Swinging his arm up, Alex threw them, scattering them across the first man’s face. For just a second, the man was blinded, in pain, the thorns cutting into him. A single dead rose clutched at the skin under one of his eyes. Alex sprang up, then followed through with a powerful back kick, the ball of his foot ramming into the man’s stomach. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he crumpled, gasping for breath. That left just two.
They were already lunging toward him. Alex had to get out of their range, and there was only one way. He threw himself sideways, one hand down, cartwheeling over Ian Rider’s gravestone. He needed a weapon and he snatched up the only one he could see—the stone angel from the grave next to his uncle’s. He hoped the much-missed granddad wouldn’t mind. The angel was heavy. Alex swung it around and hurled it at one of the men. It hit him in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured over the man’s lips and he reeled away, howling.
The last of the three men swore in Chinese and launched himself toward Alex, the knife swinging in great arcs, cutting at the air. Alex fled. With his attacker getting closer all the time, he ran over six of the graves, then leapt over the open trench. But the moment he landed, he stopped and turned around. The man had also jumped. He had been taken completely by surprise. He had expected Alex to keep running. Instead, he was in midair while Alex had both feet firmly planted on the ground. There was nothing he could do as Alex lashed out with a front jab—the kizami-zuki he had been taught in karate—leaning with all his weight forward for maximum reach.
Alex’s fist caught the man in the throat. The man’s eyes went white and he plunged down like a stone, disappearing into the grave. He hit the mud at the bottom and lay still.
The first man was now on his knees, wheezing, barely able to breathe. The second was still bleeding. Alex alone was unhurt. So what should he do now? Call the police on his mobile? No. The last thing he needed right now was a load of tricky questions.
He went back to Ian Rider’s grave, snatched up his backpack, and walked away. But even as he went, there were questions of his own nagging at his mind. If Major Yu had given orders for him to be killed, why hadn’t they just gone ahead and done it? They could have tiptoed up behind him and stabbed him. Why had they felt the need to announce themselves? And for that matter, why had none of them been carrying a gun? Wouldn’t that have made the whole thing easier?
As Alex left the cemetery, he didn’t see the fourth man, fifty yards away, hiding behind one of the Victorian mausoleums. This was an Englishman or an American, with fair hair hanging down to his neck, smiling to himself as he watched Alex through the 135mm telephoto lens that was attached to the Nikon D3 digital camera he was holding. He had taken more than a hundred shots of the encounter, clicking away at a rate of nine frames per second, but he took a few more, just for good measure. Click. Alex dusting himself down. Click. Alex turning away. Click. Alex heading for the main gate.
He had it all recorded. It was perfect. The man had been chewing gum, but now he took it out of his mouth, rolled it into a ball, and pressed it against one of the grave-stones. Click. One final shot of Alex leaving the cemetery and the whole thing was in the bag.
7
BAD NEWS
ALEX WAS HAVING DINNER with Jack when the doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.
“No.”
The doorbell sounded again, longer and more insistent. This time Jack put down her knife and fork and frowned. “I’ll get it,” she said. “But why do they have to come at this time of night?”
It was half past seven in the evening. Alex had come home, changed, done his homework, and had a shower. He was sitting at the kitchen table of the Chelsea home that had once belonged to Ian Rider but which he and Jack now shared. He was wearing jeans and an old sweat-shirt. His hair was still damp and his feet were bare. Jack liked to call herself a ten-minute cook because that was the maximum amount of time she spent preparing a meal. Tonight she had served a homemade fish pie, although Alex suspected she had cheated on the time.
He was feeling guilty. He hadn’t told her yet about the fight at the cemetery, partly because he was waiting for the right moment, partly because he knew what she would say. There was no way that he could keep something like that from her, but he wasn’t keen on ruining the evening.
He heard voices out in the hall—a man speaking, polite but insistent. Jack arguing. There was a pause, then Jack returned on her own. Alex could see at once that she was concerned.
“There’s someone here who wants to see you,” she said.
“Who is it?”
“He says his name is Harry Bulman.”
Alex shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Then let me introduce myself . . .”
A man had appeared at the kitchen door behind Jack, strolling into the room, looking around him at the same time. He was in his thirties, with long, blond hair falling in a tangle, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He was handsome—but not quite as handsome as he thought. There was an arrogance about him that presented itself in every move he made, even the way he had followed Jack in. He was dressed nicely in gray slacks, a black blazer, and a white shirt open at the collar. He had a gold chain around his neck and a gold signet ring with the letters HB on his third finger. To Alex, it was as if he had stepped out of an advertisement for clothes . . . or perhaps for toothpaste. This was a man who enjoyed being himself and wanted to sell himself to the world.
Jack spun around. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”.
“Please. Don’t ask me to wait outside. If you want the truth, I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a long time.” He looked past Jack. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Alex.”
Alex slid his food aside. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
“You don’t need to sit down,” Jack growled. “You’re not staying long.”
“You might change your mind when you hear what I’ve got to say.” The man sat down anyway. He was at the head of the table, opposite Alex. “My name is Harry Bulman,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve come by so late, but I know you’re at school, Alex—at Brookland—and I wanted to catch you while you were both in.”
“What do you want?” Alex asked.
“Well, right now, I could murder a beer if there’s one going.” Nobody moved. “Okay. I’ll get to the point. I’ve come here to speak to you, Alex. As a matter of fact, although you won’t believe it, I want to help you. I hope the two of us are going to be seeing quite a bit of each other. I think we’re going to become friends.”
“I don’t need any help,” Alex said.
Bulman smiled. His teeth were as white as his shirt. “You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say.”
“Then why don’t you get on with it?” Jack cut in. “Because we were having supper and we didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Smells good.” Bulman drew a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. Jack came over and sat next to Alex. They both read it. There was the name—Harry Bulman—and beneath it his job description: Freelance Journalist. There was also an address in north London and a telephone number.
“You work for the press,” Jack said.
“The Mirror, the Express, the Star . . .” Bulman nodded. “If you ask around, you’ll find I’m fairly well known.”
“What are you doing here?” Alex asked. “You said you could help me. I don’t need a journalist.”
“As a matter of fact, you do.” Bulman took out a packet of chewing gum. “Do you mind?” he asked. “I’ve given up smoking and I find this helps.” He unwrapped a piece and curled it into his mouth. He looked around again. “This is a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Please get on with it, Mr. Bulman.”
Alex could hear that Jack was running out of patience. But the journalist had already outmaneuvered them twice. He had simply walked in here, and for the moment neither of them was
asking him to leave.
“All right. Let’s cut to the chase.” Bulman rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You might not know this, but many journalists have a specialist area. It might be food, sports, politics . . . whatever. My specialty is intelligence. I spent six years in the army—I was in the commandos—and I hung on to my old contacts when I left. I always figured they might come in handy. I was actually thinking about writing a book, but that didn’t work out, so I started touting myself around Fleet Street. MI5, MI6, CIA . . . any bits of gossip I managed to pick up, I’d string together as a story. It wasn’t going to make me rich. But I did okay.”
Alex and Jack were listening to this in silence. Neither of them liked the way it was going.
“And then, a couple of months ago, I started to hear these strange rumors. They began with an event that took place at the Science Museum last April, when Herod Sayle was about to launch his Stormbreaker computer system. What happened to the Stormbreakers, by the way? There was going to be one in every school in the country, but suddenly they were recalled and that was that. They were never seen again.”
He waited for a response, but Alex simply met his questioning gaze with silence.
“Anyway, back to the Science Museum. It seems that someone, an agent of MI6 Special Operations, parachuted through the roof and took a shot at Sayle. No name. No pack drill. Nothing unusual about that. But then I was talking to a mate in a pub, and he told me that the bloke at the end of the parachute wasn’t a man at all. It was a boy. He swore to me that Special Operations had gone out and recruited a fourteen-year-old and that this was their latest secret weapon.
“Of course, I didn’t believe it at first. But I decided to have a nose around, so I started asking questions. And do you know what? It all turned out to be true. MI6 had taken some poor bloody kid, trained him up with the SAS in the Lake District, and sent him out on active service no less than three times. It took me a while longer to find out the name of this boy wonder. In the SAS, he was known as ‘Cub.’ But I persisted . . . I’m not so bad at this job . . . and in the end I got what I wanted. Alex Rider. That’s you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex said.
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Bulman,” Jack added. “Your story is ridiculous. Alex is still at school.”
“Alex is still at Brookland,” Bulman agreed. “But according to the school secretary, a very nice lady named Miss Bedfordshire, he’s been away an awful lot recently. Don’t blame her, by the way. She didn’t know I was a journalist. I pretended I was calling from the local council. But let me see . . .”
Bulman took out a notebook.
“You were away for the first time last April. You were also away at the end of last year. That would have been at exactly the same time that a teenage boy dropped in on an oil rig in the Timor Sea, fighting alongside the Australian SAS. And who was that kid at Heathrow Airport when Damian Cray had a nasty accident in a jumbo jet? Now there’s a funny thing, isn’t it? An international pop singer one minute—a multimillionaire—and the next minute the papers are announcing that he’s had a heart attack. Well, I suppose I’d have a heart attack too if someone pushed me into the turbine of a plane.” Bulman snapped the notebook shut. “Nobody’s been allowed to write anything about any of this. National security and all the rest of it. But I’ve spoken to people who were at the Science Museum, at Heathrow, and in Australia.” He fixed his eyes on Alex. “And they’ve all described you to a T.”
There was a long silence. Jack’s fish pie had gone cold. Alex was stunned. He had always supposed MI6 would protect him from publicity. He had never expected a journalist to turn up at his own home.
Jack was the first to speak. “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “Alex took a bit of time off last term because he was sick. You can’t possibly think—”
“Please don’t treat me like an idiot, Miss Starbright,” Bulman cut in, and suddenly there was steel in his voice. “I’ve done my homework. I know everything. So why don’t you stop wasting my time and face up to the facts?” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bunch of photographs. Alex winced. He guessed what was coming even before the journalist spread them on the table. And he was right. The pictures had been taken just a few hours before in Brompton Cemetery. They showed Alex in action against the three men who had attacked him, kicking out in one frame, spinning over the gravestone in another.
“When were these taken?” Jack asked. She was obviously shaken.
“This afternoon,” Alex replied. “They followed me from school and came up to me in the cemetery.” He looked accusingly at Bulman. “You set it all up.”
The journalist nodded. “Believe me, Alex. They weren’t going to hurt you. But I had to be one hundred percent certain. I wanted to see you in action for myself. And I have to say, you more than lived up to your reputation. In fact, I’m going to have to pay my people double what I promised them. You put two of them into the hospital! Oh . . . and there’s something else you should know about.”
Bulman produced a miniature tape recorder and pressed a button. At once, Alex heard his own voice, a little tinny and distant, but definitely him.
“Major Yu is dead.”
“You killed him.”
“No. The last time I saw him, he was running away. . . .”
“All three of them were wired up for sound.” Bulman flicked the tape off. “You knew all about the snakehead, so don’t play innocent with me. By the way, I never found out how Major Yu died. I’d be interested to know how it happened.”
Alex glanced at Jack. They both knew there was no point denying it anymore. “What exactly do you want?” he demanded.
“Well, we could start with that beer I was talking about.”
Jack stiffened. Then she stood up, went to the fridge, and took out a can of beer. She gave it to the journalist without a glass, but he didn’t seem to mind. He cracked it open and drank.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said, all pretense of formality gone. “Look . . . I can tell you’re both a bit thrown by this, and I can understand that, but you’ve got to remember what I said when I first came in. I’m on your side. In fact, I want to help you.”
“Help me . . . how?”
“By telling your story.” Bulman held a hand up before Alex could interrupt. “Wait a minute. Just hear me out.” He had obviously rehearsed what he was about to say. “First of all, I think what’s happened to you is an outrage. It’s more than that. It’s a national scandal. In case you hadn’t noticed, the law says that you can’t join the army until you’re sixteen . . . and only after you’ve taken your school exams. So the idea that MI6 can just stroll along and use a kid like you quite frankly beggars belief. Did you volunteer?”
Alex said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter. We can get to all that later. But the point is this: When this gets out, heads are going to roll. The way I see it, you’re the victim in all this, Alex. Don’t get me wrong. You’re also a hero. If even half what I’ve heard about you is true, then what you’ve done is absolutely amazing. But it should never have been allowed to happen, and I think people are going to be horrified when the story breaks.”
“The story will never break,” Jack muttered. “MI6 won’t let you write it.”
“I’m sure they’ll try to stop me. But this is the twenty-first century, Jack, and it’s not so easy anymore. You think the Americans wanted anyone to know about the torture practices carried out in the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq? Or what about all the British members of Parliament who were trying to hide their crooked expenses? There are no secrets these days. If they stop me from going to the newspapers, I can put it on the Internet, and once the story’s broken, the press will come running. You’ll see. And if we keep it exclusive—if we go to the Sunday Times or the Telegraph—we’ll clean up.
“But it’s not just about the newspapers. The way I see it, there’s a book in this. It shouldn’t take more than thre
e months to write, and it’ll sell all over the world. Tony Blair was offered six million for his memoirs, which nobody even wants to read. I reckon we could make ten times that amount. Then there’ll be syndication in the world press, exclusive interviews—Oprah Winfrey will pay a million alone—and almost certainly a bidding war for the rights to make a major Hollywood film. You’re going to be the most famous person in the world, Alex. Everyone is going to want a piece of you.”
“And who gets the money?” Jack asked. She already knew the answer.
“We’ll come to an agreement, Jack. Whatever you may think of me, I’m not greedy, and there’s going to be more than enough to go around. Fifty-fifty! Alex will tell me the full story and I’ll write it down. I’ve got all the contacts . . . publishers, lawyers, that sort of thing. In a way, I’ll be Alex’s manager, and I promise you I’ll look after him. Like I said, I’m a fan. And after what he’s been through, he deserves to rake it in. From what I hear, MI6 hasn’t even paid him a regular salary. Now that’s what I call exploitation.”
“Suppose I’m not interested,” Alex said. “Suppose I don’t want the story to be told.”
Bulman drank more of his beer. The chewing gum was still in his mouth. “It’s too late for that now, Alex,” he explained. “It’s going to happen anyway. The story’s out there and someone’s going to write it, even if I don’t. If you sit back and refuse to cooperate, it’ll only make it worse. You’ll have to live with what people say about you and you won’t get a chance to set down your own side of what happened.
“But in a way, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re lucky that you’ve got me in the driver’s seat. You think anyone else would offer you equal partnership? In fact, most other journalists would have just gone ahead and broken the news without even coming here. I can imagine you’re probably a bit confused right now, and I’m sorry I pulled that stunt on you in the cemetery. But believe me, once you get to know me better, we’re going to be friends. I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing.”