He knew he had to move fast. The disposal team that Dr. Grief had called for would be on their way. But he wanted to know what sort of operations took place here.
Mr. Baxter had presumably been the surgeon. But for what sort of work had he been paid a million dollars?
Trying not to look at the body, Alex glanced around. On one shelf was a collection of surgical knives, as horrible as anything he had ever seen, the blades so sharp that he could almost feel their touch just by looking at them. There were rolls of gauze, syringes, and bottles containing various liquids. But nothing to say how Baxter had been employed. Alex realized it was hopeless. He knew nothing about medicine. This room could have been used for anything from ingrown toenails to full-blown heart surgery.
And then he saw the photographs. He recognized himself, lying on a bed that he thought he knew too. It was Paris! Room 13 at the Hotel du Monde. He remembered the black-and-white comforter, as well as the clothes he had been wearing that night. The clothes had been removed in most of the photographs. Every inch of him had been photographed, sometimes close up, sometimes wider. In every picture, his eyes were closed. Looking at himself, Alex knew that he had been drugged and, for the first time, remembered how the dinner with Mrs. Stellenbosch had ended.
The photographs disgusted him. He had been manipulated by people who thought he was worth nothing at all. From the moment he had met them, he had disliked Dr. Grief and his assistant director. Now he felt pure loathing. He still didn’t know what they were doing. But they were evil. They had to be stopped.
He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The disposal team! He looked around him and cursed. He didn’t have time to get out, and there was nowhere in the room to hide. Then he remembered the elevator. He went over to it and urgently stabbed at the button. The footsteps were getting nearer. He heard voices. Then the panels slid open. Alex stepped into a small, silver box. There were five buttons: S,
With luck, the elevator would take him back to where he had begun.
The doors slid shut a few seconds before the guards entered the operating room. Alex felt his stomach lurch as he was carried down. The elevator slowed. He realized that the doors could open anywhere. He might find himself surrounded by guards—or by the other boys in the school. Well it was too late now. He had made his choice without thinking. He would just have to cope with whatever he found.
But he was lucky. The doors slid open to reveal the library. Alex assumed this was the real library and not another copy. The room was empty. He stepped out of the elevator, then turned around. He was facing the alcove. The elevator doors formed the alcove wall. They were brilliantly camouflaged, with the suit of armor now sliced exactly in two, one half on each side.
As the doors closed automatically, the armor slid back together again, completing the disguise.
Despite himself, Alex had to admire the simplicity of it. The entire building was a fantastic box of tricks.
Alex looked at his hands. They were still filthy. He had almost forgotten that he was completely covered in soot. He crept out of the library, trying not to leave black footprints on the carpet. Then he hurried back to his room. When he got there, he had to remind himself that it was indeed his room and not the copy two floors above. But the CD player was there, and that was what he most needed.
He knew enough. It was time to call for the cavalry. He pressed the Fast Forward button three times, then went to take a shower.
DELAYING TACTICS
IT WAS RAINING IN LONDON, the sort of rain that seems never to stop. The early evening traffic was huddled together, going nowhere. Alan Blunt was standing at the window, looking out over the street, when there was a knock at the door. He turned away almost reluctantly, as if the city at its most damp and dismal held some attraction for him. Mrs. Jones came in. She was carrying a sheet of paper. As Blunt sat down behind his desk, he noticed the two words MOST
URGENT printed in red across the top.
‚We’ve heard from Alex,' Mrs. Jones said.
‚Oh, yes?'
‚Smithers gave him a Euro-satellite transmitter built into a portable CD player. Alex sent a signal to us this morning, at eleven twenty-seven hours, his time.'
‚Meaning …?'
‚Either he’s in trouble or he’s found out enough for us to go in. Either way, we have to pull him out.'
‚I wonder…' Blunt leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. As a young man, he had gained a degree with honors in mathematics at Cambridge University. Thirty years later, he still saw life as only a series of complicated calculations. ‚Alex has been at Point Blanc for how long?' he asked.
‚A week.'
‚As I recall, he didn’t want to go. According to Sir David Friend, his behavior at Haverstock Hall was, to say the least, antisocial. Did you know that he knocked out Friend’s daughter with a stun dart? Apparently, he also got her nearly killed in an incident in a railway tunnel.'
Mrs. Jones sat down. ‚What are you saying, Alan?' she demanded.
‚Only that Alex may not be one hundred percent reliable.'
‚He sent the message.' Mrs. Jones couldn’t keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‚For all we know, he could be in serious trouble. We gave him the device as an alarm signal, to let us know if he needed help. He’s used it. We can’t just sit back and do nothing.'
‚I wasn’t suggesting that.' Alan Blunt looked curiously at his head of operations. ‚You’re not forming some sort of attachment to Alex Rider, are you?' he asked.
Mrs. Jones looked away. ‚Don’t be ridiculous.'
‚You seem worried about him.'
‚He’s fourteen years old, Alan! He’s a child, for heaven’s sake!'
‚You used to have children.'
‚Yes.' Mrs. Jones turned to face him again. ‚Perhaps that does make a difference. But even you must admit that he’s special. We don’t have another agent like him. A fourteen-year-old boy! The perfect secret weapon. My feelings about him have nothing to do with it. We can’t afford to lose him.'
‚I just don’t want to go blundering into Point Blanc without any firm information,' Blunt said. ‚First of all, this is France we’re talking about—and you know what the French are like. If we’re seen to be invading their territory, they’ll kick up one hell of a fuss. Secondly, Grief has got hold of boys from some of the wealthiest families in the world. If we go storming in with the SAS or whatever, the whole thing could blow up into a major international incident.'
‚You wanted proof that the school was connected with the deaths of Roscoe and Ivanov,'
Mrs. Jones said. ‚Alex may have it.'
‚He may have it and he may not. A twenty-four-hour delay shouldn’t make a great deal of difference.'
‚Twenty-four hours?'
‚We’ll put a unit on standby. They can keep an eye on things. If Alex is in trouble, we’ll find out soon enough. It could play to our favor if he’s managed to stir things up. It’s exactly what we want. Force Grief to show his hand.'
‚And if Alex contacts us again?'
‚Then we’ll go in.'
‚We may be too late.'
‚For Alex?' Blunt showed no emotion. ‚I’m sure you don’t need to worry about him, Mrs. Jones. He can look after himself.'
The telephone rang, and Blunt answered it. The discussion was over. Mrs. Jones got up and left to make the
