Grk Undercover (15 page)

He could see big buildings on both sides. He was sure they were aircraft hangars. Up ahead, he could see a runway. A plane was waiting to take off. Lights glowed in the windows. That must be where the soldiers had taken Max and Natascha. Tim changed direction and headed for the plane. Grk galloped alongside him.

The rain was coming down harder now. Tim was getting wetter with every step. Water streamed down his face. His clothes were sodden. But he kept going. He had been soaked to the skin once already in Paris and he didn’t care about a little more water now.

He could see several cars parked beside the plane. As he came closer, he recognized them. There were the three big black Toyota Land Cruisers that had escorted Max and Natascha out of Paris. And there was a big black limousine.

So Colonel Zinfandel was here too.

Tim felt a sudden jolt of fear. He remembered his warm bed and his comfortable duvet. He wondered what he was doing here, running across the middle of a French airfield, soaked to the skin, throwing himself at the mercy of a cruel tyrant and his private army.

Then he told himself to stop worrying. His friends were in danger. He had to help them. It was as simple as that.

He pushed all these thoughts out of his mind and tugged the leash. Grk wagged his tail. They ran across the tarmac and headed for the plane.

There was no shelter. They couldn’t hide. Tim just hoped that the rain and the gloom would hide them from any inquiring eyes.

Where were Max and Natascha? What had happened to the soldiers who were guarding them? And where were the drivers? Had they all gone into the plane? If so, what were they going to do with their cars? These questions ran through his thoughts, but there was no time to worry about them now. He would discover the answers soon enough. For now, he just had to concentrate on running as fast as possible—and not being seen.

They reached the nearest car.

Tim ducked behind the car, pulling Grk after him, then poked his head around the side.

He could see the flight of stairs that led into the plane. Two soldiers were standing at the bottom of the stairs. The tips of their cigarettes glowed in the darkness. They didn’t appear to have seen him.

Max and Natascha must be inside the plane. Colonel Zinfandel would be there too. He would be planning to fly them back to Stanislavia. When he got there, he would put them in a deep, dark dungeon and never let them out.

Tim knew what he had to do: he had to climb up the stairs and sneak inside the plane. Otherwise he would never see Max and Natascha again. But how could he get past two armed men?

He couldn’t fight them. He couldn’t distract them. He couldn’t sneak past them. So what was he going to do?

And then the decision was made for him.

Grk sneezed.

Grk was a small dog with a small nose, but he made a surprisingly loud noise when he sneezed.

Tim looked down at him and hissed, “Shhh!”

But he was too late. The guards had heard the sneeze. They looked at one another, threw their cigarette butts onto the tarmac and hurried forward.

Tim watched them coming toward him.

They came closer and closer, heading directly toward him.

Just before they reached him, Tim turned and ran round the other side of the car. He ducked down, keeping low, hoping they wouldn’t notice him in the darkness.

He heard voices shouting to one another in a language that he couldn’t understand.

He could tell where the voices were coming from. They were behind him. They had reached the place that he had been standing just now. He sprinted forward, darting between the cars, and approached the plane.

He looked up the flight of stairs.

If he went up there, he would find himself in the belly of the plane. He would be throwing himself into the hands of Colonel Zinfandel. He would never escape.

But if he didn’t go up those stairs—if he turned and ran into the darkness—he would never see Max and Natascha again.

Never looking back, he scrambled up the stairs and sprinted into the plane. Grk ran alongside him.

Behind them, the soldiers searched every car. They opened the doors. They peered through the windscreens. They kicked the wheels. But they didn’t find anyone.

Tim and Grk stood at the top of the stairs and looked around.

Water dripped from Tim’s clothes and Grk’s fur, forming a pool on the floor.

They were standing at the back of the plane. Tim could see a door to the left, another to the right and a third straight ahead. He could hear voices. He knew he had to move fast if he wasn’t going to get caught. But where should he go?

One of the doors opened.

Tim ducked to the left, dodging out of the way before he could be seen. He pulled Grk after him. They scrambled along the floor. Behind him, Tim could hear voices getting louder. He couldn’t understand what was said.

He found himself in the kitchen. He could see a row of cupboards. He opened the nearest. It was stacked with plates and glasses.

He closed the door and opened the next one. It was a fridge, packed with bottles of wine and cartons of orange juice.

He slammed that door and opened the next one. There were some plastic bags inside. Tim pushed them back and made just enough room to fit a boy and a dog.

Tim threw Grk inside, squeezed into the cupboard after him and pulled the door behind them. It closed with a click.

They squatted in the darkness.

Tim’s neck was bent. His arms were twisted. His legs ached. He felt horribly uncomfortable. But at least he was safe.

For now.

He heard voices and footsteps. They got louder. Two people had come into the kitchen. If they opened the cupboard, they would see him immediately.

But they didn’t. The voices continued, but the footsteps stopped. Whoever they were, they were now sitting down.

Tim heard two clicks. He recognized the sounds. People were strapping themselves into their seat belts. The plane must be preparing for takeoff.

A massive roar filled his ears. The engines had been switched on.
The plane juddered and rolled slowly forward along the tarmac.

A few seconds later, they were airborne.

Mr. Malt was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of a ringing phone. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Then he remembered what had happened yesterday. He sat up and grabbed the phone. “Yes?” he said. “Yes? Who is it?”

A voice spoke in a strong French accent. “Am I speaking to Monsieur Malt?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Malt. “Who are you?”

“My name is Yusef. I have a message for you.”

Mr. Malt had hardly slept. He and his wife had spent most of the night talking to the police and one another, trying to imagine where Tim, Natascha and Max might have gone. He was exhausted. But he still snapped to attention when he heard what the Frenchman was saying. He said, “What’s happened? Where’s Tim? Have you taken him?”

“Yes, I have taken him,” said Yusef.

“You’ve kidnapped my son?”

“No, no,” said Yusef. “I don’t kidnap him. I take him in my taxi.”

Mrs. Malt sat up, rubbing her eyes. She said in a soft voice, “Who is it? What’s happening? Have they found Tim?”

Mr. Malt shook his head, then spoke into the phone. “Can you explain exactly what you meant by what you just said? Have you seen my son, Tim?”

“I just told you, I take him in my taxi,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Of course I see him. How can I take him in my taxi if I don’t see him?”

Mr. Malt said, “You’re a taxi driver?”

“Yes, I drive a taxi in Paris. My name is Yusef. Your son—he is a very brave boy.”

“But where is he now?”

Yusef spoke English badly, so the explanation took a long time, but he did eventually manage to explain what had happened. He told Mr. Malt how he had found Tim by the side of the road in the center of Paris and delivered him to a private airfield in the countryside.

Mr. Malt wrote down Yusef’s name, address and phone number, thanked him again and said,
“Au revoir.”

He put down the phone and explained everything to his wife. Then he rang the police and told the whole story all over again.

The police worked fast.

They alerted the French authorities to the fact that a boy had disappeared. He had last been seen at a private airfield on the outskirts of Paris. A taxi driver had dropped him at the gates.

The French police interrogated the airfield’s flight controllers. Had anyone seen the boy? Could he have boarded a plane? How many planes had taken off that morning? And where had they been going?

The flight controllers sent messages to every plane that had left the airfield.

“A boy has disappeared,” said the message. “He may have sneaked aboard your plane. Are you carrying a stowaway? Do you have any unexpected passengers? Please check immediately.”

The answers came back promptly.

No one had seen a boy. None of the planes was carrying any unexpected passengers. They had checked their passengers and their cargos and they didn’t have any stowaways.

Tim had disappeared.

Peanuts. Orange juice. In-flight movies. Comfortable seats. Safety announcements. An airsick bag.

Tim had been given all these things on planes.

But today was very different. Today he didn’t get offered anything at all. He just sat in a small cupboard and hoped no one would find him.

He was extremely uncomfortable.

His body was contorted into a strange shape. His clothes were wet and he was sitting in a pool of water that had dripped off him.

He wanted a drink. He wanted a pee. He wanted to stretch his legs. More than anything, he wanted to get out of the cupboard and move around. But he didn’t dare move.

The engines were so loud that he couldn’t hear anything else. He couldn’t see anything either. Several soldiers might have been standing an arm’s length away and he would never have known about them.

Grk was much more comfortable. He usually slept in a small basket, so he was used to confined spaces. He didn’t even mind being aboard an airplane. He simply curled up and went to sleep.

The plane climbed for a few minutes, then flattened out and the engines quieted. They were thirty thousand feet above the ground and would cruise at this altitude until they reached their destination.

Tim knew he had to move. The flight attendants would start serving drinks soon. If he stayed here, someone would open the cupboard, looking for a bottle or some peanuts, and he would be caught. But where should he go? And what should he do?

First he had to get out of the cupboard. Then he could decide where to go and what to do.

He pushed the door. It swung open.

He waited for a couple of seconds to see if anyone shouted or screamed, alerted to the presence of an intruder, but the only noise was the low hum of the engines. So he thrust himself forward, put his head out of the cupboard and had a quick look around. To his relief, he couldn’t see anyone. He clambered out and stood up, stretching his arms and legs, trying to get the blood flowing round his body again.

Grk scrambled after him and darted round the kitchen, sniffing the cupboards and the floor. He could smell food. And he hadn’t eaten for a long time. He pressed his nose against the nearest cupboard. To his irritation, he couldn’t get the door open.

Tim looked around, taking stock of his surroundings. The narrow kitchen was empty, but he couldn’t stay here. Someone would be sure to come along in a moment.

There were two exits, left and right.

Tim chose left.

He found himself in a corridor. To his left, he could see the main body of the plane and the backs of several heads. People were sitting in the seats, facing forward. If anyone turned around, they would see him immediately.

No expense had been spared on the creation of the presidential plane. Everything had been built from the finest materials. The large leather seats had plump cushions and wide headrests. A huge TV screen was fixed to the wall. Little wooden tables held drinks and snacks. The plane didn’t even feel like a plane. You could imagine you were actually standing in a normal room in a normal house, filled with comfortable chairs and elegant furniture, rather than traveling through the air at supersonic speed, thirty thousand miles above the ground.

Tim knew he couldn’t go forward into the main cabin. He would be caught immediately. So he turned round and looked the other way.

He could see two doors. One led to a toilet. Another was unmarked.

He could lock himself in the toilet. He would be safe there for a few minutes. Maybe even an hour. But people would eventually guess that something was wrong. They would realize that someone had locked themselves inside. And when they broke the door down, Tim would have nowhere to run.

So there was only one place that he could go. Through the unmarked door. He didn’t know what was on the other side, but he would have to take the risk and find out. He grabbed the handle and took a deep breath. Then he turned the handle, opened the door and went inside.

He found himself in Colonel Zinfandel’s private office.

He saw a huge plasma screen fixed to one wall, showing news footage from CNN. He saw a woman sitting at a desk and typing on a laptop. He saw two soldiers lounging on a leather sofa. And he saw Colonel Zinfandel.

All four of them looked up and stared at the boy standing in the doorway.

For a moment, no one moved. They were all too surprised to react.

Tim was the first to recover. He darted backward, pulling the door after him, slamming it shut.

He heard shouts and movement on the other side of the door.

He looked around, wondering what to do.

He could hide in the toilet. But they would easily find him there.

Or he could sprint into the main cabin and try to find a hiding place there. But it was packed with men and women from the Stanislavian Army and the Secret Service. They would grab him as soon as they saw him and pin him to the ground.

So what should he do? Where should he go?