Scorpia (25 page)

It was his deadline too.

That was the one thing he hadn’t told Mrs Jones.

He remembered what had happened on Malagosto. On his last day there he had been sent to see a psychiatrist – an inquisitive, middle-aged man – who had put him through certain tests and then produced his medical report. What was it that Dr Steiner had said? He was a little run-down. He needed more vitamins.

And he had given Alex an injection.

Alex had absolutely no doubt that he had been injected with the same nanoshells that were about to kill thousands of other children in London. He could almost feel them in his bloodstream, millions of golden bullets swirling around in his heart, waiting to release their deadly contents. There was a sour taste in his mouth. Scorpia had tricked him. They had been laughing at him from the very start. Even as Mrs Rothman sipped her champagne in
Positano, she must have been thinking of how to get rid of him.

He hadn’t told Mrs Jones because he didn’t want her to know. He didn’t want anyone to know what a fool he had been. And, at the same time, he was utterly determined. Once the switch was thrown, he would die. But there would be time before that.

Scorpia had told him that it was good to get revenge.

That was exactly what Alex Rider intended to do.

T
he search had already begun.

Hundreds of men and women were working their way across London, with hundreds more acting as back-up: on the telephone, on computers, searching and cross-referencing, trawling through the records. Government scientists had confirmed Dr Stephenson’s prediction that the terahertz dishes would have to be at least one hundred metres above the ground to be effective – and that did indeed make it easier. A search of the city’s basements, cellars and twisting alleyways would have been impossible, even for the country’s entire police force and army. But they were looking for something that had to be high up and in plain view. The clock was ticking but it could be done.

Every satellite dish in London was noted, photographed, authenticated and then eliminated from the search. Whenever possible, the original
planning application was found and checked against the actual dish itself. Telecommunications experts had been called in and wherever there was any doubt they were taken up to the relevant floor to see for themselves.

If people were puzzled by the sudden buzz of activity in apartment blocks and offices, nobody said anything. The few journalists who started to ask questions were quietly pulled aside and threatened with such ferocity that they soon decided there were other, less dangerous stories to pursue. Word went round that there was a crackdown on television licences. And every hour, across the city, more technicians poked and probed, examining the dishes, making sure they had a right to be there.

And then, just after ten o’clock on Thursday morning, six hours before Scorpia’s deadline, they found them.

There was a block of flats on the edge of Notting Hill Gate with amazing views over the whole of west London. It was one of the tallest blocks in the city – famous for both its height and its ugliness. It had been designed in the sixties by an architect who must have been relieved he would never have to live in it.

The roof contained a number of brick structures: the cables for the lifts, air-conditioning units, emergency generators. It was on the side of one of these that the inspectors found three brand-new
satellite dishes facing north, south and east.

Nobody knew what they were for. Nobody had any record of their being placed there. Within minutes there were a dozen technicians on the roof and more circling in helicopters. The cables were found to lead to a radio transmitting device, programmed to begin emitting high frequency terahertz beams at exactly four o’clock that afternoon.

Mark Kellner took the phone call at 10 Downing Street.

“We’ve done it!” he exclaimed. “A block of flats in west London. Three dishes. They’re disconnecting them now.”

Cobra was still in session. Around the table there was a murmur of disbelief that swelled in volume and became a roar of triumph.

“We’re going to keep looking,” Kellner said. “There’s always a faint chance that Scorpia put other dishes in place as back-up. But if there are any others, we’ll find them too. I think we can say that the immediate crisis is over.”

At Liverpool Street Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones were also told the news.

“What do you think?” Mrs Jones asked.

Blunt shook his head. “Scorpia are more clever than that. If these dishes have been found, it’s only because they were meant to be found.”

“So Kellner is wrong again.”

“The man’s a fool.” Blunt glanced at his watch.
“We don’t have much time.”

Mrs Jones looked at him. “All we have is Alex Rider.”

Alex was on the other side of London, a long way from the satellite dishes.

He had been picked up outside Bank Station at the agreed time the night before – but not by car. A scruffy young woman he had never seen before walked past him, whispering two words as she went by, and thrusting a tube ticket into his hand.

“Follow me.”

She led him into the station and onto a train. She didn’t speak to him again, standing some distance away in the carriage, her eyes vacant, as if she was nothing to do with him. They changed trains twice, waiting until the last moment as the doors slid shut and then suddenly stepping out onto the platform. If anyone were following them, she would see. Finally they emerged at King’s Cross Station. She left Alex standing in the street, signalling for him to wait. A few minutes later a taxi pulled up.

“Alex Rider?”

“Yes.”

“Get in.”

It was all done very smoothly. As they moved off, Alex knew that it would have been impossible for any MI6 agents to have followed them. Which was, of course, exactly what Scorpia had planned.

He was taken to a house – a different house to the one he had visited when he first arrived back in London. This one was on the edge of Regent’s Park. A man and woman were waiting for him, and he recognized them as the fake Italian parents who had accompanied him through Heathrow. They led him upstairs and showed him into a shabby bedroom with a bathroom attached. There was a late supper waiting for him on a tray. They left him there, locking the door behind them. There was no telephone. Alex checked the window. That was locked too.

And now it was half past one the next day and Alex was sitting on the bed, looking out of the window at the trees and Victorian railings of the park. He was feeling a little sick. He had begun to think that Scorpia simply planned to leave him here until four o’clock, that they wanted him to die with the other children in London. And that reminded him of the nanoshells which he knew were inside him, resting inside his heart. He remembered the prick of the needle, the smiling face of Dr Steiner as he injected him with death. The thought of it made his skin crawl. Was he really doomed to spend the last hours of his life here, in this room, sitting on an unmade bed, alone?

The door opened.

Nile walked in, followed by Julia Rothman.

She was wearing an expensive coat, grey with a white fur collar, buttoned up to her neck – another
designer label. Her black hair was immaculate, her make-up as much a mask as the ones that had been worn at her party at the Widow’s Palace. Her smile was a brilliant red. Her eyes seemed more dazzling than ever, highlighted by perfectly applied black eyeliner.

“Alex!” she exclaimed. She sounded genuinely delighted to see him, but Alex knew now that everything about her was fake: nothing was to be trusted.

“I wondered if you were going to come,” Alex commented.

“Of course I was going to come, my dear. It’s just that this is rather a busy day. How are you, Alex? I am so pleased to see you.”

“Did you really kill her?” Nile asked. He was casually dressed in a loose jacket and jeans, trainers and a white sweatshirt.

Mrs Rothman scowled. “Nile, do you have to be so direct?” She shrugged. “He’s talking about Mrs Jones, of course. And I suppose we do need to know what happened. The mission was a success?”

“Yes.” Alex nodded. This was the most dangerous part. He knew he couldn’t talk too much; he was afraid of giving himself away. And he was horribly conscious of the brace. It fitted well, but it had to be distorting his speech, at least a bit. The wire across his teeth was transparent but, even so, surely Mrs Rothman would notice it.

“So what happened?” Nile asked.

“I managed to get inside her flat. It all went exactly like you said. I used the gun…”

“And then?”

“I took the lift back down and I was just on my way out when the two guys behind the desk grabbed me.” Alex had spent half the night rehearsing this. “I don’t know how they found out it was me. But before I could do anything they had me on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back.”

“Go on.” Mrs Rothman was gazing at him. Her eyes could have been trying to suck him in.

“They took me somewhere. A cell.” This part was easier – Alex was actually telling a version of the truth. “It was underneath Liverpool Street. They left me there overnight and then Blunt saw me the next day.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a lot. He knew I was working for you. They’d got satellite photographs of me arriving at Malagosto.”

Nile glanced at Mrs Rothman. “That makes sense,” he said. “I’ve always had a feeling we’ve been under surveillance.”

“He didn’t want to know very much,” Alex went on. “He didn’t really want to talk to me. He said I was going to be questioned somewhere out of London. I was left hanging around there for a bit, then a car came to collect me.”

“You were handcuffed?” Mrs Rothman asked.

“Not this time. That was their mistake. It was just an ordinary car. There was the driver in the front, and an MI6 man in the back with me. I didn’t know where they were taking me and I didn’t want to go. I didn’t really care what happened. I didn’t even care if I was killed. I waited until they got a bit of speed up and then I threw myself at the driver. I managed to put my hands over his eyes. There was nothing much he could do. He lost control and the car crashed.”

“Quite a few cars crashed,” Mrs Rothman remarked.

“Yeah. But I was lucky. Everything sort of went upside down, but the next thing I knew, we’d stopped and I was able to get out and run away. Eventually I reached a phone box and called the number you gave me – and here I am.”

Nile had been watching him closely through all this. “How did it feel, Alex?” he asked. “Killing Mrs Jones.”

“I didn’t feel anything.”

Nile nodded. “It was the same for me, the first time. But you will learn to enjoy it. That’ll come with time.”

“You’ve done very well, Alex.” Mrs Rothman spoke the words, but she still sounded doubtful. “I have to say, I’m quite astonished by your daring escape. I saw it on the news and I could hardly believe it. But you’ve certainly passed the test. You really are one of us.”

“Does that mean you’ll take me back to Venice?”

“Not quite yet.” Mrs Rothman thought for a moment and Alex could see she was coming to a decision. “We’re just at the critical point in a certain operation,” she revealed. “It might interest you to see the climax; it’s going to be quite spectacular. What do you think?”

Alex shrugged. He mustn’t look too keen. “I don’t mind,” he said.

“You met Dr Liebermann; you were there at Consanto when dear Nile dealt with him. It seems only right that you should see the fruits of his handiwork.” She smiled again. “I’d like to have you with me, at the end.”

So you can watch me die, Alex thought. “I’d like to be there,” he replied.

Then her eyes narrowed and the smile seemed to freeze. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to search you,” she said. “I do trust you, of course. But as you’ll learn when you’ve been with Scorpia for a while, we don’t leave anything to chance. You were taken prisoner by MI6. It’s always possible that you were somehow contaminated without knowing it. So before we leave here, I want you to go into the bathroom with Nile. He’ll give you a thorough examination. And we’ve got you a complete change of clothes. Everything has to come off, Alex. It’s all a bit embarrassing, I know, but I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” Alex said, but he couldn’t
help running his tongue over the brace. He was certain she’d see it.

“Of course you haven’t. I’m just being overcautious.”

“Let’s do it.” Nile jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. He seemed amused by the whole idea.

Twenty minutes later Alex and Nile came downstairs. Alex was now dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a round-necked jersey. Nile had brought the clothes with him, along with fresh socks, trainers and pants. Mrs Jones had been right. If he’d had so much as a penny on him, Nile would have found it. Alex had been thoroughly searched.

But Nile hadn’t noticed the brace. Alex’s mouth was the one place he hadn’t looked.

“Well?” Mrs Rothman asked. She was in a hurry to leave.

“He’s clean,” Nile answered.

“Good. Then we can go.”

There was a grandfather clock in the hall, standing in the corner on the black and white tiled floor. As Alex moved towards the front door, it struck the hour. Two o’clock.

“Is that the time already?” Mrs Rothman said. She reached out and stroked Alex’s cheek. “You have just two hours left, Alex.”

“Two hours until what?” he asked.

“In two hours’ time you’ll know everything.”

She opened the door.

There was a car waiting for them outside. It took them across London, heading south. They drove round the Aldwych and over Waterloo Bridge, and for a moment Alex gazed out over one of the most startling views of the capital: the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, with the Millennium Wheel on the opposite bank. What would it look like two hours from now? Alex tried to imagine the ambulances and police cars screaming across London, the crowds staring in disbelief, the undersized bodies strewn over the pavements. It would be like another world war – but without a single shot being fired.