Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [107]
“Then you could fly me to the dam?”
“There is nowhere to land. I might be able to slow the plane to as little as thirty-five miles per hour and fly low over the water to allow you to jump, but even so, the chances are high that you would be killed.”
For a moment, Alex lost his temper. “We can’t just sit back and do nothing!”
“No, Alex. We can contact the Intelligence Bureau as I have already suggested. They will, in turn, speak to the British authorities. Together they will know what to do.” Rahim went on quickly, before Alex could interrupt him. “I have my instructions. I am here to kill McCain. I was acting improperly when I decided to rescue you, and I can assure you my superiors will not be amused when I make my report.” He broke off. He was sweating again and his eyes were unfocused. Alex could almost see the disease attacking his system. “My laptop . . .” Rahim pointed at the backpack. He was too weak to go over himself.
Alex stood up. He went over to the backpack and opened. Everything was packed very neatly inside. There was a laptop computer, maps, a compass, ammunition for the Dragunov, medical supplies, spare clothes, and food. Much of the space was taken up by a silver box about the size of a car battery with two switches and a clock set behind glass. Alex knew at once what it was. Rahim must have been planning to conceal it in the Skyhawk’s hold.
“Bring it to me,” Rahim said.
Alex left the bomb and carried the computer over. Rahim opened it, booted it up, and then handed it across. “It will be easier if you do it,” he said. “But I suggest you don’t take too long. We will have to move from this place before the Kikuyu come looking for us, and I need to break into the Cessna and prepare it for its last flight.”
Alex crouched down. It felt weird to be tapping away at a keyboard, sitting in the dust in the middle of the African bush. He also wondered what the British or the Indian authorities would be able to do. Another six hours and it might be too late. He briefly outlined the location of the valley, the crop that McCain was growing there, his plan to bring famine and disease to Kenya. Finally, he added a PS.
Please let Jack Starbright know where I am
and tell her I’m all right.
If there was one good thing to come out of all this, at least Jack would know that he hadn’t been hurt. He quickly read the page over and pressed Send.
He looked up. Rahim had slumped forward. Alex went over and examined him. The RAW agent wasn’t exactly asleep. He was unconscious, breathing heavily. He had been knocked out—either by the fever or by the medicine he had been taking to fight it. Alex eased him gently to the ground, then looked back in the direction of the lodge. Everything was silent in the bush as even the animals slept in the midday sun. It was very hot, but at least Rahim was tucked away in the shade of the sausage tree.
What would MI6 do when they received the news?
Alex had visions of Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones conferring with the appropriate ministers at Downing Street. A new government had recently been voted in. They probably wouldn’t even know he existed, so they would have to be persuaded he was reliable, that his information was accurate. And then they would have to make a decision . . . but what exactly were their options? They could send in troops with flamethrowers, but that might take days. In fact, Alex couldn’t even be certain that the Indian secret service would pass the message on in time. After all, they had their own agenda. They simply wanted McCain dead.
He didn’t like it, but he knew what he had to do. He took the map out of Rahim’s backpack and studied it. Simba River Camp was clearly marked—and there was the track that he had seen from the air. It led all the way to the dam, rising up the side of the valley. He could follow the river for the first mile and then cut across the countryside using the compass. It wouldn’t be too difficult to pick up the track. There was electricity up there. He had seen one of the pylons. If he could find it