“He is a major employer, Alex. He is a man of enormous influence. And, for what it's worth, he donated a million pounds to the government just before the last election. Now do you understand? If it was discovered that we were investigating him, and merely on your say-so, there would be a tremendous scandal. The prime minister doesn't like us anyway. He hates anything he can't control. He might even use an attack on Damian Cray as an excuse to close us down.”
“Cray was on television only today,” Mrs Jones said. She picked up a remote control. “Have a look at this and then tell me what you think.”
A TV monitor in the corner of the room flickered on, and Alex found himself looking at a recording of the mid-morning news. He guessed Mrs Jones probably recorded the news every day.
She fast-forwarded, then ran the film at the correct speed.
And there was Damian Cray. His hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a dark, formal suit, white shirt and mauve silk tie. He was standing outside the American embassy in London's Grosvenor Square.
Mrs Jones turned up the sound.
“…the former pop singer, now tireless campaigner for a number of environmental and political issues, Damian Cray. He was in London to meet the president of the United States, who has just arrived in England as part of his summer vacation.”
The picture switched to a jumbo jet landing at Heathrow Airport, then cut in closer to show the president standing at the open door, waving and smiling.
“The president arrived at Heathrow Airport in Air Force One, the presidential plane. He is due to have a formal lunch with the prime minister at number ten Downing Street today…” Another cut. Now the president was standing next to Damian Cray and the two men were shaking hands, a long handshake for the benefit of the cameras which flashed all around them.
Cray had sandwiched the president's hand between both his own hands and seemed unwilling to let him go. He said something and the president laughed.
“…but first he met Cray for an informal discussion at the American embassy in London. Cray is a spokesman for Greenpeace and has been leading the movement to prevent oil drilling in the wilds of Alaska, fearing the environmental damage this may cause. Although he made no promises, the president agreed to study the report which Greenpeace…” Mrs Jones turned off the television.
“Do you see? The most powerful man in the world interrupts his holiday to meet Damian Cray.
And he sees Cray before he even visits the prime minister! That should give you the measure of the man. So tell me! What earthly reason could he have to blow up a house and perhaps kill a whole family?”
“That's what I want you to find out.”
Blunt sniffed. “I think we should wait for the French police to get back to us,” he said. “They're investigating the CST. Let's see what they come up with.” “So you're going to do nothing!” “I think we have explained, Alex.” “All right.” Alex stood up. He didn't try to conceal his anger.
“You've made me look a complete fool in front of Sabina; you've made me lose one of my best friends. It's really amazing. When you need me, you just pull me out of school and send me to the other side of the world. But when I need you, just this once, you pretend you don't even exist and you just dump me out on the street…”
“You're being over-emotional,” Blunt said.
“No, I'm not. But I'll tell you this. If you won't go after Cray, I will. He may be Father Christmas, Joan of Arc and the Pope all rolled into one, but it was his voice on the phone and I know he was somehow involved in what happened in the South of France. I'm going to prove it to you.”
Alex stood up and, without waiting to hear another word, left the room.
There was a long pause.
Blunt took out a pen and made a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then he looked at Mrs Jones.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Maybe we should go over the files one more time,” Mrs Jones suggested. “After all, Herod Sayle pretended to be a friend of the British people, and if it hadn't been for Alex…”
“You can do what you like,” Blunt said. He drew a ring round the last sentence he had written.
Mrs Jones could see the words Yassen Gregorovich upside down on the page. “Curious that he should have run into Yassen a second time,” he muttered.
“And more curious still that Yassen didn't kill him when he had the chance.”
“I wouldn't say that, all things considered.”
Mrs Jones nodded. “Maybe we ought to tell Alex about Yassen,” she suggested.
“Absolutely not.” Blunt picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it. “The less Alex Rider knows about Yassen Gregorovich the better. I very much hope the two of them don't run into each other again.” He dropped the paper ball into the bin underneath his desk. At the end of the day everything in the bin would be incinerated.
“And that,” he said, “is that.”
Jack was worried.
Alex had come back from Liverpool Street in a bleak mood and had barely spoken a word to her since. He had come into the sitting room where she was reading a book and she had managed to learn that the meeting with Sabina hadn't gone well and that Alex wouldn't be seeing her again.
But during the afternoon she managed to coax more and more of the story out of him until finally she had the whole picture.
“They're all idiots!” Alex exclaimed. “I know they're wrong but just because I'm younger than them, they won't listen to me.”
“I've told you before, Alex. You shouldn't be mixed up with them.”
“I won't be. Never again. They don't give a damn about me.” The doorbell rang.
“I'll go,” Alex said.
There was a white van parked outside. Two men were opening the back and, as Alex watched, they unloaded a brand-new bicycle, wheeling it down and over to the house. Alex cast his eye over it. The bike was a Cannondale Bad Boy, a mountain bike that had been adapted for the city with a lightweight aluminium frame and one-inch wheels. It was silver and seemed to have come equipped with all the accessories he could have asked for: Digital Evolution lights, a Blackburn mini-pump … everything top of the range. Only the silver bell on the handlebar seemed old-fashioned and out of place. Alex ran his hand over the leather saddle with its twisting Celtic design and then along the frame, admiring the workmanship. There was no sign of any welds.
The bike was handmade and must have cost hundreds.
One of the men came over to him. “Alex Rider?” he asked.
“Yes. But I think there's been a mistake. I didn't order a bike.”
“It's a gift. Here…”
The second man had left the bike propped up against the railings. Alex found himself holding a thick envelope. Jack appeared on the step behind him. “What is it?” she asked.
“Someone has given me a bike.”
Alex opened the envelope. Inside was an instruction booklet and attached to it a letter.
Dear Alex,
I'm probably going to get a roasting for this, but I don't like the idea of you taking off on your own without any back-up. This is something I've been working on for you and you might as well have it now. I hope it comes in useful.
Look after yourself, dear boy. I'd hate to hear that anything lethal had happened to you.
All the best,
Smithers
PS This letter will self-destruct ten seconds after it comes into contact with the air so I hope you read it quickly!
Alex just had time to read the last sentence before the letters on the page faded and the paper itself crumpled and turned into white ash. He moved his hands apart and what was left of the letter blew away in the breeze. Meanwhile the two men had got back into the van and driven away. Alex was left with the bike. He flicked through the first pages of the instruction book.
BIKE PUMP—SMOKESCREEN
MAGNESIUM FLARE—HEADLAMP
