He was trapped.
Alex stood up. The tarmac was definitely getting hotter. He could no longer stay too long on one foot. Black smoke was pouring out of the stairwell, billowing into the sky. Now he heard the sound he had been hoping for – the wail of sirens. But he knew that by the time they got to him, it would be too late. There was another explosion below him. The windows were beginning to shatter, unable to take the heat. No way down. What could he do?
The banner.
It was twenty metres long, about a hundred metres above the ground, a lifeline between this building and the next. The advertisement for Hornchurch Towers was suspended between two steel cables; the top cable was level with the roof, bolted into the brickwork. Alex ran over to it. Could he stand on the lower cable and hold onto the higher one? It would be like a swing bridge in the jungle. He could slowly inch his way across to the other side and safety.
But the cables were too far apart – and the material was flapping in the wind. It would knock him off before he was even halfway.
Could he somehow crawl across on his hands and knees?
No. The cable was about two centimetres thick. It wasn’t wide enough to support him. He would lose his balance and fall. That was certain.
So how?
The answer came to him in an instant. Everything he needed was there in front of him. But it only worked when he put it all together. Could he do it?
Another window shattered. Behind him, the exit had disappeared in a whirlwind of flames and smoke. He was standing on a giant hot plate and it was becoming more unbearable with every passing second. Alex could see the fire engines, the size of toys, speeding along about half a mile away. He had to try. There was no other way.
He snatched up one of the lengths of plastic piping, weighing it in his hands. It was about six metres long and light enough for him to carry without feeling any strain. He had to make it heavier. Moving more quickly, he examined the steel buckets. They were half full of hardened cement, and weighed about the same. Somehow he had to attach them to the piping. But there was no rope. He choked and wiped sweat and tears from his eyes. What could he use? Then he looked down and saw the bandages flapping around his chest. He grabbed an end and began to tear them off.
Sixty seconds later he was ready.
It was Ian Rider he had to thank, of course. A visit to a circus in Vienna six years ago when Alex was only eight. It had been his birthday. And he still remembered his favourite act. The tightrope walkers.
“Funambulism,” Ian Rider said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Latin, Alex. Funis means rope. And ambulare is to walk. Funambulism is the art of tightrope walking.”
“Is it difficult?”
“Well, it’s a lot easier than it looks. Not many people realize it, but there’s a trick involved…”
Alex lifted the plastic pole, the middle pressed against his chest, about three metres stretching out each side. There was a heavy steel bucket attached to each end, tied in place with a torn bandage. Every second he waited he could feel the heat increasing. His soles were already blistering and he knew he couldn’t wait any more. He walked to the edge of the roof. The metal cable running above the advertisement stretched out into the distance. Suddenly the other tower block seemed a very long way away. He tried not to look down. He knew that would make it impossible for him even to begin.
This was how it was meant to work. This was what Ian Rider had explained.
The wire acts as an axis. If you try to walk across the wire, you will fall the moment that your centre of mass is not directly above it. One wobble and gravity will do the rest.
But a long pole increases what is called the rotational inertia of the tightrope artist. It makes it more difficult to fall. And if you add enough weight to each end, you will actually shift your centre of gravity below the wire. This was what Alex had done with the two buckets. Provided he didn’t drop the pole, he would find it almost impossible to lose his balance. He had seen toys that worked on the same principle. It should be easy.
At least, that was the theory.
Alex took a step. He had one foot on the very edge of the brickwork and one foot on the metal cable. All he had to do was lean forward, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, and he would be walking the tightrope. If the laws of physics worked, he would make it across. If they didn’t, he would die. It was as simple as that.
He took a deep breath and launched himself off the building.
He could feel the pole flexing as the buckets hung down, one on each side. For a terrifying moment the world seemed to lurch sideways and he was certain he was about to fall. But he forced himself not to panic. He clutched the pole more tightly against his chest and focused on the cable ahead of him. Briefly he closed his eyes, willing himself not to fight for balance, to let the laws of physics guide him.
And it worked. He wasn’t falling. He could feel the cable cutting into his feet but miraculously he was stable. Now – how many steps to the other side? The flames were warming his back. It was time to move.
One step after another, he made his way across. He wanted to look down. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to do just that, and his neck and spine were rigid with tension. But that was the one thing he must not do. He tried to imagine that he was back on the sports field at Brookland School. He had walked along the painted white lines often enough. This was exactly the same – just a bit higher up.
He was about halfway across when things began to go wrong. And they went wrong spectacularly.
First, the police and fire engines arrived. Alex heard the screams of the sirens directly beneath him and, before he could stop himself, he looked down. It was a mistake. He was no longer walking across a sports field. He was standing on a wire, insanely far above the ground. He saw people in uniform pointing up at him and shouting; he could just about hear their voices. One of the fire trucks was extending its ladder towards him but he doubted it would reach him in time.
The whole world began to spin. He felt a rush of panic that seemed to dissolve every muscle in his body and left him so weak that he thought he would faint. At the same time, the wind rose and the banner began to flutter like the sail of a yacht, the cable swaying from side to side. Alex knew that only the weights on the ends of the pole were keeping him upright. He was paralysed. There was nothing he could do.
And that was when the rooftop exploded. The flames had finally broken free. A fireball burst through the tarmac. The police and firemen dived for cover as bricks and pieces of metal rained down. The whole tower block was close to collapse. Alex felt a vibration travel up through his body and realized with horror that the metal stanchion holding the top cable was about to come loose. He couldn’t wait for the firemen to reach him. He had perhaps seconds left.
The shock of the explosion broke his paralysis. Alex ran, pushing against the pole like a sprinter breaking through the finishing line. The buckets swung madly, held fast by the bandages. Another explosion, louder this time. He didn’t dare look round.
The other building was getting nearer but it still wasn’t near enough. His arms were aching, barely able to hold the heavy weight. The cable was cutting into his feet. He was being battered by the wind. He wasn’t going to make it.
And then the cable snapped.
Alex heard a sound like a crack of a whip and knew that his lifeline had been severed. With a cry, he dropped the pole and threw himself forward, reaching out for the roof just a few metres away. The cable and the banner crumpled under his feet. His hands missed the edge of the building and he began to plunge down. But now he was tangled up with the banner; it was folding itself around him. Alex grabbed hold of the material and gasped as he crashed into the wall. His feet were dangling in space. The cable was unravelling beneath him. But it was still attached to the rooftop just a few metres above his head. Alex waited until he was sure nothing else was moving. Then, painfully, he began to pull himself up.
&n
bsp; Two of the firemen had managed to reach the roof. They were standing there, watching as the building opposite completed its spectacular collapse. They heard a noise and looked down. A boy had just crawled up over the edge, right by their feet. His shirt was in rags, and a few tattered bandages trailed from his chest. His face and hands were covered in soot. His hair was black with sweat.
“What the…?” They grabbed hold of him and pulled him to safety.
Alex sat down heavily. He gazed at the remains of the building where he had been held prisoner. There was very little of it left. Sparks leapt into the darkening sky.
“Nice night for a walk,” he said, and passed out.
R & R
Jack Starbright made the best scrambled eggs in the world. The secret, she said, was to use only free-range eggs, mix them with unsalted butter and a little milk – and then get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. She didn’t enjoy cooking and only used recipes that could be prepared in less than ten minutes. This breakfast, for example, would go from fridge to table in exactly eight and a half.
She heaped the eggs onto two plates, added grilled bacon, tomatoes and toast, and carried them over to the kitchen table where Alex Rider was waiting. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the two of them were back in the house in Chelsea where Alex had once lived with his uncle. Jack had first come there as a student, paying for her room by looking after Alex while Ian Rider was away. Gradually she had become a sort of housekeeper. Now she was Alex’s legal guardian and also his best friend.
Alex was wearing tracksuit trousers and a loose T-shirt; his hair was still wet from the shower. Two days had passed since his confrontation with Force Three and he was already looking a lot like his old self – although Jack noticed that he was still massaging his left arm. She put the plates down and poured two mugs of tea. Neither of them spoke.
Alex had been taken straight back to hospital after his dramatic escape. None of the firemen could believe what they had seen, and assumed they had been sent to rescue someone who had trained at the circus. Once again, MI6 had been forced to clamp down on the press reports. Photographs of Alex on the wire had appeared in newspapers all over the world, but he had been too far away to be recognized and his name was kept out of it. An ambulance had rushed him away before any journalists arrived, and by ten o’clock that night he was back in his old bed at St Dominic’s. He fell asleep at once.
The next morning, he was woken by the nurse – Diana Meacher – coming into his room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Tired,” Alex replied.
“Was that really you on the roof? I saw it on the news last night.” She went over to the window and raised the blinds. “Everyone’s talking about it – although we’ve all been told we’re not allowed to.” She came back to the bed and slipped a thermometer into his mouth. “And those men who broke in! We all know what you did and we think you’re incredibly brave.”
“ ’Ank you,” Alex said with difficulty.
“I’d watch out, though, if I were you. Dr Hayward’s hopping mad. He says he didn’t spend hours operating on you just for you to get nearly killed a second time. He’ll be here shortly.” She removed the thermometer and examined it. “Your temperature’s normal, though I’d say it’s the only thing about you that is!”
Later that morning, Dr Hayward came in and he certainly seemed less than cheerful. He gave Alex a thorough check-up, starting with his blood pressure and pulse rate and moving on to examine his wound. He barely spoke a word as he did it.
“It’s lucky that you keep yourself fit,” he remarked at last. He looked and spoke like a long-suffering headmaster. “All those shenanigans could have caused you serious damage, but it looks as if your stitches have held and you’re generally in one piece.”
“When can I go home?”
“We’ll just keep you here until the end of the day. I’m afraid the people you work for want to speak to you.”
“I don’t work for anyone,” Alex said.
“Well … you know who I mean. Anyway, there’s always a chance your system will react against the beating you’ve given it. So I want you to stay in bed today and I’ll come in and have another look at you after tea.”
He stood up. “And one last thing, Alex. I’m going to prescribe you at least two weeks’ rest and recuperation. I absolutely insist on it.”
“Can I go back to school?”
“I’m afraid not. Just over a week ago you were having major surgery. I know you’ve made an amazing recovery but there are still all sorts of risks – infection and all the rest of it. Two weeks’ holiday, Alex. And no arguments!”
Dr Hayward departed and Alex was left on his own. To kill some time, he went for a walk down the corridor, past room eight. It was empty. Nobody had mentioned Paul Drevin and it seemed that the other boy had gone.
There is nothing worse than being in hospital when you don’t feel you need to be there, and by eleven o’clock Alex was in a bad mood. Jack rang and he told her not to come in; he would see her when she came to collect him. His next visitor arrived just before lunch. It wasn’t the person he had expected.
He had realized that MI6 would want to know what had happened at Hornchurch Towers and that they would send someone to debrief him. He had expected Mrs Jones. But instead it was John Crawley who arrived, dressed in a nasty blue blazer with a crest on the pocket, and holding a box of Roses chocolates. Crawley had once claimed to be a personnel manager, and Alex still wasn’t quite sure what he did at MI6. He was in his late thirties with thinning hair and a rather worried-looking face. He looked like the sort of man who counted paperclips and kept his pencils in a special drawer.
He sat down by the bed. “Got you these,” he said, handing over the chocolates.
“Thank you, Mr Crawley.” Now that he was closer, Alex could see that the badge on the jacket belonged to Royal Tunbridge Wells Golf and Croquet Club.
“Mrs Jones apologized for not coming herself. She’s in Berlin. She asked me to find out what’s been going on. The police wanted to talk to you too, but I’ve had a word with them and they won’t be bothering you. How are you feeling, by the way? We were all very shocked by what happened. I had a run-in with Scorpia about ten years ago and it nearly did for me. Anyway, let’s get back to Force Three. What exactly happened?”
Crawley took out a miniature tape recorder and laid it on the bed. Quickly, Alex took him through the events, starting with the moment the four men had walked into the hospital. It occurred to him that Crawley had let slip a little clue about his past. He too had fought against Scorpia. Had he once been a field agent himself? Alex described the fight in the hospital, his meeting with Kaspar in the derelict flat, the ransom demand and his escape from the fire. Crawley blinked several times as Alex spoke but didn’t interrupt.
“Well, that’s quite an adventure,” he commented, when Alex had finished. “I remember when you and I first met. I could see straight away you were something special. I knew your father. I wasn’t allowed to tell you that before. I worked with him a couple of times.”
“In the field?”
“Yes. That was before…” Crawley ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I got hurt and had to stop. But you’re just like him. Remarkable. Anyway, I have a few questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.” He had turned the tape recorder off; now he switched it back on. “The man who interrogated you. You say he called himself Kaspar. Can you describe him?”
“That’s easy, Mr Crawley. He hasn’t got the sort of face you’d forget.”
“Tattoos?”
“Yes.” Alex described the man who had come so close to removing his little finger.
“And he definitely told you that he represented Force Three.”
“Yes. He talked a lot about global warming and that sort of thing.”
“I would have said he rather added to it by setting fire to the building.”
“I thought so too.”
/> “What else can you tell me about him? Did he speak with an accent?”
Alex thought back. “I don’t think he was English. He might have had a slight French accent. I’m not sure.”
Crawley nodded. “Just one more question. The other three men in the tower block. You call them Combat Jacket, Spectacles and Silver Tooth. Did you hear any names?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Thank you, Alex.” Crawley pressed a button on the tape recorder. There was a click as it stopped turning.
“So who is Kaspar? Who are Force Three? What was it all about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well,” Crawley began. “Let’s start with Nikolei Drevin. I suppose you know who he is.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a Russian multimillionaire.”
“Born in Russia, yes. But he’s more of a multibillionaire, as a matter of fact. An absolutely wonderful man. He lives in England a lot of the time, and he’s made it clear that he likes to think of himself as English.”
“He bought a football club.”
“Stratford East. That’s right. Nobody had ever heard of them but he’s forked out for some of the best players in the world and now they’re in the Premiership. He has a huge place in Oxfordshire, a penthouse near Tower Bridge and houses all over the world. He even has his own island out in the Caribbean. Flamingo Bay. That’s where the launches take place.”
“Ark Angel,” Alex said.
“Ark Angel is the name of the space hotel that he’s building. It’s being put together piece by piece, and he has to send rockets up every now and then with the next component. You may not know this, Alex, but the British government are partners in the project and it means a great deal to them. The first hotel in space and it’ll be flying a British flag! Ten years from now, commercial space travel will be a reality. In fact, it already is. An American businessman has already gone into outer space. Paid twenty million dollars for the privilege. Once Ark Angel is up and running, more will follow. The most powerful and influential people in the world will be queuing up for tickets, and we’ll be the ones supplying them.”