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what had happened to the plane. The moment its wheels touched the water, its fate had been sealed. Without solid ground beneath it, the plane had become bogged down and toppled over. Swamp water was even now pouring in as they slowly sank beneath the surface. The branches of the mangrove trees that had almost torn the plane apart surrounded them, bars of a living prison.
    “What are we going to do?” Marc demanded, and suddenly he was sounding like a child. “We‟re going to drown!”
    “We can get out!” Carlo had suffered whiplash injuries in the collision. He moved one arm painfully, unfastening his seat-belt.
    “We shouldn‟t have tried to cheat him!” Marc cried. “You knew what he was. You were told—
    “Shut up!” Carlo had a gun of his own. He pulled it out of the holster underneath his shirt and balanced it on his knee. “We‟ll get out of here and we‟ll deal with him. And then somehow we‟ll find a way off this damn island.”
    “There‟s something…” the pilot began.
    Something had moved outside.
    “What is it?” Marc whispered.
    “Shhh!” Carlo half stood up, his body filling the cramped space of the cabin. The plane tilted again, settling further into the swamp. He lost his balance then steadied himself. He reached out, past the pilot, as if he was going to climb out of the broken front window.
    Something huge and horrible lunged towards him, blocking out what little light there was in the night sky. Carlo screamed as it threw itself head first into the plane and onto him. There was a glint of white and a dreadful grunting sound. The other men were screaming too.
    General Sarov stood watching. It wasn‟t raining yet but the water was heavy in the air. There was a flash of lightning that seemed to cross the sky almost in slow motion, relishing its journey.
    In that moment, he saw the Cessna on its side, half-buried in the swamp. There were now half a dozen crocodiles swarming all over it. The largest of them had dived head first into the cockpit.
    Only its tail was visible, thrashing about as it gorged itself.
    He reached down and lifted up the black container. Although it had taken two men to carry it to him, it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands. He placed it in the jeep, then stood back. He allowed himself the rare privilege of a smile and felt it, briefly, on his lips. Tomorrow, when the crocodiles had finished their meal, he would send in his field workers—the macheteros—to recover the banknotes. Not that the money was important. He was the owner of one kilogram of weapons grade uranium. As Carlo had said, he now had the power to destroy a small city.
    But Sarov had no intention of destroying a city.
    His target was the entire world.

MATCH POINT

    Alex caught the ball on the top of his chest, bounced it forward and kicked it into the back of the net. It was then that he noticed the man with the large white dog. It was a warm, bright Friday afternoon, the weather caught between late spring and early summer. This was only a practise match but Alex took the game seriously. Mr. Wiseman, who taught PE, had selected him for the first team and he was looking forward to playing against other schools in west London.
    Unfortunately, his school, Brookland, didn‟t have its own playing fields. This was a public field and anyone could walk past. And they could bring their dogs. Alex recognized the man at once and his heart sank. At the same time he was angry. How could he have the nerve to come here, into the school arena, in the middle of a game? Weren‟t these people ever going to leave him alone?
    The man‟s name was Crawley. With his thinning hair, blotchy face and old-fashioned clothes, he looked like a junior army officer or perhaps a teacher in a second-rate private school. But Alex knew the truth. Crawley belonged to MI6. Not exactly a spy, but someone who was very much a part of that world. Crawley was an office manager in one of the country‟s most secret offices. He did the