Point Blanc (17 page)

"We've
heard from Alex," Mrs. Jones said.

"Oh,
yes?"

"Smithers
gave him a Euro-satellite transmitter built into a portable CD player. Alex
sent a signal to us this morning, at eleven twenty-seven hours, his
time."

"Meaning
...?"

"Either
he's in trouble or he's found out enough for us to go in. Either way,
we have to pull him out."

"I
wonder..." Blunt leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. As a
young man, he had gained a degree with honors in mathematics at Cambridge
University. Thirty years later, he still saw life as only a series of complicated
calculations. "Alex has been at Point Blanc for how long?" he
asked.

"A
week."

"As I
recall, he didn't want to go. According to Sir David Friend, his behavior
at Haverstock Hall was, to say the least, antisocial. Did you know that he
knocked out Friend's daughter with a stun dart? Apparently, he also got
her nearly killed in an incident in a railway tunnel."

Mrs. Jones
sat down. "What are you saying, Alan?" she demanded.

"Only
that Alex may not be one hundred percent reliable."

"He
sent the message." Mrs. Jones couldn't keep the exasperation
out of her voice. "For all we know, he could be in serious trouble. We
gave him the device as an alarm signal, to let us know if he needed help.
He's used it. We can't just sit back and do nothing."

"I
wasn't suggesting that." Alan Blunt looked curiously at his head of
operations. "You're not forming some sort of attachment to Alex
Rider, are you?" he asked.

Mrs. Jones
looked away. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You
seem worried about him."

"He's
fourteen years old, Alan! He's a child, for heaven's sake!"

"You
used to have children."

"Yes."
Mrs. Jones turned to face him again. "Perhaps that does make a
difference. But even you must admit that he's special. We don't
have another agent like him. A fourteen-year-old boy! The perfect secret
weapon. My feelings about him have nothing to do with it. We can't afford
to lose him."

"I just
don't want to go blundering into Point Blanc without any firm
information," Blunt said. "First of all, this is France we're
talking about--and you know what the French are like. If we're seen
to be invading their territory, they'll kick up one hell of a fuss.
Secondly, Grief has got hold of boys from some of the wealthiest families in
the world. If we go storming in with the SAS or whatever, the whole thing could
blow up into a major international incident."

"You
wanted proof that the school was connected with the deaths of Roscoe and
Ivanov," Mrs. Jones said. "Alex may have it."

"He may
have it and he may not. A twenty-four-hour delay shouldn't make a great
deal of difference."

"Twenty-four
hours?"

"We'll
put a unit on standby. They can keep an eye on things. If Alex is in trouble,
we'll find out soon enough. It could play to our favor if he's
managed to stir things up. It's exactly what we want. Force Grief to show
his hand."

"And if
Alex contacts us again?"

"Then
we'll go in."

"We may
be too late."

"For
Alex?" Blunt showed no emotion. "I'm sure you don't
need to worry about him, Mrs. Jones. He can look after himself."

The telephone
rang, and Blunt answered it. The discussion was over. Mrs. Jones got up
and left to make the arrangements for an SAS unit to fly into Geneva. Blunt was
right, of course. Delaying tactics might work in their favor.

Clear it with
the French. Find out what was going on. And it was only twenty-four hours.

She would
just have to hope Alex could survive that long.

Alex found
himself eating his breakfast on his own. For the first time, James Sprintz had
decided to join the other boys. There they were, the six of them, suddenly the
best of friends. Alex looked carefully at the boy who had once been his friend,
trying to see what it was that had changed about him. He knew the answer. It
was everything and nothing. James was exactly the same and completely different
at the same time.

He finished
his food and got up. James called out to him. "Why don't you come
to class this afternoon, Alex? It's Latin."

Alex shook
his head. "Latin's a waste of time."

"Is
that what you think?" James couldn't keep the sneer out of his
voice, and for a moment Alex was startled. For just one second it hadn't
been James talking at all. It had been James who had moved his mouth, but it
had been Dr. Grief speaking the words.

"You
enjoy it," Alex said. He hurried out of the room.

More than twenty
hours had passed since he had pressed the Fast Forward button on the Discman.
Alex wasn't sure what he had been expecting. A fleet of helicopters all
flying the Union Jack would have been reassuring. But so far nothing had
happened. He even wondered if the alarm signal had worked. At the same time, he
was annoyed with himself.

He had seen
Grief shoot the man called Baxter in the operating room, and he had panicked.
He knew that Grief was a killer. He knew that the academy was far more than the
finishing school it pretended to be. But he still didn't have all the
answers. What exactly was Dr. Grief doing? Had he been responsible for the
deaths of Michael J. Roscoe and Viktor Ivanov--and if so, why?

The fact was,
he didn't know enough. And by the time MI6 arrived, Dr. Baxter's
body would be buried somewhere in the mountains and there would be nothing to
suggest there was anything wrong. Alex would look like a fool. He could almost
imagine Dr. Grief telling his side of the story ...

"Yes.
There is an operating room here. It was built years ago. We never use the top
two floors. There is an elevator, yes. It was built before we came. We
explained to Alex about the armed guards. They're here for his
protection. But as you can see, gentlemen, there is nothing unpleasant
happening here. The other boys are fine. Baxter? No, I don't know anyone
by that name. Obviously Alex has been having bad dreams. I'm amazed that
he was sent here to spy on us. I would ask you to take him with you when you
leave..."

He had to
find out more--and that meant going back up to the third floor. Or perhaps
down. Alex remembered the letters in the elevator.
R
for
Rez-de-chaussee.
S
had to stand for
Sous-sol--
French
for basement.

He went over to
the Latin classroom and looked in through the half-open door. Dr. Grief was out
of sight, but Alex could hear his voice.

"
Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere
causus--
"

There was the
sound of scratching, chalk on a blackboard. And there were the six boys, sitting
at their desks, listening intently. James was sitting between Hugo and Tom,
taking notes. Alex looked at his watch. They would be there another hour. He
was on his own.

He walked
back down the corridor and slipped into the library. He had woken up still
smelling faintly of soot and had no intention of making his way back up the
chimney. Instead he crossed over to the suit of armor. He knew now that the
alcove disguised a pair of elevator doors. They could be opened from inside.
Presumably there was some sort of control on the outside too.

It took him
just a few minutes to find it. There were three buttons built into the
breastplate of the armor. Even up close, the buttons looked like part of the
suit ... something the medieval knight would have had to use to strap the
thing on. But when Alex pressed the middle button, it moved. A moment later,
the armor split in half again and he found himself looking into the waiting
elevator.

This time he
went down, not up. The elevator seemed to travel a long way, as if the basement
of the building had been built far underground. Finally, the doors slid open
again. Alex looked out onto a curving passageway with tiled walls that reminded
him a little of a London subway station. The air was cold down here. The
passage was lit by naked bulbs, screwed into the ceiling at intervals.

He looked
out, then ducked back. A guard sat at a table at the end of the corridor,
reading a newspaper. Would he have heard the elevator doors open? Alex leaned
forward again. The guard was absorbed in the sports pages. He hadn't
moved. Alex slipped out and crept down the passage, moving away from him. He
reached the corner and turned into a second passageway lined with steel doors.
There was nobody else in sight.

Where was he?
There had to be something down here or there wouldn't be any need for a
guard. Alex went over to the nearest door. There was a peephole set in the
front, and he looked through into a bare, white cell with two bunk beds, a
toilet, and a sink. There were two boys in the cell. One he had never seen
before, but he recognized the other. It was the red-haired boy, Tom McMorin.
But he had seen Tom in Latin class just a few minutes ago! What was he doing
here?

Alex moved on
to the next cell. This one also held two boys. One was a fair-haired,
fit-looking boy with blue eyes and freckles. Once again, he recognized the
other. It was James Sprintz. Alex examined the door. There were two bolts, but
as far as he could see, no key. He drew back the bolts and jerked the door
handle down. The door opened. He went in.

James stood
up, astonished to see him. "Alex! What are you doing here?"

Alex closed
the door. "We haven't got much time," he said. He was
speaking in a whisper even though there was little chance of being overheard.
"What happened to you?"

"They
came for me the night before last," James said. "They dragged me
out of bed and into the library. There was some sort of elevator..."

"Behind
the armor."

"Yes. I
didn't know what they were doing. I thought they were going to kill me.
But then they threw me in here."

"You've
been here for two days?"

"Yes."

Alex shook
his head. "I saw you having breakfast upstairs fifteen minutes
ago."

"They've
made duplicates of us." The other boy had spoken for the first time. He
had an American accent. "All of us! I don't know how they've
done it or why. But that's what they've done." He glanced at
the door with anger in his eyes. "I've been here for months. My
name's Paul Roscoe."

"Roscoe!
Your dad's ...?"

"Michael
Roscoe."

Alex fell
silent. He couldn't tell this boy what had happened to his father and he
looked away, afraid that Paul would read it in his eyes.

"How
did you get down here?" James asked.

"Listen,"
Alex said. He was speaking rapidly now. "I was sent here by MI6. My name
isn't Alex Friend. It's Alex Rider. Everything's going to be
okay. They'll send people in and get you all freed."

"You're
a spy?" James was obviously startled.

Alex nodded.
"I'm sort of a spy, I suppose," he said.

"You've
opened the door. We can get out of here!" Paul Roscoe stood up, ready to
move.

"No!"
Alex held up his hands. "You've got to wait. There's no way
down the mountain. Stay here for now and I'll come back with help. I
promise you. It's the only way."

"I
can't--"

"You
have to. Trust me, Paul. I'm going to have to lock you back in so that
nobody will know I've been here. But it won't be for long.
I'll come back!"

Alex
couldn't wait for any more argument. He went back to the door and opened
it.

Mrs. Stellenbosch
was standing outside.

He barely had
time to register the shock of seeing her. He tried to bring up a hand to
protect himself, to twist his body into position for a karate kick. But it was
already too late. Her arm shot out, the heel of her hand driving into his face.
It was like being hit by a brick wall. Alex felt every bone in his body rattle.
White light exploded behind his eyes. Then he was out.

"OPEN
YOUR EYES ALEX. Dr. Grief wishes to speak to you."

The words
came from across an ocean. Alex groaned and tried to lift his head. He was
sitting down, his arms pinned behind his back. The whole side of his face felt
bruised and swollen, and the taste of blood was in his mouth. He opened his
eyes and waited for the room to come into focus. Mrs. Stellenbosch was
standing in front of him, her fist curled loosely in her other hand. Alex
remembered the force of the blow that had knocked him out. His whole head was
throbbing, and he ran his tongue over his teeth to see if any were missing. It
was fortunate he had rolled with the punch. Otherwise she might have broken his
neck.

Dr. Grief was
sitting in his golden chair, watching Alex with what might have been curiosity
or distaste or perhaps a little of both. There was nobody else in the room. It
was still snowing outside, and a small fire burned in the hearth. The flames
weren't as red as Dr. Grief's eyes.