We have overlooked nothing!‛ he was saying, his voice echoing around the modern room.
He could see the journalists scribbling down his every word. The television cameras were all focused on him. ‚Thanks to my personal involvement and efforts, we have never been more successful.‛ He smiled at the home secretary, who smiled toothily back. ‚But we are not resting on our laurels. Oh, no! Any day now we hope to announce another breakthrough.‛
That was when the barge hit the glass roof of the conference center. There was an explosion.
The chief of police just had time to dive for cover as a vast, dripping object plunged down toward him. The home secretary was thrown backward, his glasses flying off his face. His security men froze, helpless. The boat crashed into the space in front of them, between the stage and the audience. The side of the cabin had been torn off, and there was the laboratory, exposed, with the two dealers sprawled together in one corner, staring dazedly at the hundreds of policemen and officials who now surrounded them. A cloud of white powder mushroomed up and then fell onto the dark blue uniform of the police chief, covering him from head to toe.
The fire alarms had all gone off. The lights blew out. Then the screaming began.
Meanwhile, the first of the construction workers had made it to the crane cabin and was gazing, astonished, at the fourteen-year-old boy he had found there.
‚Do you…?‛ he stammered. ‚Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?‛
Alex glanced at the empty hook and at the gaping hole in the roof of the conference center, at the rising smoke and dust. He shrugged apologetically.
‚I was just working on the crime figures,‛ he said. ‚And I think there’s been a drop.‛
SEARCH AND REPORT
THE CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.
It was the day after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his protests, his hair had been
The five-ton barge had been sixty yards above the ground. Now it began to fall.
In the Putney Riverside Conference Center, the chief of the Metropolitan Police was addressing a large crowd of journalists, TV cameramen, civil servants, and government officials.
He was a tall, thin man who took himself very seriously. His dark blue uniform was immaculate, with every piece of silver—from the studs on his epaulettes to his five medals—
polished until it gleamed. This was his big day. He was sharing the platform with no less a personage than the home secretary himself. The assistant chief of police was there as well as seven lower-ranking officers. A slogan was being projected onto the wall behind him.
WINNING THE WAR AGAINST DRUGS
Silver letters on a blue background. The chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.
‚We have overlooked nothing!‛ he was saying, his voice echoing around the modern room.
He could see the journalists scribbling down his every word. The television cameras were all focused on him. ‚Thanks to my personal involvement and efforts, we have never been more successful.‛ He smiled at the home secretary, who smiled toothily back. ‚But we are not resting on our laurels. Oh, no! Any day now we hope to announce another breakthrough.‛
That was when the barge hit the glass roof of the conference center. There was an explosion.
The chief of police just had time to dive for cover as a vast, dripping object plunged down toward him. The home secretary was thrown backward, his glasses flying off his face. His security men froze, helpless. The boat crashed into the space in front of them, between the stage and the audience. The side of the cabin had been torn off, and there was the laboratory, exposed, with the two dealers sprawled together in one corner, staring dazedly at the hundreds of policemen and officials who now surrounded them. A cloud of white powder mushroomed up and then fell onto the dark blue uniform of the police chief, covering him from head to toe.
The fire alarms had all gone off. The lights blew out. Then the screaming began.
Meanwhile, the first of the construction workers had made it to the crane cabin and was gazing, astonished, at the fourteen-year-old boy he had found there.
‚Do you…?‛ he stammered. ‚Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?‛
Alex glanced at the empty hook and at the gaping hole in the roof of the conference center, at the rising smoke and dust. He shrugged apologetically.
‚I was just working on the crime figures,‛ he said. ‚And I think there’s been a drop.‛
SEARCH AND REPORT
THE CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.
It was the day after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his protests, his hair had been
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