Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [120]
But his feet were in the air. He was being dragged up and now there was nothing beneath him except white foam, the bellowing water, crashing cement. Higher and higher. He wasn’t even sure how he was holding on. Somehow the rope had tied itself around him. The ground was rushing past.
Behind him, the Simba Dam disintegrated and the lake surged forward, free at last, hundreds of thousands of gallons pouring down into the valley. All the remaining Kikuyus were swept with it, mercilessly battered to death before they could even drown.
Dangling from the plane, Alex was carried away.
The water, blood red in the setting sun, continued pouring into an ever-widening sea.
In London, the prime minister was on the telephone.
“Yes.” He listened for a moment, a tic of anger beating in his forehead. “Yes, I quite understand. Thank you for keeping me informed.”
He put the phone down.
“Who was that?” Charles Blackmore, the director of communications, was in the office with him. It was 5:15 in the evening, but the day’s work at Downing Street wouldn’t end for a while yet. There were papers to be signed off, a planned phone call with the president of the United States, and at six o’clock, a cocktail party being held for all the people who had been working on the London Olympics. The prime minister was looking forward to that. He still enjoyed seeing himself in the newspapers, particularly when he was supporting a popular cause.
“It was the RAF in Cyprus,” the prime minister said.
“Is there a problem?”
“Not exactly.” The prime minister frowned. “It seems that this whole business in Kenya was a complete waste of time.”
“Oh yes?”
“We actually deployed three Phantom jets down to this place . . . the Simba Valley. The pilots had the exact coordinates. Fortunately, they decided to take a visual sighting before they fired off their missiles. And just as well . . .”
Blackmore waited, a look of polite inquiry on his face.
“There were no wheat fields . . . no sign of any crop at all. There’s just a giant lake there. They circled over the entire area, to be sure that there wasn’t any mistake. So either the information given us by MI6 was inaccurate, or this boy, Alex Rider, made the whole thing up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Well, he’s only a child. I suppose he was seeking attention. But it just shows that I was absolutely right. Remind me to call the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I think I should have a word with them about Alan Blunt. I’m afraid this puts a serious question mark over his judgment.”
“I agree, Prime Minister.” Blackmore coughed. “So what did the Phantoms do?”
“What else could they do? They turned around and went home. The whole thing was a complete waste of time and money. Perhaps we should start looking for someone else to head up Special Operations.” The prime minister stood up. “How long until the party, Charles?”
“We have forty-five minutes.”
“I think I might change. Put on a new tie. What do you think?”
“Maybe the blue one?”
“Good idea.”
The file that Blunt had brought to the office was still on the desk. There was a photograph of Alex Rider clipped to the first page. The prime minister closed it and slid it into a drawer. Then he went out to get changed.
24
UNHAPPY LANDING
THE AIRPORT WAS ON THE OUTSKIRTS of a small town made up of brightly colored houses and shops and seemed to be a stopping point for tourists on their way to or from safari. There were half a dozen private planes lined up beside the single runway and a fancy clubhouse with wooden tables and sunshades where passengers could wait. Everything was very neat. The lawns and the hedges could have belonged to an English country house. There was a small playground with swings and a seesaw, and the