They went in, along a corridor and into a large room with slanting windows looking out onto the launch site. Above the windows was a giant screen, blank at the moment but ready to transmit pictures of the launch itself. There were about twenty computers, arranged in two groups, facing each other. One group was marked COMMAND, the other TELEMETRY. To one side Alex noticed a conference table, a dozen chairs and another screen. A huge board with hundreds of light bulbs spelt out various information including LTST – local true solar time – the space equivalent of GMT. There was less to the control centre than Alex had imagined. In many ways it was like an oversized classroom.
A man had stood up as they came in. He was short but thickset, and looked either Chinese or Korean with neat black hair, wire-framed spectacles and a pencil moustache. He was dressed like a businessman in a smart jacket and tie. The clothes couldn’t have been less appropriate on a Caribbean island, but of course the climate in the control room was conditioned. Alex could feel the sterile air blowing cold on his bare arms and legs.
Drevin introduced him. “This is Professor Sing Joo-Chan, the flight director here on Flamingo Bay. We were very lucky to be able to recruit him from the Khrunichev Space Centre.”
“How do you do.” Sing spoke with a cultured English accent. He shook hands with Alex and Paul, but the dark brown eyes behind the glasses showed no interest in them at all. They were children. They had no place here. That was what the eyes seemed to say.
“This is where it all happens,” Drevin went on. “We’ll be controlling both the launch and the docking procedure from here. Of course, most of the procedure is computerized. But we have a camera fitted into Gabriel 7’s nose. Travelling three hundred miles at the speed of light, it takes about 0.001 seconds for the images to be relayed back here. It’s a bit like a giant computer game, except when you press a button here you’re manoeuvring about four tonnes of equipment in outer space. You can’t afford mistakes.”
Sing shook his head. “There will be no mistakes,” he assured them.
“Have we had the latest weather reports?” Drevin asked.
“Yes, Mr Drevin. I’ve gone over the meteorological charts myself and the conditions are exactly as predicted.”
“Good.” Drevin was pleased. “Nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. It’s a sight you boys won’t forget.”
“Can’t we get any closer?” Paul asked.
Professor Sing looked away, as if the question was too stupid to answer. Alex wondered what it was about the man that he didn’t like. Perhaps it was his complete lack of enthusiasm. There was no emotion in his face – and none in his voice. How could he be in charge of such a huge project and not feel the excitement of it?
“If you were any closer you’d be deafened,” Drevin said. “When Gabriel 7 is launched, the vibration levels will be huge. They’d destroy your eardrums if you were too close. Even in here we’ll need to be completely insulated.”
“I’m afraid I must ask for some time with you, Mr Drevin,” Sing interrupted. “I need to discuss the launch trajectory dispersions.”
Drevin turned to Alex and Paul. “Magnus will show you around the rest of the base if there’s anything else you wish to see. We’ll meet again at dinner.”
“Sure.” Alex tried to smile, but he didn’t look up. He could no longer trust himself to meet Drevin’s gaze. And there was something else that was worrying him. The more he saw of the island – the rockets, the launch pad, the space centre – the more he felt a nameless sense of dread. It was hard to explain, but Alex was beginning to think that Joe Byrne and the CIA had got it all wrong. Drevin wasn’t behaving like a man about to run away. He had something else in mind. Alex was sure of it.
There were less than forty-five hours until the launch. That might be all the time he had left to find out what it was.
But later that afternoon, Alex was able to forget some of his worries. Paul took him down to the beach and, as promised, gave Alex his first lesson in kite-surfing.
The sport, very simply, combined surfing and kite-flying. As Paul said, you stood on a board and flew a kite, and the wind did the rest. Of course, there was more to it than that. The kite was actually a giant polyester wing – nine metres across – which had to be inflated with a pump. It was connected to Alex by four lines which clipped onto a rubber harness around his waist. Then there was the board, similar to a surfboard but with four fins and twin tips, making it bidirectional. And finally there was the control bar, which he held in front of him. The mechanics were simple enough. The control bar was his steering wheel, which he could raise and lower, turn left and right. The rest was balance and nerve.
Alex was lucky. There wasn’t much wind and the sea was fairly calm. But even so, he soon felt the power of the new sport. He started on the edge of the water with Paul about twenty metres behind him, holding the kite. Paul released it and Alex quickly brought it up until it reached the zenith, directly over his head. While it was there, the kite was essentially in neutral. Carrying the board, Alex waded into the sea until the water was up to his ankles. He put one foot on the board. Then he lowered the kite into the wind.
And he was away. It was an incredible sensation. He could feel his arms straining at their sockets, his whole body tensing against the pull of the kite. Before he knew it, he was moving very fast, skimming over the surface with the spray flying into his eyes. The board was incredibly flexible. All Alex had to do was pull on the control bar and he could change direction instantly. With the late afternoon sun beating down on him and the palm trees rushing past, all his worries about Drevin, the CIA, Ark Angel and Force Three were forgotten. For the next two hours he was happy, finally enjoying the holiday he had been promised.
After the two boys had exhausted themselves with the kite, they flopped down onto the sand and watched as the sun began its descent. It was still very warm. The breeze, blowing gently across the beach, carried the scent of pine and eucalyptus. From this part of the island it was impossible to see the launch pad and the two waiting rockets. A single grey heron perched sedately on the end of the jetty, its eyes fixed on the water, searching for fish. The sailing boats and motor launches bobbed up and down, jostled by the waves.
Alex was lying on his back, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun. He glanced sideways and noticed Paul staring at his bare chest. The scar left by his surgery had healed quickly but it was still very red.
“You must have really hurt yourself,” Paul said.
“Yes.” Alex was reluctant to talk about his fake bicycle accident.
“You’ve got lots of other cuts and bruises too.”
Alex didn’t even look. Every time MI6 had sent him out on a mission, his body had come back with more souvenirs. He sat up and reached for his T-shirt. “I’m starving,” he said, changing the subject. “When’s dinner?”
“Not for another hour. But we can grab a snack, if you like.”
“No. I’ll wait.”
Alex pulled on his shirt. The sun was a perfect disc, cut in half by the edge of the world. The sea had turned blood red.
“Do you like it here?” Paul asked.
“It’s fantastic. Really great.” Alex did his best to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.
“It makes a real change to have someone like you here.” Paul stared at the horizon as if searching for the right words. “It must be awful not to have parents,” he went on. “But you don’t know what it’s like having a dad like mine. He’s got so much money, and everyone knows who he is. But sometimes I think I don’t even know him myself.”
“Do you enjoy being with your mother?” Alex asked. He wanted to steer the conversation away from Drevin.
Paul nodded. “Yes. I wish he’d let me see more of her. And it doesn’t help being on my own all the time. I sometimes wonder what I’m doing in the middle of all this. It would be a lot easier if there was someone else around.”
Alex was feeling increasingly uneasy. Paul had no idea that his entire life was ab
out to self-destruct and that he – Alex – had been sent here to help make it happen. In less than a week’s time, the CIA would arrest his father. All Drevin’s assets would presumably be seized by the American government. Drevin would go to prison.
And what would happen to Paul? The story would be on the front page of every newspaper all over the world. He’d have to change his name. He’d have to begin all over again, adapting to a completely different life. Somehow he’d have to get used to the fact that he was the son of a ruthless criminal. A killer. But none of this was Alex’s fault. He forced himself to remember that. And Paul had a mother who’d be there to look after him when this whole thing exploded. He’d get through it.
The sun had almost disappeared. A great shadow seemed to stretch out across the sea, and Alex watched as the heron flew off, soaring effortlessly over the palm trees. Paradise? Perhaps the bird knew otherwise.
Alex stood up. “Let’s go in,” he said.
They walked along the beach together, the waves lapping softly near by.
On the other side of the island, another conversation was taking place.
The head of security, Magnus Payne, was standing in a large office overlooking the launch site.
Drevin was sitting on a leather sofa, reading the email that Payne had just handed him.
“Alex Rider is an MI6 agent,” Payne was saying. “He may not be working for them now, but he has certainly worked for them in the past – and not once but several times. If they know he is here, it is quite possible that they have already approached him and asked him to spy on you. I have searched his luggage and found nothing. But that does not mean he isn’t equipped in some way.”
Drevin lowered the email. “It’s not possible!” His fingers began to play with his ring. “A spy? He’s fourteen!”
“I agree, of course, that it is unusual.” Payne’s lips twisted in a sneer. “But I can assure you, Mr Drevin, that my contact is completely reliable. After what happened at the hospital, then at Hornchurch Towers and a third time at Stamford Bridge, I felt that the boy was simply too good to be true. There was something about him … so I made enquiries.” He gestured at the email. “That’s the result.”
“The bicycle accident?”
“In fact a bullet wound from his last assignment. That’s what my contact tells me.”
Drevin fell silent. Payne could see his mind at work, turning over the possibilities, making evaluations. It was all there in the watery grey eyes.
“That business with the passport in New York,” he said. He snapped his fingers angrily and swore briefly in Russian. “They must have wanted to make contact with him. He was out of my sight for nearly twenty-four hours. They could have been briefing him, telling him what to do.”
“They?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency.” Drevin spoke the words with loathing. “They’re hand in hand with MI6. The boy could be working with either of them. Or both.”
“The question is, what do you want to do with him?”
“What do you suggest?”
“He’s dangerous. He shouldn’t be here. Not now.”
“We could send him away.”
“Or we could kill him.”
Drevin thought for a little longer. He barely seemed to breathe. Magnus Payne waited patiently.
“You’re right,” Drevin said suddenly. “Paul won’t be too happy about it, but that can’t be helped. See to it tomorrow, Mr Payne.”
He got to his feet.
“Kill him.”
DEEP TROUBLE
It was another perfect day. Alex Rider was eating breakfast with Drevin and his son on a terrace perched on the edge of the sea, the waves lapping below them. A servant – all the staff had been brought in from Barbados – had served them cold meat, fruit, cheese and freshly baked rolls. There was a jug of Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica, one of the most delicious and expensive blends in the world. This was the millionaire lifestyle, all right. A stunning house, a private island, Caribbean sunshine … a snapshot of another world.
Drevin was in an unusually good mood. It was the day before the launch and Alex could sense his excitement.
“What have you boys got planned for today?”
“Do you want to take the kite out again?” Paul asked Alex. “There might be a bit more wind.”
Alex nodded. “Sure.”
“Why don’t you do some waterskiing?” Drevin suggested.
“We could do that too.” Paul was obviously pleased that his father was taking an interest. It seemed to Alex that if Drevin had suggested a sandcastle competition, the other boy would have agreed.
Drevin turned to Alex. “Have you ever dived?”
“Yes.” Alex had been a qualified diver since he was twelve.
“Then why don’t you go out this afternoon? We have all the equipment you need – and you can visit the Mary Belle.” Alex looked puzzled. Drevin went on. “It’s an old transport ship; it was sunk in the Second World War while carrying supplies to the American bases in the Caribbean. Now it’s an excellent dive site. You can swim into some of the holds.”
Alex had been on wreck dives before. He knew that there was nothing more strangely beautiful, more eerie, than the ghost of an old ship. He turned to Paul. “Do you want to come?”
“I can’t,” Paul said. “My asthma…”
“Scuba is one of the many things Paul is unable to do,” Drevin said. “But I can ask one of the guards to be your buddy. It would be a shame not to see it.”
“Don’t let me stop you, Alex,” Paul added. “Everyone says the Mary Belle is amazing, and I’ve got some homework I’m supposed to do. So you go ahead.”
At that moment, Tamara Knight appeared on the terrace, dressed in a linen jacket and trousers with a pair of sunglasses dangling around her neck. She was carrying a bulging file.
“You’ve got some important correspondence to deal with, Mr Drevin,” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Knight. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Drevin nodded at Alex. “Enjoy the dive,” he said, and went into the house.
“You’re diving?” Tamara asked. She sounded surprised.
“Yes.” Alex wasn’t sure what to say.
“Where?”
“The Mary Belle.”
“Oh yes.” Tamara still wasn’t smiling. “You’d better be careful. I understand it’s very deep. And I hope you don’t see any sharks.”
After breakfast, Alex went back up to his room to fetch his trunks. The shutters had been drawn back and the windows were wide open. He had a spectacular view of the whole of Little Point. Looking out, Alex saw Drevin standing by his buggy, talking into some sort of phone. Alex thought for a moment, then went over to his case and drew out the iPod Smithers had given him. He put on the headphones, turned it on, then pointed the screen in Drevin’s direction. Almost at once, he heard Drevin’s voice. It was so clear, he could have been standing right next to him.
“…for the final preparations. I am going over everything again today. I want all the programming to be double-checked.” A pause. “The boat is coming in tonight at eleven. Not at Little Point. The western tip of the island, behind the launch site. I’ll be waiting for it there…”
There was a movement at the door. It was Paul. “What are you doing, Alex?” he asked.
Alex took off the headphones. “Nothing.”
Paul saw the iPod. “Are you taking that down to the beach?”
“No. I’m just checking it’s working.”
The two of them left together. For the rest of the morning they swam and snorkelled and went out with the kite. This time there was a little more wind and Paul taught Alex a few tricks – jumps and the handle pass. But Alex found it hard to concentrate. All he could think about was the conversation he’d overheard. A boat was arriving that night at eleven. Why? Drevin obviously didn’t want it to be seen. That was why he wasn’t using the jetty near the house. Could it be that he was planning to leave, and, if so, shou
ld Alex alert the CIA now? No. It was too soon. Better to get over to the other side of the island once darkness had fallen and see for himself. That was the reason he was here. It would mean slipping past the checkpoint, but of course, he couldn’t swim round. Alex remembered what the head of security had told him. There was razor wire concealed in the water. There had to be another way.
Lunch was at one o’clock: delicious shrimp roti served with salad and rice. Then they rested for an hour, avoiding the worst heat of the sun. At half past three there was a knock on Alex’s door and a young black man appeared, wearing the grey overalls of the security staff.
“Mr Rider?” he asked.
Alex got to his feet. “I’m Alex.”
“My name is Kolo. Mr Drevin said you needed a diving buddy.”
“That’s right.”
“You a certified diver?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go!”
Paul wasn’t around. Alex followed Kolo outside and down to an equipment store underneath the house. It was a large room, a cross between a garage and a boathouse. Here there was spare equipment for the various boats, a few nets and, in a separate area, scuba tanks, BCDs, wetsuits, fins and everything else needed to go diving.
“The water’s warm out there,” Kolo said as he hauled out a couple of tanks. “But the Mary Belle is deep, about twenty-two metres. So I’m going to give you a half-body wetsuit and I’ll check out some weights.”
Half an hour later, Alex was dressed in a bright blue neoprene wetsuit that came down to his thighs and halfway down his arms. Kolo was dressed in black. Carrying his equipment, Alex staggered out onto the beach, where a boat with a Bajan skipper was waiting to take the two of them out to sea.