Crocodile Tears Part 15

Beckett pulled on the joystick and the Piper Cub performed a tight circle, the whole continent tipping on its side. Alex felt his ears pop and he was glad he was belted in. For a few seconds he had almost been upside down, and in a plane like this it would be easy enough to tumble out. They were flying back exactly the same way they had come. For a second time, they pa.s.sed over the lip of the dam. The wheat field lay ahead of them, less than half a mile away.

For the first time, Beckett turned around and called out to him. Her eyes, behind the goggles, looked enormous. "When I tell you, I want you to pull the lever." Alex could barely hear what she was saying. She repeated herself, stressing each word. He nodded.

Pull the lever? What was this all about? Alex wondered if he might be about to eject himself, if this hadn't all been some cruel and horrible trick. But he had no choice but to play along, and anyway, if he refused, it would be easy enough for her to reach back and do it herself.

They swept in low over the wheat and Beckett signaled with one hand. Alex pulled the lever. At once, there was a gurgle. Alex felt the rubber pipes under his feet swell as liquid rushed through them, and seconds later a spray began to burst out from beneath the wings, spreading out in the air and falling evenly onto the crop. He wondered why he was even remotely surprised. The plane was a crop duster and that was what they were doing. Dusting the crops.

They flew over the field four times before the liquid ran out. Alex could only sit there, watching the artificial rain, completely mystified. At last, Beckett turned around again. "Now we can go back!" she shouted.

It took them just a few minutes to return to the runway. Njenga was still waiting for them, leaning against the Land Rover in the heat of the sun. Alex saw his head turn slowly as they approached. He had been smoking a cigarette. He dropped it and ground it out under his foot.

They landed. The plane rattled back to the gra.s.s and came to a standstill. Myra Beckett flicked off the engine, then took off her goggles and helmet and climbed down. Alex followed her. He was glad to have his feet back on the ground. He stood there, waiting for her to explain herself.

"Did you enjoy that?" she asked.

"What was it all about?" Alex demanded. Suddenly he was angry. "Why don't you stop playing games with me? I don't know what you're doing, but you've got no reason to keep me here. I want to see McCain. And I want to go home."

"Desmond will be here this evening and he will explain everything to you, including the purpose of our little flight today. But I'm afraid I have to tell you there's no chance of your going home."

"Why not?"

"Because we're going to kill you, you silly boy. Surely you must have realized that. But first we're going to hurt you. You see, there are things we need to know. I'm afraid you do have a very unpleasant time ahead of you. If I were you, I'd get as much rest as you can."

She untangled her eyegla.s.ses and put them back on. Then, with a brief laugh, she walked back to the waiting car.

18.

WOLF MOON.

ALEX HEARD DESMOND MCCAIN arrive later that afternoon. He came in a plane that was larger than the Piper, with a deeper, more solid-sounding engine. Alex didn't actually see it-he hadn't been allowed out of his tent since the flight with Myra Beckett-but he heard it land.

He had been on his own all afternoon. Only once, a Kikuyu guard had come in carrying a meager lunch on a tray: fruit, bread, and water. He refused to think about what the Beckett woman had told him. He had been threatened before and he knew that part of her plan was to weaken him psychologically, to sap his resolve.

Instead, he used the time to collect his thoughts. He presumed the crop duster had been carrying the liquid that had been developed at Greenfields. But what was the point of spraying a single field in Kenya, and why had Beckett made such a big deal of it? Alex tried to connect the dots. An international charity, a dead African village mocked up in a film studio, his own kidnapping, the wheat field. The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became, and in the end he pushed it out of his mind and dozed off. He would let McCain explain himself when the time came.

But the sun had set and darkness fallen before Beckett returned to the tent.

"The Reverend McCain would like you to join him for dinner," she announced.

"That's very kind of him." Alex swung himself off the bed. "I hope it's better than the lunch."

Once again, they left the tent.

Simba River Camp looked better at night than it had in the day. There was a full moon and the pale light softened everything and made the river sparkle. There were a few lights burning in the camp, but they were hardly needed when the sky was so full of stars. The air smelled of perfume. Cicadas were already at work, grinding away in the shadows.

Alex followed the woman to what was clearly the center of the camp, a circular clearing with the river on one side and acacia trees on all the others, the wide branches stretching out as if to form a protective screen. Two wooden buildings stood opposite each other. One was a welcome center and administrative office. The other combined a bar, lounge, and restaurant. It had a thatched roof that was much too big for it, almost thrown over it like pastry on a pie. There were no windows or doors . . . in fact, no walls. Alex could imagine the guests meeting here for iced gin and tonics after their long day spotting wild game . . . except the tables were piled up in the corner and the bar was closed.

He noticed a satellite dish mounted on the roof of the first building and realized there must be a radio somewhere inside. Might it be possible to send out a message? He doubted it. There were yet more guards patrolling the area-there must have been a dozen of them altogether-these ones armed with spears, which they carried as if they'd had them from the day they were born. Guns and spears. It seemed a strange combination in the twenty-first century, but Alex guessed that in the hands of the Kikuyu tribesmen, one would be just as dangerous as the other.

"Over here, Alex."

There was a raised platform close to the river with a bonfire burning low to one side. The embers were glowing bright red and the smell of charcoal crept into the air. A table and chairs had been laid out on the platform with two white china plates, two crystal wine gla.s.ses, but only one set of silver knives and forks.

"You're not joining us?" Alex asked.

Beckett added a couple of branches to the fire. "Mr. McCain has asked to eat with you alone."

"Well, you can do the washing up."

"Still making jokes? We'll see if you find this all so amusing tomorrow."

She spun around and left him. It occurred to Alex that she might be annoyed that she hadn't been invited. He still hadn't worked out what her part in all this might be. She was a scientist, after all. What had persuaded her to throw in her lot with Desmond McCain?

Alex sat down. A bottle of French wine, already opened, stood next to a jug of water. He helped himself to the water. His eye fell on one of the knives. It looked sharp, with a serrated edge. Would anyone notice if it was missing? He glanced around, then slid it off the table and into the waistband of his pants. He felt the blade against his skin, strangely comforting. He would use his bread knife when it was time to eat.

He glanced over at the river, wondering what animals might gather there in the night. There was no fence, no barrier between them and the camp. He had seen monkeys and antelope. Might there be lions too? Despite everything, he had to admit that this was a memorable place, with the river sweeping around, the fire blazing, the African bush with all its secrets. He looked up at the night sky, packed with so many stars that even in the vastness of the universe they seemed to be fighting for s.p.a.ce. And there, right in the middle of them, huge and pale . . .

"They call it the Wolf Moon."

The voice came out of the shadows. Desmond McCain had appeared from nowhere, walking up to the table in no particular hurry. Alex wondered how long he had been standing there, watching him. McCain was dressed in a gray silk suit, black polished shoes, and a black T-shirt. He was carrying a laptop computer that seemed to weigh nothing in his hand. His face gave nothing away. He sat at the table and laid the computer down. Then he unfolded his napkin and looked at Alex as if noticing him for the first time.

"American Indians call it that," he went on. "But I have heard the name used here too. It is also known as the Hunger Moon, which is strangely appropriate. I have been waiting for it. The moon is important to my plans."

"There's a name for people with an interest in the moon," Alex said. "They're called lunatics."

McCain laughed briefly but without making any sound. "The late Harold Bulman told me a great deal about you," he said. "I was impressed by what I heard, but I have to say I am even more impressed now. Any other boy who had been through what you have been through would be a sniveling wreck. Far away from home. Transported in a manner that could not have been agreeable. And you're still brave enough to trade insults with me. At first I was disinclined to believe that the British intelligence services would have recruited a fourteen-year-old child. But I'm already beginning to see why they chose you."

"Bulman is dead?" Alex wasn't sure what else to say.

"Yes. He told me what I wanted to know and then I killed him. I enjoyed doing so. If you have learned anything about me, Alex, it won't surprise you that I have a strong dislike of journalists." McCain picked up the bottle. "Will you have some wine?"

"I'll stick to water."

"I'm glad to hear it. You're too young to drink." McCain poured himself a gla.s.s of the wine. Alex saw the swirl of red against the side of the gla.s.s. "Did you have a good day?" he asked. "Did Myra look after you?"

"She took me for a ride in the crop duster."

"Do you know that she taught herself to fly? She never had a single lesson. She merely had a complete understanding of the laws of physics and worked it all out. She is a remarkable woman. When this is over, she and I plan to get married."

"You must let me know what to buy you."

"I doubt that you'll be invited, Alex." McCain still hadn't drunk any of the wine. He was gazing into the gla.s.s as if he could see his future in it. "The meal will be brought over very shortly. Have you ever eaten ostrich?"

"They don't serve it in the school cafeteria . . . at least not that I'm aware of."

"The meat can be quite tough, and you will need a sharp knife to cut it. I notice that your knife is missing. Can I suggest you return it to the table?"

Alex hesitated. But there was no point denying it. He took out the knife and placed it in front of him.

"What were you going to do with it?" McCain asked.

"I just thought it might come in useful."

"Were you planning to attack me?"

"No. But that's a good idea."

"I don't think so." He raised a hand and almost at once something whipped past Alex's head and buried itself in a tree. It was a spear. Alex saw it quivering in the trunk. He hadn't even seen who'd thrown it. "You can see that it would be a great mistake to try anything unwise," McCain continued, as if nothing had happened. "I hope I have made myself clear."

"I think I get the point," Alex said.

"Excellent."

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

"All in good time." McCain turned his head and for a moment the flames were reflected in his silver crucifix. It was as if there were a fire burning on the side of his face. "I am sure you will have worked out that I risked everything bringing you here. Your disappearance has already been reported on the English news and the police forces of the world are united in the search for you. But I am also playing for an enormous prize, Alex. It is a little bit like that poker game that first brought us together. All gamblers know that the greater the reward, the greater the risks."

"I suppose you want to take over the world," Alex said.

"Nothing as tiresome as that. World domination has never seemed particularly attractive to me." He glanced up. "But it seems that dinner is about to be served. We can talk further as we eat."

Two guards had appeared, carrying the dinner. They laid the food down on the table and disappeared. Alex had been served a barbecued meat, sweet potatoes, and beans. McCain had a bowl of brown sludge.

"We have the same food," McCain explained. "Unfortunately, I am no longer able to chew." He took a small silver straw out of his top pocket. "My meal has been liquified."

"Your boxing injury," Alex said.

"It wasn't so much the injury as the operation that I underwent afterward. My manager decided to send me to a plastic surgeon in Las Vegas. I should have known it would be a botch job. His clinic was above a casino. I take it you are familiar with my past?"

"You were knocked out by someone called Buddy Sangster when you were eighteen."

"It happened at Madison Square Garden in New York, two minutes into the middleweight championship. Sangster destroyed not only my hopes of becoming world champion, but my career. Then the surgeon made it difficult for me to speak and impossible to eat. Since then, I have only taken liquids, and every time I sit down for a meal, I remember him. But I had my revenge."

Alex remembered what Edward Pleasure had told him. A year later, Buddy Sangster had fallen under a train. "You killed him," he said.

"Actually, I paid to have him killed. An international a.s.sa.s.sin known as the Gentleman did the job for me. He also took care of the plastic surgeon. It was very expensive and, in truth, I would have preferred to have done it myself. But it was too dangerous. As you will learn, Alex, I am a man who takes infinite care."

Alex wasn't hungry, but he forced himself to eat the food. He would need all his energy for what was to come. He tried a mouthful of the ostrich. It was surprisingly good, a bit like beef but with a gamier flavor. He would just have to do his best not to picture the animal while he ate. Meanwhile, McCain had leaned down and was busily sucking. His own brown porridge entered his mouth with a brief slurping sound.

"I am going to tell you a little about myself," McCain went on. "This is the third time you and I have encountered each other, Alex. We are enemies now and tomorrow, I'm afraid, we are going to have no time for idle chat. But I am a civilized man. You are a child. Tonight, under the Wolf Moon, we can behave as if we are friends. And I welcome the opportunity to tell my story. I've often been quite tempted to write a book."

"You could have the launch party back in jail."

"I would certainly be arrested if I were to make public what I'm about to tell you-but there is no chance of that happening."

McCain put down his straw and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. His mouth was slanting the wrong way, as if it had been further dislodged by the food.

"I began my life with nothing," he said. "You have to remember that. I had no parents, no family, no history, no friends, no anything. The people who fostered me in east London were kind enough in their own way. But did they care who or what I was? I was just one of many orphans that they took in. They were do-gooders. This was my first lesson in life. Do-gooders need victims. They need suffering. Otherwise they cannot do good.

"I grew up in poverty. I went to a tough school, and from the very first day, the other children were very cruel to me. I can a.s.sure you that it is not a good start in life to be named after a bag of frozen food. I was bullied unmercifully. My color, of course, was against me. If you had ever been a victim of racism, Alex, you would know that it goes to the very heart of who you are. It destroys you.

"I soon came to understand that only one thing would keep me safe and separate me from the herd. Only one thing would make a difference. Money! If I was rich, people wouldn't care where I came from. They wouldn't tease or torment me. They would respect me. That is the way modern life works, Alex. Look at self-satisfied pop singers or greasy, semi-literate athletes. People worship them. Why?"

"Because they're talented."

"Because they have money!" McCain almost shouted the words. His voice echoed across the clearing and a couple of the guards turned toward him, checking that everything was all right. "Money is the G.o.d of the twenty-first century," he continued, more quietly. "It divides us and defines us. But it is no longer enough to have enough. You have to have more than enough. Look at the bankers with their salaries and their pensions and their bonuses and their extras. Why have one house when you can have ten? Why wait in line when you can have your own private jet? From the age of about thirteen, I realized that was what I wanted. And very soon, that is what I shall have."

He had forgotten his food. He still hadn't tasted the wine, but he held it in front of him, admiring the deep color, balancing the gla.s.s in the palm of his hand as if afraid of smashing it. Once again, Alex was aware of the power of the man. He could picture the huge muscles writhing underneath the silk suit.

"I had little education," McCain went on. "The other children in my cla.s.s saw to that. I had no prospects. I was, however, strong and fast on my feet. I became a boxer, which has seen more than one working-cla.s.s boy rise to riches and success. And for a time, it looked as if the same might happen to me. I was known as a rising star. I trained in a gym in Limehouse and I threw myself into it. Sometimes I would go there for ten hours a day. This was in many respects the happiest time of my life. I loved the feel of my fist smashing into an opponent's face. I loved the sight of blood. And the feeling of victory! Once I knocked a man out. I thought for a moment I had killed him. It was a truly delicious sensation.

"But, as I have explained to you, my dream came to an end. My manager dropped me. The press, which had once fawned over me, forgot me. I returned to London with no money and no job. I had to move back in with my foster parents, but they didn't really want me. I was no longer a cute little boy that they could feel good about helping. I was a man. There was no room for me in their life.

"My foster father managed to get me a job with a real estate developer, and that was how I found myself in the lucrative world of property. It was an area in which I had almost immediate success. At that time, it was easy to make a fast profit and I began to do well. People noticed me. You could not be a successful black person in Britain without standing out, and as I moved up the ladder, more and more businessmen wanted to be seen with me, to pretend that they were my friends. People liked inviting me to dinner parties. They thought of me as a bit of a character-particularly after my brief fame in the boxing ring.

"I made a large donation to the Conservative party, and as a result I was asked if I would like to become a prospective member of Parliament. I accepted and I was duly voted in, even though the seat had been Labour for as long as anyone could remember. Success followed success, Alex. I became a junior minister in the department of sport. I would often find myself on the terrace outside the House of Commons, sipping champagne with the prime minister. The entire cabinet came to my Christmas parties, which became famous for their fine vintage wine and chicken pies. I gave talks all over the country. And, thanks to my property empire, I was getting richer than ever. I still remember buying my first Rolls-Royce. At the time, I couldn't even drive-but what did I care? The next day I went out and hired a chauffeur. By the time I was thirty, I had a dozen people working for me."

He spread his hands. "And then it all went wrong again."

"You were sent to prison for fraud." Alex remembered what Sabina's father had said.

"Yes. Isn't it amazing how quickly people desert you? Without a moment's hesitation, my so-called friends turned their backs on me. I was thrown out of Parliament. All my wealth was taken from me. Journalists in the main newspapers jeered and mocked me in a way that was every bit as bad as the boys I had once known at school. In prison, I was beaten up so often that the hospital reserved a bed for me. Other men would have chosen to end it all, Alex-and there were times when even I considered dashing my head against a concrete wall. But I didn't-because already I was planning my comeback. I knew that I could use my disgrace as just one more step on the journey I had been born to make."

"You didn't convert to Christianity," Alex said. "You just pretended."

McCain laughed. "Of course! I read the Bible. I spent hours talking to the prison chaplain, a pompous fool who couldn't see farther than the end of his own dog collar. I took a course on the Internet and got myself ordained. The Reverend Desmond McCain! It was all lies . . . but it was necessary. Because I had worked out what I was going to do next. I was going to be rich again. Fifty times richer than I had ever been before."

Alex had left most of his food. One of the guards came over and took the plates away, removing McCain's unfinished food. Another brought over a basket of fruit. In the brief silence, Alex listened to the sounds of the night: the soft murmur of the river as it flowed past, the endless whisper of the undergrowth, the occasional cry of some animal far away. He was sitting in the open air, in Africa! And yet he couldn't enjoy his surroundings. He was sitting at a table with a madman. He knew it all too well. McCain might have suffered hardships in his life, but what had happened to him had nothing to do with his background or his color; they were convenient excuses now. He had been a psychopath from the start.

"Charity," McCain said. "A very wise man once defined charity in the following way. He said it was poor people in rich countries giving money to rich people in poor countries." He smiled at the thought. "Well, I have been thinking a lot about charity, Alex-and in particular how to use it for my own ends." For a moment he looked up at the night sky, his eyes fixed on the full moon. "And in less than twenty-four hours, my moment will come. The seeds have already been sown . . . and I mean that quite literally."

"I know what you're doing," Alex interrupted. "You're faking some sort of disaster. You're going to steal the money for yourself."

"Oh-no, no, no," McCain replied. He lowered his head and gazed at Alex. "The disaster is going to be quite real. It's going to happen here in Kenya and very soon. Thousands of people are going to die, I'm afraid. Men, women, and children. And let me tell you something rather disturbing. I really want you to know this.

"I can see the way you're looking at me, Alex. The contempt in your eyes. I'm used to it. I've had it all my life. But when the dying begins-and it will be very soon-just remember. It wasn't me who started it."

He paused. And somehow Alex knew what he was going to say next.

"It was you."