And then he saw the photographs. He recognized himself, lying on a bed that he thought he knew too. It was Paris! Room thirteen at the Hotel du Monde. He remembered the black and white bedspread, as well as the clothes he had been wearing that night. The clothes had been removed in most of the photographs. Every inch of him had been photographed, sometimes close-up, sometimes wider. In every picture, his eyes were closed. Looking at himself, Alex knew that he had been drugged and remembered how the dinner with Mrs Stellenbosch had ended.
The photographs disgusted him. He had been manipulated by people who thought he was worth nothing at all. From the moment he had met them, he had disliked Dr Grief and his assistant director. Now he felt pure loathing. He still didn’t know what they were doing. But they were evil. They had to be stopped.
He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The disposal team! He looked around him and cursed. He didn’t have time to get out and there was nowhere in the room to hide. Then he remembered the lift. He went over to it and urgently stabbed at the button. The footsteps were getting nearer. He heard voices. Then the panels slid open. Alex stepped into a small silver box. There were five buttons: S, R, 1, 2, 3. He pressed R. He had remembered enough French to know that the R must stand for rez-de-chaussée, or ground floor. Hopefully, the lift would take him back where he had begun.
The doors slid shut a few seconds before the guards entered the theatre. Alex felt his stomach lurch as he was carried down. The lift slowed. He realized that the doors could open anywhere. He might find himself surrounded by guards – or by the other boys in the school. Well, it was too late now. He had made his choice. He would just have to cope with whatever he found.
But he was lucky. The doors slid open to reveal the library. Alex assumed this was the real library and not another copy. The room was empty. He stepped out of the lift, then turned round. He was facing the alcove. The lift doors formed the alcove wall. They were brilliantly camouflaged, with the suit of armour now sliced exactly in two, one half on each side. As the doors closed automatically, the armour slid back together again, completing the disguise. Despite himself, Alex had to admire the simplicity of it. The entire building was a fantastic box of tricks.
Alex looked at his hands. They were still filthy. He had forgotten that he was completely covered in soot. He crept out of the library, trying not to leave black footprints on the carpet. Then he hurried back to his room. When he got there, he had to remind himself that it was indeed his room and not the copy two floors above. But the Discman was there – and that was what he most needed.
He knew enough. It was time to call for the cavalry. He pressed the fast forward button three times, then went to have a shower.
DELAYING TACTICS
It was raining in London, the sort of rain that seems never to stop. The early evening traffic was huddled together, going nowhere. Alan Blunt was standing at the window looking out over the street when there was a knock at the door. He turned away reluctantly, as if the city at its most damp and dismal held some attraction for him. Mrs Jones came in. She was carrying a sheet of paper. As Blunt sat down behind his desk he noticed the words Most Urgent printed in red across the top.
“We’ve heard from Alex,” Mrs Jones said.
“Oh yes?”
“Smithers gave him a Euro-satellite transmitter built into a portable CD player. Alex sent a signal to us this morning … at ten twenty-seven hours, his time.”
“Meaning?”
“Either he’s in trouble or he’s found out enough for us to go in. Either way, we have to pull him out.”
“I wonder…” Blunt leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. As a young man, he had gained a first class honours degree in mathematics at Cambridge University. Thirty years later, he still saw life as a series of complicated calculations. “Alex has been at Point Blanc for how long?” he asked.
“A week.”
“As I recall, he didn’t want to go. According to Sir David Friend, his behaviour at Haverstock Hall was, to say the least, anti-social. Did you know that he knocked out Friend’s daughter with a stun dart? Apparently he also nearly got her killed in an incident in a railway tunnel.”
“He was playing a part,” she said. “Exactly what you told him to do.”
“Playing it too well, perhaps,” Blunt murmured. “Alex may no longer be one hundred per cent reliable.”
“He sent the message.” Mrs Jones couldn’t keep the exasperation out of her voice. “For all we know, he could be in serious trouble. We gave him the device as an alarm signal. To let us know if he needed help. He’s used it. We can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.” Alan Blunt looked curiously at her. “You’re not forming some sort of attachment to Alex Rider, are you?” he asked.
Mrs Jones looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You seem worried about him.”
“He’s fourteen-years-old, Alan! He’s a child, for heaven’s sake!”
“You used to have children.”
“Yes.” Mrs Jones turned to face him again. “Perhaps that does make a difference. But even you must admit that he’s special. We don’t have another agent like him. A fourteen year old boy! The perfect secret weapon. My feelings about him have nothing to do with it. We can’t afford to lose him.”
“I just don’t want to go blundering into Point Blanc without any firm information,” Blunt said. “First of all, this is France we’re talking about – and you know what the French are like. If we’re seen to be invading their territory they’ll kick up one hell of a fuss. Secondly, Grief has got hold of boys from some of the wealthiest families in the world. If we go storming in with the SAS or whatever, the whole thing could blow up into a major international incident.”
“You wanted proof that the school was connected to the deaths of Roscoe and Ivanov,” Mrs Jones said. “Alex may have it.”
“He may have it and he may not. A twenty-four hour delay shouldn’t make a great deal of difference.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
“We’ll put a unit on standby. They can keep an eye on things. If Alex is in trouble, we’ll find out soon enough. It could play to our favour if he’s managed to stir things up. It’s exactly what we want. Force Grief to show us his hand.”
“And if Alex contacts us again?”
“Then we’ll go in.”
“We may be too late.”
“For Alex?” Blunt showed no emotion. “I’m sure you don’t need to worry about him, Mrs Jones. He can look after himself.”
The telephone rang and Blunt answered it. The interview was over. Mrs Jones got up and left to make the arrangements for an SAS unit to fly into Geneva. Blunt was right, of course. Delaying tactics might work in their favour. Clear it with the French. Find out what was going on. And it was only twenty-four hours.
She would just have to hope Alex could survive that long.
* * *
Alex found himself eating his breakfast on his own. For the first time, James Sprintz had decided to join the other boys. There they were – the six of them, suddenly the best of friends. Alex looked carefully at the boy who had once been his friend, trying to see what it was that had changed about him. He knew the answer. It was everything and nothing. James was exactly the same and completely different at the same time.
Alex finished his food and got up. James called out to him. “Why don’t you come to class this morning, Alex? It’s Latin.”
Alex shook his head. “Latin’s a waste of time.”
“Is that what you think?” James couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice and for a moment Alex was startled. For just one second it hadn’t been James talking at all. It had been James who had moved his mouth. But it had been Dr Grief speaking the words.
“You enjoy it,” Alex said. He hurried out of the room.
Almost twenty-four hours had passed since he had pressed the fast forward on the Discman. Alex wa
sn’t sure what he had been expecting. A fleet of helicopters flying the Union Jack would have been reassuring. But so far nothing had happened. He even wondered if the alarm signal had worked. At the same time, he was annoyed with himself. He had seen Grief shoot the man called Baxter in the operating theatre and he had panicked. He knew that Grief was a killer. He knew that the academy was far more than the finishing school it pretended to be. But he still didn’t have all the answers. What exactly was Dr Grief doing? Was he responsible for the deaths of Michael J. Roscoe and Viktor Ivanov? And if so, why?
The fact was, he didn’t know enough. And by the time MI6 arrived, Baxter’s body would be buried somewhere in the mountains and there would be nothing to prove there was anything wrong. Alex would look like a fool. He could almost imagine Dr Grief telling his side of the story…
“Yes. There is an operating theatre here. It was built years ago. We never use the second and third floors. There is a lift, yes. It was built before we came. We explained to Alex about the armed guards. They’re here for his protection. But as you can see, gentlemen, there is nothing unpleasant happening here. The other boys are fine. Baxter? No, I don’t know anyone by that name. Obviously Alex has been having bad dreams. I’m amazed that he was sent here to spy on us. I would ask you to take him with you when you leave…”
He had to find out more – and that meant going back up to the second floor. Or perhaps down. Alex remembered the letters in the secret lift. R for rez-de-chaussée. S had to stand for sous-sol. The French for basement.
He went over to the Latin classroom and looked in through the half-open door. Dr Grief was out of sight, but Alex could hear his voice.
“Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas…”
There was the sound of scratching; chalk on a blackboard. And there were the six boys, sitting at their desks, listening intently. James was sitting between Hugo and Tom, taking notes. Alex looked at his watch. They would be there for another hour. He was on his own.
He walked back down the corridor and slipped into the library. He had woken up still smelling faintly of soot and had no intention of making his way back up the chimney. Instead he crossed over to the suit of armour. He knew now that the alcove disguised a pair of elevator doors. They could be opened from inside. Presumably there was some sort of control on the outside too.
It took him just a few minutes to find it. There were three buttons built into the breast-plate of the armour. Even close to, the buttons looked like part of the suit – something the medieval knight would have used to strap the thing on. But when Alex pressed the middle button, the armour moved. A moment later, it split in half again and he found himself looking into the waiting lift.
This time he pressed the bottom button. The lift seemed to travel a long way, as if the basement of the building had been built far underground. Finally the doors slid open again. Alex looked out into a curving passageway with tiled walls that reminded him a little of a London tube station. The air was cold down here. The passage was lit by naked bulbs, screwed into the ceiling at intervals.
He looked out, then ducked back. There was a guard at the end of the corridor, sitting at a table reading a newspaper. Would he have heard the lift doors open? Alex leaned forward again. The guard was absorbed in the sports pages. He hadn’t moved. Alex slipped out of the lift and crept down the passage, moving away from him. He reached the corner and turned into a second passageway lined with steel doors. There was nobody else in sight.
Where was he? There had to be something down here or there wouldn’t be any need for a guard. Alex went over to the nearest of the doors. There was a spy-hole set in the front and he looked through into a bare white cell with two bunk beds, a toilet and a sink. There were two boys in the cell. One he had never seen before, but he recognized the other. It was the red-haired boy called Tom McMorin. But he had seen Tom in Latin just a few minutes ago! What was he doing here?
Alex moved on to the next cell. This one also held two boys. One was a fair-haired, fit-looking boy with blue eyes and freckles. Once again, he recognized the other. It was James Sprintz. Alex examined the door. There were two bolts, but as far as he could see, no key. He drew back the bolts and jerked the door handle down. The door opened. He went in.
James stood up, astonished to see him. “Alex! What are you doing here?”
Alex closed the door. “We haven’t got much time,” he said. He was speaking in a whisper even though there was little chance of being overheard. “What happened to you?”
“They came for me the night before last,” James said. “They dragged me out of bed and into the library. There was some sort of lift—”
“Behind the armour.”
“Yes. I didn’t know what they were doing. I thought they were going to kill me. But then they threw me in here.”
“You’ve been here for two days?”
“Yes.”
Alex shook his head. “I saw you having breakfast upstairs fifteen minutes ago.”
“They’ve made duplicates of us.” The other boy had spoken for the first time. He had an American accent. “All of us! I don’t know how they’ve done it or why. But that’s what they’ve done.” He glanced at the door with anger in his eyes. “I’ve been here for months. My name’s Paul Roscoe.”
“Roscoe? Your dad’s—”
“Michael Roscoe.”
Alex fell silent. He couldn’t tell this boy what had happened to his father and he looked away, afraid that Paul would read it in his eyes.
“How did you get down here?” James asked.
“Listen,” Alex said. He was speaking rapidly now. “I was sent here by MI6. My name isn’t Alex Friend. It’s Alex Rider. Everything’s going to be OK. They’ll send people in and get you all freed.”
“You’re … a spy?” James was obviously startled.
Alex nodded. “I’m a sort of spy, I suppose,” he said.
“You’ve opened the door. We can get out of here!” Paul Roscoe stood up, ready to move.
“No!” Alex held up his hands. “You’ve got to wait. There’s no way down the mountain. Stay here for now and I’ll come back with help. I promise you. It’s the only way.”
“I can’t—”
“You have to. Trust me, Paul. I’m going to have to lock you back in so that nobody will know I’ve been here. But it won’t be for long. I’ll come back!”
Alex couldn’t wait for any more argument. He went back to the door and opened it.
Mrs Stellenbosch was standing outside.
He only just had time to register the shock of seeing her. He tried to bring up a hand to protect himself, to twist his body into position for a karate kick. But it was already too late. Her arm shot out, the heel of her hand driving into his face. It was like being hit by a brick wall. Alex felt every bone in his body rattle. White light exploded behind his eyes. Then he was out.
HOW TO RULE THE WORLD
“Open your eyes, Alex. Dr Grief wishes to speak to you.”
The words came from across an ocean. Alex groaned and tried to lift his head. He was sitting down, his arms pinned behind his back. The whole side of his face felt bruised and swollen and there was the taste of blood in his mouth. He opened his eyes and waited for the room to come into focus. Mrs Stellenbosch was standing in front of him, her fist curled loosely in her other hand. Alex remembered the force of the blow that had knocked him out. His whole head was throbbing and he ran his tongue over his teeth to see if there were any missing. It was fortunate he had rolled with the punch. Otherwise she might have broken his neck.
Dr Grief was sitting in his golden chair, watching Alex with what might have been curiosity or distaste or perhaps a little of both. There was nobody else in the room. It was still snowing outside and there was a small fire burning in the hearth, but the flames weren’t as red as Dr Grief’s eyes.
“You have put us to a great deal of inconvenience,” he said.
Alex straightened his head. He tried to move his hands, b
ut they had been chained together behind the chair.
“Your name is not Alex Friend. You are not the son of Sir David Friend. Your name is Alex Rider and you are employed by the British Secret Service.” Dr Grief was simply stating facts. There was no emotion in his voice.
“We have microphones concealed in the cells,” Mrs Stellenbosch explained. “Sometimes it is useful for us to hear the conversations between our young guests. Everything you said was overheard by the guard who summoned me.”
“You have wasted our time and our money,” Dr Grief continued. “For that you will now be punished. It is not a punishment you will survive.”
The words were cold and absolute and Alex felt the fear that they triggered. It coursed through his bloodstream, closing in on his heart. He took a deep breath, forcing himself back under control. He had signalled MI6. They would be on their way to Point Blanc. They might appear any minute now. He just had to play for time.
“You can’t do anything to me,” he said.
Mrs Stellenbosch lashed out and he was thrown backwards as the back of her hand sliced into the side of his head. Only the chair kept him upright. “When you speak to the director, you refer to him as ‘Dr Grief’,” she said.
Alex looked round again, his eyes watering. “You can’t do anything to me, Dr Grief,” he said. “I know everything. I know about the Gemini Project. And I’ve already told London what I know. If you do anything to me, they’ll kill you. They’re on their way here now.”
Dr Grief smiled and in that single moment Alex knew that nothing he said would make any difference to what was about to happen to him. The man was too confident. He was like a poker player who had not only managed to see all the cards but had stolen the four aces for himself.
“It may well be that your friends are on their way,” he said. “But I do not think you have told them anything. We have been through your luggage and found the transmitting device concealed in the Discman. I noted also that it is an ingenious electric saw. But as for the transmitter, it can send out a signal but not a message. Quite how you have learned about the Gemini Project is of no interest to me. I assume you overheard the name whilst eavesdropping at a door. We should have been more careful – but for British intelligence to send in a child … that was something we could not expect.