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kill.'
    Alex stared at the general in shock. 'Does that really happen?'
    'I'm sorry to say it does,' said the general softly. 'A number of people here think street kids are little more than rats to be exterminated. But I don't think all the killings are done by one man. They're random killings, done by different groups. I don't think the Rat-catcher really exists - except as a legend in the minds of the street kids.'
    'What if we offered a reward?' asked Alex's dad. 'Would the street kids talk to us then?'
    The general laughed. 'You'd have them queuing up round the block,' he said. 'And they'd all have a different story to tell you. No, if you want to spend some money on the street kids, make a donation to Sister Catherine's House. That's what I do.'
    'Who's Sister Catherine?' asked Alex.
    'She's a nun who runs a home for street kids,' explained the general. 'She's a marvel. Does it all on a shoestring. I admire her. So, I help out when I can, with donations. As for tracking down this drugs baron, I think tracking this consignment of acid is our best chance, not chasing street rumours.' The general looked up and rubbed his hands together as huge plates of lamb stew and rice were brought to the table, along with bowls of sweetcorn and a stack of tortillas. 'But enough of this serious talk! Let's eat. And after that, I'll take you on a grand tour of the Old Town!'
    Alex looked at the huge plateful of steaming food in front of him, then at the jeep, which was parked at a crazy angle with its rear-end sticking out into the road. He grinned ruefully at his dad and his dad grinned back.
    'What's the joke?' asked General Manteca.
    'I'm wondering whether I'm going to make it to the Galapagos Islands,' said Alex.
    The general and Alex's dad erupted into laughter and Alex joined in. He did not realize how true his words would prove to be.

S IX
    The next morning Alex and his father loaded their luggage into the jeep. They were both travelling light, with one rucksack each. Everything else Alex needed was on his belt. There was a single-bladed knife in a leather sheath, and a pouch which held his passport, a tobacco tin and a small plastic case. The tobacco tin contained the survival kit his father had given him and which he carried with him everywhere. It had proved to be a life-saver earlier that year, when the five members of Alpha Force had been stranded on an Indonesian island. The small plastic case was his Christmas present to his father. It held a collection of beautifully crafted fishing flies, which it had taken Alex months to make.
    They set off on the first leg of their journey, towards the train station. They had only been on the road for a few minutes when the cellphone clipped to the car dashboard began to beep. Alex's dad pressed the button which activated the speaker-phone facility.
    'Yes?'
    'There's trouble,' said a man's deep voice over the speaker system.
    'Mike? What sort of trouble?'
    There was a pause. 'We don't have a secure line,' said the voice.
    Alex's dad cursed. He had left his radio at the base, thinking he would not be using it over Christmas.
    'You need to get over here. Now,' continued the voice.
    'Where are you, Mike?'
    'On the route we drove the other day, remember?'
    'I remember. Any particular rendezvous point?'
    'You'll know it when you get there,' said the voice. With a click, the phone went dead.
    Alex's dad cursed again, then swung the car round in a screeching turn and began to head north out of Quito. 'Sorry, Alex,' he said. 'We'll have to catch a later train. I need to check this out.'
    'What's going on, Dad?' asked Alex.
    'That was one of my men from the unit. The route he was talking about is the road between Quito and the Colombian border. My guess is there's been some trouble with that consignment of sulphuric acid.'
    They saw the smoke when they were still kilometres away. A thick, greasy smudge of it wavered above the road ahead like a black marker flag. Alex's dad put his foot down when