he—Alex—had been sent here to help make it happen. In less than a week’s time, the CIA would arrest his father. All Drevin’s assets would presumably be seized by the American government. Drevin would go to prison.
And what would happen to Paul? The story would be on the front page of every newspaper all over the world. He’d have to change his name. He’d have to begin all over again, adapting to a completely different life. Somehow he’d have to get used to the fact that he was the son of a ruthless criminal. A killer. But none of this was Alex’s fault. He forced himself to remember that. And Paul had a mother who’d be there to look after him when this whole thing exploded. He’d get through it.
The sun had almost disappeared. A great shadow seemed to stretch out across the sea, and Alex watched as the heron flew off, soaring effortlessly over the palm trees. Paradise? Perhaps the bird knew otherwise.
Alex stood up. “Let’s go in,” he said.
They walked along the beach together, the waves lapping softly near by.
On the other side of the island, another conversation was taking place.
The head of security, Magnus Payne, was standing in a large office overlooking the launch site.
Drevin was sitting on a leather sofa, reading the email that Payne had just handed him.
“Alex Rider is an MI6 agent,” Payne was saying. “He may not be working for them now, but he has certainly worked for them in the past—and not once but several times. If they know he is here, it is quite possible that they have already approached him and asked him to spy on you. I have searched his luggage and found nothing. But that does not mean he isn’t equipped in some way.” Drevin lowered the email. “It’s not possible!” His fingers began to play with his ring. “A spy? He’s fourteen!”
“I agree, of course, that it is unusual.” Payne’s lips twisted in a sneer. “But I can assure you, Mr Drevin, that my contact is completely reliable. After what happened at the hospital, then at Hornchurch Towers and a third time at Stamford Bridge, I felt that the boy was simply too good to be true. There was something about him … so I made enquiries.” He gestured at the email. “That’s the result.”
“The bicycle accident?”
“In fact a bullet wound from his last assignment. That’s what my contact tells me.” Drevin fell silent. Payne could see his mind at work, turning over the possibilities, making evaluations. It was all there in the watery grey eyes.
“That business with the passport in New York,” he said. He snapped his fingers angrily and swore briefly in Russian. “They must have wanted to make contact with him. He was out of my sight for nearly twenty-four hours. They could have been briefing him, telling him what to do.”
“They?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency.” Drevin spoke the words with loathing. “They’re hand in hand with MI6. The boy could be working with either of them. Or both.”
“The question is, what do you want to do with him?”
“What do you suggest?”
“He’s dangerous. He shouldn’t be here. Not now.”
“We could send him away.”
“Or we could kill him.”
Drevin thought for a little longer. He barely seemed to breathe. Magnus Payne waited patiently.
“You’re right,” Drevin said suddenly. “Paul won’t be too happy about it, but that can’t be helped. See to it tomorrow, Mr Payne.”
He got to his feet.
“Kill him.”
DEEP TROUBLE
« ^ »
t was another perfect day. Alex Rider was eating breakfast with Drevin and his son on a terrace perched on the edge of the sea, the waves lapping below them. A servant—all the staff had been brought in from Barbados—had served them cold meat, fruit, cheese and freshly baked rolls. There was a jug of Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica, one of the most delicious and expensive blends in the world. This was the millionaire lifestyle, all right. A stunning house, a private island, Caribbean sunshine … a snapshot of another world.
Drevin was in an unusually good mood. It was the day before the launch and Alex could sense his excitement. “What have you boys got planned for today?”
“Do you want to take the kite out again?” Paul asked Alex. “There might be a bit more wind.” Alex nodded. “Sure.”
“Why don’t you do some waterskiing?” Drevin suggested.
“We could do that too.” Paul was obviously pleased that his father was taking an interest. It seemed to Alex that if Drevin had suggested a sandcastle competition, the other boy would have agreed.
Drevin turned to Alex. “Have you ever dived?”
“Yes.” Alex had been a qualified diver since he was twelve.
“Then why don’t you go out this afternoon? We have all the equipment you need—and you can visit the Mary Belle.” Alex looked puzzled. Drevin went on. “It’s an old transport ship; it was sunk in the Second World War while carrying supplies to the American bases in the Caribbean. Now it’s an excellent dive site.
You can swim into some of the holds.”
Alex had been on wreck dives before. He knew that there was nothing more strangely beautiful, more eerie, than the ghost of an old ship. He turned to Paul. “Do you want to come?”
“I can’t,” Paul said. “My asthma…”
“Scuba is one of the many things Paul is unable to do,” Drevin said. “But I can ask one of the guards to be your buddy. It would be a shame not to see it.”
