“Had a good morning?” she asked as he came in.
“Yes.” Alex sat down slowly, holding his side.
Jack noticed but said nothing. “I hope you’re hungry,” she went on.
“What’s for lunch?”
“Stir-fry.”
“It smells good.”
“It’s an old Chinese recipe. At least, that’s what it said on the packet. Help yourself to some Coke and I’ll serve up.”
The food was good and Alex tried to eat, but the truth was that he had no appetite and he soon gave up. Jack said nothing as he carried his half-finished plate over to the sink, but then she suddenly turned round.
“Alex, you can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened in France.”
Alex had been about to leave the kitchen but now he returned to the table.
“It’s about time you and I talked about this,” Jack went on. “In fact, it’s time we talked about everything!” She pushed her own plate of food away and waited until Alex had sat down. “All right. So it turns out that your uncle – Ian – wasn’t a bank manager. He was a spy. Well, it would have been nice if he’d mentioned it to me, but it’s too late now because he’s gone and got himself killed, which leaves me stuck here, looking after you.” She quickly held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that. I love being here. I love London. I even love you.
“But you’re not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three times now you’ve taken time off from school and each time you’ve come back a bit more bashed around. I don’t even want to know what you’ve been up to, but personally I’ve been worried sick!”
“It wasn’t my choice…” Alex said.
“That’s my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world – it’s got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.”
Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina’s dad would never—”
“You can’t know that. Even if you’d called the cops, what could they have done? Remember – nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don’t think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure was writing an article about Damian Cray. Something about a secret meeting in Paris. Maybe he was buying drugs or something.”
But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew they couldn’t be true. Cray hated drugs. There had been advertising campaigns – posters and TV – using his name and face. His last album, White Lines, had contained four anti-drugs songs. He had made it a personal issue. “Maybe he’s into porn,” he suggested weakly.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to be hard to prove, Alex. The whole world loves Damian Cray.” Jack sighed. “Maybe you should talk to Mrs Jones.”
Alex felt his heart sink. He dreaded the thought of going back to MI6 and meeting the woman who was its deputy head of Special Operations. But he knew Jack was right. At least Mrs Jones would be able to investigate. “I suppose I could go and see her,” he said.
“Good. But just make sure she doesn’t get you involved. If Damian Cray is up to something, it’s her business – not yours.”
The telephone rang.
There was a cordless phone in the kitchen and Jack took the call. She listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Alex. “It’s Sabina,” she said. “For you.”
* * *
They met outside Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus and walked to a nearby Starbucks. Sabina was wearing grey trousers and a loose-fitting jersey. Alex had expected her to have changed in some way after all that had happened, and indeed she looked younger, less sure of herself. She was obviously tired. All traces of her South of France suntan had disappeared.
“Dad’s going to live,” she said as they sat down together with two bottles of juice. “The doctors are pretty sure about that. He’s strong and he kept himself fit. But…” Her voice trembled. “It’s going to take a long time, Alex. He’s still unconscious – and he was badly burnt.” She stopped and drank some of her juice. “The police said it was a gas leak. Can you believe that? Mum says she’s going to sue.”
“Who’s she going to sue?”
“The people who rented us the house. The gas board. The whole country. She’s furious…”
Alex said nothing. A gas leak. That was what the police had told him.
Sabina sighed. “Mum said I ought to see you. She said you’d want to know about Dad.”
“Your dad had just come down from Paris, hadn’t he?” Alex wasn’t sure this was the right time, but he had to know. “Did he say anything about the article he was writing?”
Sabina looked surprised. “No. He never talked about his work. Not to Mum. Not to anyone.”
“Where had he been?”
“He’d been staying with a friend. A photographer.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Marc Antonio. Why are you asking all these questions about my dad? Why do you want to know?”
Alex avoided the questions. “Where is he now?” he asked.
“In hospital in France. He’s not strong enough to travel. Mum’s still out there with him. I flew home on my own.”
Alex thought for a moment. This wasn’t a good idea. But he couldn’t keep silent. Not knowing what he did. “I think he should have a police guard,” he said.
“What?” Sabina stared at him. “Why? Are you saying … it wasn’t a gas leak?”
Alex didn’t answer.
Sabina looked at him carefully, then came to a decision. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions,” she said. “Now it’s my turn. I don’t know what’s really going on, but Mum told me that after it happened, you ran away from the house.”
“How did she know?”
“The police told her. They said you had this idea that someone had tried to kill Dad … and that it was someone you knew. And then you disappeared. They were searching everywhere for you.”
“I went to the police station at Saint-Pierre,” Alex said.
“But that wasn’t until midnight. You were completely soaked and you had a cut and you were dressed in weird clothes…”
Alex had been questioned for an hour when he had finally shown up at the gendarmerie. A doctor had given him three stitches and bandaged up the wound. Then a policeman had brought him a change of clothes. The questions had only stopped with the arrival of the man from the British consulate in Lyons. The man, who had been elderly and efficient, seemed to know all about Alex. He had driven Alex to Montpellier Airport to catch the first flight the next day. He had no interest in what had happened. His only desire seemed to be to get Alex out of the country.
“What were you doing?” Sabina asked. “You say Dad needs protection. Is there something you know?”
“I can’t really tell you—” Alex began.
“Stuff that!” Sabina said. “Of course you can tell me!”
“I can’t. You wouldn’t believe me.”
“If you don’t tell me, Alex, I’m going to walk out of here and you’ll never see me again. What is it that you know about my dad?”
In the end he told her. It was very simple. She hadn’t given him any choice. And in a way he was glad. The secret had been with him too long and carrying it alone, he had begun to feel it weighing him down.
He began with the death of his uncle, his introduction to MI6, his training and his first meeting with Yassen Gregorovich at the Stormbreaker computer plant in Cornwall. He described, as briefly as he could, how he had been forced, twice more, to work for MI6 – in the French Alps and off the coast of America. Then h
e told her what he had felt the moment he had seen Yassen on the beach at Saint-Pierre, how he had followed him to the restaurant, why in the end he had done nothing.
He thought he had skimmed over it all but in fact he talked for half an hour before arriving at his meeting with Yassen on the Fer de Lance. He had avoided looking directly at Sabina for much of the time as he talked, but when he reached the bullfight, describing how he had dressed up as a matador and walked out in front of a crowd of a thousand, he glanced up and met her eyes. She was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. She almost seemed to hate him.
“I told you it wasn’t easy to believe,” he concluded lamely.
“Alex…”
“I know the whole thing sounds mad. But that’s what happened. I am so sorry about your dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it from happening. But at least I know who was responsible.”
“Who?”
“Damian Cray.”
“The pop star?”
“Your dad was writing an article about him. I found a bit of it at the house. And his number was on Yassen’s mobile phone.”
“So Damian Cray wanted to kill my dad.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Too long, Alex thought.
At last Sabina spoke again. “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said. “I have never heard so much crap in all my life.”
“Sab, I told you—”
“I know you said I wouldn’t believe it. But just because you said that, it doesn’t make it true!” She shook her head. “How can you expect anyone to believe a story like that? Why can’t you tell me the truth?”
“It is the truth, Sab.”
Suddenly he knew what he had to do.
“And I can prove it.”
They took the tube across London to Liverpool Street Station and walked up the road to the building that Alex knew housed the Special Operations division of MI6. They found themselves standing in front of a tall, black-painted door, the sort that was designed to impress people coming in or leaving. Next to it, screwed into the brickwork, was a brass plaque with the words:
Sabina had seen it. She looked at Alex doubtfully.
“Don’t worry,” Alex said. “The Royal & General Bank doesn’t exist. That’s just the sign they put on the door.”
They went in. The entrance hall was cold and businesslike, with high ceilings and a brown marble floor. To one side there was a leather sofa and Alex remembered sitting there the first time he had come, waiting to go up to his uncle’s office on the fifteenth floor. He walked straight across to the glass reception desk where a young woman was sitting with a microphone curving across her mouth, taking calls and greeting visitors at the same time. There was an older security officer in uniform and peaked cap next to her.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, smiling at Alex and Sabina.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I’d like to see Mrs Jones.”
“Mrs Jones?” The young woman frowned. “Do you know what department she works in?”
“She works with Mr Blunt.”
“I’m sorry…” She turned to the security guard. “Do you know a Mrs Jones?”
“There’s a Miss Johnson,” the guard suggested. “She’s a cashier.”
Alex looked from one to the other. “You know who I mean,” he said. “Just tell her that Alex Rider is here—”
“There is no Mrs Jones working at this bank,” the receptionist interrupted.
“Alex…” Sabina began.
But Alex refused to give up. He leant forward so that he could speak confidentially. “I know this isn’t a bank,” he said. “This is MI6 Special Operations. Please could you—”
“Are you doing this as some sort of prank?” This time it was the security guard who was speaking. “What’s all this nonsense about MI6?”
“Alex, let’s get out of here,” Sabina said.
“No!” Alex couldn’t believe what was happening. He didn’t even know exactly what it was that was happening. It had to be a mistake. These people were new. Or perhaps they needed some sort of password to allow him into the building. Of course. On his previous visits here, he had only ever come when he had been expected. Either that or he had been brought here against his will. This time he had come unannounced. That was why he wasn’t being allowed in.
“Listen,” Alex said. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to let just anyone in, but I’m not just anyone. I’m Alex Rider. I work with Mr Blunt and Mrs Jones. Could you please let her know I’m here?”
“There is no Mrs Jones,” the receptionist repeated helplessly.
“And I don’t know any Mr Blunt either,” the security guard added.
“Alex. Please…” Sabina was sounding more and more desperate. She really wanted to leave.
Alex turned to her. “They’re lying, Sabina,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the lift. He reached out and stabbed the call button.
“You stop right there!” The security guard stood up.
The receptionist reached out and pressed a button, presumably calling for help.
The lift didn’t come.
Alex saw the guard moving towards him. Still no lift. He looked around and noticed a corridor leading away, with a set of swing doors at the end. Perhaps there would be a staircase or another set of lifts somewhere else in the building. Pulling Sabina behind him, Alex set off down the corridor. He heard the security guard getting closer. He quickened his pace, searching for a way up.
He slammed through the double doors.
And stopped.
He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers – ordinary people off the street – waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.
“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?”
A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.
Alex took all this in with one glance. He looked at Sabina. She was staring with a mixture of emotions on her face.
And then the security guard was there. “You’re not meant to come into the bank this way,” he said. “This is a staff entrance. Now, I want you to leave before you get yourself into real trouble. I mean it! I don’t want to have to call the police, but that’s my job.”
“We’re going.” Sabina had stepped in and her voice was cold, definite.
“Sab—”
“We’re going now.”
“You ought to look after your friend,” the security guard said. “He may think this sort of thing is funny, but it isn’t.”
Alex left – or rather allowed Sabina to lead him out. They went through a revolving door and out onto the street. Alex wondered what had happened. Why had he never seen the bank before? Then he realized. The building was actually sandwiched between two streets with a quite separate front and back. He had always entered from the other side.
“Listen—” he began.
“No. You listen! I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. Maybe it’s because you don’t have parents. You have to draw attention to yourself by creating this … fantasy! But just listen to yourself, Alex! I mean, it’s pretty sick. Schoolboy spies and Russian assassins and all the rest of it…”
“It’s got nothing to do with my parents,” Alex said, feeling anger well up inside him.
“But it’s got everything to do with mine. My dad gets hurt in an accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sab.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Are you really so stupid that you think I’d make all this up?�
�
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m just saying that I thought we were friends. I thought you knew me…”
“Yes! I thought I knew you. But now I see I was wrong. I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Listening to you in the first place was stupid. Coming to see you was stupid. Ever getting to know you … that was the most stupid thing of all.”
She turned and walked away in the direction of the station. In seconds she had gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Alex…” a voice said behind him. It was a voice that he knew.
Mrs Jones was standing on the pavement. She had seen and heard everything that had taken place.
“Let her go,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”
SAINT OR SINGER?
The office was the same as it had always been. The same ordinary, modern furniture, the same view, the same man behind the same desk. Not for the first time, Alex found himself wondering about Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations. What had his journey to work been like today? Was there a suburban house with a nice, smiling wife and two children waving goodbye as he left to catch the tube? Did his family know the truth about him? Had he ever told them that he wasn’t working for a bank or an insurance company or anything like that, and that he carried with him – perhaps in a smart leather case, given to him for his birthday – files and documents full of death?
Alex tried to see the teenager in the man in the grey suit. Blunt must have been his own age once. He would have gone to school, sweated over exams, played football, tried his first cigarette and got bored at weekends like anybody else. But there was no sign of any child in the empty grey eyes, the colourless hair, the mottled, tightly drawn skin. So when had it happened? What had turned him into a civil servant, a spy-master, an adult with no obvious emotions and no remorse?
And then Alex wondered if the same thing would one day happen to him. Was that what MI6 were preparing him for? First they had turned him into a spy; next they would turn him into one of them. Perhaps they already had an office waiting with his name on the door. The windows were closed and it was warm in the room, but he shuddered. He had been wrong to come here with Sabina. The office on Liverpool Street was poisonous, and one way or another it would destroy him if he didn’t stay away.
Eagle Strike Page 5
