“Follow me.”
She led him into the station and onto a train. She didn’t speak to him again, standing some distance away in the carriage, her eyes vacant, as if she was nothing to do with him. They changed trains twice, waiting until the last moment as the doors slid shut and then suddenly stepping out onto the platform. If anyone were following them, she would see. Finally they emerged at King’s Cross Station. She left Alex standing in the street, signalling for him to wait. A few minutes later a taxi pulled up.
“Alex Rider?”
“Yes.”
“Get in.”
It was all done very smoothly. As they moved off, Alex knew that it would have been impossible for any MI6 agents to have followed them. Which was, of course, exactly what Scorpia had planned.
He was taken to a house – a different house to the one he had visited when he first arrived back in London. This one was on the edge of Regent’s Park. A man and woman were waiting for him, and he recognized them as the fake Italian parents who had accompanied him through Heathrow. They led him upstairs and showed him into a shabby bedroom with a bathroom attached. There was a late supper waiting for him on a tray. They left him there, locking the door behind them. There was no telephone. Alex checked the window. That was locked too.
And now it was half past one the next day and Alex was sitting on the bed, looking out of the window at the trees and Victorian railings of the park. He was feeling a little sick. He had begun to think that Scorpia simply planned to leave him here until four o’clock, that they wanted him to die with the other children in London. And that reminded him of the nanoshells which he knew were inside him, resting inside his heart. He remembered the prick of the needle, the smiling face of Dr Steiner as he injected him with death. The thought of it made his skin crawl. Was he really doomed to spend the last hours of his life here, in this room, sitting on an unmade bed, alone?
The door opened.
Nile walked in, followed by Julia Rothman.
She was wearing an expensive coat, grey with a white fur collar, buttoned up to her neck – another designer label. Her black hair was immaculate, her make-up as much a mask as the ones that had been worn at her party at the Widow’s Palace. Her smile was a brilliant red. Her eyes seemed more dazzling than ever, highlighted by perfectly applied black eyeliner.
“Alex!” she exclaimed. She sounded genuinely delighted to see him, but Alex knew now that everything about her was fake: nothing was to be trusted.
“I wondered if you were going to come,” Alex commented.
“Of course I was going to come, my dear. It’s just that this is rather a busy day. How are you, Alex? I am so pleased to see you.”
“Did you really kill her?” Nile asked. He was casually dressed in a loose jacket and jeans, trainers and a white sweatshirt.
Mrs Rothman scowled. “Nile, do you have to be so direct?” She shrugged. “He’s talking about Mrs Jones, of course. And I suppose we do need to know what happened. The mission was a success?”
“Yes.” Alex nodded. This was the most dangerous part. He knew he couldn’t talk too much; he was afraid of giving himself away. And he was horribly conscious of the brace. It fitted well, but it had to be distorting his speech, at least a bit. The wire across his teeth was transparent but, even so, surely Mrs Rothman would notice it.
“So what happened?” Nile asked.
“I managed to get inside her flat. It all went exactly like you said. I used the gun…”
“And then?”
“I took the lift back down and I was just on my way out when the two guys behind the desk grabbed me.” Alex had spent half the night rehearsing this. “I don’t know how they found out it was me. But before I could do anything they had me on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back.”
“Go on.” Mrs Rothman was gazing at him. Her eyes could have been trying to suck him in.
“They took me somewhere. A cell.” This part was easier – Alex was actually telling a version of the truth. “It was underneath Liverpool Street. They left me there overnight and then Blunt saw me the next day.”
“What did he say?”
“Not a lot. He knew I was working for you. They’d got satellite photographs of me arriving at Malagosto.”
Nile glanced at Mrs Rothman. “That makes sense,” he said. “I’ve always had a feeling we’ve been under surveillance.”
“He didn’t want to know very much,” Alex went on. “He didn’t really want to talk to me. He said I was going to be questioned somewhere out of London. I was left hanging around there for a bit, then a car came to collect me.”
“You were handcuffed?” Mrs Rothman asked.
“Not this time. That was their mistake. It was just an ordinary car. There was the driver in the front, and an MI6 man in the back with me. I didn’t know where they were taking me and I didn’t want to go. I didn’t really care what happened. I didn’t even care if I was killed. I waited until they got a bit of speed up and then I threw myself at the driver. I managed to put my hands over his eyes. There was nothing much he could do. He lost control and the car crashed.”
“Quite a few cars crashed,” Mrs Rothman remarked.
“Yeah. But I was lucky. Everything sort of went upside down, but the next thing I knew, we’d stopped and I was able to get out and run away. Eventually I reached a phone box and called the number you gave me – and here I am.”
Nile had been watching him closely through all this. “How did it feel, Alex?” he asked. “Killing Mrs Jones.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
Nile nodded. “It was the same for me, the first time. But you will learn to enjoy it. That’ll come with time.”
“You’ve done very well, Alex.” Mrs Rothman spoke the words, but she still sounded doubtful. “I have to say, I’m quite astonished by your daring escape. I saw it on the news and I could hardly believe it. But you’ve certainly passed the test. You really are one of us.”
“Does that mean you’ll take me back to Venice?”
“Not quite yet.” Mrs Rothman thought for a moment and Alex could see she was coming to a decision. “We’re just at the critical point in a certain operation,” she revealed. “It might interest you to see the climax; it’s going to be quite spectacular. What do you think?”
Alex shrugged. He mustn’t look too keen. “I don’t mind,” he said.
“You met Dr Liebermann; you were there at Consanto when dear Nile dealt with him. It seems only right that you should see the fruits of his handiwork.” She smiled again. “I’d like to have you with me, at the end.”
So you can watch me die, Alex thought. “I’d like to be there,” he replied.
Then her eyes narrowed and the smile seemed to freeze. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to search you,” she said. “I do trust you, of course. But as you’ll learn when you’ve been with Scorpia for a while, we don’t leave anything to chance. You were taken prisoner by MI6. It’s always possible that you were somehow contaminated without knowing it. So before we leave here, I want you to go into the bathroom with Nile. He’ll give you a thorough examination. And we’ve got you a complete change of clothes. Everything has to come off, Alex. It’s all a bit embarrassing, I know, but I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“I’ve nothing to hide,” Alex said, but he couldn’t help running his tongue over the brace. He was certain she’d see it.
“Of course you haven’t. I’m just being overcautious.”
“Let’s do it.” Nile jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. He seemed amused by the whole idea.
Twenty minutes later Alex and Nile came downstairs. Alex was now dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a round-necked jersey. Nile had brought the clothes with him, along with fresh socks, trainers and pants. Mrs Jones had been right. If he’d had so much as a penny on him, Nile would have found it. Alex had been thoroughly searched.
But Nile hadn’t noticed the brace. Alex’s mouth was the one place he h
adn’t looked.
“Well?” Mrs Rothman asked. She was in a hurry to leave.
“He’s clean,” Nile answered.
“Good. Then we can go.”
There was a grandfather clock in the hall, standing in the corner on the black and white tiled floor. As Alex moved towards the front door, it struck the hour. Two o’clock.
“Is that the time already?” Mrs Rothman said. She reached out and stroked Alex’s cheek. “You have just two hours left, Alex.”
“Two hours until what?” he asked.
“In two hours’ time you’ll know everything.”
She opened the door.
There was a car waiting for them outside. It took them across London, heading south. They drove round the Aldwych and over Waterloo Bridge, and for a moment Alex gazed out over one of the most startling views of the capital: the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, with the Millennium Wheel on the opposite bank. What would it look like two hours from now? Alex tried to imagine the ambulances and police cars screaming across London, the crowds staring in disbelief, the undersized bodies strewn over the pavements. It would be like another world war – but without a single shot being fired.
And then they were on the south bank of the river, making their way through Waterloo, heading east. The buildings they passed became older and dustier. It was as if they had travelled not just a few miles but a few hundred years. Alex sat in the back, next to Nile. Mrs Rothman was in the front with a blank-faced driver. Nobody spoke. It was warm inside the car – the sun was shining – but Alex could feel a tension that made the air cold. He was certain they were heading for some high point where Invisible Sword must be concealed, but he had no idea what to expect. An office block? Perhaps a building under construction? He stared out of the window, his head pressed against the glass, trying to stay calm.
They stopped.
The car had pulled up on a strange, empty stretch of road that ran for about fifteen metres before coming to a dead end. Mrs Rothman and Nile climbed out of the car and Alex followed, examining his surroundings with a sinking heart. It looked as if they hadn’t taken him to the dishes after all. There were no tall buildings in sight, not for at least a mile around. The street – almost as wide as it was long – ran between two rows of dilapidated shops, the lower floors boarded up, the windows broken and discoloured. The street itself was covered with rubbish: scraps of newspaper, dented cans and old crisp packets.
But it was the building at the end that commanded his attention. The street led to a church that would have been more suited to Rome or Venice than London. It had obviously been abandoned long ago and had deteriorated badly, yet still it struggled to be magnificent. Two huge, cracked pillars supported a triangular roof over the main entrance. Marble steps led up to huge doors made of solid bronze, but green now rather than gold. The great bulk of the church rose up behind, surmounted by a dome which glinted in the afternoon sun. Statues lined the steps and stood dotted across the roof. But they had been brutalized by time and the elements. Some were missing arms; many had no faces. Once they had been saints and angels. Two hundred years standing in London had turned them into cripples.
“Why are we here?” Alex asked.
Mrs Rothman was standing next to him, looking up at the church. “I thought you’d like to witness the conclusion of Invisible Sword.”
“I don’t know anything about Invisible Sword.” Without giving himself away, Alex was searching for any sign of the satellite dishes. But there didn’t seem to be anything on the dome and, anyway, as impressive as it was, it wasn’t tall enough. The dishes had to be higher up. “What is this place?”
Mrs Rothman looked at him curiously. “You know, Alex, I’d swear there was something different about you.”
Alex quietly closed his mouth, hiding the brace. He looked at her quizzically.
“Nile? Did you search him from top to bottom?”
“Yes. Just like you told me to.”
“I would’ve thought you’d have trusted me by now,” Alex protested, but this time he looked away so she wouldn’t see his teeth. “I did exactly what you told me to. And I nearly got killed.”
“I don’t trust anyone, Alex. Not even Nile.” She paused. “Since you ask, this building is the Church of Forgotten Saints. It’s not actually a church; it’s an oratory. It was built in the nineteenth century by a community of Catholic priests living in the area. They were rather odd. They worshipped a collection of saints who have all fallen into obscurity. You’d be amazed how many saints there are who we’ve completely forgotten about. St Fiacre, for example, is the patron saint of gardeners and taxi drivers. That must keep him busy! St Ambrose looks after bee-keepers, and where would tailors be without St Homobonus? Did you know that undertakers and perfume makers both have their own saints? They were worshipped here too. I suppose it’s not surprising the church fell into disuse. It was bombed in the war and it’s been empty ever since. Scorpia took it over a few years ago. As you’ll see, we’ve made one or two interesting adjustments. Do you want to come inside?”
Alex shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
He had no choice. For some reason, Julia Rothman had chosen to bring him here, and presumably he would still be here when the terahertz beams were fired across London. He glanced at the dome again, wondering if the surface would be enough to protect him. He doubted it.
The three of them walked forward. The car had left. Alex looked at the shops on either side. Not a single one was occupied. He wondered if he was being watched. It occurred to him that anyone wanting to enter the church would have to come this way, and it would be easy enough to keep them under surveillance with hidden cameras. They reached the main entrance, which sensed their arrival and opened electronically. That was interesting. Mrs Rothman had spoken of adjustments and it was already clear that the oratory wasn’t quite as derelict as it first appeared.
They entered a grand hall, rectangular in shape, that served as an antechamber to the main body of the church. Everything was grey: the huge flagstones, the ceiling, the stone pillars that supported it. Alex looked around him as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. There were circular windows on both sides but the glass was so thick it seemed to block out most of the daylight rather than allow it in. Everything was faded and dusty. Two statues – more forgotten saints? – stood either side of a cracked and broken font. There was a faint smell of damp in the air. It was easy to believe that nobody had been here for fifty-odd years. Alex coughed and listened to the sound travel up. The chamber was utterly silent, and there seemed to be no obvious way forward. The street was behind them; a solid wall blocked the way ahead. But then Julia Rothman walked across the floor. Her stiletto heels rapped against the stone, creating echoes that flitted into the shadows.
Her movement had been some sort of signal. There was a loud buzz and, overhead, a series of arc lamps – concealed in the walls and ceiling – flashed on. Beams of brilliant white light crashed down from every direction. At the same time, five panels slid silently open, one after the other. They were part of the wall, built into it, disguised to look like brick. Now Alex saw that they were in fact solid steel. More light spilled out and with it came the sound of men moving, of machinery, of frantic activity.
“Welcome to Invisible Sword,” Mrs Rothman announced, and in that moment Alex knew why she had brought him here. She was proud of what she had done. She couldn’t hide the pleasure in her voice. She wanted him to see.
Alex stepped through the opening and into a scene he would never forget.
It was a classical church, just like the monastery on Malagosto. Scorpia seemed to enjoy cloaking itself in religion. The floor was made up of black and white tiles. There were stained-glass windows, a richly carved wooden pulpit, even a few old pews. The remains of an organ clung to one wall but, looking at the pipes, some broken, others missing, Alex knew that it would never play again. The dome curved above his head, the underside painted with more saints, men and women holding
the various objects with which they were associated: furniture, shoes, library books and loaves of bread. All of them had been forgotten. All of them were frozen together in a single great tableau overhead.
The church had been filled with electronic equipment: computers, TV monitors, industrial lights and a series of switches and levers that couldn’t have been more out of place. Two steel gantries had been built, one on either side, with armed guards positioned at intervals. There must have been twenty or thirty people involved in the operation, at least half of them carrying machine guns. As Alex took all this in, a voice rang out, amplified through speakers bolted into the walls.
“Six minutes until launch. Six minutes and counting…”
Alex knew that he had arrived at the centre of the web, and even as he stared, his tongue travelled to the roof of his mouth and pressed the switch which Smithers had built into his brace. Mark Kellner, the prime minister’s director of communications, had got it wrong again. Scorpia hadn’t attached the terahertz dishes to any tall building.
They had attached them to a hot-air balloon.
Six men dressed in dark overalls were inflating it. There was plenty of floor space, and the dome was as high as a six-storey building. The balloon was painted blue and white. Once released, it would blend in with the sky. How were they going to release it? Alex wondered. The church was completely enclosed by the dome. Even so, that had to be their plan. There was a frame under the balloon with a single burner pointing upwards, and, beneath that, a platform about twenty metres square. The balloon was strangely old-fashioned, like something out of a Victorian adventure story. The platform couldn’t have been more high-tech, though, built out of some sort of lightweight plastic with a low railing to protect the equipment it carried.
Alex recognized the equipment instantly. There were four dishes, one in each corner, facing the four points of the compass. They were dull silver in colour, about three metres in diameter, with thin metal rods forming a triangle that protruded from the centre. Wires connected the dishes to a series of complicated-looking boxes which took up most of the space in the centre of the platform. Black pipes ran up to the burner, carrying propane gas from the tanks which were stacked next to the boxes. The balloon was almost inflated. It had been lying spread out on the ground but even as Alex watched, the air in the envelope was heated by three men using a second burner device and it began to lift itself limply up.
Scorpia Page 20