Point Blanc (10 page)

He watched as
a combine harvester rumbled slowly toward him, cutting a swathe through the
grass. It jerked to a halt a short distance away, and the door of the cabin
opened. A man got out--with difficulty. He was so fat that he had to
squeeze himself out, first one buttock, then the next, and finally his stomach,
shoulders, and head. The man was wearing a checked shirt and blue
overalls--a farmer's outfit. But even if he'd had a straw hat
and a blade of corn between his teeth, Alex could never have imagined him
actually farming anything.

The man
grinned at him. "Hello, old chap!" he said.

"Hello,
Mr. Smithers," Alex replied.

Smithers
worked for MI6. He had supplied the various devices Alex had used on his last
mission. "Very nice to see you again!" he exclaimed. He winked.
"What do you think of the cover? I was told to blend in with the
countryside."

"The
combine harvester's a great idea," Alex said. "Except, this
is April. There isn't anything to harvest."

"I
hadn't thought of that!" Smithers beamed. "The trouble is,
I'm not really a field agent. Field agent!" He looked around him
and laughed. "Anyway, I'm jolly glad to have the chance to work
with you again, Alex--to think up a few bits and pieces for you.
It's not often I get a teenager. Much more fun than the adults!"

He reached
into the cabin and pulled out a suitcase. "Actually, it's been a
bit tricky this time," he went on.

"Have
you got another Nintendo Game Boy?" Alex asked.

"No.
That's just it. The school doesn't allow Game Boys--or any
computers at all, for that matter. They supply their own laptops. I could have hidden
a dozen gadgets inside a laptop, but there you are! Now, let's
see..." He opened the case. "I'm told there's still
a lot of snow up at Point Blanc' so you'll need this."

"A ski
suit," Alex said. That was what Smithers was holding.

"Yes.
But it's highly insulated and also bulletproof." He pulled out a
pair of green-tinted goggles. "These are ski goggles. But in case you
have to go anywhere at night, they're actually infrared. There's a
battery concealed in the frame. Just press the switch and you'll be able
to see about twenty yards, even if there's no moon."

Smithers
reached into the case a second time. "Now, what else would a boy of your
age have with him? Fortunately, you're allowed to take a Sony Discman,
provided all the CDs are classical." He handed Alex the machine.

"So
while people are shooting at me in the middle of the night, I get to listen to
music," Alex said.

"Absolutely.
Only don't play the Beethoven!" Smithers held up the disc.
"The Discman converts into an electric saw. The CD is diamond-edged.
It'll cut through just about anything--useful if you need to get out
in a hurry. There's also a panic button I've built in. If
you're in real trouble and you need help, just press Fast Forward three
times. It'll send out a signal that our satellite will pick up. And then
we can fast forward you out!"

"Thank
you, Mr. Smithers," Alex said, but he was disappointed and it
showed.

Smithers
understood. "I know what you want," he said. "But you know
you can't have it. No guns! Mr. Blunt is adamant. He thinks
you're too young."

"Not
too young to get killed, though."

"I
know. So I've given it a bit of thought and rustled up a couple of
... defensive measures, so to speak. This is just between you and me, you
understand. I'm not sure Mr. Blunt would approve."

He held out a
hand. A gold ear stud lay in two pieces in the middle of his palm: a diamond
shape for the front and a catch to hold it at the back. The stud looked tiny
surrounded by so much flesh. "They told me you'd had your ear
pierced," he said. "So I made you this. Be very careful after
you've put it in. Bringing the two pieces together will activate
it."

"Activate
what?" Alex looked doubtful.

"The
ear stud is a small but very powerful explosive device. Like a miniature
grenade. Separating the two pieces again will set it off. Count to ten and
it'll blow a hole in just about anything ... or anyone, I should
add."

"Just
so long as it doesn't blow off my ear," Alex muttered.

"No,
no. It's perfectly safe so long as the pieces remain attached."
Smithers smiled. "And finally, I'm very pleased with this.
It's exactly what you'd expect to find in a young boy's
luggage, and I designed it especially for you." He had produced a book.

Alex took it.
It was a hardcover edition of the latest Harry Potter book.
"Thanks," he said. "But I've already read it."

"This
is a special edition. There's a gun built into the spine, and the chamber
is loaded with a stun dart. Just point it and press the author's name.
It'll knock out an adult in less than five seconds."

Alex smiled.
Smithers climbed back into the combine harvester. For a moment he seemed to
have wedged himself permanently into the door, but then with a grunt he managed
to go the whole way. "Good luck, old chap," he said. "Come
back in one piece! I really do enjoy having you around!"

It was time
to go.

Alex's
luggage was being loaded into the helicopter, and he was standing next to his
new parents, clutching the Harry Potter book. Eva Stellenbosch was waiting for
him underneath the rotors. He had been shocked by her appearance, and at first
he had tried to hide it. But then he'd relaxed. He didn't have to
be polite. Alex Rider might have good manners, but Alex Friend wouldn't
give a damn what she thought. He glanced at her scornfully now and noticed that
she was watching him carefully as he said good-bye.

Once again,
Sir David Friend acted his part perfectly. "Good-bye, Alex," he
said. "You will write to us and let us know you're okay?"

"If you
want," Alex said.

Lady Caroline
moved forward and kissed him. Alex backed away from her as if embarrassed. He
had to admit that she looked genuinely sad.

"Come,
Alex!" Mrs. Stellenbosch was in a hurry to get away. She had told
him that the helicopter had a range of only four hundred miles and that they
would need to stop in Paris to refuel.

And then
Fiona appeared, crossing the grass toward them. Alex hadn't spoken to her
for the last two days, not since the business at the tunnel. Nor had she spoken
to him. He had rejected her, and he knew she would never forgive him. She
hadn't come down to breakfast this morning, and he'd assumed she
wouldn't show herself again until he'd gone. So what was she doing
here now?

Suddenly Alex
knew. She'd come to cause trouble--one last jab below the belt. He
could see it in her eyes and in the way she flounced across the lawn with her
hands rolled into fists.

Fiona
didn't know he was a spy. But she must know that he was here for a
reason, and she had probably guessed it had something to do with the woman from
Point Blanc. So she had decided to come out and spoil things for him.

Maybe she was
going to ask questions. Maybe she was going to give Mrs. Stellenbosch a
piece of her mind. Either way, Alex knew that his mission would be over before
it had even begun. All his work memorizing the files and all the time he had
spent with the family would have been for nothing.

"Fiona..."
Sir David muttered. His eyes were grave. He had come to the same conclusion as
Alex.

She ignored
him. "Are you from the academy?" she asked, speaking directly to
Mrs. Stellenbosch.

"Yes, my
dear."

"Well,
I think there's something you should know."

There was
only one thing Alex could do. He lifted the Harry Potter book and pointed it at
Fiona, then pressed the spine once, hard. There was no noise, but he felt the
book shudder in his hand. Fiona put her hand to the side of her leg. All the
color drained out of her face. She crumpled to the grass.

Lady Caroline
ran to her. Mrs. Stellenbosch looked puzzled. Alex turned to her, his face
blank. "That's my sister," he said. "She gets very
emotional."

Two minutes
later, the helicopter took off. Alex watched through the window as Haverstock
Hall got smaller and smaller and then disappeared behind them. He looked at
Mrs. Stellenbosch, hunched over the controls, her eyes hidden by her
goggles. He eased himself into his chair and let himself be carried away into
the darkening sky. Then the clouds rolled in. The countryside was gone. So was
his only weapon. Alex was on his own.

IT
WAS RAINING IN PARIS. The city looked tired and disappointed, the Eiffel Tower
fighting against a mass of heavy clouds. There was nobody sitting at the tables
outside the cafes, and for once the little kiosks selling paintings and
postcards were being ignored by the tourists, who were hurrying back to their
hotels. It was five o'clock in the afternoon and the evening was drawing
in, unnoticed. The shops and offices were emptying, but the city didn't
care. It just wanted to be left alone.

The
helicopter had landed in a private area of Charles de Gaulle airport, and a car
had been waiting to drive them in. Alex had said nothing during the flight and
now he sat on his own in the back, watching the buildings flash by. They were
following the Seine, moving surprisingly fast along a wide, two-lane road that
dipped above and below the water level. Their route took them past Notre Dame.
Then they turned off, weaving their way through a series of back streets with
smaller restaurants and boutiques fighting for space on the pavements.

"The
Marais," Mrs. Stellenbosch said to Alex, pointing out the window.

He pretended
to show no interest. In fact, he had stayed in the Marais once with his uncle
and knew it as one of the most sophisticated and expensive sections in Paris.

The car
turned into a large square and stopped. Alex glanced out the window. He was
surrounded on four sides by the tall, classical houses for which Paris is
famous. But the square had been disfigured by a single modern hotel. It was a
white, rectangular block, the windows fitted with dark glass that allowed no
view inside. It rose up four floors with a flat roof and the name HOTEL DU
MONDE in gold letters above the main door. If a spaceship had landed in the
square, crushing a couple of buildings to make room for itself, it
couldn't have looked more out of place.

"This
is where we're staying," Mrs. Stellenbosch said. "The
hotel is owned by the academy."

The driver
took their cases out of the trunk. Alex followed the assistant director toward
the entrance, the door sliding open automatically to allow them in. The lobby
was cold and faceless, white marble and mirrors with a single potted plant
tucked into a corner as an afterthought. There was a small reception desk with an
unsmiling male receptionist in a dark suit and glasses, a computer, and a row
of pigeonholes. Alex counted them. There were fifteen. Presumably, the hotel
had fifteen rooms.

"
Bonsoir
, Madame
Stellenbosch." The receptionist nodded his head slightly. He ignored
Alex. "I hope you had a good journey from England," he continued,
still speaking in French. Alex gazed blankly, as if he hadn't understood
a word. Alex Friend wouldn't speak French. He wouldn't have
bothered to learn. But Ian Rider had made certain that his nephew was speaking
French almost as soon as he was speaking English. Not to mention German and
Spanish as well.

The
receptionist took down two keys. He didn't ask either of them to sign in.
He didn't ask for a credit card. The school owned the hotel, so there
would be no bill when they left. He gave Alex one of the keys.

"I hope
you're not superstitious," he said, speaking in English now.

"No,"
Alex replied.

"It is
room thirteen. On the first floor. I am sure you will find it most
agreeable." The receptionist smiled.

Mrs. Stellenbosch
took her key. "The hotel has its own restaurant," she said. Her
voice was gravelly and strangely masculine. Her breath smelled of cigar smoke.
"We might as well eat here tonight. We don't want to go out in the
rain. Anyway, the food here is excellent. Do you like French food, Alex?"

"Not
much," Alex said.

"Well,
I'm sure we'll find something that you like. Why don't you
freshen up after the journey?" She looked at her watch.
"We'll eat at seven--an hour and a half from now. It will give
us an opportunity to talk together. Might I suggest, perhaps, some neater
clothes for dinner? The French are informal, but--if you'll forgive
me saying so, my dear--you take informality a little far. I'll call
you at five to seven. I hope the room is all right."

Room 13 was
at the end of a long, narrow corridor. The door opened into a surprisingly
large space, with views over the square. There was a double bed with a
black-and-white comforter, a television and minibar, a desk, and, on the wall,
a couple of framed pictures of Paris. A porter had carried up Alex's
suitcase, and as soon as he was gone, Alex kicked off his shoes and sat down on
the bed. He wondered why they had come here. He knew the helicopter had needed
refueling, but that shouldn't have necessitated an overnight stop. Why
not fly on straight to the school?