Anthony Horowitz - Evil Star

And somehow, in the middle of all this, Matt finally managed to fall asleep. Not that it felt that way. One moment he was next to Richard, half concentrating on yet another film and counting the minutes until they were back on the ground, the next he was somewhere else.

The island. He recognized it at once and knew it so well that he had to remind himself that he had never actually been there, only ever visited it in his dreams. There was the tower of black, broken rock. And there was the sea, as ugly as liquid tar, spreading out all around it. There was no wind, but the clouds were still racing across a darkening sky. Matt wondered what it all meant. Why was he here? Why did he so frequently return?

He looked down and saw the strange reed boat that had been making its way towards him the last time he came here. It had reached the edge of the island and sat, abandoned, on the grey sand.

“Matt!”

Someone had called his name. He turned round and saw the boy from the boat, standing on a rocky shelf just below him. The two of them were about the same age but the boy was smaller and thinner than him, wearing clothes that were little more than rags. Matt opened his mouth to answer. He knew who the boy was and why he was there. He had come to collect him, to take him to the three others who were still waiting on the mainland, just half a mile away.

But the words never came. There was a scream. Matt looked up just in time to see the swan plunging out of the sky, its neck straining forward. It came at him with all the power of a plane crash. Even as he looked, the swan drew closer, its gaping beak filling his vision as if it were about to swallow him whole.

The other boy cried out. Matt felt himself falling.

There was a bump and he opened his eyes.

Richard was sitting next to him.

They had arrived in Lima.

It seemed to Matt that Aeropuerto Jorge Chavez was only half built. After the bright lights and bustle of Heathrow, with its crowds milling between the duty-free shops as if every day was Christmas, he had arrived at a bare, cheerless space where the passengers were invited to queue up at a row of cubicles manned by border guards in black-and-white uniforms. The ceiling of the arrivals lounge was missing tiles and none of the fans were working. A few potted plants sat wilting in the sticky heat. It wasn’t so much welcome to Peru as welcome to nowhere in particular.

Matt was feeling tired and grimy as he waited in line with Richard – looking just the same – next to him. But there was something else. As he watched the passengers moving ahead of him and heard the clunk of the passport stamps as they were admitted into the country, he began to feel nervous. It was only now that he realized that he and Richard were committing a criminal offence. They were travelling with false passports. He supposed the Nexus knew what it was doing, but even so it suddenly seemed less of a good idea.

The two of them reached the front of the queue and found themselves facing a tired-looking official with suspicion etched on his face. Presumably that was his job. To be suspicious of everyone. But Matt felt his heartbeat quicken as Richard handed over their documents. He glanced away. Part of the hall was held up by scaffolding and there was a large sign hanging below: NO CRUZAR. AREA DE PELIGRO. Richard had followed his eyes.

“Don’t cross. Danger area…” he translated.

Matt nodded, wondering if the words might be prophetic.

The border guard had run both the passports through a machine and was studying a monitor. Now he looked up. “What is the purpose of your visit?” He must have asked the same question ten thousand times.

“We’re here on holiday,” Richard lied.

The stamp came down twice more. That was it. They were through and Matt was annoyed with himself for being even slightly worried in the first place.

It had been agreed that Fabian wouldn’t come to the airport himself to collect them. Again, there was always the chance that he might be recognized and followed. Instead, he would send a driver – and sure enough there was a stocky Peruvian in a white, short-sleeved shirt waiting for them after they had picked up their luggage. He was holding up a sign with their false names: Paul and Robert Carter. Two brothers on holiday. Nothing at all to do with Matt Freeman and Richard Cole who had come here to save the world.

“Buenos dias,” he said, reaching out to take the cases for them. “I am Alberto. Mr Fabian sends you his good wishes. I hope you had a good flight.”

“It was long,” Richard said.

The driver laughed. “Long flight. Yes. You have come very far. But Mr Fabian is near. I take you to him.”

He led them out of the airport, pushing through a crowd of noisy people who immediately surrounded them, shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” and trying to snatch at their luggage. Matt was feeling really tired now. It was early evening and a heavy darkness hung in the sky. The air was warm and smelled of diesel. He hoped it wouldn’t take them too long to reach their destination.

Their car was a brand-new people carrier and as the door slid shut and the driver turned on the engine, Matt felt the welcome chill of the air-conditioning. He sank back in the leather seat with Richard beside him.

“Peru,” Richard muttered.

“Yeah.” Matt didn’t know what to say.

“It’s not as Peruvian as I’d imagined. Shouldn’t there be llamas?”

“We’re in the middle of an airport, Richard.”

“Well there ought to be something.” Richard closed his eyes.

Alberto put the car into gear and they moved off.

Matt gazed out of the window. After an endless journey and all the uncomfortable hours spent in the air, it was difficult to believe that he had finally arrived. He was in South America! Not just a foreign country but a whole new continent. A different world.

They drove past some sort of naval base – the airport was close to the sea – and joined a six-lane motorway, blending in with about a thousand other vehicles rushing along on all sides. Brightly coloured buses, just big enough for twenty passengers but carrying twice as many, rumbled past. Toyota vans, also crammed with people, swerved in and out of the traffic, horns blaring. On each side of the road there was a wide strip of wasteland, rubble strewn with old tyres, oil drums and rubbish. Broken walls covered with graffiti dotted the way, along with ancient watchtowers, some of them sprouting the red-and-white Peruvian flag. To Matt it seemed as if a war had been fought here, but a very long time ago, and the people were still clearing up the mess.

Somehow, the tangle of dust, graffiti, traffic and concrete managed to tumble together into something vaguely resembling a city. As they drew closer to the edge of Lima, Matt saw a row of modern office blocks, a garage with its name – REPSOL – flashing in neon, a few shops, still open, with people lolling around outside; signs of everyday life. Green and red taxi-bikes buzzed past them, their own horns blasting out angry little tunes. Billboards carrying advertisements for computers and mobile phones sprung up, blocking the view. And then they turned off and came back once again to the sea, grey and uninviting, breaking against sand that seemed to have been mixed with cement, forming a beach that was barely more attractive than a building site.

“How far is it to Fabian’s house?” Richard asked.

The driver looked up nervously, meeting Richard’s eyes in the mirror. “We don’t go to the house,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We go to the Hotel Europa in Miraflores. Is not far. Mr Fabian meet you there.”

Richard glanced at Matt. He was puzzled by the change of plan: nobody had said anything about a hotel.

They stopped at traffic lights, where the noise was worse than ever. All around them, drivers were leaning on their horns, furious at being kept waiting. There was the crunch of buckled metal: a van colliding with the back of a car. The shrill scream of a whistle as a policeman in a dark-green uniform tried to take control. The jangle of a ghetto-blaster on the back of a motorbike. A figure stepped in front of the car. It was a boy, about his own age, dressed in filthy jeans and a T-shirt, juggling with three balls. He seemed to be enjoying himself, sending the balls spinning in a circle over his head. He performed for a few seconds, then bowed and held out a cupped hand, begging for money. Alberto shook his head and at once the boy was transformed, his face contorted with anger. He swore briefly and spat at the window. The lights changed and they moved off again. Matt was relieved. He had never been anywhere like this before. What had he got himself into?