Ark Angel

ARK ANGEL

Alex Rider Book 6

ANTHONY HOROWITZ

First published 2005 by Walker Books Ltd 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

Table of Contents

FORCE THREE

THE BOY IN ROOM NINE

EMERGENCY TREATMENT

KASPAR

FIRE ESCAPE

R&R

AT THE WATERFRONT

THE LAP OF LUXURY

SHORT CIRCUIT

INJURY TIME

BLUE MURDER

EXPIRY DATE

THE BIGGEST CRIMINAL IN THE WORLD

FLAMINGO BAY

DEEP TROUBLE

TROPICAL STORM

PRIMARY TARGET

WIND AND WATER

THE RED BUTTON

ARK ANGEL

RE-ENTRY

FORCE THREE

^ »

he bomb had been timed to go off at exactly half past three.

Strangely, the man it had been designed to kill probably knew more about bombs and terrorism than anyone else in the world. He had even written books on the subject. Looking After Number One: Fifty Ways to Protect Yourself at Home and Abroad might not be the snappiest of titles, but the book had sold twenty thousand copies in America, and it was said that the president himself kept a copy by his bed. The man did not think of himself as a target, but even so he was always careful. As he often joked, it would be bad for business if he was blown up crossing the street.

His name was Max Webber, and he was short and plump with tortoise-shell glasses and jet-black hair that was actually dyed. He told people that he had once been in the SAS, which was true. What he didn’t tell them was that he had been dropped after his first tour of duty. In his forties he had opened a training centre in London, advising rich businessmen on how to look after themselves. He had become a writer and a journalist, frequently appearing on television to discuss international security.

And now he was the guest speaker at the fourth International Security Conference, being held at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on the south bank of the Thames in London. The whole building had been cordoned off.

Helicopters had been flying overhead all morning and police with sniffer dogs had been waiting in the foyer. Briefcases, cameras and all electronic devices had been forbidden inside the main hall, and delegates had been made to pass through a rigorous screening system before being allowed in. More than eight hundred men and women from seventeen countries had turned up. Among them were diplomats, businessmen, senior politicians, journalists and members of various security services. They had to feel safe.

Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones were both in the audience. As the head and deputy head of MI6 Special Operations, it was their responsibility to keep up with the latest developments, although as far as Blunt was concerned, the whole thing was a waste of time. There were security conferences all the time in every major city but they never achieved anything. The experts talked. The politicians lied. The press wrote it all down. And then everyone went home and nothing changed. Alan Blunt was bored. He looked half asleep.

At exactly two fifteen, Max Webber began to speak.

He was dressed in an expensive suit and tie and spoke slowly, his clipped voice full of authority. He had notes in front of him but he referred to them only occasionally, his eyes fixed on the audience, speaking directly to each one of them. In a glass-fronted projection room overlooking the stage, nine translators spoke quietly into microphones, just a second or two behind. Here and there in the audience, men and women could be seen with one hand pressed against their earpiece, concentrating on what was being said.

Webber turned a page. “I am often asked which is the most dangerous terrorist group in the world. The answer is not what you might expect. It is a group that you may not know. But I can assure you that it is one you should fear, and I wish to speak briefly about it now.” He pressed a button on his lectern and two words appeared, projected onto a giant screen behind him.

FORCE THREE

In the fifth row, Blunt opened his eyes and turned to Mrs Jones. He looked puzzled. She shook her head briefly. Both of them were suddenly alert.

“They call themselves Force Three,” Webber went on. “The name refers to the fact that the earth is the third planet from the sun. These people wouldn’t describe themselves as terrorists. They would probably prefer you to think of them as eco-warriors, fighting to protect the earth from the evils of pollution. Broadly speaking, they’re protesting against climate change, the destruction of the rainforests, the use of nuclear power, genetic engineering and the growth of multinational business. All very commendable, you might think. Their agenda is similar to that of Greenpeace. The difference is that these people are fanatics. They will kill anyone who gets in their way; they have already killed many times. They claim to respect the planet but they have no respect at all for human life.”

Webber clicked again and a photograph flashed up on the screen. There was a stir in the auditorium as the audience examined it. At first sight, they seemed to be looking at a picture of a globe. Then they saw that it was a globe sitting on a pair of shoulders. Finally they realized it was a man. He had a very round head which was completely shaven—including the eyebrows. And there was a map of the world tattooed on his skin. England and France covered his left eye. Newfoundland poked out over his right. Argentina floated around one side of his neck. A gasp of revulsion spread around the room. The man was a freak.

“This is the commanding officer of Force Three,” Webber explained. “As you can see, he cares about the planet so much, he’s rather let it go to his head.

“His name—or at least the name that he goes by—is Kaspar. Very little is known about him. It is thought he might be French, but we don’t even know for certain where he was born. Nor do we know when he acquired these tattoos. But I can tell you that Kaspar has been very busy in the last six months. He was responsible for the assassination of Marjorie Schultz, a journalist living in Berlin, in June; her only crime was to write an article criticizing Force Three. He planned the kidnapping and murder of two members of the Atomic Energy Commission in Toronto. He has organized explosions in six countries, including Japan and New Zealand. He destroyed a car manufacturing plant in Dakota. And I have to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, he enjoys his work. Whenever possible, Kaspar likes to press the button himself.

“In my view, Kaspar is now the most dangerous man alive, for the simple reason that he believes the whole world is with him. And in a sense he’s right. I’m sure there are many people in this room who believe in protecting the environment. The trouble is, he would kill every single one of you if he thought it would help him achieve his aims. That is why I’m issuing this warning.

“Find Kaspar. Find Force Three before they can do any more harm. Because with every day that passes, I believe they are becoming a more serious and deadly threat.” Webber paused as he turned another page of his notes. When he began speaking again, the subject had changed. Twenty minutes later, at exactly three o’clock, he finished. There was polite applause.

Coffee and biscuits were being served in the foyer after the session ended, but Webber wasn’t staying. He shook hands briefly with a diplomat he knew and exchanged a few words with some journalists, then moved on. He was heading towards the auditorium exit when he found his way blocked by a man and a woman.

They were an unlikely pair. There was no way he would have mistaken them for husband and wife, even though they were about the same age. The woman was thin with short black hair. The man was shorter and entirely grey. There was nothing interesting about him at all.

“Alan Blunt!” Webber smiled and nodded. “Mrs Jones!”

Very few people in the world would have recognized these two individuals, but Webber knew them instantly.

“We enjoyed your talk, Mr Webber,” Blunt said, although there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“We were particularly interested in your comments concerning Force Three.”

“You know about them, of course?”

The question was directed at Blunt, but it was Mrs Jones who answered. “We’ve heard about them, certainly,” she replied. “But the fact is, we know very little about them. Six months ago, as far as we can see, they didn’t even exist.”

“That’s right. They were founded very recently.”

“You seem to know a lot about them, Mr Webber. We’d be interested to learn where you got your information.”

Webber smiled a second time. “You know I can’t possibly reveal my sources, Mrs Jones,” he said lightly.

Suddenly he was serious. “But I find it very worrying that our country’s security services should be so ignorant. I thought you were meant to be protecting us.”

“That’s why we’re talking to you now,” Mrs Jones countered. “If you know something, I think you should tell us—”

Webber interrupted her. “I think I’ve told you quite enough. If you want to know more, I suggest you come to my next lecture. I’ll be talking in Stockholm a couple of weeks from now, and it may well be that I shall have further information about Force Three then. If so, I’ll be happy to share it with you. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll wish you good day.”

Webber pushed his way between them and headed towards the cloakroom. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. It had gone perfectly—and meeting Alan Blunt and the Jones woman had been an unexpected bonus. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a plastic disc which he handed to the cloakroom attendant.

His mobile phone had been taken from him when he went in: a security measure he himself had recommended in his book. Now it was returned to him.

Ninety seconds later he emerged onto the wide pavement in front of the river. It was early October but the weather was still warm, the afternoon sun turning the water a deep blue. There were only a few people around—mainly kids rattling back and forth on their skateboards—but Webber still checked them out, just to make sure that none of them had any interest in him. He decided to walk home instead of taking public transport or hailing a taxi. That was something else he’d written in his book. In any major city, you’re always safer out in the open, on your own two feet.

He had only taken a few steps when his mobile rang, vibrating in his jacket pocket. He dug it out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he seemed to recall that the phone had been switched off when he handed it to the cloakroom attendant. But he was feeling so pleased with himself, with the way his speech had gone, that he ignored this single whisper of doubt.

It was twenty-nine minutes past three.

“Hello?”

“Mr Webber. I’m ringing to congratulate you. It went very well.” The voice was soft and somehow artificial. It wasn’t an Englishman speaking. It was someone who had learnt the language very carefully. The pronunciation was too deliberate, too precise. There was no emotion in the voice at all.

“You heard me?” Max Webber was still walking, speaking at the same time.

“Oh yes. I was in the audience. I am very pleased.”

“Did you know that MI6 were there?”

“No.”

“I spoke to them afterwards. They were very interested in what I had to say.” Webber chuckled quietly.

“Maybe I should raise my price.”

“I think we’ll stick with our original agreement,” the voice replied.

Max Webber shrugged. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was still a great deal of money. Paid into a secret bank account, it would come tax-free, no questions asked. And it had been such a simple thing to do.

A quarter of a million for just ten minutes’ work!

The man on the other end spoke again and suddenly his voice was sad. “There is just one thing that concerns me, Mr Webber…”

“What’s that?” Webber could hear something else, in the background. Some sort of interference.

He pressed the phone more tightly against his ear.

“In your speech today, you made an enemy of Force Three. And as you yourself pointed out, they are completely ruthless.”

“I don’t think either of us need worry about Force Three.” Webber looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “And I think you should remember, my friend, I served with the SAS. I know how to look after myself.”

“Really?”

Was the voice mocking him? For reasons Webber didn’t quite understand, he was beginning to feel uneasy.

And the interference was getting louder; he could hear it in his mobile phone. Some sort of ticking.

“I’m not afraid of Force Three,” he blustered. “I’m not afraid of anyone. Just make sure the money reaches my account.”

“Goodbye, Mr Webber,” said the voice.

There was a click.

One second of silence.

Then the mobile phone exploded.

Max Webber had been holding it tight against his ear. If he heard the blast, he was dead before it registered.

A couple of joggers were approaching from the other direction, and they both screamed as the thing that had just moments before been a man toppled over into their path.

The explosion was surprisingly loud. It was heard in the conference centre where delegates were still drinking coffee and congratulating one another on their contributions. They also heard the wail of the sirens as the ambulance and police cars arrived shortly afterwards.

Later that afternoon, Force Three called the press and claimed responsibility for the killing. Max Webber had declared war on them, and for that reason he had to die. In the same phone call they issued a stark warning. They had already chosen their next target. And they were planning something the world would not forget.

THE BOY IN ROOM NINE

« ^ »

he nurse was twenty-three years old, blonde and nervous. This was only her second week at St Dominic’s, one of London’s most exclusive private hospitals. Rock stars and television celebrities came here, she had been told. There were also VIPs from abroad. VIPs here meant very important patients. Even famous people get sick, and the ones who wanted to recover in five-star comfort chose St Dominic’s. The surgeons and therapists were world class. The hospital food was so good that some patients had been known to pretend they were ill so that they could enjoy it for a while longer.

That evening, the nurse was making her way down a wide, brightly lit corridor, carrying a tray of medicines. She was wearing a freshly laundered white dress. Her name—D. MEACHER—was printed on a badge pinned to her uniform. Several of the junior doctors had already placed bets on which of them would persuade her to go out with them first.

She stopped in front of an open door. Room nine.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Diana Meacher.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting you too,” the boy in room nine replied.

Alex Rider was sitting up in bed, reading a French textbook that he should have been studying at school.

He was wearing pyjamas that had fallen open at the neck and the nurse could just make out the bandages criss-crossing his chest. He was a very handsome boy, she thought. He had fair hair and serious brown eyes that looked as if they had seen too much. She knew that he was only fourteen, but he looked older. Pain had done that to him. Nurse Meacher had read his medical file and understood what he had been through.

In truth, he should have been dead. Alex Rider had been hit by a bullet fired from a .22 rifle from a distance of almost seventy-five metres. The sniper had been aiming for his heart—and if the bullet had found its target, Alex would have had no chance of surviving. But nothing is certain—not even murder. A tiny movement had saved his life. As he had come out of MI6’s headquarters on Liverpool Street, he had stepped off the pavement, his right foot carrying his body down towards the level of the road. It was at that exact moment that the bullet had hit him, and instead of powering into his heart, it had entered his body half a centimetre higher, ricocheting off a rib and exiting horizontally under his left arm.

The bullet had missed his vital heart structures, but even so it had done plenty of damage, tearing through the subclavian artery, which carries blood over the top of the lung and into the arm. This was what Alex had felt when he was hit. As blood had poured out of the severed artery, filling the space between the lung and the thoracic cage, he had found himself unable to breathe. Alex could easily have died from shock or loss of blood. If he had been a man he almost certainly would have. But the body of a child is different to that of an adult. A young person’s artery will automatically shut itself down if cut—doctors can’t explain how or why—and this will limit the amount of blood lost. Alex was unconscious but he was still breathing, four minutes later, when the first ambulance arrived.

There wasn’t much the paramedics could do: IV fluids, oxygen and some gentle compression around the bullet’s point of entry. But that was enough. Alex had been rushed to St Dominic’s, where surgeons had removed the bone fragments and put a graft on the artery. He had been in the operating theatre two and a half hours.

And now he was looking almost as if nothing had happened. As the nurse came into the room, he closed the book and settled back into his pillows. Diana Meacher knew that this was his last night in hospital. He had been here for ten days and tomorrow he was going home. She also knew that she wasn’t allowed to ask too many questions. It was there in large print on his file: PATIENT 9/75958 RIDER/ALEX: SPECIAL

STATUS (MISO). NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. NO PRESS. REFER ALL ENQUIRIES TO DR

HAYWARD.

It was all very strange. She had been told she would meet some interesting people at St Dominic’s, and she had been required to sign a confidentiality clause before she began work. But she’d never expected anything like this. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations. But what was the secret service doing with a teenage boy? How had Alex managed to get himself shot? And why had there been two armed policemen sitting outside his room for the first four days of his stay? Diana tried to push these thoughts out of her mind as she put the tray down. Maybe she should have stuck with the NHS.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Looking forward to going home?”

“Yes.”

Diana realized she was staring at Alex and turned her attention to the medicines. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?”

“No, I’m all right.” Alex shook his head and for a moment something flickered in his eyes. The pain in his chest had slowly faded but he knew it would never leave him completely. He could feel it now, vague and distant, like a bad memory. “Would you like me to come back later?”

“No, it’s all right, thanks.” He smiled. “I don’t need anyone to tuck me in.” Diana blushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall. You can call me any time.”

“I might do that.”

The nurse picked up her tray and walked out of the room. She left behind the scent of her perfume—

heather and spring flowers—in the air. Alex sniffed. It seemed to him that since his injury, his senses had become more acute.

He reached for his French book, then changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought. Irregular verbs could wait. It was his own future that concerned him more.

He looked around at the neat, softly lit room that tried hard to pretend it belonged to an expensive hotel rather than a hospital. There was a TV on a table in the corner, operated by a remote control beside the bed.

A window looked out over a wide north London street lined with trees. His room was on the second floor, one of about a dozen arranged in a ring around a bright and modern reception area. In the early days after his operation, there had been flowers everywhere, but Alex had asked for them to be taken away. They’d reminded him of a funeral parlour and he had decided he preferred being alive.

But there were still cards. He had received more than twenty and he’d been surprised how many people had heard that he’d been hurt—and how many had sent a card. There had been a dozen from school: one from the head; one from Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary; and several from his friends. Tom Harris had sent him some photos taken on their trip to Venice and a note: They told us it’s appendicitis but I bet it isn’t. Get well soon anyway.

Tom was the only person at Brookland who knew the truth about Alex.

Sabina Pleasure had somehow discovered he was in hospital and had sent him a card from San Francisco.

She was enjoying life in America but missed England, she said. She was hoping to come over for Christmas. Jack Starbright had sent him the biggest card in the room and had followed it up with chocolates, magazines and energy drinks, visiting him twice a day. There was even a card from the prime minister’s office—although it seemed the prime minister had been too busy to sign it.

And there had been cards from MI6. One from Mrs Jones, another from Alan Blunt (a printed message with a single word—BLUNT—signed in green ink as if it were a memorandum not a get well card). Alex had been surprised and pleased to receive a card from Wolf, the soldier he had met while training with the SAS.

The postmark showed it had been mailed in Baghdad. But his favourite had been sent by Smithers. On the front was a teddy bear. There was no message inside, but when Alex opened the card, the teddy bear’s eyes blinked and it began to talk.

“Alex—very sorry to hear you’ve been hurt.” The bear was speaking with Smithers’ voice. “Hope you get better soon, old chap. Just take it easy—I’m sure you deserve a rest. Oh, and by the way, this card will self-destruct in five seconds.”

Sure enough, to the horror of the nurses, the card had immediately burst into flames.

As well as cards, there had been visitors. Mrs Jones had been the first.

Alex had only just come round after surgery when she appeared. He had never seen the deputy head of Special Operations looking quite so unsure of herself. She was wearing a charcoal-grey raincoat which hung open to reveal a dark suit underneath. Her hair was wet and raindrops glistened on her shoulders.

“I don’t quite know what to say to you, Alex,” she began. She hadn’t asked him how she was. She would have already got that from the doctors. “What happened to you in Liverpool Street was an unforgivable lapse of security. Too many people know the location of our headquarters. We’re going to stop using the main entrance. It’s too dangerous.”

Alex shifted uncomfortably in the bed but said nothing.

“Your condition is stable. I can’t tell you how relieved I am personally. When I heard you’d been shot, I…” She stopped herself. Her black eyes looked down, taking in the tubes and wires attached to the boy lying in front of her, feeding into his arm, nose, mouth and stomach. “I know you can’t talk now,” she went on. “So I’ll be brief.

“You are safe here. We’ve used St Dominic’s before, and there are certain procedures being followed. There are guards outside your room. There’ll be someone there twenty-four hours a day as long as necessary.

“The shooting in Liverpool Street was reported in the press but your name was kept out of it. Your age too.

The sniper who fired at you had taken a position on the roof opposite. We’re still investigating how he managed to get up there without being detected—and I’m afraid we’ve been unable to find him. But right now, your safety is our primary concern. We can talk to Scorpia. As you know, we’ve had dealings with them in the past. I’m sure I can persuade them to leave you alone. You destroyed their operation, Alex, and they punished you. But enough is enough.”

She stopped. Alex’s heart monitor pulsed softly in the dim light.

“Please try not to think too badly of us,” she added. “After everything you’ve been through—Scorpia, your father… I will never forgive myself for what happened. I sometimes think it was wrong of us ever to get you involved in the first place. But we can talk about that another time.” Alex was too weak to reply. He watched as Mrs Jones got up and left, and he guessed that Scorpia must have decided to leave him alone, because a few days later the armed guards outside his room quietly disappeared.

And now, in just over twelve hours, he would be out of here too. Jack had already been planning the weeks ahead. She wanted to take him on holiday to Florida or perhaps the Caribbean. It was October and the summer was definitely over, leaves falling and cold breezes coming in with the night. Jack wanted Alex to rest and regain his strength in the sun—but secretly he wasn’t so sure. He picked up the textbook again. He never thought he’d hear himself say this, but the truth was he just wanted to go back to school. He wanted to be ordinary again. Scorpia had sent him a simple, unforgettable message. Being a spy could get him killed. Irregular verbs were less dangerous.

There was a movement at the door and a boy looked in. “Hi, Alex.” The boy had a strange accent—Eastern European, possibly Russian. He was fourteen, with short blond hair and light blue eyes. His face was thin, his skin pale. He was wearing pyjamas and a large dressing gown which made him seem smaller than he was. He was staying in the room next door to Alex and really had been treated for appendicitis, with complications. His name was Paul Drevin—the surname was somehow familiar—but Alex didn’t know anything more about him. The two of them had spoken briefly a few times.

They were nearly the same age, and the only teenagers on the corridor.

Alex raised a hand in greeting. “Hi.”

“I hear you’re getting out of here tomorrow,” Paul said.

“Yes. How about you?”

“Another day, worst luck.” He hovered in the doorway. He seemed to want to come in, but at the same time something held him back. “I’ll be glad to leave,” he admitted. “I want to go home.”

“Where is home?” Alex asked.

“I’m not sure.” Paul was completely serious. “We live in London a lot of the time. But my father’s always moving. Moscow, New York, the South of France … he’s been too busy even to come in and see me. And we have so many houses, I sometimes wonder which is my home.”

“Where do you go to school?” Alex had picked up on the mention of Moscow and assumed that Paul must be Russian.

“I don’t go to school; I have tutors.” Paul shrugged. “It’s difficult. My life’s sort of weird, because of my father. Because of everything. Anyway, I’m jealous of you getting out before me. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Paul hesitated a fraction longer, then left. Alex gazed thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Perhaps his father was some sort of politician or banker. On the few occasions they had spoken he’d got the impression that the other boy was friendless. He wondered how many kids were admitted into this hospital who had fathers willing to spend thousands to make them better, but who had no time to visit them while they were there.

It was nine o’clock. Alex flicked through the television channels, but there was nothing on. He wished now that he had accepted the sleeping pill from the nurse. A little sip of water and he would have been out for the night. And out of the hospital the next day. Alex was looking forward to that more than anything. He needed to start his life again.

He watched half an hour of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. Then he switched off the television, turned off the light and curled up in the bed one last time. He rather wished Diana Meacher had come back to see him. Briefly he remembered the scent of her perfume. And then he was asleep. But not for long.

The next thing Alex knew, it was half past twelve. There was a clock beside the bed, its numerals glowing in the dark. He woke up reluctantly, trying to climb back down into the pit from which he had come. The truth was, it was difficult to sleep when he had done nothing to make him tired. All day he’d been lying there, breathing in the clean, conditioned atmosphere that at St Dominic’s passed for air.

He lay in the semi-darkness, wondering what to do. Then he got up and slipped into his dressing gown.

This was the worst thing about being in hospital. There was no way out, nowhere to go. Alex couldn’t get used to it. Every night for a week, he’d woken up at about the same time, and finally he’d decided to break the rules and escape from the sterile box that was his room. He wanted to be outside. He needed the smell of London, the noise of the traffic, the feeling that he still belonged to the real world.

He put on a pair of slippers and went out. The lights had been dimmed, casting no more than a discreet glow outside his room. There was a computer screen gleaming behind the nurses’ station but no sign of Diana Meacher or anyone else. Alex took a step forward. There are few places more silent than a hospital in the middle of the night and he felt almost afraid to move, as if he was breaking some sort of unwritten law between the healthy and the sick. But he knew he would just lie awake for hours if he stayed in bed. He had nothing to worry about. Mrs Jones was certain that Scorpia was no longer a threat. He was almost tempted to leave the hospital and catch the night bus home.

Of course, that was out of the question. He couldn’t go that far. But he was still determined to reach the main reception with its sliding glass doors and—just beyond—a real street with people and cars and noise and dirt. By day, three receptionists answered the phones and dealt with enquiries. After eight o’clock there was just one. Alex had already met him—a cheerful Irishman called Conor Hackett. The two of them had quickly become friends.

Conor was sixty-five and had spent most of his life in Dublin. He’d taken this job to help support his nine grandchildren. After they’d talked a while, Alex had persuaded Conor to let him go outside, and he had spent a happy fifteen minutes on the pavement in front of the main entrance, watching the passing traffic and breathing in the night air. He would do the same again now. Maybe he could stretch it to half an hour.

Conor would complain; he would threaten to call the nurse. But Alex was sure he would let him have his way.

He avoided the lift, afraid that the noise of the bell as it arrived would give him away. He walked down the stairs to the first floor, and continued along a corridor. From here he could look down on the polished floor of reception and the glass entrance doors. He could see Conor sitting behind his desk, reading a magazine.

Even down here the lights were dimmed. It was as if the hospital wanted to remind visitors where they were the moment they came in.

Conor turned a page. Alex was about to walk down the last few stairs, when suddenly the front doors slid open.

Alex was both startled and a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be caught here in his dressing gown and pyjamas. At the same time, he wondered who could possibly be visiting St Dominic’s at this time of night.

He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Now he could watch everything that was happening, unobserved.

Four men came in. They were in their late twenties, and all looked fit. The leader was wearing a combat jacket and a Che Guevara T-shirt. The others were dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirts and trainers. From where he was hiding, Alex couldn’t make out their faces very clearly, but already he knew there was something strange about them. The way they moved was somehow too fast, too energetic. People move more cautiously when they come into a hospital. After all, nobody actually wants to be there.

“Hey—how are you doing?” the first man asked. The words cut through the gloom. He had a cheerful, cultivated voice.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He sounded as puzzled as Alex felt.

“We’d like to visit one of your patients,” the man explained. “I wonder if you can tell us where he is.”

“I’m very sorry.” Alex couldn’t see Conor’s face, but he could imagine the smile in his voice. “You can’t visit anyone now. It’s almost one o’clock! You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

Alex felt the first stirrings of nervousness. A note of menace had crept into the man’s voice. And there was something sinister about the way the other three men were positioned. They were spread out between the receptionist and the main entrance. It was as if they didn’t want him to leave. Or anyone else to enter.

“We want to see Paul Drevin.” Alex heard the name with a shiver of disbelief. The boy in the room next to his! Why would these men want to see him so late at night? “What room is he in?” the man in the combat jacket asked.

Conor shook his head. “I can’t give you that information,” he protested. “Come back tomorrow and someone will be happy to help you then.”

“We want to know now,” the man insisted. He reached into his jacket and Alex felt the floor sway beneath him as the man produced a gun. It was equipped with a silencer. And it was pointing at the receptionist’s head.

“What are you…?” Conor had gone rigid; his voice had risen to a high-pitched squeak. “I can’t tell you!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“We want the room number of Paul Drevin. If you don’t give it to me in the next three seconds, I will pull the trigger and the only part of this hospital you’ll ever need again will be the morgue.”

“Wait!”

“One…”

“I don’t know where he is!”

“Two…”

Alex felt his chest hurting. He realized he was holding his breath.

“All right! All right! Let me find it for you.”

The receptionist began to tap hurriedly at the keyboard hidden below the top of his desk. Alex heard the clatter of the keys.

“He’s on the second floor! Room eight.”

“Thank you,” the man said, and shot him.

Alex heard the angry cough of the bullet as it was spat out by the silencer. He saw a black spray in front of the receptionist’s forehead. Conor was thrown backwards, his hands raised briefly.

Nobody moved.

“Room eight. Second floor,” one of the men muttered.

“I told you he was in room eight,” the first man said.

“Then why did you ask?”

“I just wanted to be sure.”

One of them sniggered.

“Let’s go and get him,” another said.

Alex was frozen to the spot. He could feel his wound throbbing angrily. This couldn’t be happening, could it? But it was happening. He had seen it for himself.

The four men moved.

Alex turned and ran.

EMERGENCY TREATMENT

« ^ »

lex took the stairs two at a time, a hundred different thoughts tumbling through his mind. Who were the four men and why were they here? What did they want with Paul? The name Drevin meant something to him, but this wasn’t the time to work out what it was. What could he do to stop them?

He came to a fire alarm in a red box on the wall and stopped beside it. For a few, precious seconds his fist hovered over the glass. But he knew that setting off the alarm would do no good. For the moment, surprise was all he had on his side. The fire alarm would only tell the men that they had been seen, and then they would go about their work all the faster, killing or kidnapping the boy long before the police or fire brigade arrived.

Alex didn’t want to confront the four men on his own. He was desperately tempted to call for help. But he knew it would come too late.

He continued up the stairs, one small piece of knowledge spurring him on. The men had shown themselves to be single-minded and ruthless. But they had already made one mistake.

When they had set off, they had been moving in the direction of the lift, and Alex knew something they didn’t. The lifts at St Dominic’s were the original bed lifts, almost twenty years old. They were designed to carry patients up from the operating theatres on the first floor and had to stop without even the slightest shudder. For this reason they were very, very slow. It would take Alex less than twenty seconds to reach the second floor; it would take the men almost two minutes. That gave him one minute and forty seconds to do something. But what?

He burst through the doors and into the nurses’ area in front of his room. There was still nobody around, which was strange. Perhaps the four men had created some sort of diversion. That would make sense. They could have got rid of the nurse with a single phone call and right now she could be anywhere in the hospital. Alex stood panting in the half-light, trying to get his brain to work. He could imagine the lift making its way inch by inch towards him.

He was painfully aware of the unevenness of the competition. The men were professional killers. Alex would have known that even if he hadn’t seen them murder the night receptionist. It was obvious from their body language, the way they smiled, the conversation he’d overheard. Killing was second nature to them. Alex couldn’t possibly fight them. He was unarmed. Worse, he was in pyjamas and slippers with a chest wound held together by stitches and bandages. He had never been more helpless. Once he was seen, he would be finished. He didn’t stand a chance.

And yet he had to do something. He thought about the strange, lonely boy in the room next to his. Paul Drevin was only just fourteen—eight months younger than Alex. These men had come for him. Alex couldn’t let them take him.

He looked at the open door of his own room—number nine. It was exactly opposite the lift, and was the first thing the men would see when they stepped out. Paul Drevin was asleep in the next room. His door was closed. Their names were visible in the half-light: ALEX RIDER and PAUL DREVIN. They were printed on plastic strips that fitted into a slot on each door. Underneath, also on strips, were the room numbers.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a plan started to form in Alex’s mind. Wondering if he had left himself enough time, he darted forward and snatched a teaspoon from a cup and saucer a nurse had left on the desk. Using the spoon handle, he prised his name and room number out of their slots, then did the same to the next door. It took another few seconds to snap the plastic strips back into place. Now it was Alex Rider who was asleep in room nine. The door to room eight was open and Paul Drevin wasn’t there.

Alex ran into his room, pulled open the cupboard and grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans. He knew what he had done wasn’t enough. If the men glanced at the doors more than briefly, they would see the trick that had been played, because the sequence was wrong: six, seven, nine, eight, ten. Alex had to make sure they didn’t have time to examine anything.

He had to make them come after him. He didn’t dare get dressed in sight of the lift. He hurried out with the clothes—past the nurses’ station, away from the two rooms. He came to a corridor leading off at ninety degrees. It ran about twenty metres to a pair of swing doors and another staircase. There was an open store cupboard on one side of the corridor and next to it a trolley with some sort of machine: low and flat with a series of buttons and a narrow, rectangular TV screen that looked like it had been squashed. Alex recognized the machine. There were also two oxygen cylinders. He could feel his heart pounding underneath the bandages. The silence in the hospital was unnerving. How much time had passed since Conor had been killed?

Swiftly he stripped off the pyjamas and pulled on his own clothes. It felt good to be dressed again after ten long days and nights. He was no longer a patient. He was beginning to get his life back.

The lift doors opened, breaking the silence with a metallic rattle. Alex watched the four men walk out.

Quickly he summed them up. Two were black, two white. They moved as a single unit, as if they were used to working together. He gave them names based on their appearances. The man who had shot Conor was the leader. He had a broken nose that seemed to split his face like a crack in a mirror. Alex thought of him as Combat Jacket. The next was thin, with crumpled cheeks and orange-tinted glasses. Spectacles. The third was short and muscular, and obviously spent a serious amount of time at the gym. He had a heavy dull metal watch on his wrist, and that gave him his name: Steel Watch. The last man was unshaven, with straggly black hair. At some point he’d been to a bad dentist, who had left his mark very visibly. He would be Silver Tooth.

All four were moving quickly, impatient after the long wait in the lift. This was the moment of truth.

Combat Jacket registered the open door and the empty bed inside. He read the name. At that moment, Alex appeared, walking down the corridor as if he had just been to the toilet and was returning to his room. He stopped and gave a small gasp of surprise. The men looked at him. And immediately made the assumption that Alex had guessed they would. Even if they knew what their target was supposed to look like, they couldn’t see his face in the soft light. He was Paul Drevin. Who else could he be? “Paul?” Combat Jacket spoke the single word.

Alex nodded.

“We’re not going to hurt you. But you’re going to have to come with us.” Alex took a step back. Combat Jacket took out a gun. The same gun that he had used to kill the night receptionist. Alex turned and fled.

As his bare feet pounded on the hospital carpet, he was afraid that he had left it too late, that he would feel the white heat of a bullet between his shoulder blades. But the corridor was right in front of him. With a feeling of relief, he threw himself round the corner. Now he was out of sight.

The four men were slow to react. This was the last thing they’d expected. Paul Drevin should have been sound asleep in bed. But he had seen them. He had run away. As one, they surged forward. Their movements seemed clumsy—they didn’t want to make any noise—but they were still making fast progress. They reached the corridor and saw the swing doors ahead. One of the doors was still closing. The boy had obviously passed through seconds before. With Combat Jacket in the lead, they pressed on. None of them noticed the store cupboard on their left. Combat Jacket pushed through the doors; Steel Watch and Spectacles followed. Silver Tooth was left behind—and that was when Alex made his move.

Alex had run the full length of the corridor, flung open the doors, then doubled back to the store cupboard.

That was where he was now. Moving on tiptoe, he slipped out. Now he was behind Silver Tooth. He was holding something in each of his hands, a circular disc, padded, trailing electric wires.

The machine he had seen on the trolley was a Lifepak 300 defibrillator, a standard piece of equipment in most British hospitals. Alex had seen defibrillators often enough in television dramas to know what they did and how they worked. When a patient’s heart stopped, the doctor would press the pads against their chest and use the electric charge to bring them back to life. Alex had conected up this defibrillator in the last seconds before the lift arrived. It was designed to be easy to use and ready in an instant; the batteries were always kept fully charged. Gritting his teeth, he slammed the pads against the neck of the man in front of him and pressed the buttons. Silver Tooth screamed and leapt high in the air as the electric current coursed through him. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The doors swung open again: Spectacles had heard the scream. He came back, half crouching, running forward, a knife in his hand. His face was twisted in an ugly sneer of anger. Something had gone wrong.

But how? Why hadn’t the boy been asleep?

He didn’t even make it halfway down the corridor. The full force of a ten-kilogram oxygen cylinder hit him right between the legs. His face went mauve and he dropped the knife. He tried to breathe, but oxygen was the one thing he couldn’t find. He crumpled, eyes bulging.

Alex dropped the tank. It had taken all his strength to swing it, and he ran a hand across his chest, wondering if he had damaged himself. But the stitches seemed to have held.

Leaving the two unconscious men behind him, he ran back past his room and over to the main stairs. He heard the swing doors crash against the wall as the others came after him. At least he’d halved the opposition, even if it was going to be more difficult from now on. The remaining two men knew he was dangerous; they wouldn’t let themselves be surprised again. Alex considered disappearing. There were dozens of places he could hide. But that wasn’t the point. He forced himself to slow down. He had to lead them away from rooms eight and nine.

They saw him. He heard one of them swear—a single, taut whisper of pure hatred. That was good. The angrier they were, the more mistakes they would make. Alex ran down the stairs. He felt dizzy and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. After spending so long in bed, his body wasn’t ready for this.

His left arm was hurting too.

The arm reminded him where he was going. The physio department was on the first floor. Alex had been there many times; it had been a necessary part of his treatment.

The bullet that had sliced through his artery had also done serious damage to his brachial plexus. This was a complicated network of spinal nerves leading into his left arm. The doctors had warned him that the arm would hurt; there would be stiffness and pins and needles—perhaps for the rest of his life. But once again Alex had youth on his side. After a few days of therapy, much of the pain had subsided. In that time, he had been put through a series of exercises—static resistance, stretching, reaction and speed work. By the end of the week, Alex had got to know the physio department better than any other department in the hospital. That was why he was heading there now.

He half stumbled through the doors and stood for a moment, catching his breath. First, there were two cubicles with beds where patients would lie while they were put through a series of exercises. A human skeleton—very realistic but in fact made of plastic—hung on a metal frame opposite. The corridor dog-legged, then continued past a series of doors and cupboards to another pair of swing doors at the far end.

Alex knew exactly what he would find in the cupboards. One of the rooms leading off the corridor was a fully equipped gym with cycling machines, dumb-bells, heavy medicine balls and treadmills.

The cupboards contained more equipment, including chest expanders and rolls of elastic. Each day, the physiotherapist had cut off a length of elastic and given it to Alex to use in simple stretching exercises.

These had been gentle at first but had become more strenuous, using thicker lengths of elastic, as he healed.

He opened the first cupboard. He had worked out what he was going to do. The question was the same as before. Had he left himself enough time?

Forty seconds later, the doors opened and Combat Jacket came in. He was breathing heavily. He was meant to be in command of this operation, and one day he would have to answer for it. Two of his men were lying unconscious upstairs—one of them electrocuted. And what made it worse—what made it unbelievable—

was that both had been taken out by a kid! They had been told it would be simple. Maybe that was why they had made so many mistakes. Well, he wasn’t going to make any more.

He crept forward slowly, his fist curled around an ugly, square-nosed handgun. It was an FP9, a single-action pistol manufactured in Hungary, one of dozens coming in illegally from Eastern Europe. There were no lights on in this part of the hospital. The only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He looked to one side and saw the skeleton standing there like something out of a cheap fairground ride. The hollow eye sockets seemed to be staring at him. Warning him? The man looked away in disgust. He wasn’t going to let it give him the creeps.

He glanced into the two cubicles. The curtains were drawn back and it was obvious the boy wasn’t hiding there. Combat Jacket went past the skeleton and turned the corner. Now he found himself looking down the full length of the corridor. It was very dark but as his eyes adjusted, he made out a shape standing at the far end. He smiled. It was the boy! He seemed to be holding something against his chest. What was it?

Some sort of ball. Well, this time he’d made a big mistake. He wasn’t going to get a chance to throw it. If he so much as moved, Combat Jacket would shoot him in the leg and then drag him to the car.

“Drop it!” Combat Jacket commanded.

Alex Rider let go of the ball.

It was a medicine ball from the gym. It weighed five kilograms and for a second time, Alex had been afraid he would split his stitches. But what Combat Jacket hadn’t seen was that Alex had also taken a length of elastic out of the cupboard. He had tied it across the corridor, from one door handle to another, and then stretched it all the way back with the medicine ball. The ball was now a missile in an oversized catapult, and when Alex released it, it shot the full length of the corridor as if fired from a cannon.

Combat Jacket was only faintly aware of the great weight hurtling out of the shadows before it hit him square in the stomach, rocketing him off his feet. The gun flew out of his hand. The breath was punched out of his lungs. His shoulders hit the floor and he slid five metres before crashing into the wall. He just had time to tell himself that this wasn’t Paul Drevin—that this was no ordinary fourteen-year-old boy—

before he blacked out.

Steel Watch had just entered the physio department. He heard the crash and turned the corner in combat position, his own weapon ready to fire. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that he had lost the initiative. What should have been a simple snatch had gone horribly wrong. There was a figure sprawled on the floor in front of him, its neck twisted and face drained of colour. A large medicine ball lay near by.

Steel Watch blinked in disbelief. He saw one of the doors at the end of the corridor swing shut. That told him all he needed to know. He followed.

Twenty paces ahead of him, Alex was once more making his way downstairs. It seemed the only way to go.

The stairs led him back to the ground floor, where it had all begun. The reception area was unnaturally silent apart from the soft hum of a refrigerated drinks dispenser. White light spilled over the rows of Coke and Fanta, throwing hard shadows across the floor. Three desks faced each other across the empty space.

Alex knew there was a dead man behind one of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He could see the street on the other side of the glass doors. Should he make a break for it? Get outside and call for help?

There was no time. He heard Steel Watch coming down the stairs and dived behind the nearest desk, searching for cover.

A moment later, Steel Watch arrived. Peering round from his hiding place, Alex could see the timepiece glinting on his wrist. It was a huge, chunky thing, the sort divers wear. The man had an unusually thick wrist. His entire body was overdeveloped, the various muscle groups almost fighting each other as he walked. Although he was the last survivor, he wasn’t panicking. He was carrying a second FP9. He seemed to sense that Alex was near.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” he called out. He didn’t sound convincing and must have known it, because a second later he snapped, “Come out with your hands up or I’ll put a bullet in your knee.” Alex timed his move exactly, racing across the main reception. Something coughed twice and the carpet ripped itself apart in front of his feet. That was when he knew the rules had changed. Steel Watch had decided to take him dead or alive. And it looked like he’d prefer dead. But Alex was already out of sight.

He had found another corridor with a sign reading RADIOLOGY—and he knew exactly where he was going. He had come here twice at the start of his stay in the hospital.

There was a locked door ahead of him—but Alex had watched the code being entered only a few days before. As fast as he could, he pressed the four-digit number, willing himself not to make a mistake. He pushed and the door opened. This part of the hospital was deserted at night but he knew the machines on the other side never slept. They were kept activated around the clock in case they were needed. And they had never been needed more than now.

Alex could hear Steel Watch coming up behind him, but he forced himself to stay calm. There was another lock to deal with, this one tripped by a switch concealed under one of the nurses’ desks. Alex breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the hospital orderly who had made a joke about it as he had wheeled him in.

There was a large, heavy door ahead of him. It was covered with warning signs beneath a single word: MAGNETOM Alex knew what the warnings said. The orderly had told him. He opened the door and went in. There was a narrow, padded bench in front of him. It led to a large machine that reminded him of a tumble drier, a space capsule and a giant doughnut all rolled into one. There was a hole in the middle of it, the inner rim rotating slowly. The bench was designed so that it could be raised and passed slowly through the hole. Alex had been placed on the bench when he first came to St Dominic’s, and the doctor had told him exactly what it did.

It was an MRI machine. The letters stood for magnetic resonance imaging. As Alex had passed through the hole, a scanner had taken a three-dimensional image of his body, checking the muscle damage in his chest, arm and shoulder. He remembered what the doctor had told him. He needed that knowledge now.

There was a movement at the door. Steel Watch had followed him in.

“Don’t move,” Steel Watch ordered. He was holding his gun at chest height. The silencer was pointing at Alex’s head.

Alex let his shoulders slump. “Looks like I went the wrong way,” he said.

“Well, now you’re coming with me, you little toe-rag,” the man replied. He ran his tongue over his lip.

“The others … maybe they didn’t want to hurt you. But if you try anything, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

“I can’t move.”

“What?”

“I’m hurt…”

Steel Watch stared at Alex, trying to see what was wrong. He took a step forward. And that was when it happened.

The gun was torn out of his grip.

It was gone so fast that he didn’t understand what was happening. It was as if a pair of invisible hands had simply ripped his weapon away. It was whisked into the darkness, nothing more than a blur. Steel Watch cried out in pain. The gun had dislocated two of his fingers, almost tearing them right off. There was a loud clang as it hit the machine and stayed there, as if glued to the surface.

An MRI uses an incredibly powerful magnetic field to scan soft tissue. The strength of this machine was 1.5

Tesla and the notices on the door had warned anyone approaching the room to remove all items made of metal. An MRI can pull a set of keys out of a pocket; it can wipe a credit card clean at twenty paces. Steel Watch had felt its enormous power but he still hadn’t understood. He was about to find out.

Alex Rider had adopted the karate stance known as zenkutsu dachi, feet apart and hands raised. Every fibre of his being was concentrated on the man in front of him. It was a challenge to Steel Watch to take him on with his own bare hands, and Steel Watch couldn’t resist. He took a step forward.

And screamed as his heavy steel watch entered the magnetic field. Alex watched in astonishment as what is known as the missile effect took place. The man was lifted off his feet and hurled through the air, dragged by the watch on his wrist. There was a horrible thud as he crashed into the MRI machine. He had landed awkwardly, his arm and head tangled together. He stayed where he was, half standing, half lying, his legs trailing uselessly behind him.

It was over. Four men had entered the hospital and every one of them was either unconscious or worse.

Alex was still half convinced that any second he would wake up in bed. Maybe he had been given too many painkillers. Surely the whole thing was just some sort of ghastly medicated dream.

But it wasn’t. Alex went back to reception and there was Conor, sprawled behind his desk, a single bullet wound in his head. Alex knew he had to call the police. He was amazed that he hadn’t seen one single nurse during the entire ordeal. He leant over the desk, reaching for the phone. A cool night breeze brushed across his neck.

That should have warned him.

Four men had come into the hospital but five had been assigned to the job. There was another man: the driver. And if the main doors hadn’t just opened, there wouldn’t have been a breeze.

Too late Alex realized what that meant. He straightened up as fast as he could, but that wasn’t fast enough.

He heard nothing. He didn’t even feel the blow to the back of his head.

He crumpled to the floor and lay still.

KASPAR

« ^ »

ou’re in pain. That’s all you know. Your head is pounding and your heart is throbbing and you wonder if someone has managed to tie a knot in your neck.

It was a feeling that Alex Rider knew all too well. He had been knocked out by Mr Grin when he was at the Stormbreaker assembly plant, by the vicious Mrs Stellenbosch at the Academy of Point Blanc, and by Nile at the Widow’s Palace in Venice. Even Alan Blunt had got one of his men to fire a tranquillizer dart into him when he had first infiltrated the headquarters of MI6.

And it was no different this time, the slow climb back from nothing to the world of air and light. Alex became aware that he was lying down, his cheek pressed against the dusty wooden floor. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. With an effort he opened his eyes and then closed them again as the light from a naked bulb dangling overhead burned into them. He waited, then opened them a second time.

Slowly he straightened his legs and stretched his arms and thought exactly what he thought every time it happened.

You’re still alive. You’re a prisoner. But for some reason they haven’t killed you yet.

Alex dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around him. He was in a room that was completely bare: no carpet, no curtains, no furniture, no decoration. Nothing. There was a wooden door, presumably locked, and a single window. He was surprised to see that it wasn’t barred, but when he staggered over to it, he understood why.

He was high up, seven or eight storeys. Dawn was only just breaking and it was hard to see through the dirty glass, but he guessed he’d been unconscious for a few hours and that he was still in London. It looked like he was being held in an abandoned tower block. There was another block opposite and, looking up, Alex could just see a huge banner strung between two wires running from the top of one building to the other. The first words were outside his field of vision but he could make out the rest: TOWERS

SOON TO BE AN EXCITING NEW DEVELOPMENT FOR EAST LONDON.

He went over to the door and tried it just in case. It didn’t move.

His left arm was aching badly and he massaged it, wondering how much damage he had done to himself.

This was meant to be his last night in the hospital! How could he have allowed himself to get involved with a gang of murderers who had broken in…? What for?

Alex rested his shoulders against a wall and slid back down to the floor, cradling his arm. He was still barefooted and he shivered. His single shirt wasn’t enough to protect him against the chill of the early morning. Sitting there, he played back the events that had brought him here.

Four men had come to St Dominic’s, but they hadn’t been interested in him. They had asked for the boy in the room next door: Paul Drevin. Suddenly Alex remembered where he had heard the name. He’d seen it in the newspapers—but not Paul. Nikolei. That was it. Nikolei Drevin was some sort of Russian multibillionaire. Well, that made sense. The men must have wanted his son for the most obvious reason.

Money. But they had accidentally kidnapped him instead.

What would they do when they found out? Alex tried to put the thought out of his mind. He had seen how they’d dealt with Conor, the night receptionist. Somehow he didn’t think they’d apologize and offer him the taxi fare home.

But there was nothing he could do. He sat where he was, slumped against the wall, watching the sky turn from grey to red to a dull sort of blue.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the door had opened and Spectacles was standing over him, an expression of pure hatred on his face. Alex wasn’t surprised. The last time they’d met, Alex had slammed a ten-kilogram oxygen tank into his groin. If there was any surprise, it was that just a few hours later the man had found the strength to stand.

Spectacles was holding a gun. Alex looked into the man’s eyes. They glinted orange behind the tinted glass and gazed at him with undisguised venom. “Get up!” he snapped. “You’re to come with me.”

“Whatever you say.” Alex got slowly to his feet. “Is it my imagination,” he asked, “or is your voice a little higher than it used to be?”

The hand with the gun twitched. “This way,” Spectacles muttered.

Alex followed him out into a corridor that was as dilapidated as the room where he had been confined. The walls were damp and peeling. Many of the ceiling tiles were missing, revealing great gaps filled with a tangle of wires and pipes. There were doors every ten or fifteen metres, some of them hanging off their hinges. Once, they would have opened into people’s flats. But it was obvious that—apart from rats and cockroaches—nobody had lived here for years.

Combat Jacket was waiting for them outside.

He had recovered from his encounter with the medicine ball but there was an ugly bruise on the side of his head where he had hit the wall. The two of them marched Alex down the corridor to a door at the end.

“In!” Spectacles said.

Alex pushed open the door and went through. He found himself in a large, open space with litter strewn across the floor and graffiti everywhere. There were windows on two sides, some of them covered by broken blinds. Alex guessed he was inside one of the flats, although the partition walls had been smashed through to make a single area. He could see an abandoned bath in one corner. In the middle, there was a table and two chairs. A man was sitting there, waiting for him. Spectacles prodded his gun into Alex’s back.

Alex stepped forward and sat down.

With a shiver, he examined the man sitting opposite him. He was dressed in what might once have been a uniform but the jacket was torn and missing buttons. The man must have been about thirty years old but it was impossible to be sure. His face and head had been tattooed all over. Alex saw the United States of America reaching down one cheek, Europe on the other. His nose and the skin above his lips were blue, the colour of the Atlantic Ocean. Brazil and West Africa touched the comers of his mouth. If the man turned round, Alex knew he would see Russia and China. He had never seen anything quite so strange—or so revolting—in his life.

With difficulty, Alex tore his eyes away and looked around. Combat Jacket and Spectacles were standing on either side of the doorway. Silver Tooth was lurking in a corner. Alex hadn’t noticed him in the shadows, but now he stepped into the light and Alex saw that his neck was swollen, two angry red marks burned into the skin. There was no sign of Steel Watch. Perhaps they’d been unable to peel him off the Magnetom.

The man with the tattoos spoke. “You have caused us a great deal of annoyance,” he said. “In truth, you should be dead.”

Alex was silent. He wasn’t sure yet what to say.

“My name is Kaspar,” the man continued.

Alex shrugged. “You mean … like Casper the friendly ghost?”

The man didn’t smile. “Why were you out of your room last night?”

“I needed some air.”

“It would have been better if you had simply opened the window,” Kaspar said. When he spoke, whole continents moved. It occurred to Alex that if he sneezed it would set off a global earthquake. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” Alex replied. “But it would be useful to have you around in a geography exam.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were in any position to make jokes.” Kaspar’s voice was flat and unemotional. He gestured at the other men. “You have caused my colleagues a great deal of pain and inconvenience. They would like me to kill you. Perhaps I will.”

“What do you want me for?” Alex demanded. “I will tell you.” Kaspar ran a finger down the side of his face. It travelled from Norway to Algeria. “I can see that you are surprised by my appearance. You may think it extreme. But these markings represent who I am and what I believe in. We are all part of this world. I have made the world part of me.” He paused.

“I am what you might call a freedom fighter. But the freedom I believe in is a planet free of the exploitation and pollution caused by rich businessmen and multinationals who would destroy all life simply to enrich themselves. We have global warming. The ozone layer has been decimated. Our precious resources are fast running out. But still these fat cats continue lining their pockets today with no thought or care for tomorrow. Your father is such a man.”

“My father? You’ve got it all wrong—” The man moved incredibly quickly. He stood up and lashed out, hitting the side of Alex’s head with the back of his hand. Alex snapped back, more startled than hurt.

“Don’t interrupt!” Kaspar commanded. “Your father made his fortune from oil. His pipelines have scarred three continents. And now, not content with damaging the earth, he is turning his attention to outer space.

Four species of wild birds have been made extinct by the launch of his rockets from the Caribbean. Apes and chimpanzees have been the unwilling victims of his test flights. He is an enemy of mankind and has therefore become a legitimate target of Force Three.”

Kaspar sat down again.

“There are those who think of us as criminals,” he went on. “But it is your father who is the real criminal, and he has forced us to act the way we do. Now we have decided to make him pay. He will give us one million pounds for your safe return. This money will be used to continue our struggle to protect the planet.

If he refuses, he will never see you again.

“That is why you were taken from St Dominic’s last night. You will remain with us until the ransom has been paid. I do not personally wish to harm you, Paul, but we have to prove to your father that we have you. We must send him a message that he cannot ignore. And I’m afraid that will demand a small sacrifice from you.”

Alex tried to speak but his head was reeling. It was all happening too fast. Before he could react, his right arm was seized from behind. Combat Jacket had crept up on him while Kaspar had been talking. Alex tried to resist, but the man was too strong. The cuff of his shirt was ripped open and the sleeve pulled back.

Then his hand was forced down on the table and his fingers spread out one by one. There was nothing he could do. Combat Jacket was holding him so tightly, his fingers were turning white. Silver Tooth approached from the other side. He had taken out his knife. He handed it to Kaspar.

“We could send your father a photograph,” Kaspar explained. “But what would that achieve? He will know by now that you have been taken by force. There are stronger ways of making our demands known, ways that he may find more persuasive.” He lifted the knife close to his chin, as if about to shave. The blade was fifteen centimetres long with a serrated edge. He examined his reflection in the steel. “We could send him a lock of your hair. He would, I’m sure, recognize it as yours. But then, he might take it as a sign of weakness—of compassion—on our part.

“And so I apologize, Paul Drevin. It gives me no pleasure to hurt a child, even a wealthy, spoilt child such as yourself. But what I intend to send your father is a finger from your right hand…” Automatically Alex tried to pull back. But Combat Jacket had been expecting it. His full weight pressed down on Alex’s hand. His fingers were splayed, helpless, on the table.

“The pain will be great. But there are children all over the world who have only ever known pain and starvation, while boys like you languish in the playground of the rich. Do you play the piano, Paul? I hope not. It will not be so easy after today.”

He reached out and grabbed Alex’s little finger. That was the one he had chosen. The knife began its journey down.

“I’m not Paul Drevin!” Alex spat out the words urgently. His eyes had widened. He could feel the blood draining from his face. The knife was still moving. “You’ve made a mistake!” he insisted. “My name is Alex Rider. I was in room nine. I don’t know anything about Paul Drevin.” The knife stopped. It was millimetres above his little finger.

“Do it!” Combat Jacket hissed.

“I was awake last night,” Alex insisted. The words came tumbling out. “I was coming back from the toilet. I saw your men outside my room. One of them pulled out a gun, and then they began chasing me. I didn’t know what was happening. I had to defend myself…”

“He’s lying,” Combat Jacket snarled. “I asked him his name.” He turned to Spectacles. “Tell him.”

“That’s right,” Spectacles agreed. “We saw his room. Room eight. It was empty. Then he appeared. We called out his name and he answered.”

Kaspar tightened his grip on the knife. He had made up his mind.

“I was in room nine, not room eight!” Alex was shouting now. His head was swimming. He could already see the knife cutting through flesh and bone. He could imagine the pain. Then suddenly he had a thought.

“What do you think I was in hospital for?” he demanded.

“We know what you were there for,” Kaspar replied. “Appendicitis.”

“Appendicitis. Right. Then look at my bandages. They’re nowhere near my appendix.” There was a long pause. Alex could feel Combat Jacket still pressing down hard, longing for the cutting to begin. But Kaspar was uncertain. “Open his shirt,” he ordered. Nobody moved. “Do it!” Combat Jacket was still holding Alex as tightly as ever but now Silver Tooth stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed hold of Alex’s shirt, tearing the top two buttons. Kaspar stared at the bandages crossing over his chest. Alex could feel his heart straining beneath them. “What is this?” Kaspar demanded. “I had a chest wound.”

“What sort of chest wound?”

“An accident on my bike.” It was the one lie Alex had told. He couldn’t tell them what had really happened. He didn’t want them to know who he was. “I met Paul Drevin,” he admitted. “He’s the same age as me. But he doesn’t look anything like me. Just make a phone call. You can find out easily enough.” He took a deep breath. “You can cut off all my fingers if you want, but his father isn’t going to pay you a penny. He doesn’t even know I exist!”

There was another silence.

“He’s lying!” Combat Jacket insisted.

But Kaspar was already working it out for himself. He had heard Alex speak. Paul Drevin had a faint Russian accent. This boy had obviously lived in England all his life. Kaspar swore and stabbed down with the knife. The blade buried itself in the table less than a centimetre from Alex’s hand. The hilt quivered as he released it.

Alex saw the disappointment in the faces of Spectacles and Silver Tooth. But Kaspar had made his decision.

“Let go of him.”

Combat Jacket held him tightly for a moment longer, then released his arm and stood back, muttering something ugly under his breath. Alex snatched back his hand. His right arm was hurting as much as his left one. He wondered if Kaspar would send him back to the hospital. By the time he got out of here, he would need it.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Spectacles and Silver Tooth were waiting to escort him out, but Kaspar gestured for them to wait. He was examining Alex a second time, reassessing him. It was impossible to see behind the markings on his face, to know what was going on in his mind. “If it turns out that you are who you say you are,” he began, “if you really are not Paul Drevin, then you are of no use to us. We can kill you in any way that we please. And I think it will please my men to kill you very slowly indeed. So perhaps, my friend, it would have been better for you if there had been no mistake. Perhaps the loss of one finger might have been the easier way.” Silver Tooth was grinning. Spectacles nodded gravely.

“Take him back to his room,” Kaspar commanded. “I will make the necessary enquiries. And then we’ll meet again.”

FIRE ESCAPE

« ^ »

t was late afternoon when the door opened and Combat Jacket came in. Alex guessed that he had been in the room for eight hours. He had been allowed out once to use a chemical toilet, and at around midday he had been given a sandwich and a drink by an unsmiling Spectacles. The sandwich had been two days past its sell-by date and still in the plastic wrapping, bought from a garage. But Alex wolfed it down hungrily.

Combat Jacket had been sent to fetch him. He led Alex back down the corridor to the flat where the interrogation had taken place, his face with its ugly, broken nose giving nothing away. There was something about the whole set-up that Alex didn’t understand. Kaspar had told him they were freedom fighters—eco-warriors or whatever. They were certainly fanatics. The tattoos were ample proof of that. But the way they were treating him, the threats, the demands for money, seemed to belong to a different world.

They talked about pollution and the ozone layer; but they acted like thugs and common criminals. They had killed the night receptionist for no good reason. They seemed to have no regard at all for human life.

By now, Alex guessed, they must know the truth. So what were they going to do with him? He remembered what Kaspar had said and clamped down on his imagination. Instead, he searched for a way to break out of here. It wasn’t going to be easy. The four men had already tested him once. They knew what he was capable of. They weren’t going to give him a second chance.

Kaspar was waiting for him. There was a newspaper on the table in front of him but no sign of the knife.

Spectacles and Silver Tooth were standing behind him. As Alex sat down, Kaspar turned the newspaper round. It was the Evening Standard and the front-page headline told the whole story in just three words. Wrong boy kidnapped. Nobody was talking, so Alex quickly read the article. There was a photograph of St Dominic’s Hospital but no picture of him or Paul Drevin. That didn’t surprise him. He remembered reading somewhere that Paul’s father—Nikolei Drevin—had managed to get an embargo on any photos of his family being published, claiming it was too much of a security risk. And, of course, MI6

would have prevented any picture of Alex being used. He didn’t even get a mention by name.

A security guard was murdered in the small hours of the morning during a ruthless attack on a north London hospital. It seems almost certain that the intended target of the gang was fourteen-year-old Paul Drevin, son of one of the world’s richest men, Russian businessman Nikolei Drevin. Drevin made the headlines earlier this year when he bought Stratford East Football Club. He is also the guiding light behind the hundred billion pound Ark Angel project—the first hotel in space.

In an astonishing development, police have confirmed that the gang managed to kidnap the wrong boy.

This other boy, who has not been named, was discovered to be missing from his room following major surgery. Speaking from the hospital, Dr Roger Hayward made an urgent plea for the boy’s fast return. His condition is said to be stable but serious.

Alex looked up. Kaspar seemed to be waiting for him to speak. “I told you,” he said. “So why don’t you let me go? I’ve got nothing to do with this. I was just next door.”

“You got involved on purpose,” Kaspar said.

“No.” Alex denied it but his mouth was dry.

“You switched room numbers. You answered to the name of Paul Drevin. You crippled one of my men and injured the others.”

Alex said nothing, waiting for the axe to fall.

“I don’t understand why you chose to become involved,” Kaspar went on. “I don’t know who you are. But you made your decision. You chose to become an enemy of Force Three and so you must pay.”

“I didn’t choose anything.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. I am fighting a war and in any war there are casualties—innocent victims who just happen to get in the way. If it makes it any easier, think of yourself as one of them.” Kaspar sighed but there was no sadness in the map of his face. “Goodbye, Alex Rider. It was a pity that we had to meet. It has cost me a million pounds in ransom money. It will cost you rather more…” Before Alex could react, he was grabbed from behind and dragged to his feet. He didn’t speak as he was forced back out of the room and down the corridor. This time he was thrown into another room, smaller than his previous cell. Alex just had time to make out a chair, a barred window and four bare walls before he was shoved hard in the back and sent sprawling to the floor.

Combat Jacket stood over him. “I wish he’d let me have a little time with you,” he rasped. “If I had my way, we’d do this differently—”

“Move it!” The voice came from outside. One of the other men was waiting.

Combat Jacket spat at Alex and walked out. The door closed and almost at once Alex heard the unmistakable sound of hammering. He shook his head in disbelief. They weren’t just locking him in. They were nailing the door to the frame.

Once again, he examined his surroundings. He wondered why they had chosen this particular room. The bars on the window made no real difference. Even if the window had been wide open, he was at least seven storeys up. He wouldn’t have Deen able to climb out. And what exactly were they proposing to do?

They obviously weren’t planning to come back and get him. Were they simply going to leave him here to starve to death?

The answer came about an hour later. The sun was beginning to set and lights were coming on in buildings all over east London. Alex was becoming increasingly anxious. He was on his own, high up in a derelict tower block. He had a feeling that Kaspar and the others had gone; he could hear nothing at all on the other side of the door. The silence was unnerving. He knew that MI6 would be doing everything they could, searching the city for him, but what hope did they have of finding him here? He couldn’t open the window. The room was empty. There was no way he could attract anyone’s attention. For once he really did seem to be completely helpless.

And then he smelled it. Seeping through the floorboards, coming from somewhere deep in the heart of the building. Burning.

They had set fire to the tower block. Alex knew it even before he saw the first grey wisps of smoke creeping under the door. They had doused the place with petrol, set it alight and left him nailed inside what would soon be the world’s biggest funeral pyre. For a moment he felt panic—black and irresistible—as it engulfed him. More smoke was curling under the door. Alex sprang to his feet and backed over to the window, wondering if there was some way he could knock out the glass. But that wouldn’t help him. He forced himself to slow down, to think. He wasn’t going to let them kill him. Only eleven days ago, a paid assassin had fired a .22 calibre bullet at his heart. But he was still alive. He wasn’t easy to kill.

There were just two ways out of the room: the door and the window. Both of those were obviously hopeless. But what about the walls? They were made of hardboard and plaster. In the flat where he had been interrogated, they had been knocked through. Maybe he could do the same here. Experimentally he ran his hands over them, pushing and probing, searching for any weak spots. His throat was sore and his eyes were beginning to water. More and more smoke was pouring in. He stood back, then lashed out in a karate kick, his foot smashing into the centre of the wall. Pain shot up his leg and through his body. The wall didn’t even crack.

That just left the ceiling. Alex remembered the corridor outside. It had been missing some of its ceiling tiles and he had seen a gap underneath the pipes and wires that ran above. The ceiling in this room was covered with the same tiles.

And they had left him a chair.

He dragged it over to the corner nearest the door and stood on it. The floor had almost disappeared beneath a swirling carpet of smoke. It seemed to be reaching up as if it wanted to grab hold and devour him. Alex checked his balance, then punched upwards with the heel of his hand. The tiles were made of some sort of fibreboard and broke easily. He punched again, then tore at the edges of the hole he had made.

Dirt and debris showered down, almost blinding him. But when he next looked up he saw that there was a space above him. If he could reach, he could haul himself up, over the door and jump down the other side.

He ripped out more tiles until the hole was wide enough to squeeze through. He could hear something a few floors below him—a faint crackling. The sound made his skin crawl. It meant that the fire was getting close. He forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. The chair was wobbling underneath him. If he fell and twisted an ankle, he was finished.

At last he was ready. He tensed himself, then jumped. He felt the chair topple and crash to the floor—but he had done it! His hands had caught hold of an old water pipe and now he was dangling just below the ceiling, his arms disappearing into the space above. Once again he was all too aware of the stitches in his chest and wondered briefly if they would hold. God! The physio people had told him he ought to keep up his stretching exercises, but he doubted they’d had this in mind.

Gritting his teeth, Alex summoned all his strength to pull himself up into the cavity. His face passed through a cobweb and he grimaced as the fine strands laced themselves over his nose and mouth. His stomach touched the edge of the hole. He was half in and half out of the room. The crawl space was in front of him. The wall with the door was underneath him. Dozens of wires and insulated pipes ran inches above his head, stretching into the distance. Dust stung his eyes. What now?

Alex dragged himself along the pipe, bringing his feet up into the ceiling recess. He kicked down with his heels. More ceiling tiles fell loose and he saw the corridor below. There was a drop of about four metres.

Awkwardly he swung himself forward, then let his legs and torso hang. Finally he let go. He dropped down, landing in a crouch. He was in the corridor, on the other side of the locked door. With a sigh of relief, he straightened up. He was out of the room but he was at least seven floors up in an abandoned building that had been set on fire. He wasn’t safe yet.

The crackling of the flames was louder out in the corridor. The block of flats had seemed damp and musty to Alex but it was going up like a torch. He could feel the heat in the air. The end of the corridor—where he had been interrogated—was already shimmering in the heat haze. Where was the fire brigade? Surely someone must have seen what was happening. Alex noticed a fire alarm set in the wall, but the glass was already broken and the alarm button was missing. He would have to get out of here on his own.

Which way? He only had two choices—left or right—and he decided to head away from the interrogation room. He hadn’t seen a staircase when he had been taken there to meet Kaspar, but there might be one in the other direction. Smoke trickled up through the floorboards. It hung eerily in the doorways. Soon it would be impossible to see. Very soon it would be impossible to breathe.

He sprinted past the first room where he had been held and continued down the corridor, passing a set of lift doors. He didn’t even think about trying the lift. Nothing in the building worked and the doors were welded shut. But next to the lift he found what he was looking for: a staircase leading up and down. The steps were made of concrete, zigzagging round behind the lift shaft. He rested his hand briefly on the metal stair rail.

It was hot. The fire was near.

But he had no choice. He began to run down, his bare feet slapping against the cement. He would just have to hope he didn’t come across any broken glass. There were twenty-five steps between each floor; he counted them without meaning to. He turned a corner and saw a door leading into a smoke-filled corridor.

Definitely no way out there.

The further down he went, the worse it got. Twenty-five more steps and he came to another door. The corridor on the other side was well alight. There were brilliant red and orange flames, tearing into the walls, leaping up through the floor, devouring everything in their path. Alex was shocked by their speed and elemental strength. He had to put up a hand to protect himself, to stop his cheeks from burning.

He continued down. Force Three had started the blaze on the ground floor, allowing the air to carry the flames upwards. As Alex reached the third floor and began the next flight of steps down, he could barely breathe. The smoke was smothering him. He wished he’d thought to soak his shirt in water, to cover his eyes and mouth. But where would he have found water in the building anyway? Another twenty-five steps. Then another. Alex was choking. He could feel the sweat dripping down his sides. It was like being inside a giant oven. How much further?

He saw daylight. A door leading out onto the street.

And that was when Combat Jacket appeared, a nightmare creature, stepping out of nowhere as if in slow motion, his gun raised in front of him. Alex saw the muzzle flash and threw himself backwards as a bullet shot past centimetres above him. He landed awkwardly on the stairs and he was already rolling as a second bullet spat into the concrete, sending fragments of cement flying into the side of his face. Somehow he scrambled to his feet and began to climb up again. Combat Jacket fired twice more but for a brief moment, the smoke was on Alex’s side, and the bullets missed. Alex turned a corner. He didn’t stop until he was back on the first floor.

He felt sick—a mixture of fury and despair. He’d almost made it. What was Combat Jacket doing there, waiting for him? Had he guessed that Alex might somehow manage to escape? It made no sense. But he couldn’t think about it now. He was still trapped inside a burning building and he was rapidly running out of options. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. He looked along the corridor. It was a furnace. He couldn’t go that way. He couldn’t go down. That only left up.

Wearily, he started to climb. He made it to the second floor with just seconds to spare. As he continued up, there was a sudden rush of flames and a crash as part of the ceiling collapsed. Burning wood, metal and glass cascaded down. The fire had reached the stairs: now the way down was permanently blocked. He would have to try to make it to the roof. Perhaps he would be lucky. The police and fire brigade would be on the way. There might be helicopters.

Alex kept climbing. His hands were black; his face was streaked with tears. But he didn’t stop. At the very worst, he would die in the open air. He wasn’t going to let the fire finish him here.

He was no longer counting the steps. His legs were aching and the bandages around his chest had come loose. He ran past the eighth floor with a growing sense of despair. This was where he had begun. Forcing himself on, he continued to climb, past the ninth, the tenth … eleventh … twelfth… He was aware of the flames chasing him, filling the stairwell, licking at his heels. It was as if the fire knew he was there and was afraid of losing him. At last he came to a solid door with a metal push mechanism. He slammed his palms against it, terrified it would be locked. But the door swung open. The cool evening air rushed to greet him.

The sun had set but the sky was a brilliant red, the same colour as the fire that would be with him all too soon.

Alex was close to exhaustion. He had barely eaten all day. He was meant to be in bed. He almost wanted to cry but instead he swore, once, shouting out the ugly word. Then he wiped a grimy sleeve across his face and looked around.

He was on the roof, fifteen storeys up. He could see a water tank in front of him and a brick building that housed the cables for the lifts. Well, there were no working lifts and there was probably no water either, so neither of them would help. At some stage builders must have carried out some work up here. They had left a few lengths of scaffolding and plastic piping as well as a cement mixer and two steel buckets, both half filled with cement that had long ago dried and solidified. Alex ran to the edge of the roof, searching for a fire escape down. He could feel the tarmac against the soles of his feet. It was already hot. Soon it would begin to melt.

There was no fire escape. There was no way down. He could see the street far below. No cars. No pedestrians. He was in some sort of industrial district in east London. The whole area looked like it was cordoned off, waiting for the money that would make redevelopment possible. The building opposite was identical to this one, similarly condemned. It stood less than fifty metres away, connected by the banner that Alex had seen when he woke up.

HORNCHURCH TOWERS

SOON TO BE AN EXCITING NEW DEVELOPMENT FOR EAST LONDON.

If he had come here in a year’s time, he might have found himself standing on the balcony of a fabulous penthouse flat. Alex took in the view. He could see the River Thames in front of him. The Millennium Dome, unwanted and unloved, sat on a spur of land with the water bending round it. A plane dipped out of the sky, making for City Airport, which he could see over his shoulder. Alex raised his arm, waving for attention, but he knew at once that it was no good. The plane was too high up. It was already too dark. And the smoke was too thick.

He hurried back to the door. He would have to head down again and hope that the upper corridors were still passable. Maybe he could try the other side of the building. He pulled the door open carefully. It seemed impossible that Combat Jacket would have followed him all the way up, but he wasn’t taking any chances. But as the door swung wide, he realized that Combat Jacket was the least of his problems.

A fist of flame punched at him. The stairs had become an inferno. At the same moment, there was an explosion and Alex was hurled backwards by a thousand fragments of burning, splintered wood which had been blasted up from below. He landed painfully on his back, and when he next looked up he saw that the door itself was now on fire. It was the only way off the roof. He was trapped.

Alex stood up. The tarmac was definitely getting hotter. He could no longer stay too long on one foot.

Black smoke was pouring out of the stairwell, billowing into the sky. Now he heard the sound he had been hoping for—the wail of sirens. But he knew that by the time they got to him, it would be too late. There was another explosion below him. The windows were beginning to shatter, unable to take the heat. No way down. What could he do? The banner.

It was twenty metres long, about a hundred metres above the ground, a lifeline between this building and the next. The advertisement for Hornchurch Towers was suspended between two steel cables; the top cable was level with the roof, bolted into the brickwork. Alex ran over to it. Could he stand on the lower cable and hold onto the higher one? It would be like a swing bridge in the jungle. He could slowly inch his way across to the other side and safety. But the cables were too far apart—and the material was flapping in the wind. It would knock him off before he was even halfway.

Could he somehow crawl across on his hands and knees? No. The cable was about two centimetres thick. It wasn’t wide enough to support him. He would lose his balance and fall. That was certain. So how? The answer came to him in an instant. Everything he needed was there in front of him. But it only worked when he put it all together. Could he do it? Another window shattered. Behind him, the exit had disappeared in a whirlwind of flames and smoke. He was standing on a giant hot plate and it was becoming more unbearable with every passing second. Alex could see the fire engines, the size of toys, speeding along about half a mile away. He had to try. There was no other way.

He snatched up one of the lengths of plastic piping, weighing it in his hands. It was about six metres long and light enough for him to carry without feeling any strain. He had to make it heavier. Moving more quickly, he examined the steel buckets. They were half full of hardened cement, and weighed about the same. Somehow he had to attach them to the piping. But there was no rope. He choked and wiped sweat and tears from his eyes. What could he use? Then he looked down and saw the bandages flapping around his chest. He grabbed an end and began to tear them off. Sixty seconds later he was ready. It was Ian Rider he had to thank, of course. A visit to a circus in Vienna six years ago when Alex was only eight. It had been his birthday. And he still remembered his favourite act. The tightrope walkers.

“Funambulism,” Ian Rider said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s Latin, Alex. Funis means rope. And ambulare is to walk. Funambulism is the art of tightrope walking.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Well, it’s a lot easier than it looks. Not many people realize it, but there’s a trick involved…” Alex lifted the plastic pole, the middle pressed against his chest, about three metres stretching out each side. There was a heavy steel bucket attached to each end, tied in place with a torn bandage. Every second he waited he could feel the heat increasing. His soles were already blistering and he knew he couldn’t wait any more. He walked to the edge of the roof. The metal cable running above the advertisement stretched out into the distance. Suddenly the other tower block seemed a very long way away. He tried not to look down. He knew that would make it impossible for him even to begin.

This was how it was meant to work. This was what Ian Rider had explained.

The wire acts as an axis. If you try to walk across the wire, you will fall the moment that your centre of mass is not directly above it. One wobble and gravity will do the rest.

But a long pole increases what is called the rotational inertia of the tightrope artist. It makes it more difficult to fall. And if you add enough weight to each end, you will actually shift your centre of gravity below the wire. This was what Alex had done with the two buckets. Provided he didn’t drop the pole, he would find it almost impossible to lose his balance. He had seen toys that worked on the same principle. It should be easy.

At least, that was the theory. Alex took a step. He had one foot on the very edge of the brickwork and one foot on the metal cable. All he had to do was lean forward, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, and he would be walking the tightrope. If the laws of physics worked, he would make it across. If they didn’t, he would die. It was as simple as that.

He took a deep breath and launched himself off the building.

He could feel the pole flexing as the buckets hung down, one on each side. For a terrifying moment the world seemed to lurch sideways and he was certain he was about to fall. But he forced himself not to panic.

He clutched the pole more tightly against his chest and focused on the cable ahead of him. Briefly he closed his eyes, willing himself not to fight for balance, to let the laws of physics guide him.

And it worked. He wasn’t falling. He could feel the cable cutting into his feet but miraculously he was stable. Now—how many steps to the other side? The flames were warming his back. It was time to move.

One step after another, he made his way across. He wanted to look down. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to do just that, and his neck and spine were rigid with tension. But that was the one thing he must not do. He tried to imagine that he was back on the sports field at Brookland School. He had walked along the painted white lines often enough. This was exactly the same—just a bit higher up.

He was about halfway across when things began to go wrong. And they went wrong spectacularly.

First, the police and fire engines arrived. Alex heard the screams of the sirens directly beneath him and, before he could stop himself, he looked down. It was a mistake. He was no longer walking across a sports field. He was standing on a wire, insanely far above the ground. He saw people in uniform pointing up at him and shouting; he could just about hear their voices. One of the fire trucks was extending its ladder towards him but he doubted it would reach him in time.

The whole world began to spin. He felt a rush of panic that seemed to dissolve every muscle in his body and left him so weak that he thought he would faint. At the same time, the wind rose and the banner began to flutter like the sail of a yacht, the cable swaying from side to side. Alex knew that only the weights on the ends of the pole were keeping him upright. He was paralysed. There was nothing he could do.

And that was when the rooftop exploded. The flames had finally broken free. A fireball burst through the tarmac. The police and firemen dived for cover as bricks and pieces of metal rained down. The whole tower block was close to collapse. Alex felt a vibration travel up through his body and realized with horror that the metal stanchion holding the top cable was about to come loose. He couldn’t wait for the firemen to reach him. He had perhaps seconds left.

The shock of the explosion broke his paralysis. Alex ran, pushing against the pole, like a sprinter breaking through the finishing line. The buckets swung madly, held fast by the bandages. Another explosion, louder this time. He didn’t dare look round.

The other building was getting nearer but it still wasn’t near enough. His arms were aching, barely able to hold the heavy weight. The cable was cutting into his feet. He was being battered by the wind. He wasn’t going to make it. And then the cable snapped. Alex heard a sound like a crack of a whip and knew that his lifeline had been severed. With a cry, he dropped the pole and threw himself forward, reaching out for the roof just a few metres away. The cable and the banner crumpled under his feet. His hands missed the edge of the building and he began to plunge down. But now he was tangled up with the banner; it was folding itself around him. Alex grabbed hold of the material and gasped as he crashed into the wall. His feet were dangling in space. The cable was unravelling beneath him. But it was still attached to the rooftop just a few metres above his head. Alex waited until he was sure nothing else was moving. Then, painfully, he began to pull himself up.

Two of the firemen had managed to reach the roof. They were standing there, watching as the building opposite completed its spectacular collapse. They heard a noise and looked down. A boy had just crawled up over the edge, right by their feet. His shirt was in rags, and a few tattered bandages trailed from his chest. His face and hands were covered in soot. His hair was black with sweat.

“What the…?” They grabbed hold of him and pulled him to safety.

Alex sat down heavily. He gazed at the remains of the building where he had been held prisoner. There was very little of it left. Sparks leapt into the darkening sky.

“Nice night for a walk,” he said, and passed out.

R&R

« ^ »

ack Starbright made the best scrambled eggs in the world. The secret, she said, was to use only free-range eggs, mix them with unsalted butter and a little milk—and then get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. She didn’t enjoy cooking and only used recipes that could be prepared in less than ten minutes.

This breakfast, for example, would go from fridge to table in exactly eight and a half.

She heaped the eggs onto two plates, added grilled bacon, tomatoes and toast, and carried them over to the kitchen table where Alex Rider was waiting. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the two of them were back in the house in Chelsea where Alex had once lived with his uncle. Jack had first come there as a student, paying for her room by looking after Alex while Ian Rider was away. Gradually she had become a sort of housekeeper.

Now she was Alex’s legal guardian and also his best friend.

Alex was wearing tracksuit trousers and a loose T-shirt; his hair was still wet from the shower. Two days had passed since his confrontation with Force Three and he was already looking a lot like his old self—

although Jack noticed that he was still massaging his left arm. She put the plates down and poured two mugs of tea. Neither of them spoke.

Alex had been taken straight back to hospital after his dramatic escape. None of the firemen could believe what they had seen, and assumed they had been sent to rescue someone who had trained at the circus.

Once again, MI6 had been forced to clamp down on the press reports. Photographs of Alex on the wire had appeared in newspapers all over the world, but he had been too far away to be recognized and his name was kept out of it. An ambulance had rushed him away before any journalists arrived, and by ten o’clock that night he was back in his old bed at St Dominic’s. He fell asleep at once.

The next morning, he was woken by the nurse—Diana Meacher—coming into his room.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Tired,” Alex replied.

“Was that really you on the roof? I saw it on the news last night.” She went over to the window and raised the blinds. “Everyone’s talking about it—although we’ve all been told we’re not allowed to.” She came back to the bed and slipped a thermometer into his mouth. “And those men who broke in! We all know what you did and we think you’re incredibly brave.”

“ ‘Ank you,” Alex said with difficulty. “I’d watch out, though, if I were you. Dr Hayward’s hopping mad.

He says he didn’t spend hours operating on you just for you to get nearly killed a second time. He’ll be here shortly.” She removed the thermometer and examined it. “Your temperature’s normal, though I’d say it’s the only thing about you that is!”

Later that morning, Dr Hayward came in and he certainly seemed less than cheerful. He gave Alex a thorough check-up, starting with his blood pressure and pulse rate and moving on to examine his wound.

He barely spoke a word as he did it.

“It’s lucky that you keep yourself fit,” he remarked at last. He looked and spoke like a long-suffering headmaster. “All those shenanigans could have caused you serious damage, but it looks as if your stitches have held and you’re generally in one piece.”

“When can I go home?”

“We’ll just keep you here until the end of the day. I’m afraid the people you work for want to speak to you.”

“I don’t work for anyone,” Alex said.

“Well … you know who I mean. Anyway, there’s always a chance your system will react against the beating you’ve given it. So I want you to stay in bed today and I’ll come in and have another look at you after tea.” He stood up. “And one last thing, Alex. I’m going to prescribe you at least two weeks’ rest and recuperation. I absolutely insist on it.”

“Can I go back to school?”

“I’m afraid not. Just over a week ago you were having major surgery. I know you’ve made an amazing recovery but there are still all sorts of risks—infection and all the rest of it. Two weeks’ holiday, Alex. And no arguments!”

Dr Hayward departed and Alex was left on his own. To kill some time, he went for a walk down the corridor, past room eight. It was empty. Nobody had mentioned Paul Drevin and it seemed that the other boy had gone.

There is nothing worse than being in hospital when you don’t feel you need to be there, and by eleven o’clock Alex was in a bad mood. Jack rang and he told her not to come in; he would see her when she came to collect him. His next visitor arrived just before lunch. It wasn’t the person he had expected.

He had realized that MI6 would want to know what had happened at Hornchurch Towers and that they would send someone to debrief him. He had expected Mrs Jones. But instead it was John Crawley who arrived, dressed in a nasty blue blazer with a crest on the pocket, and holding a box of Roses chocolates.

Crawley had once claimed to be a personnel manager, and Alex still wasn’t quite sure what he did at MI6.

He was in his late thirties with thinning hair and a rather worried-looking face. He looked like the sort of man who counted paperclips and kept his pencils in a special drawer.

He sat down by the bed. “Got you these,” he said, handing over the chocolates.

“Thank you, Mr Crawley.” Now that he was closer, Alex could see that the badge on the jacket belonged to Royal Tunbridge Wells Golf and Croquet Club.

“Mrs Jones apologized for not coming herself. She’s in Berlin. She asked me to find out what’s been going on. The police wanted to talk to you too, but I’ve had a word with them and they won’t be bothering you.

How are you feeling, by the way? We were all very shocked by what happened. I had a run-in with Scorpia about ten years ago and it nearly did for me. Anyway, let’s get back to Force Three. What exactly happened?”

Crawley took out a miniature tape recorder and laid it on the bed. Quickly, Alex took him through the events, starting with the moment the four men had walked into the hospital. It occurred to him that Crawley had let slip a little clue about his past. He too had fought against Scorpia. Had he once been a field agent himself? Alex described the fight in the hospital, his meeting with Kaspar in the derelict flat, the ransom demand and his escape from the fire. Crawley blinked several times as Alex spoke but didn’t interrupt.

“Well, that’s quite an adventure,” he commented, when Alex had finished. “I remember when you and I first met. I could see straight away you were something special. I knew your father. I wasn’t allowed to tell you that before. I worked with him a couple of times.”

“In the field?”

“Yes. That was before…” Crawley ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I got hurt and had to stop. But you’re just like him. Remarkable. Anyway, I have a few questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.” He had turned the tape recorder off; now he switched it back on. “The man who interrogated you. You say he called himself Kaspar. Can you describe him?”

“That’s easy, Mr Crawley. He hasn’t got the sort of face you’d forget.”

“Tattoos?”

“Yes.” Alex described the man who had come so close to removing his little finger.

“And he definitely told you that he represented Force Three.”

“Yes. He talked a lot about global warming and that sort of thing.”

“I would have said he rather added to it by setting fire to the building.”

“I thought so too.”

“What else can you tell me about him? Did he speak with an accent?” Alex thought back. “I don’t think he was English. He might have had a slight French accent. I’m not sure.” Crawley nodded. “Just one more question. The other three men in the tower block. You call them Combat Jacket, Spectacles and Silver Tooth. Did you hear any names?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“Thank you, Alex.” Crawley pressed a button on the tape recorder. There was a click as it stopped turning.

“So who is Kaspar? Who are Force Three? What was it all about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well,” Crawley began. “Let’s start with Nikolei Drevin. I suppose you know who he is.”

“I’ve heard of him. He’s a Russian multimillionaire.”

“Born in Russia, yes. But he’s more of a multi-billionaire, as a matter of fact. An absolutely wonderful man.

He lives in England a lot of the time, and he’s made it clear that he likes to think of himself as English.”

“He bought a football club.”

“Stratford East. That’s right. Nobody had ever heard of them but he’s forked out for some of the best players in the world and now they’re in the Premiership. He has a huge place in Oxfordshire, a penthouse near Tower Bridge and houses all over the world. He even has his own island out in the Caribbean.

Flamingo Bay. That’s where the launches take place.”

“Ark Angel,” Alex said.

“Ark Angel is the name of the space hotel that he’s building. It’s being put together piece by piece, and he has to send rockets up every now and then with the next component. You may not know this, Alex, but the British government are partners in the project and it means a great deal to them. The first hotel in space and it’ll be flying a British flag! Ten years from now, commercial space travel will be a reality. In fact, it already is. An American businessman has already gone into outer space. Paid twenty million dollars for the privilege. Once Ark Angel is up and running, more will follow. The most powerful and influential people in the world will be queuing up for tickets, and we’ll be the ones supplying them.”

“Kaspar mentioned outer space,” Alex said. “He didn’t seem too happy about the idea.”

“Kaspar is a fanatic,” Crawley replied. “It’s true that a few wild birds got wiped out on Flamingo Bay when the launch pad was set up. As a matter of fact, there aren’t any flamingos there any more. Friends of the Earth and the World Wildlife Fund got a bit upset about it, but you don’t see them going around murdering people. Force Three’s a different matter.”

“What do you know about them?”

Crawley scowled. “Not a lot. Before this year, nobody had ever heard of them. Then a woman in Germany wrote an article about them in Der Spiegel and a few days later she was shot in the street. The same thing happened in London just over a week ago. A chap by the name of Max Webber denounced them at a conference on international security and got blown up as a result. We’re looking into both deaths right now

—that’s why Mrs Jones is in Berlin. Force Three seems to be something quite new. Eco-terrorists … I suppose that’s what you’d call them. It’s all very alarming.”

“What about Kaspar?”

“Apart from what you’ve told us, we hardly know anything about him.”

“Well, he should be easy enough to catch.” It was something that had puzzled Alex from the start. The tattoos. “With a face like his, you’ll be able to spot him a mile away.”

“At least we know what we’re looking for. As for Drevin, he can take care of himself, I imagine. He’s got plenty of security out on Flamingo Bay. Our real worry is that Force Three might have a crack at Ark Angel.

They’ve already blown up a car manufacturing plant, a research centre and quite a few other installations.

Of course, they’ll have their work cut out. After all, Ark Angel is three hundred miles up in outer space. But none of this is any concern of yours.”

Crawley stood up. “You did a superb job, Alex,” he said. “I’m sure Drevin is enormously grateful. I wouldn’t be surprised if a large cheque didn’t turn up in the post. At the very least, you might get a couple of tickets to see Stratford East play.”

“I don’t want a cheque,” Alex said. “I just want to go home.”

“I hear the doctor says you can leave this evening.” Crawley slid the tape recorder into his pocket. “I’ve stayed long enough,” he said. “Very good to see you, Alex. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” I’m sure we’ll meet again.

Alex remembered the words now as he ate his scrambled eggs. Did Crawley really think he would ever work for MI6 again? If so he was very much mistaken. The strange thing was, he could think of dozens of boys at Brookland School who probably dreamt about being a spy. They’d imagine it would be fun. Alex had discovered the unpleasant reality. He’d been hurt, threatened, manipulated, shot at, beaten up and almost killed. He’d found himself in a world where he couldn’t believe anybody and where nothing was quite what it seemed. And he’d had enough. In two years he would be taking his GCSEs. From now on he was going to keep his head down, and the next time four terrorist kidnappers broke into a hospital he’d simply turn over and go back to sleep!

Jack Starbright had almost finished eating and Alex realized she hadn’t said a word since she had sat down. She’d been very quiet when she picked him up from hospital too.

“Jack, are you angry with me?” he asked. “No,” she said. But the single word told him the exact opposite.

Alex put down his knife and fork. “I’m sorry.” Jack sighed. “I don’t know what to say to you, Alex,” she said. “I’m not sure I can look after you any more.”

“Are you going back to America?”

“No! I don’t know.” She looked at him sadly. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me recently. First you tell me you’re going on vacation in Venice. The next thing I know, you’ve got caught up with some international band of criminals and then you get shot. How do you think I felt when they told me? But somehow you pull through and you’re in hospital, and any other kid would just stay there and get better.

But not you! You have to take on a gang of kidnappers and nearly get killed all over again.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Alex protested. “It just happened.”

“I know. That’s what I tell myself. But the fact is, I feel completely useless.” She fell silent. “And I don’t want to be sitting here next time when they tell me you didn’t make it. I couldn’t bear that.” Alex went over to her. “There isn’t going to be a next time,” he said. “And you’re not useless, Jack. I don’t know what I’d do without you. There’s no one else to look after me. And it’s not just that. I sometimes think you’re the only person who really knows me. I only feel normal when I’m with you.” Jack stood up and gave him a hug. “Just my luck,” she said ruefully. “All the fourteen-year-olds in the world, and I end up looking after you.”

The phone rang in the hall.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

Alex took the plates over to the dishwasher and began to stack them. About two minutes later, Jack came back in. There was an odd look on her face.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“It was for you. I don’t believe it! That was Nikolei Drevin.”

“He rang himself?”

“Yes. He’s invited you to have tea with him this afternoon. He’s giving a press conference at the Waterfront Hotel and he wanted to know if you’d come along and meet him afterwards.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I told him I’d ask you and he said he’d send a car.” She shrugged. “I guess he expected you to say yes.”

Alex thought for a moment. Mr Crawley had said that Drevin would probably get in touch. “Do you think I should go?”

Jack sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose he wants to thank you. After all, you saved him one million pounds.

And you stopped his son getting hurt.”

Alex remembered Paul Drevin. He wondered if the other boy would be at the hotel.

“I could call him back and say you’re too tired,” Jack added.

For a moment, Alex was tempted. The last time he’d met a multimillionaire, it had been Damian Cray—and the experience had nearly killed him. On the other hand, this was different. Drevin was a target. It was the man called Kaspar who was the enemy. And it was fair enough that Drevin should want to meet him after what had happened. Alex felt awkward about saying no.

Sometimes it’s the tiniest things that can mean the difference between life and death. A few centimetres of kerb had saved Alex when he stepped off the pavement on Liverpool Street just as a sniper fired at him.

Now two words were going to drag him back into the world he thought he’d left behind. “Let’s go.” AT THE WATERFRONT

« ^ »

he Waterfront Hotel was brand new—a silver and glass tower rising above the Thames at St Katharine’s Dock. Looking up the river, Alex could see Tower Bridge with HMS Belfast moored near by. He didn’t look the other way. He was only a few miles from where he’d been held prisoner. He didn’t need any reminder of that.

Behind him, Jack Starbright stepped out of the ordinary London taxi that had brought them here. At first she had been a little disgruntled. “So what happened to the Rolls-Royce?” she wondered out loud. But in the end she agreed that Drevin had made the right decision. The last thing either of them wanted was to make a grand entrance.

They walked into a foyer where everything seemed to be white or made of glass. A young woman was waiting there to greet them.

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Alex Rider and Jack Starbright. Mr Drevin asked me to look out for you.“ She spoke with an American accent. ”My name’s Tamara Knight. I’m Mr Drevin’s personal assistant.” Alex cast an eye over her as they shook hands. Tamara Knight was twenty-five, although she looked much younger. She was not much taller than he was, with light brown hair tied back, and attractive blue eyes.

Alex felt that the formal business suit and brightly polished leather shoes didn’t suit her. He also wished she’d smile a bit more. She didn’t look at all pleased to see him.

“Mr Drevin is still tied up with his press conference,” she explained as she led them across the central atrium of the hotel. Silver and glass lifts rose and fell around them, travelling silently on hidden cables. A group of Japanese businessmen walked across the marble floor. “He said you were welcome to look in if you wanted to. Or you can wait for him in his private suite.”

“I’d like to know what a suite costs here,” Jack muttered.

Tamara Knight smiled coldly. “It doesn’t cost Mr Drevin anything. He owns the hotel.”

“Let’s take a look at the press conference,” Alex said.

“Of course. He’s talking about Ark Angel. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.” She led them up a wide flight of stairs and along a corridor until they came to a pair of smoked glass doors.

Two large men in suits were guarding this entrance. “We’ll slip in at the back,” Tamara whispered. “Just take a seat. Nobody will notice you.”

She nodded and one of the men opened the doors.

Alex went through and found himself in a wide, imposing room with large windows giving a panoramic view of the river. There were about a hundred journalists sitting in rows facing a long table on a platform.

The words ARK ANGEL had been spelled out in solid steel letters, each one two metres high, and there were photographs of the earth, taken from space, suspended on thin wires. Three people were seated behind the table. One was the minister for science and innovation. The other looked like some sort of civil servant. Alex didn’t recognize him. The man in the middle was Nikolei Drevin.

Drevin was unimpressive. That was Alex’s first thought. If he’d bumped into him in the street he might have mistaken him for a bank manager or an accountant. Drevin was a serious-looking man in his forties with watery, grey eyes and hair that had once been fair but was now fading to grey. He had bad skin; there was a rash around his chin and neck as if he’d had trouble shaving. All his clothes—his suit, his shirt with its buttoned-down collar, the plain silk tie—looked brand new and expensive. But they did nothing for him. He wore them with as much style as a mannequin in a shop window. Alex noticed a gold watch on one hand. There was a ring made of platinum or white gold on the other.

Drevin seemed dwarfed by his surroundings. He was physically smaller than the two men who were sharing the platform with him. The minister had been answering a question when Alex came in. Drevin was fidgeting nervously, twisting the ring on his finger. Tamara gestured to a seat and Alex sat down. The minister finished talking and the other man looked around for another question.

One of the journalists raised a hand. “I understand that Ark Angel is now two months behind schedule and three hundred million dollars over budget,” he said. “I’d like to ask Mr Drevin if he now regrets getting involved.”

“You are mistaken,” Drevin replied, and at once Alex could hear the accent in his voice. It was more pronounced than his son’s had been. He spoke slowly, accentuating each word. “Ark Angel is actually three hundred million pounds over budget. This is a British project, you must remember.” There was a murmur of laughter around the room. Drevin shrugged. “Some difficulties were to be expected,” he went on. “This is the most ambitious building project of the twenty-first century. A fully functioning hotel in space! But do I regret it? Of course not. What we are talking about is the beginning of space tourism, the greatest adventure of our lifetime. A hundred years from now, it will not only be possible to travel to the edge of the universe, it will be cheap! Maybe one day your great-grandchildren will walk on the moon. And they will remember that it all began with Ark Angel. It all began here.” Another hand went up. “How is your son? Does it concern you that the people who tried to kidnap him are still at large?”

Jack nudged Alex. They had arrived at the right time.

“I do not normally speak about my family,” Drevin replied. “But I will say this. These people—Force Three

—claim they are fighting for the environment. It is true that the wildlife on Flamingo Bay was disturbed when we launched our first rockets, and I very much regret that. But I have only contempt for these people.

They tried to extort money from me. They are common criminals and I have every confidence that the British or European police will soon bring them to justice.”

“Absolutely!” agreed the minister.

“We have time for just one more question,” the second man said.

A bearded man sitting in the front row raised a nicotine-stained finger. “I have a question,” he said. “I’ve heard rumours that the federal government of the United States is currently investigating Mr Drevin.

Apparently they’re looking into certain financial irregularities. Is there any truth in that?”

“Mr Drevin is not here to answer questions about his personal affairs.” The civil servant scowled and the minister nodded.

Drevin cut in. “It’s all right.” He didn’t seem concerned. He looked the journalist straight in the eye. “I am a businessman,” he said. “I am, you might agree, a fairly successful businessman.” That produced a few smiles. Everyone in the room was aware that they were being addressed by one of the richest people in the world. “It is absolutely true that the CIA are looking into my affairs. It would be surprising if they weren’t.

It’s their job. But…”—he spread his hands—“I have nothing to hide; indeed, I am willing to offer them my full cooperation.” He paused. “It is possible that they will find some irregularities. I went out to lunch last week and forgot to keep the receipt. If they decide to prosecute me because of it, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

This time there was real laughter and even a scattering of applause. The man with the beard blushed and buried himself in his notebook. The other journalists stood up and began to file out. The press conference was over.

“He’s such a brilliant speaker,” Tamara Knight said, and Alex couldn’t doubt the enthusiasm in her voice.

She led Alex and Jack back the way they’d come, then across the atrium and over to one of the lifts. Once inside, she produced a key. The building had twenty-five storeys; the key activated the button for the top floor.

The doors closed and they were whisked upwards at speed. Alex felt his stomach sink as the atrium disappeared beneath them. Twenty floors up, the lift entered a solid shaft and the view was blocked.

Another few seconds and they slowed down. The lift stopped and the doors slid open.

They had arrived.

They were in a huge room with windows on two sides giving breathtaking views over St Katharine’s Dock, the yachts and cruisers resting at their moorings far below. Tower Bridge was close by. It looked unreal, a toy replica, sitting in the afternoon sun. Alex looked around him. The room was simply but expensively furnished with three Persian rugs spread over light wood floorboards. The furniture was modern. On one side stood a dining-room table with a dozen leather chairs. A corridor ran past a black Bechstein grand piano to a closed door at the end. There was a sunken area in the middle of the room with three oversized sofas and a glass coffee table. Tea—sandwiches and biscuits—had already been served.

“Quite a place!” Jack said.

“This is where Mr Drevin stays when he’s in London.” Tamara Knight pointed out of one window. “You see the boat third from the left? The Crimean Star. That belongs to him too.” Jack gasped. The vessel was gleaming white, the size of a small ocean liner. “Have you been on board?” she asked.

“Certainly not. My work with Mr Drevin doesn’t allow me to enter his private quarters,” she explained primly.

Just then the door at the end of the corridor opened and Nikolei Drevin came in. It occurred to Alex that there must be a second lift, bringing him up to another part of the penthouse. He was alone, hands clasped in front of him, his fingers tugging at the ring. “Thank you very much, Miss Knight,” he said. “You can leave us now.”

“Yes, Mr Drevin.”

“Have you made the arrangements for Saturday?”

“I’ve left the file on your desk, Mr Drevin.”

“Good. I’ll talk with you later.” Tamara Knight nodded at Alex. “It was good to meet you,” she said—but without a lot of enthusiasm. Then she turned and walked back into the lift. The doors closed and she was gone.

For the first time, Nikolei Drevin seemed to relax. He walked up to Alex and rested a hand on each shoulder, and for a second Alex wondered if he was going to kiss him. Instead Drevin held him firmly in what was almost an embrace. “You’re Alex Rider,” he said. “I am very, very happy to meet you.” He let Alex go and turned to Jack. “Miss Starbright.” He shook hands with her. “I am so glad you were able to come. Please, will you sit down?” He led them to the sofas and picked up the teapot. “Tea?” he asked.

“Thank you.”

Nobody spoke while he poured. At last he sat back and studied his two guests. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Alex,” he said. “Although I hope you will permit me to try. You quite possibly saved my son’s life. Certainly you saved him from a terrible ordeal. I am very much in your debt.”

“How is he?” Alex asked.

“Paul is well, thank you. Please, help yourself…”

Jack took a sandwich but Alex wasn’t hungry. He was feeling a little uncomfortable being this close to Drevin. The man was only a few inches taller than he was, and still seemed very ordinary. And yet he radiated power. It was the same with all the rich people Alex had met. Their money, the billions of pounds in their bank accounts, spoke before they did.

“I should be asking how you are, Alex,” Drevin went on. “I understand you were recovering from a chest injury. A bike accident?”

“Yes.” Alex hated lying but that was the story that had been agreed.

“Alex is very accident-prone,” Jack muttered, holding up her sandwich.

“Well, it was very lucky for me that you should end up in the room next to Paul. I still find it hard to believe that you acted the way you did. But let me get straight to the point. I am sure you know who I am. I don’t seek attention, but the papers like to write about me, especially when my team loses. I am a very wealthy man. If there is anything that you want in the world, Alex, I can give it to you. I don’t say this as a boast. I mean it. You have done me a great service and I would like to repay you.” Alex thought for a moment. “There’s nothing I really want, thank you,” he said. “I’m glad I was able to help your son. But it just sort of happened. I don’t need any reward.” Drevin nodded. “I had a feeling you might say that, and I’m afraid I can’t accept it as an answer. So I would like to make a proposition.” He paused. “I spoke to your doctor this morning. Dr Hayward. You might like to know that I have made a donation of two million pounds on your behalf towards a new cardiology wing at St Dominic’s.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Alex said. “So long as they don’t name it after me.” Drevin smiled. “Don’t worry! Dr Hayward tells me that you must not return to school for a couple of weeks. What I would like to propose is that you come and stay with me, as my guest. I’d be very glad to look after you while you recuperate. I employ a full-time medical staff, so you will be in safe hands if any complications should arise. More to the point, my chef is world class. Everything you want will be given to you. Miss Starbright is also very welcome.”

“I’m not sure—” Alex began. “Please, Alex!” Drevin interrupted. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned.

My son, Paul. He’s almost your age and he told me that you spoke together a few times in hospital. I know he would welcome your company. Paul doesn’t meet many other boys—that’s largely my fault. I’m afraid for him. There’s always the danger that someone will try to get at me through him. What happened at St Dominic’s is proof of that. He met you and liked you, and it would be good for him to have someone else around for a while. You’d be doing me a favour if you agreed to come.” He paused. Alex felt the grey eyes examining him.

“I want to offer you two weeks with more luxury than you have ever known in your life. We’ll start here in England. I can’t leave until the weekend; I have business and, more importantly, we’re playing Chelsea on Saturday and I can’t miss that. After that I’m flying to New York. I have an apartment there, and again there is some business I have to take care of. You see? Paul is always on his own.” He put down his cup and leant forward. Although his tone hadn’t changed, Alex could sense his energy and excitement.

“But in just over a week’s time, there’s something you really can’t miss. We have a launch at Flamingo Bay.

Have you ever seen a rocket being fired? It’s an unforgettable experience. If the weather’s right, it’ll blast off at exactly nine o’clock local time on Wednesday morning. It’ll be carrying the observation module for Ark Angel. It’s taken us three years to build. It will be the very heart of Ark Angel; the communications centre, a window like no other window in the world. Paul will, of course, be there, and I want you to be there with him. I have a house on the island and the beaches are spectacular. After the launch, you can stay for as long as you like.”

Alex said nothing. He wanted to go. He had never seen a rocket launch and it sounded like the sort of adventure he could actually enjoy—without anyone trying to kill him. And yet…

Drevin seemed to sense his uncertainty. “I’m sure Dr Hayward would agree that a bit of Caribbean sun would do you good,” he said. “Please! Don’t refuse me. I have to tell you, I’ve already made up my mind and I’m the sort of person who is used to getting his own way.” Alex turned to Jack. He still wasn’t sure. And he was vaguely aware that something was bothering him. It was something Drevin had said. It didn’t add up. “What do you think?” he asked.

Jack’s eyes were gleaming. She had obviously been impressed by Drevin, the penthouse, the Crimean Star.

“I think it’s a great idea,” she said. “A couple of weeks in the sun are exactly what you need. And I’m sure Mr Drevin will look after you.”

“You have my word.”

Alex nodded. “OK then. Thank you.” He took a sandwich. “But I think I should warn you: I’m a Chelsea supporter.”

Drevin smiled. “That’s all right. Nobody’s perfect. I’ll send a driver to collect you—shall we say the day after tomorrow? He’ll drive you down to Neverglade—that’s my house in Oxfordshire. Paul is there now. I must call him and let him know you’re coming.” He glanced at his watch. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must leave you. I have a meeting at the Bank of England.”

“Is that where you have your account?” Jack asked.

“One of them.” He stood up. “Miss Knight will show you out when you have finished—and she’ll also arrange a car to take you home. Thank you again, Alex. I know you’re not going to regret this.” Another twist of the ring. Alex had noticed that his hands were never still. Drevin left the way he had come in.

There was a long silence.

“Wow!” Jack exclaimed.

“Flamingo Bay…” Alex murmured.

“It’s exactly what the doctor ordered, Alex.” She helped herself to another sandwich. “It couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“Sure…”

But Alex wasn’t sure. What was it that was bothering him?

Yes. That was it.

Paul Drevin was a target. That was what Drevin had said. He was always in danger.

So why had he been on his own? That night at the hospital, four men had broken in to kidnap him. They had known he was there.

But there hadn’t been a single guard in sight.

THE LAP OF LUXURY

« ^ »

elcome to Neverglade,“ Paul Drevin said.

Alex stepped out of the luxury car that had brought him here and looked around. He had seen wealth before. He had once gone undercover as the son of a supermarket magnate, which had meant spending a week in a mansion in Lancashire. But this place was something else again.

His first sight of Drevin’s country estate had been a pretty but very ordinary gatehouse on a country lane about twenty miles north of Oxford. But even here, Alex had noticed the high walls and woodland surrounding the estate, and the closed-circuit television cameras rotating discreetly between the trees. The driveway must have been a mile long, emerging from the woods into fields so perfectly mown it was hard to believe they were made of grass. On one side was a lake with two jet skis and a Lapwing wooden sailing boat moored beside a jetty. On the other, partly hidden in a slight dip, a miniature racing circuit twisted and turned, with its own grandstand for spectators. Four of the most beautiful horses Alex had ever seen were grazing in a paddock. The sun was shining. It was as if the summer had returned.

And there was Neverglade. It wasn’t a house but a fourteenth-century castle—with its own moat, battlements, towers and outlying church. It was built of grey stone, with dark green ivy spreading diagonally across the face. Alex caught his breath as they drove towards it and crossed the drawbridge.

The castle didn’t seem real. It was like something out of a picture book. And why had it been built here of all places? He wondered why he had never heard or seen pictures of it before.

Alex wished now that Jack Starbright had decided to come.

She had seemed uneasy and deep in thought in the taxi home from the Waterfront, but it was only later in the evening that she announced her decision.

“I’d love to come with you, Alex,” she said. “And I’d love to watch this rocket being launched. But I can’t. I haven’t seen my mum and dad for nearly a year, and I need to go back home to Washington DC. It’s their wedding anniversary next week, and this would be a good opportunity to take a vacation. You’re safe, and you’re going to be well looked after. Anyway, you’ve got Paul Drevin. He’s your age and you won’t want me hanging around. So go and enjoy yourself. And just you make sure you don’t get into any more trouble.

Rest and recuperation. That’s what the doctor said.”

Nikolei Drevin had sent a uniformed chauffeur to pick Alex up—and this time he had arrived in a Rolls-Royce, a pale blue Corniche with a retracting hood. They had cruised out of London and up the M40, the 6.75 litre V8 engine effortlessly gliding past all the other traffic as if the roads had been built exclusively for its use. Now the car disappeared round the side of the house as Paul Drevin came out to greet him.

The last time Alex had seen the other boy, he had been wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas. Now he was dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting jersey. He looked a lot healthier than he had in hospital—but there was more to it than that. He was more confident. This was his home, his territory, and one day he would inherit it. Alex had to remind himself that this boy was probably a multimillionaire himself. His weekly pocket money probably arrived in a security van. Suddenly Alex wondered if coming here had been a good idea.

“Quite a place,” he said as they walked towards the front door, their feet crunching on the gravel.

“My father had it built here. The castle used to be somewhere in Scotland. It was falling down so he bought it and shipped it here, piece by piece, and then put it back together again. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

Alex followed Paul into an entrance hall with flagstones, tapestries and a fireplace big enough to burn a bus. As they climbed up a majestic staircase, they passed paintings by Picasso, Warhol, Hockney and Lucian Freud. Nikolei Drevin obviously liked modern art.

“What you did at the hospital was amazing,” Paul said. “Did you really mean to take my place?”

“Well, it just sort of happened…”

“If those men had kidnapped me, they were going to cut my finger off!” Paul shuddered and Alex wondered how he knew about that. The exact details of what had happened at Hornchurch Towers hadn’t been in the papers. But he assumed that for a man like Drevin, even the most classified information wouldn’t be hard to get. “They nearly killed you because of me,” Paul went on. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s no need to say anything.”

“I’m glad you agreed to come.”

Alex shrugged. “Your dad made it difficult for me to refuse.”

“Yes. He’s like that.” They had reached the top of the stairs. Paul took out an inhaler and puffed at it twice.

“I have asthma,” he explained.

“That’s bad luck.”

“This way…” They walked down a corridor with ornate wooden doors at intervals on either side.

“There are thirty bedrooms,” Paul told him. “I don’t know why we need so many. They’re never full. I’ve put you next to me. If you want anything, just pick up the phone. It’s like living in a hotel, except you don’t have to pay.”

They came to an open door and went into a bedroom with windows looking out over the lake. The chauffeur must have come in through another entrance; Alex’s luggage was on the bed. The room was modern. Alex took in the plasma screen television mounted on the wall, the console with DVD, video and PlayStation, the phone with about a dozen buttons for the different services it provided, a shelf of books—

all brand new by the look of them—the bathroom with bath, power shower and Jacuzzi. Drevin had promised him a luxurious lifestyle and he had certainly been true to his word.

“What do you want to do?” Paul asked.

“You tell me.”

“Well, we can go horse-riding if you like. We’ve got two swimming pools: indoor and out. Later we can watch a film. There’s a cinema and Dad gets all the new releases. We can play tennis or golf, or go clay pigeon shooting. You saw the lake; we can go jet-skiing or sailing or fishing or whatever. I suppose I’d better start by showing you around. That’ll take most of the day, and Dad’s having dinner with us tonight.

It’s up to you.”

Alex didn’t know what to say. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll show you the house and then we can grab a couple of quad bikes and I’ll take you round the grounds. There are about two hundred acres. Are you hungry?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Right.” Alex tried to sound enthusiastic, but somehow he couldn’t.

Paul had picked up on this. “I guess this must be very weird for you,” he said. “You don’t know me and you probably don’t even like me. Not a lot of people do. They think I’m a rich, spoilt brat and if they come here at all it’s only because of all the free stuff. My father invited you because he wanted to thank you for what you did at the hospital. But it was more than that. He’s hoping we’re going to be friends and it’s the one thing he can’t actually buy. Friendship. But I’ll understand if you want to take your bags and get the hell out of here. Sometimes I feel the same.”

Alex thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m glad to be here. I can’t go back to school and I’m meant to be resting for the next couple of weeks, and to be honest, I’ve got nowhere else to go. So if your dad wants to treat me like a multimillionaire, I’m not going to complain.”

“OK.” Paul looked relieved. “We’re going to New York on Sunday and that’ll be cool. And then there’s Flamingo Bay. Have you tried kite-surfing?”

Alex shook his head.

“I can show you how to do it. We’re on the Atlantic side so we get huge waves.” Paul had suddenly become more animated and Alex found himself warming to him. “Let’s start in the cinema,” he said. “We can work our way down…”

Two hours later, they still hadn’t finished. Alex had seen more wealth than he could possibly imagine. This wasn’t how the other half lived. There were probably only a handful of people in the world with the resources of Nikolei Drevin. Anything he wanted he could have—from the medieval suit of armour outside the dining room to the two Polaris MSX jet skis out on the lake. He had also learnt a little more about Paul’s background. He was an only child. His parents had divorced when he was six and his mother was now living in America. He saw her a couple of times a year, but she and his father never spoke. When Paul was younger he had gone to an ordinary school, but in the end there had been too many security problems and now he was being educated by private tutors. Part of the house had been converted into a school. Alex had seen it and felt sad. There were books and blackboards, desks and computers. But no schoolchildren. No shouting. No real life.

At five o’clock he went back to his room and dozed for an hour, then showered and changed for dinner. He had seen the grand dining room at Neverglade with its chandeliers and antique oak table long enough to seat twenty—and he was relieved that they would be eating in the conservatory next to the kitchen. This was a pretty room with marble columns, Italian tiles and exotic plants in huge terracotta pots. Nikolei Drevin was already there when he arrived.

“Please come in, Alex. Take a seat.” Drevin was drinking wine. He had changed into jeans and a denim jacket, and Alex couldn’t help thinking that the clothes didn’t suit him. He was somehow too old for them.

He was a man born to wear a suit.

“Will you have some wine?” Drevin asked. “Or perhaps a beer?”

“Water will be fine,” Alex replied.

“In Russia, children drink alcohol from an early age.”

The door opened and a young woman came in, carrying the first course on a tray: melon and serrano ham.

Alex had no idea how many people worked at Neverglade; the servants had the knack of staying invisible, except when they were needed. He helped himself to iced water. Paul arrived and sat down without speaking. The servant left and the three of them were alone.

“Has Paul shown you around?” Drevin asked.

“Yes. It’s quite a place.”

“I bought it when I first came to your country. The original Neverglade was a sixteenth-century manor house. There’s a story that Queen Elizabeth I stayed there and saw a production of Twelfth Night in the great hall. But I wasn’t fond of the architectural style. The house was too dark, and it only had eleven bedrooms. It was too small.”

“What happened to it?”

Drevin sighed. “A dreadful accident. It burned down. This present castle rose out of the ashes’or rather, I brought it here. I liked it the moment I saw it. The only problem was that it was in Scotland. But happily I was able to do something about that. Have the two of you decided what you’re going to do tomorrow?”

“I thought we might go for a walk,” Paul said.

Drevin turned on him and Alex saw something flash in the grey eyes. It was very brief and he couldn’t be certain, but it was almost a look of contempt. “Surely you can think of something more adventurous than that!” he said. “Why don’t you take the horses out? Or the dirt bikes? Of course, you’re both recuperating.

Paul from his appendix operation. And you, Alex”—the eyes came to rest on him—“from your cycling accident.”

“Yes.” Was Drevin questioning his story? “I went over the handlebars and hit a fence.”

“You must have been going very fast.”

“I was, until I hit the fence.”

“Then perhaps dirt bikes aren’t the best idea.” Drevin thought for a moment. His fingers were tugging at his ring but his face gave nothing away. This was a man who was used to keeping his secrets to himself.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said.

“I have a conference call tomorrow morning. With the launch just over a week away, I have to keep in constant contact with my own people as well as NASA and, of course, the British government. But in the afternoon, how would you like to race against me?”

“On horses?”

“Go-karts. You may have seen I have a track here. I built it for Paul, although I’m afraid he seldom uses it.”

“I do use it,” Paul protested. “But it’s no fun when you’ve no one to race against.” Drevin ignored him. “I have several karts,” he went on. “You’ll find it quite exhilarating, Alex. You against me. What do you say?”

“Sure.” Alex didn’t much like the sound of it but there was something about the way he was being asked.

He’d felt the same when Drevin had invited him to stay. He wasn’t really being given a choice.

“And to make it more fun, why don’t we have a bet? If you beat me, I’ll give you a thousand pounds.”

“I’m not sure I want a thousand pounds,” Alex said. It wasn’t the money that bothered him; he just wasn’t sure he wanted to take it from this man.

“Well, in that case I’ll give it to any charity you care to name. But you don’t need to worry. There is absolutely no chance that you will win. Paul can be the flagman. Shall we say two o’clock?”

“All right.”

Drevin picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. Alex noticed that his son hadn’t touched his food.

Already he could sense the gulf between them. It was obvious with every word that was spoken, every moment that they spent together. Once again he asked himself what he was doing here. And once again he found himself wondering if it had been such a good idea to come.

Two hours later, Alex was making his way back to his room on his own. Nikolei Drevin had gone out into the garden to smoke a cigar. Paul had announced he was tired and had already gone to bed.

He was walking down the main corridor on the ground floor. There was a fully equipped gymnasium and an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool at the far end, and Alex was tempted to go for a swim before bed.

He wasn’t tired any more. He wanted to dive into the warm water and wash away some of the memories of his first day at Neverglade. He was tempted to ring Jack Starbright. She would have arrived in America by now. He was still sorry she had decided not to come with him, and he was worried he had let her down.

Maybe he should have gone with her.

His path took him past the double doors of Drevin’s study. Paul had pointed it out earlier but they hadn’t gone in. On an impulse he stopped and looked left and right. The corridor stretched on, empty, in both directions, its black and white tiles giving it the appearance of the world’s longest chessboard. He turned the handle. The door opened. Without quite knowing what he was doing, Alex switched on the light and went in.

The study was enormous, dominated by a massive glass and steel desk shaped like a crescent moon. The wood floor was partly covered by a Persian rug that must have taken years to weave. Behind the desk were glass doors leading out onto the front lawn. Alex counted four phones on the desk, as well as two computers, a printer, several piles of documents and a series of clocks showing time zones all over the world. There was one small picture of Paul in a silver frame.

If Alex had hoped that this room would tell him a little more about his host, he was disappointed. Nikolei Drevin was very rich and very powerful—but he didn’t need an oversized desk and a stack of expensive equipment to tell him that. One of the walls was covered with photos and Alex went over to them. This was more like it. He had at least found one tiny chink in the man’s impressive armour. Vanity. The wall was a gallery of celebrities.

There were photographs of Drevin with pop stars and actors, photographs taken at glitzy parties and de luxe hotels. He showed little emotion in any of them, but even so Alex could tell that he was quietly pleased to be there. Here was Drevin with Tom Cruise, Drevin with Julia Roberts, Drevin chatting to Steven Spielberg on the set of his latest film. He was in Whitehall with the prime minister (who was smiling cheesily) and in Washington with the president of the United States. Here he was shaking hands with the Russian president—Alex was surprised to find himself looking at the bloated face of Boris Kiriyenko. The two of them had met when Alex had been a prisoner on the island of Skeleton Key.

The pope had given Drevin an audience. So had Nelson Mandela in Cape Town. Some of the pictures had been taken from newspapers, and the headlines told the story of his life in bold, simple statements: DREVIN MOVES TO THE UK

DREVIN RICHER THAN THE QUEEN

DREVIN BUILDS £50 MILLION OXFORDSHIRE HOME

DREVIN BUYS STRATFORD EAST

This Last headline was accompanied by a photograph of Drevin with Adam Wright, the England striker who had been his first major purchase for his new team. Alex glanced at the other articles.

DREVIN ANNOUNCES ARK ANGEL PLANS

DREVIN BUYS WATERFRONT HOTEL

DREVIN MOVES INTO LONDON PROPERTY MARKET

There was a movement behind him.

Nikolei Drevin had come into the study through the French windows. He was still holding his cigar and was examining Alex curiously. “Alex? What are you doing in here?” There was no anger in his voice. He seemed, if anything, just a little perplexed.

“I’m sorry.” It took Alex a few seconds to find the words. He knew he was trespassing. On the other hand, the door hadn’t been locked. “I was just on my way to bed. I hadn’t been in here and I thought I’d take a look.”

“This is my private study; I would prefer it if you didn’t come in here.”

“Of course. I was about to go but then I saw these pictures.” Alex gestured at one of them. “You’ve met the Queen.”

“Several times, as a matter of fact. She spoke a great deal about her horses. I didn’t find her very interesting.”

“And Nelson Mandela.”

“Ah, yes. A great man. He gave me a signed copy of his book.” Silence and suspicion hung in the air between them.

“Well, I’d better go up,” Alex said.

“Can you find your way?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Alex smiled. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Alex was feeling dizzy. His left arm was throbbing.

He left the study as casually as he could and didn’t stop until he’d reached his own room on the second floor. He sat down heavily on the bed. He knew what he had just seen. But he couldn’t make sense of it.

The last newspaper cutting had shown Drevin wearing a fluorescent jacket and hard hat, standing outside a derelict building in east London. Alex had recognized it at once and hadn’t needed the banner, stretching out high in the background, to tell him its name.

Hornchurch Towers.

The building that had burnt down. The picture had been taken just a few days before he had almost died there.

Either it was an incredible coincidence or Kaspar and his men—the group that called itself Force Three—

had deliberately taken him to a block of flats that Drevin had just purchased. They had thought he was Paul Drevin. They had been planning to ransom him for the sum of a million pounds. So why had they taken him to a building that his father owned?

Alex undressed and got into bed. He couldn’t sleep. He had thought he was meant to be having two weeks in the lap of luxury. Looked after and safe—that was what Jack had said. He was beginning to feel that both of them might be wrong.

SHORT CIRCUIT

« ^ »

he building was in SoHo, at the southern end of Manhattan. It stood between a delicatessen and a parking garage in a street full of converted warehouses with metal fire escapes, and boutiques that felt no need to advertise. There were no skyscrapers in this part of New York. SoHo prided itself on its village atmosphere, even if you needed a city salary to afford an apartment here. The entire neighbourhood was relaxed. People walked their dogs or ate their sandwiches in the autumn sun. There was little traffic. It was easy to forget the noise and the chaos just twenty blocks north.

Creative Ideas Animation fitted in perfectly. It sold cartoons: cells from the Simpsons and Futurama, original drawings from Disney and DreamWorks. It only had a small front window and there weren’t many pictures on display. Unlike the other galleries in the area, its front door was locked. Visitors had to ring a bell. Even so, people would occasionally wander in off the street, but once they were inside they would find that the girl who worked there was unhelpful, the prices were ridiculous and there were better selections elsewhere. In the twenty years the gallery had been there, nobody had ever bought anything.

Which was precisely the idea. The people who worked at Creative Ideas Animation had no interest at all in art of any sort. They needed a base in New York and this was what they had chosen. SoHo suited them nicely. Nobody noticed who went in or out. Not that it mattered anyway. They owned the garage next door and used a secret entrance round the side.

At six o’clock that evening, five men and two women were sitting round a conference table in a surprisingly spacious and well-appointed room on the first floor just above the gallery. The table was a rectangle of polished glass on a chrome frame. The chairs were also made of chrome, with black leather seats. Clocks showing time zones around the world lined two of the walls. A large plasma screen covered a third. The fourth was a single plate-glass window facing a restaurant on the other side of the street. The glass was one way. Nobody at the restaurant could see in.

All the people in the room were formally dressed in dark suits and crisp white shirts. Six of them were young and fit; they could have just come out of college. The seventh, at the head of the table, was more crumpled. He was a sixty-year-old black man with sunken eyes, grizzled white hair and moustache, and a look of perpetual tiredness.

One of the younger men was speaking.

“I have to report a development in England,” he was saying. “It may not be relevant, but as you are aware, six days ago Nikolei Drevin was targeted by the environmental group Force Three. They were planning to abduct his son and hold him to ransom but they captured the wrong kid. It seems this other kid got in the way on purpose. He actually got himself kidnapped. Can you believe that?” He coughed. “What happened next is still unclear, but somehow the kid managed to escape and Drevin decided to reward him by making him part of the family. So now he’s on his way over here. He’ll be travelling with Drevin and Drevin’s son down to Flamingo Bay.”

“Does this kid have a name?” someone asked.

“Alex Rider.” It was the older man who had spoken. “I think you should take a look at him.” There was an unmarked file on the table in front of him. He leant forward, flipped it open and took out a photograph. He passed it to the man sitting next to him. “This was sent to me last night,” he explained. “This is the kid we’re talking about. The woman with him is his guardian. He has no parents.” One after another, the four men and two women examined the photo. It showed Alex Rider and Jack Starbright as they entered the Waterfront Hotel, and had been taken by a concealed camera at ground level.

“The fact that Alex Rider has gotten himself involved changes everything,” the older man went on. “I’m surprised Drevin hasn’t checked up on him. It could be his first—and his biggest—mistake.” One of the women shook her head. “I don’t understand. Who is Alex Rider?”

“He’s no ordinary kid. And let me say straight off that this is to go no further than this room. What I’m telling you is classified—but it seems we’re in a need-to-know situation.” He paused. “Alex is an agent working with MI6 Special Operations.”

A mutter of disbelief travelled round the table.

“But, sir…” the woman protested. “That’s crazy. He can’t be more than fifteen years old.”

“He’s fourteen. And you’re absolutely right. Trust MI6 to come up with an idea like this. But it’s worked.

Alex Rider is the nearest thing the Brits have to a lethal weapon.”

“So how come he’s got himself mixed up with Drevin?” the other woman asked.

The older man smiled to himself as if he knew something they didn’t. In fact, he was only just beginning to work it out. “Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe it wasn’t,” he murmured. “But either way it’s a whole new ball game. Alex Rider met Kaspar. He’s been at the heart of Force Three. And now he’s close to Drevin.”

“You think he can help us?”

“He’ll help us whether he wants to or not.” The man gazed at the photo and suddenly there was a hardness in his eyes. “If Alex Rider comes to New York, I want to see him. Do you understand? It’s a number one priority. Use any means necessary to get hold of him. I want you to bring that boy to me.” Over three thousand miles away, at Neverglade, Alex had just finished two sets of tennis with Paul Drevin.

To his surprise, he’d been thrashed.

Paul was a brilliant player. If he’d wanted to, he could have served ace after ace and Alex wouldn’t even have had a chance. He’d purposely slowed down his serve, but despite Alex’s best efforts, the score had been three-six in the first set, four-six in the next. Alex would have happily played on, but Paul shook his head. He had slumped on the grass with a bottle of water. Alex noticed he’d also brought out his inhaler again. At the end of the last set he’d been struggling to breathe.

“You should join a club or something,” Alex remarked, sitting down next to him. “Could you play competitively?”

Paul shook his head. “Two sets is all I can manage. After that my lungs pack in.”

“How long have you had asthma?”

“All my life. Luckily it’s not too bad, but then it kicks in and that’s it. My dad gets really fed up.”

“You can’t help it if you’re ill.”

“That’s not how he sees it.” Paul glanced at his watch. “He’ll be at the track by now. Come on. I’ll walk over with you.”

They left the rackets behind and walked across the lawn together. A man drove past on a tractor and nodded at them. Alex had noticed that none of the staff ever spoke to Paul; he wondered if they were allowed to.

“Aren’t you going to race?” he asked.

“Maybe later. If it was just you and me, I wouldn’t mind. But Dad…” Paul fell silent as if there was something he didn’t want to say. “Dad takes it very seriously,” he muttered.

“How fast do these karts go?”

“They can do a hundred miles an hour.” Paul saw Alex’s eyes widen. “They’re not toys, if that’s what you were expecting. My father had some business friends to stay a few months ago. One of them lost control round a corner and the kart flipped. They can do that. I saw it happen. He must have turned over six or seven times. He was lucky he was wearing a helmet, otherwise he’d have been killed.”

“How badly was he hurt?”

“He broke his wrist and collarbone. His face was all cut up too. And you should have seen the kart! It was a write-off.” Paul shook his head. “Be very careful, Alex,” he warned. “My dad doesn’t like to lose.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve got any chance of winning.”

“If you want my advice, you won’t even try.”

There was a question Alex had been dying to ask him all morning and he decided this was probably the right moment. “Why do you live with him and not with your mother?”

“He insisted.”

“Do your parents really hate each other?”

“He never talks about her. And she gets angry if I ask her about him.” Paul sighed. “What about your parents?”

“I don’t have any. They died when I was small.”

“I’m sorry.” They walked on for a while in silence. “I wish I had a brother,” Paul said suddenly. “That’s the worst of it. Always being on my own.”

“Can’t you go to school?”

“I did for a bit. But it caused all sorts of problems. I had to have a bodyguard—Dad insisted—so I never really fitted in. In the end he decided it was easier for me to have lessons at home.” Paul shrugged. “I keep thinking that one day I’ll be sixteen and maybe I can walk out of here. Dad’s not so bad, but I wish I could have my own life.”

They had crossed the lawn and there was the track ahead of them: a kilometre of twisting asphalt, with seating for about fifty spectators, and six go-karts waiting in a side bay. Nikolei Drevin was already there, checking one of the engines. There were a couple of mechanics on hand but nobody else. This race was going to happen without an audience.

“Good luck,” Paul whispered.

“Ah—Alex!” Drevin had heard them approaching. He looked up. “Have you done this before?”

“A couple of times.” Alex had been on the indoor track at King’s Cross in London. “I don’t think the karts were as powerful as these.”

“These are the best. I had them custom-built myself. Chrome Molly frames and Rotax Formula E engines; 125cc, electric starter, water-cooled.” He pointed. “You start them by pressing the button next to the steering wheel. I hope you have a head for speed. They’ll go from nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. That’s faster than a Ferrari.”

“How many circuits do you have in mind?”

“Shall we say three? If you cross the finishing line first, your favourite charity will be richer by a thousand pounds.” Drevin picked up two helmets and handed one to Alex. “I hope this is your size.” Alex’s helmet was blue; Drevin would be wearing black.

Alex slipped his on and fastened it under his chin. The helmet had a visor that slid down over his face, and protective pads for his neck and the sides of his head.

“This is your last chance, Alex,” Drevin said. “If you’re nervous, now is the time to back out…” Alex examined the go-karts. They were little more than skeletons, a tangle of wires and pipes with a plastic seat in the middle and two fuel tanks behind. When he sat down, he would be just inches above the ground. And there was something else missing—apart from the floor. He had already noticed that, unlike the karts he had driven at King’s Cross, these had no wrap-around bumpers. Now he understood what Paul had told him. The cars were lethal. The course was hemmed in with bales of straw, but if he lost control, if one of his tyres came into contact with Drevin’s, he could all too easily flip over—just like the friend Paul had mentioned. And if the engine scraped along the asphalt and sparks hit the petrol tanks, the whole thing would explode.

Drevin was waiting for his answer. Looking at him casually holding his helmet, one thumb hooked into his designer jeans, Alex felt a spurt of annoyance. He was going to race this man. And he was going to win.

“I’m not nervous,” he said.

“Good. We’ll do two practice circuits before we start. Paul can signal the first and last circuits with a flag.” Alex examined the course. It was a series of twists and sharp turns with two straight sections where he would be able to pick up speed. Part of the track rose steeply on metal legs and then sloped down the other side; it formed a bridge over another section of the track below. Alex realized he would have to slow down as he took it. He would be about six metres up—and although the sides of the bridge were lined by a protective wall of rubber tyres, he didn’t like to think what would happen if he lost control and hit them.

After the bridge, there was a long tunnel with the finishing line on the other side.

He climbed into his kart and pressed the ignition button. At once the engine burst into noisy life. Already Alex felt horribly exposed. The kart had no sides, no roof. He was sitting with his knees bent, his feet stretched out in front of him. He pulled a seat belt over his shoulder and attached it. It was too late to back out now. Drevin had started his kart and was moving off smoothly. Alex tested the pedals on either side of the steering column. There were just two. The left foot operated the brake, the right foot the throttle. His kart leapt forward, the engine anxious to blast him onto the track. Drevin was already well ahead. Alex gritted his teeth and pressed his foot down.

Nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. Alex didn’t go as fast as that on the first practice circuit but, even so, the power of the engine took him by surprise. There was no speedometer and being so low it was hard to judge how fast he was really going. He guessed he was doing about forty miles an hour, although it felt a lot faster. The track was a blur. The whole circuit seemed to have contracted as his vision telescoped. He saw the grandstand whip past. The mechanics had stopped what they were doing and were watching his progress. His entire concentration was focused on his hands gripping the wheel. His arms were shuddering. He came to a corner and twisted the wheel right. He felt the tyres slide behind him and almost lost control. He was oversteering. Quickly he corrected himself. The kart entered the raised section and he found himself climbing. Halfway over the bridge, the track cornered sharply to the left. Alex swerved round and the wall of black tyres shimmered past. He had almost hit them. Already he regretted accepting this absurd challenge. He had only just come out of hospital. One mistake at this speed and he would be heading right back.

He completed his first circuit and began another. There was no sign of Drevin, and Alex wondered if he had left the track. Then there was a roar behind him and the Russian overtook, his face hidden beneath the black helmet. He had managed two complete circuits in the time that Alex had done one and a half. There was clearly going to be no contest unless Alex put his foot down. How fast had Paul said the karts could go? A hundred miles an hour. Madness!

And there was Paul, positioned on the grandstand, a chequered flag in his hand. Drevin had slowed down, waiting for Alex to catch up. The race was about to begin. Well, at least Alex had had a chance to test the worst corners and bends. He’d begun to work out his race line. And it occurred to him that he might have one big advantage over Drevin. He weighed a lot less than him. That would give him the edge when it came to speed.

But there was no time for further thought. The flag fell. They were off.

Forty miles an hour—fifty—sixty. Just inches above the blur of the tarmac, Alex pressed his right foot down as far as it would go and felt the burst of power behind him. He quickly caught up with Drevin. They came to a bend. Drevin took it tight, hugging the inside. Alex shot round the outside and suddenly he was in the lead as he screamed through the tunnel. So he was right: his weight would make the vital difference. Now all he had to do was stay ahead for the next two laps and he would win.

He had just begun the second circuit when his kart shuddered. For a moment, Alex thought the engine had misfired. Then it happened again, harder this time. He felt himself being jerked back in his seat and the bones in his neck rattled. The tyres slewed and he had to fight for control. A third knock. At this speed it felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. He glanced back and realized what was happening. Drevin was bumping him from behind. He was being quite methodical about it; he wasn’t trying to overtake. They were doing seventy miles an hour, suspended in the middle of a bare steel frame that offered no protection at all. Did Drevin want to kill them both?

Alex braked and immediately Drevin soared ahead, shooting up the raised section of the track, Alex followed, looking for an opportunity to slip past him. But Drevin was cheating again, zigzag-ing left and right, refusing to give him any space. They roared down the slope and onto the straight, then plunged into the tunnel. After the bright sun-light, it was very dark inside. Alex accelerated and drew level with Drevin.

Drevin twisted his wheel and crashed sideways into Alex.

The whole world leapt. Sparks exploded in the darkness as metal tore into metal. The walls of the tunnel rushed past. Desperately Alex fought for control, and as the two karts burst out into day-light, he dropped back. Once again Drevin had the lead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Paul wave the flag, signalling the third and final circuit. The race seemed to have lasted only seconds—and it looked as if Drevin had it in the bag. Alex thought about letting him go. What did it matter who won? After all, this was Drevin’s toy. Drevin was paying the bills. It might be polite to lose.

But something inside him rebelled against the idea. He stamped down, urging his kart on. Once more he drew level with his opponent. Now the two karts were side by side, heading up the ramp for the last time.

Alex saw Drevin glance across and then wrench at his steering wheel. Alex understood at once what he was doing: Drevin was trying to knock him into the tyres and over the edge! For a horrible moment, Alex saw himself somersaulting sideways in his kart. He saw the world turning upside down and heard the grinding of metal as he hit the tarmac below. Would Drevin really kill him just to win a race? His nerves screamed at him. Stop now! This was stupid. He had nothing to prove.

Drevin slammed into him again. That was it. There was no way Alex was going to let the Russian billionaire win. He touched the brake, as if accepting defeat. Drevin shot ahead, swerving round the corner.

Then Alex accelerated. But he didn’t turn the wheel. Instead he aimed straight for the wall of tyres. He hit them head-on and, yelling out loud, soared into the air. For a brief moment he hung in space. Black tyres cascaded all around him, spinning away like oversized coins. Then he was falling. The tarmac rushed up to greet him. There was a bone-shuddering crash as he hit the track below, and Alex was slammed into his seat. The steering wheel twisted in his hands, trying to pull away as he struggled for control. Somehow the kart kept going. Tyres bounced all around and he was forced to swerve wildly. But he had done it. He had cut the corner and now he was ten metres ahead of Drevin.

The tunnel loomed in front of him. He roared into the darkness and out the other side, across the finishing line. He slammed on his brakes. Too hard. The kart slewed round in an uncontrollable spin and stopped.

The engine stalled. But the race was over.

Alex had won.

A few seconds later, Drevin pulled up next to him. He tore off his helmet. He was sweating heavily; his hair was plastered to his scalp. He was furious.

“You cheated!” he exclaimed. “You missed part of the track.”

“You pushed me,” Alex protested. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“We will race again!”

“No thanks.” Alex had removed his helmet, glad to feel the breeze on his face. “It was a lot of fun but I think I’ve had enough.” He climbed out of the kart. The mechanics were hovering beside the track, wondering if they should approach.

Paul arrived, still carrying the flag. “I can’t believe what I just saw! That was amazing, Alex. But you could have been killed!”

“The race is void,” Drevin said. “I did not lose!”

“Well, you didn’t win either,” Alex muttered.

Paul stood there helplessly, looking from one to the other. Drevin considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It was a draw,” he muttered. Then he turned and walked away.

Alex watched him go. “I see what you mean,” he murmured. “He really doesn’t like losing.” Paul turned to Alex, his expression serious. “You should be careful, Alex,” he warned. “Don’t make him your enemy.” He ran after his father.

Alex was left standing alone.

INJURY TIME

« ^ »

y Saturday the race seemed to have been forgotten. Nikolei Drevin was in a good mood as he waited for another of his Rolls-Royces—this one a silver Phantom—to be brought round to the front door. It was an important day for him. Stratford East, the team he had bought for twenty million pounds, were playing Chelsea in the Premiership and, although they had been comprehensively beaten three-nil by Newcastle only the week before, Drevin was in high spirits.

“Have you always supported Chelsea?” he asked Alex as they left the house.

“Yes.” It was true. Alex lived only twenty minutes from Stamford Bridge and he had often gone to games with his uncle.

“The club was almost bankrupt when it was bought by Roman Abramovich.” Drevin looked thoughtful. “I met him a few times in Moscow. We did not get on. I hope to disappoint both of you today.” Alex said nothing. There was an intensity in Drevin’s voice that suggested that, as far as he was concerned, this was more than a game. The Rolls-Royce pulled up and the two of them got in.

Paul Drevin wasn’t coming. He’d had a bad asthma attack the night before and his doctor, who was based twenty-four hours a day at Neverglade, had said he needed a day’s rest. And so Alex found himself alone with Drevin in the back of the car as they were driven down the motorway to London.

“You have no parents,” Drevin said suddenly.

“No. They both died when I was very young.”

“I’m sorry. An accident?”

“A plane crash.” It was easy for Alex to repeat the lie that MI6 had been telling him all his life.

“You have no relations?”

“No. Just Jack. She looks after me.”

“That is very unusual. But then it seems to me that you are an unusual boy. It would be interesting, I think, to have a son like you.” Drevin looked out of the window. “How are you getting on with Paul?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“He likes you.” Drevin was still looking away, avoiding Alex’s eye. “I wish that he was a little more like you. He seems so … aimless.”

“Maybe he’d be happier if you let him go to an ordinary school,” Alex said.

“That is not possible.”

“Do you really think he’s in any danger?”

“He is my son.” Drevin spoke the words with no emotion at all. He had summed Paul up. There was nothing else to say. He forced a thin smile to his lips. “But enough of that,” he went on. “My team will beat your team. That is all that matters today.”

An hour later, they turned onto the Fulham Road and were forced to drive at a snail’s pace through the thousands of people who were arriving for the game, the Chelsea fans in blue, the Stratford East supporters in red and black. Alex was glad that Drevin’s Rolls-Royce had tinted windows. Nobody could look in. He had come to Stamford Bridge a hundred times on foot and he’d always loved the sense of belonging, that moment when he became part of the crowd battling its way through rain or snow in the hope of seeing a home win. This was too comfortable, too isolated. He would have felt embarrassed if anyone had seen him.

They turned into the complex of hotels, restaurants and health clubs that had come to be known as Chelsea Village, then swept away from the fans, following a narrow passageway to the west stand. The car stopped in front of a revolving door with the words MILLENNIUM RECEPTION in silver above. They got out.

Drevin had become more tense the closer they got to London. His eyes and mouth were three narrow slits and he was twisting his ring in short, jerky movements.

“Here is Miss Knight,” he said, and Alex saw Tamara Knight, the over-efficient personal secretary he had met at the Waterfront Hotel. She was still dressed smartly in a jacket and shirt, even though she was at a football match. Alex noticed she was wearing black and red earrings: at least she hadn’t completely forgotten her team colours.

“Good afternoon, Mr Drevin. Alex…” She nodded at both of them. “Lunch is being served on the third floor. I have your passes.” She gave them two security passes marked ALL ACCESS + T.

“What does the T stand for?” Alex asked.

“I presume it means you can go through the tunnel,” Tamara explained. She sounded uninterested. “In fact you can go anywhere you like, except onto the pitch.” She turned to Mr Drevin. “Good luck this afternoon,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Knight.”

They went into what could have been the foyer of a very smart health club, with a dark wooden desk, a turnstile and a wide corridor with two oversized lifts. A uniformed security guard and a receptionist watched them as Tamara called the lift. They travelled up to the third floor in silence.

Alex realized that he was entering hallowed ground. This was where the directors, chairmen, managers and corporate sponsors came. Normally he wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near.

Yet still he felt ill at ease. Drevin might have forgotten the kart race but he hadn’t. It seemed to Alex that the more he learnt about him, the less attractive he became. An absolutely wonderful man. That was how Crawley had described him. Well, MI6 had said much the same about Damian Cray. Alex knew that Drevin was a bad loser, and he had dark feelings about this match which he couldn’t shake off.

“How are you enjoying your stay with Mr Drevin?” Tamara asked suddenly.

“It’s fine.”

“I hope you’re keeping out of trouble.”

Was she trying to tell him something? Alex examined the attractive blue eyes, but they were giving nothing away.

The lift doors opened and they walked out into a corridor lined with dark wooden panels, and into a dining room with a buffet table on one side. Waitresses were circulating with champagne. Unlike the rest of the complex, the room was old-fashioned with a moulded ceiling and a series of ornate, smoked glass windows. But for the two widescreen televisions mounted on the walls, it could have belonged to the nineteenth century.

Drevin accepted a glass of champagne and sat down at one of the tables where about half a dozen people, including the Stratford East chairman and a couple of the footballers’ wives, were already seated. There were about fifty people in the room.

Alex recognized a couple of television actors chatting to the Chelsea chairman, who—unlike Drevin—

looked completely at ease. A waitress gave Alex a glass of lemonade, and he sipped it in silence.

He found himself standing beside Tamara Knight. “Are you a football supporter?” he asked.

“No.” She looked bored. “I’ve never really understood the British obsession with football. Of course, I want Mr Drevin to win. But otherwise I don’t really care.”

Alex found himself getting annoyed. Tamara looked like a model or an actress. But she seemed determined to act like a cold-blooded businesswoman. “How did you come to work for Mr Drevin?” he asked.

“Oh, an agency recommended me.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Of course I do. Mr Drevin is a very interesting man.” She was unwilling to say any more and looked relieved when the door suddenly opened and a young woman came striding in. Alex took in the blonde hair, the permanent tan, the diamond collar necklace and the perfect teeth. He recognized her instantly. Her face was rarely absent from the tabloids or the television screen.

Her name was Cayenne James and she had once been a model and an actress. Then she had married Adam Wright, one of the country’s most famous strikers and a member of the England squad. Wright had made the headlines himself when Drevin had paid twenty-four million pounds to buy him from Manchester United; he was now the captain of Stratford East. Alex wasn’t surprised that his wife had turned up to see him play.

He watched as she went over to Drevin and kissed the air close to his cheeks, then sat down and helped herself to champagne. The conversation in the room had quietened when she came in and Alex was able to hear their first exchange.

“How are you, Niki?” She had a loud, school-girlish, voice. “Sorry I’m late. I just popped into Harrods. It’s only down the road.”

“Was your husband with you?”

“No! Don’t worry!” She giggled. “Adam’s been concentrating on the big match. He never comes shopping when there’s a game coming up…”

More food was served. Alex was feeling increasingly out of place. He was sorry Paul hadn’t been able to come. It was half past two. He wished the game would begin.

Half an hour later it did. The smoked glass windows and doors were opened and everyone walked out.

Alex went with them, emerging onto a stand with about a hundred seats, one tier up, exactly opposite the tunnel. And at that moment he was able to forget Drevin, Neverglade, gokarting and all the rest of it. The magic of the stadium, moments before kick-off, overwhelmed him.

Stamford Bridge has room for over forty-two thousand spectators and today, in the bright afternoon sunlight, every seat was full. Music was pounding out of the speakers, fighting with the fans, who were already chanting good-humouredly. Alex watched as a Mexican wave travelled in a huge circle in front of him. He had been given seat A10, perfectly placed between the two goals. There were no policemen in sight. Chelsea has its own army of stewards but it didn’t look as if anyone was in the mood for trouble.

Then there was a roar as the teams emerged and formed two lines, each one accompanied by a small child.

The referee and the two linesmen joined them.

“You’re next to me,” Tamara Knight announced.

Alex sat down. He was determined to enjoy the next hour and a half.

But it was obvious, almost from kick-off, that it was going to be a hard, unfriendly game. After just ten minutes, one of the Chelsea players was brought down by a vicious tackle that immediately earned Stratford East a yellow card. It was to be the first of many. Chelsea dominated the first half, and but for the hard work of the Stratford East keeper, they would have soon taken the lead. Then, half an hour in, the right winger gathered the ball and sent it in a perfect cross to the penalty area and a second later it had been headed into the goal. The crowd roared; the speakers blared. It was one-nil to the home side, and just five minutes later the Chelsea captain beat two defenders and powered the ball into the back of the net.

Stratford East went into the break two goals down.

There were more drinks served in the dining room during the interval but Alex was careful to avoid Nikolei Drevin. He remembered how he’d behaved at the end of the kart race. This was a thousand times more humiliating. The game was being shown all over the country. Drevin had spent a sizeable fortune building up his team. And the fact that he was being beaten by Chelsea—owned by another Russian—

somehow made it all the worse.

Cayenne James didn’t help. “Never mind, Niki,” she said in her silly, high-pitched voice. “It’s not over yet.

I’m sure Adam will be talking to the boys in the dressing room.”

“It would be nice if your husband were to touch the ball,” Drevin replied. He had a glass of champagne but was holding it as though it were poison.

“He does seem a bit tired today. Maybe he’s saving his strength for the second half.” In fact, Adam Wright was barely visible when the game began again, and Alex wondered why the manager didn’t pull him off. He was playing in the centre but never seemed to be anywhere near the ball, and when he did take possession he didn’t create a single opportunity. Alex knew that the Stratford East captain had been given a bad ride by the press. He should never have left Manchester United. He spent more time modelling clothes and advertising aftershave than playing football. His last outings for England had been dismal. Half the country had turned against him, and perhaps it was now affecting his game.

The next goal, when it came, was more of a fluke than anything else. There was an untidy scrabble in front of the Chelsea goal and for a moment the ball was invisible. Then a Stratford East player got his foot to it.

The ball deflected off another player’s thigh and sailed past inches away from the Chelsea keeper’s outstretched fingers. It wasn’t pretty but it made the score two-one with fifteen minutes left to play.

After that, Chelsea rarely lost control of the ball. Alex found himself willing them on, hoping they would keep their lead until the final whistle. He knew it was ungenerous of him; he was here as Drevin’s guest.

But Chelsea were the better team and he’d been a blue all his life. He kept his emotions to himself, though, resisting the temptation to join the home supporters as they urged their team on.

Full time. It seemed that Chelsea had it in the bag. But then, out of nowhere, three minutes into injury time, came the chance to equalize: a foul inside the Chelsea penalty area. One of the Stratford East players went down, gripping his leg in agony, and although Alex suspected he was faking, the referee believed him.

There was a blast of the whistle. Another yellow card. A roar of disbelief from the crowd. But Stratford East had been awarded the penalty. It had to be the last shot of the game.

Adam Wright stepped forward to take it.

He couldn’t miss. He had taken penalties for England countless times. Alex had watched him perform brilliantly against Portugal in the last European Championships, firing the ball into the net with breathtaking ease. Surely he would do the same now.

A peculiar hush had descended on the stadium. After making so much noise, it was astonishing that over forty-two thousand people could be so quiet. Alex glanced at Drevin sitting four seats away. The man’s entire body was tense but there was something close to a smile on his face. He knew there was no way Stratford East could win this game. But a draw would be enough. There was no humiliation in a draw.

Adam Wright settled the ball on the penalty spot.

The other Stratford East players were ranged behind him. The Chelsea keeper was crouching, rubbing his hands together. The moment seemed to stretch out to an eternity. The crowd held its collective breath.

Adam Wright ran his hands through his hair. It was long this season, with blond highlights. The referee blew his whistle. A single, short blast. Wright ran forward almost lazily and kicked.

Alex watched in disbelief.

Something had gone terribly wrong. The keeper had been misdirected and had dived to the left, but the ball hadn’t gone anywhere near the goal. A clump of grass and mud sailed in one direction while the ball soared in the other, passing at least a yard over the crossbar. Adam Wright realized what had happened and, even at this distance, Alex thought he could see the shock in his eyes. Then, slowly, everything seemed to unfreeze. The keeper got to his feet, punching the air with both fists. The other Stratford East players stood where they were, stunned. The Chelsea fans roared their pleasure; the visiting supporters sat in paralysed silence.

And Drevin? He had gone very pale. His hands were clasped together, his eyes empty.

A few seats away from him, Cayenne James giggled nervously. “Oh dear!” she squealed.

Drevin turned to look at her and Alex could see that he made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his face.

And then it was all over. The referee didn’t even bother with another kick-off. He blew the final whistle and the two teams came together, shaking hands and swapping shirts. More music pounded out as the screens flashed up the final score. Two-one to Chelsea. The stewards reappeared and the crowd started to trickle out of the stadium.

Drevin was suddenly very much alone. As Alex watched, he dug a hand into his trouser pocket and took out a mobile phone. He pressed a speed dial button and spoke briefly. Alex got the feeling that he was talking in Russian, but even if it had been English, he wouldn’t have been able to hear above the general din. Drevin’s face was colourless. Whatever he was saying, Alex doubted he was sending his team a congratulatory message.