Grk Undercover (9 page)

He wondered what to do next.

He was running across the second level of the Eiffel Tower, hundreds of meters above the ground. There was only one way to escape from the men who were chasing him. He had to get off the tower and onto the ground. Then he could disappear into the streets of Paris and shake off his pursuers.

How should he get down to the ground?

He had two options. He could take a lift or he could walk down the stairs. The lift would be quicker, but Tim preferred the thought of the stairs. He didn’t like the prospect of finding himself trapped in a small space with Colonel Zinfandel or one of his bodyguards.

He looked around, searching for the stairs. There! He could see an entrance cut into the floor. He pushed through the crowd. Grk trotted alongside him. They reached the stairs and jogged down.

A moment later, they were alone on a skinny staircase descending toward the ground.

The stairs were enclosed by a fence. You couldn’t get through or fall off. You could only go up or down.

Tim and Grk went down.

And down.

And down.

The only noise was the rattle of their footsteps against the metal stairs.
Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap! Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap! Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap!

The stairs were mesmerizing. Down and down and down and down and down. Step after step after step after step after step. They seemed to go on forever.

Every minute or two, Tim and Grk passed other people coming up, holding the handrail and hauling themselves slowly from step to step. Going up was much more difficult than going down. You should have taken the lift, Tim wanted to say, but he didn’t have any spare time to say anything. Nor did he have breath to waste. He just ran past, hoping he wasn’t going to meet any of Colonel Zinfandel’s bodyguards.

And he didn’t. He must have outsmarted them by choosing the stairs rather than the lifts.

But if they were guarding the lifts, checking who got in and who got out, wouldn’t they have caught Max and Natascha?

He couldn’t worry about that. Not now. The others would have to take care of themselves. He just had to concentrate on saving himself. Later, when he reached Notre Dame, he could worry about the others.

The stairs went on and on.

Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap!

Step after step after step after step after step.

Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap!

Down and down and down and down and down.

Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap!

Just as Tim was beginning to think they would never reach the ground, he saw a doorway. It was the exit.

Tim was exhausted, but he still had a big grin on his face. He looked down at Grk and said, “We’ve done it! We’re free!”

Grk wagged his tail and gave a joyful bark.

GRRRFF!

Together, Tim and Grk jogged down the last few steps and emerged from the Eiffel Tower. They found themselves in the midst of a
large crowd. They had walked straight into one of the lines of people waiting to go up in a lift.

Tim felt proud of himself. He had escaped. He was free. He had managed to outwit Colonel Zinfandel and his bodyguards. Now he just had to find his way to Notre Dame—and hope that Max and Natascha had managed to escape too. He looked at Grk. “Can you remember what Natascha said I should say?”

This time, Grk didn’t wag his tail. Nor did he bark. He didn’t appear to have heard what Tim said.

“I think it was
‘Où est Notre Dame?’
” said Tim. “Is that right?
‘Où est Notre Dame?’
”

Grk still didn’t answer. All his attention was focused elsewhere. His ears were upright. His fur was standing on end. His tail was between his legs. He looked tense and alert.

“What is it?” said Tim. “What’s wrong?”

Grk lifted his head to look at Tim, then turned back again to look across the concrete.

Tim turned to see what Grk was looking at.

At first, he couldn’t see anything unusual. There were long lines for the lifts. Tourists were taking photos. Dogs and toddlers were
running around. People were selling little silver models of the Eiffel Tower. Everything looked normal. And then he noticed a broad-shouldered man pushing through the crowds, coming toward him.

It was the same bodyguard who had seen them coming out of the lift on the second floor. He must have recovered from Max’s kick and come down to the ground to wait for them. Now he was only a few meters away.

For a second, Tim was too surprised to move. He stood there, staring stupidly at the bodyguard, allowing him to come even closer.

The bodyguard roared.

Who was he shouting at? And what was he saying?

Tim immediately saw the answers to his own questions. More men were coming toward him from every direction. They must have been waiting at the exits. Now they had been alerted by the bodyguard’s shouts.

They were coming to get him.

Tim knew he didn’t have a chance. He was just a small, thin boy. Protected by nothing except a small dog. He didn’t have a gun. He couldn’t fight. What could he do against a group of soldiers?

Shouldn’t he just put his hands in the air and surrender?

He glanced at the ground.

Grk wagged his tail. His ears were upright. His jaws were open, showing his small white teeth. He was ready to defend himself.

Me too, thought Tim.

They weren’t going to surrender. They weren’t going to allow themselves to be captured. No, they were going to fight with every drop of their strength.

He jerked Grk’s leash.

“Come on,” he yelled. “Run!”

Grk didn’t need any encouragement. He turned round and sprinted across the concrete, heading away from the tower and toward the river. Tim charged after him.

Behind them, Tim could hear more shouting. Not just one voice this time. Lots of voices. Ten or twenty men shouting to one another. He knew what that meant. The Stanislavian Secret Service were following him. They would be coming from every direction, hoping to cut him off and trap him and catch him and take him to Colonel Zinfandel. Well, he didn’t want that to happen. He wanted to be free. He put his head down and ran as fast as he had ever run in his life.

One ordinary boy against a troop of highly trained, heavily armed bodyguards?

No contest.

Tim knew he didn’t have a chance.

The Stanislavian Secret Service would hunt him down and catch him in seconds. And when they caught him, they would hurl him to the ground, cuff his hands together and take him into custody.

That was what should have happened, anyway. And that was what would have happened if Tim and Grk hadn’t been so fast, so determined and, most importantly, so small.

Being small has many disadvantages.

You get trodden on. You get ignored. You get forgotten. No one listens when you talk.

But being small has a few advantages too.

You can duck under outstretched arms. You can dodge through crowds. You can scramble under fences. And no one stops you. No one screams. Or yells. Or calls for the police. No one shouts, “Oi! That hurt! What do you think you’re doing?” And no one puts their hands on your
jacket and says, “You pushed my wife! I’d like you to say sorry to her! And I want you to do it right now!”

Tim didn’t stop to see who was shouting. Nor did he turn around to see what had happened behind him. He just kept running. He was determined to run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run until a hand grabbed his shoulder or a bullet punctured his lungs.

He didn’t worry about Grk. He knew he didn’t have to. Grk was perfectly capable of looking after himself. Dodging round legs, springing over bags and galloping through the middle of crowds, Grk never strayed farther than a few meters behind Tim and was usually several paces ahead.

They emerged from the crowds and sped toward the road.

Up ahead, Tim could see a bridge and a busy road and a large building. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do when he got there, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He just ran.

They reached the road. Cars whizzed past. The lights were green, but Tim didn’t have time to wait for them to turn red. He charged straight across the road with Grk by his side.

Horns hooted. Brakes screeched. Cars swerved. Tim hoped no one would hit him.

And he was lucky. No one did.

When they got to the other side of the road, Tim could see a choice of four routes. He could run along the road to the left. Or the right. He could go straight ahead and run across the bridge to the other side of the river. Or he could go down the steps.

If he went left, right or straight across, he would have nowhere to hide. His pursuers would catch him easily. That left the steps. He didn’t know where they led, but that didn’t matter. At least he might have a chance of finding somewhere to hide.

Tim glanced over his shoulder.

He could see a short, stocky, red-faced man coming straight toward him. They were only a few meters apart.

Behind the red-faced man, more bodyguards were sprinting across the road and pouring toward him from every direction.

Tim had a few seconds, nothing more. And then they would get him.

He turned and ran down the stairs. Grk sprinted after him.

At the bottom of the stairs, they both came to a sudden halt, not knowing where to go next. They only had a second to decide. What should they do?

Grk looked at Tim, waiting to see what he did.

Tim looked left. He saw the river and the underside of the bridge. If he went that way, his pursuers would catch him in seconds.

He looked right. He saw a long stretch of pavement without any hiding places. They would catch him immediately that way too.

He looked straight ahead and saw a large boat moored on the quay. It was a cruiser that took tourists along the river to see the sights. The rows of orange seats were packed with people. The boat was just about to leave on its next voyage. Smoke was gushing from the engine. Water was churning. Men were coiling ropes and shouting instructions to one another.

A gangplank stretched between the boat and the shore. As the boat eased away from the shore, two men hauled the gangplank aboard.

That was his only hope.

Tim ran toward the gangplank.

Grk looked at the river, then at Tim. He didn’t like water. And he hated getting wet. But he trusted Tim. So he ran after him.

They put their heads down and sprinted at full speed.

The boat moved farther from the shore.

Tim reached the bank and hurled himself into the air. Grk did the same. They soared across the water.

For a moment, they seemed to hang in midair, directly above the river. Tim thought he was going to slap straight into the side of the boat. He imagined knocking himself unconscious and slithering into the murky depths. And then he slammed onto the deck, hitting his shoulder and his elbow and his chest, knocking all the breath out of his body.

Grk crashed onto the deck beside him, rolled over in a tangle of legs and came to a halt against the wall.

They lay there, stunned and unable to move, as the boat eased slowly away from the shore and steamed down the Seine.

Tim opened his eyes.

His elbow ached. So did his shoulder. He thought he could feel blood trickling down his forehead.

People were shouting at him. He couldn’t understand what they saying, but he didn’t care.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Because he was safe.

Grk rolled over and licked his paws.

Tim sat up and looked at the shore.

Colonel Zinfandel’s bodyguards were standing there, arguing with one another, each blaming the other for what had just happened. Several meters of water separated them from Tim. He had escaped!

Or so he thought.

But his delight only lasted for a few seconds. Then he realized how stupid he had been.

The bodyguards ran along the shore, keeping level with the boat. They could see Tim. They knew where he was. And, even more importantly, they knew he wasn’t going anywhere. As soon as the boat docked, they would be able to come aboard and get him.

He was trapped.

Colonel Zinfandel jogged along the shore. Four of his men followed him. Others ran along the other bank and took up positions on the bridges, communicating with one another via walkie-talkies.

Colonel Zinfandel loved running. In usual circumstances, he couldn’t have imagined anything better than jogging through the center of Paris, enjoying the fresh air and looking at the most beautiful city in the world.

But these were not normal circumstances.

He had been humiliated by the Raffifis and their friend and their stupid little dog. They had made him look like a fool. So he was determined to catch them. And when he caught them, he was going to kill them—just as he had killed their father and their mother.

Colonel Zinfandel had divided his men into two groups. The first group was searching the Eiffel Tower, checking the lifts and the staircases, looking for the other two children, the boy and the girl, the children of Gabriel Raffifi. The second group, led by himself, was going to hunt down the third boy and the dog.

He remembered meeting the boy in Stanislavia.

The boy had come to the presidential palace and shaken his hand and drunk his orange juice and smiled as if he was perfectly innocent and harmless. Colonel Zinfandel had allowed himself to be fooled. And the boy had repaid him by making him look like an idiot.

Never again, thought Colonel Zinfandel.

This time, he wouldn’t be so stupid. This time, he would kill the boy and the dog as soon as he got a chance.

It should have been easy. His men were some of the best soldiers in his army. They had guns and knives. They were fit, energetic and highly trained. They could run a mile in five minutes and kill a man with their bare hands.

How could a boy escape from them?

How could they fail to capture a child and a little white dog?

But there was the evidence for everyone to see. The boy and the dog had somehow managed to leap from the shore to the boat and they couldn’t be caught.