to break out of here. It wasn’t going to be easy. The four men had already tested him once. They knew what he was capable of. They weren’t going to give him a second chance.
Kaspar was waiting for him. There was a newspaper on the table in front of him but no sign of the knife.
Spectacles and Silver Tooth were standing behind him. As Alex sat down, Kaspar turned the newspaper round. It was the Evening Standard and the front-page headline told the whole story in just three words. Wrong boy kidnapped. Nobody was talking, so Alex quickly read the article. There was a photograph of St Dominic’s Hospital but no picture of him or Paul Drevin. That didn’t surprise him. He remembered reading somewhere that Paul’s father—Nikolei Drevin—had managed to get an embargo on any photos of his family being published, claiming it was too much of a security risk. And, of course, MI6
would have prevented any picture of Alex being used. He didn’t even get a mention by name.
A security guard was murdered in the small hours of the morning during a ruthless attack on a north London hospital. It seems almost certain that the intended target of the gang was fourteen-year-old Paul Drevin, son of one of the world’s richest men, Russian businessman Nikolei Drevin. Drevin made the headlines earlier this year when he bought Stratford East Football Club. He is also the guiding light behind the hundred billion pound Ark Angel project—the first hotel in space.
In an astonishing development, police have confirmed that the gang managed to kidnap the wrong boy.
This other boy, who has not been named, was discovered to be missing from his room following major surgery. Speaking from the hospital, Dr Roger Hayward made an urgent plea for the boy’s fast return. His condition is said to be stable but serious.
Alex looked up. Kaspar seemed to be waiting for him to speak. “I told you,” he said. “So why don’t you let me go? I’ve got nothing to do with this. I was just next door.”
“You got involved on purpose,” Kaspar said.
“No.” Alex denied it but his mouth was dry.
“You switched room numbers. You answered to the name of Paul Drevin. You crippled one of my men and injured the others.”
Alex said nothing, waiting for the axe to fall.
“I don’t understand why you chose to become involved,” Kaspar went on. “I don’t know who you are. But you made your decision. You chose to become an enemy of Force Three and so you must pay.”
“I didn’t choose anything.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I am fighting a war and in any war there are casualties—innocent victims who just happen to get in the way. If it makes it any easier, think of yourself as one of them.” Kaspar sighed but there was no sadness in the map of his face. “Goodbye, Alex Rider. It was a pity that we had to meet. It has cost me a million pounds in ransom money. It will cost you rather more…” Before Alex could react, he was grabbed from behind and dragged to his feet. He didn’t speak as he was forced back out of the room and down the corridor. This time he was thrown into another room, smaller than his previous cell. Alex just had time to make out a chair, a barred window and four bare walls before he was shoved hard in the back and sent sprawling to the floor.
Combat Jacket stood over him. “I wish he’d let me have a little time with you,” he rasped. “If I had my way, we’d do this differently—”
“Move it!” The voice came from outside. One of the other men was waiting.
Combat Jacket spat at Alex and walked out. The door closed and almost at once Alex heard the unmistakable sound of hammering. He shook his head in disbelief. They weren’t just locking him in. They were nailing the door to the frame.
Once again, he examined his surroundings. He wondered why they had chosen this particular room. The bars on the window made no real difference. Even if the window had been wide open, he was at least seven storeys up. He wouldn’t have Deen able to climb out. And what exactly were they proposing to do?
They obviously weren’t planning to come back and get him. Were they simply going to leave him here to starve to death?
The answer came about an hour later. The sun was beginning to set and lights were coming on in buildings all over east London. Alex was becoming increasingly anxious. He was on his own, high up in a derelict tower block. He had a feeling that Kaspar and the others had gone; he could hear nothing at all on the other side of the door. The silence was unnerving. He knew that MI6 would be doing everything they could, searching the city for him, but what hope did they have of finding him here? He couldn’t open the window. The room was empty. There was no way he could attract anyone’s attention. For once he really did seem to be completely helpless.
And then he smelled it. Seeping through the floorboards, coming from somewhere deep in the heart of the building. Burning.
They had set fire to the tower block. Alex knew it even before he saw the first grey wisps of smoke creeping under the door. They had doused the place with petrol, set it alight and left him nailed inside what would soon be the world’s biggest funeral pyre. For a moment he felt panic—black and irresistible—as it engulfed him. More smoke was curling under the door. Alex sprang to his feet and backed over to the window, wondering if there was some way he could knock out the glass. But that wouldn’t help him. He forced himself to slow down, to think. He wasn’t going to let them kill him. Only eleven days ago, a paid assassin had fired a .22 calibre bullet at his heart. But he was still alive. He wasn’t easy to kill.
There were just two ways out of the room: the door and the window. Both of those were obviously hopeless. But what about the walls? They were made of hardboard and plaster. In the flat where he had been interrogated, they had been knocked through. Maybe he could do the same here. Experimentally he ran his hands over them, pushing and probing, searching for any weak spots. His throat was sore and his eyes were beginning to water. More and more smoke was pouring in. He stood back, then lashed out in a karate kick, his foot smashing into the centre of the wall. Pain shot up his leg and through his body. The wall didn’t even crack.
That just left the ceiling. Alex remembered the corridor outside. It had been missing some of its ceiling tiles and he had seen a gap underneath the pipes and wires that ran above. The ceiling in this room was covered with the same tiles.
And they had left him a chair.
He dragged it over to the corner nearest the door and stood on it. The floor had almost disappeared beneath a swirling carpet of smoke. It seemed to be reaching up as if it wanted to grab hold and devour him. Alex checked his balance, then punched upwards with the heel of his hand. The tiles were made of some sort of fibreboard and broke easily. He punched again, then tore at the edges of the
