Stormbreaker

by Anthony Horowitz

  The sergeant had seen it too. “You think it’s so funny, Wolf? You can go clean up in there. And tonight you’d better get some rest. All of you. Because tomorrow you’ve got a forty kilometre hike. Survival rations. No fire. This is a survival course. And if you do survive, then maybe you’ll have a reason to smile.”

  Alex remembered the words now, exactly twenty-four hours later. He had spent the last eleven of them on his feet, following the trail the sergeant had set out for him on the map. The exercise had begun at six o’clock in the morning after a grey-lit breakfast of sausages and beans. Wolf and the others had disappeared into the distance ahead of him a long time ago, even though they had been given 25-kilogram rucksacks to carry. They had also been given only eight hours to complete the course. Allowing for his age, Alex had been given twelve.

  He rounded a corner, his feet scrunching on the gravel. There was someone standing ahead of him. It was the sergeant. He had just lit a cigarette and Alex watched him slide the matches back into his pocket. Seeing him there brought back the shame and the anger of the day before and at the same time sapped the last of his strength. Suddenly Alex had had enough of Blunt, Mrs Jones, Wolf … the whole stupid thing. With a final effort he stumbled the last hundred metres and came to a halt. Rain and sweat trickled down the side of his face. His hair, now dark with grime, was glued across his forehead.

  The sergeant looked at his watch. “Eleven hours, five minutes. That’s not bad, Cub. But the others were here three hours ago.”

  Bully for them, Alex thought. He didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, you should just make it to the last RV,” the sergeant went on. “It’s up there.”

  He pointed to a wall. Not a sloping wall. A sheer one. Solid rock rising fifty metres up without a handhold or a foothold in sight. Even looking at it, Alex felt his stomach shrink. Ian Rider had taken him climbing – in Scotland, in France, all over Europe. But he had never attempted anything as difficult as this. Not on his own. Not when he was so tired.

  “I can’t,” he said. In the end the two words came out easily.

  “I didn’t hear that,” the sergeant said.

  “I said, I can’t do it, sir.”

  “Can’t isn’t a word we use around here.”

  “I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve just had…” Alex’s voice cracked. He didn’t trust himself to go on. He stood there, cold and empty, waiting for the axe to fall.

  But it didn’t. The sergeant gazed at him for a long minute. He nodded his head slowly. “Listen to me, Cub,” he said. “I know what happened in the Killing House.”

  Alex glanced up.

  “Wolf forgot about the closed circuit TV. We’ve got it all on film.”

  “Then why—?” Alex began.

  “Did you make a complaint against him, Cub?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you want to make a complaint against him, Cub?”

  A pause. Then, “No, sir.”

  “Good.” The sergeant pointed at the rock face, suggesting a path up with his finger. “It’s not as difficult as it looks,” he said. “And they’re waiting for you just over the top. You’ve got a nice cold dinner. Survival rations. You don’t want to miss that.”

  Alex drew a deep breath and started forward. As he passed the sergeant, he stumbled and put out a hand to steady himself, brushing against him. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach the top and, sure enough, K Unit was already there, crouching around three small tents that they must have pitched earlier in the afternoon. Two for two men sharing. One, the smallest, for Alex.

  Snake, a thin, fair-haired man who spoke with a Scottish accent, looked up at Alex. He had a tin of cold stew in one hand, a teaspoon in the other.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. Alex couldn’t help but notice a certain warmth in the man’s voice. And for the first time he hadn’t called him Double O Nothing.

  “Nor did I,” Alex said.

  Wolf was squatting over what he hoped would become a camp-fire, trying to get it started with two flints while Fox and Eagle watched. He was getting nowhere. The stones only produced the smallest of sparks, and the scraps of newspaper and leaves that he had collected were already far too wet. Wolf struck at the stones again and again. The others watched, their faces glum.

  Alex held out the box of matches that he had pick-pocketed from the sergeant when he had pretended to stumble at the foot of the rock face.

  “These might help,” he said.

  He threw the matches down, then went into his tent.

  TOYS AREN’T US

  In the London office, Mrs Jones sat waiting while Alan Blunt read the report. The sun was shining. A pigeon was strutting back and forth along the ledge outside as if keeping guard.

  “He’s doing very well,” Blunt said at last. “Remarkably well, in fact.” He turned a page. “I see he missed target practice.”

  “Were you planning to give him a gun?” Mrs Jones asked.

  “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Then why does he need target practice?”

  Blunt raised an eyebrow. “We can’t give a teenager a gun,” he said. “On the other hand, I don’t think we can send him to Port Tallon empty-handed. You’d better have a word with Smithers.”

  “I already have. He’s working on it now.”

  Mrs Jones stood up as if to leave. But at the door she hesitated. “I wonder if it’s occurred to you that Rider may have been preparing him for this all along,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Preparing Alex to replace him. Ever since the boy was old enough to walk, he’s been in training for intelligence work … but without knowing it. I mean, he’s lived abroad, so he now speaks French, German and Spanish. He’s been mountain-climbing, diving and skiing. He’s learned karate. Physically he’s in perfect shape.” She shrugged. “I think Rider wanted Alex to become a spy.”

  “But not so soon,” Blunt said.

  “I agree. You know as well as I do, Alan – he’s not ready yet. If we send him into Sayle Enterprises, he’s going to get himself killed.”

  “Perhaps.” The single word was cold, matter-of-fact.

  “He’s fourteen years old! We can’t do it.”

  “We have to.” Blunt stood up and opened the window, letting in the air and the sound of the traffic. The pigeon hurled itself off the ledge, afraid of him. “This whole business worries me,” he said. “The Prime Minister sees the Stormbreakers as a major coup, for himself and for his Government. But there’s still something about Herod Sayle that I don’t like. Did you tell the boy about Yassen Gregorovich?”

  “No.” Mrs Jones shook her head.

  “Then it’s time you did. It was Yassen who killed his uncle. I’m sure of it. And if Yassen was working for Sayle—”

  “What will you do if Yassen kills Alex Rider?”

  “That’s not our problem, Mrs Jones. If the boy gets himself killed, it will be the final proof that there is something wrong. At the very least it’ll allow me to postpone the Stormbreaker project and take a good, hard look at what’s going on at Port Tallon. In a way, it would almost help us if he was killed.”

  “The boy’s not ready yet. He’ll make mistakes. It won’t take them long to find out who he is.” Mrs Jones sighed. “I don’t think Alex has got much chance at all.”

  “I agree.” Blunt turned back from the window. The sun slanted over his shoulder. A single shadow fell across his face. “But it’s too late to worry about that now,” he said. “We have no more time. Stop the training. Send him in.”

  Alex sat hunched up in the back of the low-flying C-130 military aircraft, his stomach churning behind his knees. There were twelve men sitting in two lines around him – his own unit and two others. For an hour now, the plane had been flying at just one hundred metres, following the Welsh valleys, dipping and swerving to avoid the mountain peaks. A single bulb glowed red behind
a wire mesh, adding to the heat in the cramped cabin. Alex could feel the engines vibrating through him. It was like travelling in a spin-drier and microwave oven combined.

  The thought of jumping out of a plane with an oversized silk umbrella would have made Alex sick with fear – but only that morning he’d been told that he wouldn’t in fact be jumping himself. A signal from London. They couldn’t risk him breaking a leg, it said, and Alex guessed that the end of his training was near. Even so, he’d been taught how to pack a parachute, how to control it, how to exit a plane and how to land, and at the end of the day the sergeant had instructed him to join the flight – just for the experience. Now, close to the drop zone, Alex felt almost disappointed. He’d watch everyone else jump and then he’d be left alone.

  “P minus five…”

  The voice of the pilot came over the speaker system, distant and metallic. Alex gritted his teeth. Five minutes until the jump. He looked at the other men, shuffling into position, checking the cords that connected them to the static line. He was sitting next to Wolf. To his surprise, the man was completely quiet, unmoving. It was hard to tell in the half-darkness, but the look on his face could almost have been fear.

  There was a loud buzz and the red light turned green. The assistant pilot had climbed through from the cockpit. He reached for a handle and pulled open a door set in the back of the aircraft, allowing the cold air to rush in. Alex could see a single square of night. It was raining. The rain howled past.

  The green light began to flash. The assistant pilot tapped the first pair on their shoulders and Alex watched them shuffle over to the side and then throw themselves out. For a moment they were there, frozen in the doorway. Then they were gone, like a photograph crumpled and spun away by the wind. Two more men followed. Then another two, until only the final pair had still to jump.

  Alex glanced at Wolf, who seemed to be struggling with a piece of equipment. His partner was moving to the door without him, but still Wolf didn’t look up.

  The other man jumped. Suddenly Alex was aware that only he and Wolf were left.

  “Move it!” the assistant pilot shouted above the roar of the engines.

  Wolf picked himself up. His eyes briefly met Alex’s and in that moment Alex knew. Wolf was a popular leader. He was tough and he was fast, completing a forty-kilometre hike as if it was just a stroll in the park. But he had a weak spot. Somehow he’d allowed this parachute jump to get to him and he was too scared to move. It was hard to believe, but there he was, frozen in the doorway, his arms rigid, staring out. Alex glanced back. The assistant pilot was looking the other way. He hadn’t seen what was happening. And when he did? If Wolf failed to make the jump, it would be the end of his training and maybe even the end of his career. Even hesitating would be bad enough. He’d be binned.

  Alex thought for a moment. Wolf hadn’t moved. Alex could see his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to summon up the courage to go. Ten seconds had passed. Maybe more. The assistant pilot was leaning down, stowing away a piece of equipment. Alex stood up. “Wolf,” he said.

  Wolf didn’t even hear him.

  Alex took one last quick look at the assistant pilot, then kicked out with all his strength. His foot slammed into Wolfs backside. He’d put all his strength behind it. Wolf was caught by surprise, his hands coming free as he plunged into the swirling night air.

  The assistant pilot turned round and saw Alex. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Just stretching my legs,” Alex shouted back.

  The plane curved in the air and began the journey home.

  Mrs Jones was waiting for him when he walked into the hangar. She was sitting at a table, wearing a grey silk jacket and trousers with a black handkerchief flowing out of her top pocket. For a moment she didn’t recognize him. Alex was dressed in a flying suit. His hair was damp from the rain. His face was pinched with tiredness and he seemed to have grown older very fast. None of the men had arrived back yet. A truck had been sent to collect them from a field about three kilometres away.

  “Alex?” she said.

  Alex looked at her but said nothing.

  “It was my decision to stop you jumping,” she said. “I hope you’re not disappointed. I just thought it was too much of a risk. Please. Sit down.”

  Alex sat down opposite her.

  “I have something that might cheer you up,” she went on. “I’ve brought you some toys.”

  “I’m too old for toys,” Alex said.

  “Not these toys.”

  She signalled and a man appeared, walking out of the shadows, carrying a tray of equipment, which he set down on the table. The man was enormously fat. When he sat down, the metal chair disappeared beneath the spread of his buttocks and Alex was surprised it could even take his weight. He was bald, with a black moustache and several chins, each one melting into the next and finally into his neck and shoulders. He wore a pinstriped suit which must have used enough material to make a tent.

  “Smithers,” he said, nodding at Alex. “Very nice to meet you, old chap.”

  “What have you got for him?” Mrs Jones demanded.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t had a great deal of time, Mrs J,” Smithers replied. “The challenge was to think what a fourteen-year-old might carry with him – and adapt it.” He picked the first object off the tray. A yo-yo. It was slightly larger than normal, made of black plastic. “Let’s start with this,” Smithers said.

  Alex shook his head. He couldn’t believe any of this. “Don’t tell me!” he exclaimed. “It’s some sort of secret weapon…”

  “Not exactly. I was told you weren’t to have weapons. You’re too young.”

  “So it’s not really a hand grenade? Pull the string and run like hell?”

  “Certainly not. It’s a yo-yo.” Smithers pulled out the string, holding it between a podgy finger and thumb. “However, the string is a special sort of nylon. Very advanced. There are thirty metres of it and it can lift weights of up to one hundred kilograms. The actual yo-yo is motorized and clips on to your belt. Very useful for climbing.”

  “Amazing.” Alex was unimpressed.

  “And then there’s this.” Smithers produced a small tube. Alex read the side: ZIT-CLEAN, FOR HEALTHIER SKIN. “Nothing personal,” Smithers went on apologetically, “but we thought it was something a boy of your age might use. And it is rather remarkable.” He opened the tube and squeezed some of the cream on to his finger. “Completely harmless when you touch it. But bring it into contact with metal and it’s quite another story.” He wiped his finger, smearing the cream on to the surface of the table. For a moment nothing happened. Then a wisp of acrid smoke twisted upwards in the air, the metal sizzled and a jagged hole appeared. “It’ll do that to just about any metal,” Smithers explained. “Very useful if you need to break through a lock.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his finger clean.

  “Anything else?” Mrs Jones asked.

  “Oh yes, Mrs J. You could say this is our pièce de résistance.” He picked up a brightly coloured box that Alex recognized at once as a Nintendo DS. “What teenager would be complete without one of these?” he asked. “This one comes with four games. And the beauty of it is, each game turns the computer into something quite different.”

  He showed Alex the first game. “If you insert Nemesis, the computer becomes a fax/photocopier which gives you direct contact with us and vice versa.” A second game. “Exocet turns the computer into an X-ray device. It has an audio function too. The headphones are useful for eavesdropping. It’s not as powerful as I’d like, but we’re working on it. Speed Wars is a bug finder. I suggest you use it the moment you’re shown to your room. And finally … Bomber Boy.”

  “Do I get to play that one?” Alex asked.

  “You can play all four of them. But as the name might suggest, this is actually a smoke bomb. You leave the game cartridge somewhere in a room and press START three times on the console and it will go off. Useful camouflage if you need to
escape in a hurry.”

  “Thank you, Smithers,” Mrs Jones said.

  “My pleasure, Mrs J.” Smithers stood up, his legs straining to take the huge weight. “I’ll hope to see you again, Alex. I’ve never had to equip a boy before. I’m sure I’ll be able to think up a whole host of quite delightful ideas.”

  He waddled off and disappeared through a door which clanged shut behind him.

  Mrs Jones turned to Alex. “You leave tomorrow for Port Tallon,” she said. “You’ll be going under the name of Felix Lester.” She handed him a folder. “We’ve sent the real Felix Lester on holiday in Scotland. You’ll find everything you need to know about him in here.”

  “I’ll read it in bed.”

  “Good.” Suddenly she was serious and Alex found himself wondering if she was herself a mother. If so, she could well have a son of his age. She took out a black and white photograph and laid it on the table. It showed a man in a white T-shirt and jeans. He was in his late twenties with blond, close-cropped hair, a smooth face, the body of a dancer. The photograph was slightly blurred. It had been taken from a distance, as if with a hidden camera. “I want you to look at this,” she said.

  “I’m looking.”

  “His name is Yassen Gregorovich. He was born in Russia but he now works for many countries. Iraq has employed him. Also Serbia, Libya and China.”

  “What does he do?” Alex asked, though looking at the cold face with its blank, hooded eyes, he could almost guess.

  “He’s a contract killer, Alex. We believe he killed Ian Rider.”

  There was a long pause. Alex stared at the photograph, trying to print it on his mind.

  “This photograph was taken six months ago, in Cuba. It may have been a coincidence but Herod Sayle was there at the same time. The two of them might have met. And there is something else.” She paused. “Rider used a code in the last message he sent. A single letter. Y.”

  “Y for Yassen.”

  “He must have seen Yassen somewhere in Port Tallon. He wanted us to know—”