Crocodile Tears (11 page)

Alex and Jack were listening to this in silence. Neither of them liked the way it was going.

“And then, a couple of months ago, I started to hear these strange rumors. They began with an event that took place at the Science Museum last April, when Herod Sayle was about to launch his Stormbreaker computer system. What happened to the Stormbreakers, by the way? There was going to be one in every school in the country, but suddenly they were recalled and that was that. They were never seen again.”

He waited for a response, but Alex simply met his questioning gaze with silence.

“Anyway, back to the Science Museum. It seems that someone, an agent of MI6 Special Operations, parachuted through the roof and took a shot at Sayle. No name. No pack drill. Nothing unusual about that. But then I was talking to a mate in a pub, and he told me that the bloke at the end of the parachute wasn’t a man at all. It was a boy. He swore to me that Special Operations had gone out and recruited a fourteen-year-old and that this was their latest secret weapon.

“Of course, I didn’t believe it at first. But I decided to have a nose around, so I started asking questions. And do you know what? It all turned out to be true. MI6 had taken some poor bloody kid, trained him up with the SAS in the Lake District, and sent him out on active service no less than three times. It took me a while longer to find out the name of this boy wonder. In the SAS, he was known as ‘Cub.’ But I persisted . . . I’m not so bad at this job . . . and in the end I got what I wanted. Alex Rider. That’s you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex said.

“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Bulman,” Jack added. “Your story is ridiculous. Alex is still at school.”

“Alex
is
still at Brookland,” Bulman agreed. “But according to the school secretary, a very nice lady named Miss Bedfordshire, he’s been away an awful lot recently. Don’t blame her, by the way. She didn’t know I was a journalist. I pretended I was calling from the local council. But let me see . . .”

Bulman took out a notebook.

“You were away for the first time last April. You were also away at the end of last year. That would have been at exactly the same time that a teenage boy dropped in on an oil rig in the Timor Sea, fighting alongside the Australian SAS. And who was that kid at Heathrow Airport when Damian Cray had a nasty accident in a jumbo jet? Now there’s a funny thing, isn’t it? An international pop singer one minute—a multimillionaire—and the next minute the papers are announcing that he’s had a heart attack. Well, I suppose I’d have a heart attack too if someone pushed me into the turbine of a plane.” Bulman snapped the notebook shut. “Nobody’s been allowed to write anything about any of this. National security and all the rest of it. But I’ve spoken to people who were at the Science Museum, at Heathrow, and in Australia.” He fixed his eyes on Alex. “And they’ve all described you to a T.”

There was a long silence. Jack’s fish pie had gone cold. Alex was stunned. He had always supposed MI6 would protect him from publicity. He had never expected a journalist to turn up at his own home.

Jack was the first to speak. “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “Alex took a bit of time off last term because he was sick. You can’t possibly think—”

“Please don’t treat me like an idiot, Miss Starbright,” Bulman cut in, and suddenly there was steel in his voice. “I’ve done my homework. I know everything. So why don’t you stop wasting my time and face up to the facts?” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bunch of photographs. Alex winced. He guessed what was coming even before the journalist spread them on the table. And he was right. The pictures had been taken just a few hours before in Brompton Cemetery. They showed Alex in action against the three men who had attacked him, kicking out in one frame, spinning over the gravestone in another.

“When were these taken?” Jack asked. She was obviously shaken.

“This afternoon,” Alex replied. “They followed me from school and came up to me in the cemetery.” He looked accusingly at Bulman. “You set it all up.”

The journalist nodded. “Believe me, Alex. They weren’t going to hurt you. But I had to be one hundred percent certain. I wanted to see you in action for myself. And I have to say, you more than lived up to your reputation. In fact, I’m going to have to pay my people double what I promised them. You put two of them into the hospital! Oh . . . and there’s something else you should know about.”

Bulman produced a miniature tape recorder and pressed a button. At once, Alex heard his own voice, a little tinny and distant, but definitely him.

“All three of them were wired up for sound.” Bulman flicked the tape off. “You knew all about the snakehead, so don’t play innocent with me. By the way, I never found out how Major Yu died. I’d be interested to know how it happened.”

Alex glanced at Jack. They both knew there was no point denying it anymore. “What exactly do you want?” he demanded.

“Well, we could start with that beer I was talking about.”

Jack stiffened. Then she stood up, went to the fridge, and took out a can of beer. She gave it to the journalist without a glass, but he didn’t seem to mind. He cracked it open and drank.

“Thank you, Jack,” he said, all pretense of formality gone. “Look . . . I can tell you’re both a bit thrown by this, and I can understand that, but you’ve got to remember what I said when I first came in. I’m on your side. In fact, I want to help you.”

“Help me . . . how?”

“By telling your story.” Bulman held a hand up before Alex could interrupt. “Wait a minute. Just hear me out.” He had obviously rehearsed what he was about to say. “First of all, I think what’s happened to you is an outrage. It’s more than that. It’s a national scandal. In case you hadn’t noticed, the law says that you can’t join the army until you’re sixteen . . . and only after you’ve taken your school exams. So the idea that MI6 can just stroll along and use a kid like you quite frankly beggars belief. Did you volunteer?”

Alex said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter. We can get to all that later. But the point is this: When this gets out, heads are going to roll. The way I see it, you’re the victim in all this, Alex. Don’t get me wrong. You’re also a hero. If even half what I’ve heard about you is true, then what you’ve done is absolutely amazing. But it should never have been allowed to happen, and I think people are going to be horrified when the story breaks.”

“The story will never break,” Jack muttered. “MI6 won’t let you write it.”

“I’m sure they’ll try to stop me. But this is the twenty-first century, Jack, and it’s not so easy anymore. You think the Americans wanted anyone to know about the torture practices carried out in the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq? Or what about all the British members of Parliament who were trying to hide their crooked expenses? There are no secrets these days. If they stop me from going to the newspapers, I can put it on the Internet, and once the story’s broken, the press will come running. You’ll see. And if we keep it exclusive—if we go to the
Sunday Times
or the
Telegraph
—we’ll clean up.

“But it’s not just about the newspapers. The way I see it, there’s a book in this. It shouldn’t take more than three months to write, and it’ll sell all over the world. Tony Blair was offered six million for his memoirs, which nobody even wants to read. I reckon we could make ten times that amount. Then there’ll be syndication in the world press, exclusive interviews—Oprah Winfrey will pay a million alone—and almost certainly a bidding war for the rights to make a major Hollywood film. You’re going to be the most famous person in the world, Alex. Everyone is going to want a piece of you.”

“And who gets the money?” Jack asked. She already knew the answer.

“We’ll come to an agreement, Jack. Whatever you may think of me, I’m not greedy, and there’s going to be more than enough to go around. Fifty-fifty! Alex will tell me the full story and I’ll write it down. I’ve got all the contacts . . . publishers, lawyers, that sort of thing. In a way, I’ll be Alex’s manager, and I promise you I’ll look after him. Like I said, I’m a fan. And after what he’s been through, he deserves to rake it in. From what I hear, MI6 hasn’t even paid him a regular salary. Now that’s what I call exploitation.”

“Suppose I’m not interested,” Alex said. “Suppose I don’t want the story to be told.”

Bulman drank more of his beer. The chewing gum was still in his mouth. “It’s too late for that now, Alex,” he explained. “It’s going to happen anyway. The story’s out there and someone’s going to write it, even if I don’t. If you sit back and refuse to cooperate, it’ll only make it worse. You’ll have to live with what people say about you and you won’t get a chance to set down your own side of what happened.

“But in a way, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re lucky that you’ve got me in the driver’s seat. You think anyone else would offer you equal partnership? In fact, most other journalists would have just gone ahead and broken the news without even coming here. I can imagine you’re probably a bit confused right now, and I’m sorry I pulled that stunt on you in the cemetery. But believe me, once you get to know me better, we’re going to be friends. I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing.”

Bulman finished his beer and crumpled the can. Alex didn’t know what to say. Too many thoughts were going through his head.

Fortunately, Jack was never at a loss for words. “Thank you for being so frank with us,” she said. “But if you don’t mind, we’d like a little time to think about what you’ve said.”

“Of course. I can understand that. You have my number. I can give you one week.” Bulman stood up. “I reckon it’ll be quite fun, Alex. I’ll come here every evening and we’ll talk for a couple of hours. Then I’ll write it up the next day while you’re at school. You can read it over for accuracy on weekends.” He gestured at the photographs. “You can hang on to those. I’ve got copies.”

He went over to the door, then turned around one last time.

“You’re a real hero, Alex,” he said. “I hope I made that clear from the start. There aren’t many boys your age who actually believe in their country. You’re a patriot and I respect that. I’m really privileged to have met you.” He waved a hand. “Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.” And then he was gone.

Neither Jack nor Alex said anything until they heard the front door close. Then Jack went out to make sure the journalist had really left. Alex stayed where he was. He was in shock. He was trying to think of what it would all mean. He would become world famous. There was no doubt of that. His photograph would be in all the newspapers and magazines, and he would never be able to walk down the street again, not without being pointed out as some sort of curiosity . . . a freak. He would have to leave Brookland, of course. He might even have to leave the UK. He could say good-bye to his home, to his friends, to any chance of a normal life.

He felt a black anger welling up inside him. How could he have allowed this to happen?

Jack came back into the room. “He’s gone,” she said. She sat down at the table. The photographs were still spread out in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me about the cemetery?” she asked.

There was no accusation in her voice, but Alex knew she was upset. “I wanted to,” he said. “But it happened so soon after Scotland that I thought you’d be worried.”

“I’d be more worried if I thought you weren’t telling me when you were in trouble.”

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jack gathered the photographs into a pile and placed them facedown. “He wasn’t quite as clever as he thought,” she said. “He didn’t know everything about you. He’d only found out about three of your missions. And he said you trained in the Lake District. He got that wrong too.”

“He knew enough,” Alex said.

“So what are we going to do?”

“We can’t let him write this story.” Alex felt a hollow in his chest. “He doesn’t care about me. He just wants to use me. He’s going to ruin everything.”

Jack reached out and took his hand. “Don’t worry, Alex. We’ll stop him.”

“How?” Alex thought for a moment, then answered his own question. “We’re going to have to go and see Mr. Blunt.”

It was the only answer. They both knew it. There were no other options.

“I don’t like you going back there.” Jack was only saying what Alex was thinking. “Every time you set foot in that door, something bad comes out of it. I was beginning to think they’d forgotten all about you. This will just remind them . . .”

“I know. But who else is going to stop him, Jack? We need their help.”

“They’ve never helped you before, Alex.”

“This time it would be in their interest. They’re not going to want Harry Bulman writing about them.” Alex pushed his plate away. He had barely eaten, but he no longer had any appetite. “I’ll go after school tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Thanks.”

He was going back. The decision had been made. But as Alex got up and helped clear the table, he wondered if in truth he had ever really left.

8

THE LION’S DEN

THE EVENING SEEMED TO have drawn in early on Liverpool Street. It was only half past four as Jack and Alex came out of the station, but already the streetlamps were on and the first commuters were on their way home, snatching their free newspapers without even breaking pace. There must have been a slight mist in the air, because it seemed to Alex that the offices were glowing unnaturally, the light behind the windows not quite making it to the world outside.

This was where Alex had been shot, and he would never be able to return without experiencing it again. The flower seller that he saw now, standing across the road, the old woman coming out of the shop . . . had they been there that day? It had been five o’clock, almost the same time as now, but during the summer. There was the roof where the sniper must have lain concealed, waiting for Alex to come out. He had sworn that he would never come back here, yet here he was. It was like one of those dreams where you keep on running but always end up in the same place. Trapped.