And then there had been the demonstration. It was something Alex would never forget.
One afternoon the students had assembled in the main courtyard, where Oliver d’Arc was standing with Nile, who was dressed in white judo robes with a black belt around his waist. It was odd how often the two colours seemed to surround him, as if perpetually mocking his disease.
“Nile was one of our best students,” d’Arc explained. “Since his time here, he has risen up the ranks of Scorpia with successful assignments in Washington, London, Bangkok, Sydney – all over the world, in fact. He has kindly agreed to show you a few of his techniques. I’m sure you’ll all learn something from him.” He bowed. “Thank you, Nile.”
In the next thirty minutes, Alex saw a display of strength, agility and fitness he would never forget. Nile smashed bricks and planks with his elbows, fists and bare feet. Three students with long wooden staffs closed in on him. Unarmed, he beat them all, weaving in and out, moving so fast that at times his hands were no more than a blur. Then he proceeded to demonstrate a variety of ninja weapons: knives, swords, spears and chains. Alex watched him throw a dozen hira shuriken at a wooden target. These were the deadly, star-shaped projectiles that spun through the air, each steel point razor sharp. One after another they thudded into the wood, hitting the inner circle. Nile never missed. And this was a man with some sort of secret weakness? Alex couldn’t see it – and he understood now how he had been defeated so easily at the Widow’s Palace. Against a man like Nile he wouldn’t stand a chance.
But they were on the same side.
Alex reminded himself of that now as he stood at the top of the bell tower, watching the night draw in and darkness take hold. He had made his choice. He was part of Scorpia now.
Like his father.
Had he made the right decision? At the time, it had all seemed very simple. Yassen Gregorovich had told the truth; Mrs Rothman had shown it to him on film. But he still wasn’t sure. There was a voice whispering to him in the evening breeze that this was all a terrible mistake, that he shouldn’t be here, that it wasn’t too late to get away. But where would he go? How could he return to England, knowing what he did? Albert Bridge. He couldn’t erase the images from his mind. The three Scorpia agents waiting. Mrs Jones talking into the radio transmitter. The betrayal. John Rider pitching forward and lying still.
Alex felt hatred welling up inside him. It was stronger than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He wondered if it would be possible to live an ordinary life again one day. There seemed to be nowhere for him to go. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just took one more step. He was already standing on the very edge. Why couldn’t he just let the night take him?
“Alex?”
He hadn’t heard anyone approach. He looked round and saw Nile standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame.
“I’ve been looking for you, Alex. What are you doing?”
“I was just thinking.”
“Professor Yermalov said he thought he saw you come up here. You shouldn’t really be here.”
Alex expected Nile to come forward, but he stayed where he was.
“I just wanted to be alone,” Alex explained.
“I think you should come down. You could fall.”
Alex hesitated. Then he nodded. “All right.”
He followed Nile back down the twisting staircase and at last they emerged at ground level.
“Professor d’Arc wants to see you,” Nile said.
“To fail me?”
“What gave you that idea? You’ve done extremely well. Everyone is very pleased with you. You’ve been here less than a fortnight but you’ve already made great progress.”
They walked back together. A couple of students passed them and murmured a greeting. Only the day before, Alex had seen them fight a ferocious duel with fencing swords. They were deadly killers; they were his friends. He shook his head and followed Nile into the monastery and through to d’Arc’s study.
As usual, the principal was sitting behind his desk. He was looking as neat as ever, his beard perfectly trimmed.
“Do, please, sit down, Alex,” he said. He tapped a few keys on his computer and glanced at the screen through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I have some of your results here,” he went on. “You’ll be pleased to know that all the teachers speak very highly of you.” He frowned. “We do have one small problem, however. Your psychological profile…”
Alex said nothing.
“This business of killing,” d’Arc said. “I heard what you said when you first came to my office and, as I told you, there are many other things you could do for Scorpia. But here’s the problem, my dear boy. You’re afraid of killing, so you’re afraid of Scorpia. You are not quite one of us – and I fear you never will be. That is not satisfactory.”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“Not at all. I’m asking you only to trust us a little more. I’m searching for a way to make you feel that you belong with us completely. And I think I have the answer.”
D’Arc switched off his computer and walked round from behind the desk. He was dressed in another suit – he wore a different suit every day. This one was brown, with a herringbone pattern.
“You have to learn to kill,” he said suddenly. “You have to do it without any hesitation. Because, when you’ve done it once, you’ll see that actually it wasn’t such a big deal. It’s the same as jumping into a swimming pool. As easy as that. But you have to cross the psychological barrier, Alex, if you are to become one of us.” He raised a hand. “I know you are very young; I know this isn’t easy. But I want to help you. I want to make it less painful for you. And I think I can.
“I am going to send you to England tomorrow. That same evening you will carry out your first mission for Scorpia and, if you succeed, there will be no going back. You will know that you are truly one of us and we will know that we can trust you. But here is the good news.” D’Arc smiled, showing teeth that didn’t look quite real. “We have chosen the one person in the world who – we think you’ll agree – most deserves to die. It is someone you have every reason to despise, and we hope that your hatred and your anger will drive you on, removing any last doubts you may have.
“Mrs Jones. The deputy head of MI6 Special Operations. She was the one responsible for the death of your father.
“We know where she lives; we will help you get to her. She is the one we want you to kill.”
“DEAR PRIME MINISTER…”
Just before four o’clock in the afternoon, a man got out of a taxi in Whitehall, paid with a brand-new twenty-pound note, and began to walk the short distance to Downing Street. The man had started his journey at Paddington, but that wasn’t where he lived. Nor had he come into London on a train. He was about thirty years old with short, fair hair, and he was wearing a suit and tie.
It is not possible to walk into Downing Street, not since Margaret Thatcher erected huge anti-terrorist gates. Britain is the only democracy whose leaders feel the need to hide behind bars. As always, there was a policeman there, just coming to the end of his eight-hour shift.
The man walked up to him, at the same time producing a plain white envelope made from the very finest paper. Later, when the envelope was analysed, it would be found to have come from a supplier in Naples. There would be no fingerprints, even though the man who had delivered it was not wearing gloves. He had no fingerprints: they had been surgically removed.
“Good afternoon,” he said. He had no accent of any kind. His voice was pleasant and polite.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“I have a letter for the prime minister.”
The policeman had heard it a hundred times. There were cranks and pressure groups, people with grievances, people needing help. Often they came here with letters and petitions, hoping they would reach the prime minister’s desk. The policeman was friendly. As he was trained to be.
“Thank you, sir. If you’d like
to leave it with me, I’ll see it goes through.”
The policeman took the letter – and his would be the only fingerprints that would show up later. Written on the front of the envelope in neat, flowing handwriting were the words: For the attention of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, First Lord of the Treasury, 10 Downing Street. He carried it into the long, narrow office which is little more than a Portakabin and which all members of the public must pass through before they can enter the famous street. This was as close as the letter would normally get to number ten. It would be re-routed to an office where a secretary – one of many – would open and read it. If necessary, it might be passed on to the appropriate department. More likely, after a few weeks, the sender would receive a standard, word-processed reply.
This letter was different.
When the duty officer received it, he turned it over, and that was when he saw the silver scorpion embossed on the other side. There are many symbols and code words used by criminal and terrorist organizations. They are designed to make themselves instantly identifiable so that the authorities will treat them seriously. The duty officer knew at once that he was holding a communication from Scorpia, and pressed the panic button, alerting half a dozen policemen outside.
“Who delivered this?” he demanded.
“It was just someone…” The policeman was old and approaching the end of his career. After today, that end would be considerably nearer. “He was young. Fair-haired. Wearing a suit.”
“Get out there and see if you can find him.”
But it was too late. Seconds after the man in the suit had delivered the letter, another taxi had drawn up and he had got in. This taxi was not in fact licensed and its number plate was fake. After less than half a mile the man had got out again, disappearing into the crowds pouring out of Charing Cross Station. His hair was now dark brown; he had discarded his jacket and was wearing sunglasses. He would never be seen again.
By five thirty that evening the letter had been photographed, the paper analysed, the envelope checked for any trace of biochemical agents. The prime minister was not in the country. He had gone to Mexico City to join other world leaders at a summit meeting about the environment. He had been in the middle of a photo session but had been called outside and told about the letter. Already he was on his way home.
Meanwhile, two men were sitting in his private office. One was the permanent secretary to the Cabinet Office. The other was the director of communications. They each had a copy of the letter – three typewritten sheets, unsigned – in front of them.
This was what they had read:
Dear Prime Minister,
It is with regret that we must inform you that we are about to bring terror to your country.
We are acting on the instructions of an overseas client who wishes to make certain adjustments to the balance of world power. He makes four demands:
The Americans must withdraw all their troops and secret service personnel from every country around the world. Never again will the Americans act as international policemen.
The Americans must announce their intention to destroy their entire nuclear weapons programme as well as their long-range conventional weapons systems. We will allow six months for this process to be put into effect and completed. By the end of that time, the United States must have disarmed.
The sum of one billion dollars must be paid to the World Bank, this money to be used to rebuild poor countries and countries damaged by recent wars.
The president of the United States must resign immediately.
Prime Minister, you may wonder why this letter is addressed to you when our demands are directed entirely at the American government.
The reason for this is simple. You are the Americans’ best friend. You have always supported their foreign policy. Now it is time to see if they will be as loyal to you as you have been to them.
Should they fail, it is you who will pay the price.
We will wait two days. To be more precise, we are prepared to give you forty-eight hours, starting from the moment this letter was delivered. During this time, we expect to hear the president of the United States agree to our terms. If he fails to do so, we will inflict a terrible punishment on the people of Britain.
We must inform you, Prime Minister, that we have developed a new weapon which we have called Invisible Sword. This weapon is now primed and operational. If the president of the United States chooses not to respond to all four of our demands in the allotted time, then – at exactly four o’clock on Thursday afternoon – many thousands of schoolchildren in London will die. Let me assure you, most sincerely, that this cannot be avoided. The technology is in place; the targets have been selected. This is not a hollow threat.
Even so, we understand that you may doubt the power of Invisible Sword.
We have therefore arranged a demonstration. This evening the England reserve football squad will be returning to Britain from Nigeria, where they have been playing a number of exhibition games. When you read this letter, they will already be in the air. They are due to arrive at Heathrow Airport at five minutes past seven.
At exactly seven fifteen, all eighteen members of this squad, including the coaches, will be killed. You cannot save them; you cannot protect them: you can only watch. We hope, by this action, you will understand that we are to be taken seriously and thus you will act quickly to persuade the Americans to comply. By doing so, you will avoid the terrible and pointless massacre of so many of your young people.
We have taken the liberty of forwarding a copy of this letter to the American ambassador in London. We will be watching the news channels on television, where we will be expecting an announcement to be made. You will receive no further communication from us. We repeat: these demands cannot be negotiated. The countdown has already begun.
Yours faithfully,
SCORPIA
There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock, as both men studied the letter for a fourth and then a fifth time. Each was aware of the other, wondering how he would react. The two men could not have been more different. Nor could they have disliked each other more.
Sir Graham Adair had been a civil servant for as long as anyone could remember, not part of any government but always serving it, advising it and (some people said) controlling it. He was now in his sixties and had silvery-grey hair and a face accustomed to disguising its emotions. He was dressed, as always, in a dark, old-fashioned suit. He was the sort of man who was sparing in his movements and who never said anything until he had thoroughly considered it first. He had worked with six prime ministers in his lifetime and had different opinions about them all. But he had never told anyone, not even his wife, his innermost thoughts. He was the perfect public servant. One of the most powerful people in the country, he was delighted that very few people knew his name.
The director of communications hadn’t even been born when Sir Graham had first entered Downing Street. Mark Kellner was one of the many “special advisers” with whom the prime minister liked to surround himself – and he was also the most influential. He had been at university – studying politics and economics – with the prime minister’s wife. For a time he had worked in television, until he had been invited to try his luck in the corridors of power. He was a small, thin man with glasses and too much curly hair. He was also wearing a suit, and there was dandruff on his shoulders.
It was Kellner who broke the silence with a single four-letter word. Sir Graham glanced at him. He never used that sort of language himself.
“You don’t believe any of this rubbish, do you?” Kellner demanded.
“This letter came from Scorpia,” Sir Graham replied. “I have had direct dealings with them in the past, and I have to tell you that they’re not known to make idle threats.”
“You accept that they’ve invented some sort of secret weapon? An invisible sword?” Mark Kellner couldn’t hide the scorn in his voice. “So what’s going to happen? They’re g
oing to wave some sort of magic wand and everyone’s going to fall down dead?”
“As I’ve already said, Mr Kellner, in my opinion Scorpia would not have sent this letter if they did not have the means to back it up. They are probably the most dangerous criminal organization in the world. Bigger than the Mafia, more ruthless than the triads.”
“But you tell me: what sort of weapon could target children? Thousands of schoolchildren – that’s what they say. So what are they going to do? Set off some sort of dirty bomb in the playground? Or maybe they’re going to go round schools with hand grenades!”
“They say the weapon is primed and operational.”
“The weapon doesn’t exist!” Kellner slammed his hand down on his copy of the letter. “And even if it did, these demands are ridiculous. The American president is not going to resign. His popularity ratings have never been better. And as for this suggestion that the Americans dismantle their weapons systems – do Scorpia really think for a single minute that they’ll even consider it? The Americans love weapons! They’ve got more weapons than just about anyone else in the world. We show this letter to the president, and he’ll laugh at us.”
“MI6 aren’t prepared to rule out the possibility that the weapon exists.”
“You’ve spoken to them?”
“I had a telephone conversation with Alan Blunt earlier this evening. I have also sent him a copy of the letter. He believes, like me, that we should treat this matter with the utmost seriousness.”
“The prime minister has cut short his visit to Mexico,” Kellner muttered. “He’s flying home as we speak. You don’t get much more serious than that!”
“I’m sure we’re all grateful to the prime minister for interrupting his conference,” Sir Graham retorted drily. “But I would have said it’s the aircraft carrying these football players that we should be considering. I’ve also spoken to British Airways. Flight 0074 was delayed in Lagos earlier today and only left this afternoon, just before half past twelve our time. It should be touching down at Heathrow at five past seven, just like the letter says. And the England reserve football squad are on board.”