Point Blanc (19 page)

"Baxter
... the man you shot ..."

"You
have been busy, Alex." For the first time, Dr. Grief looked surprised.
"The late Mr. Baxter was a plastic surgeon. I found him working in
Harley Street, in London. He had gambling debts. It was easy to bring him under
my control, and it was his job to operate on my family, to change their faces,
their skin color, and where necessary their bodies so that they would exactly
resemble the teenagers they replaced. From the moment the real teenagers
arrived here at Point Blanc, they were kept under observation."

"With
identical rooms on the third and fourth floors."

"Yes.
My doubles were able to watch their targets on television monitors. To copy
their every movement. To learn their mannerisms. To eat like them. To speak
like them. In short, to become them."

"It
would never have worked!" Alex twisted in his chair, trying to find some
leverage in the handcuffs. But the metal was too tight. He couldn't move.
"Parents would know that the children you sent back were fakes!" he
insisted. "Any mother would know it wasn't her son, even if he
looked the same."

Mrs. Stellenbosch
giggled. She had finished her cigar. Now she lit another.

"You're
quite wrong, Alex," Dr. Grief said. "In the first place, you are
talking about busy, hardworking parents who had little or no time for their
children in the first place. And you forget that the very reason these people
sent their sons here was because they
wanted
them to change. It is the reason all parents send their sons to private
schools. Oh, yes, they think the schools will make their children better, more
clever, more confident. They would actually be disappointed if those children
came back the same.

"And
nature, too, is on our side. A boy of fourteen leaves home for six or seven
months. By the time he gets back, nature will have made its mark. The boy will
be taller. He will be fatter or thinner. Even his voice will have changed.
It's all part of puberty, and the parents when they see him will say,
'Oh, Tom, you've gotten so big, and you're so
grown-up!' And they will suspect nothing. In fact, they would be worried
if the boy
hadn't
changed."

"But
Roscoe guessed, didn't he?" Alex knew that he had arrived at the
truth, the reason he had been sent here in the first place. He knew why Roscoe
and Ivanov had died.

"There
have been two occasions when the parents did not believe what they saw,"
Dr. Grief admitted. "Michael J. Roscoe in New York. And General Major
Viktor Ivanov in Moscow. Neither man completely guessed what had happened. But
they were unhappy. They argued with their sons. They asked too many questions."

"And
the sons told you what had happened."

"You
might say that I told myself. The sons, after all, are me. But yes. Michael
Roscoe knew something was wrong and called MI6 in London. I presume that is how
you were unlucky enough to be involved. I had to pay to have Roscoe killed just
as I paid for the death of Ivanov. But it was to be expected that there would
be problems. Two out of sixteen is not so catastrophic, and of course it makes
no difference to my plans. In many ways, it even helps me. Michael J. Roscoe
left his entire fortune to his son. And I understand that the Russian president
is taking a personal interest in Dimitry Ivanov, following the loss of his
father.

"In
short, the Gemini Project has been an outstanding success. In a few days'
time, the last of the children will leave Point Blanc to take their places in
the heart of their family. Once I am satisfied that they have all been
accepted, I will, I fear, have to dispose of the originals. They will die
painlessly.

"The
same cannot be said for you, Alex Rider. You have caused me a great deal of
annoyance. I propose, therefore, to make an example of you." Dr Grief
reached into his pocket and took out a device that looked like a pager. It
contained a single button, which he pressed. "What is the first lesson
tomorrow morning, Eva?" he asked.

"Biology,"
Mrs. Stellenbosch replied.

"As I
thought. You have perhaps been to biology classes where a frog or a rat has
been dissected, Alex?" he asked. "For some time now, my children have
been asking to see a human dissection. This is no surprise to me. I myself
first attended a human dissection at the age of fourteen. Tomorrow morning, at
half past nine, their wish will be granted. You will be brought into the
laboratory and we shall open you up and have a look at you. We will not use
anesthetic, and it will be interesting to see how long you survive before your
heart gives out. And then, of course, we shall dissect your heart."

"You're
sick!" Alex yelled. Now he was thrashing about in the chair, trying to
break the wood, trying to get the handcuffs to come apart. But it was hopeless.
The metal cut into him. The chair rocked but stayed in one piece.
"You're a madman!"

"I am a
scientist!" Dr. Grief spat the words. "And that is why I am giving
you a scientific death. At least in your last minutes you will have been of
some use to me." He looked past Alex. "Take him away and search him
thoroughly. Then lock him up for the night. I'll see him again first
thing tomorrow morning."

Alex had seen
Dr. Grief summon the guards, but he hadn't heard them come in. He was
seized from behind, the handcuffs were unlocked, and he was jerked backward out
of the room. His last sight of Dr. Grief was of the man stretching out his
hands to warm them in the fire, the twisting flames reflected in his glasses.
Mrs. Stellenbosch smiled and blew out smoke.

Then the door
slammed shut and Alex was dragged down the corridor knowing that Blunt and the
secret service had to be on their way, but wondering whether they would arrive
before it was too late.

THE
CELL MEASURED six feet by twelve and contained a bunk bed with no mattress and
a chair. Moonlight slanted in through a small, heavily barred window high up on
the wall. The door was solid steel. Alex had heard a key turn in the lock after
it was closed. He had not been given anything to eat or drink. The cell was
cold, but there were no blankets on the bed.

At least the
guards had left the handcuffs off. They had searched Alex expertly, removing
everything they had found in his pockets. They had also removed his belt and
the laces of his shoes. Perhaps Dr. Grief had thought he would hang himself. He
needed Alex fresh and alive for the biology lesson.

It was about
two o'clock in the morning, but Alex hadn't slept. He had tried to
put out of his mind everything Grief had told him. That wasn't important
now. He knew that he had to escape before 9:30 because--like it or
not--it seemed he was on his own. More than thirty-six hours had passed
since he had pressed the panic button that Smithers had given him, and nothing
had happened. Either the machine hadn't worked or for some reason MI6 had
decided not to come. Of course, it was possible that something might happen
before breakfast the next day. But Alex wasn't prepared to risk it. He
had to get out. Tonight.

For the
twentieth time he went over to the door and knelt down, listening carefully.
The guards had dragged him back down to the basement. He was in a corridor
separate from the other prisoners. Although everything had happened very
quickly, Alex had tried to remember where he had been taken. Out of the
elevator and to the left. Around the corner and then down a second passageway
to a door at the end. He was on his own. And listening through the door, he was
fairly sure that they hadn't posted a guard outside.

Alex had one
bit of hope to cling to. When the guards had searched him, they hadn't
quite taken everything. Neither of them had even noticed the golden stud in his
ear. What had Smithers said?

"
It's a small but very powerful
explosive device, like a miniature grenade. Separating the two pieces activates
it. Count to ten and it'll blow a hole in just about anything
."

Now was the
time to put it to the test.

Alex reached
up and unscrewed the ear stud. He pulled it out of his ear, slipped the two
pieces into the keyhole of the door, stepped back, and counted to ten.

Nothing
happened. Was the stud broken, like the Discman transmitter? Alex was about to
give up when there was a sudden flash, an intense sheet of orange flame.
Fortunately there was no noise. The flare continued for about five seconds,
then went out. Alex went back to the door. The stud had burned a hole in it,
the size of a silver dollar. The melted metal was still glowing. Alex reached
out and pushed. The door swung open.

Alex felt a
momentary surge of excitement, but he forced himself to remain calm. He might
be out of the cell, but he was still in the basement of the academy. There were
guards everywhere. He was on top of a mountain with no skis and no obvious way
down. He wasn't safe yet. Not by a long way.

He slipped
out of the room and followed the corridor back around to the elevator. He was
tempted to find the other boys and release them, but he knew they
couldn't help. Taking them out of their cells would only put them in
danger. Somehow, he found his way back to the elevator. He noticed that the
guard post he had seen that morning was empty. Either the man had gone to make
himself coffee or Grief had relaxed security in the academy. With Alex and all
the other boys locked up, there was nobody left to guard. Or so they thought.
Alex hurried forward.

He took the
elevator back to the second floor. He knew that his only way off the mountain
lay in his bedroom. Grief would certainly have examined everything he had
brought with him. But what would he have done with it? Alex crept down the
dimly lit corridor and into the room. And there it all was, lying in a heap on
his bed. The ski suit. The goggles. Even the Discman with the Beethoven CD.
Alex heaved a sigh of relief. He was going to need all of it.

He had
already worked out what he was going to do. He couldn't ski off the
mountain because he still had no idea where the skis were kept. But there was
more than one way to take to the snow. Alex froze as a guard walked along the
corridor outside the room. So not everyone at the academy was asleep! He would
have to move fast. As soon as the broken cell door was discovered, the alarm
would be raised.

He waited
until the guard had gone, then stole into the laundry room a few doors down.
When he came out, he was carrying a long, flat object made of lightweight
aluminum. He carried it into his bedroom, closed the door, and turned on one
small lamp. He was afraid the guard would see the light if he returned. But he
couldn't work in the dark. It was a risk he had to take.

He had stolen
an ironing board.

Alex had been
snowboarding only three times in his life. The first time, he had spent most of
the day falling or sitting on his bottom. Snowboarding is a lot harder to learn
than skiing, but as soon as you get the hang of it, you can advance fast. By
the third day, Alex had learned how to ride, edging and cutting his way down
the beginner slopes. He needed a snowboard now. The ironing board would have to
do.

He picked up
the Discman and turned it on. The Beethoven CD spun, then slid forward, its diamond
edge jutting out. Alex made a mental calculation, then began to cut. The
ironing board was wider than he would have liked. He knew that the longer the
board, the faster he could go, but if he left it too long, he would have no
control. The ironing board was flat. Without any curve at the front--or
the nose, as it was called--he would be at the mercy of every bump or
upturned root. He pressed down. The spinning disc sliced through the metal.
Carefully, Alex drew it around, forming a curve. One end of the ironing board
fell away. He picked up the other. It came up to his chest. Perfect.

Now he sliced
off the supports, leaving about six inches sticking up. He knew that the rider
and the board can work together only if the bindings are right, and he had nothing
... no boots, no straps, and no highback to support his heel. He was just
going to have to improvise. He tore two strips of sheet from the bed, then
slipped into his ski suit. He would have to tie one of his sneakers to what was
left of the ironing board supports. It was horribly dangerous. If he fell, he
would dislocate his foot.

But he was
almost ready. Quickly, Alex zipped up the ski suit. Smithers had said it was
bulletproof, and it occurred to him that he was probably going to need it. He
put the goggles around his neck. The window still hadn't been repaired.
He dropped the ironing board out, then climbed out after it.

There was no
moon. Alex found the switch concealed in the goggles and turned it. He heard a
soft hum as the concealed battery activated. Suddenly the side of the mountain
glowed an eerie green and Alex was able to see the trees, the deserted ski run,
and the side of the mountain, falling away.

Carefully, he
took up his position on the ironing board, his right foot at forty degrees, his
left foot at twenty. He was goofy-footed. That was what the instructor had told
him. His feet should have been the other way around. But this was no time to
worry about technique. Instead, he used the strips of torn sheet to tie the
ironing board to his feet, then he stood where he was, contemplating what he
was about to do. He had only traveled down green and blue runs--the colors
given to the beginners' and intermediate slopes. He knew from James that
this mountain was an expert black all the way down. His breath rose up in green
clouds in front of his eyes. Could he do it? Could he trust himself?