“Good.” The sergeant pointed at the rock face, suggesting a path up with his finger. “It’s not as difficult as it looks,” he said. “And they’re waiting for you just over the top. You’ve got a nice cold dinner. Survival rations. You don’t want to miss that.”
Alex drew a deep breath and started forward. As he passed the sergeant, he stumbled and put out a hand to steady himself, brushing against him. “Sorry, sir …” he said.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the top and sure enough K Unit was already there, crouching around three small tents that they must have pitched earlier in the afternoon. Two just large enough for sharing. One, the smallest, for Alex.
Snake, a thin, fair-haired man who spoke with a Scottish accent, looked up at Alex. He had a tin of cold stew in one hand, a teaspoon in the other. “I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. Alex couldn’t help but notice a certain warmth in the man’s voice. And for the first time he hadn’t called him Double 0 Nothing.
“Nor did I,” Alex said.
Wolf was squatting over what he hoped would become a campfire, trying to get it started with two flint stones while Fox and Eagle watched. He was getting nowhere. The stones only produced the smallest of sparks and the scraps of newspaper and leaves that he had collected were already far too wet. Wolf struck at the stones again and again. The others watched, their faces glum.
Alex held out the box of matches that he had pickpocketed from the sergeant when he had pretended to stumble at the foot of the rock face. “These might help,” he said.
He threw the matches down, then went into his tent.
TOYS AREN’T US
« ^ »
IN THE LONDON OFFICE, Mrs. Jones sat waiting while Alan Blunt read the report. The sun was shining. A pigeon was strutting back and forth along the ledge outside as if it were keeping guard.
“He’s doing very well,” Blunt said at last. “Remarkably well, in fact.” He turned a page. “I see he missed target practice.”
“Were you planning to give him a gun?” Mrs. Jones asked.
“No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Then why does he need target practice?”
Blunt raised an eyebrow. “We can’t give a teenager a gun,” he said. “On the other hand, I don’t think we can send him to Port Tallon empty-handed. You’d better have a word with Smithers.”
“I already have. He’s working on it now.”
Mrs. Jones stood up as if to leave. But at the door she hesitated. “I wonder if it’s occurred to you that Rider may have been preparing him for this all along?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Preparing Alex to replace him. Ever since the boy was old enough to walk, he’s been being trained for intelligence work … but without knowing it. I mean, he’s lived abroad so he now speaks French, German, and Spanish. He’s been mountain climbing, diving, and skiing. He’s learned karate. Physically he’s in perfect shape.” She shrugged. “I think Rider wanted Alex to become a spy.”
“But not so soon,” Blunt said.
“I agree. You know as well as I do, Alan—he’s not ready yet. If we send him into Sayle Enterprises, he’s going to get himself killed.”
“Perhaps.” The single word was cold, matter-of-fact.
“He’s fourteen years old! We can’t do it.”
“We have to.” Blunt stood up and opened the window, letting in the air and the sound of the traffic. The pigeon hurled itself off the ledge, afraid of him. “This whole business worries me,” he said. “The prime minister sees the Stormbreakers as a major coup … for himself and for his government. But there’s still something about Herod Sayle that I don’t like. Did you tell the boy about Yassen Gregorovich?”
“No.” Mrs. Jones shook her head.
“Then it’s time you did. It was Yassen who killed his uncle. I’m sure of it. And if Yassen was working for Sayle…”
“What will you do if Yassen kills Alex Rider?”
“That’s not our problem, Mrs. Jones. If the boy gets himself killed, at least it will be the final proof that there is something wrong. At the very least it’ll allow me to postpone the Stormbreaker project and take a good hard look at what’s going on at Port Tallon. In a way, it would almost help us if he was killed.”
“The boy’s not ready yet. He’ll make mistakes. It won’t take them long to find out who he is.” Mrs. Jones sighed. “I don’t think Alex has got much chance at all.”
“I agree.” Blunt turned back from the window. The sun slanted over his shoulder. A single shadow fell across his face. “But it’s too late to worry about that now,” he said. “We have no more time. Stop the training now. Send him in.”
Alex sat hunched up in the back of the low-flying C-130 military aircraft, his stomach churning behind his knees. There were eleven men sitting in two lines around him—his own unit and two others. For an hour now, the plane had been flying at just three hundred feet, following the Welsh valleys, dipping and swerving to avoid the mountain peaks. A single bulb glowed red behind a wire mesh, adding to the heat in the cramped cabin. Alex could feel the engines vibrating through him. It was like traveling in a spin dryer and microwave oven combined.
The thought of jumping out of a plane with an oversize silk umbrella would have made Alex sick with fear—but only that morning he’d been told that he wouldn’t in fact be jumping. A message from London. They couldn’t risk
