“What did you think you were doing?” Rahim exploded. He still had to shout to make himself heard, but from the look of him, he would have shouted anyway. “You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten me killed!”
“Rahim . . . ,” Alex began. He wanted to climb out of the plane. Couldn’t they have this argument over a cold drink and something to eat?
But Rahim was in no mood to go anywhere. “You stole my equipment. I cannot believe what you did. You left me there—”
“I had to do it.”
“No! My job was to kill McCain. That was all. We could have dealt with his plan afterward. You disobeyed my instructions, Alex. Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve caused? And how do you think my people are going to explain all this to the Kenyan authorities? You took out an entire hydroelectric and irrigation system!”
“Well, maybe you can tell them we saved thousands of lives. They might like that.”
“McCain is still out there. He got away.”
“I left you your gun. Why didn’t you just go and shoot him?”
“Because I had to come after you.” Rahim shook his head in exasperation. “I should have left you to the crocodiles.”
There was a brief silence. The propeller was still turning, but more slowly.
“Where are we?” Alex asked. “What are we doing here?”
“This is Laikipia. We have to refuel. I’m leaving you here. I’ve contacted my people and they’ll arrange for you to be picked up.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going—”
That was as far as he got. To Alex, it appeared as if Rahim had snapped his head around the other way. At the same time, he was aware of a sudden spray of red vapor filling the air in front of him. Alex looked back to see Desmond McCain, dressed in a brown linen suit, walking toward him, the Mauser pistol in his hand. He turned back to Rahim. The agent was dead. He had collapsed forward over the controls. There was a gaping wound in the side of his head.
Alex felt a wave of anger and disgust. He was also sorry. Despite everything, Rahim had come back for him and saved him . . . for the third time. Alex hadn’t even had a chance to thank him.
The propeller stopped.
McCain stood beside the plane, right next to the wing. The gun was now leveled at Alex. How had McCain gotten here? Alex was too shocked to think, but it occurred to him that if Rahim had chosen this airfield to refuel, then McCain might have landed here for exactly the same reason. All around him, he was aware of people—aircrew, tourists, children—running for cover, in panic. They had just seen a stumbling giant of a man, with a silver crucifix in his ear, appear from nowhere and commit murder for no obvious reason. They must think he was insane. If they only knew!
McCain didn’t seem to know where he was—or even to care. He had seen Alex and he had come to settle the score. Nothing else mattered.
“Get out of the plane,” McCain said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, the skin around his face stretched tight. He was trembling slightly. He was doing his best to control it, but the muzzle of the gun gave him away.
Alex stayed where he was.
“What do you want, Mr. McCain?” he demanded. “I’m not going anywhere. Nor are you. Your wheat field is at the bottom of a lake. There isn’t going to be any plague. It’s all over.”
“Get. Out. Of. The. Plane,” McCain repeated. His finger tightened on the trigger. He was holding the gun as if he were trying to crush it.
“Why?”
“I want to see you kneeling in front of me. Just for once, I want you to behave like an ordinary child. You’re going to cry and beg me not to hurt you. And then I’m going to put this gun between your eyes and shoot you dead.”
“Then you might as well shoot me here. I’m not playing your games.”
McCain dropped the gun a few inches so that it was aiming at Alex’s legs. Alex knew that the skin of the Piper Cub would offer no protection at all. “I can make it slow . . . ,” McCain said.
Alex nodded. He took one more look around him. It didn’t seem as if anyone was going to come to his rescue. The whole airfield had emptied. The other planes—and now he spotted the Skyhawk that had first brought him to Simba River Lodge—were silent, unmoving. Surely someone would have called the police by now . . . assuming that there were any police operating in a remote town like Laikipia.
“All right,” he said.
He unbuckled his belt, gripped the sides of the plane, and began to pull himself out. At the same time, he glanced into the front of the plane, past the slumped figure of the pilot. He knew that Rahim had a gun. But there was no sign of it and no way he could search around without receiving a bullet himself.
What else? His eyes fell on the metal lever between the two seats. He thought of the two rubber pipes running underneath his feet, connected to the plastic tanks at the back of the plane. The pipes that had sprayed a wheat field with death.
The whole system must work on pressure, with the tank pumped up by the engine. They had been flying for an hour, so there had to be enough pressure in the tubes. But was there any of the mushroom spore left in the tanks? Alex didn’t dare turn around and look. McCain was still standing under the wing, waiting for him to climb down.
Alex stood up. As he swung his leg over the side, he pretended to stumble. His hand shot out, slamming the lever down. At once he heard a hiss—and a mere second later, a film of gray, slimy liquid squirted out of the pipes. McCain was taken by surprise. For a moment he was blinded, caught in the middle of the shower, the mushroom brew splashing over his head and into his eyes.
McCain fired his gun—but missed. After slamming the lever, Alex had thrown himself the other way, tumbling over the far side of the plane and down to the grass below. He heard the bullet thwack into the fuselage, inches from his head. At the same time, he hit the ground and cried out, a white flash blazing behind his eyes. He had landed badly, twisting his ankle beneath him. Worse still, the tanks had only contained a few dregs. Alex had barely got to his feet and begun to limp away before the shower stopped and McCain, cursing and wiping his eyes, was after him.
Alex could barely do more than hobble. His foot wouldn’t take his full weight. Every step was an agony that shot up his leg and all the way to his neck. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go much farther, and anyway, there was nowhere to go. Behind him, the grass and the landing strip stretched out, flat and empty. The perimeter was fenced off with an open gate leading to the edge of the town, but it was too far away. He would never reach it. McCain didn’t seem to be moving fast, but like a figure in a nightmare he was getting closer with every step.
Alex came to a line of drums stacked up on the grass right next to the tarmac, each one marked TOTAL ESSENCE PLOMBÉE. Leaded fuel. Why was it written in French? McCain fired five times. The nearest drum shivered and fuel began to splash out, spouting in five directions. Alex dived for cover behind it. His ankle burned with pain. He wondered if he would be able to get up again.
McCain stopped about ten paces away, as if this was a game and he had all the time in the world. Casually, he took out a fresh ammunition clip and reloaded the gun. Meanwhile, the fuel continued to gush out.
“You can’t hide from me, child,” McCain shouted. “ ‘Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’ That’s Romans chapter twelve. A vengeful god . . . isn’t that a wonderful thing? And now, finally, the time for my vengeance has come. Let me see you.”
Alex tested one of the drums. It was full of fuel and too heavy to move. But the drum that McCain had punctured was emptying rapidly. Lying on his back, he pressed both feet against it and pushed with all his strength. It toppled over. Now Alex was exposed. There was nothing between him and McCain’s gun. He got to his knees, leaned on the drum, then rolled it over the tarmac toward McCain.
McCain smiled. He walked forward and place a single foot on the drum, stopping its progress. He had a clear view of Alex and at th
is range he couldn’t miss. Alex was still kneeling on the ground. It was just what he wanted.
“Is that the best you can do? Send a drum to run me over? You are a child, aren’t you? This isn’t a game, Alex. Do you know how many years I spent planning this operation?” McCain asked. His voice carried across the short distance. He was leaning forward, one foot still perched on the drum, his elbow resting on his thigh. “Do you have any idea what it meant to me? All I wanted was my rightful place in the world. Money is power and I was going to have more than you could possibly imagine.
“And now you are going to pay. I’m going to shoot you now. Not once but several times. And then I’m going to walk away.” He lifted the gun. “Good-bye, Alex. You’re going on a slow journey to hell.”
“Let me know what it’s like,” Alex said.
The fuel drum exploded. In the seconds before he had sent it rolling, Alex had attached the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him to the metal surface. He had activated it with a thirty-second fuse. And it had worked. One moment, McCain was taking aim, the next he had disappeared in a pillar of flame that roared into the sky. It really was like a judgment from heaven. He didn’t even have time to scream.
Alex was already twisting away, trying to put as much space between himself and the inferno as he could. He was too close. Blazing droplets of aviation fuel rained down from the sky. He felt them hit his shoulders and back and with horror realized he was on fire. But the grass had recently been watered. It was cool and damp under his hands. Alex rolled over again and again. His skin was burning. The pain was horrific. But after spinning half a dozen times, he had put out the flames.
He looked back at the tarmac. The charred, unrecognizable figure that had once been the Reverend Desmond McCain was on its knees. One final prayer. The silver earring had gone. There wasn’t very much of him left.
He heard shouting. Police and airport workers were running toward him. Alex couldn’t see them. He was stretched out on the grass, trying to bury himself in it. Was it really over at last, the journey that had begun in a Scottish castle and had led to an airport in Africa? How had he ever gotten himself into this?
He couldn’t move. And he was barely aware of the men who lifted him as gently as possible, laid him on a stretcher, and carried him away.
25
SOFT CENTERS
THE SNOW THAT HAD BEEN PROMISED in London had finally arrived.
Only a few inches had fallen during the night, but as usual, it had brought chaos to the streets. Buses had stayed in their depots, the subway system had shut down, schools were closed, and half the workforce had decided to take a day off and stay at home. Snowmen had appeared suddenly in all the London parks, standing under trees, leaning against walls, even sitting on benches . . . like some invading army that had come and seen and decided to take a well-earned rest before it set out to conquer.
It was the second week in February, and the winter had taken a grip on the city and seemed determined never to let go. The streets were empty, the parked cars huddled beneath their white blankets, but Jack Starbright had managed to persuade a taxi to bring her to St. Dominic’s Hospital in one of the northern suburbs of the city. She had been here before. It was a favorite place of the Special Operations Division of MI6 when its agents were injured in the field. This was where they sent them to recover. Alex had spent two weeks here after he had been shot by Scorpia.
Mrs. Jones was waiting for her in the reception area. She was wearing a black full-length coat with leather gloves and a scarf. It was hard to say if she had just arrived or if she was on her way out.
“How is he?” Jack asked.
“He’s much better,” Mrs. Jones said, and it occurred to Jack that she could have been talking about someone who had just recovered from a bad cold. “The burns have healed up and he won’t need any skin grafts. He won’t be playing any sports for a while. He fractured his ankle at Laikipia airport. But he has amazing powers of recovery. The doctors are very pleased with him.” She smiled. “He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“Where is he?”
“Room nine on the second floor.”
“That’s the same room as last time.”
“Maybe we should name it after him.”
Jack shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. He won’t be coming back.”
The two women stood facing each other, each one waiting for the other to speak.
Mrs. Jones could see the accusation in Jack’s eyes. “This really wasn’t our fault,” she said. “Alex met McCain quite by accident. That business in Scotland had nothing to do with us.”
“But that didn’t stop you from sending him to Greenfields.”
“We had no idea that McCain was involved.”
“And if you had—would that have stopped you?”
Mrs. Jones shrugged. She had no need to answer.
There was a plastic bag resting on a chair. Mrs. Jones picked it up and handed it to Jack. “You might like to give this to Alex. It’s from Smithers. Some chocolates . . .”
“Oh yes? And what do they do? Explode when he puts them into his mouth?”
“They’re soft centers. Smithers thought he might enjoy them.”
Jack took the bag. She glanced toward the elevator, then back at Mrs. Jones. “Promise me that this will be the end of it,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, this time it was worse than ever. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Do you have any idea what this must be doing to him . . . inside his head, I mean?”
“Actually, I have a very good idea,” Mrs. Jones countered. “I asked our psychiatrists to run a few tests on him.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. But I mean it, Mrs. Jones. Alex has done enough. I want you out of his life.”
Mrs. Jones sighed. “I can’t promise you that, I’m afraid. First of all, it’s not my decision. And anyway, as I said, this didn’t begin with us. Alex has a knack for finding trouble without any help.”
“I’m not going to let it happen again.”
“Believe me, Jack. I’ll be very happy if you can prevent it.” Mrs. Jones pulled up her collar and tightened her belt. “Anyway,” she said, “Alex is waiting for you. You’d better go up.”
“I’m going. Please thank Mr. Smithers for the chocolates.”
Jack took the elevator to the second floor. She didn’t need to ask for directions. The layout of the hospital was all too familiar. As she approached the door of Alex’s room, a woman came out carrying a breakfast tray, and Jack recognized Diana Meacher, the attractive fair-haired nurse from New Zealand who had looked after Alex once before.
“Go right in,” the nurse said. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you. He’ll be so glad you’re here.”
Jack hesitated, composing herself. Then she went into the room.
Alex was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. His pajama top was open and she could see that, once again, he was heavily wrapped in bandages, this time around his neck and shoulders. His eyes were bright and he was smiling, but he looked bad. Pain had stamped its memory all over him. He was thin. The haircut that Beckett had given him when he was smuggled out of the country didn’t help.
“Hello, Jack.”
“Hi, Alex.”
She went over to him and kissed him very gently, afraid that she would hurt him. Then she sat down beside the bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Terrible.”
“As terrible as you look?”
“Probably.” Alex put down the magazine, and Jack saw that even this movement made him wince. “They’ve taken me off painkillers,” he explained. “They say they don’t want me to get addicted to them.”
“Oh, Alex . . .” Jack’s voice caught in her throat. She had been determined not to cry in front of him, but she couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes.
“I’m fine,” Alex said. “I’m already much better than I was a week ago.” In fact, Alex had spent ten days in the hospital in N
airobi before MI6 had flown him home.
“I wanted to come out and see you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Jack understood. If he looked this bad now, she could hardly imagine what he must have looked like then. He wouldn’t have wanted her to see him like that.
“Are you angry with me?” Alex asked.
“Of course not. I’m just relieved to see you. After you went missing, I was . . .” Jack stopped herself. “When can you come home?” she asked.
“I was talking to the nurse just now. She says that if all goes well, it should only be a couple of days. Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” Jack said. “You know what Thursday is.”
“No.” Alex had no idea.
“Alex!” Jack stared at him.
“Tell me . . .”
“Thursday, February thirteenth. It’s your birthday, Alex. You’re going to be fifteen.”
“Am I?” Alex laughed. “So, what are you going to buy me?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home. I want peace and quiet. And I want that new version of Assassin’s Creed . . . it’s just come out on PlayStation.”
“I’m not sure those violent computer games are good for you, Alex.”
Jack didn’t tell him that she had already bought it and that a few of his closest friends were waiting for her call, hoping to come around.
Surely MI6 would leave him alone now. They had stolen almost a whole year of his life. But never again. Jack made herself that promise.
In front of her, Alex settled back into the pillows. His eyes were closed and even as she watched, he smiled and fell asleep.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IT’S ALWAYS AMAZING how many people are willing to help me, giving up their time and opening doors that might otherwise stay closed—and it seems only right to name them here. I try to make the Alex Rider books as realistic as I can, and it simply wouldn’t be possible without them.