“He blew up a chimney on the recycling unit. And he killed a guard in the Poison Dome.”
“A teenager? Then who was he? What was he doing here?” There was a knock at the door and Dr. Beckett came in, her white coat flapping behind her, carrying a file. There was something military about the way she walked, like a soldier delivering news of a defeat.
“I have the photographs,” she announced.
“I thought you said the cameras weren’t working,” McCain said.
“They were jammed for about forty minutes.” Straik took the file. “But they were working when the bus first arrived, and I thought it might be worth our while to examine who exactly came here today.” McCain went over to the desk. The file that Beckett had brought contained a dozen photographs taken by the camera closest to the main gate. They were grainy, in black and white, but Mr. Gilbert and Miss Barry were clear enough, stepping down from the bus with the rest of the school group following behind. Straik and Beckett were both leaning forward, examining the pictures, when McCain suddenly stabbed down with his finger.
“Him!”
“Who is it, Desmond?”
“Don’t you recognize him, you idiot? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible. But there’s no doubt about it.
It’s the boy from Scotland.”
“What boy?” Then Straik realized. “The boy from the card game.”
“Alex Rider.” McCain uttered the name with undisguised hatred. “That was what he called himself.”
“I heard that name on the roll call,” Beckett muttered. “But he never left the group.”
“Somebody must have answered for him,” McCain said. His finger was still pressing down on Alex, as if he could squash him like a bug. “It’s definitely the same boy, and this is the second time he’s crossed my path.”
“I thought we’d dealt with him, Desmond.” Myra Beckett stared at the picture in dismay. “You said he was in the car with that journalist—”
“Evidently, we failed.” McCain twisted away. “Which means that that irritating journalist is still alive as well. This boy is no mere teenager, though. Who is this Alex Rider? Why is he interested in us?”
“We can find out,” Straik muttered.
McCain nodded. “We have contacts. We need to use them. It doesn’t matter how much it costs.
Someone must know something about this boy . . . he clearly wasn’t working alone.” McCain took one last look at the photograph. With an effort, he broke free. “We’ll locate him and we’ll bring him back here.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll find out what he knows.”
14
FEELING THE HEAT
HENRY BRAY HAD BEEN THE PRINCIPAL at Brookland for seven years and assistant principal at another school for five years before that. He didn’t often find himself lost for words, but right now that was exactly how he felt. Once again, he examined the boy in front of him while he tried to work out how to proceed.
Alex Rider was different from all the other boys at Brookland. He knew that. The unfortunate death of his uncle in a car accident almost a year ago had clearly sent him off the rails. That was understandable.
But Alex had barely been in school since then, missing week after week because of so many different illnesses that in the end (Mr. Bray hadn’t told anyone he’d done this) he had actually written to the doctor, suspecting that something might be going on. He had received a short note back. Alex had viral problems. His health was very delicate. The doctor—his name was Blunt—wouldn’t be at all surprised if Alex had to miss a lot more school in the future.
Alex didn’t look ill now. He looked as if he had been in a fistfight. There were a number of small cuts on his forehead and the side of his cheek, and from the way he was standing, Bray guessed he had hurt his shoulder. He was here because of a report sent in by his biology teacher, Mr. Gilbert. But Alex didn’t give any sign of being ashamed or nervous about what might follow. He was just angry.
Mr. Bray sighed. “Alex. You made a very good start in year seven. All your reports said the same. And I am well aware of your personal circumstances. I imagine you were very close to your uncle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It doesn’t help that you’ve had a lot of time off school . . . all these illnesses. Obviously, I’ve made allowances for you. But this business yesterday . . . frankly, I’m appalled. As I understand it, the bus had an emergency door that you opened, and you managed to fall out. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m amazed you could be so irresponsible. You could have seriously hurt yourself. And there were other young people on the bus too. Didn’t you stop to think that you might cause an accident? I can’t imagine why you would do such a thoughtless thing.” Mr. Bray took off his glasses and laid them on his desk. It was something he always did when he was about to pronounce sentence. “I hate the idea of your missing any more lessons, but I’m afraid I am going to have to make an example of you. You are going to have one day’s suspension from school. You are to go home straightaway, and I’ve written a note for you to take with you.”
Half an hour later, Alex crossed the school yard with a sense of injustice burning in him. He had survived poisonous plants and insects, hand-to-hand combat, and machine-gun fire. He had downloaded the contents of Straik’s computer and stolen a sample of whatever he was brewing at Greenfields. Jack would have already delivered them to the MI6 offices on Liverpool Street. And what was his reward? To be treated like a naughty schoolboy, sent home with a note.
The first lesson had already begun, and nobody noticed Alex as he made his way out of the gates and down the
