“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.
Julius passed through the main entrance and heard the whir of machinery as the solid wooden and steel gates swung shut behind him. He knew that miniature land mines, buried in the sand, would have been activated all around the fort. A few nights ago, a stray desert fox had tried to approach the compound, scavenging for food. They had all been woken up as the unfortunate animal had been blown apart.
Drinks had been served on the terrace outside the house where Razim lived. This was a neat, very square-cut building with two floors . . . In fact, it could have been drawn by a child. It had a front door and five shuttered windows, one on each side and three above, positioned with perfect symmetry. Wooden rods carved from palm trunks jutted out of the side of the house just below the tiled roof. It was part of the Berber tradition. Local tribes-men would have hung bones—animal and human—from the rods to keep away devils. But looking at the two people who had come together to watch the sun set, they might have decided that it was already too late.
Razim had a tall glass with gin and tonic, ice, and lemon in front of him and, as usual, he was smoking one of his Black Devil cigarettes. Julius Grief sat down opposite him, resting the gun against the table. He raised a hand and one of Razim’s men hurried over with a soda.
“That was excellent shooting,” Razim said.
“My father trained me,” Julius replied. “He trained all of us. And every time we missed, we got three strokes of the cane. By the end of it, we were all pretty good shots.”
“He was a remarkable man.”
“He was brilliant.” Julius drank some of his soda. “You know, they say it’s impossible to clone a human being. Well, he managed it. In fact he did it sixteen times.”
“And the plastic surgery?”
“That was done by some doctor he found. A man named Baxter.”
“It must have been very disappointing for you to find you had been given the wrong face.”
“You have no idea.” Julius’s hand tightened on his glass. “It wasn’t just that. I’d spent months learning about David and Caroline Friend. They were stinking rich . . . They owned supermarkets and art galleries and stuff. And I was going to move in as their son and take it all from them. It would all have been mine. But then Dad had to come and tell me that Alex Friend didn’t actually exist. His real name was Alex Rider. And everything I’d done, everything I’d been through was for nothing!”
Razim had already noticed that when Julius became angry, he spoke with a South African accent. He was angry now.
“He was a bloody spy! I couldn’t believe it! And after that, everything went pear shaped. He managed to escape and then he killed Dad and that was the end of it.”
“I can understand how much you must hate him. But even so, you were wrong to disobey me.” Razim spoke softly, but there was an edge to his voice. “Going to the school was foolish. If you had been seen, it could have ruined everything.”
“I was seen!” Julius laughed. “I put on that uniform you gave me and I just walked in through the school gates. So much for all their precious security! They took one look at me and they thought I was him. I went into Gunter’s
office and I waited and I saw him leave. He actually turned around.”
“He saw you?”
“No. Don’t worry. But I think he sensed me. It was quite interesting, really. It was like a sort of telepathy.”
“And how did you feel?”
“Now you’re sounding like my bloody psychiatrist, if you don’t mind my saying so, Razim. How do you think I felt? If I’d had a gun, I’d have used it then and there. I had to stop myself from running out and strangling him with my bare hands. I’d have loved to have done it. I really would.”
In the courtyard, two of the guards had appeared with shovels and a wheelbarrow, walking toward an enormous mound of salt on the other side of the well. It was directly underneath the rope walkway. The salt had been pounded until it was fine and it seemed to Julius that it had a life of its own, shifting and swirling in the breeze. A third guard stood above, watching them.
“What are they doing?” Julius asked. The men had begun to scoop out the salt, loading it into the barrow.
“The salt has come out of the lake. We mix it with sand to make bricks.” Razim gestured at one of the half-finished buildings. “One day this will be a library. I also plan to construct a small concert hall.”
Julius sniffed. “You’d have thought it would all dissolve in the rain.”
“It has not rained here for a hundred and ten years.”
“That’s a lot of salt. Maybe we could take off all Alex’s skin and roll him in it. That would really hurt.” Julius giggled. “You are going to let me torture him, aren’t you, Razim?”
Julius had already attended several of Razim’s experiments. Only that morning they had been working on a tourist they had picked up in Alexandria. Julius had watched with fascination as Razim jotted down his findings. Unfortunately, the tourist hadn’t lived very long.
“You enjoy my experiments?” Razim asked.
“Yes. Very much. Don’t you?”
“I do not derive pleasure from them. I have never really understood pleasure. For me, they are a scientific necessity—nothing more, nothing less.”
“Well, I like them a lot.”
“And in answer to your question, I will allow you to spend a little time with Alex Rider. And I can promise you that you will cause him more pain than he has ever known. You will have your revenge, my friend. But only if you do as you are told. I will not have you putting this operation at risk again. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Julius scowled.
“Good. Scorpia has made too many mistakes in the past. I do not intend to make any myself. Alex Rider will be with us very soon, and from the moment he arrives we are going to have to take extreme care.”
Julius finished his soda. Almost immediately, and without being signaled, a servant ran forward with another.
“The gun will have to be decontaminated tonight,” Razim continued. “And make sure you don’t touch it again until it’s in place. Meanwhile, it would seem that we do have one small problem that we’re going to have to deal with.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“This morning I received a coded transmission from Zeljan Kurst in Paris. MI6 have taken one precaution that we could not have foreseen. They have sent an agent out here to keep a watch over Alex Rider while he is in Cairo. He is a very fat man by the name of Smithers.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. On the contrary. He visited Alex at his apartment the day he arrived and we have photographic evidence that we can add to the Horseman file. It’s further evidence that MI6 have been running a covert operation in Egypt. However, as we move toward the critical stage, I do not think we can afford to have him on the scene. It’s too dangerous.”
“So?”
“So this is my plan.” Razim took a last drag on his cigarette, and for a moment the tip glowed the same color as the sun. “Mr. Smithers must die. I will have it done tomorrow. From what I have heard, and despite his appearance, he is an extremely effective secret agent. So I think I will send perhaps a dozen men.”
“That seems a bit over-the-top.”
“Learn from me, Julius. Maybe one day, when this present operation is concluded, you will join the ranks of Scorpia . . .”
“Really? Do you think they’d have me? I’d love that!”
Razim smiled. He had already decided that he was going to kill Julius as soon as he had no further use for him. That idea he had just suggested . . . flaying him alive and then rolling him in salt. That might be interesting.
“We take no risks. We make no mistakes. Tomorrow morning we kill Smithers and tomorrow evening . . .”
“Alex Rider!”
“That’s when it begins . . .”
16
INSIDE EVERY FAT MAN . . .
THE STREET WAS JUST five minutes from the souk, but it was surprisingly quiet and empty, with just a few children kicking a soccer ball around in the dust and not a tourist in sight. The taxi dropped Alex off at a few minutes before eleven o’clock. He had already contacted Smithers using the notepad with its hidden circuitry. Smithers had rung back immediately to confirm.
The house wasn’t difficult to find.
When Alex had been walking around the city with Jack, he had noticed a few old European buildings here and there . . . elegant and somehow out of place, as if the Egyptians hadn’t noticed they were there and so had forgotten to knock them down. They dated back to the nineteenth century—the Suez Canal had been built at the same time—and might once have housed French noble-men or engineers. Smithers had chosen one of these and added a few touches of his own.
It was a tall, narrow building on three floors, constructed out of gray stone with dark brown shutters and a little balcony protruding over the front door. What made it almost unique in this crowded city was that it stood alone, set back from the road. A gate opened onto a path that swept up the center of a lawn that was more dust and sand than grass. There were two stone lions facing each other about halfway up and, to one side, a tall fountain with water tinkling down in graceful loops. It was obvious that the house belonged to an Englishman. There was a large mat in front of the door with the single word: WELCOME. A small Union Jack fluttered on the roof.
Alex was already dressed for the flight home—in jeans and a dark red Hollister polo shirt. It was a little warm for the city, but Jack was packing the rest of his clothes and she had told him it was raining in London. He walked up the drive, his feet crunching on the gravel, and rang the doorbell. There was a mirror set in the wall on each side of the door and he examined the two reflections of himself as he waited. A moment later, the door opened and Smithers appeared.
“Do come in, Alex. Very good to see you. I was just boiling the kettle. I hope you’ll have a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of homemade cake?”
Smithers was more informally dressed than he had been at the apartment, wearing pale trousers and a brilliantly colored short-sleeve shirt. He could have walked straight off a cruise ship . . . All that was missing was the straw hat and the camera. He stepped back to allow Alex into a hall that was shaped like a hexagon with a marble floor, a chandelier, and rather strangely, golden-framed pictures of the royal family on each of the walls, with the queen and the Duke of Edinburgh glancing at each other, side by side, opposite the door. There was an ornate table with what looked like a TV remote control sitting on the top. But there was no sign of a TV.
“This way!” Smithers bustled ahead into the kitchen, which was dominated by a stainless steel fridge. He threw it open to reveal shelves stacked with food, much of it flown in from England. There was a large cake on the middle shelf. “A Victoria sponge,” he explained. “Can I interest you?”
“Not really, thanks, Mr. Smithers. I’ll just have a Coke.”
“Will you stay for lunch?”
“I haven’t got time.”
“A short visit, then! Very well. Let me see . . .”
Smithers put the cake back, then carried two Cokes and a bowl of chips into the living room, an
airy, old-fashioned space with plump sofas, bookshelves, and a splendid rug that must surely have come out of the souk. And yet, as Alex sat down, it occurred to him that the house told him very little about the man himself. It could have belonged to anyone. What did he actually know about Smithers, now that he thought about it? Was he married? Was he gay? Where did he live when he was in England? What did he do in his spare time, apart from cooking himself Victoria sponges? But of course, that was the world of MI6 and all its agents. They didn’t just live with secrets. Secrecy surrounded their entire lives.
Smithers helped himself to a handful of chips. “So you’ve taken my advice and decided to leave,” he said.
“Yes.” Alex hadn’t told Smithers anything. “How did you know?”
“I’m afraid I was tipped off the moment your Miss Starbright booked the flights over the Internet,” Smithers explained. “We keep a very careful watch on the movements of our agents, Alex. Half past three this afternoon. You’re right. That doesn’t leave us time for lunch.”
“I came to say good-bye.”
“That’s very decent of you.”
For some reason, Alex felt a sudden twinge of guilt. “I hope you don’t think I’m walking out on you, Mr. Smithers,” he said.
“Not at all, my dear boy. Although I do wonder if this has something to do with the explosion in Cairo yesterday afternoon? The House of Gold. There has been a great deal of excitement about that—and not just in London. I don’t suppose you were in any way involved?”
Quickly, Alex brought Smithers up to date, starting with the office break-in, the contents of Gunter’s desk, then the phone call and the events on the paddle steamer. This time, he didn’t leave anything out, and after he’d finished describing the waterboarding, Smithers pounded the table with his fist, making the rest of the chips jump.
“I like the Americans,” he exclaimed, “but sometimes they’re completely intolerable. I shall make an official complaint, Alex. They had no right to do that to you.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Smithers. I’m all right now.” Alex shrugged. “Anyway, maybe Gunter really is going to take a shot at the secretary of state when she comes to Cairo. But as far as I can see, there’s nothing going on at Cairo College. I don’t have any need to be there. So I’m going home.”