Crocodile Tears (5 page)

“Have you seen my dad?”

“He was talking to one of the politicians.”

“Probably hoping to get a story. He never stops.”

“Come on, Sabina. Cheer up. This place is meant to be hundreds of years old. Let’s go and explore.”

They pushed their way off the dance floor and headed down the nearest corridor. The stone walls twisted around, and the music and the noise of the party were cut off almost at once. Another corridor led off of it, this one decorated with tapestries and heavy gilt mirrors with glass blackened by age. At the end, they came to a staircase that led to one of the towers, and suddenly they found themselves outside, surrounded by a low brick wall, looking out into the white-spotted blackness that the night had become.

“That’s better,” Sabina said. “I was suffocating in there.”

“Are you cold?” Alex could see the snow falling gently onto her bare neck and shoulders.

“I’ll be all right for a minute.”

“Here.” He took off his jacket and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She slipped it on. There was a pause. “I wish I didn’t have to go back to America,” she said.

The words jolted Alex. He had forgotten momentarily that she would be returning in a few days’ time. She’d enrolled at a school in San Francisco, where the family was living, and it would be a while before they saw each other again. He’d miss her. The thought saddened him. He’d seen so much of Sabina over the Christmas break that he’d gotten used to having her around. “Maybe I could come over for the Easter holidays,” he said.

“Have you been to San Francisco?”

“Once. My uncle took me on a business trip. At least, that’s what he told me. He was probably working with the CIA, spying on someone or something.”

“Do you ever think about Damian Cray?”

“No.” Alex shook his head. The question seemed to have come out of nowhere. Alex glanced at Sabina and was surprised to see that she was looking at him with something close to anger in her eyes.

“I do. All the time. It was horrible. He was crazy. And the way he died! I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.”

Well, that made sense. Sabina had been there at the very end. In fact, she had been at least partly responsible for his sensational death.

“I thought you said you were going to stop all that,” she went on. “Playing at being a spy . . .”

“It was never my choice,” Alex replied. “And anyway, I’ve already told your dad. I’ve stopped. It’s not going to happen again.”

Sabina sighed. “San Francisco’s great,” she said. “Great shops. Great food. Great weather. But I miss England.” She paused. “I miss you.”

“I’ll come visit. I promise.”

“You’d better. . . .”

They had only been outside for a couple of minutes, but in this weather it was more than enough. Alex could see the flakes of snow in Sabina’s hair. “Let’s go downstairs,” he suggested.

“Yeah. Let’s find Dad and get out of here. I’ll go back to the main hall. You look in the other rooms. I want to get back to Mum, and if you ask me, this party sucks. All these men in kilts and not one of them with decent legs . . .”

She handed him back his jacket and the two of them made their way back down the twisting staircase, then split up, searching for Edward Pleasure. Alex watched Sabina hurry down the corridor, then went the other way, past more unsmiling portraits of long-dead ancestors. He wondered why anyone would want to live in a place like this. Maybe Desmond McCain needed somewhere to hide from the world. When he wasn’t trying to save it.

He heard the murmur of voices, the clink of a glass, and a woman laughing. He had come to a set of double doors, opening into what must be the castle’s library, with shelves of leather-bound books that looked at least a hundred years old and which were surely never read. He saw at once that the library had been converted into a casino, with card tables, a spinning roulette wheel, and croupiers in white shirts, waistcoats, and bow ties. As he walked in, the roulette ball tumbled into its slot with a loud clunk, the audience laughed and applauded, and the croupier called out “Eighteen, red, even . . .” and began to sort out the bets. There were almost a hundred people playing the different games, most of them holding drinks and one or two of them puffing at cigars. This must be the only room in the castle where smoking was allowed; a cloud of smoke hung in the air.

Alex didn’t even notice himself entering the room, so spellbound was he. He looked briefly at the cards sliding across the green baize, the fresh bets stacking up in front of the roulette wheel, the men and women, some standing, some sitting, leaning forward, their faces flushed with excitement. The main focus of attention seemed to be at the far end of the room. There was a game in progress with six players—but one of them had just lost. Alex saw him throw his cards down with disgust and get up, leaving an empty chair. At the same time the winning player laughed a deep, rich sound that warmed the room.

Desmond McCain. It had to be him. Alex would have known it even if he hadn’t been the only black man in the room. McCain was lolling back in his chair in front of a great window that had the effect of framing him, putting him at the center of the picture. Almost despite himself, Alex moved forward to get a closer look. He had been thinking about McCain only a few minutes ago. It couldn’t hurt to see what the laird of Kilmore Castle was really like.

McCain was gathering up his cards, which almost disappeared in his oversized hands. He was a huge man with an extraordinary presence that somehow drew Alex to him. He was completely bald, with a round, polished head that had surely never seen a single hair. His eyes were a strange shade of gray—they were dark yet alight with electricity—and his smile was quite simply dazzling. Like everyone else, he was dressed in black tie, but unlike so many of the others, he looked completely comfortable, as if he always dressed this way.

He picked up a glass of whisky, which he drank as if it were a cocktail, using a straw at the side of his mouth, and Alex remembered what Edward Pleasure had told him about the boxing injury. It was true. The man he was looking at had received a blow that had permanently dislocated his jaw. Worse than that, it had been put back together in such a way that it no longer fit properly. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of his head, cut it horizontally in half, and then reattached the two pieces a few millimeters apart. His eyes and nose were no longer exactly over his mouth.

And there was something else. McCain said something, turned his head, and laughed a second time. That was when Alex saw it. He was wearing a silver crucifix, not around his neck but on his ear. It was less than a centimeter high, pinned into the lobe. The jewelry was quite striking set against the intense, dark skin. This was a man who wore his faith openly, who dared you to argue against it.

Alex drew closer. The six of them had been playing a version of poker—Texas Hold ’Em—in which five cards turned faceup are used by everyone at the table. And the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Alex saw this at once from the number of different-colored chips spilling over the table—each one marked $50, $100, even $500. Each chip had been bought at its face value. The casino was using real money. Alex could feel the tension in the air. A scattering of cards, a few minutes’ playing time, and thousands of dollars could be changing hands. At the moment, McCain was clearly in the lead.

There was a whole mountain of chips stacked up in front of him, and only one of the players—a man with a shock of silver hair and a thick, fleshy face—came anywhere close.

McCain looked up and noticed Alex. At once the smile was there, drawing him in, making him feel that the two of them had known each other for years.

“Good evening,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Kilmore Casino. You’re frankly a little young to be gambling, I’d have said. What’s your name?”

“Alex. Alex Rider.”

“And I’m Desmond McCain. We’re just about to play the last hand. Why don’t you join us? It’s all for a good cause, so I think we can turn a blind eye to the age limit.” He gestured at the seat that had just been vacated. Alex could already hear that his broken jaw made it difficult for him to speak. Words beginning with
f
or
r
came out slightly blurred. “The cards have been quite interesting this evening. Let’s see if they have anything more to say before midnight.”

Alex knew he was making a mistake. He was meant to be looking for Edward Pleasure. He had agreed with Sabina. They were going to leave. But it was almost as if McCain had challenged him. If he walked away now, he would look like some little kid who was out of his depth. McCain had won the last hand and was neatly stacking up all the chips, including those of the man who had just left. Alex took his chair and sat down.

“Good!” McCain beamed at him. “Do you know the rules of Texas Hold ’Em?”

Alex nodded.

“We’re taking this very seriously. It costs five hundred dollars to join the table—that money goes straight to First Aid—and minimum bets are fifty dollars. Have you brought your pocket money with you?”

A couple of the other players laughed. Alex ignored them. “I didn’t bring any money at all,” he said.

“Then we’ll waive the entrance fee and I’ll stake you. This is the last hand of the evening, so one thousand dollars ought to be enough.” He slid the chips over. “It makes it more fun with more people. And you never know. You could win enough to buy yourself a new PlayStation!”

With Alex making up the numbers, there would be six players at the table: three men, two women, and him. McCain was at one end with a dark-haired woman—Alex vaguely recognized her as a television reporter—at his side. Then came an elderly man who could have been a retired soldier, sitting rigidly with a straight back and a face fixed in concentration. The silver-haired man came next. He reminded Alex of an accountant or a banker. The circle was completed by a Scottish woman with ginger hair, sipping champagne even though it was clear she’d already had more than enough.

The croupier shuffled the deck and each player was dealt two cards, facedown. These were known as the “hole cards.” Alex had learned the basics of the game, playing with Ian Rider and Jack Starbright at an age when other children were probably reading Dick and Jane. Texas Hold ’Em is largely a game of bluff. You try to make pairs, three of a kind, a full house, and so on. But everything depends on your hidden cards. They may be great. They may be terrible. The secret is to make sure no one guesses either way.

Alex watched as McCain raised the corners of his cards with a thumb and smiled, not even attempting to conceal his pleasure. Of course, it was possible that he was bluffing, but Alex got the sense that this wasn’t a man who was too clever when it came to hiding his emotions. He must have something good under there . . . high cards or a pair. Alex examined his own cards. There was nothing to get excited about, but he kept his own face blank.

“Come on, then,” McCain said.

The croupier was a pale, serious-looking man in his late twenties. He looked uncomfortable having a teenager in the game, but dealt three more cards—“the flop”—faceup on the table. All six players would use these cards to try to create the best hand possible. The first one out was the jack of diamonds, a face card. Then came the seven of hearts. The third card drew a slight murmur from the people gathered around. It was the ace of spades. This was going to be an expensive game.

The betting began.

Alex looked at all the money he had been given, thinking there must be better ways to spend a thousand dollars. McCain started the bidding with two hundred dollars, and the reporter folded at once.

“There’s no point playing against you, Desmond,” she said. She had a thick Scottish accent. “You always win.”

“‘We are all running in the race,’” McCain said. “‘But only one receives the prize.’” He laughed briefly. “That’s Corinthians, chapter nine, verse twenty-four.” He turned to the soldier. “Are you in, Hamilton?”

Hamilton also folded. The accountant, Alex, and the ginger-haired woman all slid their $100 chips in front of them.

Two more cards. Two more bets. By the time the last card had been dealt, this was what Alex was looking at, spread out on the green baize surface:

There were just three players remaining. The other woman had folded, leaving Alex, the accountant, and McCain to fight it out. The fact that the ace of spades had now been joined by a pair of jacks sitting faceup on the table made this an even more extraordinary game. McCain had asked if the cards had anything to say, and it seemed that they were screaming. If this had been a real casino, the betting might have climbed to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even so, it was going to get expensive. Alex had just $700 left, yet the accountant had almost as much as McCain. And, even with such high sums, it was obvious that there was more to this than money. McCain was still relaxed, still smiling—yet he really wanted to win the game. It was his party, his castle, his evening. It was a matter of personal pride.