Crocodile Tears

McCain had made his decision. He set off, avoiding the puddles so that he wouldn’t get his shoes dirty as he made his way toward his car.

“So what exactly do you think is going on?”

Even as Alan Blunt posed the question, a waiter approached his table with the main course: steak and kidney pie for him, a tuna salad for Mrs. Jones. The two of them preferred not to talk as the plates were positioned and the wine was poured. They were having lunch at Blunt’s club, the Mandarin, in Whitehall. And although all the waiters had received security clearance, the two of them preferred not to talk while there was any chance of being overheard. A great many members of the Mandarin were either politicians or intelligence chiefs, and it was said to be the most unfriendly place in London.

Nobody trusted anybody. Members very rarely spoke to each other at all.

That morning, Blunt and his deputy had been given a full briefing by the chief science officer at MI6, a fiercely intelligent woman called Redwing. She had analyzed the liquid that had seeped into Alex Rider’s jacket after the test tube he had stolen had smashed. Her report—she was always thorough—

had begun with wool, polyester, and apple juice. The first two, of course, were the materials of the jacket itself. The third had perhaps been a spill during school lunch.

But the rest of the ingredients had been more interesting. According to Redwing, the test tube had contained something that she called bitrites infestans. This was essentially a biological soup that seemed to have been developed from a variety of different mushrooms. It was too soon to say which mushrooms exactly had been used, but preliminary tests were surprising. The liquid was completely harmless. It even had a nutritional value. Although it would taste disgusting, it could be consumed by humans or animals with no side effects. Redwing had eaten once or twice at the Mandarin, so she had concluded by saying, “They could serve it at your club, Mr. Blunt, and you might not even send it back.

Why they’re making so much of it is a little puzzling. A thousand gallons? Is that what your agent said?

Well, I can’t tell you what they’re going to do with it, but I can assure you that the worst it would give you is indigestion. . . .”

Alex had told Jack what had happened at Greenfields, and she had in turn informed MI6. The appearance of Desmond McCain, the chase through the complex, the Poison Dome, the escape from the roof . . . they knew all of this. But, like Alex, they still had no clear idea what exactly was going on.

The waiter retreated and Mrs. Jones tried to answer Blunt’s question. “I’m not at all surprised that McCain is up to no good,” she said. “He has a criminal record, after all.”

“Didn’t he convert to Christianity?”

“So he claims—and to be fair, his charity, First Aid, has done some very good work. But after what Alex has told us . . .”

“Of course.” This time, Blunt was going to believe everything Alex had said. After all, as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, the boy had been right in the past and MI6 had been proved wrong. “Is there any link between McCain and this man Leonard Straik?” he asked.

“None that we’ve been able to find.”

“What do we know about McCain’s movements in the past five years?”

“I’m having a report prepared. It’ll be on your desk this afternoon.” Blunt broke the crust on his pie and examined the contents. The food at the Mandarin Club was not good, but the members liked it that way. It reminded them of school. “I have to say, I’m quite worried about all this,” he said. “I always had a feeling that the department would have to turn its attention to GM food one day. There are people out there doing things that half the world doesn’t even understand.”

“We are what we eat.” Mrs. Jones had lost her appetite. She put down her knife and fork.

“That was why I was interested in Mr. Straik. And if he’s working hand-in-hand with McCain, that’s certainly alarming. We need to know what the two of them are up to.”

“What about Alex?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“As usual, Alex has done an extremely good job. We really are going to have to make sure we recruit him full-time after he finishes college. He’s already shown himself to be more resourceful than a great many of our adult agents.” Blunt stuck his fork into the pie and pulled out a piece of rather fatty meat covered in thick brown gravy. “But as far as this business is concerned, he’s no longer involved. Maybe you should drop him a note, Mrs. Jones. We’ve treated him badly in the past, but perhaps we could send him a brief thank-you? And maybe we should enclose a bag of candy.” Alan Blunt began to eat his lunch. He was still puzzled about the mushroom soup, but his department would work on it. That was the important thing. In the meantime, Alex Rider was already out of his mind.

16

SPECIAL DELIVERY

ALEX COULD TELL JACK was in a bad mood. She had made the breakfast as she did every morning

—boiled eggs for him, fruit and muesli for her. There had been a freshly ironed jacket waiting for him in his room. But she had stamped around the kitchen in silence, and when she had loaded the dishwasher, she had slid the plates in as if she had a personal grudge against them.

He knew what had upset her. “Jack,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” She lifted up the toaster and wiped away imaginary crumbs.

“I am. Really.”

Jack turned around and let out a sigh. She could never stay angry for long and they both knew it. “I just don’t understand you sometimes,” she said. “We both agreed that Greenfields wasn’t your business.

You did what you were told and you were lucky to get out alive. So what on earth did you think you were up to?”

“I don’t know.” Alex thought for a moment. “I just felt angry after being told off by Mr. Bray. And I thought, if I could only find out what McCain was doing . . .”

“What exactly is he doing?” Jack sat down at the table. “You say