Ark Angel

by Anthony Horowitz

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

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

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

  “All right.”

  Drevin picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. Alex noticed that his son hadn’t touched his food. Already he could sense the gulf between them. It was obvious with every word that was spoken, every moment that they spent together. Once again he asked himself what he was doing here. And once again he found himself wondering if it had been such a good idea to come.

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

  He was walking down the main corridor on the ground floor. There was a fully equipped gymnasium and an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool at the far end, and Alex was tempted to go for a swim before bed. He wasn’t tired any more. He wanted to dive into the warm water and wash away some of the memories of his first day at Neverglade. He was tempted to ring Jack Starbright. She would have arrived in America by now. He was still sorry she had decided not to come with him, and he was worried he had let her down. Maybe he should have gone with her.

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

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

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

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

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

  DREVIN MOVES TO THE UK

  DREVIN RICHER THAN THE QUEEN

  DREVIN BUILDS £50 MILLION OXFORDSHIRE HOME

  DREVIN BUYS STRATFORD EAST

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

  DREVIN ANNOUNCES ARK ANGEL PLANS

  DREVIN BUYS WATERFRONT HOTEL

  DREVIN MOVES INTO LONDON PROPERTY MARKET

  There was a movement behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

  “And Nelson Mandela.”

  “Ah, yes. A great man. He gave me a signed copy of his book.”

  Silence and suspicion hung in the air between them.

  “Well, I’d better go up,” Alex said.

  “Can you find your way?”

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

  “Goodnight.”

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

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

  Hornchurch Towers.

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

  Either it was an incredible coincidence or Kaspar and his men – the group that called itself Force Three – had deliberately taken him to a block of flats that Drevin had just purchased. They had thought he was Paul Drevin. They had been planning to ransom him for the sum of a million pounds. So why had they taken him to a building that his father owned?

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

  SHORT CIRCUIT

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

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

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

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

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

  One of the younger men was speaking.

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

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

  “Alex Rider.” It was the older man who had spoken. “I think you should take a look at him.” There was an unmarked file on the table in front of him. He leant forward, flipped it open and took out a photograph. He passed it to the man sitting next to him. “This was sent to me last night,” he explained. “This is the kid we’re talking about. The woman with him is his guardian. He has no parents.”

  One after another, the four men and two women examined the photo. It showed Alex Rider and Jack Starbright as they entered the Waterfront Hotel, and had been taken by a concealed camera at ground level.

  “The fact that Alex Rider has gotten himself involved changes everything,” the older man went on. “I’m surprised Drevin hasn’t checked up on him. It could be his first – and his biggest – mistake.”

  One of the women shook her head. “I don’t understand. Who is Alex Rider?”

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

  A mutter of disbelief travelled round the table.

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

  “He’s fourteen. And you’re absolutely right. Trust MI6 to come up with an idea like this. But it’s worked. Alex Rider is the nearest thing the Brits have to a lethal weapon.”

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

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

  “You think he can help us?”

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

  Over three thousand miles away, at Neverglade, Alex had just finished two sets of tennis with Paul Drevin. To his surprise, he’d been thrashed.

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

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

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

  “How long have you had asthma?”

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

  “You can’t help it if you’re ill.”

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

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

  “Aren’t you going to race?” he asked.

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

  “How fast do these karts go?”

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

  “How badly was he hurt?”

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

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

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

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

  “He insisted.”

  “Do your parents really hate each other?”

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

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

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

  “Can’t you go to school?”

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

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

  “Good luck,” Paul whispered.

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

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

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

  “How many circuits do you have in mind?”

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

  Alex’s helmet was blue; Drevin would be wearing black.

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

  “This is your last chance, Alex,” Drevin said. “If you’re nervous, now is the time to back out…”

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

  Drevin was waiting for his answer. Looking at him casually holding his helmet, one thumb hooked into his designer jeans, Alex felt a spurt of annoyance. He was going to race this man. And he was going to win. “I’m not nervous,” he said.