Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [60]
If the head of the fish was naked, the rest of it was covered with dense rainforest separated by a narrow track which ran the full length of the island. The track led to a tall fence running north to south, with a checkpoint and a series of wooden cabins near by. This was the only way into the launch site. There were watchtowers all over the island, making sure that nobody could approach unseen by sea.
Drevin’s house had been built on what Alex thought of as the fish’s tail. It was a simple white structure, and even from this distance he could see that it was ultra-modern with giant glass windows giving uninterrupted views of the sea. The arched belly of the fish was one long beach with palm trees leaning towards the water. As the plane dipped down, Alex saw a brightly painted wooden jetty, three motor launches and a couple of sailing boats anchored in the shallows. He couldn’t hear music from steel drums or smell the rum – but it was easy to imagine them.
“Fasten your seat belts,” Drevin said. “We are about to land.”
Drevin was sitting on the other side of the aisle, wearing a pale yellow open-necked shirt. He hadn’t spoken much on the journey from New York, not even when he had fetched Alex from the departure lounge at JFK. Alex got the impression that Drevin blamed him personally for the mix-up over the passport. Or perhaps he was annoyed with the American authorities for inconveniencing one of his guests. Now he was deep in thought, tugging at his ring. In the bright sunlight his face looked more pale than ever.
Alex was grateful for the silence. He wasn’t sure how to behave with Drevin any more. Everything Joe Byrne had told him was tumbling around in his head. In the space of just a few days, Drevin had gone from being a reclusive billionaire who didn’t like losing, to the biggest criminal in the world. He was involved with the mafiya and the triads, who – only a few months ago – had tried to kill Alex. People who got in his way died. He was another monster and here he was, sitting just a few seats away.
The Cessna swept down and landed smoothly, water spraying up towards the windows. It taxied towards the jetty and came to a halt. Paul Drevin was the first to stand up, followed by Tamara Knight, who had been sitting directly behind Alex. They made their way out into the soft heat of the Caribbean afternoon.
There was an electric buggy waiting for them, the sort that was normally used on golf courses. Drevin had already explained that there was very little petrol on the island; electric vehicles were easier. Now that he was back on land, he seemed more cheerful.
“We’ll go to the house first and change,” he announced. “Alex, I’m sure you’d like to see around the island. We can do that before dinner. Tomorrow I’ll be busy with preparations for the launch, so the two of you will have to amuse yourselves. But there’s plenty to do. Swimming, scuba-diving, sailing… Welcome, you might say, to paradise.”
Drevin drove them the short distance to Little Point, the corner of the island where the house stood. The building was as impressive in its own way as every property that Drevin owned. It was almost futuristic, white with huge windows that retracted into the walls, so that at the press of a button it could be either open to the elements or enclosed. It had been raised about half a metre above the ground, presumably to allow the air to circulate. Thick, wooden legs supported it on a rocky shelf facing west. Alex guessed that the sunsets would be spectacular. There were only three bedrooms. Tamara would be staying on the other side of the island. Alex was next door to Paul. His room had two single beds, an en suite bathroom and plenty of space.