Scorpia

where it was.
    Alex looked down. He couldn’t stop himself. And that was when he saw – in the middle of the fire and the smoke, the spinning platform and the falling ropes – the three red lights had gone out. He was sure of it. Either the flames had destroyed the machinery or the dishes had deactivated themselves the moment they dropped below one hundred metres.
    The terahertz beams had stopped. Not a single child would die.
    Nobody was sure where the bag lady had appeared from. Perhaps she had been dossing in the small cemetery behind the Church of Forgotten Saints. But now she had wandered into what, until a few minutes ago, had been a full-scale battle.
    She was lucky. The SAS men had taken control of the church and the immediate area. Most of the Scorpia people were dead; the remainder had put down their weapons in surrender. A final explosion had breached the entrance of the church itself. SAS soldiers were already pouring in, searching for Alex.
    The bag lady was clearly confused by all this activity; possibly she was also drunk. There was a bottle of cider in one of her hands and she stoppedto force the neck between her rotten teeth and drink. She had a repulsive, withered face and grey hair that was long and knotted. She was dressed in a filthy coat, tied around her bulging waist with string. Her other hand clutched two dustbin bags close to her, as if they contained all the treasure in the world.
    One of the soldiers saw her. “Get out of here!” he yelled. “You’re in danger.”
    “All right, love!” The bag lady giggled. “What’s the matter, then? It’s like bleeding World War Three.”
    But she shuffled off, out of harm’s way, while the SAS men rushed past her, heading for the church.
    Underneath the wig, the make-up and the costume, Mrs Rothman smiled to herself. It was almost incredible that these stupid SAS soldiers should let her walk away, slipping between them in plain daylight. She had a gun hidden under her coat and she would use it if anyone tried to stop her. But they were so busy rushing into the church, they had barely noticed her.
    And then one of them called out.
    “Stop!”
    She had been seen after all. Mrs Rothman hurried on.
    But the soldier hadn’t been trying to detain her: he had been trying to warn her. A shadow fell across her face and she looked up just in time tosee a blazing rectangle fall out of the sky. Julia Rothman opened her mouth to scream but the sound didn’t have time to reach her lips. She was crushed, driven into the pavement, flattened like a creature in some hideous cartoon. The SAS man who had shouted could only gaze at the burning wreckage in horror. Then, slowly, he looked up to see where it had come from.
    But there was nothing there. The sky was clear.
    Freed from the platform and the mooring ropes, the balloon had been blown north, with Alex still clinging beneath it. He was limp and exhausted; his legs and the side of his chest had been burnt. It was as much as he could do simply to hang on.
    But the air inside the envelope had cooled and the balloon was coming down. Alex had been lucky that the fabric of the balloon was flame-resistant.
    Of course, he might still be killed. He had no control of the balloon at all and the wind might choose to steer him into a high voltage wire. He had already crossed the river and could see Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s Column looming up in front of him. It would be a sick joke to land there and end up getting run over.
    Alex could only hang on and wait to find out what was going to happen. Despite the pain in his arms, he was aware of a sense of inner peace. Somehow, against all the odds, he had come through everything alive. Nile was dead. MrsRothman was probably a prisoner. The nanoshells were no longer a threat.
    And what about him? The wind had changed. It was carrying him to the west. Yes. There was Green Park – just fifty-odd metres below. He could see people pointing up at him and shouting. He silently urged the balloon on. With a bit of luck he might make it all the way to Chelsea, to his house, where Jack Starbright would be waiting. How much further could it be? Did the balloon have the strength to take him there?
    He hoped so, because that was all he cared about now.
    He just wanted to go home.

DEEP COVER
    I t ended – inevitably, it seemed to Alex – in Alan Blunt’s office in Liverpool Street.
    They had left him alone for a week but then the telephone call had come on Friday evening,