Read Online South by South East by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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ik u misschien helpen?
” she said. It sounded like she was gargling, but that’s the Dutch language for you. Tim stared at her.
“
Hoeveel kaartjes wilt u?
” she demanded more angrily.
You didn’t have to be Einstein to work out what she was saying. After all, she was a ticketseller and we needed tickets. But Tim just stood there, rooted to the spot, mumbling in what sounded like GCSE French. I stepped forward.
“
Twee kaarties alstublieft,
” I said and slid some money under the window. The old woman grunted, gave us two tickets and went back to her book.
“What did you say?” Tim demanded.
“I asked for two tickets.”
“But when did you learn to speak Dutch?”
“On the ferry. I looked in a phrase book.”
Tim’s face lit up. “You’re brilliant, Nick!”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “It’s just a phrase I’m going through.”
We passed through a set of double doors. We could hear the ice rink in the distance now, or at least the music booming out over the speakers.
I noticed that Tim had picked up a pair of skates.
“We’re here to look for 86,” I reminded him. “We’re not going skating.”
“86 could be on the ice,” he said.
“But Tim … can you skate?”
“Can I skate?” He grinned at me. “
Can
I skate!”
Tim couldn’t skate. I watched him fall over three times – and that was before he even reached the ice. Then I left him and began to search for the secret agent who called himself 86. How would I recognize him? He was hardly likely to have a badge with the number on it. A tattoo, perhaps? I decided to look out for anyone who seemed strange or out-of-place. The trouble was, in a run-down Dutch skating rink in the middle of the summer,
everyone
seemed out of place.
The ice rink was enormous. It was like being inside an aircraft hangar. It was rectangular in shape, surrounded by five rows of plastic seats rising in steps over the ice. There was an observation box at one end and the terrace café at the other. Everything was slightly shabby, old-fashioned … and cold. The ice was actually steaming as it caught the warm air from outside and chilled it. There were only about half a dozen skaters out there and, as they glided along the surface of the rink, they seemed to disappear into the fog like bizarre, dancing ghosts.
There was also a handful of spectators. An old lady sat knitting. She might have been aged eighty-six but I somehow doubted that she was the agent. An ice-cream seller was sitting on his own, looking depressed because nobody was buying his ice creams. The nearest he got to eighty-six was the 99-flakes he was advertising.
I glanced back at Tim. He had fallen over again. Either that, or he was trying to ice-skate on his nose.
But there was one good skater on the ice, a real professional in a black tracksuit. If you’ve ever watched ice-skaters, you’ll know that they seem to move without even trying. It’s almost as though they’re flying standing up. Well, this man was like that. I watched him as he sped round in a huge figure of eight. Then I turned back and began to thread my way through the remaining spectators.
That was when I saw them. They were sitting down in the middle of the highest row of seats with their legs spread out on the seats below them. One was tall and thin, dressed in a grey suit with a bow tie. At some time in his life he’d had a nasty argument with someone … and I mean nasty. The someone had left a scar that started just to the side of his left eye and ran all the way down to his neck. I’d never seen a scar quite like it. It looked like you could post a letter in it. His companion was shorter, dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He had hair like an oil-slick and a face that seemed to have been moulded by somebody with large thumbs. He didn’t need a scar. He was ugly enough already.
Why had I noticed them? It was simple. They weren’t watching the ice. I got the feeling they were watching
” she said. It sounded like she was gargling, but that’s the Dutch language for you. Tim stared at her.
“
Hoeveel kaartjes wilt u?
” she demanded more angrily.
You didn’t have to be Einstein to work out what she was saying. After all, she was a ticketseller and we needed tickets. But Tim just stood there, rooted to the spot, mumbling in what sounded like GCSE French. I stepped forward.
“
Twee kaarties alstublieft,
” I said and slid some money under the window. The old woman grunted, gave us two tickets and went back to her book.
“What did you say?” Tim demanded.
“I asked for two tickets.”
“But when did you learn to speak Dutch?”
“On the ferry. I looked in a phrase book.”
Tim’s face lit up. “You’re brilliant, Nick!”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “It’s just a phrase I’m going through.”
We passed through a set of double doors. We could hear the ice rink in the distance now, or at least the music booming out over the speakers.
I noticed that Tim had picked up a pair of skates.
“We’re here to look for 86,” I reminded him. “We’re not going skating.”
“86 could be on the ice,” he said.
“But Tim … can you skate?”
“Can I skate?” He grinned at me. “
Can
I skate!”
Tim couldn’t skate. I watched him fall over three times – and that was before he even reached the ice. Then I left him and began to search for the secret agent who called himself 86. How would I recognize him? He was hardly likely to have a badge with the number on it. A tattoo, perhaps? I decided to look out for anyone who seemed strange or out-of-place. The trouble was, in a run-down Dutch skating rink in the middle of the summer,
everyone
seemed out of place.
The ice rink was enormous. It was like being inside an aircraft hangar. It was rectangular in shape, surrounded by five rows of plastic seats rising in steps over the ice. There was an observation box at one end and the terrace café at the other. Everything was slightly shabby, old-fashioned … and cold. The ice was actually steaming as it caught the warm air from outside and chilled it. There were only about half a dozen skaters out there and, as they glided along the surface of the rink, they seemed to disappear into the fog like bizarre, dancing ghosts.
There was also a handful of spectators. An old lady sat knitting. She might have been aged eighty-six but I somehow doubted that she was the agent. An ice-cream seller was sitting on his own, looking depressed because nobody was buying his ice creams. The nearest he got to eighty-six was the 99-flakes he was advertising.
I glanced back at Tim. He had fallen over again. Either that, or he was trying to ice-skate on his nose.
But there was one good skater on the ice, a real professional in a black tracksuit. If you’ve ever watched ice-skaters, you’ll know that they seem to move without even trying. It’s almost as though they’re flying standing up. Well, this man was like that. I watched him as he sped round in a huge figure of eight. Then I turned back and began to thread my way through the remaining spectators.
That was when I saw them. They were sitting down in the middle of the highest row of seats with their legs spread out on the seats below them. One was tall and thin, dressed in a grey suit with a bow tie. At some time in his life he’d had a nasty argument with someone … and I mean nasty. The someone had left a scar that started just to the side of his left eye and ran all the way down to his neck. I’d never seen a scar quite like it. It looked like you could post a letter in it. His companion was shorter, dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He had hair like an oil-slick and a face that seemed to have been moulded by somebody with large thumbs. He didn’t need a scar. He was ugly enough already.
Why had I noticed them? It was simple. They weren’t watching the ice. I got the feeling they were watching
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