Crocodile Tears

striking at his stomach and chest. They would leave him in the cemetery, bleeding to death, and the next funeral that took place here would be his. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He acted first. He was still holding the dead roses that he had been clearing from his uncle’s grave. He could feel the sharp thorns digging into the palm of his hand.
    Swinging his arm up, Alex threw them, scattering them across the first man’s face. For just a second, the man was blinded, in pain, the thorns cutting into him. A single dead rose clutched at the skin under one of his eyes. Alex sprang up, then followed through with a powerful back kick, the ball of his foot ramming into the man’s stomach. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he crumpled, gasping for breath. That left just two.
    They were already lunging toward him. Alex had to get out of their range, and there was only one way.
    He threw himself sideways, one hand down, cartwheeling over Ian Rider’s gravestone. He needed a weapon and he snatched up the only one he could see—the stone angel from the grave next to his uncle’s. He hoped the much-missed granddad wouldn’t mind. The angel was heavy. Alex swung it around and hurled it at one of the men. It hit him in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured over the man’s lips and he reeled away, howling.

    The last of the three men swore in Chinese and launched himself toward Alex, the knife swinging in great arcs, cutting at the air. Alex fled. With his attacker getting closer all the time, he ran over six of the graves, then leapt over the open trench. But the moment he landed, he stopped and turned around.
    The man had also jumped. He had been taken completely by surprise. He had expected Alex to keep running. Instead, he was in midair while Alex had both feet firmly planted on the ground. There was nothing he could do as Alex lashed out with a front jab—the kizami-zuki he had been taught in karate—
    leaning with all his weight forward for maximum reach.
    Alex’s fist caught the man in the throat. The man’s eyes went white and he plunged down like a stone, disappearing into the grave. He hit the mud at the bottom and lay still.
    The first man was now on his knees, wheezing, barely able to breathe. The second was still bleeding.
    Alex alone was unhurt. So what should he do now? Call the police on his mobile? No. The last thing he needed right now was a load of tricky questions.
    He went back to Ian Rider’s grave, snatched up his backpack, and walked away. But even as he went, there were questions of his own nagging at his mind. If Major Yu had given orders for him to be killed, why hadn’t they just gone ahead and done it? They could have tiptoed up behind him and stabbed him.
    Why had they felt the need to announce themselves? And for that matter, why had none of them been carrying a gun? Wouldn’t that have made the whole thing easier?
    As Alex left the cemetery, he didn’t see the fourth man, fifty yards away, hiding behind one of the Victorian mausoleums. This was an Englishman or an American, with fair hair hanging down to his neck, smiling to himself as he watched Alex through the 135mm telephoto lens that was attached to the Nikon D3 digital camera he was holding. He had taken more than a hundred shots of the encounter, clicking away at a rate of nine frames per second, but he took a few more, just for good measure. Click .
    Alex dusting himself down. Click . Alex turning away. Click . Alex heading for the main gate.

    He had it all recorded. It was perfect. The man had been chewing gum, but now he took it out of his mouth, rolled it into a ball, and pressed it against one of the gravestones. Click . One final shot of Alex leaving the cemetery and the whole thing was in the bag.

Chapter 7: BAD NEWS

    ALEX WAS HAVING DINNER with Jack when the doorbell rang.
    “ Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.
    “ No.”
    The doorbell sounded again, longer and more insistent. This time Jack put down her knife and fork and frowned. “I’ll get it,” she said. “But why do they have to come at this time of night?”
    It was half past seven in the evening. Alex had come home, changed, done his homework, and had a shower. He was sitting at the kitchen table of the Chelsea home that had once belonged to Ian Rider but which he and Jack now shared. He was wearing jeans and an old sweat-shirt. His hair was still damp and his feet were bare. Jack liked to call herself a ten-minute cook because