Ark Angel

other boy’s eye. It seemed to him that Paul was more like his father than perhaps he realized. Despite his protests, he fitted comfortably into this billionaire lifestyle, taking the private plane, the houses all over the world and the complete freedom for granted. Right now the two of them should have been at school. Alex thought of Brookland and a big part of him yearned to be with his friends, larking around and getting into trouble—back in the real world.
    He was feeling guilty because, although he’d said nothing to Paul, he had already made his decision. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to leave the Drevin household. He felt sorry for Paul. More and more the other boy seemed to be relying on his friendship, taking him for granted like everything else.
    Paul hadn’t chosen any of this but he was stuck with it, and one day it would be him jetting around the world, making all the important decisions.
    But Alex had had enough. Nikolei Drevin had nothing he wanted. More than that, Alex was becoming increasingly uneasy, aware of an invisible net closing in. He had now encountered Force Three twice. He might not be so lucky a third time. Whatever their argument with Drevin, he didn’t want to be any part of it.
    And then there was the question of Drevin himself. There was so much about the man that didn’t add up. If he was so concerned about Paul’s safety, why hadn’t he put any guards in place at St Dominic’s? And was it just coincidence that the kidnappers had taken Alex to a building that Drevin—or one of Drevin’s many companies—actually owned? Alex thought about his meeting with Kaspar. The Force Three leader had been about to cut off one of his fingers—and would have if Alex hadn’t convinced him who he really was.
    If Paul Drevin had been kidnapped, he would have been maimed. Why? Was there some sort of private vendetta between Nikolei Drevin and Kaspar that both men were keeping concealed?
    Alex didn’t trust Drevin. That was the simple truth. When they had raced against each other, Drevin had tried to kill him. If Alex had flipped over inside the tunnel, he might have been crushed—and all because the Russian didn’t like losing. He had lost again at Chelsea, and as a result a man had died. Was Drevin responsible for that too? Alex remembered seeing him talking on his mobile seconds after the game had ended. And when Alex had spotted Silver Tooth, he had been slipping something into his pocket. Could it have been a phone?
    Was it possible that he had been taking his orders directly from Drevin?
    Well, he had decided. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was going to call Jack Starbright, who was only a couple of hours away in Washington. He knew she’d be happy for him to join her, especially if she thought he was in any danger. He would tell Nikolei Drevin that he was homesick. It didn’t matter what excuse he made up. When Drevin and his son flew to Flamingo Bay, they would be travelling without him.
    “Is everything all right, Alex?”
    Alex looked up and realized that Tamara Knight had been examining him. He still hadn’t worked her out.
    She had never been particularly friendly to him and seemed completely devoted to Nikolei Drevin. On the other hand, as far as he knew, she had never told Drevin about his involvement in Adam Wright’s death.
    Right now, she was studying him suspiciously. Maybe she was trying to work him out too.
    “I’m fine, thanks,” Alex said.
    “Are you looking forward to the launch?”
    Alex shrugged. “I suppose so.”
    Paul had chosen a film. The lights in the centre of the cabin dimmed and a few minutes later it began.

    It was just after one o’clock. New York time, when they touched down at JFK Airport. Nikolei Drevin had come out of his study for the last hour of the flight, dictating a letter to Tamara and chatting to Paul. Part of the conversation was in Russian and Alex got the feeling that father and son were talking about him.
    The 747 taxied to a holding area. Looking out of a window, Alex saw a chauffeur-driven limousine waiting to meet them. He guessed that a man as rich and influential as Drevin wouldn’t have to queue up at immigration with everyone else, and he was right. The door of the plane opened electronically and two men in suits—customs and immigration—were shown in. One of them had a metal attaché case which contained a computer and an old-fashioned passport stamp.
    “Good afternoon, Mr Drevin,