wasn’t an Englishman speaking. It was someone who had learnt the language very carefully. The pronunciation was too deliberate, too precise. There was no emotion in the voice at all.
“You heard me?” Max Webber was still walking, speaking at the same time.
“Oh yes. I was in the audience. I am very pleased.”
“Did you know that MI6 were there?”
“No.”
“I spoke to them afterwards. They were very interested in what I had to say.” Webber chuckled quietly.
“Maybe I should raise my price.”
“I think we’ll stick with our original agreement,” the voice replied.
Max Webber shrugged. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was still a great deal of money. Paid into a secret bank account, it would come tax-free, no questions asked. And it had been such a simple thing to do.
A quarter of a million for just ten minutes’ work!
The man on the other end spoke again and suddenly his voice was sad. “There is just one thing that concerns me, Mr Webber…”
“What’s that?” Webber could hear something else, in the background. Some sort of interference.
He pressed the phone more tightly against his ear.
“In your speech today, you made an enemy of Force Three. And as you yourself pointed out, they are completely ruthless.”
“I don’t think either of us need worry about Force Three.” Webber looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “And I think you should remember, my friend, I served with the SAS. I know how to look after myself.”
“Really?”
Was the voice mocking him? For reasons Webber didn’t quite understand, he was beginning to feel uneasy.
And the interference was getting louder; he could hear it in his mobile phone. Some sort of ticking.
“I’m not afraid of Force Three,” he blustered. “I’m not afraid of anyone. Just make sure the money reaches my account.”
“Goodbye, Mr Webber,” said the voice.
There was a click.
One second of silence.
Then the mobile phone exploded.
Max Webber had been holding it tight against his ear. If he heard the blast, he was dead before it registered.
A couple of joggers were approaching from the other direction, and they both screamed as the thing that had just moments before been a man toppled over into their path.
The explosion was surprisingly loud. It was heard in the conference centre where delegates were still drinking coffee and congratulating one another on their contributions. They also heard the wail of the sirens as the ambulance and police cars arrived shortly afterwards.
Later that afternoon, Force Three called the press and claimed responsibility for the killing. Max Webber had declared war on them, and for that reason he had to die. In the same phone call they issued a stark warning. They had already chosen their next target. And they were planning something the world would not forget.
THE BOY IN ROOM NINE
« ^ »
he nurse was twenty-three years old, blonde and nervous. This was only her second week at St Dominic’s, one of London’s most exclusive private hospitals. Rock stars and television celebrities came here, she had been told. There were also VIPs from abroad. VIPs here meant very important patients. Even famous people get sick, and the ones who wanted to recover in five-star comfort chose St Dominic’s. The surgeons and therapists were world class. The hospital food was so good that some patients had been known to pretend they were ill so that they could enjoy it for a while longer.
That evening, the nurse was making her way down a wide, brightly lit corridor, carrying a tray of medicines. She was wearing a freshly laundered white dress. Her name—D. MEACHER—was printed on a badge pinned to her uniform. Several of the junior doctors had already placed bets on which of them would persuade her to go out with them first.
She stopped in front of an open door. Room nine.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Diana Meacher.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting you too,” the boy in room nine replied.
Alex Rider was sitting up in bed, reading a French textbook that he should have been studying at school.
He was wearing pyjamas that had fallen open at the neck and the nurse could just make out the bandages criss-crossing his chest. He was a very handsome boy, she thought. He had fair hair and serious brown eyes that looked as if they had seen too much. She knew that he was only fourteen, but he looked older. Pain had done that to him. Nurse Meacher had read his medical file and understood what he had been through.
In truth, he should have been dead. Alex Rider had been hit by a bullet fired from a .22 rifle from a distance of almost seventy-five metres. The sniper had been aiming for his heart—and if the bullet had found its target, Alex would have had no chance of surviving. But nothing is certain—not even murder. A tiny movement had saved his life. As he had come out of MI6’s headquarters on Liverpool Street, he had stepped off the pavement, his right foot carrying his body down towards the level of the road. It was at that exact moment that the bullet had hit him, and instead of powering into his heart, it had entered his body half a centimetre higher, ricocheting off a rib and exiting
