Eagle Strike Read Online Free Page A

the water and swim, and keep swimming, until he had put this whole business behind him.
    Sabina and her mother had left about ten minutes ago and now he was on his own with this young policeman. He had been given a chair in the shade and a bottle of water, but it was obvious that nobody knew what to do with him. This wasn’t his family. He had no right to be here. More officials had turned up: senior policemen, senior firemen. They were moving slowly through the wreckage, occasionally turning over a plank of wood or moving a piece of broken furniture as if they might uncover the one simple clue that would tell them why this had taken place.
    “We have telephoned to your consul,” the policeman was saying. “They will come to take you home. But they must send a representative from Lyon. It is a long way. So tonight you must wait here in Saint-Pierre.”
    “I know who did this,” Alex said.
    “Comment?”
    “I know who was responsible.” Alex glanced in the direction of the house. “You have to go into the town. There is a yacht tied to the jetty. I didn’t see the name but you can’t miss it. It’s huge … white. There’s a man on the yacht; his name is Yassen Gregorovich. You have to arrest him before he can get away.”
    The policeman stared at Alex, astonished. Alex wondered how much he had understood.
    “I am sorry? What is it that you say? This man, Yassen…”
    “Yassen Gregorovich.”
    “You know him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who is he?”
    “He’s a killer. He is paid to kill people. I saw him this morning.”
    “Please!” The policeman held up a hand. He didn’t want to listen to any more. “Wait here.”
    Alex watched him walk away towards the parked cars, presumably to find a senior officer. He took a sip of water, then stood up himself. He didn’t want to sit here watching the events from a folding chair like a picnicker. He walked towards the house. There was an evening breeze but the smell of burnt wood still hung heavily all around. A scrap of paper, scorched and blackened, blew across the gravel. On an impulse, Alex reached down and picked it up.
    He read:

    That was all there was. The paper turned black and the words disappeared.
    Alex realized what he was looking at. It must be a page from the article that Edward Pleasure had been working on ever since he had arrived at the house. Something to do with the mega-celebrity Damian Cray…
    “Excusez-moi, jeune homme…”
    He looked up and saw that the policeman had returned with a second man, this one a few years older, with a downturned mouth and a small moustache. Alex’s heart sank. He recognized the type before the man had even spoken. Oily and self-important, and wearing a uniform that was too neat, there was disbelief etched all over his face.
    “You have something to tell us?” he asked. He spoke better English than his colleague.
    Alex repeated what he had said.
    “How do you know about this man? The man on the boat.”
    “He killed my uncle.”
    “Who was your uncle?”
    “He was a spy. He worked for MI6.” Alex took a deep breath. “I think I may have been the target of the bomb. I think he was trying to kill me …”
    The two policemen spoke briefly together, then turned back to Alex. Alex knew what was coming. The senior policeman had rearranged his features so that he now looked down at Alex with a mixture of kindness and concern. But there was arrogance there too: I am right. You are wrong. And nothing will persuade me otherwise. He was like a bad teacher in a bad school, putting a cross beside a right answer.
    “You have had a terrible shock,” the policeman said. “The explosion … we already know that it was caused by a leak in the gas pipe.”
    “No…” Alex shook his head.
    The policeman held up a hand. “There is no reason why an assassin would wish to harm a family on holiday. But I understand. You are upset; it is quite possible that you are in shock. You do not know what it is you are