Something huge and horrible lunged towards him, blocking out what little light there was in the night sky. Carlo screamed as it threw itself head first into the plane and onto him. There was a glint of white and a dreadful grunting sound. The other men were screaming too.
General Sarov stood watching. It wasn’t raining yet but the water was heavy in the air. There was a flash of lightning that seemed to cross the sky almost in slow motion, relishing its journey. In that moment, he saw the Cessna on its side, half-buried in the swamp. There were now half a dozen crocodiles swarming all over it. The largest of them had dived head first into the cockpit. Only its tail was visible, thrashing about as it gorged itself.
He reached down and lifted up the black container. Although it had taken two men to carry it to him, it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands. He placed it in the jeep, then stood back. He allowed himself the rare privilege of a smile and felt it, briefly, on his lips. Tomorrow, when the crocodiles had finished their meal, he would send in his field workers – the macheteros – to recover the banknotes. Not that the money was important. He was the owner of one kilogram of weapons grade uranium. As Carlo had said, he now had the power to destroy a small city.
But Sarov had no intention of destroying a city.
His target was the entire world.
MATCH POINT
Alex caught the ball on the top of his chest, bounced it forward and kicked it into the back of the net. It was then that he noticed the man with the large white dog. It was a warm, bright Friday afternoon, the weather caught between late spring and early summer. This was only a practice match but Alex took the game seriously. Mr Wiseman, who taught PE, had selected him for the first team and he was looking forward to playing against other schools in west London. Unfortunately, his school, Brookland, didn’t have its own playing fields. This was a public field and anyone could walk past. And they could bring their dogs.
Alex recognized the man at once and his heart sank. At the same time he was angry. How could he have the nerve to come here, into the school arena, in the middle of a game? Weren’t these people ever going to leave him alone?
The man’s name was Crawley. With his thinning hair, blotchy face and old-fashioned clothes, he looked like a junior army officer or perhaps a teacher in a second-rate private school. But Alex knew the truth. Crawley belonged to MI6. Not exactly a spy, but someone who was very much a part of that world. Crawley was an office manager in one of the country’s most secret offices. He did the paperwork, made the arrangements, set up the meetings. When someone died with a knife in their back or a bullet in their chest, it would be Crawley who had signed on the dotted line.
As Alex ran back to the centre line, Crawley walked over to a bench, dragging the dog behind. The animal didn’t seem to want to walk. It didn’t want to be there at all. Crawley sat down. He was still sitting there ten minutes later when the final whistle blew and the game came to an end. Alex considered for a moment. Then he picked up his jersey and went over to him.
Crawley seemed surprised to see him. “Alex!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise! I haven’t seen you since … well, since you got back from France.”
It had only been four weeks since MI6 had forced Alex to investigate a school for the super-rich in south-east France. Using a false name, he had become a student at the Point Blanc Academy only to find himself taken prisoner by the mad headmaster, Dr Grief. He had been chased down a mountain, shot at and almost dissected alive in a biology class. Alex had never wanted to be a spy and the whole business had convinced him he was right. Crawley was the last person he wanted to see.
But the MI6 man was beaming. “Are you on the school team? Is this where you play? I’m surprised I haven’t noticed you before. Barker and I often walk here.”
“Barker?”
“The dog.” Crawley reached out and patted it. “He’s a Dalmatian.”
“I thought Dalmatians had spots.”
“Not this one.” Crawley hesitated. “Actually, Alex, it’s a bit of luck running into you. I wonder if I could have a word with you?”
Alex shook his head. “Forget it, Mr Crawley. I told you the last time. I’m not interested in MI6. I’m a schoolboy. I’m not a spy.”
“Absolutely!” Crawley agreed. “This has got nothing to do with the … um … company. No, no, no.” He looked almost embarrassed. “The thing is, what I wanted to ask you was … how would you like a front row seat at Wimbledon?”
The question took Alex completely by surprise. “Wimbledon? You mean … the tennis?”
“That’s right.” Crawley smiled. “The All England Tennis Club. I’m on the committee.”
“And you’re offering me a ticket?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the catch?”
“There is no catch, Alex. Not really. But … let me explain.” Alex was aware that the other players were getting ready to leave. The school day was almost over. He listened as Crawley went on. “The thing is, you see, a week ago we had a break-in. Security at the club is always tight but someone managed to climb over the wall and get into the Millennium Building through a forced window.”
“What’s the Millennium Building?”
“It’s where the players have their changing rooms. It’s also got a gym, a restaurant, a couple of lounges and so on. We have closed circuit television cameras but the intruder disabled the system – along with the main alarm. It was a thoroughly professional job. We’d never have known anyone had been there except for a stroke of luck. One of our night guards saw the man leaving. He was Chinese, in his early twenties—”
“The guard?”
“The intruder. Dressed from head to foot in black with some sort of rucksack on his back. The guard alerted the police and we had the whole place searched. The Millennium Building, the courts, the cafés … everywhere. It took three days. There are no terrorist cells active in London at the moment, thank goodness, but there was always a chance that some lunatic might have planted a bomb. We had the anti-terrorist squad in. Sniffer dogs. Nothing! Whoever it was had vanished into thin air and it seemed he’d left nothing behind.
“Now, here’s the strange thing, Alex. He didn’t leave anything, but nor did he take anything. In fact, nothing seems to have been touched. As I say, if the guard hadn’t seen this chap, we’d never have known he had been there. What do you make of that?”
Alex shrugged. “Maybe the guard disturbed him before he could get his hands on whatever it was he wanted.”
“No. He was already leaving when he was seen.”
“Could the guard have imagined it?”
“We examined the cameras. The film is time- coded and we discovered that they had definitely been out of action for two hours. From midnight until two in the morning.”
“Then what do you think, Mr Crawley? Why are you telling me this?”
Crawley sighed and stretched his legs. He was wearing suede shoes, shabby and down at heel. The dog had fallen asleep. “My belief is that somebody is intending to sabotage Wimbledon this year,” he said. Alex was about to interrupt but Crawley held up a hand. “I know it sounds ridiculous and I have to admit, the other committee members don’t believe me. On the other hand, they don’t have my instincts. They don’t work in the same business as me. But think about it, Alex. There had to be a reason for such a carefully planned and executed break-in. But there is no reason. Something’s wrong.”
“Why would anyone want to sabotage Wimbledon?”
“I don’t know. But you have to remember, the Wimbledon tennis fortnight is a huge business. There are millions of pounds at stake. Prize money alone adds up to eight and a half million. And then there are television rights, merchandising rights, corporate sponsorship… We get VIPs flying in from all over the planet – everyone from film stars to presidents – and tickets for the men’s final have been known to change hands for literally thousands of pounds. It’s not just a game. It’s a world event, and if anything happened … well, it doesn’t
bear thinking about.”
Crawley obviously had been thinking about it. He looked tired. The worry was deep in his eyes.
Alex thought for a moment. “You want me to look around.” He smiled. “I’ve never been to Wimbledon. I’ve only ever seen it on TV. I’d love a ticket for Centre Court. But I don’t see how a one-day visit would actually help.”
“Exactly, Alex. But a one-day visit isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“Go on.”
“Well, you see, I was wondering if you would consider becoming a ballboy.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Why not? You can stay there for the whole fortnight. You’ll have a wonderful time and you’ll be right in the middle of things. You’ll see some great matches. And I’ll be able to relax a little, knowing you’re there. If anything is going on, there’s a good chance you might spot it. Then you can call me and I’ll take care of it.” He nodded. It was obvious that he had managed to persuade himself, if not Alex. “It’s not as if this is dangerous or anything. I mean … it’s Wimbledon. There’ll be plenty of other boys and girls there. What d’you think?”
“Don’t you have enough security people already?”
“Of course we have a security company. They’re easy to see – which makes them easy to avoid. But you’d be invisible, Alex. That’s the whole point.”
“Alex…?”
It was Mr Wiseman who had called out to him. The teacher was waiting for him. All the other players had left now, apart from two or three boys kicking the ball amongst themselves.
“I’ll just be a minute, sir,” Alex called back.
The teacher hesitated. It was rather strange, one of the boys talking to this man in his old-fashioned blazer and striped tie. But on the other hand, this was Alex Rider and the whole school knew there was something odd about him. He had been away from school twice recently, both times without any proper explanation, and the last time he had turned up again, the whole science block had been destroyed in a mysterious fire. Mr Wiseman decided to ignore the situation. Alex could look after himself and he would doubtless turn up later. He hoped.
“Don’t be too long!” he said.
He walked off and Alex found himself left on his own with Crawley.
He considered what he had just been told. Part of him mistrusted Crawley. Was it just a coincidence, his coming upon Alex on a playing field in the middle of a game? Unlikely. In the world of MI6, where everything was planned and calculated, there were no coincidences. It was one of the reasons why Alex hated it. They had used him twice now, and both times they hadn’t really cared if he had lived or died, as long as he was useful to them. Crawley was part of that world and in his heart Alex disliked him as much as the rest of it.
But at the same time, he told himself, he might be reading too much into this. Crawley wasn’t asking him to infiltrate a foreign embassy or parachute into Iraq or anything remotely dangerous. He was being offered two weeks at Wimbledon. It was as simple as that. A chance to watch some tennis and – if he was unlucky – spot someone trying to get their hands on the club silver. What could possibly go wrong?
“All right, Mr Crawley,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”
“That’s wonderful, Alex. I’ll make the arrangements. Come on, Barker!”
Alex glanced at the dog and noticed that it had just woken up. It was staring at him with pink, bloodshot eyes. Warning him? Did the dog know something he didn’t?
But then Crawley jerked on the leash and before the dog could give away any of its master’s secrets, it was quickly pulled away.
Six weeks later, Alex found himself on Centre Court, dressed in the dark green and mauve colours of the All England Tennis Club. What must surely be the final game in this qualifying round was about to begin. One of the two players sitting just centimetres away from him would go forward to the next round with a chance of winning the half a million pounds prize money that went with the winner’s trophy. The other would be on the next bus home. It was only now, as he knelt beside the net and waited for the serve, that Alex really understood the power of Wimbledon and why it had won its place on the world calendar. There was simply no competition like it.
He was surrounded by the great bulk of the stadium, with thousands and thousands of spectators rising ever higher until they disappeared into the shadows at the very top. It was hard to make out any of the faces. There were too many of them and they seemed too far away. But he felt the thrill of the crowd as the players walked to their ends of the court, the perfectly striped grass seeming to glow beneath their feet. There was a clatter of applause, echoing upwards, and then a sudden stillness. Photographers hung, vulture-like, over huge telephoto lenses while beneath them, in green-covered bunkers, television cameras swung round to take in the first serve. The players faced each other: two men whose whole lives had led up to this moment and whose future in the game would be decided in the next few minutes. It was all so very English – the grass, the strawberries, the straw hats. And yet it was still bloody, a gladiatorial contest like no other.
“Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen…”
The umpire’s voice rang out through the various speakers and then the first player served. Jacques Lefevre was French, twenty-two years old and new to the tournament. Nobody had expected him to get this far. He was playing a German, Jamie Blitz, one of the favourites in this year’s competition. But it was Blitz who was losing – two sets down, five games to two. Alex watched him as he waited, balancing on the balls of his feet. Lefevre served. The ball thundered close to the centre line. An ace.
“Fifteen love.”
Alex was close enough to see defeat in the German’s eyes. This was the cruelty of the game; the psychology of it. Lose your mental edge and you could lose everything. That was what had happened to Blitz now. Alex could almost smell it in his sweat. As he walked to the other side of the court to face the next serve, his whole body looked heavy, as if it was taking all his strength just to keep himself there. He lost the next point and the one after. Alex sprinted across the court, snatched up a ball and just had time to roll it up to the ballboy at left base one. Not that it would be needed. It looked as if there would be only one more serve in the game.
And sure enough, Lefevre managed a final ace, falling to his knees, fists clenched in triumph. It was a pose seen hundreds of times before on the courts of Wimbledon and the audience duly rose to its feet, applauding. But it hadn’t been a good match. Blitz should have won. Certainly the game shouldn’t have ended in three straight sets. He had been terribly off form and the young Frenchman had walked all over him.
Alex collected the last of the balls and sent them rolling up to the far corner. He stood to attention while the players shook hands, first with each other, then with the umpire. Blitz walked towards him and started packing up his sports bag. Alex studied his face. The German looked dazed, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had lost. Then he picked up his things and walked away. He gave one last salute to the audience and walked off the court. Lefevre was still signing autographs for the front row. Blitz had already been forgotten.
“It was a really bad game,” Alex said. “I don’t know what was wrong with Blitz. He seemed to be sleepwalking half the time.”
It was an hour later and Alex was sitting at a table in the Complex, the set of rooms underneath the umpire’s office at the corner of Number One Court where the two hundred boys and girls who work throughout the tournament have their meals, get changed and relax. He was having a drink with two other ballboys and a ballgirl. He had become good friends with the girl in the last couple of weeks – so much so that she’d invited him to join her and her family when they went down to Cornwall after Wimbledon finished. She was dark-haired, with bright blue eyes and freckles. She was also a fast runner and very fit. She went to a convent school in Wimbledon and her father was a journalist working in business and current affairs, but there was nothing remotely serious about her. She loved jokes, the rude
r the better, and Alex was sure that her laughter could be heard as far away as Court Nineteen. Her name was Sabina Pleasure.
“It’s too bad,” Sabina said. “But I like Lefevre. He’s cute. And he’s only a bit older than me.”
“Seven years,” Alex reminded her.
“That’s nothing these days. Anyway, I’ll be back on Centre Court tomorrow. It’s going to be hard to keep my eye on the game.”
Alex smiled. He really liked Sabina, even if she did seem to have a fixation with older men. He was glad now that he had accepted Crawley’s offer. “Just make sure you keep your hands on the right balls,” he said.
“Rider!” The voice cut through the general chat in the cafeteria and a small, tough-looking man came striding out of a side office. This was Wally Walfor, the ex-RAF sergeant responsible for the ballboys and girls.
“Yes, sir?” Alex had spent four weeks training with Walfor and he had decided that the man was less of a monster than he pretended to be.
“I need someone for standby. Do you mind?”
“No, sir. That’s fine.” Alex drained his drink and stood up. He was glad that Sabina looked sorry to see him go.
Standby involved waiting outside the umpire’s office in case he was needed on one of the courts or anywhere inside the grounds. In fact, Alex would enjoy sitting outside in the sun, watching the crowds. He took his tray back to the counter and was about to leave when he noticed something that made him stop and think.
There was a security guard talking on a public telephone in the corner of the room. There was nothing strange about that. There were always guards posted on the entrance to the Complex and they occasionally slipped down for a glass of water, or perhaps to use the toilet. The guard was talking quickly and excitedly, his eyes shining, as if he was passing on important news. It was impossible to hear what he was saying in the general hubbub of the cafeteria, but even so Alex sidled a little closer in the hope of picking up a few words. And that was when he noticed the tattoo. With so many ballboys and girls in the room and with the cooks busy behind the counter, the temperature had risen. The guard had taken off his jacket. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. And there, on his arm, just where the material ended, was a large red circle. Alex had never seen anything quite like it. A plain, undecorated circle with no writing, no sign of a picture. What could it mean?