The French police are very efficient. They have the jet surrounded less than a minute after it touches down. Molly sees them coming, piling out of an armoured black van, bristling with submachine guns and radio gear.
She's sitting in a window seat, peering out. One hand dangles at her side, the phone held loosely now, switched off. She turns round and says "They're here for you, Jon. Major Graves, you too, I think. If you're going to shoot me, now's the time."
Molly and Graves lock eyes for the last time. He brings his arm up, the Sig Sauer in his fist, sights along it at her head. Beside him, Murray is crumpled in his seat, broken.
"My pa used to say they can only hang you once," he says. "I'm going to jail, aren't I?"
"Yes," Molly says. "For Danny."
"For Danny," Graves repeats, like he's trying it out. "I guess I always knew all this would come to an end one day. I didn't see it being about a kid, some computer geek. No harm making it about two of you…"
He takes a breath, holds it, clicks the semi-automatic's safety off.
Lets the breath out. Lowers the pistol. "Hell, I got beat by a little girl. I'm not gonna feel any better about it if I shoot you. Worse, I'll bet."
Molly says, "What about your men?"
On the other side of the cabin Sawyer, Raghuveer and Brody are waiting for a sign. Graves swings round, points the gun in their direction. "Any of you tries to hurt the girl, I'll kill you myself." He looks at Sawyer and Raghuveer, narrows his eyes. "You two, I should probably shoot just on general principles. Never should have got involved with you psychos. World would be a safer place without you. In fact– "
"EVERYONE IN THE JET ON THE GROUND NOW. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND LACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD." The amplified voice, shockingly loud, cuts off the Major mid-sentence. Through the window Molly can see a man talking into a handheld microphone, his French-accented words blasting out of a mobile speaker unit. Good English, Molly thinks. She sees Graves sigh, unload the pistol, and toss the clip into the back of the plane.
"You heard the man," Graves says. "On the floor."
They do as they're told. Murray has to be dragged bodily to the floor; Graves's men wearily kneel, then lie down in the aisle. Graves himself lies just across from Molly, his hands behind his head, eyes closed, patient and quiet.
Just as the police pop open the front and rear hatches and swarm in, Molly says to him "Good game." She means it. She couldn't have done it without him.
He opens his eyes. "Now, don't make me regret not shooting you…"
***
Two hours later, Molly is sitting in an interrogation room drinking a hot sweet cup of tea. It's not the greatest cuppa she's ever had – it seems like the ability to brew in the true British style is still unable to cross salt water – but it's better than nothing. She feels weak, wobbly, drained. There's nobody else in the room – just her, the bare concrete walls, a metal table and chairs and an audio recorder.
The police had hustled her out of the jet first, wrapped her in a blanket and put her under guard in the back of a minibus they'd brought with them for hostages. She'd watched them bring the men out in handcuffs; Graves marching, head high, a soldier leading his men to their fate, and Murray shambling behind. The CEO was dressed like a million dollars, but something in his walk, his slumped shoulders and dragging feet, made him look like a tramp. He's finished, Molly thinks, and it gives her a warm glow of pride. She starts to consider what she's going to tell the authorities. Perhaps half the truth will be enough. She doesn't want to bring in Piotr or Will – tell them Danny gave her the data, Graves found out and kidnapped her. Molly doesn't think anyone's going to contradict her. Who'd believe them, anyway?
She waits and waits, but nobody comes until she's almost starting to nod off in her chair. The door swings open, startling her back to wakefulness, and a man walks in.
He's six foot tall, around thirty-five, his hair cut very short, perhaps because he's going bald. Brown eyes look out of a friendly, mobile face. He's wearing a dark blue tweed suit over a black v-neck sweater. He's holding a straw Trilby hat in one hand, and Molly thinks he doesn't look a bit like a policeman.
Perhaps the kind of English teacher who gets excited by Shakespeare.
As he's sitting down he says, "Hello, Molly." It's an English voice, not French, with no particular accent. It's a BBC newsreader's voice.
"Hello," Molly says. "You are…?"
He leans towards her. "We've corresponded. We haven't met in person before but," and here he smiles at her, "we've met at the crossroads."
Molly thinks what? And then realises who she's talking to.
"Legba," she says.
The ACENET administrator nods. "Very good. Papa Legba would be the full alias, if you were into voodoo. Lord of the crossroads. The intermediary between mortals and the spirits. I had a bet with myself that you'd get that reference, that you would have looked it up some time and remembered. You've always been an excellent student."
Molly narrows her eyes. "What are you doing here? How did you even get in?"
'Legba' leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "Molly, I need to explain something about ACENET. I work for the British government. ACENET is a government operation. Always has been, in fact."
"What?" Molly snaps at him.
"Yes. We do… recruitment, for certain sensitive agencies. We're looking out for the best and brightest. People like you, Molly. You were noticed quite some time ago."
Molly says, "You're some kind of spook."
Legba nods. "Exactly. Forgive me if I don't give you my name, rank and serial number, but you know how it is. Official secrets and all that."
"And you use ACENET to what, find kids to work for you?"
"Find them, yes. Sometimes test them, too. You see, we rather liked having Danny Solomon running around saving the world in his own peculiar way. He did a lot of good, put a lot of bad people out of action. And, incidentally, a few foreign businesses who can't compete with British companies for contracts, but that's by the by. We let him get on with it, gave him a little help now and again. In return he'd do us useful favours."
Molly says, "And all off the books. Deniable."
"Precisely. It's run separately from any of the other secret services – we don't share intel and we keep all the records to ourselves. When Danny brought you in, we were delighted. You have incredible potential. His getting killed was a tragedy, but it gave us a chance to see you in action." Legba smiles again and says, "You passed the interview with flying colours."
Under the tabletop, Molly is clenching her fists. She says, "You could have helped. Any time, you could have stepped in. I could have been killed."
"I gave you Piotr. He's one of our best graduates. And we were watching you the whole time – you were never in any danger." The friendly voice sells it well, but Molly isn't buying. "I don't believe you. If I'd been killed, well, I fail the audition. Right? Like Danny. Don't lie to me."
Legba's smile fades. There's something hard in the warm brown eyes now, an edge in the voice. "We're not interested in failure. We'd have quietly taken Graves and his men off the board if anything had happened to you. Piotr had instructions to look out for you, but you're right. We didn't have people on you the whole time."
Molly closes her eyes, thinks about ACENET for a second. Thinks back to Danny's programs. She says, "OK. Bring me Graves's computer, and we'll talk more about this."
It takes them five minutes to find it and twenty minutes for the tweed-suited spy to talk his French counterparts into letting them take it out of their evidence storage. Molly just sits, staring into space, thinking about Danny. Did you know, Danny? she thinks. Did you know how they were using you?
Legba comes back with the laptop and sets it up in front of Molly. "So what are you doing?" he asks.
"I just need to check on a few things. Make sure everything's OK." She finds a wifi connection, taps her way in to the FTP site where she's stored a few tools for a rainy day. There. She writes herself a little program – just a twenty-line script in Python. If she's right, it's all she will need. Molly launches the script, waits for confirmation that it's executed properly, and then looks up at Legba.
"Funny thing about ACENET," she says. "It was true what you told me – that Danny helped you set it up, wasn't it?"
"Yes," he says.
"He built it with a back door. A hacker can't resist that, you know. There'll always be one if you know where to look. And I know, because I know Danny." She laughs, softly. "I have root on your system, now."
She spins the laptop round, shows Legba the screen. "You're locked out of ACENET. I just encrypted the database, deleted your logins. You've got a bunch of kids you can't contact, now. You're not going to be pulling any more strings unless the new admin lets you."
Molly snaps the laptop closed. Legba looks stunned.
She's very, very tired.
"That would be me," she tells him. "Now: let me go home. If you need something done, something from ACENET, you can come to me and ask. I'll see what I can do for you. But nobody else gets killed. Do you understand?"
There's a minute of silence while they stare at each other, and then Legba says, "Yes. Yes, I can see people just keep underestimating you, Ms Root. I'll take that under advisement."
***
It's December the 24th. Molly Root is sitting with her dad at the kitchen table, playing Monopoly. It's not Go, not an intellectual workout, but she's kind of sick of her brain at this point. She wants to be a kid for a while.
Cyril Root is laughing delightedly, cackling in fact, because he's just landed on Free Parking, and in accordance with the Root house rules, has scooped seven hundred and fifty pounds in assorted fines. He raises his glass of champagne and announces "I'm building three hotels! Ah, Molly, you're going to love them."
"Yeah, I think I'll stay away," says Molly, shaking the dice. "I'm happy right here." There's a flurry of ginger and Stanley leaps up into her lap. "Hey! Well, OK, you great lump." The cat makes himself comfortable, rests his chin on the tabletop, and purrs mightily.
There are mince pies warming in the oven, her dad is smiling, and she's just rolled double sixes. Molly picks up her own glass and says, "Absent friends,"
"Absent friends," says her dad. Goodbye, Danny, Molly says to herself.
She moves forward twelve spaces and takes a Chance. Somehow she knows it's all going to work out.
The ebook of Root will be out after Christmas. Have you enjoyed it? Do you think there should be a sequel? Let us know at childrens.books@theguardian.com. or join the discussion on our Facebook page
