“Alex … you sound strange. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, Tom. Goodbye.”
He hung up and felt a wave of sadness. It was as if Tom was the last link to the world he had known—and he had just severed the connection.
The boat pulled in. There was a jetty, carefully concealed in a natural fault line in the rock so that nobody could be watched arriving at or leaving the island. Nile sprang ashore. He had the ease and grace of a ballet dancer.
Alex had noticed the same thing once about Yassen Gregorovich.
“This way, Alex.”
Alex followed. The two of them walked up a twisting path between the trees. For a moment the buildings were hidden.
“Can I tell you something?” Nile said. He flashed Alex his friendliest smile. “I was delighted you decided to join us. It’s great to have you on the winning side.”
“Thank you.”
“But I hope you never change your mind, Alex. I hope you never try to trick us or anything like that. I’m sure you won’t. But after what happened at the Widow’s Palace, I’d hate to have to murder you again.”
“Yes. It wasn’t much fun the last time,” Alex agreed.
“It would really upset me. Mrs Rothman is expecting great things from you. I hope you don’t let her down.” They had passed through the copse and there was the monastery, its great walls peeling from age and neglect.
There was a heavy wooden door with a smaller door set in it, and next to it the one sign that the building might, after all, have been adapted to modern times: a keypad with a built-in video camera. Nile tapped in a code.
There was an electronic buzz and the smaller door opened.
“Welcome back to school!” Nile announced.
Alex hesitated. The new term at Brookland would start in a few days’ time. And here he was about to enter a school of a very different kind. But it was too late for second thoughts. He was following the path his father had mapped out for him.
Nile was waiting. Alex went in.
He found himself in a open courtyard with cloisters on three sides and the bell tower rising up above the fourth.
The ground was a neat rectangle of grass with two cypress trees side by side at one end. A tile roof slanted in, covering the cloisters, like an old-fashioned tennis court. Five men dressed in white robes stood around an instructor, an older man dressed in black. As Alex and Nile entered, they stepped forward as one, lashed out with their fists and shouted—the kiai that Alex knew from karate.
“Sometimes, with the silent kill, it is not possible to shout out,” the instructor said. He spoke with a Russian or Eastern European accent. “But remember the power of the silent kiai. Use it to drive your chi into the strike zone. Do not underestimate its power at the moment of the kill.”
“That’s Professor Yermalov,” Nile told Alex. “He taught me when I was here. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, Alex. I’ve seen him finish a fight with a single finger. Fast as a snake and about as friendly…”
They crossed the courtyard and went through an archway into a vast room with a multicoloured mosaic floor, ornate windows, pillars and intricate wooden angels carved into the walls. This might once have been a place of worship; now it was used as a refectory and meeting place, with long tables, modern sofas and a hatch leading into a kitchen beyond. The ceiling was domed and carried the faint remnants of a fresco. There had been angels here too but they had long ago faded.
There was a door on the far side. Nile went over to it and knocked.
“Entrez!” The voice, speaking French, was friendly.
They went into a tall, octagonal room. Books lined five of the eight walls. The ceiling, painted blue with silver stars, was at least twenty metres high. There was a ladder on wheels reaching up to the top shelves. Two windows looked out onto more woodland but much of the light was blocked out by leaves, and an iron chandelier with about a dozen electric bulbs hung down on a heavy chain. The centre of the room was taken up by a solid-looking desk with two antique chairs in front of it and one behind. This third chair was occupied by a small, plump man in a suit and waistcoat. He was working at a laptop computer, his stubby fingers typing at great speed. He was peering at the screen through gold-rimmed glasses. He had a neat black beard that tapered to a point under his chin. The rest of his hair was grey.
“Alex Rider! Please … come in.” The man looked up from his computer with obvious pleasure. “I would have recognized you at once. I knew your father very well and you look just like him.” Apart from a slight French accent, his English was perfect. “My name is Oliver d’Arc. I am, you might say, the principal of this establishment—the head teacher, perhaps. I was just looking at your personal details on the Internet.” Alex sat down on one of the antique chairs. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d be posted on the Internet,” he commented.
“It depends which search engine you use.” D’Arc gave Alex a sly smile. “I know Mrs Rothman told you that your father was an instructor here. I worked with him and he was a good friend to me, but I never dreamt that I would one day meet his son. And it is Nile who brings you here. Nile graduated from here a few years ago. He was a brilliant student—the number two in his class.”
Alex glanced at Nile and for the first time saw a flicker of annoyance cross the man’s face. He remembered what Mrs Rothman had said … something about Nile having a weakness … and he wondered what it was that had prevented him becoming number one.
“Are you thirsty after your journey?” d’Arc asked. “Can I get you anything? A sirop de grenadine, perhaps?” Alex started. The red fruit juice was his favourite drink when he was in France. Had d’Arc got that off the Internet too?
“It was what your father always drank,” d’Arc explained, reading his thoughts.
