Point Blanc (16 page)

He crawled
out of the fireplace. Only a few weeks before, at Brookland, he'd been
reading about Victorian chimney sweeps, how boys as young as nine had been
forced into virtual slave labor. He had never thought he would learn how they
felt. He coughed and spat into the palm of his hand. His saliva was black. He
wondered what he must look like. He would have to have a bath before he was
seen.

He stood up.
The third floor was as silent as the first and second. Soot trickled out of his
hair, and for a moment he was blinded. He propped himself against a statue
while he wiped his eyes. Then he looked again. He was leaning on a stone
dragon, identical to the one on the ground floor. He looked at the fireplace.
That too was identical. In fact ...

Alex wondered
if he hadn't somehow made a terrible mistake. He was standing in a hall
that was the same in every detail as the hall on the ground floor. There were
the same corridors, the same staircase, the same fireplace ... even the
same animal heads staring miserably from the walls. It was as if he had climbed
in a circle, arriving back
where
he
had begun. He turned around. No. Here was one difference. There
was no main door. He could look down on the front courtyard from the window.
There was a guard leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. This was the
third floor. But it had been constructed as a perfect replica of the first.

Alex tiptoed
forward, worried that somebody might have heard him climb out of the fireplace.
But there was no one around. He followed the corridor as far as the first door.
On the first floor, this would lead into the library. Gently, an inch at a
time, he opened the door, It led into a second library--again, the
spitting image of the first. It had the same tables and chairs, the same suit of
armor guarding the same alcove. He ran an eye along one of the shelves. It even
had the same books.

But there was
one difference--at least, one difference that Alex could see. He felt as
if he had strayed into one of those puzzles they sometimes printed in comics or
magazines: two identical pictures, but ten deliberate mistakes. Can you spot
them? The mistake here was that there was a large television set built into a
shelf on a wall. The television was on. Alex found himself looking at an image
of yet another library. He was beginning to feel dizzy. What was the library on
the television screen? It couldn't be this one because Alex himself was
not being shown. So it had to be the library on the first floor.

Two identical
libraries. You could sit in one and watch the other. But why? What was the
point?

It took Alex
about ten minutes to discover that the entire third floor was a carbon copy of
the first floor with the same dining room, living rooms, and games room. Alex
went over to the snooker table and placed a ball in the middle. It tolled into
the corner pocket. The room was on the same slant. A television screen showed
the games room downstairs. It was the same as in the library: one room spying
on another.

He retraced
his steps and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He wanted to find his own
room, but first he went into James's. It was another perfect copy: the
same sci-fi posters, the same mobile hanging over the bed, the same lava lamp
on the same table. There were even the same clothes strewn over the floor. So
these rooms weren't just built to be the same--they were carefully
maintained. Whatever happened downstairs, happened upstairs. But did that mean
there had been somebody living here, watching every movement that James Sprintz
made, doing everything he did? And if so, had somebody else been doing the same
for him?

Alex went
next door. It was like stepping into his own room. Again there was the same
bed, the same furnishings, the same television. He turned it on. The picture
showed his room on the first floor. There was the CD player, lying on the bed.
There were his wet clothes from the night before. Had somebody been watching
when he cut through the window and climbed out into the night? Alex felt a jolt
of alarm, then forced himself to relax. This room--the copy of his
room--was different. Nobody had moved in here yet. He could tell, just by
looking around him. The bed hadn't been slept in. And the smaller details
hadn't yet been copied. There was no CD player in the duplicate room. No
wet clothes. He had left the closet door open downstairs. In here it was
closed.

The whole
thing was like some sort of mind-bending puzzle. Alex forced himself to think
it through. Every single boy who arrived at the academy was watched. All his
actions were duplicated. If he hung a poster on the wall of his room, an
identical poster was hung in an identical room. There would be someone living
in this room, doing everything that Alex did. He remembered the figure he had
glimpsed the day before ... someone wearing what looked like a white mask.
Perhaps that person had been about to move in. But all the evidence suggested
that, for whatever reason, he wasn't here yet.

And that
still left the biggest question of all. What was the point? To spy on the boys
was one thing. But to copy everything they did?

A door swung
shut and he heard voices, two men walking down the corridor outside. Alex crept
over to the door and looked out. He just had time to see Dr. Grief walk through
a door with another man, a short, plump figure in a white coat. They had gone
into the laundry room. Alex slipped out of the duplicate bedroom and followed
them.

"...you
have completed the work. I am grateful to you, Mr. Baxter."

"Thank
you, Dr. Grief."

They had left
the door open. Alex crouched down and looked through. Here at last was a
section of the third floor that didn't mirror the first. There were no
washing machines or ironing boards here. Instead, Alex found himself looking
into a room with a row of sinks and a second set of doors leading into a fully
equipped operating room at least twice as big as the laundry room on the first
floor. At the center of the room was an operating table. The walls were lined
with shelves containing surgical equipment, chemicals, and--scattered
across the surface--what looked like black-and-white photographs.

An operating
room! What was its role in this bizarre, devilish jigsaw puzzle? The two men
had walked into it and were talking together, Grief standing with one hand in
his pocket. Alex chose his moment, then slipped into the outer room, crouching
down beside one of the sinks. The second set of doors was open. From here he
could watch and listen as the two of them talked.

"So
... I hope you're pleased with the last operation." It was
Mr. Baxter speaking. He had half turned toward the doors, and Alex could
see a round, flabby face with yellow hair and a thin mustache. Baxter was
wearing a bow tie and a checked suit underneath his white coat. Alex had never
seen the man before. He was certain of it. And yet, he sensed he knew him.
Another puzzle!

"Entirely,"
Dr. Grief replied. "I saw him as soon as the bandages came off. You have
done extremely well."

"I was
always the best. But that's what you paid for." Baxter chuckled.
His voice was oily. "And while we're on that subject, maybe we
should talk about my final payment."

"You
have already been paid the sum of one million dollars."

"Yes,
Dr. Grief." Baxter smiled. "But I was wondering if you might not
like to think about a little ... bonus?"

"I
thought we had an agreement." Dr. Grief turned his head very slowly. The
red glasses homed in on the other man like searchlights.

"We had
an agreement for my work, yes. But my silence is another matter. I was thinking
of another quarter of a million. Given the size and the scope of your Gemini
Project, it's not so much to ask. Then I'll retire to my little
house in Spain and you'll never hear from me again."

"I will
never hear from you again?"

"I
promise."

Dr. Grief
nodded. "Yes. I think that's a good idea."

His hand came
out of his pocket. Alex saw that it was holding an automatic pistol with a
thick silencer protruding from the barrel. Baxter was still smiling as Grief
shot him once, through the middle of the forehead. He was thrown off his feet
and onto the operating table. He lay still.

Dr. Grief
lowered the gun. He went over to a telephone, picked it up, and dialed a
number. There was a pause while his call was answered. Then ...

"This
is Grief. I have some garbage in the operating room that needs to be removed.
Could you please inform the disposal team?"

He put down
the phone and, glancing one last time at the still figure on the operating
table, walked to the other side of the room. Alex saw him press a button. A
section of the wall slid open to reveal an elevator on the other side. Dr.
Grief got in. The doors closed.

Alex
straightened up, too shocked to think straight. He staggered forward and went
into the operating room. He knew he had to move fast. The disposal team that
Dr. Grief had called for would be on their way. But he wanted to know what sort
of operations took place here. Mr. Baxter had presumably been the surgeon.
But for what sort of work had he been paid a million dollars?

Trying not to
look at the body, Alex glanced around. On one shelf was a collection of surgical
knives, as horrible as anything he had ever seen, the blades so sharp that he
could almost feel their touch just by looking at them. There were rolls of
gauze, syringes, and bottles containing various liquids. But nothing to say how
Baxter had been employed. Alex realized it was hopeless. He knew nothing about
medicine. This room could have been used for anything from ingrown toenails to
full-blown heart surgery.

And then he
saw the photographs. He recognized himself, lying on a bed that he thought he
knew too. It was Paris! Room 13 at the Hotel du Monde. He remembered the
black-and-white comforter, as well as the clothes he had been wearing that
night. The clothes had been removed in most of the photographs. Every inch of
him had been photographed, sometimes close up, sometimes wider. In every
picture, his eyes were closed. Looking at himself, Alex knew that he had been
drugged and, for the first time, remembered how the dinner with
Mrs. Stellenbosch had ended.

The
photographs disgusted him. He had been manipulated by people who thought he was
worth nothing at all. From the moment he had met them, he had disliked Dr.
Grief and his assistant director. Now he felt pure loathing. He still
didn't know what they were doing. But they were evil. They had to be
stopped.

He was shaken
out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The
disposal team! He looked around him and cursed. He didn't have time to
get out, and there was nowhere in the room to hide. Then he remembered the
elevator. He went over to it and urgently stabbed at the button. The footsteps
were getting nearer. He heard voices. Then the panels slid open. Alex stepped
into a small, silver box. There were five buttons: S,
R, 1, 2
, and
3
. He pressed
R
. He knew enough French to
know that the
R
must stand for
Rez-de-chaussee
... or first floor. With luck, the elevator would take him back to where he
had begun.

The doors
slid shut a few seconds before the guards entered the operating room. Alex felt
his stomach lurch as he was carried down. The elevator slowed. He realized that
the doors could open anywhere. He might find himself surrounded by
guards--or by the other boys in the school. Well it was too late now. He
had made his choice without thinking. He would just have to cope with whatever
he found.

But he was
lucky. The doors slid open to reveal the library. Alex assumed this was the
real library and not another copy. The room was empty. He stepped out of the
elevator, then turned around. He was facing the alcove. The elevator doors formed
the alcove wall. They were brilliantly camouflaged, with the suit of armor now
sliced exactly in two, one half on each side. As the doors closed
automatically, the armor slid back together again, completing the disguise.
Despite himself, Alex had to admire the simplicity of it. The entire building
was a fantastic box of tricks.

Alex looked
at his hands. They were still filthy. He had almost forgotten that he was
completely covered in soot. He crept out of the library, trying not to leave
black footprints on the carpet. Then he hurried back to his room. When he got
there, he had to remind himself that it was indeed his room and not the copy
two floors above. But the CD player was there, and that was what he most
needed.

He knew
enough. It was time to call for the cavalry. He pressed the Fast Forward button
three times, then went to take a shower.

IT
WAS RAINING IN LONDON, the sort of rain that seems never to stop. The early
evening traffic was huddled together, going nowhere. Alan Blunt was standing at
the window, looking out over the street, when there was a knock at the door. He
turned away almost reluctantly, as if the city at its most damp and dismal held
some attraction for him. Mrs. Jones came in. She was carrying a sheet of
paper. As Blunt sat down behind his desk, he noticed the two words MOST URGENT
printed in red across the top.