“And so I apologize, Paul Drevin. It gives me no pleasure to hurt a child, even a wealthy, spoilt child such as yourself. But what I intend to send your father is a finger from your right hand…” Automatically Alex tried to pull back. But Combat Jacket had been expecting it. His full weight pressed down on Alex’s hand. His fingers were splayed, helpless, on the table.
“The pain will be great. But there are children all over the world who have only ever known pain and starvation, while boys like you languish in the playground of the rich. Do you play the piano, Paul? I hope not. It will not be so easy after today.”
He reached out and grabbed Alex’s little finger. That was the one he had chosen. The knife began its journey down.
“I’m not Paul Drevin!” Alex spat out the words urgently. His eyes had widened. He could feel the blood draining from his face. The knife was still moving. “You’ve made a mistake!” he insisted. “My name is Alex Rider. I was in room nine. I don’t know anything about Paul Drevin.” The knife stopped. It was millimetres above his little finger.
“Do it!” Combat Jacket hissed.
“I was awake last night,” Alex insisted. The words came tumbling out. “I was coming back from the toilet. I saw your men outside my room. One of them pulled out a gun, and then they began chasing me. I didn’t know what was happening. I had to defend myself…”
“He’s lying,” Combat Jacket snarled. “I asked him his name.” He turned to Spectacles. “Tell him.”
“That’s right,” Spectacles agreed. “We saw his room. Room eight. It was empty. Then he appeared. We called out his name and he answered.”
Kaspar tightened his grip on the knife. He had made up his mind.
“I was in room nine, not room eight!” Alex was shouting now. His head was swimming. He could already see the knife cutting through flesh and bone. He could imagine the pain. Then suddenly he had a thought.
“What do you think I was in hospital for?” he demanded.
“We know what you were there for,” Kaspar replied. “Appendicitis.”
“Appendicitis. Right. Then look at my bandages. They’re nowhere near my appendix.” There was a long pause. Alex could feel Combat Jacket still pressing down hard, longing for the cutting to begin. But Kaspar was uncertain. “Open his shirt,” he ordered. Nobody moved. “Do it!” Combat Jacket was still holding Alex as tightly as ever but now Silver Tooth stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed hold of Alex’s shirt, tearing the top two buttons. Kaspar stared at the bandages crossing over his chest. Alex could feel his heart straining beneath them. “What is this?” Kaspar demanded. “I had a chest wound.”
“What sort of chest wound?”
“An accident on my bike.” It was the one lie Alex had told. He couldn’t tell them what had really happened. He didn’t want them to know who he was. “I met Paul Drevin,” he admitted. “He’s the same age as me. But he doesn’t look anything like me. Just make a phone call. You can find out easily enough.” He took a deep breath. “You can cut off all my fingers if you want, but his father isn’t going to pay you a penny. He doesn’t even know I exist!”
There was another silence.
“He’s lying!” Combat Jacket insisted.
But Kaspar was already working it out for himself. He had heard Alex speak. Paul Drevin had a faint Russian accent. This boy had obviously lived in England all his life. Kaspar swore and stabbed down with the knife. The blade buried itself in the table less than a centimetre from Alex’s hand. The hilt quivered as he released it.
Alex saw the disappointment in the faces of Spectacles and Silver Tooth. But Kaspar had made his decision.
“Let go of him.”
Combat Jacket held him tightly for a moment longer, then released his arm and stood back, muttering something ugly under his breath. Alex snatched back his hand. His right arm was hurting as much as his left one. He wondered if Kaspar would send him back to the hospital. By the time he got out of here, he would need it.
But it wasn’t over yet.
Spectacles and Silver Tooth were waiting to escort him out, but Kaspar gestured for them to wait. He was examining Alex a second time, reassessing him. It was impossible to see behind the markings on his face, to know what was going on in his mind. “If it turns out that you are who you say you are,” he began, “if you really are not Paul Drevin, then you are of no use to us. We can kill you in any way that we please. And I think it will please my men to kill you very slowly indeed. So perhaps, my friend, it would have been better for you if there had been no mistake. Perhaps the loss of one finger might have been the easier way.” Silver Tooth was grinning. Spectacles nodded gravely.
“Take him back to his room,” Kaspar commanded. “I will make the necessary enquiries. And then we’ll meet again.”
FIRE ESCAPE
« ^ »
t was late afternoon when the door opened and Combat Jacket came in. Alex guessed that he had been in the room for eight hours. He had been allowed out once to use a chemical toilet, and at around midday he had been given a sandwich and a drink by an unsmiling Spectacles. The sandwich had been two days past its sell-by date and still in the plastic wrapping, bought from a garage. But Alex wolfed it down hungrily.
Combat Jacket had been sent to fetch him. He led Alex back down the corridor to the flat where the interrogation had taken place, his face with its ugly, broken nose giving nothing away. There was something about the whole set-up that Alex didn’t understand. Kaspar had told him they were freedom fighters—eco-warriors or whatever. They were certainly fanatics. The tattoos were ample proof of that. But the way they were treating him, the threats, the demands for money, seemed to belong to a different world.
They talked about pollution and the ozone layer; but they acted like thugs and common criminals. They had killed the night receptionist for no good reason. They seemed to have no regard at all for human life.
By now, Alex guessed, they must know the truth. So what were they going to do with him? He remembered what Kaspar had said and clamped down on his imagination. Instead, he searched for a way
