Scorpia Rising (38 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
“We have two fatalities, sir. I’m afraid Edwards was shot dead outside the room where the sniper was concealed. It was some sort of control center high up in the roof. And they’ve found a TV technician in one of the OBUs. Cause of death is still unclear.”
“What about the secretary of state?”
“She’s fine, sir. We put the usual protocol into place and got her out of the building, unharmed. She’s already back at the embassy, a little shaken up but otherwise okay.”
“The weapon?”
“Arctic Warfare sniper rifle. The Egyptians are hanging on to it, sir. Their man’s already here.”
The Egyptians! Joe Byrne was looking old and tired—as if all the cares of the world had been dumped on his shoulders, which, in a way, they had. If he wasn’t careful, this whole thing would disintegrate into a who-did-what spat, with each country blaming the other. An armed assassin had walked past fifteen CIA agents and ten times as many Egyptian security men and police. That meant an awful lot of egg on an awful lot of faces.
As if on cue, a short, dark man with heavy eyes and a mustache drooping all the way down the sides of his chin came striding toward them. Byrne recognized him at once. His name was Ali Manzour and he was the head of Jihaz Amn al Daoula, the Egyptian State Security Service. He was wearing a white striped suit and there were several heavy gold rings on his fingers. Byrne noticed that the Egyptian’s clothes were drenched and he wondered if it was the rain. It was just as likely to be sweat. For a man of his size, Manzour was seriously overweight.
Even so, it was good news that he was here. Byrne knew Manzour fairly well. He was smart and efficient. Over a glass of raki he could also be warm and goodhumored. But right now, his stress levels were out of control. Even as he approached, he took out a bottle of white tablets and dry-swallowed a handful of them.
“This is a disgrace,” he exploded. “This is an outrage!”
“You told me the building was secure.” Byrne had decided to play it straight down the line. The buck stops here . . . and not with me.
“The building was secure!”
“There was some sort of secret staircase constructed in the walls,” Brenner said. “It led all the way up.”
“I know nothing about this secret staircase!” Manzour exclaimed. “But I am telling you now that this is a British plot. In my opinion, it has all the fingerprints of the British secret service. The gun that the sniper used is of British design. The British did not wish the secretary of state to make this speech. And it is a British citizen who was found in the television van.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have his ID. His name is Erik Gunter. And he does not work for Al Minya. The van had been stolen from them. They know nothing about him.”
Erik Gunter. Byrne’s heart sank. It was the name that Alex had given him. He had given instructions for the man to be kept under surveillance, but somehow he must have slipped through the net. “How did he die?” he asked.
Manzour’s eyes bulged almost comically, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “My people say that he was stung by a scorpion. But this is madness. There are no scorpions in Cairo. There are no scorpions in television broadcasting vans.” He signaled frantically and a junior officer came running over with a folding chair. He plumped himself down and took out a handkerchief, using it to wipe his brow. It took him a few moments to regain his composure, but when he spoke again it was in a softer voice. “I do not understand any of this. I get the sense of a great conspiracy. Let us give thanks that it does not seem to have worked and that the secretary of state is unharmed.”
A soldier appeared, walking hastily toward them. He stopped in front of Manzour, saluted, then bent forward and whispered a few words. Manzour looked up, his face filled with new alarm. “The business becomes even more strange,” he said. “I have just been told that a boy has been arrested at the main gate.”
“A boy?”
“He was carrying a gun. Russian manufacture. It appears to have been fired. He simply walked up to my men and allowed himself to be taken. He didn’t try to resist. And now he is asking for you.”
“Where is he?” Suddenly Byrne knew. It couldn’t be anyone else. “Can you ask your man to describe him?”
Manzour turned to the soldier and there was a brief exchange of words. “He is a British schoolboy. Aged fifteen. Light-colored hair. He was wearing the uniform of one of our international colleges.”
“The Cairo College of Arts and Education?”
“Yes.” Manzour’s eyes narrowed. “You know him?”
“Yes, I do. And it’s absolutely urgent that we speak to him immediately . . . somewhere private.”
Manzour nodded. He stood up, then noticed the soldier, still waiting for instructions. “You heard what he said!” he bellowed. “Fetch the boy. Bring him to me . . . in the director’s office. Nobody is to speak to him. Not even his name! I’ll see him at once.”
It was Alex Rider, of course. It couldn’t have been anyone else. But Joe Byrne was shocked by what he saw. Only a few days had passed since the two of them had met, but in that time the boy seemed to have aged ten years. Alex didn’t seem to be physically hurt. He had walked into the room, an office inside the Assembly Hall, and sat down without limping or showing any obvious sign of injury. He had seemed pleased to see Byrne. But he looked haggard and exhausted. His clothes, soaking wet, hung off a body that was almost broken. The light had gone out in his eyes. It was obvious to Byrne that something terrible had happened. And for the first time in his long career with the CIA, he was almost afraid to ask.
Alex told his story briefly, as if he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. He explained that he had been kidnapped by a man called Razim and taken to the desert. There was a conspiracy, put together by Scorpia, to blackmail the British government. An exact look-alike of Alex had entered the Assembly Hall with the party from Cairo College and would have shot the secretary of state if Alex hadn’t stopped him.
“A look-alike?” Manzour repeated the words. From the expression on his face, he hadn’t believed anything Alex had said.
“Yes. His name is Julius Grief. His father was Dr. Hugo Grief. He had plastic surgery that made him look like me.”
“And where is he now?”
“You’ll find him on the side of the road leading down from the university.”
“Alive?”
“No. I killed him.”
Manzour turned to one of his officers and snapped out a command in Arabic. The officer hurried out of the room.
Byrne waited until he had gone. “I don’t think you should doubt anything Alex says, Ali,” he muttered. “I know him. I’ve worked with him twice in the past. You can trust him.”
The use of his first name signaled something to the Egyptian head of security. He nodded slowly, then turned back to Alex, examining him more carefully. “We found a dead man in an outside broadcast van,” he said.
Alex nodded. “That was Erik Gunter. He was part of it. He was the head of security at Cairo College. But he was also working for Scorpia.”
“He was stung by a scorpion.”
“That’s right.” Alex didn’t offer any explanation.
Byrne leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said. “Where can we find this man . . . Razim?”
“I’ll tell you that,” Alex said. “But there’s a condition. I want to come with you when you take him out.”
Manzour shook his head. “Out of the question. I have men who are experienced in this sort of thing. Unit Triple Seven. They do not need your help.” Unit 777 was the Egyptian counterterrorism and special operations unit. It had gotten its name from the year it was founded—1977. It was based in southern Cairo.
“I think you’ve done enough, Alex,” Byrne agreed. “You can leave this to us.”
Alex shook his head. “Razim is in a fort near the town of Siwa,” he said. “And he has enough firepower to hold back an army. He’s put mines in the sand all around him so even if your men are experienced, they’ll be blown to pieces before they get anywhere near. Razim boasted to me about radar warning systems and surface-to-air missiles. Do you really want to get into a fight with him? If you let me help you, you won’t have to.”
Neither man spoke, so Alex went on.
“There’s a helicopter waiting to take Julius Grief back to the fort. I can show you where it is and you’ll be able to hide twelve of your men inside. If we move fast enough, we might be able to catch Razim before he’s heard what happened here tonight. I can walk right in. He’ll think I’m Julius.”
“And then?” Manzour was suddenly interested.
“Your men wait in the helicopter. There’s a central control room. If I can get in there, I can disable all the machinery in the fort. No power. No missiles. No mines. Then you attack. He still has about twenty or thirty guards, but you’ll take them by surprise.”
“Everything depends upon your being able to reach this control room,” Manzour said.
“It’s in an old bakery. I noticed it when I was there. That’s the weak spot.”
There was a brief silence, then Byrne nodded. “He’s right,” he said. “The question is—is it too late for a news blackout?”
“The television stations have already broadcast that an attempt was made on the life of your secretary of state,” Manzour replied. “But they have not reported if it was successful. I can make sure that they say nothing more tonight. That would give you the time you need.”
“So it’s agreed?”
There was a movement at the door and the officer whom Manzour had sent out returned, chattering excitedly in Arabic. He was staring at Alex as if he had just seen a ghost. Manzour nodded and dismissed him. “It’s true about the other boy,” he said. “He’s an exact duplicate . . . apart from the bullet hole in his head.”
Alex shrugged.
Manzour glanced at Byrne. “What do you think?”
“A joint American-Egyptian operation. It’s your country, but it was our politician. Six of your men. Six of mine. Plus Alex, of course.”
“I agree. But we must move quickly.”
Byrne reached out and put a hand on Alex’s shoulder. He had to know. “What did Razim do to you, Alex?” he asked.
He felt Alex flinch, as if the contact was painful to him. He didn’t answer Byrne’s question. “Razim has an interest in pain,” he said. “I think it’s time he experienced some.” He stood up. “We shouldn’t be sitting here talking. We should be on our way. And there is one other thing.
“This time, I want a gun.”
The Sikorsky H-34 was waiting exactly where Alex had said it would be, sitting in the darkness beside a half-built office block. The pilot didn’t even see them coming. One moment he was sitting in the cockpit, waiting for Erik Gunter and Julius Grief, the next he had been dragged out and found himself spread-eagled on the rubble with a gun pressed into the back of his neck.
A signal was given and four jeeps pulled in. Alex was in the first, sitting next to Joe Byrne. There were a dozen men behind them—all dressed in desert khakis and combat boots and carrying a selection of Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, grenade launchers, automatic pistols, and enough weaponry to launch a small war. This was the American-Egyptian assault team put together by the two intelligence chiefs. Alex was still in his Cairo College uniform. He had assumed it was what Julius would have been wearing on the return flight.
Jihaz Amn al Daoula, the Egyptian intelligence service, had so far managed to control the night’s news. The radio and television news stations had all reported that an attempt had been made on the life of the secretary of state, but it was still unconfirmed whether she had been hurt or not. Of course, there were thousands of witnesses who had actually been there, but most of them were unsure exactly what they had seen and the CIA had quickly put out their own version of events, which had the secretary of state in the hospital in Cairo and the assassin still at large. Razim might wonder why Erik Gunter hadn’t reported back. But there was every chance that, in the middle of the desert, he was still in the dark—in every sense.
As Alex climbed out of the jeep, the man in charge of the CIA team came over to him. Alex recognized him. Fair haired, square shouldered, blue eyes . . . it was Lewinsky, the man who had tried to interrogate him in the bell room.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” he said, holding out a hand. “I never told you my name. It’s Blake Lewinsky. I know now I was way out of line.”
“That’s all right.” Alex shook the hand briefly.
“I hope you don’t think I make a habit out of this, but we need to get some information out of the pilot.”
“What information?”
“He probably has a password, an identification signal—before he lands at Siwa. If we don’t give it, we could get blown out of the sky.”
“Are you going to waterboard him?” Alex asked.
Lewinsky nodded, acknowledging the jibe. “I think Manzour has other ideas,” he said. “But I just thought I’d come over and warn you. It’s not going to be pleasant. You may not want to watch.”
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