Scorpia Rising (16 page)
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
Tags: #Europe, #Law & Crime, #Family, #Action & Adventure, #Juvenile Fiction, #Orphans & Foster Homes, #General, #People & Places, #Mysteries & Detective Stories, #Terrorism, #Fiction, #Orphans, #Spies, #Middle East
Alex let go of the fire extinguisher. The TV antenna whipped forward, propelling it like a medieval catapult. The red metal cylinder hit the cabin, an oversized bullet that smashed into the glass, sending cracks in every direction. It wouldn’t have been enough to bring the helicopter down, but the pilot jerked back instinctively, losing control. Alex threw himself to the ground as the tail of the helicopter swung around, scything through the air, inches above where his head had just been. He felt another blast of air tearing at his shirt and jacket, trying to drag them off his shoulders. For a brief second he glimpsed the terrified face of the sniper, upside down . . . or at least that was how it seemed to him. The pilot was fighting for control and might have regained it, but then the tail rotor clipped the edge of the building and there was a dreadful grinding and a snapping sound as part of the blade broke off. Lying flat on the roof, Alex covered his head with his hands, afraid that he was about to be torn to pieces. A slice of broken metal shot past him and shuddered into the brickwork.
And then the helicopter was gone, yanked into the air as if it were a fish on the end of an invisible line. It was completely directionless, the whole thing spinning around and around. Alex dragged himself to his knees, gazing at his handiwork with a sense of disbelief. The helicopter was like a mad thing. He wondered what sort of nightmare the pilot and his passenger must be experiencing inside. It was still moving fast. Already it was a quarter of a mile away, mercifully flying upriver, away from the bridge. Alex stood up. The helicopter tried to right itself, but it wasn’t going anywhere. It stopped, then crashed down into the river. There was a great explosion of white water and then nothing. Alex couldn’t see any more.
Were the two men dead? Alex didn’t know and, in truth, he didn’t really care. He’d given them a lesson they’d richly deserved. After all, they had just tried to kill him. They had opened fire on a classroom full of kids and they hadn’t cared what might result. Alex wondered if Tom Harris was all right. He was sure the injury hadn’t been too serious, but he knew all too well the shock of being wounded by gunfire. He thought of phoning him, then remembered that he had left his mobile in his locker at school.
A couple of people had run out of the office and were making their way across the yard to the jetty. Alex had scratched and bruised his arms and knees when he threw himself down. His school pants were torn. More needle-work for Jack!
He limped back in through the emergency exit, climbed down the stairs, and went in search of his bike.
9
SAFETY MEASURES
SITTING IN THE BACKSEAT of his chauffeur-driven Jaguar XJ6, Alan Blunt was in a bad mood. He hadn’t spoken a word in the thirty minutes it had taken them to drive from Liverpool Street, gazing out the window with narrow, expressionless eyes as if the entire city had somehow offended him. Mrs. Jones was next to him and she knew exactly what he was thinking. The two of them were breaking every rule in the book. They were on their way to see Alex Rider when really he should have been summoned to see them.
They already knew what had happened at Brookland—but then, of course, the whole country did. A gun attack on a school in west London was the sort of story that would travel instantly all over the world—and the intelligence services had been forced to move quickly to rein it in. This was Alex Rider’s school. They had made the connection instantly and had done everything they could to turn media attention away. There was no sniper, they said, and certainly no sniper rifle. It was just some local vandal with an air gun who had managed to break into a building site and had fired a couple of shots at the windows. One boy had been slightly injured but nobody had been killed.
Even so, the shooting had been the main story on all the six o’clock news shows and would be on the front pages the next day. Tom Harris had been filmed in his hospital bed with one arm in a sling, surrounded by flowers and chocolates and looking quite happy to be at the center of so much attention. The police had mounted roadblocks all over Fulham and Chelsea. The home secretary had promised she would be making a statement to the House. All the children at Brookland were being offered counseling and the school would remain closed until the end of the week.
As a result of the media frenzy, two other stories were given less attention than they might otherwise have received. In a completely unrelated incident, a helicopter had crashed into the River Thames near Wandsworth Bridge. The police were still looking for the pilot and passenger. Neither had yet been named. And in Greece, one of the world’s richest men, Ariston Xenopolos, had died after a long fight against cancer. He had left behind a fortune of more than thirty-five billion dollars.
Alan Blunt had been in one of his regular meetings with the Joint Chiefs of Staff when the news came in. He had left at once, joining Mrs. Jones for an emergency briefing. It was obvious to both of them that Alex had been the target. The sniper had missed—that much was known. But Alex seemed to have disappeared. He had last been seen cycling away from the school. When Blunt had heard about the helicopter crash just one hour later, he had assumed at once that there must be a connection. That would have been typical of Alex. He was a boy of extraordinary resource.
Alex finally got home in the middle of the afternoon. Jack was completely shocked by what had happened, and when Mrs. Jones called her a short while later, she was in no mood for an argument.
“We need to talk to Alex,” Mrs. Jones said. “We’ll send a car around to bring him to Liverpool Street.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones.” There was ice in Jack’s voice. “Alex isn’t going anywhere. I can understand that you want to debrief him. But if you want to see him, you’re going to have to come here.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Fine. Then you can forget about talking to him.” Before Mrs. Jones could interrupt, Jack continued. “Every time Alex has been into that building of yours, it’s been nothing but trouble. The last time was November. He came to see you because he had a journalist chasing after him—and what happened? You sent him to spy on Desmond McCain and he ended up in Kenya being almost fed to the crocodiles. Well, that’s all over now. He doesn’t work for you anymore. If you want to talk to him about what happened this morning, you can come over here, but don’t make it too late. He’s had a tough day and I want him in bed before ten.”
It was unheard of for the director of Special Operations and his deputy to be summoned in this way. Secret conversations need to take place in a secure environment and Blunt’s office was exactly that. Nobody could enter without being scanned . . . for weapons or for recording devices. Any form of eavesdropping was out of the question. The windows had even been treated to deflect radio or microwave beams. It was impossible to find out who had been there and for what reason. Visiting Alex at his home in Chelsea would change all that. It was a completely unacceptable risk.
And yet, early that evening, the car drew up outside the elegant white-fronted house that had once belonged to Ian Rider, and Blunt and Mrs. Jones stepped out. Jack had refused to budge from her position, and in the end they’d had to accept that this was the only way. But then, of course, Alex was no ordinary agent. Recruiting him in the first place had broken all the rules. So perhaps they should have been prepared to make an exception.
Alex was waiting for them in the living room. Blunt could see at once that he was very different from the fourteen-year-old he had so often employed. It wasn’t just that he was bigger, that he had filled out more. He was more confident too. Looking at him, Blunt was suddenly reminded of Alex’s father. The resemblance was really quite remarkable.
Jack offered coffee, which was politely declined. She had already given Mrs. Jones a full description of what had happened after Alex left the school and the deputy director didn’t waste any time.
“We’ve had divers and police down at the river,” she began. “It seems likely that both the pilot and his passenger managed to escape from the helicopter. Certainly no bodies have been washed up.”
“You’d think someone would have seen two dripping wet men climbing out of the water,” Jack growled.
“We’re still making inquiries. We’re still looking.” Mrs. Jones glanced at Alan Blunt, sitting opposite her. “It does seem strange that they managed to vanish into thin air. This was broad daylight, in the middle of London. They must have been injured. And yet as far as we can tell, no one’s had any sight of them.”
“Did you see the sniper, Alex?” Blunt asked.
“Not really.” Alex had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefoot, as if to stress that this was his home and he would dress how he liked. It felt strange having Blunt in the room, as if two worlds that should have been kept apart had somehow collided. “He was too far away and he had his back to me. But I got the numbers of the car and the helicopter.”
“They were both fake,” Mrs. Jones said. “We’ve got the car—we picked it up from Wandsworth Park—and we’re running tests for fingerprints and DNA. We’ve also salvaged the wreckage of the helicopter. But I have my doubts that either of them will lead us anywhere.”
“These were professional people,” Blunt agreed. “That trick with the car wash, for example. That showed a certain style—”
“Whose style?” Jack asked.
“We don’t know. We’ve spoken to the owner of the garage. He says he was paid to close the car wash for a couple of days and he doesn’t know anything else. We think he’s telling the truth. But the main questions we have to ask ourselves are—who would want to kill Alex, and why now? And more to the point, how do we stop them from trying again?”
Alex examined the head of MI6, who was sitting on the edge of the sofa with a very straight back, as if he were determined not to make himself comfortable. As usual, Blunt was completely businesslike, dressed in a slate gray suit with steel-rimmed spectacles and highly polished black leather shoes. Despite what he had said, he had somehow made it clear that it didn’t really matter to him if Alex lived or died. This whole thing was just a nuisance, something else to be dealt with in a busy day.
“They think I’m dead,” Alex said. “The sniper told the pilot. He said ‘mission accomplished.’ I heard him.”
“That may not necessarily be the case,” Mrs. Jones said—and once again she half glanced at Blunt as if she wasn’t sure she should continue. “First of all, we have to assume that the sniper was aiming at you. This will have been a very risky and very expensive operation, so whoever was behind it must have a very serious reason to wish you harm. It’s clear from what you say that the sniper lied to his employers, but even so, they probably guessed you’re alive. And when the helicopter crashed five minutes later, they’d have known it for sure. Whichever way you look at it, Alex, you’re probably still in danger, and I’m afraid it’s going to be out of the question, your going back to school, until we’ve sorted this out.”
“How long will that be?” Alex asked with a sense of despair. Some people might have thought him mad, wanting to go back to school. But he’d been enjoying the term. Everything had been going well for him. He wanted to be with his friends.
“It’s impossible to say. We have no idea who the enemy is or even why they’ve chosen this moment to attack you. Right now we have no clues. We’re as much in the dark as you.”
“So how are you going to keep Alex safe?” Jack demanded. “How are you going to stop them from trying again?”
Blunt and Mrs. Jones exchanged a look, and at that moment Alex knew they had already worked this out, that they had known what they were going to say before they had walked through the door. The same thing had happened after he had been attacked while he was surfing with Sabina off the Cornish coast. They had used the situation then. They would do the same now.
“I think Alex has to leave the country,” Blunt said.
“No way!” Jack exclaimed.
“Please, Miss Starbright. Allow me to finish. He can’t go back to Brookland and he can’t stay here. As Mrs. Jones just said, it’s too dangerous.”
“You could give him twenty-four-hour protection.”
“We’ll have people watching the house tonight—but in the long term, twenty-four-hour protection doesn’t exist. If an enemy is determined enough, he’ll break through the tightest barrier no matter how carefully it’s been constructed. No. While we investigate this business, Alex would be much safer with a new identity somewhere far away.”
“Do you have somewhere in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Blunt coughed delicately, his hand forming a comma in front of his mouth. “I want him to go to Egypt,” he said.
“Egypt?”
“To Cairo, to be precise. It just so happens that I needed to send one of my people out there anyway—”
“Alex isn’t one of your people!” Jack cut in.
Blunt ignored her. He turned directly to Alex. “I wasn’t going to involve you, Alex. You’ve made your feelings very clear and of course I’ve tried to respect that. But circumstances have changed. You need our help. We need yours. I have a job that is ideally suited to you. At the same time, it’ll take you far away and keep you safe.”
“What job?” Alex asked. The two words fell heavily from his lips.
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