Blood Sun (9 page)

She looked at Sayid.

“You can save your mother a lot of heartache if you tell me.”

Keep them guessing for a few hours, yeah
?
Then give it to them
. Max’s voice in his head calmed Sayid’s anxiety.

“I’ve got his laptop,” Sayid said.

Robert Ridgeway listened to his field agent. Max Gordon had broken into Jackson’s safe—and how did the kid ever do that?—and taken his passport from a place called the vault. He had also made a dozen online inquiries about flights to Peru, which was where khipus came from. Trouble was he could get to Peru from a dozen local airports via Europe. Charlie had no idea where he might leave from. There was also a composite letter on Gordon’s laptop, forged by pasting elements of the school’s website information pack, which had Fergus Jackson’s signature on it. It was written as a letter of authority confirming that the underage Max Gordon had permission to travel. A second letter was addressed to the British consul in Lima, asking that all assistance be given to the boy while he undertook field studies at a volunteer program in the Andes. The boy had everything planned.

“Then he’s been too clever by half,” Ridgeway told her. He would scan all the airports’ ticketing systems. Sooner or later, Max Gordon’s name would appear; then they would have him.

Morgan finished her report: a certain university lecturer in Oxford should be checked. He was the one who had visited the school and given a lecture on the Peruvian khipus. If Max Gordon had one of those things, then odds were he’d head there first. And then he would have easy access to Luton or
Stansted airports, which had flights to Europe. That all seemed to fit neatly.

“I’m going to check CCTV at the most likely train station. If he’s heading anywhere by train, we’ll find him,” she said. “The London train stops at Reading. He could connect to Oxford from there.”

“Or the main London airports,” Ridgeway suggested.

“Maybe.”

“All right. We’ll get an alert at all passport controls,” Ridgeway told her. “For some reason, this boy has, or is able to obtain, information that people want. And until I know more, I don’t want another boy to die under suspicious circumstances.”

“Why? What makes you think that, boss?”

“As soon as we knew about Riga, we tried to double-check Danny Maguire’s cause of death, but we can’t; his body has gone missing. If Danny’s death was something other than suicide, Max Gordon might well be their next target.”

Max’s thoughts raced as he jogged round the perimeter wall of St. Christopher’s. Would they find him? He had laid a false trail, but was it enough? Sayid would keep them at bay for a while as far as giving out information was concerned. Baskins was bound to blab. How carefully had the authorities checked on Max’s escape?

Max had watched all the CCTV cameras at Exeter station out of the corner of his eye. Overcrowded trains made it difficult to spot anyone easily, and as people struggled with cases and backpacks onto the London train, Max ducked round the rear of the Victorian-era waiting room—and waited. It was a blind spot for the cameras. And anyone tracking him would stop watching the CCTV footage the moment the train left.

He gave it another twenty minutes, then made his way back across to the other platform. A slower train bound for
Waterloo station, via Salisbury and just about every small town in between, shuddered into view. St. Christopher’s, his dad’s nursing home, was just outside London, and this would take him there.

Now, three hours later, Max’s need to know about his mother was like hunger. It drove him on as it had done since he first learned of the doubt surrounding her death. When Mr. Jackson had phoned St. Christopher’s, they had asked him to call again in a couple of days, because right now Tom Gordon was not in good enough mental condition to see his son.

Jackson would have informed anyone asking about Max’s dad of the man’s condition, which might also have bought Max a few hours. As for the rest? He didn’t know. The killers on the moor were still around. They were hard characters. His dad had told him about men like them before. They took to violence like a bird to the air—effortlessly, unthinkingly—a natural state in which to exist. There would be no reasoning with killers like that.
You’re not a thug, Max. You don’t fight because you can’t control yourself. You’ll know when to strike first. It will be in their eyes. And then, God help you, but you have to do it. You’ll know when they want to kill you
.

Dad.

Almost there. The knot in his stomach tightened. There was no sign of anything unusual at the gates of the old mansion grounds, at the driveway or at the entrance of the house itself. Max lowered the small 8×20 rubberized binoculars from his eyes. Everything seemed normal, but if the people chasing him were as determined as they seemed, then odds were they’d have someone, somewhere, watching the main entrance.

He checked his watch, unconsciously wiping its face—it had been to the top of the world. His dad had worn it when he climbed Everest. Now Max’s emotions were as daunting as that climb.
Concentrate
! He scanned the perimeter, searching for anyone concealed in the shadows. He knew his dad’s schedule by heart. In trying to heal a man’s mind, the caregivers had established a definite routine. Scattered thoughts were placed neatly into a timetable.

The patients here were well looked after. Some of them, because of their government work, might be at risk. Max studied the grounds and remembered walking the parkland with his dad, whose old habits, learned at the sharp end of life, still made him ever watchful.
They won’t always let you come to see me. See that corner
?
See where the two cameras cross each other’s line of sight beneath the tree branches on the corner of the wall
?
That’s a blind spot. There’s always a way through. Don’t forget
.

Max found a foothold and eased himself across the top of the three-meter wall. In the distance, there were one or two people sitting in the late-afternoon sun or walking the grounds. A few sat in wheelchairs, a blanket across their legs. Max crouched, then dropped down between the trees, glancing over his shoulder at the diagonally placed security cameras and hoping he’d learned the lessons his father had taught him about concealment. He pressed himself against the bole of a tree, mentally scolding himself to be patient.

Then he saw his dad. Max’s heart thumped.

He was with a big man, taller than his wiry companion. They jogged effortlessly round the grounds’ outer limits.

Ex–Royal Marine Marty Kiernan stood 1.83 meters tall and weighed 112 kilos. As a combat medic, he had saved others, but he had paid the price fighting in Afghanistan. Bullets had slammed into his huge frame and ripped away his right arm. Now he worked with men whose injuries were psychological—and Tom Gordon was one of his patients.

Max watched as the two men, sweat glistening on their faces and staining their running vests, passed thirty meters from where he crouched. Max stifled the yell that almost burst out of his chest.
Dad
!

He just had to play this cool and get his emotions under control, but, like trying to keep a pack of hunting dogs from tearing their prey apart, it was impossible.

He swallowed the bile that soured the back of his throat. His stomach twisted in anxiety. He was about to confront the man he loved more than anything in the world.

Max ducked beneath the low branches and ran quickly into the shadows. He did not see the man watching him through a pair of binoculars more powerful than his own. The observer stood in a raised road-maintenance platform, dressed as a workman, pretending to fix a streetlight a couple of roads away. His view between the houses gave him a clear line of sight toward St. Christopher’s. He pressed the fast-dial button on his mobile.

“The boy is here.”

Riga sat in a coffee shop in London. He had placed his own men around the nursing home. The boy was bound to turn up sooner or later.

“Wait till he comes out. Then deal with him.”

“I can finish him inside the grounds. It’s like a park. Outside is busy. The kid sneaked in. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s there.”

“Then do it. Damned boy is a nuisance.”

Robert Ridgeway did not have the resources for his Security Service agents to be tracking down Max Gordon, but a rogue assassin on the loose, and a carefully placed word of warning from someone in his own government to leave alone that which he knew nothing about, agitated him. All governments had secrets—even from their own people. All governments told lies
—especially
to their own people. The less individuals know, the better; the truth could be a burden. But Ridgeway wanted to know more. What was it about Danny Maguire’s death that was causing concern? Why was his body taken from the mortuary, and by whom? And just what had Max Gordon stepped into? Whatever Ridgeway decided to do, it had to be done quietly and, he realized, unofficially.

Charlotte Morgan was due some leave. This tough, no-nonsense agent would not think twice about going it alone. She could find Max Gordon and help unravel the mystery.

As he picked up the phone and dialed her number, he felt a chill of apprehension, a sixth sense that years in the spy business had imprinted on his DNA. He hoped he was not sending the girl to her death.

* * *

“Max, how the hell did you get in here?” Marty Kiernan asked as he opened the door.

Max smiled, but his eyes quickly moved to his dad, who stood slightly behind the big man. Both men were breathing heavily from their last hard sprint on the run, and Tom Gordon looked uncertainly at the boy stepping into the middle of his room.

Would his father recognize him?

No one spoke for a moment. Then Tom patted Marty’s shoulder.

“Don’t ask daft questions, Marty. My boy could break into the Bank of England if he had to.”

He stepped forward and hugged Max. Max smothered his face in his dad’s shoulder and held him tightly, wanting to capture every moment of the embrace. The smell of the outdoors, mingled with sweat, seeped into his nostrils. It was an earthy scent that he remembered from other shared times with his dad.

Tom Gordon eased Max away to arm’s length and looked at him. The moment of recognition began to flit away like a sun-chased shadow.

“Tom?” Marty saw and understood the look. He needed to emphasize Max’s name again to embed it into his patient’s mind. “Max has come a long way to see you.”

Tom Gordon smiled and nodded. “Max,” he said, as if reminding himself. “Yeah. Of course he has. Stick the kettle on, Marty. Let’s have a brew.”

The one-armed man winked at Max as he stepped through to the small kitchen. His dad should be all right for a while longer.

Tom Gordon gestured for Max to follow him through to the bedroom. He peeled off his running vest and toweled the sweat from his body. There wasn’t much heating in the rooms—Max’s dad preferred it that way—but he made no concession to the cool air as he pulled on a clean T-shirt.

“They said I couldn’t come and see you, Dad. Mr. Jackson phoned, but they said … well, y’know.”

His father nodded and put an arm round him. “Some days are bad. I just don’t know who’s who or what’s what. It’s horrible. I’m sorry. I know it hurts you.”

A wave of emotion swelled in Max’s chest. It was like having his dad home after a long absence. His father understood the uncertainty and pain he must feel. The gentle words stroked his anxiety away. Just as Max’s mother used to stroke his hair when they all sat on the big sofa in the house they once had. When all three of them would splutter popcorn as they laughed at a crazy movie. When the log fire burned, when the world was warm and safe. When she was alive.

Mum.

Max swallowed, took a deep breath and almost whispered the question. “I want to know how … Mum … died.”

Painful memories creased his father’s face. “You know all that, son. I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You said she died in the jungle. That she got sick.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve never taken me to see her grave. You said we could go one day.… I don’t even know where it is.…”

Max’s dad struggled with the memory. “It’s a difficult … remote place.”

Max shook his head—he had to get rid of the horrible thoughts implanted by the man who once had been his father’s best friend.

“Dad, when I was in the French Alps and I saved Angelo Farentino’s life, he said … he said …”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words that the Italian had desperately whispered—that he had loved Max’s mother, that Max’s dad had abandoned her to die alone. Vile images.

A tap on the door. Marty stood there. A concerned look both for his patient and for Max. “Tea’s brewed. It’s on the table. I’m just outside if you need me,” he said, looking at Max. The boy wasn’t supposed to be there; he hadn’t come through reception, and the look of anguish on Tom Gordon’s face meant something was going on between them. Whatever the relationship, Marty Kiernan could not allow any distress to his patient.

Max nodded. He understood what the ex-Marine was saying.