“It is the truth, Sab.”
Suddenly he knew what he had to do.
“And I can prove it.”
They took the tube across London to Liverpool Street Station and walked up the road to the building that Alex knew housed the Special Operations division of MI6. They found themselves standing in front of a tall, black-painted door, the sort that was designed to impress people coming in or leaving. Next to it, screwed into the brickwork, was a brass plaque with the words: ROYAL & GENERAL BANK PLC
LONDON
Sabina had seen it. She looked at Alex doubtfully. “Don't worry,” Alex said. “The Royal & General Bank doesn't exist. That's just the sign they put on the door.” They went in. The entrance hall was cold and businesslike, with high ceilings and a brown marble floor. To one side there was a leather sofa and Alex remembered sitting there the first time he had come, waiting to go up to his uncle's office on the fifteenth floor. He walked straight across to the glass reception desk where a young woman was sitting with a microphone curving across her mouth, taking calls and greeting visitors at the same time. There was an older security officer in uniform and peaked cap next to her.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, smiling at Alex and Sabina.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I'd like to see Mrs Jones.”
“Mrs Jones?” The young woman frowned. “Do you know what department she works in?”
“She works with Mr Blunt.”
“I'm sorry…” She turned to the security guard. “Do you know a Mrs Jones?”
“There's a Miss Johnson,” the guard suggested. “She's a cashier.” Alex looked from one to the other. “You know who I mean,” he said. “Just tell her that Alex Rider is here—”
“There is no Mrs Jones working at this bank,” the receptionist interrupted.
“Alex…” Sabina began.
But Alex refused to give up. He leant forward so that he could speak confidentially. “I know this isn't a bank,” he said. “This is MI6 Special Operations. Please could you—”
“Are you doing this as some sort of prank?” This time it was the security guard who was speaking. “What's all this nonsense about MI6?” “Alex, let's get out of here,” Sabina said. “No!” Alex couldn't believe what was happening. He didn't even know exactly what it was that was happening. It had to be a mistake. These people were new. Or perhaps they needed some sort of password to allow him into the building. Of course. On his previous visits here, he had only ever come when he had been expected. Either that or he had been brought here against his will. This time he had come unannounced. That was why he wasn't being allowed in.
“Listen,” Alex said. “I understand why you wouldn't want to let just anyone in, but I'm not just anyone. I'm Alex Rider. I work with Mr Blunt and Mrs Jones. Could you please let her know I'm here?”
“There is no Mrs Jones,” the receptionist repeated helplessly.
“And I don't know any Mr Blunt either,” the security guard added.
“Alex. Please…” Sabina was sounding more and more desperate. She realty wanted to leave.
Alex turned to her. “They're lying, Sabina,” he said. “I'll show you.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the lift. He reached out and stabbed the call button.
“You stop right there!” The security guard stood up.
The receptionist reached out and pressed a button, presumably calling for help.
The lift didn't come.
Alex saw the guard moving towards him. Still no lift. He looked around and noticed a corridor leading away, with a set of swing doors at the end. Perhaps there would be a staircase or another set of lifts somewhere else in the building. Pulling Sabina behind him, Alex set off down the corridor. He heard the security guard getting closer. He quickened his pace, searching for a way up.
He slammed through the double doors.
And stopped.
He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers—ordinary people off the street—waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.
“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?” A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.
Alex took all this in with one glance. He looked at Sabina. She was staring with a mixture of emotions on her face.
And then the security guard was there. “You're not meant to come into the bank this way,” he said. “This is a staff entrance. Now, I want you to leave before you get yourself into real trouble.
I mean it! I don't want to have to call the police, but that's my job.”
“We're going.” Sabina had stepped in and her voice was cold, definite. “Sab—”
“We're going now.”
“You ought to look after your friend,” the security guard said. “He may think this sort of thing is funny, but it isn't.”
Alex left—or rather allowed Sabina to lead him out. They went through a revolving door and out onto the street. Alex wondered what had happened. Why had he never seen the bank before?
Then he realized. The building was actually sandwiched between two streets with a quite separate front and back. He had always entered from the other side.
“Listen—” he began.
“No. You listen! I don't know what's going on inside your head. Maybe it's because you don't have parents. You have to draw attention to yourself by creating this … fantasy! But just listen to yourself, Alex! I mean, it's pretty sick. Schoolboy spies and Russian assassins and all the rest of it…”
“It's got nothing to do with my parents,” Alex said, feeling anger well up inside him.
“But it's got everything to do with mine. My dad gets hurt in an accident—”
“It wasn't an accident, Sab.” He couldn't stop himself. “Are you really so stupid that you think I'd make all this up?”
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“I'm just saying that I thought we were friends. I thought you knew me…”
“Yes! I thought I knew you. But now I see I was wrong. I'll tell you what's stupid. Listening to you in the first place was stupid. Coming to see you was stupid. Ever getting to know you … that was the most stupid thing of all.”
She turned and walked away in the direction of the station. In seconds she had gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Alex…” a voice said behind him. It was a voice that he knew.
Mrs Jones was standing on the pavement. She had seen and heard everything that had taken place. “Let her go,” she said. “I think we need to talk.” SAINT OR SINGER?
« ^ »
he office was the same as it had always been. The same ordinary, modern furniture, the same view, the same man behind the same desk. Not for the first time, Alex found himself wondering about Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations. What had his journey to work been like today? Was there a suburban house with a nice, smiling wife and two children waving goodbye as he left to catch the tube? Did his family know the truth about him? Had he ever told them that he wasn't working for a bank or an insurance company or anything like that, and that he carried with him—perhaps in a smart leather case, given to him for his birthday—files and documents full of death? Alex tried to see the teenager in the man in the grey suit. Blunt must have been his own age once. He would have gone to school, sweated over exams, played football, tried his first cigarette and got bored at weekends like anybody else. But there was no sign of any child in the empty grey eyes, the colourless hair, the mottled, tightly drawn skin. So when had it happened?
What had turned him into a civil servant, a spy-master, an adult with no obvious emotions and no remorse?
