Eagle Strike (13 page)

There was a bridge ahead of him, an old-fashioned construction of wood and metal with thick cables and counterweights. It crossed a much wider canal and there was a single barge approaching it. Alex was puzzled. The bridge was far too low to allow the barge to pass. Then a red traffic light blinked on; the bridge began to lift.

Alex glanced back. The Smart car was about fifty metres behind him and this time there was nowhere to hide, nowhere else to go. He looked ahead of him. If he could just get to the other side of this canal, he really would be able to disappear. Nobody would be able to follow – at least not until the bridge had come down again. But it looked as if he was already too late. The bridge had split in half, both sections rising at the same speed, the gap over the water widening with every second.

The Smart car was accelerating.

Alex had no choice.

Feeling the pain, and knowing that he had reached the last reserves of his strength, Alex pushed down and the bike picked up speed. The car’s engine was louder now, howling in his ears, but he didn’t dare look back again. All his energy was focused on the rapidly rising bridge.

He hit the wooden surface when it was at a forty-five degree slant. Insanely he found himself thinking of some long-forgotten maths lesson at school. A right-angled triangle. He could see it clearly on the board. And he was cycling up its side!

He wasn’t going to make it. Every time he pushed down on the pedals it was a little harder, and he was barely halfway up the slope. He could see the gap – huge now – and the dark, cold water below. The car was right behind him. It was so close he could hear nothing apart from its engine, and the smell of petrol filled his nostrils.

He pedalled one last time – and at the same moment pressed the red button in the bell: the ejector seat. There was a soft explosion right below him. The saddle had rocketed off the bike, propelled by compressed air or some sort of ingenious hydraulic system. Alex shot into the air, over his side of the bridge, over the gap and then down onto the other side, rolling over and over as he tumbled all the way down. As he spun round, he saw the Smart car. Incredibly, it had tried to follow him. It was suspended in mid-air between the two halves of the bridge. He could see the driver’s face, the open eyes, the gritted teeth. Then the car plunged down. There was a great splash and it sank at once beneath the black surface of the canal.

Alex got painfully to his feet. The saddle was lying next to him and he picked it up. There was a message underneath. He wouldn’t have been able to read it while the saddle was attached to the frame.
If you can read this, you owe me a new bike
.

Smithers had a warped sense of humour. Carrying the saddle, Alex began to limp back to the hotel. He was too tired to smile.

EMERGENCY MEASURES

T
he Saskia Hotel was an old building that had somehow managed to elbow its way between a converted warehouse and a block of flats. There were just five bedrooms, stacked on top of each other like a house of cards, each one with a view of the canal. The flower market was a short walk away and even at night the air smelt sweet. Jack had chosen it because it was small and out of the way. Somewhere, she hoped, where they wouldn’t be noticed.

When Alex opened his eyes at eight the following morning, he found himself lying on a bed in a small, irregularly shaped room on the top floor, built into the roof. He hadn’t folded the shutters and sunlight was streaming in through the open window. Slowly he sat up, his body already complaining about the treatment it had received the night before. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair but he couldn’t remember putting them there. He looked over to the side and saw a note taped to the mirror.

Breakfast served until ten.
Hope you can make it downstairs! xxx

He smiled, recognizing Jack’s handwriting.

There was a tiny bathroom, hardly bigger than a cupboard, leading off the main room and Alex went in and washed. He cleaned his teeth, thankful for the taste of the peppermint. Even nearly ten hours later he hadn’t quite forgotten the taste of the snake’s blood. As he got dressed, he thought back to the night before when he had finally limped into the reception area to discover Jack waiting for him in one of the antique chairs. He hadn’t thought he had been too badly hurt but the look on her face had told him differently. She had ordered sandwiches and hot chocolate from the puzzled receptionist, then led him to the tiny lift that carried them up five floors. Jack hadn’t asked any questions and Alex had been grateful. He was too tired to explain, too tired to do anything.

Jack had made him take a shower, and by the time he had come out she had somehow managed to get her hands on a pile of plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. Alex was sure he needed none of them and he was relieved when they were interrupted by the arrival of room service. He had thought he would be too tired to eat, but suddenly he found that he was ravenously hungry and wolfed down the lot while Jack watched. At last he had stretched out on the bed.

He was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

Now he finished dressing, checked his bruises in the mirror, and went out. He took the creaking lift all the way down to a vaulted, low-ceilinged cellar underneath the reception area. This was where breakfast was served. It was a Dutch breakfast of cold meats, cheeses and bread rolls, served with coffee. Alex saw Jack sitting at a table on her own in a corner. He went over and joined her.

“Hi, Alex,” she said. She was obviously relieved to see him looking more like his old self. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a log.” He sat down. “Do you want me to tell you what happened last night?”

“Not yet. I have a feeling it’ll put me off my breakfast.”

They ate, and then he told her everything that had happened from the moment he had entered Cray’s compound on the side of the truck. When he finished, there was a long silence. Jack’s last cup of coffee had gone cold.

“Damian Cray is a maniac!” she exclaimed. “I’ll tell you one thing, Alex, I’m never going to buy another of his CDs!” She sipped her coffee, grimaced and put the cup down. “But I still don’t get it,” she said. “What do you think he’s doing, for heaven’s sake? I mean … Cray is a national hero. He sang at Princess Diana’s wedding!”

“It was her birthday,” Alex corrected her.

“And he’s given zillions to charity. I went to one of his concerts once. Every penny he made went to Save the Children. Or maybe I got the name wrong; maybe it was Beat Up and Try to Kill the Children! Just what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes.”

“I don’t even want to think about it. I’m just relieved you managed to get out of there alive. And I hate myself for letting you go in alone.” She thought for a moment. “It seems to me you’ve done your bit,” she went on. “Now you have to go back to MI6 and tell them what you know. You can take them the flash drive. This time they’ll have to believe you.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Alex said. “But first of all we have to get out of Amsterdam. And we’re going to have to be careful. Cray is bound to have people at the station. And at the airport for that matter.”

Jack nodded. “We’ll take a bus,” she said. “We can go to Rotterdam or Antwerp. Maybe we can get a plane from there.”

They had finished their breakfast. Now they packed, paid and left the hotel. Jack used cash. She was afraid that with all his resources, Cray might be able to track a credit card. They picked up a taxi at the flower market and took it out to the suburbs, where they caught a local bus. Alex realized it was going to be a long journey home, and that worried him. Twelve hours had passed since he had heard Cray announce that Eagle Strike would take place in two days’ time. It was already the middle of the morning.

Less than thirty-six hours remained.

Damian Cray had woken early and was sitting up in a four-poster bed with mauve silk sheets and at least a dozen pillows. There was a tray in front of him, brought in by his personal maid along with the morning newspapers, specially flown over from England. He was eating his usual breakfast of organic porridge, Mexican honey (made by his own bees), soya milk and cranberries. It was well known that Cray was a vegetarian. At different times he had campaigned against battery farming, the transportation of live animals and the importation of goose liver pâté. This morning he had no appetite but he ate anyway. He had a personal dietitian who never let him forget it when he missed breakfast.

He was still eating when there was a knock at the door and Yassen Gregorovich came into the room.

“Well?” Cray demanded. It never bothered him having people in his bedroom. He had composed some of his best songs in bed.

“I’ve done what you said. I have men at Amsterdam Central, Amsterdam Zuid, Lelylaan, De Vlugtlaan … all the local stations. There are also men at Schiphol Airport and I’m covering the ports. But I don’t think Alex Rider will turn up at any of them.”

“Then where is he?”

“If I were him, I’d head for Brussels or Paris. I have contacts in the police and I’ve got them looking out for him. If anybody sees him, we’ll hear about it. But my guess is that we won’t find him until he returns to England. He’ll go straight to MI6 and the flash drive will go with him.”

Cray threw down his spoon. “You seem very unconcerned about it all,” he remarked.

Yassen said nothing.

“I have to say, I’m very disappointed in you, Mr Gregorovich. When I was setting up this operation, I was told you were the best. I was told you never made mistakes.” There was still no answer. Cray scowled. “I was paying you a great deal of money. Well, you can forget that now. It’s finished. It’s all over. Eagle Strike isn’t going to happen. And what about me? MI6 are bound to find out about all this and if they come after me…” His voice cracked. “This was meant to be my moment of glory. This was my life’s work. Now it’s been destroyed, and it’s all thanks to you!”

“It’s not finished,” Yassen said. His voice hadn’t changed, but there was an icy quality to it which might have warned Cray that once again he had come perilously close to a sudden and unexpected death. The Russian looked down at the little man, propped up on his pillows in the bed. “But we have to take emergency measures. I have people in England. I have given them instructions. You will have the flash drive returned to you in time.”

“How are you going to manage that?” Cray asked. He didn’t sound convinced.

“I have been considering the situation. All along I have believed that Alex has been acting on his own. That it was chance that brought him to us.”

“He was staying at that house in the South of France.”

“Yes.”

“So how do you explain it?”

“Ask yourself this question. Why was Alex so upset by what happened to the journalist? It was none of his business. But he was angry. He risked his life coming onto the boat, the
Fer de Lance
. The answer is obvious. The friend he was staying with was a girl.”

“A girlfriend?” Cray smiled sarcastically.

“He must obviously have feelings for her. That is what set him on our trail.”

“And do you think this girl…?” Cray could see what the Russian was thinking, and suddenly the future didn’t seem so bleak after all. He sank back into the pillows. The breakfast tray rose and fell in front of him.

“What’s her name?” Cray asked.

“Sabina Pleasure,” Yassen said.

*    *    *

Sabina had always hated hospitals and everything about the Whitchurch reminded her why.

It was huge. You could imagine walking through the revolving doors and never coming out again. You might die; you might simply be swallowed up by the system. It would make no difference. Everything about the building was impersonal, as if it had been specially designed to make the patients feel like factory products. Doctors and nurses were coming in and out, looking exhausted and defeated. Even being close to the place filled Sabina with a sense of dread.

The Whitchurch was a brand-new hospital in south London. Sabina’s mother had brought her here. The two of them were in the car park, sitting together in Liz Pleasure’s VW Golf.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” her mother was saying.

“No. I’ll be all right.”

“He is the same, Sabina. You have to know that. He’s been hurt. You may be shocked by how he looks. But underneath it all he’s still the same.”

“Does he want to see me?”

“Of course he does. He’s been looking forward to it. Just don’t stay too long. He gets tired…”

It was the first time Sabina had visited her father since he had been airlifted back from France. He hadn’t been strong enough to see her until today and, she realized, the same was true of her. In a way, she had been dreading this. She had wondered what it would be like seeing him. He was badly burnt. He was still unable to walk. But in her dreams he was the same old dad. She had a photograph of him beside her bed and every night, before she went to sleep, she saw him as he had always been: shaggy and bookish but always healthy and smiling. She knew she would have to start facing reality the moment she walked into his room.

Sabina took a deep breath. She got out of the car and walked across the car park, past Accident and Emergency and into the hospital. The doors revolved and she found herself sucked into a reception area that was at once too busy and too brightly lit. Sabina couldn’t believe how crowded and noisy it was – more like the inside of a shopping mall than a hospital. There were indeed a couple of shops, one selling flowers, and next to it a café and delicatessen where people could buy sandwiches and snacks to carry up to the friends and relatives they were visiting. Signs pointed in every direction. Cardiology. Paediatrics. Renal. Radiology. Even the names sounded somehow threatening.

Edward Pleasure was in Lister Ward, named after a nineteenth-century surgeon. Sabina knew that it was on the third floor but, looking around, she could see no sign of a lift. She was about to ask for directions when a man – a young doctor from the look of him – suddenly stepped into her path.

“Lost?” he asked. He was in his twenties, dark-haired, wearing a loose-fitting white coat and carrying a water cup. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of a television soap. He was smiling as if at some private joke and Sabina had to admit that maybe it was funny, her being lost when she was totally surrounded by signs.

“I’m looking for Lister Ward,” Sabina said.

“That’s on the third floor. I’m just going up there myself. But I’m afraid the lifts are out of order,” the doctor added.

That was strange. Her mother hadn’t mentioned it and she had been to the ward only the evening before. But Sabina imagined that in a hospital like this, things would break down all the time.

“There’s a staircase you can take. Why don’t you come along with me?”

The doctor crumpled his cup and dropped it in a bin. He walked through the reception area and Sabina followed.

“So who are you visiting?” the doctor asked.

“My dad.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He had an accident.”

“That’s too bad. How is he getting on?”

“This is the first time I’ve visited him. He’s getting better … I think.”

They went through a set of double doors and down a corridor. Sabina noticed that they had left all the visitors behind them. The corridor was long and empty. It brought them to a hallway where five different passages converged. To one side was a staircase leading up, but the doctor ignored it. “Isn’t that the way?” she asked.

“No.” The doctor turned and smiled again. He seemed to smile a lot. “That goes up to Urology. You can get through to Lister Ward but this way’s shorter.” He gestured at a door and opened it. Sabina followed him through.

To her surprise she found herself back out in the open air. The door led into a partly covered area round the side of the hospital, where supply vehicles parked. There was a raised loading bay and a number of crates already stacked up. One wall was lined by a row of dustbins, each one a different colour according to what sort of refuse it was meant to take.

“Excuse me, I think you’ve—” Sabina began.

But then her eyes widened in shock. The doctor was lunging towards her, and before she knew what was happening he had grabbed her round the neck. Her first, and her only, thought was that he was some sort of madman, and her response was automatic. Sabina had been to self-defence classes; her parents had insisted. Without so much as hesitating, she whirled round, driving her knee between the man’s legs. At the same time, she opened her mouth to scream. She had been taught that in a situation like this, noise was the one thing an attacker most feared.

But he was too fast for her. Even as the scream rose in her throat, his hand clamped tight over her mouth. He had seen what she was about to do and had twisted round behind her, one hand on her mouth, the other arm pinning her to him. Sabina knew now that she had assumed too much. The man had been wearing a white coat. He had been in the hospital. But of course he could have been anyone and she had been crazy to go with him. Never go anywhere with a stranger. How many times had her parents told her that?