Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [122]
Rahim turned off the engine and the propeller began to slow down. He took off his headset and twisted around. Alex wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he was taken aback by the anger in the agent’s face.
“What did you think you were doing?” Rahim exploded. He still had to shout to make himself heard, but from the look of him, he would have shouted anyway. “You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten me killed!”
“Rahim . . . ,” Alex began. He wanted to climb out of the plane. Couldn’t they have this argument over a cold drink and something to eat?
But Rahim was in no mood to go anywhere. “You stole my equipment. I cannot believe what you did. You left me there—”
“I had to do it.”
“No! My job was to kill McCain. That was all. We could have dealt with his plan afterward. You disobeyed my instructions, Alex. Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve caused? And how do you think my people are going to explain all this to the Kenyan authorities? You took out an entire hydroelectric and irrigation system!”
“Well, maybe you can tell them we saved thousands of lives. They might like that.”
“McCain is still out there. He got away.”
“I left you your gun. Why didn’t you just go and shoot him?”
“Because I had to come after you.” Rahim shook his head in exasperation. “I should have left you to the crocodiles.”
There was a brief silence. The propeller was still turning, but more slowly.
“Where are we?” Alex asked. “What are we doing here?”
“This is Laikipia. We have to refuel. I’m leaving you here. I’ve contacted my people and they’ll arrange for you to be picked up.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going—”
That was as far as he got. To Alex, it appeared as if Rahim had snapped his head around the other way. At the same time, he was aware of a sudden spray of red vapor filling the air in front of him. Alex looked back to see Desmond McCain, dressed in a brown linen suit, walking toward him, the Mauser pistol in his hand. He turned back to Rahim. The agent was dead. He had collapsed forward over the controls. There was a gaping wound in the side of his head.
Alex felt a wave of anger and disgust. He was also sorry. Despite everything, Rahim had come back for him and saved him . . . for the third time. Alex hadn’t even had a chance to thank him.
The propeller stopped.
McCain stood beside the plane, right next to the wing. The gun was now leveled at Alex. How had McCain gotten here? Alex was too shocked to think, but it occurred to him that if Rahim had chosen this airfield to refuel, then McCain might have landed here for exactly the same reason. All around him, he was aware of people—aircrew, tourists, children—running for cover, in panic. They had just seen a stumbling giant of a man, with a silver crucifix in his ear, appear from nowhere and commit murder for no obvious reason. They must think he was insane. If they only knew!
McCain didn’t seem to know where he was—or even to care. He had seen Alex and he had come to settle the score. Nothing else mattered.
“Get out of the plane,” McCain said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, the skin around his face stretched tight. He was trembling slightly. He was doing his best to control it, but the muzzle of the gun gave him away.
Alex stayed where he was.
“What do you want, Mr. McCain?” he demanded. “I’m not going anywhere. Nor are you. Your wheat field is at the bottom of a lake. There isn’t going to be any plague. It’s all over.”
“Get. Out. Of. The. Plane,” McCain repeated. His finger tightened on the trigger. He was holding the gun as if he were trying to crush it.
“Why?”
“I want to see you kneeling in front of me. Just for once, I want you to behave like an ordinary child. You’re going to cry and beg me not to hurt you. And then I’m going to put this gun between your eyes and shoot you dead.”
“Then you might as well shoot me here. I’m not playing your games.”
McCain dropped the gun a few inches so that it was aiming at Alex’s legs. Alex knew that the skin of the Piper Cub would offer no protection