CHRISTMAS AT GUNPOINT
MY UNCLE—IAN RIDER—always told me that he worked in international banking. Why did I believe him? Bankers don’t usually spend weeks or even months away from home, returning with strange scars and bruises they are reluctant to explain. They don’t receive phone calls in the middle of the night from people who refuse to give their name and then disappear at the drop of a hat. And how many of them are proficient in kickboxing and karate, speak three languages, spend hours at the gym, and keep themselves in perfect physical shape?
Ian Rider was a secret agent—a spy. From the day he left Cambridge University with degrees in math and Arabic, he had worked for the Special Operations Division of MI6. Just about everything he ever told me was a lie, but I believed him because I had no parents and had lived with him all my life, and, I suppose, because when you’re thirteen years old, you believe what adults say.
But there was one occasion when I came very close to discovering the truth. It happened one Christmas, at the ski resort of Gunpoint, Colorado. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was going to be the last vacation we would have together. By the following spring, Ian would have been killed on a mission in Cornwall, investigating the Stormbreaker computers being manufactured there. That was just a couple of months after my fourteenth birthday. That was when my entire life spun out of control and I became a spy myself.
Gunpoint had been named after the man who first settled there, a gold digger called Jeremiah Gun. He’d had a shack up in the mountains and had cheerfully drunk himself to death, leaving behind a handful of gold nuggets and his name. Gunpoint was about fifty miles north of Aspen, and if you’ve ever skied in America, you’ll know the setup. There was a central village with gas fires burning late into the night, mulled wine and toasted marshmallows, and shops with prices as high as the mountains surrounding them.
We’d booked a hotel, the Granary, which was on the very edge of the village, about a five-minute walk to the main ski lift. The two of us shared a suite of rooms on the second floor. We each had our own bedroom, opening onto a shared living space with a balcony that ran around the side of the building. The Granary was one of those brand-new places designed to look a hundred years old, with big stone fireplaces, woven rugs, and moose heads on the walls. Part of me hoped they were fake, but they probably weren’t.
For the first couple of days we were on our own. The snow was excellent. There had been a heavy fall just before we arrived, but at the same time the sun was shining and the weather was unusually warm, so we were talking powder and lifts with no lines. We warmed up with a few gentle runs—greens and blues—but we were soon racing each other down the dizzyingly steep runs high up over Gunpoint itself.
It was on the third day that things changed. It began with two new arrivals who moved into the room next door. A father and a daughter—she was just a couple of years older than me. We met outside the lift—the elevator, she would say—and by the time we reached the ground floor, I already knew quite a bit about her.
Her name was Sahara. Her dad lived and worked in Washington, DC—she told me that he was “something in government,” and I guessed she was being vague on purpose. Her mother was a lawyer in New York. The two of them were divorced, and Sahara had to split Christmases between them. She was very pretty, with long black hair and blue eyes, only an inch taller than me despite the age gap. She’d been skiing all her life—and she was completely fearless. And, unlike me, she had her own boots and skis. At the time my feet were growing too fast and, as usual, I’d had to rent.
Sahara Sands. Her father was Cameron Sands, with silver hair, silver glasses, and a laptop computer that never seemed to leave his side. He spent every afternoon in his room, working. Sahara didn’t seem to mind. She was used to it, and anyway, now she had Ian and me.
Two more people, both men, came to the Granary on the same day as Sahara and her dad. They were sharing a smaller, twin-bed room across the corridor, and somehow I knew they weren’t here for fun. Maybe it would have helped if they’d tried to smile. That was how I noticed them in the first place, sitting in the bar with two glasses of water, neither of them drinking, not even talking. In fact, the two of them never seemed to be far away, although not once did they come over and speak to us. They were both in their late twenties, smartly dressed, and very fit. They could have graduated from the same college. The third time I saw them, they were having breakfast. I asked Ian if he thought they were lawyers. He laughed.
“I don’t think so, Alex.” Suddenly he was serious. He nodded at them, sitting together on the other side of the restaurant. “Try again.”
I looked at them more carefully. They were wearing identical ski jackets. They were two tables away from Sahara and her father, not exactly watching them but keeping them in sight. I remembered seeing them on the slopes, about the same distance away. Suddenly I got it. “Are they bodyguards?”
“Better. At a guess, I’d say they’re American Secret Service.”
I blinked. “How do you know?”
“Well, their clothes are American. They don’t smoke and I haven’t seen them touch a drop of alcohol. But more to the point, they’re both carrying guns.”
“Under their jackets?”
Ian shook his head. “You could never draw a gun out of a ski jacket in time. They’ve got ankle holsters. Take a look the next time they’re in the locker room.” He glanced at me over his coffee. “You have to notice these things, Alex. Whenever you meet someone, you have to check them out . . . all the details. People tell a story the moment they walk into a room. You can read them.”
He was always saying stuff like that to me. I used to think he was just talking, passing the time. It was only much later that I realized he was preparing me, and it was a full-time job. Just like the skiing and the scuba lessons. He was quietly following a plan that had begun almost the day I was born.
“Are they here with Cameron Sands?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
I nodded. “They’re always hanging around. And Sahara says her dad works in government.”
“Then maybe he needs protection.” Ian smiled. “I’m going to give you a task, Alex. Just for fun. I want you to find out their names by the end of the week.” He paused. “And the make of their guns.”
But the next day I had forgotten the conversation. It had snowed again. There must have been ten inches on the ground, bulging out over the roofs of the hotel like overstuffed duvets. Sahara and I switched to snowboards and spent about five hours on the chutes, bomb drops, and powder stashes at the bowl area high up over Bear Creek. I never could have guessed that just five months later I’d be using the same skills to avoid being killed by half a dozen thugs on snowmobiles, racing down the side of Point Blanc in southern France. But that’s another story.
We had lunch together at a barn-like place high up in the mountains. I had a stew. She ate a salad. It was funny that we’d both been given credit cards by our parents, but in the end she insisted on paying. “Dad won’t mind,” she said.
“So what exactly does your dad do?” I asked her.
“I told you. He works for the government. You shouldn’t ask questions about him. He never talks about his work.” She changed the subject. “Where are your mom and dad?”
“I never knew them,” I told her. “They died when I was small.”
“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely upset. “I miss my mother a lot when she’s not around, but at least I get to see her. I see both my parents. I wish they’d stayed together. Divorce is such a stupid idea.” She’d bought herself a can of Diet Coke and flicked it open. “You snowboard really well,” she went on. “There’s a double black diamond we could try after lunch, if you like. It’s called Breakneck Pass and it’s meant to be wild. My dad told me to keep away, but he doesn’t need to know.”
“No, thanks.” I shook my he
ad. “I don’t want a broken leg. Let’s take it easy.”
“Whatever you say, Alex.” She winked at me, but I could tell she was disappointed.
We snowboarded together for the rest of the afternoon, and at half past three, with the sun already dipping behind the mountains, we decided to call it a day. We were both bruised and exhausted, soaked with sweat and melted snow. Sahara hurried off to meet her dad for a hot chocolate. I went back to the Granary on my own. I got changed in the locker room and dropped off my board. Then I had a swim in the hotel pool—twenty lengths without stopping. Even at that age, I tried to keep myself fit. After that I went up to the reception area, thinking that I’d wait for my uncle in front of the fire, but when the lift door opened, I saw he was already there. He was sitting on the corner of a sofa, wearing jeans and a sweater. I was about to call out to him—but then I stopped. I knew at once that something was wrong.
It’s not easy to explain, but he had never looked like this before. He was usually laid-back and relaxed, but now he was completely silent and tense in a way that was almost animal. Ian had dark brown eyes—people say I inherited the same from my father—but it was as if a shutter had come down. They were cold and colorless. He hadn’t noticed me come in. His attention was focused on the reception desk and the man who was checking in to the hotel.
“People tell a story,” Ian had said. “You can read them.” Looking at the man at the reception desk, I tried to do just that.
He was wearing a black roll-neck jersey with dark trousers and a gold Rolex watch, heavy on his wrist. He had blond hair—an intense yellow, and cut short. It almost looked painted on. I would have said he was thirty years old, with a pockmarked face and a lazy smile. I could hear him talking to the receptionist. He had a Bronx accent. So much for chapter one. What else could I read in him? His skin was unusually pale. In fact it was almost white, as if he had spent half his life indoors. He worked out; I could see the muscles bulging under his sleeves. And he had very bad teeth. That was strange. Americans wealthy enough to stay in a hotel like this would have taken more care of their dental work.
“You’re on the fourth floor, Mr. da Silva,” the receptionist said. “Enjoy your stay.”
The man had brought a cheap suitcase with him. That was also unusual in the land of Gucci and Louis Vuitton. He picked it up and disappeared into the lift.
I walked farther into the reception area and Ian saw me. At once, he relaxed. But he knew I had been watching him.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who was that?”
“The man who just checked in? I don’t know.” Ian shook his head as if trying to dismiss the whole thing. “I thought I knew him from somewhere. How was Bear Creek?”
He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so I went up to the room and watched a DVD before dinner. I’d brought schoolwork with me, but so far I hadn’t even looked at it. I was always putting it off until the next day. At half past seven, I made my way back downstairs. As I left my room, I noticed one of the Secret Service men coming out of a doorway across the corridor. He walked toward the lifts without saying anything to me. Sahara and her father weren’t around.
Ian and I ate dinner together and everything seemed normal. We talked about school, about skiing, about the news. Ian always wanted me to know about current affairs, which I suppose was also part of my training. He ordered half a bottle of wine for himself and a Coke for me. I must have been more tired than I thought, because at around ten o’clock I found myself yawning. He suggested I go up and get an early night.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Oh . . . I might get a breath of air. I’ll follow you up later.”
I left him and went back to the room, and that was when I discovered I didn’t have the electronic card that would open the door. I must have left it on the table. Annoyed with myself, I went back to the dining room. There was no sign of it, and Ian wasn’t there either. Remembering what he had said, I followed him outside.
There was a courtyard around the side of the hotel, covered with snow, a frozen fountain in the middle. It was surrounded by walls on three sides, with the hotel roofs—also snow-covered—slanting steeply. The whole area was lit by a full moon, which shone down like a prison searchlight.
And there he was.
Ian Rider and the man who called himself da Silva were locked together, standing like some bizarre statue in the middle of the courtyard. They were fighting for control of a single gun, which was clasped in their hands, high above their heads. I could see the strain on both their faces. But what made the scene even more surreal was that neither of them was making any sound. In fact, they were barely moving. Both were focused on the gun. Whoever brought it down would be able to use it on the other.
I called out. It was a stupid thing to do. I could have gotten my uncle killed. But both men turned to look at me, and it was Ian who took advantage of the interruption. He let go of the gun and slammed his elbow into da Silva’s stomach, then bent his arm up, the side of his hand scything the other man’s wrist. I had already learned karate for six years and recognized the perfectly executed sideways block.
The gun flew out of the man’s hand, slid across the snow, and came to rest just in front of the fountain.
“Get out of here, Alex!” my uncle shouted.
It took him less than two seconds, but it was enough to lose him the advantage. Da Silva lashed out, the ball of his fist pounding into Ian’s chest, winding him. He followed through with a vicious roundhouse kick. My uncle tried to avoid it, but the snow and the slippery surface didn’t help. He was thrown off his feet and went crashing down. Da Silva stopped and caught his breath. His mouth was twisted in an ugly sneer, his teeth gray in the moonlight. He ran a hand through his blond hair, smoothing it back. He knew the fight was over. He had won.
That was when I acted. I dived forward, throwing myself onto my stomach and sliding across the ice. My own momentum carried me as far as the gun. I snatched it up, noticing for the first time that it was fitted with a silencer. I had never held a handgun before. It was much heavier than I had expected. Da Silva stared at me as I brought it around, aiming it at him.
“No!” My uncle uttered the single word quietly. It didn’t matter what the circumstances were. He didn’t want me to kill a man.
Da Silva stared at me. Even at that moment, I saw the contempt in his eyes. As far as he was concerned, I was just a kid holding a gun. He didn’t think I had the nerve to use it.
I pulled the trigger. I felt the gun jerk in my hand. There was no noise, just a soft ripping sound as the silencer did its work. Even so, the power of the weapon shocked me. I emptied the chamber, one bullet after another, all seven of them. The recoil hurt my wrist. But I wasn’t shooting at da Silva. At the last moment I had lifted the gun and fired into the air above him, over his head. At last it was over. The gun was empty. All the bullets were gone.
Da Silva stood where he was, unharmed. Very slowly, he reached behind him and took out a second gun. My uncle was still on the ground; there was nothing he could do. I lay where I was, my breath coming out in white clouds. Da Silva smiled. I could see him trying to make up his mind which one of us he was going to kill first.
There was a gentle rumble and a ton of snow slid off the roof directly above him. It was exactly what I’d hoped for. I had cut a dotted line with the bullets, and the weight of the snow had done the rest for me. Da Silva just had time to look up before the avalanche hit him. I think he opened his mouth—either to swear or to scream—but it was too late. The snow made almost no sound, just a soft thwump as it hit. In a second, he was gone. Buried under a huge white curtain.
My uncle got to his feet. I did the same. The two of us looked at each other.
“Alex—” he began.
“Do you think we should dig him up?” I asked.
; He shook his head. “No. Let’s leave him to chill out.”
“Who was he? Why did he have a gun? Why were you fighting him?”
There were so many things I wanted to know when we finally got back to our room. Ian had called the police. They were already on the way, he told me. He would talk to them when they arrived. The gun that he had taken from da Silva was beside him. I could still feel the weight of it in my hand. My wrist was aching from the recoil; I had never fired a handgun before.
“Forget about it, Alex,” he said. “He had nothing to do with me. Da Silva—that’s not his real name, by the way—is a wanted criminal and I just happened to recognize him when I saw him in the lobby. He’s been involved in bank fraud.”
“Bank fraud?” I could hardly believe it.
“That’s right. I was out for a walk and I met him quite by chance. I challenged him—which was pretty stupid of me, now that I think about it. He pulled out the gun . . . and the rest you saw.” Ian smiled. “I expect he’ll have frozen solid by now. At least he won’t be needing a morgue.”
If I’d thought a little more, I’d have realized that none of it added up. When I had come upon the two men, they were fighting for control of a single gun. They had dropped it—and then da Silva had produced a second gun of his own. So logic should have told me that the first gun actually belonged to my uncle. But why would he have brought a gun with him on a skiing vacation? How could he even have gotten it through airport security? It was such an unlikely thought—Ian carrying a firearm—that I accepted his story, because there was no alternative.
Anyway, I was exhausted. It had been a long day and I was glad to crawl into bed. There were all sorts of questions tugging at my mind, but I ignored them and fell asleep almost immediately. Ian was surprisingly quiet the following morning, and it occurred to me that he hadn’t even thanked me for what I had done the night before. Over breakfast, he told me he wouldn’t be coming skiing. Apparently he’d spoken to the police when they’d finally arrived, and they wanted him to come to their offices in Cale and tell them as much as he could about da Silva and the fight outside the hotel. There was further bad news too. Somehow da Silva had dug his way out of the great mound of snow. He had gotten away.
Alex Rider--Secret Weapon Page 16