Grk Undercover (4 page)

They reached the bus and hopped aboard. Tim and Natascha pressed their fare cards onto the reader.

The driver looked down his nose at Grk and said, “Will that dog behave himself? I don’t want any muck on my bus.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Tim. “He’s completely house-trained.”

“And bus-trained,” added Natascha.

“He’s a very well-behaved dog,” said Tim. “He’s not going to pee on the floor.”

“He’d better not.” The driver glared at Grk.

Grk glared back. He didn’t like people who didn’t like him.

The two of them could have stayed like that for hours, glaring at one another, but farther down the bus, people had already started grumbling. They were wondering what was taking so long. No one wanted to be late for work. The driver must have heard their grumbles, because he pressed a button to close the doors and said, “Go on, then. Get inside. Just remember what I said. No muck on the bus!”

As Tim, Natascha and Grk hurried down the aisle to find a seat, the driver pressed his foot on the accelerator. The bus jerked forward and joined the stream of traffic.

Five minutes and three stops later, Natascha, Tim and Grk jumped out of the bus, ran along the pavement and darted into the underground station.

Tim looked at a map on the wall to check their route. Natascha picked up Grk. As you probably know, dogs aren’t allowed to stand on the escalators when they travel on the London Underground. They might get their claws stuck in the gaps. If that happened, they would lose their claws and possibly much more.

Tim and Natascha pressed their fare cards on the reader, pushed through the ticket barrier and went down the escalator. When they
reached the end of the escalator, Natascha put Grk on the floor and they hurried along the corridor to the platform.

There was a train waiting. It was packed with commuters. Natascha, Tim and Grk shoved themselves through the door and squeezed into the forest of satchels and suitcases and briefcases and backpacks and backs and bellies and knees and elbows. There was hardly enough room for them, but they didn’t want to wait for the next train.

When the doors closed and the train started moving, Tim found himself squashed between two fat men who smelled of sweat and onions. Natascha was flattened against a window. Things were even worse for Grk. Several people trod on him and not one of them apologized.

When the train finally arrived at King’s Cross, passengers poured out onto the platform, sweeping Tim and Natascha and Grk out of the train with them. Luckily, King’s Cross was where they wanted to get out, so they didn’t have to fight their way back on. They allowed themselves to be pushed toward the exit by the flow of passengers.

When the crowds thinned, Tim, Grk and Natascha jogged down one corridor, then another, dodging round commuters, and reached the escalators. Natascha grabbed Grk in her arms and carried him to the top.

The escalators deposited the three of them in the ticket hall. They went through the barriers and followed the signs to St. Pancras.

The high-ceilinged station was packed with people. A voice boomed from the loudspeakers, announcing arrivals and departures, telling passengers when the next trains left for Brussels and Paris.

Tim and Natascha looked around, wondering where to go next. Tim was the first to see a sign saying TICKET OFFICE.

“That way,” he said, pointing to the sign. “Let’s go and get our tickets.”

Natascha glanced at her watch. “We’re going to miss the train.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Tim, trying to sound more confident than he really felt. “We’ve got lots of time.”

In a lobby outside the ticket hall, Tim fed his dad’s credit card into a silver machine. It groaned and moaned, then spat out two tickets.

They emerged from the lobby and hurried toward the platforms, following the signs that said EUROSTAR. Smart restaurants and fancy boutiques lined the station, but Tim and Natascha hardly even glanced at
the window displays. They didn’t have the time or the money to go shopping.

They showed their tickets at the barrier and took turns to pass through a metal detector, then joined the line for Passport Control.

A man in a black uniform glanced at the photos in the back of Tim’s and Natascha’s passports, then checked the stamps in Grk’s. He took a long look at the three of them. They stared back at him. Finally, the passport officer nodded.

“Have a good trip,” he said. “Next, please!”

Tim, Natascha and Grk hurried onward. They went up a long escalator that led to the platforms. Once again, Natascha held Grk in her arms till they got to the top. Then she put Grk on the ground and they jogged along the platform.

They stopped at carriage number 12. An inspector checked Tim and Natascha’s tickets, making sure that they had come to the right place, then ushered them aboard.

“Bon voyage,”
said the inspector. “Have a good trip.”

“Thanks,” said Tim and stepped into the train. Grk leaped after him. Natascha came last.

They walked down the carriage and found their seats.

Natascha sat down. Tim sat opposite her. Grk crawled under his feet.

“We made it,” said Tim.

“Just,” said Natascha.

A couple of minutes later, the doors slid shut and the train eased out of the station.

A voice came from the loudspeakers, booming along the entire length of the train, informing passengers that the journey to Paris would take two hours and twenty minutes. The meal car would open soon, said the voice, and would be serving all kinds of sandwiches and snacks as well as a full range of hot and cold drinks.

Natascha leaned forward and said, “Are you hungry?”

“Not really,” said Tim. “But I wouldn’t mind something to eat. Shall we go to the meal car?”

“We don’t have to,” said Natascha. “We’ve got our own private buffet right here.” She opened the flap of her backpack, took out some bananas and some chocolate, and shared them equally between Tim and herself. They ate slowly, savoring every mouthful.

Down on the floor, Grk was looking upward, watching the bananas and the chocolate, hoping some crumbs might drop at his paws. But he was out of luck. Tim and Natascha ate every scrap, even licking their fingers and picking crumbs from the tabletop. They didn’t know when they might eat again.

When their meal was over, Natascha pulled two books from her bag. She held them both in the air, showing the covers to Tim. One was
called
Eagle of the Ninth
and the other was called
Emma
. “Which do you want?”

“Don’t mind,” said Tim.

“I want to read both, so I’ll read whichever one you don’t want. Pick one.”

“That one,” said Tim, pointing at
Eagle of the Ninth
because it had a picture of a Roman soldier on the cover. The other book had a picture of a smiling woman in a white dress and looked thoroughly boring.

Natascha slid
Eagle of the Ninth
across the table to him, opened the book in her hands and started reading.

Tim picked up his book and read the back. It sounded boring. He opened the cover and read the first few lines. It was boring. He closed the book and put it down on the table, then glanced at the floor.

Grk was curled by his feet. He wasn’t fast asleep—he lifted his head whenever someone walked past—but he was taking advantage of the journey to get some rest.

That’s a good idea, thought Tim.

He had been woken up far too early this morning. Now was his chance to catch up on lost sleep. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the window and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Colonel Zinfandel looked out of the window. Below him, he could see the sun, a blue sky and a landscape of white puffy clouds, stretching endlessly to the horizon. He said, “It’s a beautiful morning.”

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier standing opposite him. The soldier was wearing black shorts, a white T-shirt and a pair of blue boxing gloves.

Colonel Zinfandel was wearing white shorts, a black T-shirt and a pair of red boxing gloves. He said, “Where are we?”

“Ten thousand meters above Switzerland, sir. The Alps are under those clouds.”

“How much further?”

“We’ll be in Paris in thirty-five minutes, sir.”

“Perfect,” said Colonel Zinfandel. He turned to look at the soldier. “That should give us just enough time. Are you ready to fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s fight.”

In a single sudden movement, Colonel Zinfandel swung his right fist at his opponent.

The soldier was too quick for him. He ducked backward, narrowly avoiding the blow, and darted across the ring.

Colonel Zinfandel sprang after him, swinging his left arm this time, trying to land the first blow.

The two men paced in a circle, their arms raised, their eyes never leaving one another’s faces. They were ten thousand meters above the ground, but they didn’t think about that. All their attention was focused on the fight.

That morning, Colonel Zinfandel was flying from Stanislavia to France in his own private jet.

And that morning, just as he did every morning, Colonel Zinfandel was boxing.

His private jet was very versatile. His engineers had made sure of that. If he was tired, a bed could be made for him. The soft feather cushions and the thick mattress were as comfortable as those of the best beds in the best hotels in the world. If he was hungry, his chef would hurry to the kitchen and cook the type of meal that you would be lucky to eat in one of the world’s finest restaurants. If Colonel Zinfandel wanted to do some exercise, three rows of seats would be removed from the middle of the plane and the space would be converted into a boxing ring.

Wherever he went, Colonel Zinfandel took his boxing gloves, his boxing shorts and his boxing shoes. He was always accompanied by several soldiers and bodyguards. Every morning, he would pick one of them as his opponent.

Every morning, he would beat his opponent.

Colonel Zinfandel loved boxing. He was a skillful boxer. Even more importantly, he was ruthless and cunning and determined to win.

No one had a hope against him.

The fight was short and brutal. Two minutes after they started, the soldier was lying on the ground with blood pouring from his nose and Colonel Zinfandel was hurrying back to his private rooms at the back of the plane.

He showered, dressed and breakfasted, then summoned his advisers and discussed what would happen when they landed in Paris.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur? Monsieur! Nous sommes arrivés!”

Tim opened his eyes. He didn’t know where he was or what he might be doing there. He remembered going to sleep last night in his bedroom. He was sure it was still the school holidays. As far as he knew, he had nothing planned for today. Nothing, that is, apart from spending the whole morning in bed. So where was he now? How had he got here? Who was the woman leaning over him? And why was she speaking in a language that he couldn’t understand?

“Monsieur, vous devez vous réveiller,”
said the woman. She pointed out of the window.
“Nous sommes à Paris.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tim. “I don’t speak French.”

“I know you don’t,” said the woman.

As soon as those words came out of the woman’s mouth, Tim recognized her as Natascha. And then he remembered everything. He sat up and looked out of the window. He could see a station platform, a guard in a black uniform and lots of passengers. A large sign read PARIS—GARE DU NORD. He said, “We’re in France!”

“That’s why I woke you up,” said Natascha. “Come on, you’ve slept enough. We’ve got to get to the Eiffel Tower.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Natascha. “But let’s go and find out. Or do you want to stay here? If you’d rather, you could just spend the whole day staring out of the window.”

“Yeah, that sounds like fun,” said Tim. He grabbed Grk’s leash and clambered out of the seat. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go,” said Natascha. She slung her backpack over her shoulder. Together, the three of them hurried down the aisle and went to the door. They stepped out of the carriage and joined the busy crowd of passengers on the platform streaming toward the exit.

The Gare du Nord is the busiest train station in Europe. It is always packed with people catching trains to Holland, Belgium, Britain and Northern France.

Tim and Natascha stood in the middle of the concourse, looking at the busy crowds, wondering which way to go.

Voices boomed from loudspeakers, speaking in both French and English, telling passengers which trains were leaving from which platforms. People hurried from one side of the station to the other, carrying bags and pulling suitcases. Signs pointed in every direction,
showing the way to buses and taxis and the Métro. But not a single sign pointed toward the Eiffel Tower.

Tim felt completely confused. “This is crazy,” he said, “I’ve never seen so many people. What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?”

“That way,” said Natascha. She pointed across the station to a small blue booth marked with three words: OFFICE DU TOURISME.

“What does that mean?” said Tim.

But Natascha didn’t hear him. She was already sprinting across the station, jumping over suitcases and dodging round passengers, hurrying toward the booth.

Tim couldn’t read French, but he realized that the words printed on the booth weren’t very different from their English equivalents.
Office
must mean “office.”
Tourisme
must mean “tourism.” And a tourist officer would be the perfect person to tell them how to find the Eiffel Tower.

Tim and Grk ran after Natascha.

The three of them reached the booth at the same time. A small blond woman was sitting inside, filing her nails. Natascha put her elbows on the counter and said, “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

“Of course,” said the woman. She had a strong French accent. “I am the officer of the tourism, so I must have spoken English. It is obliged for my job. How can I help you?”