Grk Undercover (26 page)

Tim just sighed. He didn’t trust the Cuddles. They’d lost Grk in the first place. Why would they be able to find him?

Back home, Mrs. Malt went upstairs to do some work, leaving Tim alone. He fetched a glass of orange juice from the fridge, threw himself on the big, squashy sofa in the sitting room and searched for the remote control.

Usually, Grk would be sitting beside him. Being alone felt horrible. Doing nothing felt even worse. But he didn’t know what else to do. How could he help Grk? What could he do?

Nothing. Not till later, anyway, when his parents were asleep. Then he would sneak out of the house and go to Cuddles Kennel and search for Grk himself. Till then, he just had to wait.

So he might as well watch TV.

He couldn’t find the remote control. He pulled away the cushions and checked the back of the sofa. Then he looked
under
the sofa. Grk sometimes hid things there: slippers, bones, biscuits, stuff like that. And, indeed, that was exactly where Tim found the remote control, along with a tennis ball, two squares of chocolate and lots of fluff.

As he was sitting down again, he noticed a light flashing on the answering machine and immediately felt furious with himself. Why hadn’t he listened to the message before? What if someone had found Grk?

He pressed Play.

There were two messages. The first one was from a man with an Australian accent.

“G’day. This is a message for Tim. It’s Shane here. We met in Brazil. I’m in Sydney right now and … Well, this probably sounds really strange, but have you lost your dog? Because I think I’ve found him.”

The Australian man left his number and asked Tim to call him.

The second message was from Natascha. “Hello, everyone. I wondered if there was any news. I wish I was there with you. Maybe I should come back to London. Anyway, I hope you’re all OK. Let’s speak soon. Bye.”

Tim saved both messages, then played the first one again. Then he played it once more. And then he went to find his mother.

“Mum,” he said. “Mum!”

Mrs. Malt was staring at her laptop, finishing some work. “Yes, dear?”

“I know where Grk is.”

“You do? Where is he?”

“Sydney.”

“Did you say Sydenham?”

“No, I said Sydney.”

“Where’s Sydney?”

“It’s the capital of Australia.”

“Oh, no, it’s not,” said Mrs. Malt. “Canberra is the capital of Australia. Sydney is simply the largest city. You should pay more attention in your geography lessons.”

“Whatever,” said Tim. “The point is, Grk’s there. There’s a message on the answering machine. Someone’s found him.”

“All alone, he traveled halfway around the world and he’s now in Sydney, Australia?”

“Exactly.”

Mrs. Malt sighed. “Tim, have you finished your homework?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you done every piece of work that your teacher asked you to do?”

“I don’t have time for homework,” said Tim. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t do it. I want to get Grk back. We have to call the police. We should ring the Australian High Commission. We have tell someone what’s—”

“That’s enough,” interrupted his mother. “I’m sorry, Timothy, but I don’t want to hear any more of your silly stories. In fact, I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you till suppertime. Go on, go and finish your homework.”

“Will you just come and listen to the message?”

“Which message?” said Mrs. Malt.

“On the answering machine.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Malt. “But only when you’ve finished your homework.”

“Fine,” said Tim. “Whatever.”

Leaving his mum with her laptop, Tim returned to the answering machine. He listened to the message twice more, copying down Shane’s number and making sure that he’d written every numeral correctly. Then he picked up the phone and rang Australia.

It rang three times and then a bleary voice said, “What time is it?”

“Five o’clock,” said Tim. “Maybe six.”

“Five? Strewth! Who are you and why are you ringing me at five in the morning?”

“Oh,” said Tim. Of course, he thought. Australia is on the opposite side of the world. The middle of our afternoon is the middle of their night. “I’m very sorry. I don’t know the time in Sydney. It’s teatime where I am.”

“Where are you, mate?”

“London.”

“London.” There was a moment’s silence. Then Shane said, “This isn’t Tim, is it?”

“It is,” said Tim.

“Tim! Good to hear from you, mate! You got my message, then?”

“I did,” said Tim. “Is Grk with you?”

“No, mate, he’s not.”

“Where is he?”

“I wish I knew. Listen, mate, this is all very strange. You are the same Tim, right? The boy from Brazil.”

“I’m not from Brazil,” said Tim. “I’m from England.”

“But you were in Brazil, right? We met there, didn’t we?”

“That’s right. You saved my life.”

“So I did, mate. So I did. You owe me one.”

“One what?” said Tim.

“One, er … I don’t know. It’s just a phrase.”

“A favor?” suggested Tim.

“I suppose so,” said Shane.

“I owe you another now. You’ve found Grk!”

“I haven’t exactly found him,” said Shane. “Well, I did find him. But now he seems to have lost himself again.”

“What do you mean? Where is he? What’s happened?”

“Give me a chance and I’ll tell you.”

Shane explained how he had met Grk in the middle of the airport, just as he was about to check the engine on his chopper. He described the sudden arrival of the Dog Unit and the equally sudden disappearance of the little white dog.

“Sensible bloke, your dog,” said Shane. “When he saw two guys with guns, he didn’t want to stick around.”

Shane had searched the helicopter for Grk, wondering if he might have found a hiding place under a seat or even in the engine, but there was no sign of him. He was just wondering whether to search in the hangar or the other helicopters when his passengers arrived. He couldn’t ask them to wait while he looked for a lost dog—billionaires and businesswomen don’t like waiting for anyone. Shane ferried them to the business district and by the time he brought them back to the airport, the little white dog was long gone.

“I had a look around,” said Shane. “But I couldn’t see him anywhere. So I came home. Had a bite to eat, watched half a movie, fell asleep. Then some bloke woke me up.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Tim.

“No, no, I’m kidding. You did the right thing. You’re worried about your dog. You want to find him again. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So, what are we going to do next? How are we going to find him?”

“Will you really help me?”

“That’s what mates are for,” said Shane. “If I was in trouble, you’d help me, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said Tim.

“Of course you would. You’re in trouble, so I’ll help you. Let me have a cup of coffee and a shower. I’m not used to waking up so early in the morning. When my brain is working a bit better, I’ll call you back again. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great,” said Tim.

They said goodbye and ended the call.

Tim went to the kitchen and switched on the computer. If his mum questioned him, he would pretend that he was researching his geography homework and learning about Australia. He searched for information about Sydney, looking up
the time difference, the weather and a map of the city. Then he wondered how to get there.

He could buy a flight.

But he didn’t have enough pocket money, or a credit card.

His dad had a credit card. His mum too. He could get up in the middle of the night and steal one of them; he’d done it before and he wouldn’t mind doing it again.

But he didn’t have his passport. It was locked in his mother’s desk and he didn’t have the key. Even if he had a ticket, he wouldn’t be allowed on a plane without a passport.

What else could he do?

He thought about the size of the earth. He imagined the vast oceans and huge expanses of land that divided him from Grk. How could he possibly cross them and get to Sydney?

Even if he had a boat—and he didn’t—sailing to Australia would take six months. By then, Grk would have vanished into the outback, never to be seen again.

A private jet could make the trip in a day or less, but he didn’t know anyone with a private jet.

He couldn’t possibly walk, drive, bike or hitchhike.

It was hopeless.

He knew where Grk was, but he couldn’t do anything to help him.

It was a long night for the hostages in the Sydney Opera House.

Filling the black bags took little more than an hour. After that, they had nothing to do.

Midnight passed. Then one o’clock. And two. And three.

Time ticked onward toward dawn and still nothing happened. No one smashed down the doors. No one charged into the auditorium and rescued the hostages. There was no sign of the police. Red Jelly remained in control of the whole situation.

People slumped in their seats. They were hungry, thirsty, tired, frightened and beginning to despair. Some of them managed to sleep. Others simply stared blankly into space, so worried that they couldn’t even close their eyes.

It was a long night for Rebecca Ward, Robert Corrigan, Jimmy Hu and Sir Tristram Tinderbiscuit, the four hostages who had been plucked out of the audience by Red Jelly. Now they sat in a corner of the stage, wondering why he had picked them.

What was he going to do with them?

Why had he said, “You’re my ticket out of here”?

What could that possibly mean?

The four of them were experienced and self-confident. They had been involved in big business deals and international incidents. But they had never had to face a situation like this.

They talked in low voices, discussing their options and trying to plan for every eventuality.

It was a long night for the police who were surrounding the Opera House.

They had arrived in cars, vans and helicopters, rushing into position and keeping the entire place under surveillance.

But then nothing happened.

Marksmen put down their rifles and flexed their fingers. Commanders pored over maps and discussed tactics. Officers drank cups of coffee and rubbed their eyes, trying to stay awake and alert.

The night wore on. The police stayed in position. But still nothing happened.

It wasn’t a long night for Grk.

He was curled up on a corner of the stage. His eyes were closed, his belly was full of chocolate-coated hazelnuts and he was fast asleep. He could hardly have been happier.

Every now and then, he opened his eyes and looked around. He peered at the people in the auditorium, who were sleeping or whispering or praying quietly to themselves. He glanced at Sir Tristram Tinderbiscuit and the other three hostages squatting nearby, talking together in low voices. Then he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Tim was thinking through his options, trying to come up with a plan, when the phone rang. He grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Tim,” said Shane. “How are you?”

“Not very good,” said Tim.

“Well, you might feel better when you hear my news.”

“Have you found Grk?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? Have you found him or haven’t you?”

“I haven’t exactly found him, but I know where he is.”

“Where?”

“Turn on your TV and you’ll find out.”

“The TV? Why?”

“Stop asking so many questions,” said Shane. “Just find yourself a TV and turn it on.”

Tim grabbed the remote and switched on the TV. A black-and-white movie filled the screen. A cowboy was galloping through a narrow valley on a white horse. An arrow thumped into his shoulder. Tim said, “What channel?”

“The one with Grk on,” said Shane.

Tim switched channels, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for. Anyway, why would Grk be on TV? And wouldn’t the TV in Australia be showing different stuff from the TV in London? Shane sounded very sure of himself, so Tim didn’t argue with him. He just kept clicking the remote control. He went past a gardening show and an auction show and the Teletubbies, but there was no sign of Grk. He went onward, flicking past an old episode of
Friends
and a movie and another movie and a shopping channel selling garden furniture and a football match and more movies and more shopping channels and then he reached Sky News.

A newsreader was talking directly to the camera. Behind him, there was a picture of the Sydney Opera House. The newsreader was in midsentence:

“… inside the Opera House, but no one knows what he wants. For now, three thousand hostages simply have to wait and pray.”

Tim leaned forward and stared at the TV.

At that moment, the picture changed. Now a different newsreader was smiling at the camera. Behind him, the screen was showing a picture of the Houses of Parliament. The newsreader said: “We’ll keep you updated on the developing situation in Australia throughout the day. Now, here in London, Parliament has been debating a controversial plan to introduce wild buffaloes into the Scottish Highlands.”

Tim pressed the button on the remote control, switching to another channel, then another, searching for more news. He finally found BBC News 24, which was showing some shaky footage filmed on a mobile phone. A newsreader’s voice
explained that this footage had been filmed a few hours ago inside the Sydney Opera House.

A huge, red-faced man stood at the front of the stage, holding a pistol in his right hand. He was talking to the audience, lecturing them, threatening them, warning them about what would happen if they tried to fight or escape.

Suddenly, a small white dog wandered onto the stage. The red-faced man turned to look at him. He said a few words. The dog barked and wagged his tail. Then the fat man reached into his pocket. And threw something across the stage.

The little dog caught it in his mouth.

The picture changed. A newsreader was standing outside the Opera House, talking directly to the camera. Behind him the dark sky was lit up by the blue and red flashes of police lights, and Tim could see police officers milling around in the background. Some were armed with rifles. Others were wearing helmets and carrying riot shields.