Authors: Anthony Horowitz
Tags: #Europe, #Law & Crime, #Family, #Action & Adventure, #Juvenile Fiction, #Orphans & Foster Homes, #General, #People & Places, #Mysteries & Detective Stories, #Terrorism, #Fiction, #Orphans, #Spies, #Middle East
Scorpia Rising (25 page)
Byrne slumped in his chair. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe he was feeling his age.
“I’m not saying that Blake Lewinsky was right, but perhaps it explains what he almost did to you. Habib was dead and he needed to know why.”
Alex’s mind was in a whirl. There was so much he had to take on board. The main question was—how much should he tell Joe Byrne?
First, Erik Gunter. When he’d left the boat, he’d been carrying a golf bag, and Alex had no doubt now that it must have had some sort of weapon inside. Was he here to assassinate the American secretary of state? And if so, who was paying him? Then there were the pictures he had seen in Gunter’s desk. He couldn’t show them to Byrne, as his iPhone had been destroyed by the Nile water. But the building, the room, the
Washington Post
. . . they must all be connected. And what about Cairo College itself? That was the reason he had been sent out here. It was the school, not some American politician, that was meant to be the target.
Washington Post
. . . they must all be connected. And what about Cairo College itself? That was the reason he had been sent out here. It was the school, not some American politician, that was meant to be the target.
He needed to see Smithers. That was the important thing. Smithers could talk to Blunt and Blunt could talk to Byrne. Suddenly Alex felt an overwhelming desire to get out of Cairo. He didn’t understand why, but he didn’t like the way this was going. Not for the first time, he had a sense of invisible forces, of wheels within wheels. There was something happening here in Egypt that none of them understood.
“There’s not much I can tell you, Mr. Byrne.” Alex found himself talking before he even knew quite what he was going to say. “The reason I’m in Cairo has got nothing to do with your secretary of state. I was simply sent to keep an eye on the Cairo International College of Arts and Education in Sheikh Fayed City. There’s a possibility that some of the students there may be targeted . . . I don’t know much more than that. I was following their head of security, a man named Erik Gunter, and he led me to the House of Gold. I told Lewinsky this, but he didn’t believe me. Gunter was the last person to see Habib alive. I think he was the one who killed him, and if I were you I’d strap him down to your table and see where you get with the water torture and leave me alone.”
Alex stood up.
“And now I’d like to go home. I’m worried about Jack.”
Byrne nodded. “And I’d better put a call in to your Mr. Blunt,” he said. “By the way, I hear he’s on the way out.”
Alex was surprised to hear it. “He’s retiring?”
“Not by choice.” Byrne reached for the telephone. “I’ll get a car to take you home. Once again, I’m sorry about what happened.”
A few moments later, the woman who had brought the coffee came back in and led Alex out to the street. Joe Byrne stayed where he was, deep in thought. Despite all the evidence, he had never believed that there was a British plot to kill the secretary of state. Now, after what Alex had told him, he wondered if he should change his mind. For a start, there needed to be round-the-clock surveillance on this man Gunter. He would also raise the security to level red and order another search of the Assembly Hall, where the speech was taking place. It had been searched twice already and on Saturday night, twenty-four hours before the secretary of state arrived, it would be locked down completely.
The Assembly Hall. A huge domed building surrounded by palm trees in the middle of the University of Cairo. How could he ever hope to make such a place completely safe?
And what of Alex Rider? With a bit of luck, he’d be on the next plane back to England. Safely out of the picture. In fact, if the boy had had any sense, he would never have come at all.
15
PLAN A . . . PLAN B
JACK WAS WAITING FOR ALEX when he got back to Golden Palm Heights. In fact, she was out and running toward him before the CIA driver had even come to a halt. She half dragged him out of the car and into her embrace. “Alex? What happened to you? I’ve been so worried.” She pulled away from him. “Your clothes are all damp!”
“Yes. I took a dip in the Nile.”
“You were on the boat when—?” She didn’t want to put it into words. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw what had happened. For a minute I thought . . . Well, I didn’t know what to think. But then I got your message.”
The car with the CIA man moved off.
Jack noticed it as if for the first time. “Who was that?” she asked.
“It’s a long story, Jack. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a shower and get changed first. I stink. And I don’t suppose you’ve got anything for supper? I’m starving.”
A short while later, Alex and Jack sat down to eat together on the balcony, allowing the warmth of the evening to wash over them. The sun hadn’t set yet but it was dipping behind the buildings, throwing soft shadows over the estate. The pool was empty. Alex knew that Craig and Simon and all the others would be inside by now, slumped over their homework. He wished that he had so little to worry about.
Alex had changed into a baggy T-shirt and shorts. His hair was still wet from the shower and there was a bandage on his knee. He wasn’t even sure when he’d scratched himself, but Jack had noticed it at once and had insisted on rubbing in half a tube of antiseptic cream. He had, after all, taken a dip in the Nile. It reminded Alex of all the times she had looked after him in the past. Some things never changed.
She had prepared an assortment of Egyptian dishes: hummus, olives, stuffed grape leaves, fried meatballs, and smoked aubergine—all served with warm
aish baladi,
or Egyptian flat bread. She was drinking chilled pink wine. Alex stuck to water.
aish baladi,
or Egyptian flat bread. She was drinking chilled pink wine. Alex stuck to water.
“I was sitting outside the House of Gold, wondering what was going on, when I got your text,” she said. “I didn’t like the idea of leaving you, but I waited for Gunter to come out and I followed him like you told me to. He looked like he was going to play golf or something. He had a golf bag.”
“I know.”
“Well, he flagged down a taxi and I managed to get one just behind him. It was like being in a film. I followed him all the way across Cairo and I thought he might be going somewhere exciting, but in the end he went into an apartment just around the corner from here. I made a note of the address. I think it’s where he lives. Anyway, after that I wasn’t sure what to do, but I was worried about you, so I went all the way back to the House of Gold . . . except that it wasn’t there anymore. There were police everywhere and they were talking about a terrorist attack or something. My first thought was to call Mr. Smithers, but when I took out my mobile I saw that you’d called. I got your message and came back here.”
She poured herself another glass of wine. “Now it’s your turn. What happened on the boat? How did you escape? And who was the man in the car?”
Quickly, Alex told her about his own ordeal, starting with the dead man in the antiques shop, the explosion, his capture by the CIA, and the bell room. He left out the waterboarding. He didn’t really want to relive the experience and he knew Jack would have been sickened. “That was a CIA car that brought me here,” he concluded. “At least they were decent enough to give me a lift.”
Jack shook her head. “This is absolutely typical of Mr. Blunt,” she said. “He promised us there wouldn’t be any danger, but we’ve already got dead bodies on boats, bombs, and political assassination. So what are we going to do?”
The question had been hanging in the air since he got back, and Alex had already been considering the answer. “I think it’s time to do what Mr. Byrne suggested,” he said. “We ought to leave.”
“Back to England?”
“I suppose so.” Alex had eaten enough. He put down his knife and fork and leaned back contentedly. In the distance he could hear insects of some sort—cicadas—that had already started up in the undergrowth. “I still don’t know what’s going on here, Jack,” he said. “And my cover’s been blown. There’s a boy here from Brookland who recognized me, and it can’t be long before people start asking questions. It’s all getting out of hand and I don’t want to be part of it.”
“Do you think the school’s under threat?”
“If I thought that, I’d stay. Cairo College is okay . . . even Miss Watson. But I’ve been there for almost three weeks and it all seems completely ordinary. The only reason we think it might be a target is because Mr. Blunt told us—and you’re right, we can’t believe a word he says. Anyway, after what happened today, it seems almost certain that he’s wrong.”
Alex went over it all in his head once again. But he couldn’t see any other possibility.
“Erik Gunter must be involved with this visit,” he said. “The American secretary of state. He’d been to see this big weapons dealer and that bag he was carrying . . .”
“It wasn’t golf clubs.”
“Exactly. Maybe he’s a hired assassin. Maybe he’s using his position at the school as some sort of cover. But the CIA is going to be watching him from now on. It’s got nothing to do with the school and it’s got nothing to do with me. So I might as well go.”
Jack nodded. “Are you going to tell Mr. Smithers?”
“Yes. I’ll go and see him tomorrow while you’re doing the packing. You’d better also call the school and tell them I’m not well or something.” Alex felt a little sad about that. He’d have liked to have said good-bye to some of the friends he’d made. But he knew it was better not to. There would have been too much to explain. “We can get a flight tomorrow afternoon.”
“I agree with you,” Jack said. She lifted her glass of wine and swirled it in front of her. “But there’s just one problem. I’m not sure England’s going to be safe for you, Alex. Remember how this all started. Someone tried to kill you.”
Alex knew that she was right. “Where, then?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. It’s probably a crazy idea and you don’t have to make a decision. But I was wondering if you wouldn’t be happier in America.”
“America?”
Jack nodded. “It’s just a thought, Alex. You might be safer there . . . in every sense. Away from Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones. You could start a new life, maybe in Washington. You know I’ve got family there.” She paused. “The funny thing is, I was going to talk to you about it before all this began.”
“You want to go home?”
“I wouldn’t go without you.”
“I don’t know, Jack. I really don’t.” Alex tried to imagine leaving Brookland School behind him, all his friends, the house in Chelsea. And would MI6 leave him alone, even if he was on the other side of the world? “London’s got to be safer than it is here. Let’s go home and see how things work out.”
“Sure.” Jack smiled. “Two business-class tickets to Heathrow. We might as well travel in style—and I can always get MI6 to pay. The important thing is that we’re leaving Cairo. Are you certain you don’t want me to come with you to see Mr. Smithers?”
“No. I’ll be all right.”
“You won’t let him change your mind?”
“I don’t think he’ll even try. I’ve always had the feeling that he’s on my side.”
“Well, that sounds like a plan.” Jack lifted her glass. “So the toast is—home!”
Alex raised his own. “Home!”
The two of them clinked glasses in the setting sun.
Night comes slowly in the Sahara Desert.
By eight o’clock, the sands were burning a deep yellow and the shadows from the olive trees were stretching out as if trying to escape from the trunks that bound them. But the sun was still there, sitting on the horizon, and the heat of the day was only beginning to retreat. The salt lakes were like sheets of steel, utterly still. There didn’t seem to be a breath of wind.
The crack of the bullet tore through the great silence, splitting the very air. Seventy yards away from the tip of the rifle, a black-and-white photograph of Alex Rider shuddered briefly, pinned to a wooden stake that had been driven into the sand. It was a perfect shot. A round hole appeared where his right eye had once been, the last in a row of five that snaked across his forehead. Lying on his stomach, Julius Grief lowered the sniper rifle—the Arctic Warfare L96A1 that had been brought to him from Cairo. It was a beautiful weapon, he thought. He couldn’t wait to use it for real.
In the distance he heard soft applause. Razim was standing on the parapet of the old French fort, wearing a freshly laundered, very white dishdasha.
“Come inside, Julius,” he called out. “We’re about to turn on the night defenses and I wouldn’t want to see you being blown apart.”
Julius stood up, brushing sand off his chest and thighs. He was wearing loose-fitting shorts and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair had been cut a little shorter since his escape from the Gibraltar prison. He was also thickly smeared with sunscreen . . . He burned easily and it was important that his appearance remain the same.
He had been brought by ship from Gibraltar, all the way around the northern tip of Africa to the resort town of Marsa Matruh, and then driven south to Siwa. He had been at the fort for two weeks, almost exactly the same time that Alex had spent at the Cairo International College of Arts and Education. Razim had been keeping a close watch on him. The entire world thought he was dead and it was vital that things stay that way. Of course, Julius had complained. It was as if he had been transferred from one prison to another, and in the end Razim had allowed him to visit Cairo with the promise that he would wear a baseball cap and dark glasses to conceal his identity and that he would stay well clear of Alex Rider. Razim had been furious to learn that Julius had disobeyed his instructions. So far, however, he hadn’t mentioned it.
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