Then Roper turned round. “I hope this isn't your idea of a joke,” he said. “This is empty.” Cray smiled at him from the sofa. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'll fill it.” He reached out and pressed a button on the coffee table in front of him. There was a hiss and the door of the alcove slid shut.
“Hey!” Roper shouted.
Cray pressed the button a second time.
For an instant nothing happened. Alex realized he was no longer breathing. His heart was beating at twice its normal rate. Then something bright and silver dropped down from somewhere high up inside the closed-off room, landing inside the case. Roper reached in and held up a small coin.
It was a quarter—a twenty-five cent piece.
“Cray! What are you playing at?” he demanded.
More coins began to fall into the case. Alex couldn't see exactly what was happening but he guessed that the room really was like a bottle, totally sealed apart from a hole somewhere above.
The coins were falling through the hole, the trickle rapidly turning into a cascade. In seconds the attache case was full, and still the coins came, tumbling onto the pile, spreading out over the table and onto the floor.
Perhaps Charlie Roper had an inkling of what was about to happen. He forced his way through the shower of coins and pounded on the glass door. “Stop this!” he shouted. “Let me out of here!”
“But I haven't paid you all your money, Mr. Roper,” Cray replied. “I thought you said I owed you two million dollars.”
Suddenly the cascade became a torrent. Thousands and thousands of coins poured into the room.
Roper cried out, bending an arm over his head, trying to protect himself. Alex quickly worked out the mathematics. Two million dollars, twenty-five cents at a time. The payment was being made in just about the smallest of small change. How many coins would there be? Already they filled all the available floor space, rising up to the American's knees. The torrent intensified.
Now the rush of coins was solid and Roper's screams were almost drowned out by the clatter of metal against metal. Alex wanted to look away but he found himself fixated, his eyes wide with horror.
He could barely see the man any more. The coins thundered down. Roper was trying to swat them away, as if they were a swarm of bees. His arms and hands were vaguely visible but his face and body had disappeared. He lashed out with a fist and Alex saw a smear of blood appear on the door—but the toughened glass wouldn't break. The coins oozed forward, filling every inch of space. They rose up higher and higher. Roper was invisible now, sealed into the glittering mass.
If he was still screaming, nothing more could be heard.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The last coins fell. A grave of eight million quarters. Alex shuddered, trying to imagine what it must have been like to have been trapped inside. How had the American died? Had he been suffocated by the falling coins or crushed by their weight? Alex had no doubt that the man inside was dead. Blood money! Cray's sick joke couldn't have been more true.
Cray laughed.
“That was fun!” he said.
“Why did you kill him?” The man in the spectacles had spoken for the first time. He had a Dutch accent. His voice was trembling.
“Because he was careless, Henryk,” Cray replied. “We can't make mistakes, not at this late stage. And it's not as if I broke any promises. I said I'd pay him two million dollars, and if you want to open the door and count it, two million dollars is exactly what you'll find.”
“Don't open the door!” the man called Henryk gasped.
“No. I think it would be a bit messy.” Cray smiled. “Well, we've taken care of Roper. We've got the flash drive. We're all set to go. So why don't we have another drink?” Still crouching at the bottom of the stairs, Alex gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to panic.
Every instinct told him to get up and run, but he knew he had to take care. What he had seen was almost beyond belief—but at least his mission was now clear. He had to get out of the compound, out of Sloterdijk, and back to England. Like it or not, he had to go back to MI6.
He knew now that he had been right all along and that Damian Cray was both mad and evil. All his posturing—his many charities and his speeches against violence—was precisely that; a facade. He was planning something that he called Eagle Strike, and whatever it was would take place in two days' time. It involved a security system and a VIP lounge. Was he going to break into an embassy? It didn't matter. Somehow he would make Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones believe him. There was a dead man called Charlie Roper. A connection with the National Security Agency of America. Surely Alex had enough information to persuade them to make an arrest.
But first he had to get out.
He turned just in time to see the figure looming above him. It was a guard, coming down the stairs. Alex started to react, but he was too late.
The guard had seen him. He was carrying a gun. Slowly Alex raised his hands. The guard gestured and Alex stood up, rising above the stair rail. On the other side of the room, Damian Cray saw him. His face lit up with delight.
“Alex Rider!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you again. What a lovely surprise! Come on over and have a drink—and let me tell you how you're going to die.” PAIN SYNTHESIS
« ^ »
assen has told me all about you,” Cray said.
“Apparently you worked for MI6. I have to say, that's a very novel idea. Are you still working for them now? Did they send you after me?”
Alex said nothing.
“If you don't answer my questions, I may have to start thinking about doing nasty things to you.
Or getting Yassen to do them. That's what I pay him for. Pins and needles … that sort of thing.”
“MI6 don't know anything,” Yassen said.
He and Cray were alone in the room with Alex. The guard and the man called Henryk had gone.
Alex was sitting on the sofa with a glass of chocolate milk that Cray had insisted on pouring for him. Cray was now perched on the piano stool. His legs were crossed and he seemed completely relaxed as he sipped another cocktail.
“There's no way the intelligence services could know anything about us,” Yassen went on. “And if they did, they wouldn't have sent Alex.”
“Then why was he at the Pleasure Dome? Why is he here?” Cray turned to Alex. “I don't suppose you've come all this way to get my autograph. As a matter of fact, Alex, I'm rather pleased to see you. I was planning to come and find you one day anyway. You completely spoilt the launch of my Gameslayer. Much too clever by half! I was very cross with you, and although I'm rather busy at the moment, I was going to arrange a little accident…”
“Like you did for that woman in Hyde Park?” Alex asked.
“She was a nuisance. She asked impertinent questions. I hate journalists, and I hate smart-arse kids too. As I say, I'm very glad you managed to find your way here. It makes my life a lot easier.”
“You can't do anything to me,” Alex said. “MI6 know I'm here. They know all about Eagle Strike. You may have the codes, but you'll never be able to use them. And if I don't report in this evening, this whole place will be surrounded before tomorrow and you'll be in jail…” Cray glanced at Yassen. The Russian shook his head. “He's lying. He must have heard us talking from the stairs. He knows nothing.”
Cray licked his lips. Alex realized that he was enjoying himself. He could see now just how crazy Cray was. The man didn't connect with the real world and Alex knew that whatever he was planning, it was going to be on a big scale—and probably lethal.
“It doesn't make any difference,” Cray said. “Eagle Strike will have taken place in less than forty-eight hours from now. I agree with you, Yassen. This boy knows nothing. He's irrelevant. I can kill him and it won't make any difference at all.”
“You don't have to kill him,” Yassen said. Alex was surprised. The Russian had killed Ian Rider.
He was Alex's worst enemy. But this was the second time Yassen had tried to protect him. “You can just lock him up until it's all over.”
“You're right,” Cray said. “I don't have to kill him. But I want to. It's something I want to do very much.” He
