was a man who wore his faith openly, who dared you to argue against it.
Alex drew closer. The six of them had been playing a version of poker—Texas Hold ’Em—in which five cards turned faceup are used by everyone at the table. And the stakes couldn’t have been higher.
Alex saw this at once from the number of different-colored chips spilling over the table—each one marked $50, $100, even $500. Each chip had been bought at its face value. The casino was using real money. Alex could feel the tension in the air. A scattering of cards, a few minutes’ playing time, and thousands of dollars could be changing hands. At the moment, McCain was clearly in the lead.
There was a whole mountain of chips stacked up in front of him, and only one of the players—a man with a shock of silver hair and a thick, fleshy face—came anywhere close.
McCain looked up and noticed Alex. At once the smile was there, drawing him in, making him feel that the two of them had known each other for years.
“Good evening,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Kilmore Casino. You’re frankly a little young to be gambling, I’d have said. What’s your name?”
“Alex. Alex Rider.”
“And I’m Desmond McCain. We’re just about to play the last hand. Why don’t you join us? It’s all for a good cause, so I think we can turn a blind eye to the age limit.” He gestured at the seat that had just been vacated. Alex could already hear that his broken jaw made it difficult for him to speak. Words beginning with
Let’s see if they have anything more to say before midnight.” Alex knew he was making a mistake. He was meant to be looking for Edward Pleasure. He had agreed with Sabina. They were going to leave. But it was almost as if McCain had challenged him. If he walked away now, he would look like some little kid who was out of his depth. McCain had won the last hand and was neatly stacking up all the chips, including those of the man who had just left. Alex took his chair and sat down.
“Good!” McCain beamed at him. “Do you know the rules of Texas Hold ’Em?” Alex nodded.
“We’re taking this very seriously. It costs five hundred dollars to join the table—that money goes straight to First Aid—and minimum bets are fifty dollars. Have you brought your pocket money with you?”
A couple of the other players laughed. Alex ignored them. “I didn’t bring any money at all,” he said.
“Then we’ll waive the entrance fee and I’ll stake you. This is the last hand of the evening, so one thousand dollars ought to be enough.” He slid the chips over. “It makes it more fun with more people.
And you never know. You could win enough to buy yourself a new PlayStation!” With Alex making up the numbers, there would be six players at the table: three men, two women, and him. McCain was at one end with a dark-haired woman—Alex vaguely recognized her as a television reporter—at his side. Then came an elderly man who could have been a retired soldier, sitting rigidly with a straight back and a face fixed in concentration. The silver-haired man came next. He reminded Alex of an accountant or a banker. The circle was completed by a Scottish woman with ginger hair, sipping champagne even though it was clear she’d already had more than enough.
The croupier shuffled the deck and each player was dealt two cards, facedown. These were known as the “hole cards.” Alex had learned the basics of the game, playing with Ian Rider and Jack Starbright at an age when other children were probably reading Dick and Jane. Texas Hold ’Em is largely a game of bluff. You try to make pairs, three of a kind, a full house, and so on. But everything depends on your hidden cards. They may be great. They may be terrible. The secret is to make sure no one guesses either way.
Alex watched as McCain raised the corners of his cards with a thumb and smiled, not even attempting to conceal his pleasure. Of course, it was possible that he was bluffing, but Alex got the sense that this wasn’t a man who was too clever when it came to hiding his emotions. He must have something good under there . . . high cards or a pair. Alex examined his own cards. There was nothing to get excited about, but he kept his own face blank.
“Come on, then,” McCain said.
The croupier was a pale, serious-looking man in his late twenties. He looked uncomfortable having a teenager in the game, but dealt three more cards—“the flop”—faceup on the table. All six players would use these cards to try to create the best hand possible. The first one out was the jack of diamonds, a face card. Then came the seven of hearts. The third card drew a slight murmur from the people gathered around. It was the ace of spades. This was going to be an expensive game.
The betting began.
Alex looked at all the money he had been given, thinking there must be better ways to spend a thousand dollars. McCain started the bidding with two hundred dollars, and the reporter folded at once.
“There’s no point playing against you, Desmond,” she said. She had a thick Scottish accent. “You always win.”
“‘We are all running in the race,’” McCain said. “‘But only one receives the prize.’” He laughed briefly. “That’s Corinthians, chapter nine, verse twenty-four.” He turned to the soldier. “Are you in, Hamilton?”
Hamilton also folded. The accountant, Alex, and the ginger-haired woman all slid their $100 chips in front of them.
Two more cards. Two more bets. By the time the last card had been dealt, this was what Alex was looking at, spread out on the green baize surface:
There were just three players remaining. The other woman had folded, leaving Alex, the accountant, and McCain to fight it out. The fact that the ace of spades had now been joined by a pair of jacks sitting faceup on the table made this an even more extraordinary game. McCain had asked if the cards had anything to say, and it seemed that they were screaming. If this had been a real casino, the betting might have climbed to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even so, it was going to get expensive. Alex had just $700 left, yet the accountant had almost as much as McCain. And, even with such high sums, it was obvious that there was more to this than money. McCain was still relaxed, still smiling—yet he really wanted to win the game. It was his party, his castle, his evening. It was a matter of personal pride.
And the other people in the room had sensed it too. Alex realized that the roulette wheel had stopped spinning. Everyone had gathered around the table to watch this strange contest—two men, a boy, and five white rectangles that, combined with the turned-down cards, could mean so much or so little.
“Interesting cards,” McCain muttered. “If either of you have another ace, you’ll have two pairs. You could win the entire pot . . .”
