“Thanks to Alex, we now know that they are planning an operation that they call Steel Claw,” Mrs Jones continued. “Presumably, this involves the helicopter but we have no way of knowing in what way. However, it would seem likely that – as I first suggested – terrorism is not their goal.” She was addressing the Air Marshal in particular. “They need money, pure and simple. They’re planning some sort of theft. Something heavy. They need the helicopter to take it away.”
“A lot of people can still get killed during a theft, Mrs Jones. These people have already demonstrated that they are utterly ruthless.”
“Of course, Sir Norman. We also know that this event, Steel Claw, is going to take place some time tomorrow afternoon, possibly at half past three. The question is – what are we going to do?”
Alex had been listening to all this with a sense of disbelief. It seemed incredible to him that a single email received just days ago had catapulted him back into another adventure with MI6. And what was Jack doing mixed up in it all? Nobody in the room had mentioned her yet but surely she must have some part to play. The Grimaldis wouldn’t have taken her otherwise.
Chichester was the next to speak. “It seems to me that we should be focusing on this man, Vosper.”
“Yes. We have some intel on him,” Crawley said. He had a laptop in front of him and punched a few keys. It had a wireless connection to the screen on the wall. A face flashed up. “Recognize him?”
Alex looked across to a photograph of a grey-haired man with thin lips, wearing spectacles. He felt a stirring of excitement. “That’s him!” he said. “He was at the villa…”
“Derek Vosper,” Crawley continued. “It wasn’t that difficult to pin him down. We checked every flight into Nice Airport over the last three days. As a matter of fact, there was only one person called Vosper – it’s quite an unusual name – and we could see at once that he fitted the description Alex gave us.”
“Who is he?” Sir Norman demanded.
“Derek Vosper is forty-six years old and lives in Oxford—” Crawley began.
“Dragana had a map showing Oxford in her cabin,” Alex interrupted. He had already told them what he had found, but he thought it was worth reminding them.
“He’s married. He has no children. His wife is Jane Vosper. She’s a coach driver and works for a private school. As a matter of fact, she was checked out by the police a few years ago. It was a routine security clearance. She has no criminal record. Neither of them do.”
“What about the husband?” Mrs Jones asked.
“Well, that’s where it gets quite interesting.” Crawley clicked with his mouse, changing the image on the screen. This time it showed a classical building with tall, white columns. “Derek Vosper is an assistant curator at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. He helps organize exhibitions. And this is what they’ve got on at the moment.”
Another click and the image changed to a golden statue of a completely naked man, crouching with his legs crossed. It was the front cover of a brochure and there was a caption in bright red letters: SOUTH AMERICAN GOLD.
“I read about this…” Ben Daniels muttered.
“That’s right. It’s been in all the newspapers. Inca, Aztec and Mayan gold. They say there’s never been an exhibition like it – so many treasures in one place. I understand that the collection is insured for forty million pounds.”
“That’s it, then!” Sir Norman brought his hand crashing down onto the table. “That’s what they’re planning to steal!”
Mrs Jones turned to Alex. “When you were in the Villa Siciliana, Vosper said something about solid gold.”
Alex thought back, trying to remember the exact words he’d heard. “That’s right,” he said. “But it wasn’t quite like that. He said he’d seen the names on the list and that they were solid gold.”
“He must have been talking about the statues on show!” Crawley said.
“Did he definitely use those words?” Mrs Jones wanted to be sure.
“Yes. Definitely.” But even as he spoke, Alex knew there was something wrong. Had Eduardo and Giovanni really stolen a multi-million pound helicopter to attack a museum in Oxford? Surely it couldn’t be as simple as that.
“There’s something else!” Crawley was pleased with himself. “Alex said he heard the name Henry mentioned. ‘They’re seeing Henry at half past three in the afternoon.’ Is that right, Alex?”
Alex nodded.
Crawley flashed another image onto the screen; this time a middle-aged, severe-looking woman standing outside the House of Commons. Alex thought he recognized her.
“This is Susan Hendrix, the Minister for Culture,” Crawley explained. “As it happens, she’s visiting the museum tomorrow afternoon. Do you see? You were listening to the conversation from the other side of a door and you didn’t get it quite right. It wasn’t Henry you heard. It was Hendrix.”
“No.” Alex shook his head. “It was definitely Henry, Mr Crawley. I heard it distinctly.”
“Henry who?”
“They didn’t say. But it wasn’t Hendrix. I’m sure of it.” Alex stopped. Nobody in the room looked convinced. They had already made up their minds.
“The minister must cancel her visit,” Chichester said. “We can’t risk putting her in any danger.”
“There is no danger!” Sir Norman cut in. “We now know what Operation Steel Claw means and we can prevent it from going ahead. All we have to do is arrest this Derek Vosper character. He’ll lead us to his employers and we can get the helicopter back too.” He got to his feet. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was over. “Very good work, Mrs Jones.” He nodded at Alex. “And congratulations to you, young man. You should have listened more carefully but otherwise you’ve done very well too.”
He left the room. The man called Chichester muttered a few words of thanks and followed him. Alex was left alone with the three people he knew.
“Vosper will be at the museum now,” Crawley said. “Do you want me to pick him up?”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs Jones said. “Despite what Sir Norman said, I’m not sure it’s quite such a good idea.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “We want the helicopter but, more than that, we want the Grimaldi brothers,” she went on. “If we arrest Vosper, they’ll know we’re onto them. They’ll simply disappear. But we can take advantage of this situation. We can use the museum as a trap!”
It was the first time that Alex had seen Mrs Jones in action, working as the new head of Special Operations. It seemed to him that the more she spoke, the more she convinced herself she was right. “I want the museum surrounded,” she said. “Armed response officers! Our first priority must be to keep the public safe. Daniels – you’ll follow Vosper. I want you to keep him in your sight from the moment he wakes up until the moment he goes to bed. You can select a team for backup. Anyone you like.”
“Anyone?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I’d quite like Alex to come along.”
“Why?” Mrs Jones looked at him with a spark of annoyance in her eyes.
“Because without Alex, we’d never have known that Derek Vosper existed. And it’s still possible we’re making a mistake.” He sighed. “Forgive me, ma’am. I know it seems to make sense. The gold. Hendrix. But if you ask me, it all feels a bit small-time for a Scorpia operation.”
“The Grimaldis aren’t with Scorpia any more.”
“I know. But forty million pounds? They could have made thirty million for just selling the Super Stallion. It must have cost twice that. And I bet you they spent quite a few million setting this whole thing up. They’ve murdered at least three people. You really would have thought they’d be a bit more ambitious.”
“And Alex?”
“He may see something or hear something. He may remember something. I don’t know. I’d just like to have him with me.”
Mrs Jones didn’t speak. Next to her, John Crawley was looking uncomfortable. Finally she glanced at Alex. “W
hen we met in Saint-Tropez, I told you to go back to America,” she said. “I even paid for your flight. You disobeyed me and as a result you were very nearly killed. If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to learn to obey orders.”
“You don’t want me to work for you,” Alex said.
“I know. That’s what I said. I still remember what happened to Ian Rider. I don’t want to be the one sitting here being told that the same thing has happened to you.” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you want to do this, Alex?”
“I want to find Jack,” Alex said simply.
“All right.” She nodded at Daniels. “Take him with you. But if anything happens to him, I promise you, you’re fired!”
UNDER SURVEILLANCE
The alarm clock went off at exactly seven o’clock.
Derek Vosper woke up next to his wife in the small, end-of-terrace house that they occupied in Headington, a village about three miles outside Oxford. He swung himself out of bed and sat there for a moment in his striped pyjamas. He reached for his glasses, put them on, then headed into the bathroom. Meanwhile, Jane Vosper went downstairs to make the breakfast. She was overweight with dark brown hair that hung limply after a night’s sleep and that wouldn’t look any better when she’d brushed it. Her face was blank. She put the kettle on, sliced some bread for toast and took some eggs out of the fridge.
Neither of them was aware that they were being watched, that no fewer than twenty-eight cameras had been concealed around their home, picking up their every movement. A team from MI6 Special Operations had arrived just hours after the meeting at Liverpool Street had ended. Both the Vospers were at work and if there had been any neighbours around, they would have paid no attention to the Waitrose van which had pulled up outside the front door, nor to the three men who seemed to be making a perfectly ordinary delivery, carrying supermarket bags through the front door.
When they left, one hour later, there were cameras in the skirting board and in holes that had been specially drilled into the brickwork. More cameras had been concealed behind mirrors, on the edge of a lampshade and behind the screen of the TV. Each one had a lens which measured just 3.7 millimetres but which gave an 86-degree field of vision. This meant that there wasn’t a single square millimetre of the house that wasn’t in view. If the Vospers had chosen to go out into the garden, they might have noticed a bee hovering over the lawn. It was actually a miniature camera drone, operating under remote control and it was watching them through the windows.
There were also bugging devices scattered throughout the house. These were so sensitive that they had picked up the sound of Derek Vosper unscrewing his toothpaste tube. An unmarked white van was parked a short way down the road. Two men were sitting in the back, both wearing headphones, gazing at a bank of television monitors. They had been in position for three hours, replacing the team that had stayed there throughout the night.
“How do you want your eggs, dear?”
“I don’t think I fancy an egg today.”
“How about a yoghurt?”
“Thanks…”
Every word that the Vospers spoke was recorded, transcribed and sent over a secure line to the seventh floor – the Communications division – of MI6. But as they got dressed, made the bed and then sat at the kitchen table for breakfast, the husband and wife said nothing of any interest. There was no mention of the Grimaldis, nothing about Steel Claw. Perhaps they had been warned or perhaps they were just too nervous to talk about the day ahead. It was easier to pretend that they were an ordinary couple, setting off to their different jobs.
“Well, I’d best be on my way then.”
“Have you got your tea?”
“Yes. It’s here.”
They kissed each other goodbye and seventy-one seconds later, Jane came out of the front door carrying a handbag in one hand and a large, silver Thermos in the other. She was wearing a light raincoat over an olive-green jersey and dress. The bee briefly hovered over her as she walked down the path and got into the second-hand Mazda which was parked in the main road. It filmed her as she drove away. Derek Vosper was left behind. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.
In fact it was twenty past nine when he finally emerged, wearing a cheap suit and carrying a briefcase. As he walked the short distance to his own car, he was overtaken by an ice cream van and although he was completely unaware of it, he was briefly bathed in X-rays which not only showed him naked but revealed the contents of his pockets and briefcase. He had a telephone, an iPad, a book, some papers and pens, a packet of chewing gum. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that he might be involved in the theft of forty million pounds’ worth of gold. Derek Vosper had a slightly better car than his wife: a VW Golf. He opened the doors with a remote control and got in.
Thirty metres away, Alex Rider was sitting in the front seat of a Vauxhall Astra Sports Tourer, the same car that is used by many of the emergency services throughout the UK. This one, however, was anonymous, with no identification number or siren. It was oyster grey with a sunroof. Ben Daniels was next to him, behind the wheel. They had been outside the house since half past six.
Alex had watched Derek Vosper having his breakfast. The car had a satnav screen mounted in the front dashboard but, of course, it was much more than that. Ben Daniels had touched a switch on the car music system, which had silently pivoted around to reveal a state-of-the-art control panel with a dozen different dials and buttons. The Vauxhall had a sophisticated communications system that allowed him to tune in to the data flow coming from the house, channelling the same images as MI6. If the Vospers sent or received a text or an email, he would be able to read the contents. If they dialled a number on their mobile phone, he would have the name, the address and the life history of the person they were calling before they had even been connected. Alex wondered what other secrets were concealed within the car.
Ben started the engine. “It looks like we’re on the way,” he said.
“About time.” Alex had been grateful when Ben had asked for him to join the team but he was tired after his early start and even a bit bored. Watching a very ordinary couple having their breakfast wasn’t going to help him find Jack. And he was still unsure about the whole plan. Without knowing what it was, he was certain that something was wrong and he was worried that it was his fault. What was it that he had missed?
Derek Vosper’s VW overtook them and they set off after it, keeping a good distance behind.
“He’s heading into Oxford,” Ben muttered.
“To the museum?”
“I suppose so.”
“Here’s something I don’t understand,” Alex said as they continued forward at a steady thirty miles an hour. “There’s forty million pounds’ worth of gold statues inside the building. You think he’s going to steal it, using the helicopter. But he’s got to get it all outside first. How’s that going to work?”
“You said he wasn’t working alone.”
It was true. When Alex was at the Villa Siciliana, he had heard Vosper talking about money. “We should have charged more…” It was definitely “we”. Did he have other people working with him inside the museum? “Where’s the helicopter going to land?” he asked. “It’s the middle of Oxford.”
Ben Daniels shrugged. “On the roof?”
They had come in on the London Road. Now they crossed the River Cherwell with the great tower of Magdalen College over to the right. The road was very wide here with trees on either side. Derek Vosper was three cars ahead of them, heading towards a junction with traffic lights. He went through on green but before Ben could reach them, the lights suddenly changed to red. Alex felt a twitch of annoyance. They hadn’t even entered the town and already they might have lost their target. Sitting next to him, though, Ben didn’t seem concerned. He reached out and flicked another switch in the control panel. At once, like a magic trick, the lights changed back to green. The rest of the traffic was confused. Cars that had started moving forward jer
ked to a halt. Other drivers just sat there, unable to work out what had happened. Somebody hooted. Ben swerved round them and steered his way through a gap. At the end of the manoeuvre he was just one car behind Vosper.
“I sent out an electromagnetic pulse,” he said, before Alex could ask what had happened. “It interfered with the control box inside the traffic light. Very useful for getting round cities.”
Typical Smithers! Alex was sorry that the gadget master had left MI6. He would have liked to have seen him again.
They were heading down the High Street with more old and attractive buildings on either side. They passed a church with a homeless person – a very large black woman – sitting on a bench, surrounded by shopping bags. Neither of them saw the woman lean forward and speak into a microphone concealed in her sleeve.
“Target and pursuit vehicle have just gone past, heading for next junction. Vehicle 7K in close pursuit.”
They were forced into a one-way system and followed the VW past more colleges, parks and very neat, pastel-coloured houses. A few students went by on bicycles and Alex wondered what it must be like to study here, in this famous town. His education had been interrupted so frequently that he sometimes wondered if he would even get his A-levels, let alone a place at university. He made a mental decision. When this was all over, when he had found Jack, he would get himself a tutor and work day and night to catch up. Maybe one day it would be him on one of these bicycles, preparing himself for a real life.
“Target has turned into Walton Street, heading south.”
The speaker was a street cleaner in a yellow fluorescent jacket, standing behind a plastic bin and speaking into the microphone concealed in his broom. Ben and Alex passed him a few moments later, then turned left, following Vosper round a corner and past a theatre – the Oxford Playhouse. Alex saw him pull in ahead of them and instinctively looked for somewhere to park. The road was crowded. There seemed to be nowhere for them to stop and wait, apart from a narrow gap between a parked car and a builder’s skip. Ben slowed down and stopped so that the space was right beside him. It was barely five centimetres longer than the car, making it impossible to fit in. Alex saw him flip up the top of the gear handle. There was a tiny joystick inside. Ben glanced out of the window, then used his thumb to slide the joystick to the right. To Alex’s astonishment, the car, instead of moving forwards or backwards, suddenly slid sideways, neatly fitting into the gap.
Never Say Die Page 16
