Point Blank
Alex Rider Book 2
Anthony Horowitz
GOING DOWN
MICHAEL J. ROSCOE was a careful man.
The car that drove him to work at quarter past seven each morning was a custom-made Mercedes with reinforced steel plates and bulletproof windows. His driver, a retired FBI agent, carried a Beretta subcompact automatic pistol and knew how to use it. There were just five steps from the point where the car stopped to the entrance of Roscoe Tower on New York’s Fifth Avenue, but closed-circuit television cameras followed him every inch of the way. Once the automatic doors had slid shut behind him, a uniformed guard—also armed—watched as he crossed the foyer and entered his own private elevator.
The elevator had white marble walls, a blue carpet, a silver handrail, and no buttons. Roscoe pressed his hand against a small glass panel. A sensor read his fingerprints, verified them, and activated the elevator. The doors slid shut and the elevator rose to the sixtieth floor without stopping. Nobody else ever used it. Nor did it ever stop at any of the other floors in the building. At the same time it was traveling up, the receptionist in the lobby was on the telephone, letting his staff know that Mr. Roscoe was on his way.
Everyone who worked in Roscoe’s private office had been handpicked and thoroughly vetted. It was impossible to see him without an appointment. Getting an appointment could take three months.
When you’re rich, you have to be careful. There are cranks, kidnappers, terrorists—the desperate and the dispossessed. Michael J. Roscoe was the chairman of Roscoe Electronics and the ninth or tenth richest man in the world—and he was very careful indeed. Ever since his face had appeared on the front cover of Time magazine (‚The Electronics King'), he knew that he had become a visible target. When in public he walked quickly, with his head bent. His glasses had been chosen to hide as much as possible of his round, handsome face. His suits were expensive but anonymous. If he went to the theater or to dinner, he always arrived at the last minute, preferring not to hang around. There were dozens of different security systems in his life, and although they had once annoyed him, he had allowed them to become routine.
But ask any spy or security agent. Routine is the one thing that can get you killed. It tells the enemy where you’re going and when you’re going to be there. Routine was going to kill Michael J. Roscoe, and this was the day death had chosen to come calling.
Of course, Roscoe had no idea of this as he stepped out of the elevator that opened directly into his private office, a huge room occupying the corner of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows giving views in two directions: Fifth Avenue to the east, Central Park just a few blocks south. The two remaining walls contained a door, a low book shelf, and a single oil painting—a vase of flowers by Vincent van Gogh.
The black glass surface of his desk was equally uncluttered: a computer, a leather notebook, a telephone, and a framed photograph of a fourteen-year-old boy. As he took off his jacket and sat down, Roscoe found himself looking at the picture of the boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Paul Roscoe looked remarkably like his father had thirty years ago. Michael Roscoe was now fifty-two and beginning to show his age despite his year-round tan. His son was almost as tall as he was. The picture had been taken the summer before, on Long Island. They had spent the day sailing. Then they’d had a barbecue on the beach. It had been one of the few happy days they’d ever spent together.
The door opened and his secretary came in. Helen Bosworth was English. She had left her home and, indeed, her husband to come and work in New York, and still loved every minute of it. She had been working in this office for eleven years, and in all that time she had never forgotten a detail or made a mistake.
‚Good morning, Mr. Roscoe,' she said.
‚Good morning, Helen.'
She put a folder on his desk. ‚The latest figures from Singapore. Costings on the R- 15
Organizer. You have lunch with Senator Andrews at half past twelve. I’ve booked The Ivy.'
‚Did you remember to call London?' Roscoe asked.
Helen Bosworth blinked. She never forgot anything, so why had he asked? ‚I’ve spoke to Alan Blunt’s office yesterday afternoon,' she said. Afternoon in New York would have been evening in London. ‚Mr. Blunt was not available, but I’ve arranged a person-to-person call with you this afternoon. We can have it patched through to your car.'
‚Thank you, Helen.'
‚Shall I have your coffee sent in to you?'
‚No, thank you, Helen. I won’t have coffee today.'
Helen Bosworth left the room, seriously alarmed. No coffee? What next? Mr. Roscoe had begun his day with a double espresso for as long as she had known him. Could it be that he was ill? He certainly hadn’t been himself recently—not since Paul had returned home from that school in the South of France. And this phone call to Alan Blunt in London! Nobody had ever told her who he was, but she had seen his name once in a file. He had something to do with military intelligence. MI6. What was Mr. Roscoe doing, talking to a spy?
Helen Bosworth returned to her office and soothed her nerves, not with coffee—she couldn’t stand the stuff —but with a refreshing cup of English Breakfast tea. Something very strange was going on, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.
Meanwhile, sixty floors below, a man had walked into the lobby area wearing gray overalls with an ID badge attached to his chest. The badge identified him as Sam Green, maintenance engineer with X-Press Elevators Inc. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a large silver toolbox in the other. He set them both down in front of the reception desk.
Sam Green was not his real name. His hair—black and a little greasy—was fake, as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked fifty years old, but he was actually closer to thirty. Nobody knew the man’s real name, but in the business that he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as ‚The Gentleman,' and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killers in the world. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the families of his victims.
The lobby guard glanced at him.
‚I’m here for the elevator,' he said. He spoke with a Bronx accent even though he had never spent more than a week there in his life.
‚What about it?' the guard asked. ‚You people were here last week.'
‚Yeah. Sure. We found a defective cable on elevator twelve. It had to be replaced, but we didn’t have the parts. So they sent me back.' The Gentleman fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‚You want to call the head office? I’ve got my orders here.'
If the guard had called X-Press Elevators Inc., he would have discovered that they did indeed employ a Sam Green—although he hadn’t shown up for work in two days. This was because the real Sam Green was at the bottom of the Hudson River with a knife in his back and a twenty-pound block of concrete attached to his foot. But the guard didn’t make the call. The Gentleman had guessed he wouldn’t bother. After all, the elevators were always breaking down. There were engineers in and out all the time. What difference would one more make?
The guard jerked a thumb. ‚Go ahead,' he said.
The Gentleman put away the letter, picked up his cases, and went over to the elevators.
There were a dozen servicing the skyscraper, plus a thirteenth for Michael J. Roscoe. Elevator number twelve was at the end. As he went in, a delivery boy with a parcel tried to follow.
