Eagle Strike

us go?”
    “Exactly!” Jack had chipped in again. “How do we know we can trust you?”
    “I‟m a knight of the realm!” Cray exclaimed. “The Queen trusts me; you can too!”
    The screen went blank.
    Alex turned to Jack. For once he was helpless. “What do I do?” he asked.
    “Ignore him, Alex. Go to MI6.”
    “I can‟t, Jack. You heard what he said. Before ten o‟clock tomorrow morning. MI6 won‟t be able to do anything before then, and if they try something, Cray will kill Sab.” He rested his head in his hands. “I couldn‟t allow that to happen. She‟s only in this mess because of me. I couldn‟t live with myself afterwards.”

    “But, Alex… A lot more people could get hurt if Eagle Strike—whatever it is—goes ahead.”
    “We don‟t know that.”
    “You think Cray would do all this if he was just going to rob a bank or something?”
    Alex said nothing.
    “Cray is a killer, Alex. I‟m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful. But I don‟t think you can just walk into his house.”
    Alex thought about it. He thought for a long time. As long as Cray had Sabina, he held all the cards. But perhaps there was a way he could get her out of there. It would mean giving himself up. Once again he would become Cray‟s prisoner. But with Sabina free, Jack would be able to contact MI6. And perhaps—just perhaps—Alex might come out of this alive.
    Quickly he outlined his idea to Jack. She listened—but the more she heard, the unhappier she looked.
    “It‟s terribly dangerous, Alex,” she said.
    “But it might work.”
    “You can‟t give him the flash drive.”
    “I won‟t give him the flash drive, Jack.”
    “And if it all goes wrong?”
    Alex shrugged. “Then Cray wins. Eagle Strike happens.” He tried to smile, but there was no humour in his voice. “But at least we‟ll finally find out what it is.”

    The house was on the edge of the Bath valley, a twenty-minute drive from the station. Cray had been right about one thing. The taxi driver knew where it was without needing a map or an address—and as the car rolled down the private lane towards the main entrance, Alex understood why.
    Damian Cray lived in an Italian convent. According to the newspapers, he had seen it in Umbria, fallen in love with it and shipped it over, brick by brick. The building really was extraordinary. It seemed to have taken over much of the surrounding countryside, cut off from public view by a tall, honey-coloured brick wall with two carved wooden gates at least ten metres high. Beyond the wall Alex could see a slanting roof of terracotta tiles, and beyond it an elaborate tower with pillars, arched windows and miniature battlements. Much of the garden had been imported from Italy too, with dark green, twisting cypresses and olive trees. Even the weather didn‟t seem quite English. The sun had come out and the sky was a radiant blue. It had to be the hottest day of the year.
    Alex paid the driver and got out. He was wearing a pale grey, short-sleeved Trailrider cycling jersey without the elbow pads. As he walked down to the gates, he loosened the zip that ran up to the neck, allowing the breeze to play against his skin. There was a rope coming out of a hole in the wall and he pulled it. A bell rang out. Alex reflected that once this same bell might have called the nuns from their prayers. It seemed somehow wicked that a holy place should have been uprooted and brought here to be a madman‟s lair.
    The gates opened electronically. Alex walked through and found himself in a cloister: a rectangle of perfectly mown grass surrounded by statues of saints. Ahead there was a fourteenth-century chapel with a villa attached, the two somehow existing in perfect harmony. He smelt lemons in the air. Pop music drifted from somewhere in the house. Alex recognized the song. White Lines: Cray was playing his own CD.
    The front door of the house stood open. There was still nobody in sight, so Alex walked inside.
    The door led directly into a wide airy space with beautiful furniture arranged over a quarry-tiled floor. There was a grand piano made of rosewood, and a number of paintings, medieval altar pieces, were hanging on plain white walls. A row of six windows looked out onto a terrace with a garden beyond. White muslin curtains, hanging ceiling to floor, swayed gently in the breeze.
    Damian Cray was sitting on an ornately carved wooden seat with a white poodle curled up in his lap. He glanced up as Alex came into