“I wasn’t on Albert Bridge.” He laid the photograph down. “I want all local agents in Venice placed on immediate alert, and we’d better contact airports and all points of entry into the UK. I want Alex Rider brought in.”
“Unharmed.” The single word was spoken as a challenge.
Blunt looked at her with empty eyes. “Whatever it takes.”
THE BELL TOWER
« ^ »
So tell me, Alex. What do you see?” Alex was sitting in a leather chair in a plain, whitewashed room at the back of the monastery. He was on one side of a desk, facing a smiling middle-aged man who sat on the other. The man’s name was Dr Karl Steiner and, although he spoke with a slight German accent, he had come to the island from South Africa. He was a psychiatrist and looked it—with silver-framed glasses, thinning hair and eyes that were always more inquisitive than friendly. Dr Steiner was holding a white card with a black shape on it. The shape looked like nothing at all; it was just a series of blobs. But Alex was meant to be able to interpret it.
He thought for a moment. He knew that this was called a Rorschach test; he had seen it once in a film. He supposed it must be important. But he wasn’t sure that he saw anything in particular on the card. Eventually he spoke.
“I suppose it’s a man flying through the sky,” he suggested. “He’s wearing a backpack.”
“That’s excellent. Very good!” Dr Steiner put the card down and picked up another. “How about this one?” The second shape was easier. “It’s a football being pumped up,” Alex said.
“Good, thank you.”
Dr Steiner laid the second card down and there was a brief silence in the office. Outside, Alex could hear gunfire. The other students were down on the shooting range. But there was no view of the range out of the window. Perhaps the psychiatrist had chosen this room for that reason.
“So how are you settling in?” Dr Steiner asked.
Alex shrugged. “OK.”
“You have no anxieties? Nothing you wish to discuss?”
“No. I’m fine, thank you, Dr Steiner.”
“Good. That’s good.” The psychiatrist seemed determined to be positive. Alex wondered if the interview was over, but then the man opened a file. “I have your medical report here,” he said.
For a moment Alex was nervous. He had been physically examined on his first day on the island. Stripped down to his underwear, he had been put through a whole series of tests by an Italian nurse who spoke little English. Blood and urine samples had been taken, his blood pressure and pulse measured, his sight, hearing and reflexes checked. He wondered now if they had found something wrong.
But Dr Steiner was still smiling. “You’re in very good shape, Alex,” he commented. “I’m glad you’ve been looking after yourself. Not too much fast food. No cigarettes. Very sensible.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a hypodermic syringe and a little bottle. As Alex watched, he inserted the needle into the bottle and filled the syringe.
“What’s that?” Alex asked.
“According to your medical report, you’re a little run-down. I suppose it’s to be expected after all you’ve been through. And I’m sure it’s very demanding, being here on this island. The nurse has suggested a vitamin booster. That’s all this is.” He held the needle up to the light and squirted a little of the amber-coloured liquid out of the tip. “Would you mind rolling up your sleeve?”
Alex hesitated. “I thought you were a psychiatrist,” he said.
“I’m perfectly qualified to give you an injection,” Dr Steiner said. He raised an accusing finger. “You’re not going to tell me you’re afraid of a little prick?”
“I wouldn’t call you that,” Alex muttered. He rolled up his left sleeve.
Two minutes later, he was back outside.
He had been missing gun practice because of his medical appointment and he joined the other students on the firing range. This was on the western side of the island—the side that faced away from Venice. Although Scorpia were legally permitted to be on Malagosto, they hadn’t wanted to draw attention to themselves with the sound of gunfire, and the woodland provided a natural screen. There was a strip of the island that was long and flat with nothing growing apart from wild grasses, and the school had built a cut-out town, with offices and shops that were nothing more than fronts, like a film set. Alex had already been through it twice, using a handgun to shoot at paper targets—black rings with a red bull’s-eye—that popped up in the windows and doors.
Gordon Ross, the ginger-haired technical specialist who seemed to have picked up most of his skills in Scotland’s tougher jails, was in charge of the shooting range. He nodded as Alex approached.
“Good afternoon, Mr Rider. How was your visit to the shrink? Did he tell you you’re mad? If not, I wonder what the hell you’re doing here!”
A number of other students stood around him, unloading and adjusting their weapons. Alex knew all of them by now. There was Klaus, a German mercenary who had trained with the Taliban in Afghanistan. Walker, who had spent five years with the CIA in Washington before deciding he could earn more working for the other side.
One of the two women there had become quite close to Alex, and he wondered if she had been specially chosen to look after him. Her name was Amanda and she had been a soldier with the Israeli army in the occupied Gaza Strip. Seeing him, she raised a hand in greeting. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
But then they all did. That was the strange thing. He had been accepted into the day-to-day life of Malagosto without any problem. That in itself was remarkable. Alex remembered the time MI6 had sent him for training with the SAS in Wales. He had been an outsider from the day he arrived, unwanted and unwelcome, a child in an adult world. He was by far the youngest person here too, but that didn’t seem to matter. Quite the opposite.
He was accepted and even admired by the other students. He was John Rider’s son. Everyone knew what that meant.
