Free Blood Sun by David Gilman Page B

was he could get to Peru from a dozen local airports via Europe. Charlie had no idea where he might leave from. There was also a composite letter on Gordon’s laptop, forged by pasting elements of the school’s website information pack, which had Fergus Jackson’s signature on it. It was written as a letter of authority confirming that the underage Max Gordon had permission to travel. A second letter was addressed to the British consul in Lima, asking that all assistance be given to the boy while he undertook field studies at a volunteer program in the Andes. The boy had everything planned.
    “Then he’s been too clever by half,” Ridgeway told her. He would scan all the airports’ ticketing systems. Sooner or later, Max Gordon’s name would appear; then they would have him.
    Morgan finished her report: a certain university lecturer in Oxford should be checked. He was the one who had visited the school and given a lecture on the Peruvian khipus. If Max Gordon had one of those things, then odds were he’d head there first. And then he would have easy access to Luton orStansted airports, which had flights to Europe. That all seemed to fit neatly.
    “I’m going to check CCTV at the most likely train station. If he’s heading anywhere by train, we’ll find him,” she said. “The London train stops at Reading. He could connect to Oxford from there.”
    “Or the main London airports,” Ridgeway suggested.
    “Maybe.”
    “All right. We’ll get an alert at all passport controls,” Ridgeway told her. “For some reason, this boy has, or is able to obtain, information that people want. And until I know more, I don’t want another boy to die under suspicious circumstances.”
    “Why? What makes you think that, boss?”
    “As soon as we knew about Riga, we tried to double-check Danny Maguire’s cause of death, but we can’t; his body has gone missing. If Danny’s death was something other than suicide, Max Gordon might well be their next target.”

Max’s thoughts raced as he jogged round the perimeter wall of St. Christopher’s. Would they find him? He had laid a false trail, but was it enough? Sayid would keep them at bay for a while as far as giving out information was concerned. Baskins was bound to blab. How carefully had the authorities checked on Max’s escape?
    Max had watched all the CCTV cameras at Exeter station out of the corner of his eye. Overcrowded trains made it difficult to spot anyone easily, and as people struggled with cases and backpacks onto the London train, Max ducked round the rear of the Victorian-era waiting room—and waited. It was a blind spot for the cameras. And anyone tracking him would stop watching the CCTV footage the moment the train left.
    He gave it another twenty minutes, then made his way back across to the other platform. A slower train bound forWaterloo station, via Salisbury and just about every small town in between, shuddered into view. St. Christopher’s, his dad’s nursing home, was just outside London, and this would take him there.
    Now, three hours later, Max’s need to know about his mother was like hunger. It drove him on as it had done since he first learned of the doubt surrounding her death. When Mr. Jackson had phoned St. Christopher’s, they had asked him to call again in a couple of days, because right now Tom Gordon was not in good enough mental condition to see his son.
    Jackson would have informed anyone asking about Max’s dad of the man’s condition, which might also have bought Max a few hours. As for the rest? He didn’t know. The killers on the moor were still around. They were hard characters. His dad had told him about men like them before. They took to violence like a bird to the air—effortlessly, unthinkingly—a natural state in which to exist. There would be no reasoning with killers like that. You’re not a thug, Max. You don’t fight because you can’t control yourself. You’ll know when to strike first. It will be in