Anthony Horowitz - Point Blank

‚The Marais,' Mrs. Stellenbosch said to Alex, pointing out the window.

He pretended to show no interest. In fact, he had stayed in the Marais once with his uncle and knew it as one of the most sophisticated and expensive sections in Paris.

The car turned into a large square and stopped. Alex glanced out the window. He was surrounded on four sides by the tall, classical houses for which Paris is famous. But the square had been disfigured by a single modern hotel. It was a white, rectangular block, the windows fitted with dark glass that allowed no view inside. It rose up four floors with a flat roof and the name HOTEL DU MONDE in gold letters above the main door. If a spaceship had landed in the square, crushing a couple of buildings to make room for itself, it couldn’t have looked more out of place.

‚This is where we’re staying,' Mrs. Stellenbosch said. ‚The hotel is owned by the academy.'

The driver took their cases out of the trunk. Alex followed the assistant director toward the entrance, the door sliding open automatically to allow them in. The lobby was cold and faceless, white marble and mirrors with a single potted plant tucked into a corner as an afterthought.

There was a small reception desk with an unsmiling male receptionist in a dark suit and glasses, a computer, and a row of pigeonholes. Alex counted them. There were fifteen. Presumably, the hotel had fifteen rooms.

‚ Bonsoir , Madame Stellenbosch.' The receptionist nodded his head slightly. He ignored Alex. ‚I hope you had a good journey from England,' he continued, still speaking in French.

Alex gazed blankly, as if he hadn’t understood a word. Alex Friend wouldn’t speak French. He wouldn’t have bothered to learn. But Ian Rider had made certain that his nephew was speaking French almost as soon as he was speaking English. Not to mention German and Spanish as well.

The receptionist took down two keys. He didn’t ask either of them to sign in. He didn’t ask for a credit card. The school owned the hotel, so there would be no bill when they left. He gave Alex one of the keys.

‚I hope you’re not superstitious,' he said, speaking in English now.

‚No,' Alex replied.

‚It is room thirteen. On the first floor. I am sure you will find it most agreeable.' The receptionist smiled.

Mrs. Stellenbosch took her key. ‚The hotel has its own restaurant,' she said. Her voice was gravelly and strangely masculine. Her breath smelled of cigar smoke. ‚We might as well eat here tonight. We don’t want to go out in the rain. Anyway, the food here is excellent. Do you like French food, Alex?'

‚Not much,' Alex said.

‚Well, I’m sure we’ll find something that you like. Why don’t you freshen up after the journey?' She looked at her watch. ‚We’ll eat at seven—an hour and a half from now. It will give us an opportunity to talk together. Might I suggest, perhaps, some neater clothes for dinner? The French are informal, but—if you’ll forgive me saying so, my dear—you take informality a little far. I’ll call you at five to seven. I hope the room is all right.'

Room 13 was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. The door opened into a surprisingly large space, with views over the square. There was a double bed with a black-and-white comforter, a television and minibar, a desk, and, on the wall, a couple of framed pictures of Paris. A porter had carried up Alex’s suitcase, and as soon as he was gone, Alex kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. He wondered why they had come here. He knew the helicopter had needed refueling, but that shouldn’t have necessitated an overnight stop. Why not fly on straight to the school?

He had more than an hour to kill. First he went into the bathroom—more glass and white marble—and took a long shower. Then, wrapped in a towel, he went back into the room and turned on the television. Alex Friend would watch a lot of television. There were about thirty channels to choose from. Alex skipped past the French ones and stopped on MTV. He wondered if he was being monitored. There was a large mirror next to the desk, and it would be easy enough to conceal a camera behind it. Well, why not give them something to think about?

He opened the minibar and poured himself a glass of gin. Then he went into the bathroom, refilled the bottle with water, and put it back in the fridge. Drinking alcohol and stealing! If she was watching, Madame Stellenbosch would know that she had her hands full with him.

He spent the next forty minutes watching television and pretending to drink the gin. Then he took the glass into the bathroom and dumped it in the sink. It was time to get dressed.

Should he do what he was told and put on neater clothes? In the end, he compromised. He put on a new shirt, but kept the same jeans. A moment later, the telephone rang. His call for dinner.

Mrs. Stellenbosch was waiting for him in the restaurant, a large, airless room in the basement. Soft lighting and mirrors had been used to make it feel more spacious, but it was still the last place Alex would have chosen. The restaurant could have been anywhere, in any part of the world. There were two other diners—businessmen, from the looks of them—but otherwise they were alone. Mrs. Stellenbosch had changed into a black evening dress with feathers at the collar, and she had an antique necklace of black and silver beads. The fancier her clothes, Alex thought, the uglier she looked. She was smoking another cigar.

‚Ah, Alex!' She blew smoke. ‚Did you have a rest? Or did you watch TV?'

Alex didn’t say anything. He sat down and opened the menu, then closed it again when he saw that it was all in French.

‚You must let me order for you. Some soup to start, perhaps? And then a steak. I’ve never yet met a boy who doesn’t like steak.'

‚My cousin Oliver is a vegetarian,' Alex said. It was something he had read in one of the files.

The assistant director nodded as if she already knew this. ‚Then he doesn’t know what he is missing,' she said. A palefaced waiter came over and she placed the order in French. ‚What will you drink?' she asked.

‚I’ll have a Coke.'

‚A repulsive drink, I’ve always thought. I have never understood the taste. But of course, you shall have what you want.'

The waiter brought a Coke for Alex and a glass of champagne for Mrs. Stellenbosch. Alex watched the bubbles rising in the two glasses, his black, hers a pale yellow.

‚ Sante .' she said.

‚I’m sorry?'

‚It’s French for good health.'

‚Oh. Cheers…'

There was a moment’s silence. The woman’s eyes were fixed on him as if she could see right through him. ‚So you were at Eton,' she said casually.

‚That’s right.' Alex was suddenly on his guard.

‚What house were you in?'

‚The Hopgarden.' It was the name of a real house at the school. Alex had read the file carefully.

‚I visited Eton once. I remember a statue. I think it was of a king. It was just through the main gate…'

She was testing him. Alex was sure of it. Did she suspect him? Or was it simply a precaution, something she always did? ‚You’re talking about Henry the Sixth,' he said. ‚His statue’s in College Yard. He founded Eton.'

‚But you didn’t like it there.'

‚No.'

‚Why not?'

‚I didn’t like the uniform and I didn’t like the beaks.' Alex was careful not to use the word teachers . At Eton, they’re known as beaks. He half smiled to himself. If she wanted a bit of Eton-speak, he’d give it to her. ‚And I didn’t like the rules. Getting fined by the Pop. Or being put in the Tardy Book. I was always getting Rips and Infoes … or being put on the Bill. The divs were boring…'

‚I’m afraid I don’t really understand a word you’re saying.'