Point Blank

chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.
    ‚We have overlooked nothing!‛ he was saying, his voice echoing around the modern room.
    He could see the journalists scribbling down his every word. The television cameras were all focused on him. ‚Thanks to my personal involvement and efforts, we have never been more successful.‛ He smiled at the home secretary, who smiled toothily back. ‚But we are not resting on our laurels. Oh, no! Any day now we hope to announce another breakthrough.‛
    That was when the barge hit the glass roof of the conference center. There was an explosion.
    The chief of police just had time to dive for cover as a vast, dripping object plunged down toward him. The home secretary was thrown backward, his glasses flying off his face. His security men froze, helpless. The boat crashed into the space in front of them, between the stage and the audience. The side of the cabin had been torn off, and there was the laboratory, exposed, with the two dealers sprawled together in one corner, staring dazedly at the hundreds of policemen and officials who now surrounded them. A cloud of white powder mushroomed up and then fell onto the dark blue uniform of the police chief, covering him from head to toe.
    The fire alarms had all gone off. The lights blew out. Then the screaming began.
    Meanwhile, the first of the construction workers had made it to the crane cabin and was gazing, astonished, at the fourteen-year-old boy he had found there.
    ‚Do you…?‛ he stammered. ‚Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?‛
    Alex glanced at the empty hook and at the gaping hole in the roof of the conference center, at the rising smoke and dust. He shrugged apologetically.
    ‚I was just working on the crime figures,‛ he said. ‚And I think there’s been a drop.‛

SEARCH AND REPORT

    THE CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.
    It was the day after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his protests, his hair had been cut so short that he almost looked like a skinhead, and his right ear had been pierced. He could still feel it throbbing underneath the temporary stud that had been put in to keep the hole from closing.
    The car had reached a set of wrought iron gates, which opened automatically to receive it.
    And there was Haverstock Hall, a great mansion with stone figures on the terrace and seven figures in the price. Sir David’s family had lived here for generations, Mrs. Jones had told him.
    They also seemed to own half the Lancashire countryside. The grounds stretched for miles in every direction, with sheep dotted across the hills on one side and three horses watching from an enclosure on the other. The house itself was Georgian: white brick with slender windows and columns. Everything looked very neat. There was a walled garden with evenly spaced beds, a square glass conservatory housing a swimming pool, and a series of ornamental hedges with every leaf perfectly in place.
    The car stopped. The horses swung their necks around to watch Alex get out, their tails rhythmically beating at flies. Nothing else moved.
    The chauffeur walked around to the trunk. ‚Sir David will be inside,‛ he said. He had disapproved of Alex from the moment he set eyes on him. Of course, he hadn’t said as much.
    But he was a professional. He could show it with his eyes.
    Alex moved away from the car, drawn toward the conservatory on the other side of the drive. It was a warm day, the sun