Anthony Horowitz - Alex Rider 1 - Stormbreaker (v1.0)

anyone asks, he’s a real doctor. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“You’ll continue to live in your uncle’s house,” Blunt said. “That housekeeper of yours, Jack Whatever. We’ll get her visa renewed and she’ll continue to look after you. And that way we’ll know where you are if we need you again.”

Need you again. The words chilled Alex more than anything that had happened to him in the past three weeks. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“No.” Blunt gazed at him quite coolly. “It’s not my habit to make jokes.”

“You’ve done very well, Alex,” Mrs. Jones said, trying to sound more conciliatory. “The prime minister himself asked us to pass on his thanks to you. And the fact of the matter is that it could be wonderfully useful to have someone as young as you—”

“As talented as you—” Blunt cut in.

“—available to us from time to time.” She held up a hand to ward off any argument. “Let’s not talk about it now,” she said. “But if ever another situation arises, maybe we can talk about it then.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Alex looked from one to the other. These weren’t people who were going to take no for an answer. In their own way, they were both as charming as Mr. Grin. “Can I go?” he asked.

“Of course you can,” Mrs. Jones said. “Would you like someone to drive you home?”

“No, thanks.” Alex got up. “I’ll find my own way.”

He should have been feeling better. As he took the elevator down to the ground floor, he reflected that he’d saved thousands of schoolchildren, he’d beaten Herod Sayle, and he hadn’t been killed or even badly hurt. So what was there to be unhappy about? The answer was simple. Blunt had forced him into this. In the end, the big difference between him and James Bond wasn’t a question of age. It was a question of loyalty. In the old days, spies had done what they’d done because they loved their country, because they believed in what they were doing. But he’d never been given a choice. Nowadays, spies weren’t employed. They were used.

He came out of the building, meaning to walk up to the tube station, but just then a cab drove along and he flagged it down. He was too tired for public transport. He glanced at the driver, huddled over the wheel in a horribly knitted, homemade cardigan, and slumped onto the backseat.

“Cheyne Walk, Chelsea,” Alex said.

The driver turned around. He was holding a gun. His face was paler than it had been the last time Alex saw it, and the pain of two bullet wounds was drawn all over it, but—impossibly—it was Herod Sayle.

“If you move, you bliddy child, I will shoot you,” Sayle said. His voice was pure venom. “If you try anything, I will shoot you. Sit still. You’re coming with me.”

The doors clicked shut, locking automatically. Herod Sayle turned around and drove off, down Liverpool Street, heading for the City.

Alex didn’t know what to do. He was certain that Sayle planned to shoot him, anyway. Why else would he have taken the huge chance of driving up to the very door of M16 headquarters in London? He thought about trying the window, perhaps trying to get the attention of another car at a traffic light. But it wouldn’t work. Sayle would turn around and kill him. The man had nothing left to lose.

They drove for ten minutes. It was a Saturday and the City was closed. The traffic was light. Then Sayle pulled up in front of a modern, glass-fronted skyscraper with an abstract statue—two oversized bronze walnuts on a slab of concrete—outside the front door.

“You will get out of the car with me,” Sayle commanded. “You and I will walk into the building. If you think about running, remember that this gun is pointing at your spine.”

Sayle got out of the car first. His eyes never left Alex. Alex guessed that the two bullets must have hit him in the left arm and shoulder. His left hand was hanging limp. But the gun was in his right hand. It was perfectly steady, aimed at Alex’s lower back.

“In…”

The building had swing doors and they were open. Alex found himself in a marble-clad hall with leather sofas and a curving reception desk. There was nobody here either. Sayle gestured with the gun and he walked over to a bank of elevators. One of them was waiting. He got in.

“The twenty-ninth floor,” Sayle said.

Alex pressed the button. “Are we going up for the view?” he asked.

Sayle nodded. “You make all the bliddy jokes you want,” he said. “But I’m going to have the last laugh.”

They stood in silence. Alex could feel the pressure in his ears as the elevator rose higher and higher. Sayle was staring at him, his damaged arm tucked into his side, supporting himself against one wall. Alex thought about attacking him. If he could just get the element of surprise. But, no … they were too close. And Sayle was coiled up like a spring.

The elevator slowed down and the doors opened. Sayle waved with the gun. “Turn left. You’ll come to a door. Open it.”

Alex did as he was told. The door was marked HELIPAD. A flight of concrete steps led up. Alex glanced at Sayle. Sayle nodded. “Up.”

They climbed the steps and reached another door with a push bar. Alex pressed it and went through. He was back outside, thirty floors up on a flat roof with a radio mast and a tall metal fence running around the perimeter. He and Sayle were standing on the edge of a huge cross, painted in red paint. Looking around, he could see right across the city to Canary Wharf and beyond. It had seemed a quiet spring day when Alex left the Royal & General offices. But up here the wind streaked past and the clouds boiled.

“You ruined everything!” Sayle howled. “How did you do it? How did you trick me? I’d have beaten you if you’d been a man! But they had to send a boy! A bliddy schoolboy! Well, it isn’t over yet! I’m leaving England. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to see!”