Crocodile Tears (10 page)

Perhaps it was thinking of his uncle that drove Alex to take a shortcut across Brompton Cemetery. This was where Ian Rider had been buried after the so-called car accident, the one that began with gunshots being fired into his uncle’s car. It was at the funeral that Alex had first begun to learn the truth about his uncle, that he had never actually worked in a bank. He had instead lived and died as a spy. Alex often walked past the gravestone, but today, acting on impulse, he left the main path and went over to it. He looked at the name, carved in a square slab of gray marble, with the dates below it and a single line: A GOOD MAN TAKEN BEFORE HIS TIME. Well, that was one way to put it. Somebody had left flowers, quite recently. Roses. The petals were dead and withered, but there was still a little color in the leaves. Who had been here? Jack? And if it was her, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him?

Alex bent down and swept the plants to one side. He thought about the man who had looked after him all his life but who had been gone now for almost a year. He could still picture Ian Rider—halfway up a mountain, on a diving boat in full scuba gear, or racing on Jet Skis over the South China Sea. He had taken Alex all over the world, always challenging him, pushing him to the limit. Adventure vacations, he had called them. And how could Alex have known that all that time he was being trained, prepared to follow in his uncle’s footsteps?

Footsteps that had brought him here.

“Alex Rider?”

They must have crept up behind him while he was crouching beside the grave, and even without looking up, Alex knew that somehow he was in trouble. There was something about the voice—soft and threatening, with a slight foreign inflection.

Slowly, Alex turned and looked up. Sure enough, there were three men standing at the foot of the grave, all of them Chinese, dressed in jeans and loose-fitting jackets. They were completely relaxed, as if they had strolled into the cemetery and come upon him by chance. But Alex knew that wasn’t the case. They might have followed him from school. They might have known that he sometimes took this shortcut and waited for him. But there was nothing chance about this meeting. They were here for one single purpose.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “My name is James Hale. You’ve got the wrong person.”

Even as he spoke, he was glancing left and right. There was nobody else around. No passing vicar, no other kids from Brookland on their way home. Apart from his backpack, Alex had nothing with him. He knew he wasn’t going to find any weapons in a cemetery, but there was always a chance that a gravedigger had been careless enough to leave behind a spade.

He was out of luck. There was an open grave, waiting for its occupant, about a dozen headstones away. But there was no sign of any tools. What else? A small stone angel stood above him, a monument to “a great dad, a much-missed granddad and a wonderful husband.” Why did no one ever have anything bad to say about people who had died?

The nearest man smiled unpleasantly, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “You are Alex Rider,” he insisted. “This is the grave of your uncle.”

“You’re wrong. He used to live next door . . .”

Just for a moment, the three men hesitated, wondering if, after all, they had made a mistake. But then the leader made up his mind. “You will come with us,” he said.

“Why? Where do you want to take me?”

“No more questions. Just come!”

Alex remained where he was, crouching beside the gravestone. He wondered what would happen next. He quickly found out. The man who had spoken made a signal, and suddenly all three of them were armed. The knives had appeared in their hands like some unpleasant magic trick. Alex examined the silver blades, one in front of him, one on either side. They were notched, designed to leave the most vicious wounds. Somehow the men had gotten into position, surrounding Alex, without seeming to move. They were standing in combat stance, the weight spread evenly over their feet, each knife exactly the same distance from the ground. These were professional killers. They had done this many times before.

“What do you want?” Alex demanded, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I don’t have any money.”

“We don’t want money.” One of the other men spat into the grass. He had furious eyes, lips twisted into a permanent sneer.

“Major Winston Yu sent us to see you,” the leader said.

Winston Yu! So that was what this was about. Somehow the head of the snakehead that Alex had helped break up in Thailand had reached out from whatever hell he had been sent to. He had left instructions for revenge.

“Major Yu is dead,” Alex said.

“You killed him.”

“No. The last time I saw him, he was running away. If he’s dead, that’s the best thing that ever happened to him. But it had nothing to do with me.”

“You’re lying.”

“What difference does it make? He’s finished. The whole thing’s over. Coming after me isn’t going to bring him back.”

“You must pay for what you did.”

They were about to make their move. Alex could almost see the knives jabbing forward, striking at his stomach and chest. They would leave him in the cemetery, bleeding to death, and the next funeral that took place here would be his. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He acted first. He was still holding the dead roses that he had been clearing from his uncle’s grave. He could feel the sharp thorns digging into the palm of his hand.

Swinging his arm up, Alex threw them, scattering them across the first man’s face. For just a second, the man was blinded, in pain, the thorns cutting into him. A single dead rose clutched at the skin under one of his eyes. Alex sprang up, then followed through with a powerful back kick, the ball of his foot ramming into the man’s stomach. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he crumpled, gasping for breath. That left just two.

They were already lunging toward him. Alex had to get out of their range, and there was only one way. He threw himself sideways, one hand down, cartwheeling over Ian Rider’s gravestone. He needed a weapon and he snatched up the only one he could see—the stone angel from the grave next to his uncle’s. He hoped the much-missed granddad wouldn’t mind. The angel was heavy. Alex swung it around and hurled it at one of the men. It hit him in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured over the man’s lips and he reeled away, howling.

The last of the three men swore in Chinese and launched himself toward Alex, the knife swinging in great arcs, cutting at the air. Alex fled. With his attacker getting closer all the time, he ran over six of the graves, then leapt over the open trench. But the moment he landed, he stopped and turned around. The man had also jumped. He had been taken completely by surprise. He had expected Alex to keep running. Instead, he was in midair while Alex had both feet firmly planted on the ground. There was nothing he could do as Alex lashed out with a front jab—the
kizami-zuki
he had been taught in karate—leaning with all his weight forward for maximum reach.

Alex’s fist caught the man in the throat. The man’s eyes went white and he plunged down like a stone, disappearing into the grave. He hit the mud at the bottom and lay still.

The first man was now on his knees, wheezing, barely able to breathe. The second was still bleeding. Alex alone was unhurt. So what should he do now? Call the police on his mobile? No. The last thing he needed right now was a load of tricky questions.

He went back to Ian Rider’s grave, snatched up his backpack, and walked away. But even as he went, there were questions of his own nagging at his mind. If Major Yu had given orders for him to be killed, why hadn’t they just gone ahead and done it? They could have tiptoed up behind him and stabbed him. Why had they felt the need to announce themselves? And for that matter, why had none of them been carrying a gun? Wouldn’t that have made the whole thing easier?

As Alex left the cemetery, he didn’t see the fourth man, fifty yards away, hiding behind one of the Victorian mausoleums. This was an Englishman or an American, with fair hair hanging down to his neck, smiling to himself as he watched Alex through the 135mm telephoto lens that was attached to the Nikon D3 digital camera he was holding. He had taken more than a hundred shots of the encounter, clicking away at a rate of nine frames per second, but he took a few more, just for good measure.
Click
. Alex dusting himself down.
Click
. Alex turning away.
Click
. Alex heading for the main gate.

He had it all recorded. It was perfect. The man had been chewing gum, but now he took it out of his mouth, rolled it into a ball, and pressed it against one of the grave-stones.
Click
. One final shot of Alex leaving the cemetery and the whole thing was in the bag.

7

BAD NEWS

ALEX WAS HAVING DINNER with Jack when the doorbell rang.

“Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.

“No.”

The doorbell sounded again, longer and more insistent. This time Jack put down her knife and fork and frowned. “I’ll get it,” she said. “But why do they have to come at this time of night?”

It was half past seven in the evening. Alex had come home, changed, done his homework, and had a shower. He was sitting at the kitchen table of the Chelsea home that had once belonged to Ian Rider but which he and Jack now shared. He was wearing jeans and an old sweat-shirt. His hair was still damp and his feet were bare. Jack liked to call herself a ten-minute cook because that was the maximum amount of time she spent preparing a meal. Tonight she had served a homemade fish pie, although Alex suspected she had cheated on the time.

He was feeling guilty. He hadn’t told her yet about the fight at the cemetery, partly because he was waiting for the right moment, partly because he knew what she would say. There was no way that he could keep something like that from her, but he wasn’t keen on ruining the evening.

He heard voices out in the hall—a man speaking, polite but insistent. Jack arguing. There was a pause, then Jack returned on her own. Alex could see at once that she was concerned.

“There’s someone here who wants to see you,” she said.

“Who is it?”

“He says his name is Harry Bulman.”

Alex shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Then let me introduce myself . . .”

A man had appeared at the kitchen door behind Jack, strolling into the room, looking around him at the same time. He was in his thirties, with long, blond hair falling in a tangle, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He was handsome—but not quite as handsome as he thought. There was an arrogance about him that presented itself in every move he made, even the way he had followed Jack in. He was dressed nicely in gray slacks, a black blazer, and a white shirt open at the collar. He had a gold chain around his neck and a gold signet ring with the letters
HB
on his third finger. To Alex, it was as if he had stepped out of an advertisement for clothes . . . or perhaps for toothpaste. This was a man who enjoyed being himself and wanted to sell himself to the world.

Jack spun around. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”.

“Please. Don’t ask me to wait outside. If you want the truth, I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a long time.” He looked past Jack. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Alex.”

Alex slid his food aside. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“You don’t need to sit down,” Jack growled. “You’re not staying long.”

“You might change your mind when you hear what I’ve got to say.” The man sat down anyway. He was at the head of the table, opposite Alex. “My name is Harry Bulman,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve come by so late, but I know you’re at school, Alex—at Brookland—and I wanted to catch you while you were both in.”

“What do you want?” Alex asked.

“Well, right now, I could murder a beer if there’s one going.” Nobody moved. “Okay. I’ll get to the point. I’ve come here to speak to you, Alex. As a matter of fact, although you won’t believe it, I want to help you. I hope the two of us are going to be seeing quite a bit of each other. I think we’re going to become friends.”

“I don’t need any help,” Alex said.

Bulman smiled. His teeth were as white as his shirt. “You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say.”

“Then why don’t you get on with it?” Jack cut in. “Because we were having supper and we didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Smells good.” Bulman drew a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. Jack came over and sat next to Alex. They both read it. There was the name—Harry Bulman—and beneath it his job description: Freelance Journalist. There was also an address in north London and a telephone number.

“You work for the press,” Jack said.

“The
Mirror,
the
Express,
the
Star
. . .” Bulman nodded. “If you ask around, you’ll find I’m fairly well known.”

“What are you doing here?” Alex asked. “You said you could help me. I don’t need a journalist.”

“As a matter of fact, you do.” Bulman took out a packet of chewing gum. “Do you mind?” he asked. “I’ve given up smoking and I find this helps.” He unwrapped a piece and curled it into his mouth. He looked around again. “This is a nice place you’ve got here.”

“Please get on with it, Mr. Bulman.”

Alex could hear that Jack was running out of patience. But the journalist had already outmaneuvered them twice. He had simply walked in here, and for the moment neither of them was asking him to leave.

“All right. Let’s cut to the chase.” Bulman rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You might not know this, but many journalists have a specialist area. It might be food, sports, politics . . . whatever. My specialty is intelligence. I spent six years in the army—I was in the commandos—and I hung on to my old contacts when I left. I always figured they might come in handy. I was actually thinking about writing a book, but that didn’t work out, so I started touting myself around Fleet Street. MI5, MI6, CIA . . . any bits of gossip I managed to pick up, I’d string together as a story. It wasn’t going to make me rich. But I did okay.”