He went down the second corridor, following the direction of the man with the urn. Now he could hear machinery, a soft, rhythmic clattering. He came to a glass panel set in the wall and looked through it into a darkened room, where a second woman sat in front of a bizarre, complicated machine that seemed to be sorting hundreds of test tubes, rotating them, counting them, labelling them and finally delivering them into her hands.
What was being made at Consanto Enterprises? Chemical weapons, perhaps? And how the hell was he going to get out again? Alex glanced down and noticed his hands, still grubby from his BASE jump. He was dirty and sweaty and he was surprised he hadn’t set off every single alarm in the building. Surrounded by these white panelled walls with the air being sucked in and sterilized, he had become the equivalent of an enormous germ and the monitors should have screamed the moment he came near.
He arrived at another set of doors and was relieved when these slid open to allow him through. Perhaps he might be able to find his way out after all. But these doors led only to another corridor, a little wider than the one he had just left, but equally unpromising. It occurred to him that he was still on the top floor. He had entered from the roof. He needed to find a lift or staircase that would take him down.
Suddenly a door about ten metres away opened and a man appeared, staring at Alex in disbelief.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
Alex registered that the man was talking in English. At the same time, he recognized him: the bald head, the hooked nose and the thick black glasses. He was wearing a white laboratory coat hanging loose over a jacket and tie but the last time Alex had seen him he had been in fancy dress. This was Dr Liebermann, the guest he had seen talking to Mrs Rothman at the party in Venice.
“I …” Alex wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m lost,” he muttered helplessly.
“You can’t come in here! This is a secure area. Who are you?”
“My name’s Tom. My dad works here.”
“What is his name? What is his department?” Dr Liebermann wasn’t going to buy the little boy lost routine. “How did you get here?” he asked.
“My dad brought me. But if you’d like to show me the way out, that’s fine by me.”
“No! I’m calling security. You can come with me!”
Dr Liebermann took a step back towards the room from which he’d come. Alex wasn’t sure what to do. Should he try to run? Once the alarm went off, it would only be a matter of minutes before he was caught. And what then? He had assumed that Consanto would simply hand him over to the police. But if they were hiding something here, if he had seen something secret, maybe he wouldn’t be that fortunate.
Dr Liebermann was reaching out for something and Alex saw an alarm button next to the door.
“It’s all right, Harold. I’ll deal with this.”
The voice came from behind Alex.
Alex spun round and felt his heart sink. It was like a bad dream. Nile, the man who had knocked him unconscious and left him to drown, was standing behind him, a smile on his face, totally relaxed. He too was wearing a white coat. In his case, it hung over jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. He had a grey attaché case in one hand but, as Alex watched, he set it down on the floor beside him.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” Harold Liebermann was puzzled.
“Mrs Rothman sent me back.”
“Why?”
“Well, as you can see, Dr Liebermann, there’s been a very serious breakdown in security. Before she left she asked me to deal with it.”
“Do you know this boy? Who is he?”
“His name is Alex Rider.”
“He said his name was Tom.”
“He’s lying. He’s a spy.”
Alex was caught in the middle of this conversation, one man on either side of him. He was trapped. He felt dazed, and he knew there was nothing he could do. Nile was too fast and too strong for him. He had already proved that.
“What are you going to do?” Dr Liebermann demanded. He sounded peeved, as if neither Alex nor Nile had any right to be there.
“I just told you, Harold. We can’t have security problems. I’m going to deal with it.”
Nile reached under his coat and produced one of the most lethal-looking weapons Alex had ever seen. It was a samurai sword, very slightly curving, with an ivory hilt and a flat, razor-sharp blade. But it was half sized – somewhere between a sword and a dagger. Nile held it for a moment in his hand, obviously enjoying the fine balance, then raised it to the height of his shoulder. Now he could throw it or slash with it. Either way, Alex knew instantly, he was facing a master. He had perhaps seconds to live.
“You can’t kill him here!” Dr Liebermann exclaimed in exasperation. “You’ll get blood everywhere!”
“Don’t worry, Harold,” Nile replied. “This is going through the neck and into the brain. There’ll be very little blood.”
Alex crouched down, preparing to dodge, knowing that he wouldn’t have a chance. Nile was still smiling, obviously enjoying himself.
He threw the sword.
There was a single movement. Alex hadn’t even seen Nile take aim but the blade was already a blur, flashing down the length of the passageway. It passed over Alex’s shoulder. Had Nile missed? No. That was impossible. He suddenly realized that Nile hadn’t been aiming at him.
Alex turned and saw Dr Liebermann already dead, still standing, a look of surprise on his face. He had managed to bring one hand up so that it was lightly holding the blade of the sword now sticking out of his neck. He pitched forward and lay motionless.
“Straight into the brain,” Nile muttered. “Just like I said.”
As Alex watched, stunned, Nile walked past him and crouched down beside Dr Liebermann. He pulled the sword free, used the dead man’s tie to wipe it clean, and returned it to its sheath, which hung from his waist beneath his lab coat. He looked up.
“Hello, Alex,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the last person I expected to see here. Mrs Rothman will be pleased.”
“You don’t want to kill me?” Alex murmured. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened. “Not at all.”
Nile stood up and went back to the attaché case and opened it. Alex was finding it very difficult to keep up with what was happening. Inside the case, he saw a keyboard, a small computer screen, two square packets and a series of wires. Nile knelt down and tapped rapidly on the keyboard. A series of codes appeared on the screen: black and white like the fingers that were typing them. He continued talking as he typed.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Alex. I have to say, I’m terribly sorry for what happened at the Widow’s Palace. I didn’t realize who you were – John Rider’s son. I think it’s brilliant how you managed to escape, by the way. I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d had to go in and fish you out with a boathook.” He finished typing, pressed ENTER, then closed the lid of the case. “But we can’t talk now. Mrs Rothman is just along the coast, in Positano. She’s dying to meet you. So let’s go.”
“Why did you kill Dr Liebermann?” Alex asked.
“Because Mrs Rothman ordered me to.” Nile straightened up. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions, but I can’t answer them right now. I’ve just set a bomb to blow this place to smithereens in” – he glanced at his watch – “ninety-two seconds. So I don’t think we have time for a chat.”
He slid the case near Dr Liebermann’s head, checked the dead man one last time, then walked away. Alex followed him. What else could he do? Nile came to a set of doors and tapped in a code. The doors opened and they went through. They were moving quickly. Nile had the athlete’s ability to cover a lot of ground with no apparent effort at all. Here was the staircase that Alex had been looking for. They went down three floors and came to another door. Nile punched in a number and suddenly they were in the open air. There was a car – a two-seater Alfa Romeo Spider – waiting outside with the roof down.
“Hop in!” Nile said. From the way he was talking, he and Alex could have just come from the cinema and been on their way home.
Alex got in and they drove off. How much time had passed since Nile had set the bomb? It was now completely dark outside. The sun had finally disappeared. They followed a tarmac drive to the main checkpoint. Nile smiled at the guard.
“Grazie. E’stato bello verdervi …”
Thank you. It was good to see you. Alex already knew from their first meeting that Nile spoke Italian. The guard nodded and raised the barrier.
Nile gunned the accelerator and the car shot off smoothly. Alex twisted round in his seat. A few seconds later there was an enormous explosion. It was as if a fist of orange flame had decided to punch its way out of the main complex. Windows shattered. Smoke and fire rushed out. Thousands of pieces of glass and steel, a deadly rainfall, showered down. Alarms – shrill and deafening – erupted. A huge bite had been taken out of the side and the roof of the building. Alex had seen the size of the bomb. It was hard to believe that it could have caused so much damage.
Nile glanced in the mirror, examining his handiwork. He tutted.
“These industrial accidents,” he murmured. “You can never tell when one is going to happen next.”
He steered the Alfa Spider along the coastal road, already doing eighty miles an hour. Behind him Consanto Enterprises burned, the flames leaping up and reflecting in the dark and silent sea.
DESIGNER LABELS
Alex stood on the balcony and gazed at the sweeping view of the town of Positano and the black water of the Mediterranean beyond. Two hours had passed since sunset but the warmth lingered in the air. He was dressed in a towelling robe, his hair still wet from the power shower with its jets of steaming hot water blasting him from all directions. There was a glass of fresh lime juice and ice on the table next to him. From the moment he had met Nile for the second time, he had thought he was in a dream. Now that dream seemed to have taken him in a new and very strange direction.
The hotel, first. It was called The Sirenuse and, as Nile had been eager to tell him, it was one of the most luxurious in the whole of southern Italy. Alex’s room was huge and didn’t look like a hotel room at all – more like a guest suite in an Italian palace. The bed was king-sized with pure white Egyptian cotton sheets. He had his own desk, a thirty-six-inch TV with video and DVD players, a sprawling leather sofa and, on the other side of the huge windows, his own private terrace. And the bathroom! As well as the power shower, there was a bath big enough for a football team, together with a spa bath. Everything was marble, and decorated with hand-crafted tiles. The millionaire suite. Alex shuddered to think how much it must cost a night.
Nile had driven him down here from what was left of Consanto Enterprises. Neither of them had spoken on the short journey. There were a hundred things Alex wanted to ask Nile, but the rush of wind and the roar of the Alfa Spider’s 162kW quad camshaft V6 engine made conversation impossible. Anyway, Alex got the impression that Nile wasn’t the one with the answers. It had only taken them twenty minutes, following the coastline, and suddenly they were there, parked in front of a hotel that was deceptively small and ordinary – from the outside.
While Alex signed in, Nile made a quick call on his mobile.
“Mrs Rothman is absolutely thrilled you’re here,” he said. “She’s going to have dinner with you at nine thirty. She’s asked me to send up some clothes.” He weighed Alex up. “I’ve got a good eye for size. Do you have any particular likes or dislikes when it comes to style?”
Alex shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“Good. The bellboy will take you up to your room. I’m so glad I ran into you, Alex. I know you and I are going to be friends. Enjoy your dinner. The food here is world class.”
He went back to the car and drove away.
I know you and I are going to be friends. Alex shook his head in disbelief. Just two nights ago the same man had knocked him unconscious and left him in a subterranean cell to drown.
He was shaken out of these thoughts by the arrival of an elderly man in a uniform, who gestured and then led Alex up to his room on the second floor, taking him along corridors filled with antiques and fine art. At last he was left on his own. He checked at once. The door was unlocked. The two phones on the desk had dialling tones. He could presumably call anyone, anywhere in the world … and that included the police. He had, after all, just witnessed the destruction of a large part of Consanto Enterprises and the murder of Harold Liebermann. But Nile obviously trusted him to stay silent, at least until he had met Mrs Rothman. He could also walk out if he wanted to. Simply disappear. But again, they assumed he would want to stay. It was all very puzzling.
Alex sipped his drink and considered the view.
It was a beautiful night, the sky stretching to eternity with thousands of brilliant stars. He could hear the waves rolling in, far below. The town of Positano was built on a steep hillside, shops, restaurants, houses and flats all piled up on top of one another, with a series of interlocking alleyways and a single, narrow street zigzagging all the way down to the horseshoe bay below. There were lights everywhere. The holiday season was drawing to a close but the place was still crowded with people determined to enjoy the summer right to the end.
There was a knock at the door. Alex went back into the room and walked across the shining marble floor. A waiter in a white jacket and a black bow tie had appeared. “Your clothes, sir,” he said. He handed Alex a case. “Mr Nile suggested the suit for tonight,” he added as he turned to leave.
Alex opened the case. It was full of clothes, all of them expensive, all of them brand new. The suit was on the top. He took it out and laid it on the bed. It was charcoal grey, silk, with a Miu Miu label. There was a white shirt to go with it: Armani. Underneath, he found a slim leather box. He opened it and gasped. They had even provided him with a new watch, a Baume & Mercier with a polished steel bracelet. He lifted it out and weighed it in his hand. It must have cost hundreds of pounds. First the room, now all this! He was certainly having money thrown at him – and like the water in the power shower, it was coming from all directions.
He thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure what he was letting himself in for but he might as well play along with it for the time being. It was almost nine thirty and he was ravenous. He got dressed and examined himself in the mirror. The suit was in the classic mod style, with small lapels that barely came down to his chest, and tightly fitted trousers. The tie was dark blue, narrow and straight. Mrs Rothman had also provided him with black suede shoes from D&G. It was quite an outfit. Alex barely recognized himself.
At exactly nine thirty he entered the restaurant on the lower ground floor. The hotel, he now realized, was built on the side of the hill, so it was much bigger than it seemed, with much of it on levels below the entrance and reception. He found himself in a long arched room with tables spilling out onto another long terrace. It was lit by hundreds of tiny candles in glass chandeliers. The place was crowded. Waiters were hurrying from table to table and the room was filled with the clatter of knives against plates and the low murmur of conversation.
Mrs Rothman had the best table, in the middle of the terrace, with views over Positano and out to sea. She was sitting on her own with a glass of champagne, waiting for him. She wore a low-cut black dress set off by a simple diamond necklace. She saw him, smiled and waved. Alex walked over to her, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the suit. Most of the other diners seemed to be casually dressed. He wished now that he hadn’t put on the tie.
“Alex, you look wonderful.” She ran her dark eyes over him. “The suit fits you perfectly. It’s Miu Miu, isn’t it? I love the style. Please, sit down.”
Alex took his place at the table. He wondered what anyone watching might think. A mother and her son out for the evening? He felt like an extra in a film – and he was beginning to wish someone would show him the script.
“It’s been a while since I ate dinner wi
th my own toy boy. Will you have some champagne?”
“No, thank you.”
“What then?”
A waiter had appeared out of nowhere and was hovering by Alex, ready to take his order.
“I’ll have an orange juice, please. Freshly squeezed. With ice.”
The waiter bowed and went to fetch it. Alex waited for Mrs Rothman to speak. He was playing the game her way, and she was the one with the rules.
“The food here is absolutely wonderful,” she informed him. “Some of the best cooking in Italy – and, of course, Italian is the best food in the world. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already ordered for you. If there’s anything you don’t like, you can send it back.”
“That’s fine.”
Mrs Rothman lifted her glass. Alex could see the tiny bubbles rising to the surface in the honey-coloured liquid. “I shall drink to your health,” she announced. “But first you have to say you’ve forgiven me. What happened to you at the Widow’s Palace was monstrous. I feel totally embarrassed.”
“You mean, trying to kill me,” Alex said.
“My dear Alex! You came to my party without an invitation. You crept round the house and sneaked into my study. You mentioned a name which should have got you killed instantly, and you’re really very lucky that Nile decided to drown you rather than break your neck. So although what happened was very unfortunate, you can hardly say it was unprovoked. Of course, it would all have been different if we’d known who you were.”
“I told Nile my name.”
“It obviously didn’t register with him, and he didn’t mention it to me until the morning afterwards. I was so shocked when I heard. I couldn’t believe it. Alex Rider, the son of John Rider, in my house – and he’d been locked in that place and left to…” She shuddered and briefly closed her eyes. “We had to wait for the water to go down before we could open the door. I was sick with worry. I thought we were going to be too late. And then. We looked inside and there was nobody there. You’d done a Houdini and disappeared. I assume you swam down the old well?”
Scorpia Page 8
