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Troubador Publishing Ltd - Barbara Spencer

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131 pages

English

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Fifteen year old Scott Anderson has a secret so big he daren't share it even with his best friends. He and his dad are American. If you're American, you don't talk about it. If you don't talk about that, you don't talk about any of the other secrets that haunt your life - that your dad's really a computer scientist and people are searching for him. When Bill Anderson disappears, Scott is determined to find him. He has already lost his mother. She disappeared in the California earthquake, which killed ninety percent of the world's computer scientists; a tragedy for which America is held responsible. But there's little for Scott to go on; a scrap of paper left in a printer and a poster pinned to the wall. Now someone's looking for Scott, too. Is it the mysterious Frenchman, who pretends to be a radiation expert, or Sean Terry of the American Secret Service, who believes the United States innocent of the crimes levelled against it? Could it be Hilary Stone, the prettiest girl in class, who also claims to work for the American Secret Service? Or is it someone else entirely?Following the clues, Scott heads north on his dad's bike. As his pursuers catch up with him, it is Hilary Stone who saves him. Despite not trusting her, he grudgingly allows her to go with him to Scotland, where he believes the answer lies. After all, as Hilary points out; she has the gun. The annual flower festival at the Keukenhof in Holland plays host to the final scene where, at last, Scott comes face to face with his pursuers, and learns the secret his father has always kept hidden from him.

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	17 mai 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848769724
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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RUNNING
CHILDREN S BOOKS BY BARBARA SPENCER
Scruffy
A Dangerous Game of Football
BARBARA SPENCER
RUNNING
Copyright 2010 Barbara Spencer
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 5 Weir Road Kibworth Beauchamp Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK Tel: ( 44) 116 279 2299 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk /matador
ISBN 978 1848763 241
Cover Design: Aimee Hibberd
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 12pt Sabon MT by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Melissa who stayed up all night reading
PROLOGUE
Simultaneously mobiles rang in every corner of the world, the trapped and dying reaching out for a lifeline, as if a miracle of modern technology could rescue them. Last words of love and desperation soared into the air, with radio masts quivering under a deluge of calls. Within seconds the besieged towers were screaming no network coverage to the millions who, witnessing the disaster live on television, heedlessly keyed in the numbers of anyone that might be caught up in the quake, even now wiping out the Californian coastline.
A skyscraper, which five minutes before had been central to a vast hotel complex, nosedived into the ground. The resulting tremor catapulted the camera sideways so that, to the people staring at the screen, it was as if they were standing on their heads. Blackness followed then silence, the calm voice of the anchor man trying to reassure viewers they would be back at the scene momentarily.
In London, the cab driver, chatting amiably with his passenger and ignorant of the unfolding drama, had one eye on traffic, which appeared to be fast backing up, and one eye on his mirror, nodding in agreement to the various subjects offered up for discussion.
It s a long time since I was in England, the man said, the faintest trace of an American accent marking his voice.
That was when the cab driver began to wonder if his fare could be a film star. Even features, excellent teeth, not an ounce of extra flesh, with a thatch of light brown hair tipped blond by the sun, and steel blue eyes of a shade that only ever belonged to Americans.
The mobile in the American s jacket pocket rang. Excuse me, he said. Sweetheart, where are you calling from? Everything okay?
Since mobiles were designed only to be heard by the person into whose ear they were pressed, the cab driver couldn t hear the terrified syllables speeding across the saturated airwaves. He could only watch with astonishment as his passenger s face turned into a mask of dangerous impotence.
They told us we had to work for them to stay alive, the whispered words flew across the Atlantic. But they tricked us. Can you hear it? The earthquake
What are you talking about? Who tricked you ?
The Styrus Project - they want it. We said no.
Who, goddamn it Who ?
There was a blur of static then the line cleared. there s no way out.
Yes, there is, the man snapped. There s always a way out - find it.
I m trying, that s what you can hear - me - running. But it s hopeless. Charlie s dead, so s James. It s impossible. We re trapped.
Try, g oddamn it If someone s after you, they won t let you be killed, you re too valuable. And if they can get in, you can get out. Stay alive, do you hear The pleasant quality of the man s voice had vanished his tone vicious, as if it could force a reaction thousands of miles away.
The mobile crackled, the words becoming staccato. There s no way. Can t make it Sky keep him safe. The building it s toppling Sky safety.
You re not checking out on me. Crawl if you have to, but don t you dare check out , the passenger yelled into the static.
The cab driver watched in a state of near panic. Whatever had happened? His passenger s face was now chalk-white under its tan, his expression animal-like in its ferocity, his eyes glittering as he swiftly keyed in a number, speaking briefly.
Get me back to Grosvenor House - fast, he snapped, his eyes fixed on the small screen in his mobile, where newsreaders crowded to report events.
The cabby stuck his arm straight out of the window and, heedless of the vehicle bearing down on them, swung the cab round, saluting the driver s blast on the horn with two fingers. Grosvenor House came into view and he swung the cab along the apron in front of the hotel and stopped.
Wait his passenger took the hotel steps in a single bound. Get me on the next flight to New York, he snapped to the Bell Captain, scarcely hesitating in his path to the front desk.
Ten minutes later he reappeared, clutching a small valise. The cabby, who had considered jettisoning his lucrative fare and fleeing the scene, convinced he was carrying a knife-wielding maniac, obligingly pulled back into the traffic. There d been no lack of volunteers in the cab rank eager to update him on the disaster taking place in California. He viewed his passenger with careful sympathy; someone belonging to the American was caught up in the earthquake, that much was evident. He fished around for something to say but found nothing. He didn t know the bloke and sorry was an empty, meaningless word, trotted out when you bumped into someone. Instead, he cursed the traffic and urged his cab forward, one eye on the crowd of onlookers that had spilled on to the roadway outside Debenhams. Ignorant to the danger, they had their gaze fixed on the television sets in the shop s window display, where live footage of the disaster was being transmitted.
Son of a bitch his passenger cursed. The vacuous pleasures of the petty-minded, who derive their kicks from someone else s misfortune.
That s not fair, guv, the cab driver rebuked. The English don t celebrate tragedy. Those people watching, they ll be putting their hands in their pockets tomorrow to help.
I know, his passenger said, his tone bleak. Excuse me.
Look, guv. I can t help much but I can drop you by a tube station. You ll reach the airport quicker that way. It s not fair to take your money.
He pulled in to the side of the road, opposite the entrance to the underground at Oxford Circus. Good luck, sir. Who was it? he said, the traditional inner core of reserve, so great a part of being English, battling with his cabby s nose for entertaining titbits to pass on to his next fare.
My wife The man pressed a twenty-pound note into the cabby s hand. He glanced up briefly, meeting the concern in the driver s eyes. Only my wife.
At dawn the following morning, a rental car made its way down narrow, dust-filled tracks that wound across the slopes of the Sierras. The driver knuckled his eyes. He felt bone weary, but thanked God he had at least made it. If the call had not got through - if the taxi driver had been lazy or greedy and withheld information about travelling by subway - if he had missed his connection in New York, he would now be stranded. The rental car s stereo, his only companion, had kept him abreast of the news. And less than six hours after he reached New York, the President had declared a State of Emergency closing every airport on the continent. By then he was landing in Las Vegas. Now nothing moved in the skies, unless by order of the Federal Government.
Beyond that nothing had happened, the lessons learned from the tragedy of New Orleans too far distant to be remembered. In any case it had been a double whammy. Participants at meetings, hastily convened to set up a rescue operation with help for survivors, had awakened to find their decisions literally wiped out, as a deadly wave submerged the battered coastline in the dead of night, sealing the fate of those who had somehow survived the earthquake.
To the American driving through the night, the horrific details of the tsunami constantly tore holes in his belief that his wife had somehow survived. Nevertheless, each time he stopped for coffee he punched in numbers on his speed dial, praying someone, somewhere, would have news, only to be met with silence.
The couple waiting for him out on their porch had no news either. They only knew what the television had relayed and prayed their son had something more hopeful. In their sixties with white hair, they continued vigorous and upright; the husband still carrying the firm muscle of a sportsman, his clear grey eyes watching the distant track as the car appeared through a cloud of dust.
The disaster hadn t reached them, high in the hills above Sacramento; but the slopes, a mile below them, were thronged with battered survivors, many still in night wear. Anxious residents had opened their doors and ransacked closets for clothes and shoes, handing out water and blankets, all the time desperately searching the skies for some sign the government cared.
The man pulled the Chevy to a halt and got out, his face grey with fatigue.
Any news?
A unified shake of the head spoke volumes as to the length of time the couple had been married. The older man put a gentle arm round the younger man s shoulders, escorting him onto the porch, his expression carefully noncommittal. We were hoping you had something, son. But it was not to be. Seems like it was totalled all the way to San Francisco. Sacramento escaped the water, but it s raining refugees. Lord knows when help s coming; seems like our government s got itself frozen. Come in, lad, you need food and sleep.
Any strangers?