Anthony Horowitz - Eagle Strike

The third book had been written quite a few years later. The face was a little older, the eyes hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, and this Damian Cray was climbing out of a white Rolls-Royce, wearing a Versace suit and tie. The title of the book showed what else had changed: Sir Damian Cray: The Man, The Music, The Millions. Alex glanced at the first page, but the heavy, complicated prose soon put him off. It seemed to have been written by someone who probably read the Financial Times for laughs.

In the end he didn"t buy any of the books. He wanted to know more about Cray, but he didn"t think these books would tell him anything he didn"t know already. And certainly not why Cray"s private telephone number had been on the mobile phone of a hired assassin.

Alex walked back through Chelsea, turning off down the pretty, white-fronted street where his uncle, Ian Rider, had lived. He now shared the house with Jack Starbright, an American girl who had once been the housekeeper but had since become his legal guardian and closest friend. She was the reason Alex had first agreed to work for MI6. He had been sent undercover to spy on Herod Sayle and his Stormbreaker computers. In return she had been given a visa which allowed her to stay in London and look after him.

She was waiting for him in the kitchen when he got in. He had agreed to be back by one and she had thrown together a quick lunch. Jack was a good cook but refused to make anything that took longer than ten minutes. She was twenty-eight years old, slim, with tangled red hair and the sort of face that couldn"t help being cheerful, even when she was in a bad mood. “Had a good morning?” she asked as he came in. “Yes.” Alex sat down slowly, holding his side. Jack noticed but said nothing. “I hope you"re hungry,” she went on. “What"s for lunch?” “Stir-fry.”

“It smells good.”

“It"s an old Chinese recipe. At least, that"s what it said on the packet. Help yourself to some Coke and I"ll serve up.”

The food was good and Alex tried to eat, but the truth was that he had no appetite and he soon gave up. Jack said nothing as he carried his half-finished plate over to the sink, but then she suddenly turned round.

“Alex, you can"t keep blaming yourself for what happened in France.” Alex had been about to leave the kitchen but now he returned to the table.

“It"s about time you and I talked about this,” Jack went on. “In fact, it"s time we talked about everything!” She pushed her own plate of food away and waited until Alex had sat down. “All right. So it turns out that your uncle—Ian—wasn"t a bank manager. He was a spy. Well, it would have been nice if he"d mentioned it to me, but it"s too late now because he"s gone and got himself killed, which leaves me stuck here, looking after you.” She quickly held up a hand. “I didn"t mean that. I love being here. I love London. I even love you.

“But you"re not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three times now you"ve taken time off from school and each time you"ve come back a bit more bashed around. I don"t even want to know what you"ve been up to, but personally I"ve been worried sick!” “It wasn"t my choice…” Alex said. “That"s my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world—it"s got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.” Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina"s dad would never—”

“You can"t know that. Even if you"d called the cops, what could they have done? Remember—

nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don"t think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don"t mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You"re lucky you weren"t killed.”

She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure was writing an article about Damian Cray. Something about a secret meeting in Paris. Maybe he was buying drugs or something.” But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew they couldn"t be true. Cray hated drugs. There had been advertising campaigns—posters and TV—using his name and face. His last album, White Lines, had contained four anti-drugs songs. He had made it a personal issue. “Maybe he"s into porn,” he suggested weakly.

“Whatever it is, it"s going to be hard to prove, Alex. The whole world loves Damian Cray.” Jack sighed. “Maybe you should talk to Mrs Jones.”

Alex felt his heart sink. He dreaded the thought of going back to MI6 and meeting the woman who was its deputy head of Special Operations. But he knew Jack was right. At least Mrs Jones would be able to investigate. “I suppose I could go and see her,” he said.

“Good. But just make sure she doesn"t get you involved. If Damian Cray is up to something, it"s her business—not yours.”

The telephone rang.

There was a cordless phone in the kitchen and Jack took the call. She listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Alex. “It"s Sabina,” she said. “For you.” They met outside Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus and walked to a nearby Starbucks. Sabina was wearing grey trousers and a loose-fitting jersey. Alex had expected her to have changed in some way after all that had happened, and indeed she looked younger, less sure of herself. She was obviously tired. All traces of her South of France suntan had disappeared.

“Dad"s going to live,” she said as they sat down together with two bottles of juice. “The doctors are pretty sure about that. He"s strong and he kept himself fit. But…” Her voice trembled. “It"s going to take a long time, Alex. He"s still unconscious—and he was badly burnt.” She stopped and drank some of her juice. “The police said it was a gas leak. Can you believe that? Mum says she"s going to sue.”

“Who"s she going to sue?”

“The people who rented us the house. The gas board. The whole country. She"s furious…” Alex said nothing. A gas leak. That was what the police had told him.

Sabina sighed. “Mum said I ought to see you. She said you"d want to know about Dad.”

“Your dad had just come down from Paris, hadn"t he?” Alex wasn"t sure this was the right time, but he had to know. “Did he say anything about the article he was writing?” Sabina looked surprised. “No. He never talked about his work. Not to Mum. Not to anyone.”

“Where had he been?”

“He"d been staying with a friend. A photographer.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Marc Antonio. Why are you asking all these questions about my dad? Why do you want to know?”

Alex avoided the questions. “Where is he now?” he asked.

“In hospital in France. He"s not strong enough to travel. Mum"s still out there with him. I flew home on my own.”

Alex thought for a moment. This wasn"t a good idea. But he couldn"t keep silent. Not knowing what he did. “I think he should have a police guard,” he said.

“What?” Sabina stared at him. “Why? Are you saying … it wasn"t a gas leak?” Alex didn"t answer.

Sabina looked at him carefully, then came to a decision. “You"ve been asking a lot of questions,” she said. “Now it"s my turn. I don"t know what"s really going on, but Mum told me that after it happened, you ran away from the house.”

“How did she know?”

“The police told her. They said you had this idea that someone had tried to kill Dad … and that it was someone you knew. And then you disappeared. They were searching everywhere for you.”