Authors: Anthony Horowitz
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, smiling at Alex and Sabina.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I’d like to see Mrs Jones.”
“Mrs Jones?” The young woman frowned. “Do you know what department she works in?”
“She works with Mr Blunt.”
“I’m sorry…” She turned to the security guard. “Do you know a Mrs Jones?”
“There’s a Miss Johnson,” the guard suggested. “She’s a cashier.”
Alex looked from one to the other. “You know who I mean,” he said. “Just tell her that Alex Rider is here—”
“There is no Mrs Jones working at this bank,” the receptionist interrupted.
“Alex…” Sabina began.
But Alex refused to give up. He leant forward so that he could speak confidentially. “I know this isn’t a bank,” he said. “This is MI6 Special Operations. Please could you—”
“Are you doing this as some sort of prank?” This time it was the security guard who was speaking. “What’s all this nonsense about MI6?”
“Alex, let’s get out of here,” Sabina said.
“No!” Alex couldn’t believe what was happening. He didn’t even know exactly what it
was
that was happening. It had to be a mistake. These people were new. Or perhaps they needed some sort of password to allow him into the building. Of course. On his previous visits here, he had only ever come when he had been expected. Either that or he had been brought here against his will. This time he had come unannounced. That was why he wasn’t being allowed in.
“Listen,” Alex said. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to let just anyone in, but I’m not just anyone. I’m Alex Rider. I work with Mr Blunt and Mrs Jones. Could you please let her know I’m here?”
“There
is
no Mrs Jones,” the receptionist repeated helplessly.
“And I don’t know any Mr Blunt either,” the security guard added.
“Alex. Please…” Sabina was sounding more and more desperate. She really wanted to leave.
Alex turned to her. “They’re lying, Sabina,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the lift. He reached out and stabbed the call button.
“You stop right there!” The security guard stood up.
The receptionist reached out and pressed a button, presumably calling for help.
The lift didn’t come.
Alex saw the guard moving towards him. Still no lift. He looked around and noticed a corridor leading away, with a set of swing doors at the end. Perhaps there would be a staircase or another set of lifts somewhere else in the building. Pulling Sabina behind him, Alex set off down the corridor. He heard the security guard getting closer. He quickened his pace, searching for a way up.
He slammed through the double doors.
And stopped.
He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers – ordinary people off the street – waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.
“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?”
A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.
Alex took all this in with one glance. He looked at Sabina. She was staring with a mixture of emotions on her face.
And then the security guard was there. “You’re not meant to come into the bank this way,” he said. “This is a staff entrance. Now, I want you to leave before you get yourself into real trouble. I mean it! I don’t want to have to call the police, but that’s my job.”
“We’re going.” Sabina had stepped in and her voice was cold, definite.
“Sab—”
“We’re going now.”
“You ought to look after your friend,” the security guard said. “He may think this sort of thing is funny, but it isn’t.”
Alex left – or rather allowed Sabina to lead him out. They went through a revolving door and out onto the street. Alex wondered what had happened. Why had he never seen the bank before? Then he realized. The building was actually sandwiched between two streets with a quite separate front and back. He had always entered from the other side.
“Listen—” he began.
“No. You listen! I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. Maybe it’s because you don’t have parents. You have to draw attention to yourself by creating this … fantasy! But just listen to yourself, Alex! I mean, it’s pretty sick. Schoolboy spies and Russian assassins and all the rest of it…”
“It’s got nothing to do with my parents,” Alex said, feeling anger well up inside him.
“But it’s got
everything
to do with mine. My dad gets hurt in an accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sab.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Are you really so stupid that you think I’d make all this up?”
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m just saying that I thought we were friends. I thought you knew me…”
“Yes! I thought I knew you. But now I see I was wrong. I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Listening to you in the first place was stupid. Coming to see you was stupid. Ever getting to know you … that was the most stupid thing of all.”
She turned and walked away in the direction of the station. In seconds she had gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Alex…” a voice said behind him. It was a voice that he knew.
Mrs Jones was standing on the pavement. She had seen and heard everything that had taken place.
“Let her go,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”
SAINT OR SINGER?
T
he office was the same as it had always been. The same ordinary, modern furniture, the same view, the same man behind the same desk. Not for the first time, Alex found himself wondering about Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations. What had his journey to work been like today? Was there a suburban house with a nice, smiling wife and two children waving goodbye as he left to catch the tube? Did his family know the truth about him? Had he ever told them that he wasn’t working for a bank or an insurance company or anything like that, and that he carried with him – perhaps in a smart leather case, given to him for his birthday – files and documents full of death?
Alex tried to see the teenager in the man in the grey suit. Blunt must have been his own age once. He would have gone to school, sweated over exams, played football, tried his first cigarette and got bored at weekends like anybody else. But there was no sign of any child in the empty grey eyes, the colourless hair, the mottled, tightly drawn skin. So when had it happened? What had turned him into a civil servant, a spy-master, an adult with no obvious emotions and no remorse?
And then Alex wondered if the same thing would one day happen to him. Was that what MI6 were preparing him for? First they had turned him into a spy; next they would turn him into one of them. Perhaps they already had an office waiting with his name on the door. The windows were closed and it was warm in the room, but he shuddered. He had been wrong to come here with Sabina. The office on Liverpool Street was poisonous, and one way or another it would destroy him if he didn’t stay away.
“We couldn’t allow you to bring that girl here, Alex,” Blunt was saying. “You know perfectly well that you can’t just show off to your friends whenever—”
“I wasn’t showing off,” Alex cut in. “Her dad was almost killed by a bomb in the South of France.”
“We know all about the business in Saint-Pierre,” Blunt murmured.
“Do you know that it was Yassen Gregorovich who planted it?”
Blunt sighed irritably. “That doesn’t make any difference. It’s none of your business. And it’s certainly nothing to do with us!”
Alex stared at him in disbelief. “Sabina’s father is a journalist,” he exclaimed. “He was writing about Damian Cray. If Cray wanted him dead, there must be a reason. Isn’t it your job to find out?”
Blunt held up a hand for silence. His eyes, as always, showed nothing at all. Alex was struck by the thought that if this man were to die, sitting here at his desk, nobody would notice any difference.
“I have received a report from the police in Montpellier, and also from the British consulate,” Blunt said. “This is standard practice when one of our people is involved.”
“I’m not one of your people,” Alex muttered.
“I am sorry that the father of your … friend was hurt. But you might as well know that the French police have investigated – and you’re right. It wasn’t a gas leak.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“It turns out that a local terrorist organization – the CST – have claimed responsibility.”
“The CST?” Alex’s head spun. “Who are they?”
“They’re very new,” Mrs Jones explained. “CST stands for Camargue Sans Touristes. Essentially they’re French nationalists who want to stop local houses in the Camargue being sold off for tourism and second homes.”
“It’s got nothing to do with the CST,” Alex insisted. “It was Yassen Gregorovich. I saw him and he admitted it. And he told me that the real target was Edward Pleasure. Why won’t you listen to what I’m saying? It was this article Edward was writing. Something about a meeting in Paris. It was Damian Cray who wanted him dead.”
There was a brief pause. Mrs Jones glanced at her boss as if needing his permission to speak. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Did Yassen mention Damian Cray?” she asked.
“No. But I found his private telephone number in Yassen’s phone. I rang it and I actually heard him speak.”
“You can’t know it was Damian Cray.”
“Well, that was the name he gave.”
“This is complete nonsense.” It was Blunt who had spoken and Alex was amazed to see that he was angry. It was the first time Alex had ever seen him show any emotion at all and it occurred to him that not many people dared to disagree with the chief executive of Special Operations. Certainly not to his face.
“Why is it nonsense?”
“Because you’re talking about one of the most admired and respected entertainers in the country. A man who has raised millions and millions of pounds for charity. Because you’re talking about Damian Cray!” Blunt sank back into his chair. For a moment he seemed undecided. Then he nodded briefly. “All right,” he said. “Since you have been of some use to us in the past, and since I want to clear this matter up once and for all, I will tell you everything we know about Cray.”
“We have extensive files on him,” Mrs Jones said.
“Why?”
“We keep extensive files on everyone who’s famous.”
“Go on.”
Blunt nodded again and Mrs Jones took over. She seemed to know all the facts by heart. Either she had read the files recently or, more probably, she had the sort of mind that never forgot anything.
“Damian Cray was born in north London on 5 October 1950,” she began. “That’s not his real name, by the way. He was christened Harold Eric Lunt. His father was Sir Arthur Lunt, who made his fortune building multi-storey car parks. As a child, Harold had a remarkable singing voice, and aged eleven he was sent to the Royal Academy of Music in London. In fact, he used to sing regularly there with another boy who also became famous. That was Elton John.
“But when he was thirteen, there was a terrible disaster. His parents were killed in a bizarre car accident.”
“What was bizarre about it?”
“The car fell on top of them. It rolled off the top floor of one of their car parks. As you can imagine, Harold was distraught. He left the Royal Academy and travelled the world. He changed his name and turned to Buddhism for a while. He also became a vegetarian. Even now, he never touches meat. The tickets for his concerts are made out of recycled paper. He has very strict values and he sticks to them.
“Anyway, he came back to England in the seventies and formed a band – Slam! They were an instant success. I’m sure the rest of this will be very familiar to you, Alex. At the end of the seventies the band split up, and Cray began a solo career which took him to new heights. His first solo album,
Firelight
, went platinum. After that he was seldom out of the UK or US top twenty. He won five Grammys and an Academy Award for Best Original Song. In 1986 he visited Africa and decided to do something to help the people there. He arranged a concert at Wembley Stadium, with all proceeds going to charity. Chart Attack – that was what it was called. It was a huge success and that Christmas he released a single: ‘Something for the Children’. It sold four million copies and he gave every penny away.
“That was just the beginning. Since the success of Chart Attack, Cray has campaigned tirelessly on a range of world issues. Save the rainforests; protect the ozone layer; end world debt. He’s built his own rehabilitation centres to help young people involved with drugs, and he spent two years fighting to have a laboratory closed down because it was experimenting on animals.
“In 1989 he performed in Belfast, and many people believe that this free concert was a step on the way towards peace in Northern Ireland. A year later he made two visits to Buckingham Palace. He was there on a Thursday to play a solo for Princess Diana’s birthday; and on the Friday he was back again to receive a knighthood from the Queen.
“Only last year he was on the cover of
Time
magazine. ‘Man of the Year. Saint or Singer?’ That was the headline. And that’s why your accusations are ridiculous, Alex. The whole world knows that Damian Cray is just about the closest thing we have to a living saint.”
“It was still his voice on the telephone,” Alex said.
“You heard someone give his name. You don’t know it was him.”
“I just don’t understand it!” Now Alex was angry, confused. “All right, we all like Damian Cray. I know he’s famous. But if there’s a chance that he was involved with the bomb, why won’t you at least investigate him?”
“Because we can’t.” It was Blunt who had spoken and the words came out flat and heavy. He cleared his throat. “Damian Cray is a multimillionaire. He’s got a huge penthouse on the Thames and another place down in Wiltshire, just outside Bath.”
“So what?”
“Rich people have connections and extremely rich people have very good connections indeed. Since the nineties, Cray has been putting his money into a number of commercial ventures. He bought his own television station and made a number of programmes that are now shown all around the world. Then he branched out into hotels – and finally into computer games. He’s about to launch a new game system. He calls it the Gameslayer, and apparently it will put all the other systems – PlayStation 2, GameCube, whatever – into the shade.”
“I still don’t see—”
“He is a major employer, Alex. He is a man of enormous influence. And, for what it’s worth, he donated a million pounds to the government just before the last election. Now do you understand? If it was discovered that we were investigating him, and merely on your say-so, there would be a tremendous scandal. The prime minister doesn’t like us anyway. He hates anything he can’t control. He might even use an attack on Damian Cray as an excuse to close us down.”
“Cray was on television only today,” Mrs Jones said. She picked up a remote control. “Have a look at this and then tell me what you think.”
A TV monitor in the corner of the room flickered on, and Alex found himself looking at a recording of the mid-morning news. He guessed Mrs Jones probably recorded the news every day. She fast-forwarded, then ran the film at the correct speed.
And there was Damian Cray. His hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a dark, formal suit, white shirt and mauve silk tie. He was standing outside the American embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square.
Mrs Jones turned up the sound.
“…the former pop singer, now tireless campaigner for a number of environmental and political issues, Damian Cray. He was in London to meet the president of the United States, who has just arrived in England as part of his summer vacation.”
The picture switched to a jumbo jet landing at Heathrow Airport, then cut in closer to show the president standing at the open door, waving and smiling.
“The president arrived at Heathrow Airport in Air Force One, the presidential plane. He is due to have a formal lunch with the prime minister at number ten Downing Street today…”
Another cut. Now the president was standing next to Damian Cray and the two men were shaking hands, a long handshake for the benefit of the cameras which flashed all around them. Cray had sandwiched the president’s hand between both his own hands and seemed unwilling to let him go. He said something and the president laughed.
“…but first he met Cray for an informal discussion at the American embassy in London. Cray is a spokesman for Greenpeace and has been leading the movement to prevent oil drilling in the wilds of Alaska, fearing the environmental damage this may cause. Although he made no promises, the president agreed to study the report which Greenpeace…”
Mrs Jones turned off the television.
“Do you see? The most powerful man in the world interrupts his holiday to meet Damian Cray. And he sees Cray before he even visits the prime minister! That should give you the measure of the man. So tell me! What earthly reason could he have to blow up a house and perhaps kill a whole family?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
Blunt sniffed. “I think we should wait for the French police to get back to us,” he said. “They’re investigating the CST. Let’s see what they come up with.”
“So you’re going to do nothing!”
“I think we have explained, Alex.”
“All right.” Alex stood up. He didn’t try to conceal his anger. “You’ve made me look a complete fool in front of Sabina; you’ve made me lose one of my best friends. It’s really amazing. When you need me, you just pull me out of school and send me to the other side of the world. But when I need you, just this once, you pretend you don’t even exist and you just dump me out on the street…”
“You’re being over-emotional,” Blunt said.
“No, I’m not. But I’ll tell you this. If you won’t go after Cray, I will. He may be Father Christmas, Joan of Arc and the Pope all rolled into one, but it was his voice on the phone and I know he was somehow involved in what happened in the South of France. I’m going to prove it to you.”
Alex stood up and, without waiting to hear another word, left the room.
There was a long pause.
Blunt took out a pen and made a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then he looked at Mrs Jones. “Well?” he demanded.
“Maybe we should go over the files one more time,” Mrs Jones suggested. “After all, Herod Sayle pretended to be a friend of the British people, and if it hadn’t been for Alex…”
“You can do what you like,” Blunt said. He drew a ring round the last sentence he had written. Mrs Jones could see the words
Yassen Gregorovich
upside down on the page. “Curious that he should have run into Yassen a second time,” he muttered.
“And more curious still that Yassen didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”
“I wouldn’t say that, all things considered.”
Mrs Jones nodded. “Maybe we ought to tell Alex about Yassen,” she suggested.
“Absolutely not.” Blunt picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it. “The less Alex Rider knows about Yassen Gregorovich the better. I very much hope the two of them don’t run into each other again.” He dropped the paper ball into the bin underneath his desk. At the end of the day everything in the bin would be incinerated.
“And that,” he said, “is that.”
Jack was worried.
Alex had come back from Liverpool Street in a bleak mood and had barely spoken a word to her since. He had come into the sitting room where she was reading a book and she had managed to learn that the meeting with Sabina hadn’t gone well and that Alex wouldn’t be seeing her again. But during the afternoon she managed to coax more and more of the story out of him until finally she had the whole picture.