David Gilman - Blood Sun

The ex-commando dragged Max and held him effortlessly against an old oak. “Quiet,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the uneven shadows. Satisfied there was no one else out there, he let Max go.

“Thanks, Marty. I dunno who that bloke is, but he’s the third nutter who’s had a go at me.”

Marty was still cautious, but the danger seemed to have passed. No doubt security cameras would have picked up something. He could probably convince the nursing home staff that the man who lay prone was the intruder-Max would be long gone by then.

“What are you into? Tell me.”

Max knew he could trust his dad’s caregiver, and there was no time for long-winded explanations.

“The truth about my mum. Someone sent me a message. I’m gonna find out what it’s all about. Some phony MI-Five guys came to the school. A friend of mine was killed. Everyone thinks it was suicide. I don’t think it was.”

“Bloody hell, Max. You don’t half get yourself into trouble.”

“ It finds me . Marty, I have a lead. I’ve got to try and sort this out. Please. If I go to the police, they’ll laugh at the evidence I have. Meanwhile, someone out there is trying to stop me.”

“All right. Look, you’re wrong about your dad. There has to be an explanation.”

Max said nothing, the anger still sitting like acid in his gut.

Marty nodded. “OK. Get out of here. My guess is the cops’ll get nothing out of this bloke. You call me when you need help. You get the info about your mum, and I’ll bet you’ll find out what really happened to your dad. Go on.”

Marty gave Max a push into the darkness. He ran for the wall, hit it at a run, reached up, grabbed the top and belly-rolled down the other side. Then he was back on the street. A bus turned the corner. He ran to the stop, flagged it down and jumped aboard.

It didn’t matter where it was going; it got him away quickly and anonymously from the area-away from any other prying eyes. Once he reached the city, it would be time to contact Sayid to see if he’d done what Max had asked.

Riga’s second man, whose job it had been to cover a different section of the nursing home’s wall, sprinted to the corner just as Max’s bus turned away. He swore aloud in frustration. However, had anyone been passing, they would not have understood the Serbian.

This was not good. This was going to upset Riga. He pressed a button on his mobile phone.

“Max Gordon has escaped, and Yevko has not come back. There are two police cars driving onto the grounds. What shall I do?”

“Pray I am in a good mood when you return,” Riga said.

Max found a hole-in-the-wall cafe. Barely large enough for a couple of tables, it offered milk shakes and sandwiches the size of a brick.

He checked his phone-a single text message: two letters.

MW

That was Sayid’s signal. Max had told him not to phone but to leave a message on the networking site DTYP-Don’t Tell Your Parents-and drop the information that Max needed into that. If anyone was going to start digging through Max’s computer, which he was sure the authorities would already be examining, then they wouldn’t find much. Except, of course, the information he had downloaded on Lionel Blacker, PhD, senior lecturer in South American studies at the University of Oxford: the man who had visited Dartmoor High and given the lecture on khipus.

It was only a matter of time before a trail to the Oxford lecturer would be picked up. How long did Max have? The man he wanted to speak to was a block away. It was dark now, and he needed somewhere to sleep, but he couldn’t afford anywhere in the city. If everything went according to plan over the next few hours, he would get to the airport and sleep on a bench.

“Is there an Internet cafe anywhere around here?” he asked the woman from behind the counter who was fastidiously cleaning his table.

“Two streets left, scruffy place, on the corner.”

Skunk Alley was the name of the Internet cafe. There were ten computers sitting on grubby Formica tops, and it cost a couple of pounds to access his webmail. The girl at the till had a glaze across her eyes that told Max she might have been inhaling more than the city’s car fumes.

MW. Magician’s Web. That was what held the information. He clicked on the exploding star logo, settled the headphones on his ears and saw Sayid’s face appear.

His friend was agitated. The connection wasn’t great-Sayid’s features flickered and the audio faltered-but it gave Max everything he needed to know.

“Tickets are booked just like you asked. There are two file attachments I’ve put with this vid. An MI-Five agent came and questioned us. She was horrible. Her name’s Charlie Morgan. She’s young, short black hair, purple and red tufts, stud in her nose, Goth jewelry. Looks like she could go undercover in a zombie film. Scary. She threatened me and Mum.”

Max said a silent apology to his friend. Sayid and his mother had suffered enough at the hands of extremists. He hated the thought that a British agent would stoop to that kind of questioning, but that was the real world, not some kind of fantasy computer game. That was what grown-ups did-came on so heavy you couldn’t fight them.

“So I gave them your laptop. Everything else just as you planned. The man you wanted to see is expecting you tonight. I phoned him. He’s cool. Seems a nice bloke. I did those letters you wanted-they were on your laptop when they took it.” Sayid gazed at the webcam. Max could almost feel his concern as his friend pushed his face closer, as if whispering. “Max, Mr. Jackson is really upset. He thinks he’s let you down by not keeping you here. I haven’t said anything-I can’t, can I? Because if I do, Morgan will blackmail me, yeah? I told him I knew nothing about you cracking the safe. I’ll play dumb. Don’t worry.” Sayid fell silent for a moment. “Max, I don’t know if any of this is gonna work. They could be waiting for you.” He nodded, gave a brave smile and a thumbs-up. Then he reached out and switched off the webcam.

Now all Max had to do was get to the man who was expecting him and who, he hoped, could decipher the khipu.

Max felt a surge of hope and excitement. He was sure he would learn more about Danny Maguire and how the dead boy could have known about his mum.

Charlie Morgan broke every speed limit to get to Oxford. A few well-placed phone calls had cleared her path down the motorways. Frustrated traffic cops watched her blitz by but grudgingly acknowledged they didn’t have a car fast enough to catch her. Traffic cameras would pick up her plate, and the courts could decide whether anyone was above the law or not. It had to be something important, though, for such a high-level clearance.

She parked the bike and made her way toward the pillars, flashing her warrant card at the security guard on the main door.

The boy was obviously after answers. Professor Blacker had visited Dartmoor High and given them a lecture on khipus. She would wait in the library. Blacker didn’t have to know anything more than that they were looking for a runaway boy. And when Max Gordon turned up, she would be there. She wasn’t going to risk losing him-it appeared he was a tough little rat.

Max angled his way through the narrow lanes. He had checked the city street map earlier, but the crisscrossing alleyways still caught him out. He needed a quick fix on his direction. He looked up to the rooftops. Television satellite dishes in the UK point south. He was on track. Moments later he found the small Museum Street, and at the end of it was the imposing building he was searching for. The huge pillars proclaimed the building’s status-a seat of civilization and knowledge.