A dreary time without you. Can’t wait to be at the Widow’s Palace with you again.
John R.
Alex recognized the handwriting although he had never seen it before, and in that instant any last, lingering doubt was swept away.
The writing was his father’s.
But it was identical to his own.
“It’s very late,” Mrs Rothman said. “You really ought to get to bed. We can talk again tomorrow.” Alex looked at the screen as if expecting to see Mrs Jones mocking him across fourteen years, destroying his life before it had even really begun. For a long while he didn’t speak. Then he stood up.
“I want to join Scorpia,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Go to Venice. Find Scorpia. Find your destiny, Yassen had told him. And that was what had happened. He had made up his mind. There could be no going back.
HOW TO KILL
« ^ »
The island was only a few miles from Venice but it had been forgotten for a hundred years. Its name was Malagosto and it was shaped roughly like a crescent moon, just half a mile long. There were six buildings on the island, surrounded by wild grasses and poplars, and they all looked condemned. The largest of them was a monastery, built around a courtyard, with a red-brick bell tower, slanting very slightly, next to it. There was a crumbling hospital and then a row of what looked like apartment blocks with shattered windows and gaping holes in the roofs. A few boats went past Malagosto but never docked there. It was forbidden. And the place had a bad reputation.
There had once been a small, thriving community on the island. But that had been long ago, in the Middle Ages. It had been ransacked in 1380, during the war with Genoa, and after that it had been used for plague victims. Sneeze in Venice, it was said, and you would end up in Malagosto. When the plague died out it became a quarantine centre, and then, in the eighteenth century, a sanctuary for the insane. Finally it had been abandoned and left to rot. But there were fishermen who claimed that, on a cold winter’s night, you could still hear the screams and demented laughter of the lunatics who had been the island’s last residents.
Malagosto was the perfect base for Scorpia’s Training and Assessment Centre. They had bought the island on a lease from the Italian government in the mid-eighties and they had been there ever since. If anyone asked what was happening there, they were told that it was now a business centre where lawyers, bankers and office managers could come for motivation and bonding sessions. This was, of course, a lie. Scorpia sent new recruits to the school that they ran on Malagosto. It was here that they learnt how to kill.
Alex Rider sat at the front of the motor launch, watching as the island drew nearer. It was the same motor launch that had led him to the Widow’s Palace and the silver scorpion on the bow glistened in the sun. Nile was sitting opposite him, totally relaxed, dressed in white trousers and a blazer.
“I spent three months in training here,” he shouted over the noise of the engine. “But that was a long time after your dad.”
Alex nodded but said nothing. He could see the bell tower looming up, rising crookedly over the tops of the trees. The wind chased through his hair and the spray danced in his eyes.
Julia Rothman had left Positano before them that morning, returning to Venice, where she was involved in something that required her presence. They had met briefly after breakfast and this time she had been more serious and businesslike. Alex would spend the next few days on Malagosto, she said—not for full training, but for an initial assessment that would include a medical examination, psychological testing and a general overview of his fitness and aptitude. It would also give Alex time to reflect on his decision.
Alex’s mind was dead. He had made his decision and, as far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered. Only one good thing had come out of last night. He hadn’t forgotten Tom Harris and his brother. They had heard nothing from him since he had broken into Consanto yesterday evening—and there was still the question of all Jerry’s equipment, left behind on the roof. But Mrs Rothman had promised to deal with that, as Alex had reminded her.
“Go ahead and call them,” she had said. “Apart from anything else, we don’t want them worrying about you and raising the alarm. As for the parachute and all the rest of it, I already told you. I’ll send your friend’s brother a cheque to cover the cost. Five thousand euros? That should do it.” She had smiled. “You see, Alex?
That’s what I mean. We want to look after you.”
After she had gone, Alex called Tom from his room. Tom was delighted to hear from him.
“We saw you land so we knew you hadn’t got splatted,” he said. “Then nothing happened for a while. And then the whole place blew up. Was that you?”
“Not exactly,” Alex said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Positano. I’m OK. But, Tom, listen to me…
“I know.” Tom’s voice was flat. “You’re not coming back to school.”
“Not for a bit.”
“Is this MI6 again?”
“Sort of. I’ll tell you one day.” That was a lie. Alex knew he would never see his friend again. “Just tell Jerry that he’s going to get a cheque soon to pay for all his stuff. And tell him thanks from me.”
“What about Brookland?”
“It would be easier if you said you never saw me. As far as they’re concerned, I disappeared in Venice and that was that.”
