Anthony Horowitz - Eagle Strike

Silence fell inside the dome.

“Too bad, Alex,” Cray said. “I"m afraid it wasn"t quite as easy as you thought.” There was a scattering of applause from the audience. It was hard to tell if they were applauding the technology of the game or the way Alex had taken it on and almost beaten it. But there was also a sense of unease. Perhaps Feathered Serpent was too realistic. It really was as if a part of Alex had died there, on the screen.

Alex turned to Cray. He was angry. He alone knew that the man had cheated. But Cray was smiling again.

“You did great,” he said. “I asked for a demonstration and you certainly gave us one. You make sure you leave your address with one of my assistants. I"ll be sending you a free Gameslayer system and all the introductory games.”

The audience heard this and applauded with more enthusiasm. For a second time, Cray held out a hand. Alex hesitated for a moment, then took it. In a way, he couldn"t blame Cray. The man couldn"t allow the Gameslayer to be turned into a laughing stock on its first outing. He had an investment to protect. But Alex still didn"t like what had happened.

“Good to meet you, Alex. Well done…”

He climbed down from the stage. There were more demonstrations and more talks by members of Cray"s staff. Then lunch was served. But Alex didn"t eat. He had seen enough. He left the Pleasure Dome and crossed over the water, walking back through the park and all the way down to the King"s Road.

Jack was waiting for him when he got home.

“So how did it go?” she asked.

Alex told her.

“What a cheater!” Jack scowled. “Mind you, Alex. A lot of rich men are bad losers and Cray is very rich indeed. Do you really think this proves anything?”

“I don"t know, Jack.” Alex was confused. He had to remind himself: a great chunk of the Gameslayer profits was going to charity. A huge amount. And he still had no proof. A few words on a phone. Was it enough to tie Cray in with what had happened in Saint-Pierre? “Maybe we should go to Paris,” he said. “That was where this all began. There was a meeting. Edward Pleasure was there. He was working with a photographer. Sabina told me his name. Marc Antonio.”

“With a name like that, he should be easy enough to track down,” Jack said. “And I love Paris.”

“It still might be a waste of time.” Alex sighed. “I didn"t like Damian Cray. But now that I"ve met him…” His voice trailed off. “He"s an entertainer. He makes computer games. He didn"t look like the sort of man who"d want to hurt anyone.”

“It"s your call, Alex.”

Alex shook his head. “I don"t know, Jack. I just don"t know…” The launch of the Gameslayer was on the news that night. According to the reports, the entire industry had been knocked out by the graphic quality and the processing power of the new system. The part that Alex had played in the demonstration wasn"t mentioned. However, something else was.

An event had taken place that had cast a cloud over what would otherwise have been a perfect day. It seemed that someone had died. A picture flashed up onto the screen, a woman"s face, and—

Alex recognized her at once. It was the school-teacherly woman who had put Cray on the spot, asking him awkward questions about violence. A policeman explained that she had been run over by a car as she left Hyde Park. The driver hadn"t stopped.

The following morning Alex and Jack went to Waterloo and bought two tickets for Eurostar.

By lunchtime they were in Paris.

RUE BRITANNIA

« ^ »

o you realize, Alex,” Jack said, “Picasso sat exactly where we"re sitting now. And Chagall. And Salvador Dali…”

“At this very table?”

“At this very café. All the big artists came here.”

“What are you trying to say, Jack?”

“Well, I was just wondering if you"d like to forget this whole adventure thing and come with me to the Picasso Museum. Paris is such a fun place. And I"ve always found looking at pictures a lot more enjoyable than getting shot.”

“Nobody"s shooting at us.”

“Yet.”

A day had passed since they had arrived in Paris and booked into a little hotel that Jack knew, opposite Notre-Dame. Jack knew the city well. She had once spent a year at the Sorbonne, studying art. But for the death of Ian Rider and her involvement with Alex, she might well have gone to live there.

She had been right about one thing. Finding out where Marc Antonio lived had been easy enough. She had only telephoned three agencies before she found the one that represented the photographer, although it had taken all her charm—and rusty French—to cajole his telephone number out of the girl on the switchboard. Getting to meet him, however, was proving more difficult.

She had rung the number a dozen times during the course of the morning before it was answered.

It was a man"s voice. No, he wasn"t Marc Antonio. Yes, this was Marc Antonio"s house but he had no idea where he was. The voice was full of suspicion. Alex had been listening, sharing the receiver with Jack. In the end he took over.

“Listen,” he said. His French was almost as good as Jack"s, but then he had started learning when he was three years old. “My name is Alex Rider. I"m a friend of Edward Pleasure. He"s an English journalist—”

“I know who he is.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

A pause. “Go on…”

“I have to speak to Marc Antonio. I have some important information.” Alex considered for a moment. Should he tell this man what he knew? “It"s about Damian Cray,” he said.

The name seemed to have an effect. There was another pause, longer this time. Then…

“Come to la Palette. It"s a café on the rue de Seine. I will meet you there at one o"clock.” There was a click as the man hung up.

It was now ten past one. La Palette was a small, bustling café on the corner of a square, surrounded by art galleries. Waiters with long white aprons were sweeping in and out, carrying trays laden with drinks high above their heads. The place was packed but Alex and Jack had managed to get a table right on the edge, where they would be most conspicuous. Jack was drinking a glass of beer; Alex had a bright red fruit juice—a sirop de grenadine—with ice. It was his favourite drink when he was in France.

He was beginning to wonder if the man he had spoken to on the telephone was going to show up.

Or could he be here already? How were they going to find each other in this crowd? Then he noticed a motorcyclist sitting on a beaten-up Piaggio 125cc motorbike on the other side of the street; he was a young man in a leather jacket with black curly hair and stubble on his cheeks. He had pulled in a few minutes before but hadn"t dismounted, as if he was waiting for someone.

Alex met his eye; there was a flash of contact. The young man looked puzzled but then he got off his bike and came over, moving warily as if afraid of a trap.

“You are Alex Rider?” he asked. He spoke English with an attractive accent, like an actor in a film.

“Yes.”

“I wasn"t expecting a child.”

“What difference does it make?” Jack demanded, coming to Alex"s defence. “Are you Marc Antonio?” she asked.

“No. My name is Robert Guppy.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He asked me to take you to him.” Guppy glanced back at the Piaggio. “But I have only room for one.”

“Well, you can forget it. I"m not letting Alex go on his own.”

“It"s all right, Jack,” Alex cut in. He smiled at her. “It looks like you get to visit the Picasso Museum after all.”

Jack sighed. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “But take care.” Robert Guppy drove through Paris like someone who knew the city well—or who wanted to die in it. He swerved in and out of the traffic, ignored red lights and spun across intersections with the blare of car horns echoing all around. Alex found himself clinging on for dear life. He had no idea where they were going but realized there was a reason for Guppy"s dangerous driving. He was making sure they weren"t being followed.