This morning he had no appetite but he ate anyway. He had a personal dietitian who never let him forget it when he missed breakfast.
He was stilt eating when there was a knock at the door and Yassen Gregorovich came into the room.
“Well?” Cray demanded. It never bothered him having people in his bedroom. He had composed some of his best songs in bed.
“I've done what you said. I have men at Amsterdam Central, Amsterdam Zuid, Lelylaan, De Vlugtlaan … all the local stations. There are also men at Schiphol Airport and I'm covering the ports. But I don't think Alex Rider will turn up at any of them.” “Then where is he?”
“If I were him, I'd head for Brussels or Paris. I have contacts in the police and I've got them looking out for him. If anybody sees him, we'll hear about it. But my guess is that we won't find him until he returns to England. He'll go straight to MI6 and the flash drive will go with him.” Cray threw down his spoon. “You seem very unconcerned about it all,” he remarked.
Yassen said nothing.
“I have to say, I'm very disappointed in you, Mr Gregorovich. When I was setting up this operation, I was told you were the best. I was told you never made mistakes.” There was still no answer. Cray scowled. “I was paying you a great deal of money. Well, you can forget that now.
It's finished. It's all over. Eagle Strike isn't going to happen. And what about me? MI6 are bound to find out about all this and if they come after me…” His voice cracked. “This was meant to be my moment of glory. This was my life's work. Now it's been destroyed, and it's all thanks to you!”
“It's not finished,” Yassen said. His voice hadn't changed, but there was an icy quality to it which might have warned Cray that once again he had come perilously close to a sudden and unexpected death. The Russian looked down at the little man, propped up on his pillows in the bed. “But we have to take emergency measures. I have people in England. I have given them instructions. You will have the flash drive returned to you in time.”
“How are you going to manage that?” Cray asked. He didn't sound convinced.
“I have been considering the situation. All along I have believed that Alex has been acting on his own. That it was chance that brought him to us.”
“He was staying at that house in the South of France.”
“Yes.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“Ask yourself this question. Why was Alex so upset by what happened to the journalist? It was none of his business. But he was angry. He risked his life coming onto the boat, the Fer de Lance. The answer is obvious. The friend he was staying with was a girl.”
“A girlfriend?” Cray smiled sarcastically.
“He must obviously have feelings for her. That is what set him on our trail.”
“And do you think this girl…?” Cray could see what the Russian was thinking, and suddenly the future didn't seem so bleak after all. He sank back into the pillows. The breakfast tray rose and fell in front of him.
“What's her name?” Cray asked.
“Sabina Pleasure,” Yassen said.
Sabina had always hated hospitals and everything about the Whitchurch reminded her why.
It was huge. You could imagine walking through the revolving doors and never coming out again. You might die; you might simply be swallowed up by the system. It would make no difference. Everything about the building was impersonal, as if it had been specially designed to make the patients feel like factory products. Doctors and nurses were coming in and out, looking exhausted and defeated. Even being close to the place filled Sabina with a sense of dread.
The Whitchurch was a brand-new hospital in south London. Sabina's mother had brought her here. The two of them were in the car park, sitting together in Liz Pleasure's VW Golf.
“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?” her mother was saying.
“No. I'll be all right.”
“He is the same, Sabina. You have to know that. He's been hurt. You may be shocked by how he looks. But underneath it all he's still the same.”
“Does he want to see me?”
“Of course he does. He's been looking forward to it. Just don't stay too long. He gets tired…” It was the first time Sabina had visited her father since he had been airlifted back from France.
He hadn't been strong enough to see her until today and, she realized, the same was true of her.
In a way, she had been dreading this. She had wondered what it would be like seeing him. He was badly burnt. He was still unable to walk. But in her dreams he was the same old dad. She had a photograph of him beside her bed and every night, before she went to sleep, she saw him as he had always been: shaggy and bookish but always healthy and smiling. She knew she would have to start facing reality the moment she walked into his room.
Sabina took a deep breath. She got out of the car and walked across the car park, past Accident and Emergency and into the hospital. The doors revolved and she found herself sucked into a reception area that was at once too busy and too brightly lit. Sabina couldn't believe how crowded and noisy it was—more like the inside of a shopping mall than a hospital. There were indeed a couple of shops, one selling flowers, and next to it a cafe and delicatessen where people could buy sandwiches and snacks to carry up to the friends and relatives they were visiting.
Signs pointed in every direction. Cardiology. Paediatrics. Renal. Radiology. Even the names sounded somehow threatening.
Edward Pleasure was in Lister Ward, named after a nineteenth-century surgeon. Sabina knew that it was on the third floor but, looking around, she could see no sign of a lift. She was about to ask for directions when a man —a young doctor from the look of him—suddenly stepped into her path.
“Lost?” he asked. He was in his twenties, dark-haired, wearing a loose-fitting white coat and carrying a water cup. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of a television soap. He was smiling as if at some private joke and Sabina had to admit that maybe it was funny, her being lost when she was totally surrounded by signs.
“I'm looking for Lister Ward,” Sabina said.
“That's on the third floor. I'm just going up there myself. But I'm afraid the lifts are out of order,” the doctor added.
That was strange. Her mother hadn't mentioned it and she had been to the ward only the evening before. But Sabina imagined that in a hospital like this, things would break down all the time.
“There's a staircase you can take. Why don't you come along with me?” The doctor crumpled his cup and dropped it in a bin. He walked through the reception area and Sabina followed.
“So who are you visiting?” the doctor asked.
“My dad.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“He had an accident.”
“That's too bad. How is he getting on?”
“This is the first time I've visited him. He's getting better… I think.” They went through a set of double doors and down a corridor. Sabina noticed that they had left all the visitors behind them. The corridor was long and empty. It brought them to a hallway where five different passages converged. To one side was a staircase leading up, but the doctor ignored it. “Isn't that the way?” she asked.
“No.” The doctor turned and smiled again. He seemed to smile a lot. “That goes up to Urology.
You can get through to Lister Ward but this way's shorter.” He gestured at a door and opened it.
Sabina followed him through.
To her surprise she found herself back out in the open air. The door led into a partly covered area round the side of the hospital, where supply vehicles parked. There was a raised loading bay and a number of crates already stacked up. One wall was lined by a row of dustbins, each one a different colour according to what sort of refuse it was meant to take.
“Excuse me, I think you've—” Sabina began.
But then her eyes widened in shock. The doctor was lunging towards her, and before she knew what was happening he had grabbed her round the neck. Her first, and her only, thought was that he was some sort of
