Anthony Horowitz - Evil Star

“And then there’s Matthew and Richard Cole. They travelled to Peru under false names but it seems that somebody knew they were coming. There was an ambush. Fabian’s driver was almost killed. Richard Cole was taken.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That our enemy knows what we’re doing. Someone is telling him our every move.”

Nathalie Johnson stiffened. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve come to you because I’ve known you for a long time and my instincts tell me I can trust you. I haven’t said this to anyone else. But I think we need to be careful. If there is a traitor inside the Nexus, we could all be in danger.”

“What should we do?”

“First of all we have to find Matthew Freeman. He’s our main priority. The second gate is going to open very soon and he’s the only one who can prevent it. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, Miss Johnson. If we don’t find the boy, we’ve lost.”

The bus station was like a crazy outdoor circus, a jumble of colour and noise with people and packages everywhere, street vendors shouting, old women in shawls sitting behind little piles of papayas and plantains, children and dogs chasing each other around the rubble – and the ancient buses themselves, rumbling at their stands. Nobody was going anywhere yet but everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Great sacks and cardboard packages were being passed from hand to hand before being thrown up, to be tied in towering piles on the buses’ roofs. There were old tickets strewn all over the ground like confetti and fresh ones being sold from cubicles hardly bigger than Punch and Judy stalls. There was an Indian woman cooking cau cau – tripe and potato stew – in a large metal can at the edge of the bus yard and some of the travellers were squatting on their haunches, eating from plastic bowls, the smell of the food fighting with the exhaust fumes.

Matt took this all in as he approached the bus station with Sebastian and Pedro. They had walked here from Poison Town, leaving just after five o’clock. Sebastian already had the tickets and had announced that he would be coming with them as far as Ica. Although he had been drunk when he went to bed, he seemed clear-headed enough when he woke up. In his own way, he was even cheerful.

“There is almost no chance that you will find your friend in Ica,” he had said. “But after you have given your compliments to Senor Salamanda, you can continue down to Ayacucho. I will be waiting for you there.”

They walked past a row of shops and, looking through an open door, Matt noticed a boy standing there watching him. He was his own age, dressed in a bright-green T-shirt with jeans that stopped a few inches below his knees. He had no socks and wore black rubber sandals. The boy had black hair cut in a straight line across his forehead, and dark skin. He was completely dishevelled and dirty.

He moved and so did the boy. It was only then that Matt saw he was actually looking at a full-length mirror. The boy was a reflection of himself.

Sebastian had seen what had happened. “You didn’t recognize yourself,” he chuckled. “Let’s hope it’s the same for them.”

He glanced in the other direction and Matt felt his mouth go dry as two policemen appeared, both carrying semiautomatic machine guns, walking through the bus yard. They could have been here for any number of reasons, but instinctively Matt knew that they were looking for him. Pedro asked something in Spanish and Sebastian reassured him. From the moment the other boy had woken up, Matt had known that he, too, had remembered the dream conversation of the night before. He might not be happy but he wasn’t going to leave Matt.

“Remember, keep yourself hunched,” Sebastian whispered. “Your height will give you away. And here – take this…”

Sebastian handed Matt a large bundle, tied in white sacking. Matt didn’t know what was inside. He wasn’t even sure if it was luggage or merely a sort of prop, to make them seem more like real travellers, but he understood Sebastian’s strategy. Doubled over, with the bundle balanced on his shoulders and the back of his neck, Matt looked like a servant carrying the luggage for his master. It disguised his true height and, fixing his eyes on the floor, his face was also hidden.

The three of them made their way forward. The policemen moved slowly through the crowd, which parted to let them pass. People were careful to avoid their eyes.

“This way,” Sebastian said, quietly.

He was steering Matt towards a bus that was already half full. The two policemen hadn’t noticed them. Matt reached the door and his heart missed a beat. A third policeman had appeared, stepping off the bus. Matt had almost knocked right into him. Bent underneath the bundle, he couldn’t see the man’s face – just his leather boots and the barrel of his gun. But then the policeman said something and with a hollow feeling in his stomach, Matt knew that he had just asked him a question. He said nothing. The policeman repeated what he had just said.

And then a hand grabbed hold of the bundle and tore it off his back. For a terrible moment he thought it was the policeman. But it was Sebastian. He was shouting at Matt in Spanish and before he could react, Sebastian had slapped him, hard, on the side of the face. Sebastian hit him a second time, then threw him into the bus. Matt was sent flying onto the floor. Behind him he heard Sebastian talking to the policeman and laughing. There were about twenty people in the bus, all staring at him. With the skin of his face burning – with pain and embarrassment – he stumbled forward and found himself a free seat.

Pedro got onto the bus and Sebastian followed him. The man sat next to Matt but didn’t say anything. More people got on, some with tethered goats, others with baskets packed with live chickens. Soon every seat was taken and the aisle was filled with people squatting on the floor. Finally the driver arrived. He swung himself into his seat and turned on the engine. The entire bus began to rattle and shake.

The driver slammed the engine into gear and the bus lurched forward and began to cross the yard. Looking out of the window, Matt saw the policeman walking away.

“That was close,” Sebastian growled. He went on in a low voice, “I had to hurt you because the policeman was becoming suspicious. I told him you were my nephew and that you were an idiot. I said you had brain damage which is why you hadn’t shown him more respect.”

“Was he looking for me?”

“Yes. He told me just now. They’re offering a huge reward – many hundreds of dollars – for your discovery. They’re still saying that you’re involved with terrorists.”

“But why? They’re the police! Why are they doing this?”

“Because someone has paid them. Why do you think? Maybe Ayacucho won’t be so welcoming for you. You’ll never be safe so long as you’re in Peru, and without a passport there’s no way you’re going to get out.”

The bus rattled along a track and joined the main road. As it turned the corner, the passengers swayed in their seats and the various animals cried out. Then the driver hit the accelerator and the engine roared. They had begun the long journey south.

Ica was a small, busy town, full of dust and traffic. Matt’s first impression, as he climbed down from the bus, was that every building had been painted a uniform white and yellow, giving the place an artificial look. It reminded him of a film set, perhaps from an old western. But real life was all around him. It was there in the rubbish piles, the washing flapping on lines high above the rooftops, the graffiti that seemed to have spread across every wall. All around were advertisements for Nike and Coca-Cola, names of politicians and their parties and public warnings applied with a spray can. And it was there in the old men and women, blinking on benches out in the sun, the chollo – taxis – buzzing in and out of the main square, the money changers in their bright-green jackets, following the tourists who were taking pictures of all this with cameras that must have cost more than most of the local people would earn in a year.