Then he remembered the petrol. Glancing quickly at the upper deck he prepared to go back to the stern, then froze as the door of the bridge opened and a man came out. There was nothing Alex could do; nowhere he could hide. But he was lucky. The man, dressed in the faded uniform of a ship’s captain, had been smoking a cigarette. He stopped long enough to throw the butt into the sea, then went back the way he had come without turning his head. It had been a close escape and Alex knew it could only be a matter of time before he was noticed. He had to move fast.
He ran on tiptoe to the petrol cans. He tried tilting one of them but it was too heavy. He looked around for a rag, couldn’t find one and so took off his shirt, ripping it apart in his hands. Quickly he pushed the sleeve into the can, soaking it in petrol. Then he pulled it out, leaving only the end still dangling inside; a makeshift fuse. What would happen when he set fire to the petrol? Alex guessed that the explosion would be enough to attract the attention of everyone onboard but not strong enough to kill anyone or sink the boat. Since he was still going to be onboard, he would just have to hope he was right.
He reached into his pocket and took out the book of matches that he had been playing with in the restaurant. Cupping his hand to protect the flame from the breeze, he lit first one match, then the whole book. He touched the flame against the rag that had once been his shirt. The whole thing was alight in a second.
Running forward again, he returned to the saloon cabin. He could hear the Salesman still speaking inside.
“Another glass, I think. Yes. But then I’m afraid I must leave you. I have work to do.”
Alex looked in. The Salesman was standing at a table, pouring himself a second glass of wine. Alex looked back over his shoulder. There was no one there. Nothing had happened. Why hadn’t the petrol caught fire? Had the wind blown out his makeshift fuse?
And then it exploded. A great mushroom of flame and black smoke leapt into the air at the back of the boat, snatched away instantly by the wind. Somebody shouted. Alex saw that the petrol had splashed all over both decks. There was fire everywhere. The canopy right above his head was alight. Whatever had been packed underneath the tarpaulin was also blazing. More shouting. Footsteps thudded towards the stern deck. Now was the time to move.
“See what is happening!”
Alex heard the Salesman snap the command and a second later the deckhand came racing out. He disappeared round the other side of the cabin.
That just left the Salesman himself, on his own with Turner. Alex waited a few seconds, then stepped into the doorway, once again reaching into his trouser pocket. Turner saw him before the Salesman. His eyes widened. The Salesman turned. Alex saw that he had put down his glass and picked up a gun. For a moment neither of them moved. The Salesman was looking at a fourteen-year-old boy, barefoot and naked from the waist up. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that Alex could be any threat to him, that it was this boy who had set fire to his boat. And in that moment of hesitation, Alex made his move.
When he brought his hand up, he was holding a mobile phone. He had already dialled two nines before he’d gone in. He pressed the button for a third time as he aimed with the phone.
“It’s for you!” he said.
He felt the phone shudder in his hand and, silently, the aerial spat out of the top, the plastic peeling back to reveal a shining needle. It travelled across the cabin and hit the Salesman square in the chest. The Salesman had reacted fast, already bringing his gun round. But a second later his eyes rolled and he slumped to the floor. Alex jumped over him, picked up a knife from the table and went over to Turner.
“What the hell…?” the CIA man began. Alex could see at once that he wasn’t badly hurt. At the same time, his mood didn’t seem to have improved. He looked from the phone to the unconscious figure of the Salesman. “What did you do to him?” he asked.
“He got the wrong number,” Alex said. He cut through the adhesive tape.
Turner got to his feet and snatched up the gun that the Salesman had dropped. He checked the clip. The gun was fully loaded. “What happened?” he demanded. “I heard an explosion!”
“Yeah. That was me. I set the boat alight.”
“What?”
“I set fire to the boat.”
“But we’re on the boat!”
“I know.”
Before Alex could say any more, Turner moved, twisting round, snapping into combat position, arms up, legs apart. There was a stairwell at the far end of the cabin. Alex hadn’t noticed it before. A figure had appeared, coming up from below. Turner fired twice. The figure crumpled back down. Turner stopped. Black smoke was seeping into the cabin. There was a second explosion and the entire boat rocked as if seized by a sudden squall. There was shouting outside on the deck. Looking out of the window, Alex could see flames.
“That must have been the second petrol tank,” he said.
“How many tanks are there?”
“Just the two.”
Turner seemed almost dazed. He forced himself to a decision. “The sea…” he said. “We’re going to have to swim.”
The CIA agent went first, edging sideways out of the cabin. Suddenly the deck was full of people. There were at least seven of them. Alex wondered where they had all come from. Two of them, young men in dirty white shirts and jeans, were fighting the flames with extinguishers. There were two on the roof, another on the deck. All of them were shouting.
Smoke was trailing into the sky behind the boat. The lifeboat was ablaze. Part of the canopy was on fire. At least nobody knew quite what had happened. Nobody had seen Alex come on board. The explosions had taken them all by surprise and all they cared about was getting the fire under control. However, as Turner came out of the cabin, one of the men on the upper deck saw him. He called out in Spanish.
“Move!” Turner shouted.
He ran for the edge of the boat. Alex followed.
There was the deafening chatter of a machine-gun and what was left of the canopy above his head was torn to shreds. Bullets smashed into the deck sending chips of wood flying. A glass bulb exploded. Alex wasn’t even sure who was firing. All he knew was that he was trapped in the middle of smoke and flames and bullets and a lot of men who wanted him dead. He saw Turner dive over the side. There was another burst from the machine-gun and Alex felt the deck rip itself apart centimetres from his bare feet. He yelled out. Splinters slammed into his ankle and heels. He spurted forward and threw himself over the handrail. For what felt like an eternity everything was chaos. He could feel the wind racing over his bare shoulders. There were more gunshots. Then he plunged headfirst into the Atlantic and disappeared beneath the surface.
Alex allowed the ocean to embrace him. After the battlefield that Mayfair Lady had become, its water was warm and soothing. He swam down, a powerful breaststroke that took him ever deeper. Something whizzed past him and he realized that he was still being shot at. The further down he went, the safer he would be. He opened his eyes. The salt water stung but he needed to know how far he was going. He looked up. Light glimmered at the surface but there was no sign of the boat. His lungs were beginning to hurt. He needed to breathe. But still he waited. He would have been happy if he could have stayed underwater for an hour.
He couldn’t. With his body crying out for oxygen, Alex kicked reluctantly for the surface. He came up gasping, with water streaming down his face. Turner was next to him. The CIA agent looked more dead than alive. Alex wondered if he had been hit, but there was no sign of any blood. Perhaps he was in shock.
“Are you all right?” Alex asked.
“Are you crazy?” Turner was so angry that he actually swallowed water as he spoke. He spluttered and fought to keep himself from going under. “You could have gotten us killed!”
“I just saved your life!” Alex was getting angry himself. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.