Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [83]
He had the foggy sensation of being on the street and wheeled into the van.
He was in the van.
He was at Heathrow Airport! Hadn’t he been here just a few weeks ago with Sabina and her parents? The terminal lights hurt his eyes and he saw people staring briefly at him, then turning away, ashamed of themselves. He tried to call out for help, but the low, pathetic mumbling that came out of his lips only added to the impression that he was handicapped. They had no idea what was going on. They wouldn’t even begin to guess that he was being kidnapped, spirited away in front of their eyes.
Passport control. They had provided Alex with fake documents, of course, but it seemed to him that the official didn’t look too closely. A boy in a wheelchair accompanied by a nurse. The two men had stayed behind.
“Jonathan loves flying on big airplanes. Don’t you, Jonathan!” Beckett was talking to him, addressing him as if he were six years old.
I’m not . . . Alex wanted to tell the passport officer his real name. But nothing resembling a word came out.
And now he was in some sort of lounge.
Now being wheeled down a corridor.
On the plane. A seat had been taken out to make room for the wheelchair. Other passengers were passing him, carrying their luggage. He saw them glance in his direction. Each time the reaction was the same. Puzzlement, the realization that something was wrong, then pity, and finally a sense of embarrassment. The drug was making his knee twitch. His hand, resting on the knee, was doing the same.
“Try to get some sleep, Jonathan,” Beckett said. “It’s a long flight.”
Where were they taking him? And why? Did they really think they could get away with this, whisking him out of the country with a fake ID? Jack would already know he was missing. The school would have called her and she would have alerted MI6. They would be looking for him. Every airport would be watched.
Except . . .
What day was this? He could have been kept drugged for a few hours or a week. Or a month. Alex had no control over his body, but they had left his mind intact . . . hadn’t they?
He was alert enough to realize it wasn’t completely hopeless. Everything led back to Desmond McCain. MI6 knew what had happened at Greenfields. Jack would tell them about Elm’s Cross. They would track down McCain and that would lead them to him.
They were in the air. How was that possible? Alex couldn’t remember taking off. How long had they been flying? He tried to work out where they might be going. It had been light when they were on the runway, and it was still light now. If they had been in the air for a while, that would suggest, at the very least, that they weren’t heading east. The different time zones would have brought the night in faster. South, then, or west? He couldn’t turn his head—the muscles in his neck refused to work—but as they had filed past, he had noticed that many of the other passengers were black, dressed in clothes that were too brightly colored for the UK. They could be going home.
Africa.
Food was served—but not to him. The stewardess smiled at him sadly, as if understanding that he couldn’t feed himself. Beckett brought out some baby food and tried to force it into his mouth with a spoon. Using all his remaining strength, Alex kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to be humiliated by her any more than he had been already.
Hours passed, yet Alex hardly was aware of it.
They were on the ground.
The doors were open.
And then Alex was being wheeled through an arrivals hall, and a poster on the wall answered the question he had been asking himself for the past how-many hours. A brightly dressed black woman with a huge smile, holding a basket of fruit. And a caption.
SMILE! YOU’RE IN KENYA.
Kenya! Vaguely, Alex remembered something that Edward Pleasure had told him. “He’s the part owner of a safari camp somewhere in Kenya.” The words might have been spoken a century ago and on