unscrewing it but it didn’t budge. He would have to tear it out, and in such a way that it would be impossible to reconnect. His hand closed around the cable and he pulled with all his might. Nothing happened. The connections were too strong: metal screwed into metal. And the cables themselves were too thick. He needed a knife or a pair of scissors; he had nothing.
Alex leant back and pressed his foot against the metal box. He strained, still gripping the cable, using his whole body weight. The balloon was still rising. A wisp of cloud slid past—or maybe it was smoke from the fight below. Alex swore through gritted teeth, his entire consciousness focused on the cable and its connection.
And suddenly it came free. Alex felt the cable tear. He fell back, his head slamming into the platform railing.
Ignoring the new pain, he dragged himself back up. He could see the separate ends—the severed wires—
sprouting out of his hands. There were deep welts in his palms, and he had hurt his head. But when he looked, he saw that one of the yellow lights had blinked out. One of the dishes was no longer functioning.
Ninety-three … ninety-four…
There were three left. And Alex knew he didn’t have enough time to disconnect them all.
Even so, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the second. What else could he do? Once again he pressed the flats of his feet against the side of the box. He took a deep breath…
…and something flashed in the corner of his eye. Instinctively Alex threw himself sideways. The samurai sword, half a metre long, sliced the air so close to his face that he felt it. He realized that it had been aimed at his throat. But for the sun reflecting off the blade, he would have been killed.
Nile had reached the platform. He was standing in the corner, holding the railing. There had been two swords strapped to his back—he had thrown only one of them. Now he reached for the other. Alex was lying flat. He couldn’t move. There wasn’t enough room to do anything. He was an easy target, wedged between the metal boxes and the side of the platform. Above him the flame burned, carrying the balloon the last few metres.
Ninety-seven … ninety-eight… ninety-nine…
The digital display flickered to the final figure. There was a buzzing sound inside the master control and the lights on the three remaining connected boxes changed from yellow to red. The system had been activated.
Terahertz signals were being beamed all over London.
Alex knew that inside him, in his very heart, the golden nanoshells had begun to break up.
Nile unsheathed the second sword.
Inside the church Mrs Rothman was beginning to realize that the battle was lost. Her men had fought well and they outnumbered the enemy—but they were simply outclassed. There had been many casualties and two more SAS units had arrived, providing back-up for the first.
She could see the fighting outside. Everything was being relayed to her by a series of hidden cameras. It was right in front of her on the television monitors, one for every angle. The street had been torn apart. A wounded SAS man was being dragged away by two of his comrades, dust and debris leaping up as the surface was strafed by enemy fire. More soldiers were moving from doorway to doorway, lobbing grenades through the windows behind them. This was the sort of fighting the SAS had experienced in Northern Ireland and the Middle East.
The whole area had been cordoned off. Police cars had moved in from every direction. They couldn’t be seen but their sirens filled the air. This was London. It was nearing the end of a working day. It was impossible to believe that something like this could really be happening here.
There was another explosion—closer this time. Thick smoke billowed over the open dome and paintwork rained down, flaking off the walls. Most of the Scorpia men had abandoned their positions, preferring to take their chances outside. A guard ran up to Mrs Rothman, blood streaking his face.
“They’re inside the church,” he rasped. “We’re finished. I’m leaving.”
“You’ll stay at your post!” Mrs Rothman snapped.
“To hell with that.” The guard spat and swore. “Everyone’s going. We’re all getting out of here.” Mrs Rothman looked nervous, afraid of being left on her own. “Please, let me have your gun,” she begged.
“Sure. Why not?” The guard handed his weapon to her.
“Thank you,” she said, and shot him with a single, short burst.
She watched the man go sprawling, then went over to the monitors. The SAS were in the outer chamber. She could see them laying plastic explosives against the fake brick wall. It was hard to be sure, but she fancied they would need rather more explosive than they were using. She had designed the wall herself and it was solid steel. Even so, they would get through it eventually. They would not relent.
She glanced up at the balloon, now straining at the one remaining rope, a hundred metres above London. She knew it had reached the correct height—the equipment inside the church had told her this. In just another minute or so it would all be over. She thought of Alex Rider somewhere up above. All in all, it had been a mistake bringing him here. Why had she? To see him die, of course. She hadn’t been there when John Rider had died and she wanted to make up for it. Miss the father; catch the son. That was why she had risked everything to bring Alex to the church, and she knew the other members of the executive board of Scorpia would be less than pleased. But it didn’t matter. The operation would succeed. The SAS were too late.
A huge explosion. The whole church shook. Three of the largest organ pipes keeled over and came crashing down. Brick and plaster fragments hung in the air. Half the television monitors went black. But the steel wall held. She had been right about that.
She threw the machine gun down and hurried to a door almost invisible in the wall of a side chapel. It was lucky that Mrs Rothman was the sort of person who prepared for every eventuality—including the need to slip out without being seen.
The guard she had killed had been right. It was definitely time to go.
Alex lay on his back, his shoulders pressing against the railing of the platform. The first sword that Nile had thrown had sliced into the plastic floor, centimetres from his head, and it was still there, quivering, just beside his neck. Nile had unsheathed the second sword and was balancing it in his hand. He was taking his time. Alex knew that he had no need to hurry. He had nowhere to hide. They were less than three metres apart. Alex had seen what Nile could do. There was no way he would miss.
