Scorpia Rising

by Anthony Horowitz

  He quickly looked through the rest but didn’t reply. How could he explain what had happened in the last few days? Finally, he opened a message from Sabina:Alex . . . we saw Brookland on the TV and heard what happened. I can’t believe someone tried to shoot you. Where are you now? Mum and Dad really worried about you and guess this has got something to do with you-know-what. You said you weren’t getting into all that again. Really worried about you. James told me you’ve disappeared so hope you’re somewhere safe. Let me know!!! Sab xxx.

  Sitting on his own, framed against the darkness, Alex suddenly felt isolated, as if he were trapped in some sort of cyberspace, between two worlds. Here, in Egypt, he was Alex Tanner, in a new school, making new friends. But none of it was true and as soon as the job was done, MI6 would pull him out and he would disappear so totally and so immediately that it would be as if someone had just pressed the delete key. And yet, what of his old friends, his real life in London? After what had happened, would he ever be able to return to it? Or had the sniper snatched it away for good?

  He was about to turn the computer off and go to bed when he noticed he’d been sent a new e-mail. He reached out for the mouse and double-clicked.

  Hi Alex,

  Julius G wants to be friends with you on Facebook. Respond now:

  For a long minute he gazed at the screen, at the brief message and the green panel: CONFIRM FRIEND. He didn’t know anyone named Julius, but that wasn’t so unusual. He’d connected with lots of people he’d never met. So why did the name make him feel so uneasy? He thought again of the boy he had glimpsed in the window at Cairo College. It had been a boy, he was sure of it.

  Right now, Alex felt he needed all the friends he could get. But not this one. He didn’t know why, but some instinct told him to stay away.

  Alex pressed the button: IGNORE.

  He turned off the computer and went to bed.

  Over the next two weeks, Alex fell into the natural rhythm of Cairo College. Monday was the quietest day of the week. Wednesdays were the worst, with the biggest pile of homework. School food was okay so long as you avoided the pasta. He worked out which teachers he liked best and which ones he preferred to avoid, and he made plenty of new friends. He was still the new boy, but in an international school like this, with people coming and going all the time, people were more quickly accepted. At the end of the first two weeks he was called back into Monty Jordan’s office and given his first report.

  “You’re doing very well, Alex,” the principal told him. “Your teachers all say you’re making good progress, although Miss Watson thinks you could focus a little more in French. How are you finding it?”

  “I’m okay, thank you, sir.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. By the way, I see you’ve applied to join my politics set.” This was one of the Extra Curriculum Activities. Alex knew that the Scottish boy, Andrew, and Craig were both in the group, which met once a week to discuss stories that had appeared in the newspapers. They also took part in a miniature version of the United Nations, with everyone pretending to be a different country. According to Craig, the last session had ended with Belgium invading Holland and China declaring war on everyone else.

  But Alex wasn’t interested in politics. He looked puzzled. “Actually, sir, I didn’t apply.”

  Mr. Jordan frowned. “Didn’t you? That’s strange. Your name’s down on the list.” He took out a sheet of paper and examined it. “That’s right. You’re definitely here. Why don’t you join us anyway? We’ve got a couple of interesting events coming up and you might find it’s fun.”

  Alex shrugged. It didn’t make any difference to him—and it made sense not to offend the principal. “All right,” he said.

  “Great. I’ll see you later in the week.”

  And so he talked politics, he played soccer (seven-aside in the air-conditioned gymnasium), and he even got a small part in the Cairo College production of Blood Brothers. That made him think of Brookland. Right now he should have been rehearsing for their production of Grease. It struck him as odd that no matter where in the world he went, there were people trying to make him sing.

  And yet Alex couldn’t settle in completely. Although part of him felt ashamed of himself, he had a job to do. He wasn’t here as a schoolboy. He was here as a spy. And that set him apart. There wasn’t a moment when he was able to forget it.

  The transmitting device that Smithers had given him, concealed in the bottom of his water bottle, worked brilliantly. It turned every mobile phone into a bug, and wearing the sunglasses, Alex was able to pick up conversations across the school yard. At the same time, though, it told him a lot of things he didn’t want to know. Miss Kennedy, who taught chemistry and physics, was having an affair with Mr. Jackson, who was in charge of sports. Miss Watson had a mother in the hospital in England and was desperately worried about her. Monty Jordan had just applied for another job in a school in New Zealand. These people weren’t criminals or terrorists, and Alex hated prying on them. It made him feel shabby.

  There was also a limit as to how much he could pick up. The guards spoke Arabic, so there was no point eavesdropping on them. And although he saw Erik Gunter a few times, the head of security seemed to make a point of never speaking to anyone. Alex had positioned one of the fake light switches outside Gunter’s office and had spent as much time as he dared lingering in the corridor, listening to what took place inside the room. Gunter had made a couple of phone calls—one to a company that maintained the school alarm system, one to a doctor to order more painkillers. Either he was very careful or completely innocent. Alex still wasn’t sure which.

  At the same time, he did his best to assess security at Cairo College, the other half of the job that Blunt had given him. It was strange to sit in the courtyard and try to imagine himself as a terrorist. But if he were going to target the school, where would he begin? Who would be his first target?

  And the truth was fairly bleak. The school had guards, identity cards, security cameras, wire fences, and alarms. But none of the guards were armed, and any well-organized group would be able to break in and take over the place in minutes. And if they were thinking about kidnapping—perhaps one of the names on the list that Smithers had brought to the apartment—they wouldn’t even need to come close. Simon Shaw, the son of the Australian gasoline king, walked home every day. Anyone in a car could just pull up and drag him in. All the rich kids at Cairo College were determined to live an ordinary life. And that meant no bodyguards, no armor-plated sedans, hardly any security at all.

  The one weak link, the only lead they all had, was Erik Gunter. He was the new security officer. He must have been recruited for a purpose. If Alex could just break into his office, perhaps he might be able to pick up a clue and bring this whole business to an end.

  On Friday afternoon, at the end of his second week, Alex stopped in front of the room on the ground floor, near the main entrance. The windows were locked and barred, but he had often seen Gunter going in and out through the door. He didn’t use a key. He pressed his thumb against an electronic scanner and the door clicked open. Alex quickly checked out the technology. Behind the glass panel was a light sensor system, the same sort of thing that could be found in any digital camera. This would take a picture of Gunter’s thumb, which would be turned into a series of dots by an analog-to-digital converter. Somewhere in the system, there was a second picture. If the two matched, the door would open.

  Alex needed Gunter’s thumb . . . and it needed to be connected to his hand. Cutting it off and pressing it against the glass wouldn’t work. Nor would a photograph. Cairo College had installed a sophisticated system that also incorporated a pulse and a heat sensor. Only the real, living thing would do.

  But surely that was possible.

  Alex took out the notepad and pen that Smithers had given him. Working quickly, he sketched an illustration of the door and the keypad. He wrote down the trade name—Securi-Scan—and the serial number. Then, underneath, he scri
bbled a message: Can you get me in?

  He underlined it, then closed the pad and put it away. The image and the question should have instantly appeared on Smithers’s computer screen. Hopefully he would come up with a solution over the weekend.

  Alex picked up his backpack, threw it over his shoulder, and set off home.

  12

  IN THE PICTURE

  ERIK GUNTER WAS AWAY for the whole of Monday at some sort of conference in Alexandria, handing over security to his assistant, an Egyptian named Naquib who spent the entire day either smoking or dozing in the sun. It was infuriating to know that Gunter’s office was empty—but Alex couldn’t break in without him. He had to wait for his return and it wasn’t until the end of Tuesday that he finally got his chance.

  It had been another ordinary school day, but Alex had been unable to concentrate, knowing that he was about to make his move. He had noticed Gunter at lunchtime, sitting with some of the teachers, drinking a glass of milk. He had never actually seen the head of security eat anything solid. Somehow he had managed to get through French, history, math, and all the rest of it. He’d gone swimming, rehearsed the school play. And finally he was on his own, hanging back after the last lesson had ended. He was fairly sure that he was the only boy left in the school. It was now half past three. The gates would be locked at four o’clock—allowing him a window of just thirty minutes. It might not be enough.

  By now, Alex knew the movements of Gunter, Naquib, and everyone else whose job it was to patrol the school and keep it safe. Gunter returned to his office at a quarter to three every day. He worked there for about twenty minutes, then went over to the main gate to watch the students leave. It was surprising that this was one part of his army training that he seemed to have forgotten. He repeated himself—and repetition is a gift to the enemy. It makes you predictable. It makes you an easy target.

  Alex waited in the corridor close to the office until there was a click and the door opened. He moved forward, timing it so that he arrived just as Gunter emerged. He glanced briefly inside before Gunter closed the door. The lock engaged automatically.

  “Tanner!” The security man was surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” Alex said.

  “Why?”

  Alex put his hand in his pocket. “I found this.” He took out an iPhone and handed it to Gunter.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, someone left it in class. I tried to start it up, but it’s locked. I thought you could find out who it belongs to and hand it back.”

  Gunter scowled. With his shaven head and hostile eyes, he had the sort of face that showed anger very easily. “Lost property is no business of mine. You’ve got to hand it in at the gate. They’ll put up a notice and whoever’s left this can claim it when they get into school tomorrow.” He handed it back and began to move away, again with that strange, fumbling progress that suggested his muscles and skeleton weren’t quite working together.

  He had taken only two steps when he turned around. “How are you getting on here?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Alex said.

  “But you must be missing your friends in London.”

  “Yes. But I’ve got a lot of friends here too.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Gunter clumped his way down the corridor, leaving Alex wondering how he could possibly have known that he came from London. Of course, Gunter could have looked at his file. But that was in the main office—and why would he have bothered to search it out? It was an interesting slip. Alex made a mental note of it.

  The corridor was empty. It was three thirty-five. Alex was still holding the iPhone, cradling it in the palm of his hand, being careful not to place his own fingers on the screen. He hadn’t actually found it. In fact, it had arrived over the weekend, sent by Smithers and delivered in a padded envelope with a single sheet of instructions. Alex tilted the iPhone, checking the screen. Yes. Gunter had left a perfect thumbprint. He searched for the little button on the side and pressed it. There was a slight buzzing sound and the whole thing began to vibrate in his hand as the image was reversed and then reproduced. It took about twenty seconds, and then a thin sheet of pink latex slid out of a slot where the power cable would normally have been attached. Alex pressed his own thumb onto it, then wrapped the sides around. If the machine had worked, he would now be “wearing” Gunter’s thumbprint—but then, when had Smithers ever let him down?

  He touched his thumb with the latex covering to the screen. The machine read the thumbprint, at the same time registering the blood temperature behind it, and the door clicked open immediately. Somewhere, in the near distance, someone called out. Alex didn’t move. It was one of the guards. If he came along the corridor now and saw the open door, that would be the end of it. But then he heard footsteps going up the stairs to the first floor. He looked left and right. He knew there were no cameras here, but anyone could appear at any moment. Gunter would be back in around twenty minutes. He had to move fast.

  He went in and shut the door behind him.

  The office was exactly as he had imagined it would be: clean, very tidy, half empty. There was a desk, a couple of chairs, a steel filing cabinet, bookshelves, and very little else. A large window, barred on the outside, looked toward the main gate. This was surely where the boy had been standing, spying on Alex as he left. Fortunately, Gunter had lowered the blinds before he left, so Alex could move freely without fear of being seen.

  He began with the desktop. There was a diary with a few notes scribbled in English—but they all seemed to relate to meetings within the school and there were no addresses or telephone numbers of any interest. Gunter had received about a dozen letters. Alex flicked through them. There were several job applications. A salesman from an alarm company was trying to make an appointment. The wife of the Italian ambassador had written in to complain about locals at the school gates wolf-whistling Gabriella. Again, there was nothing to suggest any conspiracy, but then of course Gunter was a careful man. Even though his office was locked, he wouldn’t have left any evidence in view.

  Alex examined the bookshelves. Gunter seemed to like murder mysteries and thrillers. There were books by Agatha Christie and Andy McNab. A guide to Egypt stood next to a thick volume called Teach Yourself Arabic. Neither of them seemed to have been opened. Otherwise the shelves were empty. Nor were there any pictures on the walls. The room gave the impression of someone who had just arrived or who was about to leave. Maybe Gunter didn’t expect to be at Cairo College very long.

  Next, Alex turned to the filing cabinet. It was locked and he was annoyed that he hadn’t asked Smithers for something to help him break in. He remembered the zit cream he had been given on his first assignment. A few drops of that would have quickly burned through the metal. Well, he could always come back to the office another time, provided he hung on to the latex thumb.

  He returned to the desk and tried the drawers. The first contained pens, envelopes, a flashlight, and a pile of report sheets, which Gunter must have been expected to fill in every day. The second drawer looked like a medicine chest. It was filled with different pills and a bottle of some sort of white liquid that smelled of peppermint. It reminded Alex that Gunter was a sick man, a wounded soldier—and for a brief moment he was tempted to leave. He had no right being here, trawling through someone’s private life. But it was too late to worry now. He had a job to do. He might as well get it over with.

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  Alex froze as a voice on the other side called out in Arabic. It might have been the guard he had heard earlier. Was he looking for Gunter? Or had he somehow worked out that there was an intruder inside? There was nothing Alex could do. If the door opened, there was nowhere to hide. Ten seconds passed. Alex listened to the sound of his own heart beating. Nobody came in. Whoever had been there must have gone.

  Moving more quickly now, afraid that he might be discovered at any minute, A
lex tried the third drawer. It was empty apart from a couple of brochures, advertising the college. He swung it shut again, then opened it a second time. Was it his imagination, or had something metallic moved somewhere inside the drawer? He had heard it, a distinct rolling sound followed by the clunk as it had hit the wooden edge. He took the brochures out. There was nothing underneath them. Unless . . .

  Alex placed his hand flat on the bottom of the drawer and pushed. It tilted and he saw that he had discovered a false bottom, that there was a secret compartment underneath. Gunter had dropped a Biro into the hidden space and it had rolled from one end to the other with the movement of the drawer.

  What else was there? Alex put his hand in and pulled out a gun, made in Russia with a star engraved in the handle. Was that something Gunter kept for his job at the school? And if so, why was it concealed here? It had been resting on top of a map . . . the edge of the Sahara and an oasis town called Siwa. It seemed an unlikely vacation destination, although Cairo College did sometimes organize trips into the desert. Next out was a newspaper, a copy of the Washington Post, about a week old. The front page was given over to a big article about the president’s plummeting approval ratings and, underneath it, a smaller one about pollution in the Gulf of Mexico. There might be something relevant inside, but Alex didn’t have time to read it. MI6 could buy the same edition and do that for themselves. Alex memorized the date and set the paper aside.

  There was nothing else in the drawer except for a bundle of photographs. Alex spread them out over the surface of the desk and examined them. Most of them showed a large domed building that reminded him of the Albert Hall in London but that, from the palm trees that surrounded it, was more likely to be somewhere in Cairo. The pictures had been taken from every angle. There were cars parked outside and people—many of them young and carrying books—crossing the lawns that surrounded it. Some sort of school or university? This was a modern, liberated place. Some of the women were in jeans and hardly any of them were wearing head scarves or veils.