Crocodile Tears

all surprised if Alex had to miss a lot more school in the future.
    Alex didn’t look ill now. He looked as if he had been in a fistfight. There were a number of small cuts on his forehead and the side of his cheek, and from the way he was standing, Bray guessed he had hurt his shoulder. He was here because of a report sent in by his biology teacher, Mr. Gilbert. But Alex didn’t give any sign of being ashamed or nervous about what might follow. He was just angry.
    Mr. Bray sighed. “Alex. You made a very good start in year seven. All your reports said the same. And I am well aware of your personal circumstances. I imagine you were very close to your uncle.”
    “ Yes, sir.”

    “ It doesn’t help that you’ve had a lot of time off school … all these illnesses. Obviously, I’ve made allowances for you. But this business yesterday … frankly, I’m appalled. As I understand it, the bus had an emergency door that you opened, and you managed to fall out. Is that correct?”
    “ Yes, sir.”
    “ I’m amazed you could be so irresponsible. You could have seriously hurt yourself. And there were other young people on the bus too. Didn’t you stop to think that you might cause an accident? I can’t imagine why you would do such a thoughtless thing.” Mr. Bray took off his glasses and laid them on his desk. It was something he always did when he was about to pronounce sentence. “I hate the idea of your missing any more lessons, but I’m afraid I am going to have to make an example of you. You are going to have one day’s suspension from school. You are to go home straightaway, and I’ve written a note for you to take with you.”
    Half an hour later, Alex crossed the school yard with a sense of injustice burning in him. He had survived poisonous plants and insects, hand-to-hand combat, and machine-gun fire. He had downloaded the contents of Straik’s computer and stolen a sample of whatever he was brewing at Greenfields. Jack would have already delivered them to the MI6 offices on Liverpool Street. And what was his reward? To be treated like a naughty schoolboy, sent home with a note.
    The first lesson had already begun, and nobody noticed Alex as he made his way out of the gates and down the road toward the bus stop. As he walked, he found himself going over the events of the day before. The appearance of Desmond McCain had completely thrown him. What was the head of an international charity doing in a bio research center in Wiltshire? He was planning something with Leonard Straik. That much was clear. The two of them had talked about shipping a thousand gallons of the liquid—and they had said that it was alive. But what was it and what was it for? The more Alex thought about it, the less sense it made.

    McCain had been to prison once in his life, and he had to be heading that way again. Alex was certain now—not that he had ever really doubted it—that his near death in Scotland, along with Sabina and her father, had been no accident. McCain had tried to kill them. He was prepared to do anything to protect himself. MI6 had wanted to investigate Leonard Straik because he might be a security risk. In fact, he was using Greenfields for something much bigger than anyone suspected.
    And then Alex remembered something he had overheard while he was in the office. McCain was going to send the Becket woman somewhere the following day—today. A place called Elm’s Cross. The name rang a faint bell. Alex continued walking until he arrived at an Internet cafe not far from Brompton Cemetery. The place served disgusting coffee, but it charged only two dollars for half an hour on one of its ancient computers. At least it had broadband.
    Alex paid and chose a computer at the very back, away from the window. The owner glanced at him briefly, then returned to a crumpled copy of The Sun . Alex Googled Elm’s Cross and waited for the page to come up on the screen. The results were disappointing. There was a packaging company with that name in Warminster, a restaurant in Bradford, and a film studio in west London that had apparently closed down a year ago. None of them could possibly be connected. Except …
    “ What about the shooting?”

    Straik to McCain. When Alex had heard them, he’d automatically assumed that they were talking about guns. But suppose they had actually meant shooting film? Alex looked for more information about the studio. It was on the other side of Hayes, not far from Heathrow Airport.