Inside the boat, Skoda was opening a bottle of gin. He’d had a good day, selling more than a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of merchandise to the kids at his old school. And the best thing was, they’d all be back for more. Soon, he’d sell them the stuff only if they promised to introduce it to their friends. Then the friends would become customers too. It was the easiest market in the world. He’d gotten them hooked. They were his to do with as he liked.
The fair-haired man working with him was named Beckett. The two had met in prison and decided to go into business together when they got out. The boat had been Beckett’s idea. There was no real kitchen and no toilet, and it was freezing in winter … but it worked. It even amused them to be so close to a police station. Sometimes they enjoyed watching the police cars or boats going past. Of course, the pigs would never think of looking for criminals right on their own doorstep.
Suddenly Beckett swore. ‚What the…?'
‚What is it?' Skoda looked up.
‚The cup…'
Skoda watched as a cup of coffee, which had been sitting on a shelf, began to move. It slid sideways, then fell off with a clatter, spilling cold coffee on the gray rag that they called a carpet. Skoda was confused. The cup seemed to have moved on its own. Nothing had touched it. He giggled. ‚How did you do that?' he asked.
‚I didn’t.'
‚Then…'
The fair-haired man was the first to realize what was happening—but even he couldn’t guess the truth. ‚We’re sinking!' he shouted.
He scrabbled for the door. Now Skoda felt it for himself. The floor was tilting. Test tubes and beakers slid into each other, then crashed to the floor, glass shattering. He swore and followed Beckett—uphill now. With every second that passed, the gradient grew steeper. But the strange thing was that the barge didn’t seem to be sinking at all. On the contrary, the front of it seemed to be rising out of the water.
‚What’s going on?' Skoda yelled.
‚The door’s jammed!' Beckett had managed to open it an inch, but the wire on the other side was holding it firm. ‚Check the other door!'
But the second door was now high above them. More bottles rolled off the table and smashed. In the kitchen, dirty plates and mugs slid into each other, pieces flying. With something between a sob and a snarl, Skoda tried to climb up the mountainside that the inside of the boat had become. But it was already too steep. The door was almost over his head. He lost his balance and fell backward, shouting as, one second later, the other man was thrown on top of him. The two of them rolled into the corner, tangled up in each other. Plates, cups, knives, forks, and dozens of pieces of scientific equipment crashed into them. The walls of the barge were grinding with the pressure. A window shattered. A table turned itself into a battering ram and buried itself at them. Skoda felt a bone snap in his arm and screamed out loud.
The barge was completely vertical, standing in the water at ninety degrees. For a moment it rested where it was. Then it began to rise…
Alex stared at the barge in amazement. The crane was lifting it at half speed—some sort of override had come into action, slowing the operation down—but it wasn’t even straining. Alex could feel the power under his palms. Sitting in the cabin with both hands on the joysticks, his feet apart and the jib of the crane jutting out ahead of him, he felt as if he and the crane had become one. He had only to move an inch and the five-ton boat would be brought to him. He could see it, dangling on the hook, spinning slowly. Water was streaming off the bow. It was already clear of the water, rising up about five yards per second. He wondered what it must be like inside.
And then the radio beside his knee hissed into life.
‚Crane operator! This is base. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Over!' A pause, a burst of static. Then the metallic voice was back. ‚Who is in the crane? Who’s up there? Will you identify yourself…'
There was a microphone snaking toward Alex’s chin and he was tempted to say something.
But he decided against it. Hearing a teenager’s voice would only panic them more.
He looked down between his knees. About a dozen construction workers were closing in on the base of the crane. Others were pointing at the boat, jabbering amongst themselves. No sounds reached the cabin. It was as if Alex were cut off from the real world. He felt very secure.
He had no doubt that more workers had already started climbing the ladder and that it would all be over soon, but for the moment he was untouchable. He concentrated on what he was doing. Getting the barge out of the water had been only half his plan. He still had to finish it.
‚Crane operator! Lower the hook! We believe there are people inside the boat and you are endangering their lives. Repeat. Lower the hook!'
The barge was almost two hundred feet above the water, swinging on the end of the hook.
Alex moved his left hand, turning the crane around so that the boat was dragged in an arc along the river and then over dry land. There was a sudden buzz. The jib came to a halt. Alex pushed the joystick. Nothing happened. He glanced at the computer. The screen had gone blank.
Someone at ground level had come to his senses and done the only sensible thing. He had switched off the power. The crane was dead.
Alex sat where he was, watching the barge swaying in the breeze. He hadn’t quite succeeded in what he had set out to do. He had planned to lower the boat—along with its contents—safely into the parking lot by the police station. It would have made a nice surprise for the authorities, he had thought. Instead the boat was now hanging over the conference center that be had seen from Putney Bridge. But at the end of the day, he supposed it didn’t make much difference. The result would be the same.
He stretched his arms and relaxed, waiting for the trapdoor to burst open. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.
And then he heard the tearing sound.
The metal stanchion that protruded from the end of the deck had never been designed to carry the entire weight of the barge. It was a miracle that it had lasted as long as it had. As Alex watched, openmouthed, the stanchion tore itself free. For a few seconds it clung by one edge to the deck. Then the last metal rivet came loose.
The five-ton barge had been sixty yards above the ground. Now it began to fall.
In the Putney Riverside Conference Center, the chief of the Metropolitan Police was addressing a large crowd of journalists, TV cameramen, civil servants, and government officials.
He was a tall, thin man who took himself very seriously. His dark blue uniform was immaculate, with every piece of silver—from the studs on his epaulettes to his five medals—
polished until it gleamed. This was his big day. He was sharing the platform with no less a personage than the home secretary himself. The assistant chief of police was there as well as seven lower-ranking officers. A slogan was being projected onto the wall behind him.
WINNING THE WAR AGAINST DRUGS
Silver letters on a blue background. The chief of police had chosen the colors himself, knowing that they matched his uniform. He liked the slogan. He knew it would be in all the major newspapers the next day—along with, just as important, a photograph of himself.