Anthony Horowitz - Eagle Strike

“I went to the police station at Saint-Pierre,” Alex said.

“But that wasn"t until midnight. You were completely soaked and you had a cut and you were dressed in weird clothes…”

Alex had been questioned for an hour when he had finally shown up at the gendarmerie. A doctor had given him three stitches and bandaged up the wound. Then a policeman had brought him a change of clothes. The questions had only stopped with the arrival of the man from the British consulate in Lyons. The man, who had been elderly and efficient, seemed to know all about Alex. He had driven Alex to Montpellier Airport to catch the first flight the next day. He had no interest in what had happened. His only desire seemed to be to get Alex out of the country.

“What were you doing?” Sabina asked. “You say Dad needs protection. Is there something you know?”

“I can"t really tell you—” Alex began.

“Stuff that!” Sabina said. “Of course you can tell me!”

“I can"t. You wouldn"t believe me.”

“If you don"t tell me, Alex, I"m going to walk out of here and you"ll never see me again. What is it that you know about my dad?”

In the end he told her. It was very simple. She hadn"t given him any choice. And in a way he was glad. The secret had been with him too long and carrying it alone, he had begun to feel it weighing him down.

He began with the death of his uncle, his introduction to MI6, his training and his first meeting with Yassen Gregorovich at the Stormbreaker computer plant in Cornwall. He described, as briefly as he could, how he had been forced, twice more, to work for MI6—in the French Alps and off the coast of America. Then he told her what he had felt the moment he had seen Yassen on the beach at Saint-Pierre, how he had followed him to the restaurant, why in the end he had done nothing.

He thought he had skimmed over it all but in fact he talked for half an hour before arriving at his meeting with Yassen on the Fer de Lance. He had avoided looking directly at Sabina for much of the time as he talked, but when he reached the bullfight, describing how he had dressed up as a matador and walked out in front of a crowd of a thousand, he glanced up and met her eyes. She was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. She almost seemed to hate him.

“I told you it wasn"t easy to believe,” he concluded lamely.

“Alex…”

“I know the whole thing sounds mad. But that"s what happened. I am so sorry about your dad.

I"m sorry I couldn"t stop it from happening. But at least I know who was responsible.”

“Who?”

“Damian Cray.”

“The pop star?”

“Your dad was writing an article about him. I found a bit of it at the house. And his number was on Yassen"s mobile phone.”

“So Damian Cray wanted to kill my dad.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence. Too long, Alex thought.

At last Sabina spoke again. “I"m sorry, Alex,” she said. “I have never heard so much crap in all my life.”

“Sab, I told you—”

“I know you said I wouldn"t believe it. But just because you said that, it doesn"t make it true!” She shook her head. “How can you expect anyone to believe a story like that? Why can"t you tell me the truth?”

“It is the truth, Sab.”

Suddenly he knew what he had to do.

“And I can prove it.”

They took the tube across London to Liverpool Street Station and walked up the road to the building that Alex knew housed the Special Operations division of MI6. They found themselves standing in front of a tall, black-painted door, the sort that was designed to impress people coming in or leaving. Next to it, screwed into the brickwork, was a brass plaque with the words: ROYAL & GENERAL BANK PLC

LONDON

Sabina had seen it. She looked at Alex doubtfully. “Don"t worry,” Alex said. “The Royal & General Bank doesn"t exist. That"s just the sign they put on the door.” They went in. The entrance hall was cold and businesslike, with high ceilings and a brown marble floor. To one side there was a leather sofa and Alex remembered sitting there the first time he had come, waiting to go up to his uncle"s office on the fifteenth floor. He walked straight across to the glass reception desk where a young woman was sitting with a microphone curving across her mouth, taking calls and greeting visitors at the same time. There was an older security officer in uniform and peaked cap next to her.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, smiling at Alex and Sabina.

“Yes,” Alex said. “I"d like to see Mrs Jones.”

“Mrs Jones?” The young woman frowned. “Do you know what department she works in?”

“She works with Mr Blunt.”

“I"m sorry…” She turned to the security guard. “Do you know a Mrs Jones?”

“There"s a Miss Johnson,” the guard suggested. “She"s a cashier.” Alex looked from one to the other. “You know who I mean,” he said. “Just tell her that Alex Rider is here—”

“There is no Mrs Jones working at this bank,” the receptionist interrupted.

“Alex…” Sabina began.

But Alex refused to give up. He leant forward so that he could speak confidentially. “I know this isn"t a bank,” he said. “This is MI6 Special Operations. Please could you—”

“Are you doing this as some sort of prank?” This time it was the security guard who was speaking. “What"s all this nonsense about MI6?” “Alex, let"s get out of here,” Sabina said. “No!” Alex couldn"t believe what was happening. He didn"t even know exactly what it was that was happening. It had to be a mistake. These people were new. Or perhaps they needed some sort of password to allow him into the building. Of course. On his previous visits here, he had only ever come when he had been expected. Either that or he had been brought here against his will. This time he had come unannounced. That was why he wasn"t being allowed in.

“Listen,” Alex said. “I understand why you wouldn"t want to let just anyone in, but I"m not just anyone. I"m Alex Rider. I work with Mr Blunt and Mrs Jones. Could you please let her know I"m here?”

“There is no Mrs Jones,” the receptionist repeated helplessly.

“And I don"t know any Mr Blunt either,” the security guard added.

“Alex. Please…” Sabina was sounding more and more desperate. She realty wanted to leave.

Alex turned to her. “They"re lying, Sabina,” he said. “I"ll show you.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the lift. He reached out and stabbed the call button.

“You stop right there!” The security guard stood up.

The receptionist reached out and pressed a button, presumably calling for help.

The lift didn"t come.

Alex saw the guard moving towards him. Still no lift. He looked around and noticed a corridor leading away, with a set of swing doors at the end. Perhaps there would be a staircase or another set of lifts somewhere else in the building. Pulling Sabina behind him, Alex set off down the corridor. He heard the security guard getting closer. He quickened his pace, searching for a way up.

He slammed through the double doors.

And stopped.

He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers—ordinary people off the street—waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.

“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?” A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.