Scorpia Rising

by Anthony Horowitz

  And then there was a picture of a room, perhaps inside the domed building. It wasn’t so much a room as a wide storage closet or a cellar. Alex saw red tiles, old paint cans, and a mop in a bucket, leaning against a corner. What on earth could Gunter want with a photograph of this? The next picture was even stranger. It was a close shot of a coat hook, presumably in the same room. The hook was in the middle of a brick wall, shaped like a swan’s neck. The edge of the metal had caught the flash, which was blurring much of the image. It certainly wasn’t going to win any prizes in a “Views of Cairo” competition.

  There was one picture left. Alex turned it over and frowned. He was looking at a photograph of himself. It must have been taken sometime in the past two weeks. It showed him in full school uniform, walking through the gates at the end of the day. The photographer must have been inside Gunter’s office. Alex was in the far distance, barely more than an inch high. But it was definitely him. The definition was good enough for him to see his own face. Even so, there was something about it that puzzled him. He examined it carefully. There was definitely something wrong.

  Alex took out his own iPhone—a real one with a three-megapixel camera—and took snaps of all the photographs he had looked at. Then he carefully returned them to the secret drawer, making sure they were in the same order he had found them, and laid the gun on top. He wondered if MI6 would be able to make anything out of them. Well, it was up to them now. He had finally achieved something. Maybe he had even bought his ticket back home.

  Alex made sure he had left nothing behind, then tiptoed over to the door and listened. There was nobody outside.

  He slipped out into the corridor and quickly walked away.

  It was almost four o’clock. He was very late leaving. If anybody asked him what he was doing, he would say he had forgotten his homework and gone back for it. He passed the school secretary’s office—there was nobody there—and went through the main doors, back into the searing heat of the yard. The gates were ahead of him. A couple of guards were standing there, smoking cigarettes, thinking their work was done.

  And then he saw Gunter on the far side of the yard. He was talking on his mobile phone with his back slightly toward the school as if he was afraid of being seen. It was too good an opportunity to miss. Alex was already wearing his sunglasses. He stepped back into the shadows and took out his water bottle. He pointed it in the right direction, and a second later he heard Gunter’s voice, so clearly that he could have been standing next to him.

  “The House of Gold. Yes, of course I know it.” There was a pause. “Five o’clock tomorrow. I’ll come alone . . . Do you think I’m an idiot? And if I’m satisfied, I’ll authorize the final payment.”

  Gunter hung up, then walked away, disappearing around the side of the building. Alex waited a minute, then darted toward the main gate. Suddenly, things seemed to be happening very quickly. The head of security must be on his way to some sort of secret meeting. A payment was involved. It had to be part of the conspiracy that MI6 was looking for. Alex had passed through the gate and realized he was standing in exactly the same spot where his picture had been taken. And it was then that he knew what was wrong.

  In the photograph that he had seen, he had been standing on his own . . . as he was now. But he had never once left the school on his own. He was sure of it. Simon or Craig walked home with him every day. If it wasn’t them, it was Andrew or one of the other Scottish boys. Always there were other kids around. Alex left at the same time as everyone else.

  So where had they gone? Had they all been airbrushed out? Or was he simply wrong? Had there been a moment when his image could have been captured with nobody else about?

  It didn’t matter. The House of Gold at five o’clock the next day. Wherever it was, Alex planned to be there, and in his hurry to get back to the apartment, he didn’t look around and didn’t see Gunter emerge from the side of the school to watch him, his lips stretched in a thin smile. Nor did he hear him make a second call.

  “He listened in on the conversation. He’s taken the bait. He’s clearly not quite as clever as he’s cracked up to be. He’ll be there tomorrow. I know what to do.”

  13

  THE HOUSE OF GOLD

  ALEX FOUND IT EASILY enough on the Internet. The House of Gold turned out to be some sort of shopping center specializing in jewelry. Fine gems and all your gold & silver dreams. That was how it advertised itself on the website. Come and seek us for the best prices in Cairo. The name should have given it away, but it still seemed an unlikely destination for a man like Erik Gunter.

  “Perhaps he’s just going to buy a ring for his girl-friend . . . or his wife, if he has one,” Jack suggested.

  “He said he was going to authorize the final payment,” Alex said. “You don’t do that with a wedding ring.”

  “He doesn’t have to be meeting a jeweler. He could be meeting anyone.”

  “It’s a strange place to want to meet . . .”

  The two of them were sitting in the living room of their apartment. Jack had been waiting for Alex with two glasses of ice-cold lemonade and a plate of sandwiches. He was normally hungry when he got back from school. Outside, the swimming pool was crowded . . . There was a rough version of water polo going on, and Craig and Jodie had called out to Alex to join them as he passed. But he had gone straight to the computer. houseofgold.org. Then he had told Jack what had happened, what he had found inside Gunter’s office. It wasn’t a lot to go on, he realized. Not after two and a half weeks in Egypt.

  “He wasn’t buying jewelry,” Alex insisted. “He sounded . . . I don’t know . . . mysterious. As if he didn’t want to be overheard.”

  “You’re sure he wasn’t leading you on? Maybe he wants you to follow him.”

  Alex shook his head. “He couldn’t have known I was listening to him. I was a long way away, on the other side of the yard.”

  “What about the pictures you found in his desk?” Jack had Alex’s iPhone. She flicked through the images on the screen.

  “I don’t know. We’d better pass them on to Smithers. He can send them to MI6. Why would anyone take a shot of a hook on a wall? And what’s this building? Do you think it’s somewhere in Cairo?”

  Jack held up the iPhone. “Nice shot of you,” she said.

  “Yes. But if Gunter took it, then it means he knows who I am.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why else would he have it? You think he takes photos of all the new boys?”

  They fell silent. Jack had been out in the sun and she was looking tanned. They both were. It reminded Alex how long they’d been away.

  “What are you going to do about Gunter?”

  “I suppose I’d better follow him.” Alex went on before she could argue. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me, Jack. But I know that the House of Gold has got something to do with whatever’s going on. Five o’clock. I can go there after school.”

  “You mean, we can go there after school. That’s why I’m here, Alex. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Alex gulped down his lemonade. It was deliciously cold. “I’m really glad you came.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re always there for me. And you make the best sandwiches.”

  Jack smiled. “You’d better get on with your homework,” she said. “You don’t want your teachers breathing down your neck.”

  An hour and a half of European history. Alex wondered if there were any other secret agents in Cairo being sent upstairs to do their homework. But he didn’t complain. And an hour later, immersed in the invasion of France and the evacuation from Dunkirk, he was almost grateful that he could put everything else out of his mind.

  The next day was a Wednesday. It was also the day when Alex realized that his time at Cairo College was drawing to a close.

  He was having lunch with Andrew and some of the Scottish boys when one of the seniors came over to their table. It
was unusual for the older boys to mix with the tenth-graders, but he realized that this one was examining him. He looked up into a face that he vaguely recognized: dark, spiky hair, blue eyes, pockmarked cheeks.

  “Alex?” the boy said. “You don’t remember me?”

  Alex did remember him. But he pretended not to.

  “I’m Graham Barnes. I was at Brookland until last year when my dad got sent out here. You’re Alex Rider, aren’t you?”

  It was the worst coincidence in the world. In their first term at Brookland, new boys were paired up with older students, more or less the same system that they had here. Alex had been looked after—quite well—by Graham. There was no point denying who he was.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”

  “Rider?” Andrew made a face. “I thought your name was Tanner.”

  “My mother remarried.” It was the first thing Alex could think of to say. “Before she died,” he added weakly.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s good to see you.” Graham nodded at the other kids. “I’ll see you around.”

  The rest of them went on talking as they had before, but Alex noticed Andrew glancing at him once or twice and knew that he had been found out. He might not know the reason, but he knew that Alex had lied. It was like the seed of a poisonous plant . . . and very quickly it would start to grow.

  The day seemed to last forever as far as Alex was concerned, but finally three thirty came and the end of school. The usual fleet of buses arrived, clumsily maneuvering around each other in the space outside the main gates. Most of the school left on foot and Alex was among them. He noticed that Andrew avoided him. And maybe he had spoken to Craig and Simon, because even they left him alone.

  He was glad to see Jack, who was waiting for him with a black-and-white cab. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

  Alex nodded. He was more sure of it than ever. “Let’s go,” he said.

  The two of them got in and Jack leaned forward and gave the driver his instructions. She had printed up the home page for the House of Gold and the address was there in Arabic as well as English. She also made sure that the meter was actually running. It was a common trick for the Cairo drivers to leave it off and then to charge double the right price when they arrived.

  The traffic in Cairo was as bad as ever, the air full of exhaust fumes and bad-tempered beeping. By the time the driver dropped them outside a smart hotel and next to the river, Alex and Jack were grateful to get out. Jack had brought Alex a change of clothes and he had wriggled into them on the backseat. When he got out, he was wearing a T-shirt, khaki knee-length shorts, and sandals. Jack took care of his uniform. Dressed in two shades of blue, he would have stood out at twenty paces.

  It was only now that they saw that the House of Gold wasn’t a house at all. It was an old paddle steamer, like something out of another age, permanently moored on the sluggish brown water of the Nile. The boat was three levels high, painted white, with two huge paddles at the back and a single funnel close to the bow. At some time it had been converted into a gaggle of jewelry shops, each one built into the old cabins and staterooms. A gangplank led up from the quay. Its name was written in gold over the entrance on the main deck.

  “What now?” Jack asked.

  “We wait,” Alex said.

  They found a little park with trees shading them from the sun and sat down on a wooden bench, tucked out of sight. From here they could see everyone entering or leaving the boat. Alex looked at his watch. It was five to five.

  “I should come with you,” Jack said.

  “No. It’s better if you stay here. If anything happens, you can call for help.”

  If anything happens. Three small words. But Alex knew how easily they could tear his life apart.

  And then another taxi drew up and Erik Gunter got out. He had on the same black suit that he wore at school with a small backpack on his shoulder. He paid the driver, then made his way over the gangplank and onto the ship. Alex didn’t hesitate. He was already on his feet, following, leaving Jack behind. And with all his attention focused on the head of security, he didn’t notice the gray Chevrolet that had been parked in the street, on the other side of the park. Nor did he see the two men who had been sitting inside it, watching the paddle steamer just like him. But they saw him.

  “Hey—that kid. Quickly. Get his picture.” The man spoke with an American accent.

  “Why? What do you—?”

  “Just do it.”

  The second man raised a Nikon D3 digital camera and pressed the button, capturing Alex as he reached the gangplank, as he stepped on it, as he began to climb. “What are you interested in a kid for?” he demanded sourly.

  “I know who that kid is,” the first man replied. “And you’d better get ready. It looks like we’ve got trouble.”

  Erik Gunter made his way through the House of Gold, squeezing through the tourists and local visitors who crowded out the narrow passages. There were shops and stalls on both sides of him with jewelers standing outside, some of them wearing the dark red Egyptian fez, like magicians about to do card tricks. There was jewelry everywhere: the same necklaces and brooches that hung in every souk in Cairo. Little pyramids on chains, Egyptian hieroglyphics, lucky cats, scarabs, portraits of Queen Nefertiti and King Tutankhamen . . . thousands and thousands of different pieces on sale, all of them overpriced, half of them fake.

  Gunter stopped beside one of the stalls. Immediately the owner, a fat little man, was onto him. “What you want? I show you the best. I make you the best price.” But Gunter ignored him. There was a mirror on the counter and he reached out and tilted it, as if examining himself. But in fact he was looking back the way he’d come, over his own shoulder. And there he was, skulking in the doorway of an antiques shop about fifteen yards behind him . . . Alex Rider. Gunter almost smiled to himself. It was just as he had said. This fifteen-year-old whiz kid from British intelligence wasn’t quite so smart after all.

  The trap was set. Everything was in its right place. Now all he had to do was finish it.

  He continued forward until he arrived at a doorway with a CLOSED sign—the one place on the paddle steamer that wasn’t ready for business. He rang a bell and waited. There was a buzz and the door clicked open. He paused for a moment, then went in.

  The shop sold antique weapons. There were hundreds of them, spread out on shelves and in glass cases, hanging from the walls on hooks. Gunter ran his eye over swords and sabers, flintlock pistols, old army rifles and muskets, daggers with huge jewels set in the hilts. It was an interesting collision, he thought. Beauty and death. All these weapons had once been used by armies or nomadic tribes. The blades had severed flesh and bone. The guns would have cut down men, women, and children, sending them crashing into the sand. And now they were being sold as ornaments to hang in people’s houses. Gunter wouldn’t have been able to live with them. He knew too well the truth about the pain that these things brought.

  An old man, an Egyptian, had appeared behind the counter: round glasses, thin face, an old-fashioned wing collar and tie. The man hadn’t shaved. Gray hair had spread over his chin and his cheeks as if they were diseased. He had thin lips and bad teeth. And finally there were his fingers, long and very precise—like those of a pianist. This was a man who had spent his whole life working with his hands.

  “Mr. Habib?” Gunter asked.

  “That is my name.” He spoke perfect English.

  “I’m Erik Gunter. I think you were expecting me.” The old man didn’t move. Gunter reached into his pocket and placed a small metal object on the counter. It was a silver scorpion.

  The old man nodded slowly. “I was indeed expecting you,” he said.

  “Do you have it?”

  “Of course.”

  The man called Habib reached below the counter and produced another gun. But there was nothing antique about this one. It was an L96A1 Arctic Warfare sniper rifle, gleaming and deadly, a perfectly machined and balanced piece of equipment. H
e laid it out for Gunter to examine. “I have made all the adjustments as requested,” he said. “Particularly to the trigger and to the static iron sights.”

  “What about the ammo?”

  “I will be supplying you with fifty 8.59-millimeter bullets. The gun has a ten-round box magazine.”

  “Can it be traced?”

  Habib looked pained. “I do not ask you foolish questions, Mr. Gunter. I do not ask you why you require a piece of killing machinery as finely crafted as this. I would suggest you do the same.”

  “I apologize, Mr. Habib,” Gunter said, and, reaching behind him, drew a pistol out from the waistband of his trousers and shot the Egyptian once in the middle of his head. There had been almost no sound. The pistol was silenced. The Egyptian stared as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened, then slumped forward. Gunter snatched the rifle away. He didn’t want it to be contaminated by the rapidly spreading pool of blood.

  Moving quickly, he went behind the counter and found what he was looking for: a golf bag, big enough to hold the rifle. He took a cloth out of his backpack and wiped the barrel clean. This was the only part of the gun he had touched and he wasn’t going to leave fingerprints. Using the cloth, he lowered the L96A1 into the bag and zipped it shut. Finally, he reached into the backpack and found a cumbersome package with several wires and a switch. He flicked the switch, closed the backpack, and stuffed it behind the counter. He took one last look around. Then he left, satisfied with what he had done.

  In his haste, he didn’t quite close the door.