Scorpia

And where were MI6? He glanced at the broken pieces of the brace. He wished now that he had activated the trigger the moment he had seen the church. But how could he have known? How could anyone have known?

“Alex, before you die, there’s something I want to tell you,” Mrs Rothman confided.

“I’m not interested,” Alex replied.

“Oh, I think you will be, my dear. Because, you see, it’s about your father. And your mother. There’s something you ought to know.”

Alex didn’t want to hear it. And he had come to a decision. He was going to die—but he wouldn’t just stand there. Somehow he was going to hurt Julia Rothman. She had lied to him; she had manipulated him. Worse, she had almost made him betray everything he believed in. She had tried to make him part of Scorpia, like his father. But whatever his father had been, he would never be the same.

Alex tensed, about to throw himself at her, wondering if Nile would cut him down before the guards’ bullets did.

And then one of the windows shattered and something exploded inside the church. Thick smoke billowed out, spreading across the black and white tiles, devouring everything. At the same time came the chatter of machine-gun fire and a second explosion, this one outside. Julia Rothman staggered and fell sideways. Nile twisted round, the white blotches on his face suddenly more livid than ever, his eyes wide and staring. Alex moved.

He lashed out at the guard on his left, swinging his elbow into the man’s stomach and feeling the bone sink into soft flesh. The man doubled up. The other guard turned and Alex pivoted on one foot, kicking hard with the other. His heel smashed into the barrel of the man’s machine gun a fraction before it fired. Alex felt the bullets pass over his shoulder and heard a scream as one of the other guards was hit. Well, that made one less anyway!

He charged, head down, and slammed into the man like a maddened bull. The guard cried out. Alex punched upwards, his fist driving into the man’s throat. The guard was thrown off his feet and sent crashing to the floor.

Alex was free.

Everything was confused. Smoke coiled and twisted. More machine-gun fire, another explosion. Alex saw the balloon rise slowly above the church. It hadn’t been hit; it had passed through the gaping roof and was continuing its journey up into the London sky. Suddenly he knew that whatever happened down here, that was where he had to be. The balloon carried equipment that was set to automatic. MI6 were here. They might invade the church and capture Julia Rothman; they might bring the balloon back down. But there could only be minutes left. It might already be too late.

There was only one thing Alex could do. The balloon was trailing the two ropes that would act as anchors when the platform reached the correct height. Alex sprinted towards them. A man blocked his way and Alex automatically dropped him with a roundhouse kick. He grabbed the nearest rope and felt a jerk as the balloon lifted him off the ground.

“Stop him!” Mrs Rothman screamed.

She had seen him but the smoke was still cloaking him from the other guards. There was a burst of machine-gun fire but it missed, slicing the rope a few metres below his feet. Alex looked down and saw that the ground was already quite a long way away. And then he was pulled out of the church, up into the open air, leaving Nile, Mrs Rothman and the swirling chaos behind.

Half blinded by the smoke and shocked by the suddenness of the attack, Mrs Rothman had to waste precious seconds forcing herself to calm down. She strode over to the television monitors, trying to make sense of the situation. She could see soldiers in black combat dress, their faces covered by helmets, taking up positions outside the church. Well, she could deal with them in her own time. Right now, the boy was all that mattered.

“Nile!” she snapped. “Get after him!”

Nile had been hit by flying fragments of glass from the first explosion. For once he seemed slow to react, confused.

“Now!” she screamed.

Nile moved. One rope still hung down, shivering in front of him. He grabbed hold of it and, like Alex, was jerked into the air.

The platform was now forty metres above ground level. It had another sixty metres to travel before the dishes would activate. The extra weight—Alex on one rope, Nile on the other—had slowed it down. But the burner was still heating the air inside the envelope. A digital display on one of the metal boxes was flickering and changing, measuring the distance. Forty-one … forty-two… The machines knew nothing of what was taking place below. That didn’t matter. They would do what they had been designed for. The dishes were waiting for the signal to start transmitting.

The balloon continued to rise. There were just four minutes left.

Mrs Jones had acted immediately. There had been five SAS teams on permanent standby in different parts of London, and as soon as Alex’s signal had been received, she had alerted the team nearest to him, with the other four moving in as back-up.

Eight men were slowly closing in on the church—all of them dressed in full combat gear, including flameproof black overalls, belt kits, body armour, Kevlar vests and Mk 6 combat helmets complete with throat mikes. They were carrying a variety of weapons. Most of them had a Sig 9mm pistol strapped to their thigh. One had a sawn-off pump-action shotgun which would be used to blast open the church doors. Others carried axes, knives, Maglites and flashbang grenades; and each man was equipped with the same high-powered semiautomatic sub-machine gun, the Heckler & Koch 9mm MP5, the favourite assault weapon of the SAS. As they spread out across the seemingly empty street, they barely looked human. They could have been radio-controlled robots, sent from some future war.

They knew that the church was their target but this operation was every soldier’s nightmare. Normally, when the SAS go in, they will have been briefed by the police and regular army. They will have access to a huge computer database giving them vital information about the building they’re about to attack: the thickness of its walls, the position of windows and doors. If no information is available, they can still produce a three-dimensional computer image by simply inputting whatever details they can see outside. But this time there was nothing. The Church of Forgotten Saints was a blank. And there were only minutes left.

Their instructions were clear. Find Alex Rider and get him out. Find the dishes and destroy them. But even after everything that had happened, Alan Blunt had made sure they understood their priorities. The dishes mattered more.

The soldiers had arrived just in time to see the dome open and the balloon start to appear above the church.

They were too late. If they had come equipped with Stingers—heat-seeking missiles—they could have brought it down. But this was the middle of London. They were prepared for what was essentially a hostage situation.

They hadn’t counted on a full-out war.

The balloon rose in front of their eyes and they were unable to stop it. They could see at once that they needed to get onto the roof of the oratory, but first they had to reach it. One of the men made a snap decision and shot a 94mm HEAT warhead rocket from a plastic firing tube. The missile looped towards the balloon but fell short, smashing through an upper window and detonating inside the church. This was the explosion that had given Alex his chance.

It was the signal for the Scorpia men to show themselves. Suddenly the SAS team found themselves under fire from both sides as a blazing torrent of bullets erupted from the abandoned shops. Somebody threw a grenade. A huge ball of flame and shattered concrete ripped through the air. One of the men was sent flying, his arms and legs limp. He crashed to the ground and lay still.

The SAS hadn’t been expecting a war, but in seconds they found themselves in the middle of one. They were outnumbered. The church was seemingly impregnable. The balloon was still rising.

One of the soldiers had dropped to his knee and was talking furiously into his radio transmitter.

“This is Delta One Three. We have engaged the enemy and are coming under heavy fire. We need immediate back-up. Urgent. Satellite dishes have been located. Request immediate air strike to take them out fast. They are being carried by hot-air balloon over the target area. Repeat, they are in a balloon. We cannot reach them. An air strike must respond … condition red. Over.”

The message was relayed instantly to Headquarters Strike Command at RAF High Wycombe, thirty miles outside London. It took them a few precious seconds to understand what they were being told, and a few more precious seconds to believe it. But in less than a minute, two Tornado GR4 fighter jets were taxiing towards the main runway. Each plane was equipped with Paveway II general-purpose bombs with built-in laser guidance systems and movable tail fins. The pilots were fully trained in low altitude precision attacks. Flying at just over seven hundred miles per hour, they would reach the church in less than five minutes. They would blast the balloon out of the sky.

That was the plan.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have five minutes. This was the first real test for the Joint Rapid Reaction Force that had been created to tackle any major terrorist alert. But everything had happened too quickly. Scorpia had left it to the very last moment before revealing their hand.

By the time the planes got there, it would be too late.

Alex Rider pulled himself up the rope, one hand over the other, keeping a loop between his feet. He had done the same often enough in the school gym, but—he had no need to remind himself—this wasn’t quite the same.

For a start, even when he stopped to rest, he still went up. The balloon was rising steadily. The hot air inside the envelope weighed twenty-one grams per cubic foot. The cooler air of the London sky weighed roughly twenty-eight grams per cubic foot. This was the simple arithmetic that made the balloon fly. And that was exactly what Alex was doing. If he had looked down, he would have seen the ground fifty metres below. He didn’t look down. That was something else that was different from a school gym. If he fell from this height, he would die.

But the platform was less than ten metres above him. He could see the great rectangle, blocking out the sky.

Above it the burner was still blazing, shooting a tongue of flame into the bulging blue and white envelope.

Alex’s shoulders and arms were aching. Worse than that, every movement sent pain shuddering through his bones. His wrists felt as if they were being torn apart. He heard another explosion and a sustained burst of machine-gun fire. He wondered if the SAS were shooting at him. If they had seen the balloon—and they must have—they would want to bring it down, no matter what the cost. What did his own life matter compared with the thousands who would die if the dishes reached one hundred metres?

The thought gave him new strength. If a stray bullet caught him while he was dangling from the rope, he would fall. For more than one reason he needed to be on that platform. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up.

Sixty-five metres, sixty-six… The balloon was unstoppable. But the distance between Alex and his goal was shortening. There was a third explosion and he risked a glance down. Almost at once he wished he hadn’t. The ground was a long way below. The SAS men were the size of toy soldiers. He could see them taking up their positions in the street that led to the church, preparing to storm the front entrance. Scorpia’s men were in the derelict shops on either side. The explosion that Alex had just heard must have come from a hand grenade.

But the battle meant nothing to him. He had seen something else that filled him with dread. A man was climbing the other rope and there could be no mistaking the white blotches on his face. It was Nile. He was moving slowly, as if out of breath. Alex was surprised by that. He knew how fit and strong Nile was. He could almost see the muscles rippling beneath the man’s shirt as he reached up with one hand. He had to disable the dishes—permanently—before Nile arrived. After that, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Something struck his hand and he cried out. Alex had still been climbing, even with his eyes fixed on Nile—

and he hadn’t seen that he had at last reached the platform. He had hit his knuckles against the edge of one of the dishes. For a moment he wondered if he could reach out and pull the bloody thing off. Let it fall and smash somewhere below. But he could see at once that the dishes were well secured with metal braces. He would have to find another way.

And first, that meant climbing onto the platform itself. This wasn’t going to be easy—and yet he had to move quickly, giving himself as much time as possible before Nile caught up with him.

He leant backwards and let go of the rope with one hand. His stomach lurched and he thought he was going to fall. But then he lunged and grabbed hold of the edge of the railing that ran all the way around the platform.

With a last effort, he heaved himself up and over, toppling down the other side. He landed awkwardly, banging his knee on the edge of a propane gas cylinder. He let the pain ripple through him as he tried to work out what to do.

He examined the balloon.

There were two propane tanks feeding the burner less than a metre above his head. Thick black tubes made of rubber or plastic connected them, and Alex wondered if he could unfasten them and make the flame go out.

Would the balloon sink? Or would there be enough hot air in the envelope to keep it rising?

He examined the metal boxes that sat, like a complicated stereo system, in the centre of the platform. One box obviously controlled each dish. There was a tangled network of cables joining them all together. Each box had a single, blinking light—currently yellow. The power was on. The dishes were primed. But the terahertz beams hadn’t yet been activated. The fifth box was some sort of master control. It had a window set into the surface, a digital read-out. Seventy-seven … seventy-eight… seventy-nine… Alex watched as the altitude was measured and the balloon moved ever nearer to the point of detonation.

And suddenly he had the answer. Disconnect the dishes. Do it before the platform reached one hundred metres.

Do it before Nile arrived. How much time did he have? Very briefly he considered somehow unfastening the rope that Nile was climbing. But even if it was possible, he would never be able to bring himself to do it, to kill someone in such a cold-blooded way. Anyway, it would take too long. No. The four twinkling lights were his targets. Somehow he had to turn them off.

He got unsteadily to his feet and took a small step, the platform swaying slightly beneath him. For a moment he was afraid. Was the platform even designed to hold his weight? Move too fast and it might tip up and throw him off. He grimaced and edged forward. Apart from the hiss of the gas feeding the flame, the hot-air balloon was absolutely silent. Somewhere inside him, Alex wished he could simply sit back and enjoy the ride. The majestic envelope, soaring into the sky. The views of London. But he had perhaps less than a minute before Nile got there. And how long until the balloon reached the right height?

Eighty-three … eighty-four…

God. It was like being back in Murmansk again. Another digital counter, though that one had been going down, not up, and it had been attached to a nuclear bomb. Why him? Alex fell to his knees and reached out for the first of the cables.

He quickly examined it. It was thick, attached to the master control by a solid-looking socket. He tried unscrewing it but it didn’t budge. He would have to tear it out, and in such a way that it would be impossible to reconnect. His hand closed around the cable and he pulled with all his might. Nothing happened. The connections were too strong: metal screwed into metal. And the cables themselves were too thick. He needed a knife or a pair of scissors; he had nothing.

Alex leant back and pressed his foot against the metal box. He strained, still gripping the cable, using his whole body weight. The balloon was still rising. A wisp of cloud slid past—or maybe it was smoke from the fight below. Alex swore through gritted teeth, his entire consciousness focused on the cable and its connection.

And suddenly it came free. Alex felt the cable tear. He fell back, his head slamming into the platform railing.

Ignoring the new pain, he dragged himself back up. He could see the separate ends—the severed wires—

sprouting out of his hands. There were deep welts in his palms, and he had hurt his head. But when he looked, he saw that one of the yellow lights had blinked out. One of the dishes was no longer functioning.

Ninety-three … ninety-four…

There were three left. And Alex knew he didn’t have enough time to disconnect them all.

Even so, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the second. What else could he do? Once again he pressed the flats of his feet against the side of the box. He took a deep breath…

…and something flashed in the corner of his eye. Instinctively Alex threw himself sideways. The samurai sword, half a metre long, sliced the air so close to his face that he felt it. He realized that it had been aimed at his throat. But for the sun reflecting off the blade, he would have been killed.

Nile had reached the platform. He was standing in the corner, holding the railing. There had been two swords strapped to his back—he had thrown only one of them. Now he reached for the other. Alex was lying flat. He couldn’t move. There wasn’t enough room to do anything. He was an easy target, wedged between the metal boxes and the side of the platform. Above him the flame burned, carrying the balloon the last few metres.

Ninety-seven … ninety-eight… ninety-nine…

The digital display flickered to the final figure. There was a buzzing sound inside the master control and the lights on the three remaining connected boxes changed from yellow to red. The system had been activated.

Terahertz signals were being beamed all over London.

Alex knew that inside him, in his very heart, the golden nanoshells had begun to break up.

Nile unsheathed the second sword.

Inside the church Mrs Rothman was beginning to realize that the battle was lost. Her men had fought well and they outnumbered the enemy—but they were simply outclassed. There had been many casualties and two more SAS units had arrived, providing back-up for the first.

She could see the fighting outside. Everything was being relayed to her by a series of hidden cameras. It was right in front of her on the television monitors, one for every angle. The street had been torn apart. A wounded SAS man was being dragged away by two of his comrades, dust and debris leaping up as the surface was strafed by enemy fire. More soldiers were moving from doorway to doorway, lobbing grenades through the windows behind them. This was the sort of fighting the SAS had experienced in Northern Ireland and the Middle East.

The whole area had been cordoned off. Police cars had moved in from every direction. They couldn’t be seen but their sirens filled the air. This was London. It was nearing the end of a working day. It was impossible to believe that something like this could really be happening here.

There was another explosion—closer this time. Thick smoke billowed over the open dome and paintwork rained down, flaking off the walls. Most of the Scorpia men had abandoned their positions, preferring to take their chances outside. A guard ran up to Mrs Rothman, blood streaking his face.

“They’re inside the church,” he rasped. “We’re finished. I’m leaving.”

“You’ll stay at your post!” Mrs Rothman snapped.

“To hell with that.” The guard spat and swore. “Everyone’s going. We’re all getting out of here.” Mrs Rothman looked nervous, afraid of being left on her own. “Please, let me have your gun,” she begged.

“Sure. Why not?” The guard handed his weapon to her.

“Thank you,” she said, and shot him with a single, short burst.

She watched the man go sprawling, then went over to the monitors. The SAS were in the outer chamber. She could see them laying plastic explosives against the fake brick wall. It was hard to be sure, but she fancied they would need rather more explosive than they were using. She had designed the wall herself and it was solid steel. Even so, they would get through it eventually. They would not relent.

She glanced up at the balloon, now straining at the one remaining rope, a hundred metres above London. She knew it had reached the correct height—the equipment inside the church had told her this. In just another minute or so it would all be over. She thought of Alex Rider somewhere up above. All in all, it had been a mistake bringing him here. Why had she? To see him die, of course. She hadn’t been there when John Rider had died and she wanted to make up for it. Miss the father; catch the son. That was why she had risked everything to bring Alex to the church, and she knew the other members of the executive board of Scorpia would be less than pleased. But it didn’t matter. The operation would succeed. The SAS were too late.

A huge explosion. The whole church shook. Three of the largest organ pipes keeled over and came crashing down. Brick and plaster fragments hung in the air. Half the television monitors went black. But the steel wall held. She had been right about that.

She threw the machine gun down and hurried to a door almost invisible in the wall of a side chapel. It was lucky that Mrs Rothman was the sort of person who prepared for every eventuality—including the need to slip out without being seen.

The guard she had killed had been right. It was definitely time to go.

Alex lay on his back, his shoulders pressing against the railing of the platform. The first sword that Nile had thrown had sliced into the plastic floor, centimetres from his head, and it was still there, quivering, just beside his neck. Nile had unsheathed the second sword and was balancing it in his hand. He was taking his time. Alex knew that he had no need to hurry. He had nowhere to hide. They were less than three metres apart. Alex had seen what Nile could do. There was no way he would miss.

And yet…

Why was he so slow? Taking his time with the sword, still clutching the railing with his other hand…

Alex looked at him, examining the handsome, flawed face, searching for something in the man’s eyes.

And found it.

That look. He had seen it before. He remembered Wolf, the SAS soldier he had trained with. And suddenly everything made sense. The secret weakness that Mrs Rothman had mentioned. The reason why Nile had come second, not first, at Malagosto. He thought back to their meeting in the bell tower over the monastery. Nile had lingered at the door, unwilling to come forward, holding onto the frame in just the same way that he was holding onto the railing now. No wonder Nile had been so slow climbing up to the balloon.

Nile was afraid of heights.

But that wasn’t going to save Alex. Fifteen seconds had passed since the lights had turned red. Already the nanoshells with their poisonous cargo would be oscillating inside his heart. All over London children would be walking home, waiting for buses, pouring into tube stations, unaware of what was about to happen.

Then Nile spoke.

“This is what I promised would happen to you if you betrayed us,” he said. The smile on his face might have been forced, but there could be no doubting what he was about to do. He balanced the sword in the palm of his hand, feeling the weight before he aimed and threw. “I said I would kill you. And that’s what I’m going to do, right now.”

“Sure, Nile,” Alex replied. “But how are you going to get back down?”

“What?” The smile faltered.

“Just look down, Nile,” Alex went on. “Look how high we are.” He glanced up at the flame and the envelope.

“You know, I don’t think this balloon is going to hold us both up.”

“Shut up!” Nile hissed the words. The hand clutching the railing had gone whiter than ever. Alex could see the fingers clenching tighter and tighter.

“Look at the people; look at the cars. See how tiny they are!”

“Stop it!”

And that was when Alex made his move. He already knew what he was going to do. Nile was petrified, unable to react. All his speed and strength had vanished. With a gasp, Alex pulled out the first sword, freeing it from the plastic. In a single movement he swept it up and slashed through one of the rubber pipes that fed the burner.

After that, everything happened very quickly.

The severed pipe coiled left and right like a wounded snake. Propane gas in liquid form was still being pumped through, and as the severed end whipped past the burner, it ignited, becoming at once a huge ball of flame. The pipe twisted back again and spat its deadly payload in the direction of Nile.

Nile had just managed to raise the second sword in the start of what would be his final throw. He was aiming at Alex’s chest. Then the fireball hit him. He screamed once and disappeared. One second he was there, the next he had been blown into the air, a spinning, burning puppet of a man, falling to his death one hundred metres below.

It looked as if Alex was about to follow him.

The entire platform was on fire, the plastic melting. There was burning liquid propane everywhere and it was dissolving everything it touched. Alex struggled to his feet as the flames licked towards him. What now? The burner had gone out but the balloon didn’t seem to be falling. The platform, however, would—and very soon.

The four ropes securing it to the envelope were made of nylon and all four of them were on fire. One of them snapped and Alex cried out as the platform tilted, almost throwing him over the edge. His eyes darted to the machinery. The electric cables must be fireproof. The little red lights showed him that the three remaining dishes were still transmitting. More than a minute must have passed since Nile had appeared, surely! Alex pressed a hand against his chest, expecting at any moment to feel the stab of pain as the poison broke free and entered his system.

But he was still alive, and he knew he had just seconds left to escape from the burning platform. No chance of jumping to safety. He was a hundred metres above the ground. He heard a snapping sound as a second rope began to break. The fire was out of control. It was burning him; it was burning everything.

Alex jumped.

Not down—but up. He leapt first onto the control box and then up so that his hands caught the metal frame surrounding the burner. He hauled himself up and stood. Now he could reach the circular skirt at the bottom of the envelope itself. It was incredible. Looking up, it felt as if he were standing inside a huge, circular room. The walls were fabric but they could have been solid. He was inside the balloon, imprisoned by it. He saw a nylon cord. It led all the way to the parachute valve at the very top. Would it take his weight?

And then the remaining ropes holding the platform gave way. The platform fell, taking the burner and the dishes with it, disappearing from under Alex’s feet. Alex just had time to wind the nylon cord around one hand and grab hold of the fabric of the balloon with the other. Suddenly he was dangling. Once again his arms and wrists took the strain. He wondered if the balloon would crumple and fall. But most of the weight had gone; only he was left. It stayed where it was.

Alex looked down. He couldn’t stop himself. And that was when he saw—in the middle of the fire and the smoke, the spinning platform and the falling ropes—the three red lights had gone out. He was sure of it. Either the flames had destroyed the machinery or the dishes had deactivated themselves the moment they dropped below one hundred metres.

The terahertz beams had stopped. Not a single child would die.

Nobody was sure where the bag lady had appeared from. Perhaps she had been dossing in the small cemetery behind the Church of Forgotten Saints. But now she had wandered into what, until a few minutes ago, had been a full-scale battle.

She was lucky. The SAS men had taken control of the church and the immediate area. Most of the Scorpia people were dead; the remainder had put down their weapons in surrender. A final explosion had breached the entrance of the church itself. SAS soldiers were already pouring in, searching for Alex.

The bag lady was clearly confused by all this activity; possibly she was also drunk. There was a bottle of cider in one of her hands and she stopped to force the neck between her rotten teeth and drink. She had a repulsive, withered face and grey hair that was long and knotted. She was dressed in a filthy coat, tied around her bulging waist with string. Her other hand clutched two dustbin bags close to her, as if they contained all the treasure in the world.

One of the soldiers saw her. “Get out of here!” he yelled. “You’re in danger.”

“All right, love!” The bag lady giggled. “What’s the matter, then? It’s like bleeding World War Three.” But she shuffled off, out of harm’s way, while the SAS men rushed past her, heading for the church.

Underneath the wig, the make-up and the costume, Mrs Rothman smiled to herself. It was almost incredible that these stupid SAS soldiers should let her walk away, slipping between them in plain daylight. She had a gun hidden under her coat and she would use it if anyone tried to stop her. But they were so busy rushing into the church, they had barely noticed her.

And then one of them called out.

“Stop!”

She had been seen after all. Mrs Rothman hurried on.

But the soldier hadn’t been trying to detain her: he had been trying to warn her. A shadow fell across her face and she looked up just in time to see a blazing rectangle fall out of the sky. Julia Rothman opened her mouth to scream but the sound didn’t have time to reach her Lips. She was crushed, driven into the pavement, flattened like a creature in some hideous cartoon. The SAS man who had shouted could only gaze at the burning wreckage in horror. Then, slowly, he looked up to see where it had come from.

But there was nothing there. The sky was clear.

Freed from the platform and the mooring ropes, the balloon had been blown north, with Alex still clinging beneath it. He was limp and exhausted; his legs and the side of his chest had been burnt. It was as much as he could do simply to hang on.

But the air inside the envelope had cooled and the balloon was coming down. Alex had been lucky that the fabric of the balloon was flame-resistant.

Of course, he might still be killed. He had no control of the balloon at all and the wind might choose to steer him into a high voltage wire. He had already crossed the river and could see Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s Column looming up in front of him. It would be a sick joke to land there and end up getting run over.

Alex could only hang on and wait to find out what was going to happen. Despite the pain in his arms, he was aware of a sense of inner peace. Somehow, against all the odds, he had come through everything alive. Nile was dead. Mrs Rothman was probably a prisoner. The nanoshells were no longer a threat.

And what about him? The wind had changed. It was carrying him to the west. Yes. There was Green Park—just fifty-odd metres below. He could see people pointing up at him and shouting. He silently urged the balloon on.

With a bit of luck he might make it all the way to Chelsea, to his house, where Jack Starbright would be waiting. How much further could it be? Did the balloon have the strength to take him there?

He hoped so, because that was all he cared about now.

He just wanted to go home.

DEEP COVER

« ^ »

It ended—inevitably, it seemed to Alex—in Alan Blunt’s office in Liverpool Street.

They had left him alone for a week but then the telephone call had come on Friday evening, asking him to come in. Asking, not telling. That was at least a change. And they had chosen a Saturday, so he wouldn’t have to miss school.

The balloon had dropped him on the edge of Hyde Park, lowering him to the grass as gently as an autumn leaf.

It was the end of the day and by that time there were few people in the park. Alex had been able to slip away quietly, five minutes before a dozen police cars had come roaring in. It was a twenty-minute walk home and he had more or less fallen into Jack’s arms before taking a hot bath, wolfing down dinner and going to bed.

He wasn’t badly hurt. There were burns on his arms and chest and his wrist was swollen where he had dangled from the balloon. Mrs Rothman had also left her mark on his cheek. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered how he was going to explain the very obvious-shaped bruise. In the end he told everyone he had been mugged. In a way, he felt, he had.

He had been back at Brookland for five days. Mr Grey was one of the first people to see him crossing the school yard before assembly, and he shook his head warily but said nothing. The teacher had taken it as a personal insult that Alex had disappeared on his school trip to Venice, and although Alex felt terrible, he couldn’t tell him the truth. On the other hand, Tom Harris was overjoyed.

“I knew you’d be OK,” he said. “You sounded a bit down when I spoke to you on the phone. That was after that place had blown up. But at least you were still alive. And a couple of days later, Jerry got this humongous cheque for a new parachute. Except it was about five times too much. He’s in New Zealand now, thanks to you.

BASE jumping off some building in Auckland. Just what he’s always wanted!” Tom took out a newspaper cutting. “Was this you?” he demanded.

Alex looked at it. It was a photograph of the hot-air balloon drifting over London. He could see a tiny figure clinging to it. Fortunately the picture had been taken from too far away to identify him. Nobody knew what had happened at the Church of Forgotten Saints. And nobody knew he was involved.

“Yes,” Alex admitted. “But, Tom—you mustn’t tell anyone.”

“I’ve already told Jerry.”

“No one else.”

“Yeah. I know. Official secrets and all that.” Tom frowned. “Maybe I should join MI6. I’m sure I’d make a great spy.”

Alex thought of his friend now as he sat down opposite Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones. He lowered himself slowly into the chair, wondering what they were going to say to him. Jack hadn’t wanted him to come here at all.

“The moment they know you’re capable of walking, they’ll probably have you parachuting into North Korea,” she had said. “They’re never going to leave you alone, Alex. I don’t even want to know what happened to you after Venice. But just promise me you won’t let it happen again.” Alex agreed with her. He would rather have stayed at home. But he knew he had to be here. If nothing else, he owed it to Mrs Jones after what had happened in her flat.

“It’s good to see you, Alex,” Blunt said. “Once again, you’ve done a very good job.” Very good. The highest praise Blunt knew.

“I’ll just bring you up to date,” Blunt went on. “I don’t need to tell you that Scorpia’s plot was a complete failure, and I very much doubt that they’ll try anything on this scale again. They lost one of their top assassins, the man called Nile, when he fell out of the balloon. How did that happen, by the way?”

“He slipped,” Alex said shortly. He didn’t want to go over it again.

“I see. Well, you might like to know that Julia Rothman also died.” That was news to Alex. He had assumed she must have escaped.

Mrs Jones took up the story. “The platform underneath the balloon fell on her as she was trying to escape,” she explained. “She was crushed.”

“I’d have been disappointed too,” Alex muttered.

Blunt sniffed. “The most important thing of all is that London’s children are going to be safe. As that scientist—

Dr Stephenson—explained, the nanoshells will slowly pass out of their bodies. I have to tell you, Alex, that the terahertz dishes were transmitting for at least a minute. God knows how close we came to a major disaster.”

“I’ll try to move a little faster next time,” Alex said.

“Yes. Well. One other thing. You might be amused to hear that Mark Kellner resigned this morning. The prime minister’s director of communications—remember him? He’s telling the press that he wants to spend more time with his family. The funny thing is, his family can’t stand him. Nobody can. Mr Kellner made one mistake too many. Nobody could have foreseen that stunt with the hot-air balloon. But someone has to carry the can, and I’m glad to say it’s going to be him.”

“Well, if that’s all you called me in for, I’d better get home,” Alex said. “I’ve missed more school and I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“No, Alex. I’m afraid you can’t leave quite yet.” Mrs Jones sounded more serious than Alex had ever heard her and he wondered if she was going to make him pay for his attempt on her life.

“I’m sorry about what I nearly did, Mrs Jones,” he said. “But I think I’ve more or less made up for it…”

“That’s not what I want to speak to you about. As far as I’m concerned, your visit to my flat never happened.

But there’s something more important. You and I have never spoken about Albert Bridge.” Alex felt cold inside. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know what you did was right. I’ve seen Scorpia for myself now; I know what they are capable of. If my father was one of them, then you were right. He deserved to die.” The words hurt Alex even as he spoke them. They caught in his throat.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet, Alex. He’s come into the office today and he’s standing outside. I know you don’t want to spend any more time here than you have to, but will you let him talk to you? It will only take a few minutes.”

“All right.” Alex shrugged. He didn’t know what Mrs Jones wanted to prove. He had no wish to return to the circumstances of his father’s death.

The door opened and a tall man walked in, bearded, with brown curly hair that was beginning to grey. He was casually dressed in a beaten-up leather jacket and jeans. He looked in his early thirties and although Alex was sure he had never met him, his face seemed vaguely familiar.

“Alex Rider?” he asked. He had a soft, pleasant voice.

“Yes.”

“How do you do?” He held out a hand. Alex stood up and felt his hand taken in a grasp that was warm and friendly. “My name is James Adair,” he said. “I think you’ve met my father, Sir Graham Adair.” Alex was hardly likely to forget. Sir Graham Adair was the permanent secretary to the Cabinet Office. He could see the similarity in the faces of the two men. But he knew James Adair from somewhere else too. Of course.

He was a lot older now. The hair colour was different and he was more thickset. But the face was the same. He had seen it on a television screen. On Albert Bridge.

“James Adair is a senior lecturer at Imperial College here in London,” Mrs Jones explained. “But fourteen years ago he was a student. His father was already an extremely senior civil servant—”

“You were kidnapped,” Alex interrupted. “You were the one Scorpia kidnapped.”

“That’s right. Look, do you mind if we sit down? I feel very formal standing up like this.” James Adair took a seat. Alex waited for him to speak. He was puzzled and a little apprehensive. This man had been there when his father was killed. In a way, it was because of this man that John Rider had died. Why had Mrs Jones brought him here now?

“I’ll tell you my story and then get out of here,” James Adair said. “When I was eighteen years old, I was the victim of an attempt to blackmail my father. I was snatched by an organization called Scorpia, and they were going to torture me and kill me unless my dad did exactly what they said. But Scorpia made a mistake. My father could influence government policy but he couldn’t actually change it. There was nothing he could do. I was told I was going to die.

“But then, at the last minute, there was a change of plan. I met a woman called Julia Rothman. She was very beautiful but a complete bitch. I think she couldn’t wait to get out the red-hot pokers or whatever. Anyway, she told me that I was going to be exchanged for one of her people. He’d been captured by MI6. And they were going to swap us. On Albert Bridge.

“They drove me there very early one morning. I have to admit that I was terrified. I was certain there was going to be a double-cross. I thought they might shoot me and dump me in the Thames. But everything seemed to be very straightforward. It was just like in a spy film. There were three men and me on one side of the bridge.

They all had guns. And on the other side of the bridge I could see a figure. That was your dad. He was with some people from MI6.” The lecturer glanced at Mrs Jones. “She was one of them.”

“It was my first major field operation,” Mrs Jones murmured.

“Go on,” Alex said. He had been drawn in. He couldn’t help himself.

“Well, somebody gave a signal and we both began to walk—almost as if we were going to fight a duel, except that our hands were tied. I have to tell you, Alex, the bridge felt a mile long. It seemed to take for ever to get across. But at last we met in the middle, your father and I; and I was sort of grateful to him, because it was thanks to him that I wasn’t going to be killed, and yet at the same time I knew he worked for Scorpia, so I thought he must be one of the bad guys.

“And then he spoke to me.”

Alex held his breath. He remembered the video Mrs Rothman had shown him. It was true. His father and the teenager had spoken. He had been unable to hear the words and had wondered what they had said.

“He was very calm,” James Adair went on. “I hope you won’t mind me saying this, Alex, but, looking at you now, I can see him as he was then. He was totally in command. And this is what he said to me.

“There’s going to be shooting. You have to move fast.

“What? What do you mean?

“When the shooting starts, don’t look round. Just run as fast as you can. You’ll be safe.” There was a long silence.

“My dad knew he was going to be shot?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“Let me finish.” James Adair ran a hand across his beard. “I took about another ten steps and suddenly there was a shot. I know I wasn’t meant to look round, but I did. Just for a second. Your father had been shot in the back. There was blood on his padded jacket; I could see a gash in the material. And then I remembered what he’d told me and I began to run … hell for leather. I just had to get out of there.” That was another thing Alex had noticed when he’d watched the video. James Adair had reacted with amazing speed. Anyone else would surely have frozen. But he’d clearly known what he was doing.

Because he had been warned.

By John Rider.

“I tore up the bridge,” he went on. “Then all hell broke loose. The Scorpia people opened fire. They wanted to kill me, of course. But the MI6 lot had machine guns and they fired back. All in all, it was a miracle I wasn’t hit. I managed to get to the north side of the bridge and a big car appeared out of nowhere. A door opened and I dived in. And that was just about the end of it, as far as I was concerned. I was whisked away and my father met me a couple of minutes later, hugely relieved. He’d thought he’d never see me again.” And that made sense. When Alex had met Sir Graham Adair, the civil servant had been surprisingly friendly. He had made it clear that he was in some way in Alex’s debt.

“So my father … sacrificed himself for you,” Alex said. He didn’t understand. His father had worked for Scorpia. Why should he have been prepared to die for someone he had never met?

“There is one other thing I have to tell you,” the lecturer said. “It’ll probably come as a shock to you. It certainly came as a shock to me. About a month later I went down to my father’s home in Wiltshire. By then I’d been debriefed and there were a whole lot of security things I had to know about just in case Scorpia tried to have another crack at me. And”—he swallowed—“your father was there.”

“What?” Alex stared.

“I arrived early. And as I came in, your father was leaving. He’d been in a meeting with my dad.”

“But that’s…”

“I know. It’s impossible. But it was definitely him. He recognized me at once.

“How are you?

“I’m fine, thanks very much.

“I’m glad I was able to help. Look after yourself.

“That was what he said to me. I remember the words exactly. Then he got in his car and drove off.”

“So my father…”

James Adair stood up. “I’m sure Mrs Jones can explain it all to you,” he said. “But my dad wanted me to tell you how very grateful we are to you. He asked me to pass that on to you. Your father saved my life. There’s no doubt about it. I’m married now; I have two children. Funnily enough, I named the eldest John after him. There would be no children if it hadn’t been for him. My father would have no son and no grandsons. Whatever you may think of him, whatever you’ve been told about him, John Rider was a very brave man.” James Adair nodded at Mrs Jones and left the room. The door closed. There was a second, long silence.

“I don’t understand,” Alex said.

“Your father wasn’t an assassin,” Mrs Jones said. “He wasn’t working for Scorpia. He was working for us.”

“He was a spy?”

“A very brilliant spy,” Alan Blunt muttered. “We recruited the two brothers—Ian and John—in the same year.

Ian was a good agent. But John was the better man by far.”

“He worked for you?”

“Yes.”

“But he killed people. Mrs Rothman showed me. He was in prison…”

“Everything Julia Rothman thought she knew about your father was a lie.” Mrs Jones sighed. “It’s true that he had been in the army, that he had a distinguished career with the Parachute Regiment and that he was decorated for his part in the Falklands War. But the rest of it—the fight with the taxi driver, the prison sentence and all that—we made up. It’s called deep cover, Alex. We wanted John Rider to be recruited by Scorpia. He was the bait and they took him.”

“Why?”

“Because Scorpia was expanding all over the world. We needed to know what it was doing, the names of the people it was employing, the size and structure of its organization. John Rider was a weapons expert; he was a brilliant fighter. And Scorpia thought he was washed up. He was welcomed with open arms.”

“And all the time he was reporting to you?”

“His information saved more lives than you can imagine.”

“But that’s not true!” Alex’s head swam. “Mrs Rothman told me that he killed five or six people. And Yassen Gregorovich worshipped him! He showed me the scar. He said my dad saved his life.”

“Your father was pretending to be a dangerous killer,” Mrs Jones said. “And so—yes, Alex—he had to kill. One of his victims was a drug dealer in the Amazon jungle. That was when he saved Yassen’s life. Another was an American double agent; a third was a corrupt policeman. I’m not saying that these people deserved to die. But certainly the world was able to get along very well without them and I’m afraid your father had no choice.”

“What about the others you told me about?” Alex had to know.

“There were two more,” Blunt cut in. “One was a priest, working on the streets of Rio de Janeiro. The other was a woman in Sydney. They were more difficult. We couldn’t let them die. And so we faked their deaths … in much the same way that we faked your father’s.”

“Albert Bridge…”

“It was faked.” Mrs Jones took up the narrative again. “Your father had told us as much as we needed to know about Scorpia and we had to get him out. There were two reasons for this. The first was that your mother had just given birth to a baby boy. That was you, Alex. Your father wanted to come home; he wanted to be with you and your mother. But also it was becoming too dangerous. You see, Mrs Rothman had fallen in love with him.” It was almost too much to take on board at once. But Alex remembered Julia Rothman talking to him in the hotel in Positano.

I was very attracted to him. He was an extremely good-looking man.

Alex tried to grasp at the truth through the swirling quicksand of lies and counter-lies. “She told me he was captured. In Malta…”

“That was faked too,” Mrs Jones revealed. “John Rider couldn’t just walk out of Scorpia; they’d never have let him. So we had to arrange things for him. And that’s what we did. He had been sent to Malta, supposedly to kill his sixth victim. He tipped us off and we were waiting for him. We staged a ferocious gun battle. You know what we’re capable of, Alex. We did more or less the same thing for you with that multiple pile-up on the Westway. Yassen was there, in Malta, but we let him escape. We needed him to tell Julia Rothman what had happened. Then we ‘captured’ John Rider. As far as Scorpia were concerned, he would be interrogated and then either thrown back into prison or executed. They would never see him again.”

“So why…?” Alex still couldn’t make complete sense of it. “Why Albert Bridge?”

“Albert Bridge was a bloody mess,” Alan Blunt said. It was the first time Alex had ever heard him swear.

“You’ve met Sir Graham Adair. He’s a very powerful man. He also happens to be an old friend of mine. And when Scorpia took his son, I didn’t think there would be anything I could do.”

“It was your father’s idea,” Mrs Jones went on. “He also knew Sir Graham. He wanted to help. You have to understand, Alex, that’s the sort of man he was. One day I want to tell you all about him—not just this. He believed passionately in what he was doing. Serving his country. I know that sounds naïve and old-fashioned.

But he was a soldier through and through. And he believed in good and evil. I don’t know how else to put it. He wanted to make the world a better place.”

She took a deep breath.

“Your father suggested that we send him back to Scorpia as an exchange. He knew how Mrs Rothman felt about him; he knew she would agree to anything to get him back. But at the same time, he planned to double-cross her. There was a gunman in place, but the gun was loaded with blanks. John had a squib in the back of his jacket—a little firework—and a phial of blood. When the shot was fired, he activated it himself. It blew a little hole in the back of his jacket. He went sprawling and pretended to be dead. It looked as if MI6 had killed him in cold blood. But we never hurt him, Alex. That’s why I wanted you to meet James Adair. The idea was that now he would be safe again and he could simply disappear.”

Alex buried his head in his hands. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. His mother, his father, Julia Rothman, the bridge… He was shaking and he had to force himself back under control. At last he was ready.

“I have just two questions,” he said.

“Go on, Alex. We’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“What was my mother’s part in all this? Did she know what he was?”

“Of course she knew he was a spy. He would never have lied to her. They were very close, Alex. I never met her, I’m afraid. We don’t tend to socialize much in this business. She was a nurse before she married him. Did you know that?”

Ian Rider had told Alex that his mother had been a nurse, but he didn’t want to talk about that now. He was simply building himself up, finding the strength to ask the worst question of all.

“So how did my father die?” he asked. “And my mother? Is she still alive? What happened to her?” Mrs Jones glanced at Alan Blunt and it was he who answered.

“After the affair on Albert Bridge, it was decided that it would be best if your father took a long holiday,” he said. “Your mother went with him. We arranged for a private plane to take them to the South of France. You were meant to go with them, Alex, but at the last minute you developed an ear infection and they had to leave you behind with a nanny. The two of you were going to follow them out when you were better.” He paused. His eyes, as ever, showed nothing. But there was a little pain in his voice.

“Somehow Julia Rothman discovered that she had been tricked. We don’t know how; we’ll never know. But Scorpia’s a powerful organization: that much should be obvious to you by now. She found out that your father was still alive and that he was flying to France, and arranged for a bomb to be placed in the luggage hold. Your parents died together, Alex. I suppose that’s something of a mercy. And it was all so quick. They wouldn’t have had any idea…”

A plane accident.

That was what Alex had been told all his life.

Another lie.

Alex stood up. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. On the one hand he was grateful. His father hadn’t been an evil man. He had been the exact opposite. Everything Julia Rothman had told him and everything he had thought about himself had been wrong. But at the same time, there was an overwhelming sadness, as if he was mourning his parents for the very first time.

“Alex, we’ll get a driver to take you home,” Mrs Jones said. “And we can talk more whenever you’re ready.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alex cried, and his voice cracked. “That’s what I don’t understand. I nearly killed you, but you didn’t tell me the truth! You sent me back to Scorpia—just like my dad—but you never told me that it was Julia Rothman who killed him. Why not?”

Mrs Jones had also got to her feet. “We needed your help to find the dishes. There was no question about it.

Everything depended on you. But I didn’t want to manipulate you. I know you think that’s what we always do, but if I’d told you the truth about Julia Rothman and then given you a homing device and sent you in after her, I’d have been using you in the worst possible way. You went in there, Alex, for exactly the same reason that your father went to Albert Bridge, and I wanted you to have that choice. That’s what makes you such a great spy. It isn’t that you were made one or trained to be one. It’s just that in your heart you are one. I suppose it runs in the family.”

“But I had a gun! I was in your flat…”

“I was never in any danger. Quite apart from the glass, you couldn’t even bring yourself to aim at me, Alex. I knew you couldn’t. There was no need to tell you then. And I didn’t want to. The way Mrs Rothman had deceived you was so horrible.” She shrugged. “I wanted to give you the chance to work things out for yourself.”

For a long moment nobody said anything.

Alex turned away. “I need to be on my own,” he mumbled.

“Of course.” Mrs Jones went over to him and touched him lightly on the arm. It was the arm that was the least burnt. “Come back when you’re ready, Alex.”

“Yes—I will.”

Alex moved to the door. He opened it but then seemed to have second thoughts. “Can I ask one final question, Mrs Jones?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“It’s just something I’ve always wondered and I might as well ask you now.” He paused. “What’s your first name?”

Mrs Jones stiffened. Sitting behind his desk, Alan Blunt looked up. Then she relaxed. “It’s Tulip,” she told him.

“My parents were keen gardeners.”

Alex nodded. It made sense. He wouldn’t have used that name either.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

A MOTHER’S TOUCH

« ^

Scorpia never forgot.

Scorpia never forgave.

The sniper had been paid to take revenge and that was what he would do. His own life would be forfeit if he failed.

He knew that in a few minutes, a fourteen-year-old boy would walk out of the building which pretended to be an international bank but was really nothing of the sort. Did it matter to him that his target was a child? He had persuaded himself that it didn’t. It was a terrible thing to kill a human being. But was it so much worse to kill a twenty-seven-year-old man who would never be twenty-eight than a fourteen-year-old boy who would never be fifteen? The sniper had decided that death was death. That didn’t change. Nor did the fifty thousand pounds he would be paid for this hit.

As usual he would aim for the heart. The target area would be a fraction smaller this time but he would not miss. He never missed. It was time to prepare himself, to bring his breathing under control, to enter that state of calm before the kill.

He focused his attention on the gun that he was holding, the self-loading Ruger .22 model K10/22-T. It was a low velocity weapon, less deadly than some he might have chosen. But the gun had two huge advantages. It was light. And it was very compact. By removing just two screws he had been able to separate the barrel and the trigger mechanism from the stock. The stock itself folded in two. He had been able to carry the whole thing across London in an ordinary sports bag without drawing attention to himself. In his line of work, that was the critical thing.

He squared his eye against the Leupold 14x50mm Side Focus scope, adjusting the cross hairs against the door through which the boy would pass. He loved the feel of the gun in his hands, the snug fit, the perfect balance.

He had had it customized to suit his needs. The stock was laminated wood with water-resistant adhesive, making it stronger and less likely to warp. The trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it—but he would only need a single shot.

The sniper was content. When he fired, for the blink of an eye, as the bullet began its journey down the barrel, travelling at three hundred and thirty-one metres per second, he and the rifle would be one. The target didn’t matter. Even the payment was almost irrelevant. The act of killing was enough in itself. It was better than anything in the world. In that moment, the sniper was God.

He waited. He was lying on his stomach on the roof of an office block on the other side of the road. He was a little surprised that he had been able to get access. He knew that the building opposite him housed the Special Operations division of MI6 and he had supposed that they would keep a careful watch on all the other offices around. On the other hand, he had picked two locks and dismantled a complicated security system to get here. It hadn’t been easy.

The door opened and the target appeared. If he had wanted to, the sniper could have seen a handsome fourteen-year-old boy with fair hair, one strand hanging down over his eyes. A boy wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, and a wooden bead necklace (he could see every bead through the scope). Brown eyes and a slightly hard, narrow mouth. The sort of face that would have attracted plenty of girls if the boy had only lived a little longer.

The boy had a name: Alex Rider. But the sniper didn’t think of that. He didn’t even think of Alex as a boy. He was a heart, a pair of lungs, a convoluted system of veins and arteries. But very soon he would be nothing at all.

That was why the sniper was here. To perform a little act of surgery—not with a scalpel but a bullet.

He licked his lips and focused all his attention on his target. He wasn’t holding the gun. The gun was part of him. His finger curled against the trigger. He relaxed, enjoying the moment, preparing to fire.

Alex Rider stepped out onto the street. It was about five o’clock and there were quite a few people around. He was thinking about all the things he had been told in Alan Blunt’s office. They still wouldn’t quite register. It was just too much to take in. His father hadn’t been an assassin; he had been a spy, working for MI6. John Rider and Ian Rider. Both spies. And now Alex Rider. At last they were a family.

And yet…

Mrs Jones had told him that she wanted him to make a choice, but he wasn’t sure that the choice had ever been his. Yes, he had chosen not to belong to Scorpia. But that didn’t mean he had to be a lifelong member of MI6.

Alan Blunt would want to use him again: that much was certain. But maybe he would find the strength to refuse. Maybe knowing the truth at last would be enough.

All sorts of confusing thoughts were racing through his mind. But he had already made one decision. He wanted to be with Jack. He wanted to forget his homework and go out for a film and a blow-out dinner. Nothing healthy. He had said he would be home by six, but perhaps he would call and meet her at the multiplex on the Fulham Road. It was Saturday. He deserved a night out.

He took a step and stopped. Something had hit him in the chest. It was as if he had been punched. He looked left and right but there was nobody close to him. How very strange.

And here was something else. Liverpool Street seemed to be running uphill. He knew it was flat, but now it was definitely slanting. Even the buildings were leaning to one side. He didn’t understand what was happening. The colour was rapidly draining out of the air. As he looked, the world went from colour to black and white, apart from a few splashes here and there: the bright yellow of a café sign, the blue of a car…

…and the red of blood. He looked down and was surprised to see that his whole front was turning crimson.

There was an irregular shape spreading rapidly across his sweatshirt. At the same time, he became aware that the sound of the traffic had faded. It was as if something had pulled him out of the world and he was only seeing it from a very long way away. A few pedestrians had stopped and turned to look at him. They were shocked. There was a woman screaming. But she was making no sound at all.

Then the street played a trick on him, tilting so suddenly that it seemed to turn upside down. A crowd had gathered. It was closing in on him and Alex wished it would go away. There must have been thirty or forty people, pointing and gesticulating. Why were they so interested in him? And why couldn’t he move any more?

He opened his mouth to ask for help but no words, not even a breath, came out.

Alex was starting to feel scared. There was no pain at all, but something told him that he must have been hurt.

He was lying on the pavement, although he didn’t know how he had got there. There was a red circle around him, widening with every second that passed. He tried to call for Mrs Jones. He opened his mouth again and did hear a voice calling, but it was very far away.

And then he saw two people and knew that everything was going to be all right after all. They were watching him with a mixture of sadness and understanding, as if they had always expected this to happen but were still sorry that it had. There was a little colour left in the crowd, but the two people were entirely black and white.

The man was very handsome, dressed in military uniform with close-cut hair and a solid, serious face. He looked very much like Alex, although he seemed to be in his early thirties. The woman, standing next to him, was smaller and seemed much more vulnerable. She had long, fair hair and eyes that were filled with sorrow.

He had seen photographs of this woman and he was astonished to find her here. He knew that he was looking at his mother.

He tried to get up, but he couldn’t. He wanted to hold her hand, but his arms would no longer obey him. He wasn’t breathing any more, but he hadn’t noticed.

The man and the woman stepped forward out of the crowd. The man said nothing; he was trying to hide his emotions. But the woman leant down and reached out a hand. Only now did Alex realize that he had been looking for her all his life. She reached out and touched him, her finger finding the exact spot where there was a small hole in his shirt.

No pain. Just a sense of tiredness and resignation.

Alex Rider smiled and closed his eyes.

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