A marksman positioned in the battlements of Kilmore Castle.
Edward Pleasure hadn’t skidded on the ice. One of his tires had been blown out and it had been done quite deliberately by someone who wanted to force them off the road. Anyone else would have thought they were imagining it, but Alex knew better. He had been a target too many times before. Someone had just tried to kill them.
But who?
Desmond McCain? Because he had lost at cards? No—that was insane. There had to be someone else. An old enemy perhaps. Alex had plenty enough of them. Or maybe it had nothing to do with him. Edward Pleasure could have been the target. Journalists, too, had plenty of people who wanted to settle scores.
He said nothing. The last time he had been with the family, in the south of France, they had been attacked. How could he possibly tell them that it had happened a second time? Sabina would never want to see him again. It was much better to persuade himself that he was wrong, that he was tired, that he had an overactive imagination. Anyway, in a few minutes they would be in the air, flying south, leaving it all behind them.
And yet, secretly, he knew that he was lying to himself. As his flight was called and he picked up his carry-on luggage, Alex gritted his teeth. Trouble never seemed to leave him alone. Well, let it follow him to London. He’d just have to be ready for it when it showed up again.
6
NINE FRAMES PER SECOND
ALEX WAS GLAD TO BE HOME.
First of all, Jack was there, waiting for him, surrounded by presents she’d brought back from America. Alex sometimes wondered what people would make of the two of them, living together the way they did. With her baggy clothes, her wild red hair, and her constant smile, Jack was more like a big sister than a housekeeper. And although she was actually his legal guardian, she never nagged or lectured him. They were really just friends and Alex knew that he couldn’t have gotten through the last twelve months without her. She knew what he was doing. She had tried to talk him out of it. But she had never stood in his way.
She’d bought him new jeans, two shirts, a Barack Obama baseball cap, and a pair of fake police sunglasses. And over their first dinner together, he had told her what had happened at Loch Arkaig . . . but with no mention of any sniper.
“I just don’t believe it, Alex!” Jack exclaimed. “You go off for a nice New Year’s Eve party and you end up sixty feet under a frozen loch. Only you could manage that.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Alex protested. “I wasn’t driving.”
“You know what I mean. How’s Edward? How’s Sabina?”
“They’re okay. They were shaken up. We all were.”
“I’m not surprised. Do you know how it happened?”
Alex hesitated. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was lie to Jack. “Nobody’s quite sure. They haven’t gotten the car out yet. It’s possible they never will. But Edward thinks one of the tires blew out. He felt something just before he lost control.”
“And what about the man who helped you?”
“He didn’t hang around. He didn’t even wait to be thanked.”
Alex wouldn’t have mentioned the accident at all, but he knew it would come out the following weekend when he and Jack went to Heathrow Airport to say good-bye to Sabina and her parents, who were finally returning home.
It was an uneasy last meeting, the five of them standing together, hemmed in by the crowds and suitcases and bright lights of Terminal Three.
“We’ll see you again in the spring,” Edward Pleasure said, reaching out and shaking Alex’s hand. “We’ve got a spare room and we can head up the coast. I’m sure you’d enjoy trekking in Yosemite, or we could stay on Big Sur.”
Sabina’s mother gave him a hug. “I know what you did,” she said quietly. “Sabina told me. Edward would still be in that car if it hadn’t been for you.” Alex said nothing. For some reason, it always embarrassed him, being thanked. “I hope you’ll come and see us. And you too, Jack. Maybe you should come over together.”
And then it was Sabina’s turn. She and Alex moved a little to one side.
“Bye, Alex.”
“Bye, Sabina.”
“I thought you were brilliant in the car. When I started to swim up to the surface, I was certain I was going to die. But I knew my dad would be all right because you’d promised you’d look after him.”
“It seems that every time your family meets me, something bad happens,” Alex said. It was true. In Cornwall, the south of France, and now in Scotland . . . sudden violence had never been far away.
“Will you come to San Francisco?”
“There’d probably be an earthquake or something.”
“I don’t mind. I still want to see you.”
Sabina glanced at her parents. They were standing with their backs to her, talking to Jack. She quickly leaned forward and kissed Alex on the cheek. Then, suddenly, the three of them were picking up their carry-on luggage and making their way through to the security checks and passport control. Sabina looked back one last time and waved. Then they were gone.
The next day, Alex went back to school and the Christmas holidays were forgotten in a whirl of seating assignments, schedules, textbooks, new teachers, and old friends. Brookland was a sprawling, mixed comprehensive school half a mile north of Chelsea. It had been built only about ten years ago and it prided itself on its modern architecture, with double-height windows and bright primary colors. At the same time, though, it still had an old-fashioned, friendly feel. Everyone wore uniforms . . . sober shades of blue and gray. The school even had a Latin motto: Pergo et Perago, which sounded like the story of two Italian cannibals but which actually meant “I try and I achieve.”
“No running in the corridor, Alex.” Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary, greeted Alex with one of her favorite phrases, even though Alex had only been walking quickly. She had stepped out of one of the classrooms, blocking his path.
“Hi, Miss Bedfordshire.”
“It’s good to see you. Did you have a good Christmas?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“And do you plan to stay with us for the whole term? It would certainly make a nice change.”
Alex had missed almost half the school year, and Miss Bedfordshire had always had her doubts about the series of strange illnesses that had been listed on his doctor’s notes. “I hope so,” he said.
“Maybe you should eat more fruit. You know . . . an apple a day.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
Alex hurried on his way, aware that the secretary was watching him as he went. Sometimes he wondered how much she really knew.
And then there were twenty minutes of catching up with the usual crowd. Tom Harris was late as usual and looked incredibly scruffy in a new uniform, which was one size too big for him. His parents had recently gotten separated, and he had spent the Christmas holidays with his older brother in Naples. Alex had gotten to know them both when he’d come up against Scorpia for the first time—and Tom was the only boy in the school who was aware of his involvement with MI6. There were a couple of girls with him now, and together they all piled into the sports hall for Year Group Assembly.
This began, as usual, with a hymn, which the principal, Mr. Bray, insisted on—even though every other school in the area had dropped it. There were three hundred of them packed into the hall, and they were horribly out of tune. The last chords faded away and everyone sat down to listen to an uplifting speech, which, as usual, went on too long. This term, it was all about respect. “Respect for others; respect for yourself; above all, respect for the community.” Alex noticed that Tom was listening intently, with one hand resting against the side of his head. Only he could see the white wires of an iPod trailing back down the other boy’s sleeve and could hear the faint tish-ta-ta-tish coming from his ear.
Then it was on to school business. Mr. Bray introduced a new class tutor and mentioned a couple of teachers who were leaving. “One last thing,” he announced. “I’m very
happy to tell you that the science wing is finally opening again after the mysterious fire that did so much damage back in May.” Alex shifted uncomfortably. He had been at the very center of the fire and knew exactly what had caused it. He was glad that Tom wasn’t listening. Watching Alex squirm, and knowing as much about him as he did, his friend might have been able to put two and two together. “I hope you’ll enjoy the new facilities. I wish you all a hardwork ing and successful term.”
The assembly finished and the lessons began. For Alex that meant history followed by math and then social studies, a cheerful assortment for the first morning of the first day of classes. After lunch, the first lesson of the afternoon was biology with John Gilbert, a young teacher who had only arrived the summer before. He was curly haired with glasses and specialized in brightly colored ties. He hadn’t been teaching long enough to lose his enthusiasm, and it had been he who had given the class the project on genetic engineering that Alex had described in Scotland.
“I hope you’ve all begun to think about this very serious subject,” he began. “I’m going to want to see your written work completed by midterm. And I’ve got some good news.” He picked up a letter and showed it to the class. “At the end of last term, I wrote to the Greenfields Bio Center in Wiltshire. I’m sure you know who they are . . . they’re always in the news. Greenfields is a private organization, one of the world leaders in plant science and microbiology. They’ve been doing more than anyone else to develop new techniques in genetic engineering, and they’ve got a huge facility on the edge of Salisbury Plain. I asked if we could visit, look at their work, and maybe talk to some of their professors—and rather to my surprise, they’ve agreed. To be honest with you, I didn’t think they’d allow school visits because so much of their work is secretive. But we’ll be heading down there in a couple of weeks. I’ll need to get permission from your parents, and I’ll hand out forms at the end of the period. Don’t forget to get them signed!”
He put the letter down and went over to the blackboard.
“Now, I want to find out how you’re coming along with your projects. But first of all, I asked you to come up with some of the good things and the bad things about GM crops. Can anyone give me an example of how this science has helped society?”
GM crops.
Alex couldn’t help himself. He remembered the moment he had told Edward Pleasure about his work just as Desmond McCain had come down the stairs, and suddenly he was back at Kilmore Castle, half an hour before New Year’s. McCain had appeared alarmed about something. But what could it have been, and could it really have led to the gunshot and the near death in Loch Arkaig?
There had been no gunshot. Alex tried to force the idea out of his head. The car had blown a tire, that was all. And yet, he still remembered McCain, the gleaming, bald head, the silver cross, the strange line where the two halves of his head failed to meet.
No. This was crazy. McCain ran a charity. He had made a mistake in his life, but he had paid for it. He wasn’t a killer.
“Rider?”
Alex heard his name, realized it had been called out twice, and forced himself to focus back on the class. Just as he had feared, Mr. Gilbert had asked him something and he hadn’t even heard the question. He’d been miles away.
“I’m sorry, sir?” he said.
Mr. Gilbert sighed. “You don’t turn up to school very often, Rider. But it would be nice if you actually listened when you did. Hale?”
James Hale was another of Alex’s friends, a neat-looking boy with brown hair and blue eyes, sitting at the next desk. He glanced apologetically at Alex and then answered. “GM science can make crops grow extra vitamins,” he said. “And there was a special sort of rice that was changed so that it could grow underwater for a few days without dying.”
“Very good. It was called golden rice, and obviously it was very useful in countries with too much rainfall. Anyone else?”
Alex made sure he concentrated until the end of the lesson. The first day of the term was far too early to get into trouble. Somehow he made it to 3:45 without further incident, and then he was part of the crowd, pouring out of the school gates with his backpack over his shoulder. For once, he hadn’t brought his bike with him. Alex owned a Condor Junior Roadracer that had been built for him as a twelfth birthday present. But he’d noticed recently that it wasn’t giving him a comfortable ride. The truth was that he was growing out of it, and the seat wouldn’t adjust any more. He would be sorry to see it go. It belonged to his old life, before his uncle had died, and there was precious little of that left.
Perhaps it was thinking of his uncle that drove Alex to take a shortcut across Brompton Cemetery. This was where Ian Rider had been buried after the so-called car accident, the one that began with gunshots being fired into his uncle’s car. It was at the funeral that Alex had first begun to learn the truth about his uncle, that he had never actually worked in a bank. He had instead lived and died as a spy. Alex often walked past the gravestone, but today, acting on impulse, he left the main path and went over to it. He looked at the name, carved in a square slab of gray marble, with the dates below it and a single line: A GOOD MAN TAKEN BEFORE HIS TIME. Well, that was one way to put it. Somebody had left flowers, quite recently. Roses. The petals were dead and withered, but there was still a little color in the leaves. Who had been here? Jack? And if it was her, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him?
Alex bent down and swept the plants to one side. He thought about the man who had looked after him all his life but who had been gone now for almost a year. He could still picture Ian Rider—halfway up a mountain, on a diving boat in full scuba gear, or racing on Jet Skis over the South China Sea. He had taken Alex all over the world, always challenging him, pushing him to the limit. Adventure vacations, he had called them. And how could Alex have known that all that time he was being trained, prepared to follow in his uncle’s footsteps?
Footsteps that had brought him here.
“Alex Rider?”
They must have crept up behind him while he was crouching beside the grave, and even without looking up, Alex knew that somehow he was in trouble. There was something about the voice—soft and threatening, with a slight foreign inflection.
Slowly, Alex turned and looked up. Sure enough, there were three men standing at the foot of the grave, all of them Chinese, dressed in jeans and loose-fitting jackets. They were completely relaxed, as if they had strolled into the cemetery and come upon him by chance. But Alex knew that wasn’t the case. They might have followed him from school. They might have known that he sometimes took this shortcut and waited for him. But there was nothing chance about this meeting. They were here for one single purpose.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “My name is James Hale. You’ve got the wrong person.”
Even as he spoke, he was glancing left and right. There was nobody else around. No passing vicar, no other kids from Brookland on their way home. Apart from his backpack, Alex had nothing with him. He knew he wasn’t going to find any weapons in a cemetery, but there was always a chance that a gravedigger had been careless enough to leave behind a spade.
He was out of luck. There was an open grave, waiting for its occupant, about a dozen headstones away. But there was no sign of any tools. What else? A small stone angel stood above him, a monument to “a great dad, a much-missed granddad and a wonderful husband.” Why did no one ever have anything bad to say about people who had died?
The nearest man smiled unpleasantly, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “You are Alex Rider,” he insisted. “This is the grave of your uncle.”
“You’re wrong. He used to live next door . . .”
Just for a moment, the three men hesitated, wondering if, after all, they had made a mistake. But then the leader made up his mind. “You will come with us,” he said.
“Why? Where do you want to take me?”
“No more questions. Just come!”
Alex remained where he was, crouching beside the g
ravestone. He wondered what would happen next. He quickly found out. The man who had spoken made a signal, and suddenly all three of them were armed. The knives had appeared in their hands like some unpleasant magic trick. Alex examined the silver blades, one in front of him, one on either side. They were notched, designed to leave the most vicious wounds. Somehow the men had gotten into position, surrounding Alex, without seeming to move. They were standing in combat stance, the weight spread evenly over their feet, each knife exactly the same distance from the ground. These were professional killers. They had done this many times before.
“What do you want?” Alex demanded, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I don’t have any money.”
“We don’t want money.” One of the other men spat into the grass. He had furious eyes, lips twisted into a permanent sneer.
“Major Winston Yu sent us to see you,” the leader said.
Winston Yu! So that was what this was about. Somehow the head of the snakehead that Alex had helped break up in Thailand had reached out from whatever hell he had been sent to. He had left instructions for revenge.
“Major Yu is dead,” Alex said.
“You killed him.”
“No. The last time I saw him, he was running away. If he’s dead, that’s the best thing that ever happened to him. But it had nothing to do with me.”
“You’re lying.”
“What difference does it make? He’s finished. The whole thing’s over. Coming after me isn’t going to bring him back.”
“You must pay for what you did.”
They were about to make their move. Alex could almost see the knives jabbing forward, striking at his stomach and chest. They would leave him in the cemetery, bleeding to death, and the next funeral that took place here would be his. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He acted first. He was still holding the dead roses that he had been clearing from his uncle’s grave. He could feel the sharp thorns digging into the palm of his hand.
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