“We don’t believe so. The Phantoms will be carrying AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface tactical missiles with infrared tracking. They’ll be able to pinpoint the target exactly. Each plane has six missiles. Each missile contains eighty-six pounds of high explosive. The advice we’ve been given is that there’s a 99.5
percent probability that every single one of the spores will be destroyed in the firestorm.”
“That still leaves room for error,” Blunt said.
“And what about Alex?” Mrs. Jones added. “For all we know, he could still be in the area. Are we going to launch a missile strike against him too?”
“I don’t think we have any choice,” Ellis said. He reached down and picked a speck of dust off his tie.
“There’s no reason to believe he’s anywhere near the target area.”
“And if he is?”
“I’m sure you’d agree that we can’t allow one life to get in the way. Not when we’re trying to save thousands.”
There was a brief silence. The prime minister was looking more uncomfortable than ever. But then he spoke again. “I think we’ve come to a unanimous decision, Mr. Blunt.”
“You certainly have,” Blunt muttered.
“And before you leave, there is one thing I do have to ask you. Exactly how many agents do you have who are underage . . . which is to say, sixteen years old or younger?”
“We have only one,” Blunt replied. “There is only one Alex Rider.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” The prime minister looked apologetic. “To be honest, I was rather horrified to discover that the British secret service would even consider employing a minor. I can see from his file that he’s been tremendously useful to you and he certainly deserves our gratitude. But putting children into danger, no matter how compelling the reason . . . well, I’m not sure the public would stand for it. In my view, recruiting him in the first place was a serious error of judgment.”
“Well, if your Phantom jets manage to kill him, that won’t be a problem anymore, will it,” Blunt said.
He was speaking evenly and without emotion, but it was the nearest Mrs. Jones had ever seen him come to losing his temper.
“I hope it won’t come to that, Mr. Blunt. But whatever happens, I want to make it clear that my government will not tolerate this sort of thing again. This is Alex’s last assignment, do you understand me? I want him back at school.”
The meeting was over. Blunt and Mrs. Jones stood up and walked out of the room, back down the stairs, and out into the street where their car was waiting for them.
“The man is an idiot,” Blunt snapped as they swept through the gates at the end of Downing Street.
“He talks about a 0.5 percent margin of error. But I spoke to Redwing, and she thinks it’s much higher.
These missiles of his won’t kill the disease. They’ll spread it . . . farther and faster than anyone could imagine.”
“What about Alex?” Mrs. Jones asked.
“I’ll talk to RAW the moment we get back. But their man has gone silent. Nobody knows what’s happening in Kenya.” He glanced briefly out of the window as they turned into Whitehall. “It looks as if, once again, Alex Rider is on his own.”
“Where did you find this?”
Desmond McCain was sitting behind the folding table that he used as a workplace in his own private cabin at Simba River Camp. The room was similar to the one in which Alex had been kept, except that there was no bed and the walls were decorated with photographs of the office buildings that McCain had once developed in the east end of London. Although the fan had been turned to full speed, the air was still hot and sluggish. There was sweat on his head and on his face. It was seeping through the shoulders of his jacket.
He was looking at a leather shoe, one he recognized. The last time he had seen it, it had been on Myra Beckett’s foot. In fact, it still was. The foot, bitten off just above the ankle, was still inside.
“It was beside the river, sir.”
Njenga was also in the room, standing with his legs apart and his hands behind his back. He had become the leader of the dozen men working for McCain. The rest of them spoke only Bantu, but he had been to school in Nairobi and spoke fluent English. McCain took one last look at all that remained of his fiancee. A single tear stole out of his eye and crept down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Also on the table was a scrap of material, part of Alex’s shirt. McCain examined it. “What about this?” he asked.
“It was in the same place.”
“By the river.”
“Yes, sir.”
McCain held the shirt in his huge hands, tugging at it with his fingers. It had been more than two hours since he had noticed that Myra was missing and had sent out his men to find her. They had come back with this. What could possibly have happened? He had left her standing on the observation platform, waiting for the child to come to the end of his strength and to fall as, inevitably, he must. There was no way that Alex Rider would have been able to reach her. Nor could he have escaped. It had all been too carefully arranged. And yet there was something . . .
“There is no blood on this shirt,” he said. “We’ve been tricked. Somehow, the child got away.” Njenga said nothing. The rule here was to speak only when it was essential.
“He can’t have gone far, even with a two-hour start. He has nowhere to go. He won’t have crossed the river, not knowing what’s in it. So it should be a simple matter to track him down.” McCain had
