Like his father.
Had he made the right decision? At the time, it had all seemed very simple. Yassen Gregorovich had told the truth; Mrs Rothman had shown it to him on film. But he still wasn’t sure. There was a voice whispering to him in the evening breeze that this was all a terrible mistake, that he shouldn’t be here, that it wasn’t too late to get away. But where would he go? How could he return to England, knowing what he did? Albert Bridge. He couldn’t erase the images from his mind. The three Scorpia agents waiting. Mrs Jones talking into the radio transmitter. The betrayal. John Rider pitching forward and lying still.
Alex felt hatred welling up inside him. It was stronger than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He wondered if it would be possible to live an ordinary life again one day. There seemed to be nowhere for him to go. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just took one more step. He was already standing on the very edge. Why couldn’t he just let the night take him?
“Alex?”
He hadn’t heard anyone approach. He looked round and saw Nile standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame.
“I’ve been looking for you, Alex. What are you doing?”
“I was just thinking.”
“Professor Yermalov said he thought he saw you come up here. You shouldn’t really be here.” Alex expected Nile to come forward, but he stayed where he was.
“I just wanted to be alone,” Alex explained.
“I think you should come down. You could fall.”
Alex hesitated. Then he nodded. “All right.”
He followed Nile back down the twisting staircase and at last they emerged at ground level.
“Professor d’Arc wants to see you,” Nile said.
“To fail me?”
“What gave you that idea? You’ve done extremely well. Everyone is very pleased with you. You’ve been here less than a fortnight but you’ve already made great progress.” They walked back together. A couple of students passed them and murmured a greeting. Only the day before, Alex had seen them fight a ferocious duel with fencing swords. They were deadly killers; they were his friends.
He shook his head and followed Nile into the monastery and through to d’Arc’s study.
As usual, the principal was sitting behind his desk. He was looking as neat as ever, his beard perfectly trimmed.
“Do, please, sit down, Alex,” he said. He tapped a few keys on his computer and glanced at the screen through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I have some of your results here,” he went on. “You’ll be pleased to know that all the teachers speak very highly of you.” He frowned. “We do have one small problem, however. Your psychological profile…”
Alex said nothing.
“This business of killing,” d’Arc said. “I heard what you said when you first came to my office and, as I told you, there are many other things you could do for Scorpia. But here’s the problem, my dear boy. You’re afraid of killing, so you’re afraid of Scorpia. You are not quite one of us—and I fear you never will be. That is not satisfactory.”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“Not at all. I’m asking you only to trust us a little more. I’m searching for a way to make you feel that you belong with us completely. And I think I have the answer.”
D’Arc switched off his computer and walked round from behind the desk. He was dressed in another suit—he wore a different suit every day. This one was brown, with a herringbone pattern.
“You have to learn to kill,” he said suddenly. “You have to do it without any hesitation. Because, when you’ve done it once, you’ll see that actually it wasn’t such a big deal. It’s the same as jumping into a swimming pool.
As easy as that. But you have to cross the psychological barrier, Alex, if you are to become one of us.” He raised a hand. “I know you are very young; I know this isn’t easy. But I want to help you. I want to make it less painful for you. And I think I can.
“I am going to send you to England tomorrow. That same evening you will carry out your first mission for Scorpia and, if you succeed, there will be no going back. You will know that you are truly one of us and we will know that we can trust you. But here is the good news.” D’Arc smiled, showing teeth that didn’t look quite real.
“We have chosen the one person in the world who—we think you’ll agree—most deserves to die. It is someone you have every reason to despise, and we hope that your hatred and your anger will drive you on, removing any last doubts you may have.
“Mrs Jones. The deputy head of MI6 Special Operations. She was the one responsible for the death of your father.
“We know where she lives; we will help you get to her. She is the one we want you to kill.” DEAR PRIME MINISTER…
« ^ »
Just before four o’clock in the afternoon, a man got out of a taxi in Whitehall, paid with a brand-new twenty- pound note, and began to walk the short distance to Downing Street. The man had started his journey at Paddington, but that wasn’t where he lived. Nor had he come into London on a train. He was about thirty years old with short, fair hair, and he was wearing a suit and tie.
It is not possible to walk into Downing Street, not since Margaret Thatcher erected huge anti-terrorist gates.
Britain is the only democracy whose leaders feel the need to hide behind bars. As always, there was a policeman there, just coming to the end of his eight-hour shift.
