“So make sure you take your phone,” Eduardo instructed. “Record the whole thing. We’ll watch it a few times and then we’ll send it to the Egyptian State Security Service. I’m sure they’ll find it all very entertaining.”
The two brothers stood up and rounded on Alex.
“There’s a van waiting for you outside,” Giovanni explained, his eyes glinting. “It’s going to take you to a part of the coast about a mile from here called Point d’Aiguille.”
“It translates as ‘Needle Point’.”
“There is nobody there. Nobody will see you arrive. You will be taken out of the van and Mr Stallone will attach your feet to two concrete blocks…”
“…and then he will drop you into the Mediterranean.”
“Splash! Can you imagine what it will be like, being dragged feet first to the bottom of the sea?”
“Au revoir, Alex,” Eduardo said
“I think the word is adieu,” Giovanni corrected him. “It’s more permanent.”
For a moment Alex went berserk, struggling with the chair, trying to smash the wood. But it was too thick. There was nothing he could do as the twin brothers walked out of the room. The bald man with the crumpled head and the mad eyes waited until they had gone, then came over to him, holding out the chains.
“Cement shoes,” he muttered. “I think I have a pair that fits.”
NEEDLE POINT
The white van was following a minor road that twisted its way past vineyards and olive groves, climbing ever further uphill. It came to a rough track and turned off, now forking back down towards the sea. Frankie “The Flame” Stallone was driving, his tattooed hand resting on the steering wheel, a glowing cigarette between his lips. The younger man who had been with him on Quicksilver was in the passenger seat beside him. He was known as Skunk – which was the street name of the drug he had been smoking since he was twelve years old. It had caused him a certain amount of brain damage as well as the very bad skin around his eyes and mouth. His appearance hadn’t been helped by the fact that his clothes had caught alight in the explosion. Underneath his baggy shirt and cargo trousers he looked as if he ought to be in intensive care. One of his eyes was swollen shut. His lips were so blistered he could hardly talk.
“Arex Ryer,” he said.
“What about him?” Stallone glared at him.
“Make it slow. I wan’ him to suffer!”
Alex Rider was in the back of the van, which was effectively a metal box. The door was locked and there were no windows. He felt every bump and vibration of the journey but he could see nothing. The Grimaldis had described exactly what they were going to do to him and he had to use all his mental reserves to hold himself together, to stop himself panicking. The chains that the bald man had carried into the basement were in front of Alex and but the blocks of concrete were beside him. Each one weighed about ten kilograms. Alex had already tested them, in case he could use them as weapons. But it was hopeless. He could barely pick them up and they would be impossible to throw. Even looking at them filled him with horror. The men were going to attach them to his feet and throw him into the sea. He would be dragged down instantly and he would drown. That was how the Mafia got rid of its enemies.
The van bumped over a particularly rough piece of ground and Alex heard the chains rattle. It was a reminder – if he needed one – of what lay ahead, but he was determined they weren’t going to kill him without a fight. When they opened the doors, that would be the time to make his move. If they were close to the sea, he would dive in. They might shoot at him but at least a bullet would be fast … better than the alternative.
They came to a halt. The engine was turned off. Alex heard the two men get out and a moment later the back doors opened, allowing the light to flood in. He had grabbed hold of one of the chains but he knew at once that they weren’t taking any chances. The bald man was standing well back, holding a gun. The younger man leaned in and snatched the chains away. Alex let them go. He could only watch as first the chains and then the concrete blocks were removed.
“We’ll be right back,” the bald man said.
The doors were closed and locked again.
Alex was left alone in almost pitch darkness. Just a few chinks of light were able to leak in through the side of the doors. He had nothing on him. All his possessions, including his passport and mobile phone, had been taken from him at the Villa Siciliana. He had already searched the back of the van but he decided to do it again. He had to keep his mind occupied, to stop thinking about what lay ahead. Carefully, he ran his fingers over the floor, feeling the surface around him. He had found nothing before. He was sure he would be unsuccessful again. But this time there was something. His probing fingers discovered a single loose nail. There was a ridge running around the interior and it must have got stuck in there. The last big bump had jostled it free. Alex rolled it in the palm of his hand. The nail was about five centimetres long. He wasn’t sure how he was going to use it but just having it made him feel better about the situation. These people weren’t as clever as they thought. They made mistakes.
The handle turned and the door opened a second time. The bald man, Frankie Stallone, stood there, the sunlight streaming over his shoulders. He still had his gun and it was aimed directly at Alex’s head. “Get out!” he said.
“I’ve got an idea,” Alex said. “Why don’t you just drive me back to Saint-Tropez and pretend this never happened. That way, the British secret service won’t come looking for you and there’s just a chance that you won’t spend the rest of your life in jail.”
“They’d have to find me first,” the bald man sneered.
“That won’t be difficult. You’ve got no eyebrows. You look hideous.”
“Get out!” The bald man repeated the words. “If I have to tell you a third time, I will shoot you in the knee. I would like to do that.”
Alex saw that he had annoyed the man and he was glad about that. It might make him careless. But for the moment he had no choice but to obey. Hiding the nail in the palm of his hand, he climbed down.
He took in his surroundings.
They were in a place so remote, so desolate that he knew at once that there was no chance of any farmer or tourist happening to come along. There was no track. They had driven over clumps of wild grass and thistles to a strip of land that formed a narrow corridor between a tangle of ugly-looking shrubs. These were dotted with bright red berries that hung in clusters, probably poisonous, surrounded by spiky leaves.
The sea was directly in front of him, a long drop down. Alex looked in vain for a passing boat, perhaps a fisherman. He understood now how this place had got its name. There was a long, narrow overhang, which stretched out over the water like a needle tapering to a point. The two blocks were waiting for him, quite close to the edge, with the lengths of chain already connected. There were also two padlocks. Alex would stand with one foot beside each block. The chains would be locked around his ankles. He would be thrown in. His own weight would drag the blocks with him. And then it would all be over.
The younger man was standing to one side. He was holding up his mobile phone, squinting in the sunshine and Alex noticed him swing round to capture him as he stepped down from the van, recording his every move. He also carried a gun in a holster that hung from his shoulder. That was bad news. One armed man Alex might be able to deal with. Two was going to be difficult.
“Move it!” Stallone snarled.
“How about a close-up?” Alex asked. He turned to the camera phone and lifted a single finger. A final message to the Grimaldi twins.
The bald man was still being careful to keep plenty of distance between the two of them. Alex couldn’t initiate an attack. His only chance would come when Stallone tried to attach him to the weights. He knew that whatever happened, he had to make his move before the two locks clicked shut. Once he was chained to the concrete, he would be finished.
But he had worked out a plan. His hand was dangling by his side with
the nail jutting out of his palm like a miniature knife. First, he would take out the bald man. Then he would dive into the sea. That was the simplest way. He could swim ten strokes underwater and by the time he came to the surface he would be well out of the range of both of them. Moving slowly, he walked forward, the path narrowing with every step he took. The bald man followed three or four steps behind. His partner stood where he was, holding the phone.
Alex prepared to make his move – but suddenly everything happened very quickly. The bald man had run forward without making a sound. Before Alex could do anything, he felt himself grabbed by the shoulders and pulled backwards. He cried out but it was too late. He fell heavily, crashing into the soft grass, and for a brief moment he was dazed. It gave Stallone enough time to slip the first chain around one of his ankles and, to his horror, Alex heard the padlock snap shut. He was lying on his back at the very end of Needle Point, with the sea below on both sides of him. Stallone was stooping over him, smiling, reaching for the second chain. Alex wasn’t going to let that happen. He slashed upwards with his hand balled into a fist, the nail jutting out. He smiled with satisfaction as the point drove into Stallone’s neck. Stallone howled and fell back, blood spurting out between his fingers.
Alex scrambled to his feet. He was pinned to the spot, one foot chained to a ten-kilogram block of concrete. He couldn’t run. Certainly he couldn’t dive into the water. But he wasn’t finished yet. He still had the nail. He was ready to use it.
But then Stallone surprised him a second time. Alex had thought he would try to close the second padlock, but instead he rushed forward, still howling in pain. He was like a stampeding bull. He slammed into Alex, forcing him backwards, and at that moment Alex realized with a mixture of terror and despair that there was no longer anything beneath his feet. He had been bludgeoned off the end. His hands flailed in the air as he fell.
The whole world spun around him. He felt his left leg jerk up as the chain, attached to his ankle, became taut. But then, as he continued to plummet down, he dragged the concrete weight off the edge and he could actually see it, out of the corner of his eye, following him down – a huge grey bullet that wouldn’t need to hit him. The two of them crashed into the water at the same time, a tangled mess of steel, concrete and flesh that disappeared immediately beneath the surface.
Alex just had the presence of mind to take a deep breath before he went under, passing from bright sunlight to the darkness and iciness of certain death. The block was too far away for him to reach but he could feel the chain pulling him down irresistibly. The water swirled past him, twisting over his shoulders and through his hair as he was swallowed up by the sea.
On the edge of the overhang, at Needle Point, Frankie “The Flame” Stallone took his hand away from his neck and swore. He was bleeding badly. He still didn’t quite believe what had happened. He moved towards the edge and looked down. The boy had disappeared into the Mediterranean. It was all over very quickly. A few ripples showed where he had hit the water but then they closed in on themselves and disappeared. No bubbles rose to the surface.
He turned to Skunk, who was standing next to him with his phone. The other man didn’t look happy. “Did you get that?” he asked.
“No!” Skunk shook his head. He had difficulty forming the words with his burnt lips. “You were inner way.”
“Did you get anything?”
“I got th’ bi’ when he stab you wibber nail.”
Stallone thought for a moment. The blood was still trickling down his neck. He knew that the nail had only missed his carotid artery by a fraction. He wondered where the boy had found it. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Skunk was filming the surface of the water. Apart from the breaking waves, there was no movement. Alex had already been under for a minute. There was no way he was coming back up.
The two of them walked away and climbed into the van. Stallone sat in the driver’s seat and a moment later they set off. This was their last day in the South of France. That afternoon, they had a flight to Heathrow, London.
The last phase of Operation Steel Claw was about to begin.
Alex would never forget the moment his feet hit the surface, the terrible impact and the rush of freezing water as he was dragged down, his body tilting to one side. His legs were slightly apart, the concrete slab far below him. His eyes were closed. He could feel the water rippling through his hair. He was still holding his breath, flailing with his arms as if he could somehow slow himself down. The sea was icy cold. He was surprised his heart hadn’t already stopped.
And then he felt the weight hit the bottom and settle in the sand. He was left floating above it, his left foot slightly lower than his right. He was deep down. He could tell from the pressure in his ears.
The nail.
He was still holding it. He could use it to pick the lock. It was his only hope. Alex guessed that he had, at most, two minutes before he drowned. He reached down and found the chain, then used it to pull himself towards the padlock that had snapped shut next to his ankle. He still couldn’t see. Somehow his fingers – almost numb – found the keyhole. It took him three tries before he was able to push the nail inside, forcing it into the lock. Finally, when he was sure it was in place, he rotated it.
Nothing happened.
He tried again and this time he fumbled it. Before he realized what had happened, he had let go of the nail and he knew he would have no chance of finding it in the darkness.
Alex’s lungs were already feeling the strain. Desperately, he grabbed the chain and pulled with all his strength, trying to free his foot. He felt the chain biting into his flesh. It was too tight. His foot wouldn’t move. How long had he been underwater? He knew he couldn’t survive any longer. It was over. He opened his mouth to scream.
Something clamped against his lips.
A hand.
He felt a second hand resting on his shoulder and became aware of a body pressing against him. The shock of it almost made him choke. There was a man – or perhaps a woman – holding on to him, reassuring him. Alex opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the ceiling of light, the surface about twenty metres above him. He twisted round and through the blur of the water he made out a scuba-diver, masked and wearing a black neoprene wetsuit with an oxygen tank on his back and a spare one clipped to his belt. The face behind the mask was indistinct. It was a man. That was all he could say. And the diver was signalling to him. Relax. Stay still. Try not to panic.
Alex had already been underwater for two minutes. He knew it was impossible to keep holding his breath. His whole system was in shock. The man reached down and Alex felt something being pressed against his lips. Bubbles rose up in front of his face. It was a spare respirator. Alex took hold of it and pressed it onto his mouth, pushing the purge button to expel any water. Then he took a breath. The air might be canned but he had never tasted anything more delicious.
He was going to live after all. It took him a minute to accept that, still hanging in the water, chained to the weight. His whole body was shaking. He had to force himself not to gulp the air. The man must have understood what he was going through. He didn’t move but just hung on to him until he had recovered a little. Then he swum round and signalled again. You have to wait here. A couple more minutes. It’s going to be OK. He had detached his spare oxygen tank and gave it to Alex to hold. Alex had the respirator clamped between his teeth. He nodded his head weakly. What else could he do?
The man swam away and for the next five minutes, Alex was on his own. That was worse than anything that had happened so far. Suppose the whole thing had been a trick? Suppose he had been given false hope simply to make his death even worse? Suppose the man couldn’t find him again? Alex had no idea how much oxygen he had been given nor how long he was going to have to wait. He stared into the emptiness of the Mediterranean until it hurt his eyes. He had never felt more horribly alone.
At last the scuba-diver reappeared, carrying some sort of equipmen
t. He checked the gauge on Alex’s oxygen tank and made a circle with his index finger curving round to touch his thumb: the universal sign that everything was OK. He showed Alex the equipment he was carrying. It consisted of a complicated-looking cylinder, a long, silver pipe and a series of curving tubes. Again, using sign language, he warned Alex not to look. He turned away and swam down and a moment later the sea was lit up by an intense white light that burst out of the end of the pipe. Alex understood. The man had ignited some sort of oxo-acetylene torch, one designed to burn underwater.
Things happened very quickly after that. The man worked on the chain close to the concrete blocks, as far away from Alex’s foot as possible. Alex squinted down and saw the glare of the flame lost behind a cloud of bubbles. The man was kicking gently with his fins, keeping himself steady while he cut through the chain. At last it came free. Alex’s immediate instinct was to swim for the surface but the man was well ahead of him. He felt a hand clamp down on his ankle. Of course. He risked decompression sickness – “the bends” – if he rose too quickly. He let the man work out the rate of ascent for both of them. Taking their time, locked in an embrace, they rose to the surface.
They broke through together. Alex saw Needle Point above him, empty now. He guessed that Frankie Stallone and the other man must have gone. He wondered if they were going to swim ashore, but before he could say anything, he heard the sound of an engine and a small dinghy came cruising towards them with another man at the stern. It was a grey Inflatable Raiding Craft, an IRC similar to the ones used by the Navy; sleek, fast and low in the water.
The man who had saved him had lifted his mask and Alex recognized him at once. A black face. Watchful eyes. In his late twenties. It was almost the last person in the world he had expected to see. “Wolf!” he exclaimed.
“That was cutting it a bit fine, Cub,” Wolf said.
Wolf and Cub. They were names by which they had known each other when Alex had trained in the SAS. The man’s real name was Ben Daniels. Alex had learned that when the two of them had joined forces in northern Australia, taking on the gang known as Snakehead.