Eagle Strike (19 page)

Now Alex was on top of Cray. The man was small – only a little taller than Alex himself – but even so he was thickset and surprisingly strong. Alex managed to get one hand around Cray’s wrist, keeping the gun away from him. But Cray’s other hand grabbed Alex’s neck, his fingers curling into the side of Alex’s throat.

“Sabina! Get out of here!” Alex managed to shout the words before his air supply was cut off. The gun was out of control. He was using all his strength to stop Cray from aiming it at him and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to hold him off. Sabina ran over to the main door and pulled up the white handle to open it.

At that exact moment, in the cockpit, Henryk pushed the four thrust levers all the way down. From where he sat, the runway stretched out in front of him. The path was clear. Air Force One lurched forward and started to take off.

The main door flew open with a loud hiss. It had been set to automatic before the plane began to move, and as soon as Sabina had unlocked it, a pneumatic system had kicked in. An orange slide extended itself from the doorway like a giant tongue and began to inflate. The emergency slide.

Wind and dust rushed in, a miniature tornado that whirled madly through the cabin. Cray had brought the gun round, aiming at Alex’s head, but the force of the wind surprised him. The magazines on the table flew into the air, flapping into his face like giant moths. The trolley of drinks broke loose and rattled across the carpet, bottles and glasses crashing down.

Cray’s face was contorted, his perfect teeth in a twisted snarl, his eyes bulging. He swore, but no sound could be heard against the roar of the engines. Sabina was pressed against the wall, staring helplessly through the open doorway at the grass and concrete rushing past in a green and grey blur. Yassen wasn’t moving; blood was spreading slowly across his shirt. Alex could feel the strength draining out of him. He relaxed his grip and the gun went off. Sabina screamed. The bullet had smashed a light fitting inches from her face. Alex jabbed down, trying to knock the gun out of Cray’s hand. Cray slammed a knee into his stomach and Alex reeled back, gasping for breath. The plane continued, faster and faster, hurtling down the runway.

Behind the controls Henryk was suddenly sweating. The eyes behind the spectacles were confused. He had seen a light blink on, warning him that a door had opened and that the main cabin was depressurized. He was already travelling at a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Air traffic control must have realized what was happening and would have alerted the authorities. If he stopped now, he would be arrested. But did he dare take off?

And then the on-board computer spoke.

“V1…”

It was a machine voice. Utterly emotionless. Two syllables brought together by electronic circuitry. And they were the last two syllables Henryk wanted to hear.

Normally it would have been the first officer who called out the speeds, keeping an eye on the progress of the plane. But Henryk was on his own. He had to rely on the automated system. What the computer was telling him was that the plane was moving at one hundred and fifty miles per hour – V1 – decision speed. He was now going too fast to stop. If he tried to abort the take-off, if he put the engines into reverse, he would crash.

It is the moment every pilot dreads – and the single most dangerous moment in any flight. More plane crashes have been caused by a wrong decision at this time than by anything else. Every instinct in Henryk’s body told him to stop. He was safe on the ground. A crash here would be better than a crash from fifteen hundred feet up in the air. But if he did try to stop, a crash would be the certain result.

He didn’t know what to do.

*    *    *

The sun was setting in the town of Quetta in Pakistan, but life in the refugee camp was as busy as ever. Hundreds of people clutching blankets and stoves made their way through a miniature city of tents, while children, some of them in rags, queued for vaccinations. A row of women sat on benches, working on a quilt, beating and folding the cotton.

The air was cool and fresh in the Patkai Hills of Myanmar, the country that had once been Burma. Fourteen hundred metres above sea level, the breeze carried the scent of pine trees and flowers. It was half past nine at night and most people were asleep. A few shepherds sat alone with their flocks. Thousands of stars littered the night sky.

In Colombia, in the Urabá region, another day had dawned and the smell of chocolate wafted down the village street. The
campesinas
– the farmers’ wives – had begun working at dawn, toasting the cacao beans, then splitting the shells. Children were drawn to their doors, taking in the rich, irresistible scent.

And in the highlands of Peru, north of Arequipa, families in colourful clothes made their way to the markets, some carrying the little bundles of fruit and vegetables that were all they had to sell. A woman in a bowler hat sat hunched up beside a row of sacks, each one filled with a different spice. Laughing teenagers kicked a football in the street.

These were the targets that the missiles had selected, far out in space. There were thousands – millions – more like them. And they were all innocent. They knew about the fields where the poppies were grown. They knew the men who worked there. But that was no concern of theirs. Life had to go on.

And none of them had any knowledge of the deadly missiles that were already closing in on them. None of them saw the horror that was coming their way.

The end came very quickly on Air Force One.

Cray was punching the side of Alex’s head again and again. Alex still clung to the gun, but his grip was weakening. He finally fell back, bloody and exhausted. His face was bruised, his eyes half closed.

The emergency slide was jutting out now, horizontal with the plane. The rush of air was pushing it back, slanting it towards the wings. The plane was travelling at a hundred and eighty miles per hour. It would leave the ground in less than ten seconds’ time.

Cray raised the gun one last time.

Then he cried out as something slammed into him. It was Sabina. She had grabbed hold of the trolley and used it as a battering ram. The trolley hit him behind the knees. His legs buckled and he lost his balance, toppling over backwards. He landed on top of the trolley, dropping the gun. Sabina dived for it, determined that he wouldn’t fire another shot.

And that was when Alex rose up.

He had quickly gauged distances and angles. He knew what he had to do. With a cry he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched. His palms slammed into the side of the trolley. Cray yelled out. The trolley shot across the main area of the cabin and, with Cray still on top of it, out the door.

And it didn’t stop there. The emergency slide slanted gently towards the ground that was shooting past far below. It was held in place by the rushing wind and by the compressed air inside it. The trolley bounced out onto the slide and began to roll down. Alex staggered over to the door just in time to see Cray begin his fairground ride to hell. The slide carried him halfway down, the force of the wind tilting him back towards the wings.

Damian Cray came into the general area of engine two.

The last thing he saw was the engine’s gaping mouth. Then the wind rush took him. With a dreadful, inaudible scream he was pulled into the engine. The trolley went with him.

Cray was mincemeat. More than that, he was vaporized. In one second he had been turned into a cloud of red gas that disappeared into the atmosphere. There was simply nothing left. But the metal trolley offered more resistance. There was a bang like a cannon shot. A huge tongue of flame exploded out of the back as the engine was torn apart.

That was when the plane went out of control.

Henryk had decided to abort take-off and was trying to slow down, but now it was too late. An engine on one side had suddenly stopped. Both engines on the other side were still on full power. The imbalance sent the plane lurching violently to the left. Alex and Sabina were thrown to the floor. Lights fused and sparked all around them. Anything that wasn’t securely fastened whirled through the air. Henryk fought for control but it was hopeless. The plane veered away and left the runway. That was the end of it. The soft ground was unable to support such a huge load. With a terrible shearing of metal, the undercarriage broke off and the whole thing toppled over onto one side.

The entire cabin twisted round and Alex felt the floor tilt beneath his feet. It was as if the plane was turning upside down. But finally it stopped. The engines cut out. The plane rested on its side and the scream of sirens filled the air as emergency vehicles raced across the tarmac.

Alex tried to move but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He was lying on the floor and he could feel the darkness closing in. But he knew he had to stay conscious. His work wasn’t finished yet.

“Sab?” He called out to her and was relieved when she got to her feet and came over.

“Alex?”

“You have to get to the communications room. There’s a button. Self-destruct.” For a moment she looked blank and he took hold of her arm. “The missiles…”

“Yes. Yes … of course.” She was in shock. Too much had happened. But she understood. She staggered up the stairs, balancing herself against the sloping walls. Alex lay where he was.

And then Yassen spoke.

“Alex…”

Alex didn’t have enough strength left to be surprised. He turned his head slowly, expecting to see a gun in the Russian’s hand. It didn’t seem fair to him. After so much, was he really going to die now, just when help was on its way? But Yassen wasn’t holding a gun. He had propped himself up against a table. He was covered in blood now and there was a strange quality to his eyes as the blue slowly drained out. Yassen’s skin was even paler than usual and, as his head tilted back, Alex noticed for the first time that he had a long scar on his neck. It was dead straight, as if it had been drawn with a ruler.

“Please…” Yassen’s voice was soft.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, but Alex crawled through the wreckage of the cabin and over to him. He remembered that Cray’s death and the destruction of the plane had only happened because Yassen had refused to kill Sabina and him.

“What happened to Cray?” Yassen asked.

“He went off his trolley,” Alex said.

“He’s dead?”

“Very.”

Yassen nodded, as if pleased. “I knew it was a mistake working for him,” he said. “I knew.” He fought for breath, narrowing his eyes for a moment. “There is something I have to tell you, Alex,” he said. The strange thing was that he was speaking absolutely normally, as if this were a quiet conversation between friends. Despite himself, Alex found himself marvelling at the man’s self-control. He must have only minutes to live.

Then Yassen spoke again and everything in Alex’s life changed for ever.

“I couldn’t kill you,” he said. “I would never have killed you. Because, you see, Alex … I knew your father.”

“What?” Despite his exhaustion, despite all the pain from his injuries, Alex felt something shiver through him.

“Your father. He and I…” Yassen had to catch his breath. “We worked together.”

“He worked with you?”

“Yes.”

“You mean … he was a spy?”

“Not a spy, no, Alex. He was a killer. Like me. He was the very best. The best in the world. I knew him when I was nineteen. He taught me many things…”

“No!” Alex refused to accept what he was hearing. He had never met his father, knew nothing about him. But what Yassen was saying couldn’t be true. It was some sort of horrible trick.

The sirens were getting nearer. The first of the vehicles must have arrived. He could hear men shouting outside.

“I don’t believe you,” Alex cried. “My father wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t have been!”

“I’m telling you the truth. You have to know.”

“Did he work for MI6?”

“No.” The ghost of a smile flickered across Yassen’s face. But it was filled with sadness. “MI6 hunted him down. They killed him. They tried to kill both of us. At the last minute I escaped, but he…” Yassen swallowed. “They killed your father, Alex.”

“No!”

“Why would I lie to you?” Yassen reached out weakly and took hold of Alex’s arm. It was the first physical contact the two had ever had. “Your father … he did this.” Yassen drew a finger along the scar on his neck, but his voice was failing him and he couldn’t explain. “He saved my life. In a way, I loved him. I love you too, Alex. You are so very much like him. I’m glad that you’re here with me now.” There was a pause and a spasm of pain rippled across the dying man’s face. There was one last thing he had to say. “If you don’t believe me, go to Venice. Find Scorpia. And you will find your destiny…”

Yassen shut his eyes and Alex knew he would never open them again.

In the communications room Sabina found the button and pressed it. In space the first of the Minutemen blew itself into thousands of pieces, a brilliant, soundless explosion. Seconds later the other missiles did the same.

Air Force One was surrounded. A fleet of emergency vehicles had reached it and two trucks were spraying it down, covering it in torrents of white foam.

But Alex didn’t know any of this. He was lying next to Yassen, his eyes closed. He had quietly and thankfully passed out.

RICHMOND BRIDGE

T
he swans really weren’t going anywhere. They seemed happy just to circle slowly in the sunshine, occasionally dipping their beaks under the surface of the water, searching for insects, algae, whatever. Alex had been watching them for the last half-hour, almost hypnotized by them. He wondered what it was like to be a swan. He wondered how they managed to keep their feathers so white.

He was sitting on a bench beside the Thames, just outside Richmond. This was where the river seemed to abandon London, finally leaving the city behind it on the other side of Richmond Bridge. Looking upstream, Alex could see fields and woodland, absurdly green, sprawled out in the heat of the English summer.

An au pair, pushing a pram, walked past on the towpath. She noticed Alex, and although her expression didn’t change, her hands tightened on the pram and she very slightly quickened her pace. Alex knew that he looked terrible, like something out of one of those posters put out by the local council. Alex Rider, fourteen, in need of fostering. His last fight with Damian Cray had left its marks. But this time it was more than cuts and bruises. They would fade like others had faded before. This time he had seen his whole life bend out of shape.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Yassen Gregorovich. Two weeks had gone by but he was still waking up in the middle of the night, reliving the final moments on Air Force One. His father had been a contract killer, murdered by the very people who had now taken over his own life. It couldn’t be true. Yassen must have been lying, trying to wound Alex in revenge for what had happened between them. Alex wanted to believe it. But he had looked into the dying man’s eyes and had seen no deceit, only a strange sort of tenderness – and a desire for the truth to be known.

Go to Venice. Find Scorpia. Find your destiny…

It seemed to Alex that his only destiny was to be lied to and manipulated by adults who cared nothing about him. Should he go to Venice? How would he find Scorpia? For that matter, was Scorpia a person or a place? Alex watched the swans, wishing they could give him an answer. But they just drifted on the water, ignoring him.

A shadow fell across the bench. Alex looked up and felt a fist close tightly inside his stomach. Mrs Jones was standing over him. The MI6 agent was dressed in grey silk trousers with a matching jacket that hung down to her knees, almost like a coat. There was a silver pin in her lapel but no other jewellery. It seemed strange for her to be out here, in the sun. He didn’t want to see her. Along with Alan Blunt, she was the last person Alex wanted to see.

“May I join you?” she asked.

“It seems you already have,” Alex said.

She sat down next to him.

“Have you been following me?” Alex asked. He wondered how she had known he would be here and it occurred to him that he might have been under round-the-clock surveillance for the past fortnight. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

“No. Your friend – Jack Starbright – told me you’d be here.”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Not until twelve. Jack came in to see me, Alex. You should have reported to Liverpool Street by now. We need to debrief you.”

“There’s no point reporting to Liverpool Street,” Alex said bitterly. “There’s nothing there, is there? Just a bank.”

Mrs Jones understood. “That was wrong of us,” she said.

Alex turned away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me, Alex,” Mrs Jones continued. “Well, you don’t have to. But will you please just listen?”

She looked anxiously at him. He said nothing. She went on.

“It’s true that we didn’t believe you when you came to us – and of course we were wrong. We were stupid. But it just seemed so incredible that a man like Damian Cray could be a threat to national security. He was rich and he was eccentric; nevertheless, he was only a pop star with attitude. That was what we thought.

“But if you think we ignored you completely, Alex, you’re wrong. Alan and I have different ideas about you. To be honest, if it had been my choice, we’d never have got you involved in the first place … not even in that business with the Stormbreakers. But that’s not the issue here.” She took a deep breath. “After you had gone, I decided to take another look at Damian Cray. There wasn’t a great deal I could do without the right authority, but I had him watched and all his movements were reported back to me.

“I heard you were at Hyde Park, in that dome when the Gameslayer was launched. I also got a police report on the woman – the journalist – who was killed. It just seemed like an unfortunate coincidence. Then I was told there had been an incident in Paris: a photographer and his assistant killed. Meanwhile Damian Cray was in Holland, and the next thing I knew, the Dutch police were screaming about some sort of high-speed chase in Amsterdam: cars and motorbikes chasing a boy on a bicycle. Of course, I knew it was you. But I still had no idea what was going on.

“And then your friend, Sabina, disappeared at Whitchurch Hospital. That really got the alarm bells ringing. I know. You’re probably thinking we were absurdly slow, and you’re right. But every intelligence service in the world is the same. When they act, they’re efficient. But often they get started too late.

“That was the case here. By the time we came to bring you in, you were already with Cray, in Wiltshire. We spoke to your housekeeper, Jack. Then we went straight to his house. But we missed you again and this time we had no idea where you’d gone. Now we know, of course. Air Force One! The CIA have been going crazy. Alan Blunt was called in to see the prime minister last week. It may well be that he is forced to resign.”

“Well, that breaks my heart,” Alex said.

Mrs Jones ignored this. “Alex … what you’ve been through … I know this has been very difficult for you. You were on your own, and that should never have happened. But the fact is, you have saved millions of lives. Whatever you’re feeling now, you have to remember that. It might even be true to say that you saved the world. God knows what the consequences would have been if Cray had succeeded. Anyway, the president of the United States would very much like to meet you. So, for that matter, would the prime minister. And for what it’s worth, you’ve even been invited to the Palace, if you want to go. Of course, nobody else knows about you. You’re still classified. But you should be proud of yourself. What you did was … amazing.”

“What happened to Henryk?” Alex asked. The question took Mrs Jones by surprise, but it was the only thing he didn’t know. “I just wondered,” he said.

“He’s dead,” Mrs Jones said. “He was killed when the plane crashed. He broke his neck.”

“Well, that’s that then.” Alex turned to her. “Can you go now?”

“Jack is worried about you, Alex. So am I. It may be that you need help coming to terms with what happened. Maybe some sort of therapy.”

“I don’t want therapy. I just want to be left alone.”

“All right.”

Mrs Jones stood up. She made one last attempt to read him before she left. This was the fourth occasion she had met Alex at the end of an assignment. Each time she had known that he must have been, in some way, damaged. But this time something worse had happened. She knew there was something Alex wasn’t telling her.

And then, on an impulse, she said, “You were on the plane with Yassen when he was shot. Did he say anything before he died?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he talk to you?”

Alex looked her straight in the eye. “No. He never spoke.”

Alex watched her leave. So it was true what Yassen had said. Her last question had proved it. He knew who he was.

The son of a contract killer.

*    *    *

Sabina was waiting for him under the bridge. He knew that this was going to be a brief meeting. There was nothing really left to say.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’m OK. How’s your dad?”

“He’s a lot better.” She shrugged. “I think he’s going to be fine.”

“And he’s not going to change his mind?”

“No, Alex. We’re leaving.”

Sabina had told him on the phone the night before. She and her parents were leaving the country. They wanted to be on their own, to give her father time to recover fully. They had decided it would be easier for him to begin a new life and had chosen San Francisco. Edward had been offered a job by a big newspaper there. And there was more good news. He was writing a book: the truth about Damian Cray. It was going to make him a fortune.

“When do you go?” Alex asked.

“Tuesday.” Sabina brushed something out of her eye and Alex wondered if it might have been a tear. But when she looked at him again, she was smiling. “Of course, we’ll keep in touch,” she said. “We can email. And you know you can always come out if you want a holiday.”

“As long as it’s not like the last one,” Alex said.

“It’ll be weird going to an American school…” Sabina broke off. “You were fantastic on the plane, Alex,” she said suddenly. “I couldn’t believe how brave you were. When Cray was telling you all those crazy things, you didn’t even seem scared of him.” She stopped. “Will you work for MI6 again?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you think they’ll leave you alone?”

“I don’t know, Sabina. It was my uncle’s fault, really. He started all this years ago and now I’m stuck with it.”

“I still feel ashamed about not believing you.” Sabina sighed. “And I understand now what you must have been going through. They made me sign the Official Secrets Act. I’m not allowed to tell anyone about you.” A pause. “I’ll never forget you,” she said.

“I’ll miss you, Sabina.”

“But we’ll see each other again. You can come to California. And I’ll let you know if I’m ever in London…”

“That’s good.”

She was lying. Somehow Alex knew that this was more than goodbye, that the two of them would never see each other again. There was no reason for it. That was just the way it was going to be.

She put her arms around him and kissed him.

“Goodbye, Alex,” she said.

He watched her walk out of his life. Then he turned and followed the river, past the swans and off into the countryside. He didn’t stop. Nor did he look back.