“I don’t know, really,” Alex said. “But I did find something. I’ll show you.”
Alex walked back through the fortress, snatching up his watch as he went. The strange thing was that he felt a lot better than he had in a long time. It was as if the brief burst of action had jolted something inside him and woken him up after a long sleep. He was back in control. Manzour followed him into the prison block and into Jack’s cell. Alex crouched down and pointed to the word he had found, scratched into the wall beneath the bunk.
“Grimaldi.” Manzour was squatting beside him. From the way he spoke the name, Alex was certain that it meant something to him. “You think your friend wrote this?”
“She may have.”
“Many poor, wretched souls will have been in this prison cell. Any one of them could have been responsible.”
“It looks recent.”
“In the desert, everything looks old and everything looks new. It’s hard to tell which is which.” Manzour straightened up. “At any event, this proves nothing at all. I’m sorry. You should go back to America.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found Jack,” Alex said.
Manzour was still holding his cigar. He sucked at it, the tip glowing red. “Are you arguing with me, Alex? People do not argue with me. It is not good for my health and it is very bad for theirs.” He paused and suddenly he was less threatening. “Miss Starbright is dead. You are deluding yourself if you think otherwise and it will do you no good. However, this is not the right time to discuss this. I take it you do not wish to remain in Siwa? No. I do not think you would find the town very welcoming after you have taken out half a dozen of its finest citizens. You can return with us to Cairo and we will discuss this tomorrow, after I have made further enquiries. You can travel with us by helicopter and I will arrange for you to stay in a hotel.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Alex said.
“It is remarkably stupid of me. Really, I should have you arrested and deported.” Manzour still wasn’t smiling but there was a certain twinkle in his eye. “I am glad to see you again, Alex Rider. The last time that we met, it was not in pleasant circumstances but now it seems to me that you are different. That is a good thing, I would say. Come along. It’s a long journey, even by air, and there is nothing more to be done here.”
The two of them left the prison block and stood together in the sunshine. Manzour rapped out an order and a few moments later, a jeep came tearing through the main gate and pulled up next to them. A soldier leapt out and held the door open for them. Alex climbed into the back.
“Grimaldi,” Alex said. “You know that name. Don’t you!”
Manzour said nothing. He climbed into the front seat and tapped the dashboard impatiently. The driver understood. The three of them sped away.
The following morning, Alex woke up in a king-sized bed on the top floor of the luxurious Four Seasons Hotel in Cairo. It was a far cry from the Hotel Neheb where he had begun. Although Colonel Manzour had grumbled about the price, he had booked Alex into a penthouse suite. A whole wall was taken up by a huge picture window with a private balcony on the other side. Even the sheets felt expensive. Sitting in bed, Alex could see the Nile with a line of skyscrapers on the other side and, behind them, the Great Pyramids rising up in the desert, somehow mysterious and magical even at this distance. For a long time, he lay where he was, watching the river with its feluccas – traditional wooden sailing boats – and tour boats darting past. Then he got up, showered – this time in a proper jet of hot water – dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.
The Colonel had reserved a table next to the swimming pool, surrounded by white umbrellas and palm trees. He was wearing a pale suit and a light blue shirt, which was open at the collar to reveal a gold chain around his neck. He looked like a successful businessman and the outfit certainly suited him better than combat dress. As Alex sat down, a waiter brought croissants and bread rolls, fruit and tea.
“Do you want bacon and eggs?” Manzour asked.
“No. I’m fine with this,” Alex said.
“I thought all English boys ate bacon and eggs and sausage and chips,” Manzour said, adding unnecessarily, “it is beef bacon, of course. The tea is peppermint. Is that all right?”
“Thank you.”
The two of them began to eat. Alex hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He’d collapsed into bed the night before and it only occurred to him now that he’d had nothing since the sandwich on the way to Siwa.
“So we need to talk,” Manzour said, suddenly serious. He had deliberately chosen a table in the corner, away from everyone else. He leaned forward, speaking softly. “I am afraid that what I told you yesterday was correct. You have wasted your time, Alex. I have gone over the evidence again and there is simply no chance that your friend is alive. I wish I could say otherwise because I can see that she meant a great deal to you. But I have seen what I have seen…” He stopped and picked up a croissant, which he tore in half as if it was to blame for the bad news. “However,” he went on, “I will admit that there is one thing of great interest that you have brought to my attention. I am not sure that it is relevant but I will admit, at least, that you were right. The name in the prison cell … it is known to me.”
“Grimaldi.”
“It is an Italian name and it is not that uncommon. In any other place, I might have been inclined to ignore it. But this was the fort at Siwa.” He paused, glanced at the two pieces of croissant then took a bite. “You are of course aware that Abdul-Aziz al-Razim was working for the filthy criminal organization known as Scorpia. Following their last, failed operation, Scorpia have disbanded. They are finished. I have to say that this is largely thanks to you. It would seem that most of its members killed each other at one time or another and the rest of them have been arrested – but unfortunately there are two of them who are still at large. They are twin brothers. Their father was a major criminal working with the Mafia but they took over his operation after – it is said – they murdered him. Their names are Giovanni and Eduardo Grimaldi.”
“They were there … at the fort!”
“You do not know that. You do not know who wrote the name on the wall and when. You do not even know if it is the same Grimaldi. It could just be a coincidence.”
“But if it was Jack who wrote it—”
“Wait!” Manzour finished eating his croissant, sipped some tea, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his lips. “Alex, you are a remarkable boy,” he said. “Joe Byrne of the CIA told me a great deal about you when you were here in Cairo, but of course I had already heard much of it myself. You are not often wrong – but this time you must listen to what I say. I have looked at the evidence … not once but several times. We have the TV images that were shown to you when you were Razim’s prisoner. I examined them only last night. Do you need to be persuaded? Do you really have to see them again?”
Alex thought for a moment. He was sitting in the shade and it was almost as if a cold breeze touched the back of his neck. Could he really bring himself to watch the last moments of Jack’s life? He still remembered the pain that had ripped through him. Even if Jack did somehow turn out to be alive, even if she walked up to him right now, he would never forget it. The film had almost destroyed him. But he had to see it for himself. Colonel Manzour hadn’t been there. He had no real interest in finding Jack. There was still a chance that there might be something he had missed.
“All right,” Alex said. “Show me.”
There was a black Jaguar XJ40 waiting for them outside the hotel. It was an Eighties model made in Britain, and as Alex opened the back door to let himself in, he was surprised how heavy it was. He guessed the whole thing must be armour-plated. The driver was a huge man, bald with dark glasses. Alex suspected he was armed.
Colonel Manzour got in the front and a moment later they set off, following the river south to the Kasr Al Nile Bridge. Alex settled into the plush leather seat. The interior of the car was s
oft and comfortable and the air conditioning filtered out most of the noise, but even so, it looked as if the journey was going to be painfully slow. They had joined a long line of traffic that, as usual, seemed to be going nowhere but then they crossed the Nile and turned off at a roundabout, and almost at once they found themselves in an area that was quite different to the rest of Cairo. The horns, the exhaust fumes, the glare of the sun, even the heat of the city disappeared behind them as they cruised through a maze of narrow, twisting streets lined by trees that turned the light into a soft green. There were no modern offices here, no ugly, neon-lit shops. Instead, they drove past handsome villas and immaculate lawns, tucked away behind ornamental metal fences. With their grey brick walls and classical pillars, they looked more European than Arabic. Alex had seen similar architecture in the smarter streets of Paris and Rome.
Manzour twisted round in his seat. “This is called the Garden City,” he explained. “It is the most expensive area of Cairo. The British and the American embassies are here. Also, some of our wealthiest citizens. My organization was fortunate to get a house in this neighbourhood. We didn’t even have to threaten the owner. Well, not that much.”
Alex didn’t know if he was joking or not. He knew that the Egyptian intelligence service was ruthless. He had seen them at work. He didn’t like to think how far they would go to get what they wanted.
The car drew in outside what looked like an abandoned building. It was four storeys high and almost invisible behind a screen of trees and shrubs that had been carefully planted to keep it private. With its balconies, arched windows and balustrades, it reminded Alex of a museum or even a church. Manzour got out and Alex followed. The driver stayed where he was. Alex was surprised to see that the front door was hanging open and nobody seemed to notice the two of them as they walked up through a garden that had been left to grow wild. A statue of a man wearing a fez stood on a plinth, a hand raised as if in welcome. Alex glanced at it, then looked a second time. There had been no sound but he was certain that the head had turned slightly, swivelling to allow the eyes to watch them as they continued forward. That was ridiculous. He had to be imagining it.
They entered a dark, wood-panelled hallway with three doors leading further into the house, all of them closed. The hall was almost empty. It had been stripped bare apart from a broken table and chair and, on the far wall, a mirror so old and dusty that it showed no reflection at all. It was only the tiny blink of a red light behind the glass that warned Alex, once again, that things might not be quite as they seemed. There was some sort of equipment, a scanner or a surveillance camera, concealed there. He remembered the house that Smithers had once occupied in Cairo. That too had looked ordinary … until the moment when it had come under attack.
Manzour marched across the hallway and slid part of the wood panelling back to reveal a sophisticated entry system: a touchpad and a glass fingerprint reader. He entered a code, then placed his hand against the glass and a moment later there was a soft hiss and a whole section of the wall rose silently into the ceiling. Looking through, Alex saw bright lights, an open-plan area with men and women – most of them young – sitting at desks, dozens of computers, printers, monitors and other machines that he couldn’t recognize. Nobody looked up as they walked through. The wall slid down behind them.
“Welcome to Jihaz Amn al Daoula,” Manzour said. “I designed the entrance myself and persuaded the Americans to pay for it. They will do anything to show that we are all on the same side. Please come this way.”
Alex followed him through the first room and up a modern metal staircase to the next floor. He had already noticed that although the building had plenty of windows when he had seen it from the outside, there were actually none at all now that he was inside. It was as if they had built a house within a house – with air conditioning and artificial light. They passed a series of glass-panelled offices and arrived at a desk with an attractive, serious-looking woman wearing a suit and a headscarf. She spoke a few words to Manzour in Arabic and he replied. There was a door behind the desk. They went through.
This was Manzour’s office. It somehow suited him with its oversized, antique furniture, comfortable chairs, fireplace and Persian rug. There were portraits on the wall: different presidents of Egypt, including Anwar Sadat. A table had been set up to one side with a computer and two chairs. He gestured and, with a heavy feeling in his stomach, Alex sat down in front of the screen.
He stared at the grey glass, knowing what was coming. He wasn’t ready for it. Suddenly he was back in Siwa with another screen in front of him. He could feel the cords attached to his wrists, the wires running down from his chest.
Are you afraid, Alex? It was Razim talking – Razim’s ghost.
Alex jerked round as a hand rested briefly on his shoulder. But it wasn’t Razim. It was Manzour. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I do not want to hurt you any more than you have been hurt already and I very much fear that it will all be for nothing.”
Alex nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Manzour leaned forward and clicked the mouse. The computer screen lit up and Alex saw Jack Starbright as she made her escape. Manzour was not showing him the entire sequence. These were the last minutes of what had happened. The camera and the desert light had sucked most of the colour of the image but it was still as if she was there with him in the room and he almost had an urge to call out to her, to warn her not to do what she was about to do. Alex’s heart was pounding. He could feel the blood pulsing through his veins. He didn’t want to watch this but he had to. This time he was torturing himself.
Once again, Jack knocked out the guard, using the iron bar that she had taken from her own cell. Once again, she hurried across the courtyard of the Siwa fort and climbed into the waiting Land Rover. He watched her start the car and drive out through the gates. Now the scene was being filmed by a second camera outside the fort, following her as she drove through the desert. Alex knew what was about to come and braced himself. The car had made it about thirty metres from the gate. It was picking up speed.
It blew up.
Manzour left the film running. The Land Rover had been completely destroyed. There was absolutely no way that anyone could have survived the explosion. Bright orange flames filled the screen. At last, he leaned forward and closed the file.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am.”
“I want to see it again.”
“Alex…”
“Please, Colonel!”
Manzour didn’t move so Alex reached out and used the mouse himself. He dragged the film back to the same point and pressed the arrow to replay. But this time he watched it more clinically. Somehow, he managed to push his emotions to one side. Jack had sent him an email. She had left a message for him, scratched onto the wall of her cell. Alex had flown all the way to Egypt in the belief that she was alive and he wasn’t going to give up now. What was it that Razim had said to him when they were together at the fort? Have you not yet learned? I am a master of manipulation. He remembered the words now. Somehow he had been tricked. He was going to find out how.
The guard falling.
Jack running.
The car starting.
It had driven through the gate. It was in the desert.
The explosion.
Manzour was no longer looking at the computer. He was looking at Alex and his face was full of concern. Alex was ignoring him, hardly aware that he was still in the room. He was hunched forward, one hand gripping the mouse – his whole body tense as if he was about to project himself through the screen and into the actual film itself.
And he had seen something!
It was so tiny, so insignificant that of course it had been easy to miss. Alex dragged the bar back and pressed PLAY. Had he imagined it? Was he trying to convince himself about something that wasn’t there? He let the film run a third time, then stabbed down with his finger, freezing the image half a second before the car blew up.
“I don’t see…” Manzour began.
Alex reached out and touched the screen. Manzour saw what looked like a scrap of paper floating in the air. Then he looked more closely and saw that it was a bird, flying high above the car. Alex used the mouse to move forward two more seconds. This was the actual moment of the explosion. The Land Rover was out of focus as it burst apart. The smoke and the flames had been captured in a strange orange and grey bubble. Alex sat back triumphantly. Despite the cool of the room, he was soaked in sweat.
The bird was no longer there.
“I know what you are thinking,” Manzour said. “But you are wrong. All that has happened is that the bird was frightened by the explosion and flew away.”
“No.” Alex was utterly certain. “The whole thing was faked. Jack knocked out the guard. She stole the car – and she was being watched all the time. But they’ve cut a whole section out. Part of the sequence is missing! They stopped the car and dragged her out. Then they blew it up … when it was empty. Razim and Julius Grief just pretended to press the button to make me think that everything was happening in real time when actually the film they were showing me was recorded. The bird gives it away. It was there when they started filming but it wasn’t there at the end – and that’s why it disappears.”
“But why, Alex? What would be the point?”
Alex sighed. “I don’t know, Colonel. Razim was interested in measuring pain. He wanted to hurt me the worst way he could. And he succeeded. To be honest, what he did that day almost killed me. But it didn’t matter to him whether Jack lived or died. He didn’t care about her either way.”
“Easier to kill her, then.”
“Maybe he had another use for her.”
“How could she possibly be useful to him?”
Never Say Die Page 7