It was now ten past one. La Palette was a small, bustling cafe on the corner of a square, surrounded by art galleries. Waiters with long white aprons were sweeping in and out, carrying trays laden with drinks high above their heads. The place was packed but Alex and Jack had managed to get a table right on the edge, where they would be most conspicuous. Jack was drinking a glass of beer; Alex had a bright red fruit juice—a sirop de grenadine—with ice. It was his favourite drink when he was in France.
He was beginning to wonder if the man he had spoken to on the telephone was going to show up.
Or could he be here already? How were they going to find each other in this crowd? Then he noticed a motorcyclist sitting on a beaten-up Piaggio 125cc motorbike on the other side of the street; he was a young man in a leather jacket with black curly hair and stubble on his cheeks. He had pulled in a few minutes before but hadn't dismounted, as if he was waiting for someone.
Alex met his eye; there was a flash of contact. The young man looked puzzled but then he got off his bike and came over, moving warily as if afraid of a trap.
“You are Alex Rider?” he asked. He spoke English with an attractive accent, like an actor in a film.
“Yes.”
“I wasn't expecting a child.”
“What difference does it make?” Jack demanded, coming to Alex's defence. “Are you Marc Antonio?” she asked.
“No. My name is Robert Guppy.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He asked me to take you to him.” Guppy glanced back at the Piaggio. “But I have only room for one.”
“Well, you can forget it. I'm not letting Alex go on his own.”
“It's all right, Jack,” Alex cut in. He smiled at her. “It looks like you get to visit the Picasso Museum after all.”
Jack sighed. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “But take care.” Robert Guppy drove through Paris like someone who knew the city well—or who wanted to die in it. He swerved in and out of the traffic, ignored red lights and spun across intersections with the blare of car horns echoing all around. Alex found himself clinging on for dear life. He had no idea where they were going but realized there was a reason for Guppy's dangerous driving. He was making sure they weren't being followed.
They slowed down on the other side of the Seine, on the edge of the Marais, close to the Forum des Halles. Alex recognized the area. The last time he had been here, he had called himself Alex Friend and had been accompanying the hideous Mrs Stellenbosch on the way to the Point Blanc Academy. Now they slowed down and stopped in a street of typically Parisian houses—six storeys high with solid-looking doorways and tall frosted windows. Alex noticed a street sign: rue Britannia. The street went nowhere and half the buildings looked empty and dilapidated.
Indeed, the ones at the far end were shored up by scaffolding and surrounded by wheelbarrows and cement mixers, with a plastic chute for debris.
But there were no workmen in sight.
Guppy got off the bike. He gestured at one of the doors. “This way,” he said. He glanced up and down the street one last time, then led Alex in.
The door led to an inner courtyard with old furniture and a tangle of rusting bicycles in one corner. Alex followed Guppy up a short flight of steps and through another doorway. He found himself in a large, high-ceilinged room with whitewashed walls, windows on both sides and a dark wood floor. It was a photographer's studio. There were screens, complicated lamps on metal legs and silver umbrellas. But someone was also living here. To one side was a kitchen area with a pile of tins and dirty plates.
Robert Guppy closed the door and a man appeared from behind one of the screens. He was barefoot, wearing a string vest and shapeless jeans. Alex guessed he must be about fifty. He was thin, unshaven, with a tangle of hair that was black mixed with silver. Strangely, he only had one eye; the other was behind a patch. A one-eyed photographer? Alex couldn't see why not.
The man glanced at him curiously, then spoke to his friend.
“C'est luin qui a telephone?”
“Oui…”
“Are you Marc Antonio?” Alex asked.
“Yes. You say you are a friend of Edward Pleasure. I didn't know Edward hung out with kids.”
“I know his daughter. I was staying with him in France when…” Alex hesitated. “You know what happened to him?”
“Of course I know what happened to him. Why do you think I am hiding here?” He gazed at Alex quizzically, his one good eye slowly evaluating him. “You said on the telephone that you could tell me something about Damian Cray. Do you know him?”
“I met him two days ago. In London…”
“Cray is no longer in London.” It was Robert Guppy who spoke, leaning against the door. “He has a software plant just outside Amsterdam. In Sloterdijk. He arrived there this morning.”
“How do you know?”
“We're keeping a close eye on Mr Cray.”
Alex turned to Marc Antonio. “You have to tell me what you and Edward Pleasure found out about him,” he said. “What story were you working on? What was the secret meeting he had here?” The photographer thought for a moment, then smiled crookedly, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Alex Rider,” he muttered, “you're a strange kid. You say you have information to give me, but you come here and you ask only questions. You have a nerve. But I like that.” He took out a cigarette—a Gauloise—and screwed it into his mouth. He lit it and blew blue smoke into the air. “All right. It is against my better judgement. But I will tell you what I know.” There were two bar stools next to the kitchen. He perched on one and invited Alex to do the same. Robert Guppy stayed by the door.
“The story that Ed was working on had nothing to do with Damian Cray,” he began. “At least, not to start with. Ed was never interested in the entertainment business. No. He was working on something much more important… a story about the NSA. You know what that is? It's the National Security Agency of America. It's an organization involved in counter-terrorism, espionage and the protection of information. Most of its work is top secret. Code makers. Code breakers. Spies…
“Ed became interested in a man called Charlie Roper, an extremely high-ranking officer in the NSA. He had information—I don't know how he got it—that this man, Roper, might have turned traitor. He was heavily in debt. An addict…”
“Drugs?” Alex asked.
Marc Antonio shook his head. “Gambling. It can be just as destructive. Ed heard that Roper was here in Paris and believed he had come to sell secrets—either to the Chinese or, more likely, the North Koreans. He met me just over a week ago. We'd worked together often, he and I. He got the stories; I got the pictures. We were a team. More than that—we were friends.” Marc Antonio shrugged. “Anyway, we found out where Roper was staying and we followed him from his hotel.
We had no idea who he was meeting, and if you had told me, I would never have believed it.” He paused and drew on his Gauloise. The tip glowed red. Smoke trickled up in front of his good eye.
“Roper went for lunch at a restaurant called la Tour d'Argent. It is one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris. And it was Damian Cray who was paying the bill. We saw the two of them together. The restaurant is high up but it has wide glass windows with views of Paris. I took photographs of them with a telescopic lens. Cray gave Roper an envelope. I think it contained money, and, if so, it was a lot of money because the envelope was very thick.”
“Wait a minute,” Alex interrupted. “What would a pop singer want with someone from the NSA?”
“That is exactly what Ed wanted to know,” the photographer replied. “He began to ask questions.
He must have asked too many. Because the next thing I heard, someone had tried to kill him in Saint-Pierre and that same day they came for me. In my case the bomb was in my car. If I had turned the ignition, I wouldn't be speaking to you now.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I am a careful man. I noticed a wire.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Someone also broke into my apartment. Much of my equipment was stolen, including my camera and all the photographs I had taken at la Tour
