He took out his iPhone and laid it on the table.
“I’m afraid this got completely ruined when it went into the Nile. But you might be able to get something out of it. I took pictures of all the stuff in Gunter’s desk. I still don’t know why he had a picture of a coat hook there. And there was also a brochure about a place called Siwa.” Alex stopped—then remembered. There was one other thing. “I managed to leave the bug behind.”
“I know, Alex. I’ve been listening in to Mr. Gunter’s office all day, but so far he hasn’t said a single thing of any interest. In fact, he barely says anything at all.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I haven’t really been very helpful to you this time.”
“You shouldn’t apologize.” Smithers’s voice had changed. He was suddenly very serious, talking in a way that Alex had never heard before. And he got the strange feeling that this new voice didn’t belong to the man he had known for more than a year. It was as if he was seeing the real Smithers for the first time. “And what you just said now—about walking out on us—it’s complete stuff and nonsense. I’m glad you’re going. If you want the truth, I was always opposed to your getting involved in our business in the first place.”
He paused, then continued more slowly.
“I never spoke my mind because it’s not my job. I do what I’m told, like everyone else. But it was wrong . . . quite wrong, getting you involved. People think that being a spy is fun and exciting. Your uncle was a bit like that. It was all a big adventure as far as he was concerned . . . and look what happened to him. The truth is that spying is dirty, dangerous work and it’s quite unfit for a child who’s still at school. I won’t deny that you’ve been useful to us, Alex. But at what cost? You were very nearly killed at Liverpool Street—that was unforgivable—and you’ve spent a whole year surrounded by death and deception. Nobody should have asked you to do that.
“So you’re absolutely right to be getting out now. I don’t know what’s happening here in Cairo, but I’ll tell you this. It’s got a very nasty smell. Leave it. Go home. And the next time Mr. Blunt or Mrs. Jones calls you, don’t pick up the phone. You should forget about us all.”
Smithers stood up. Alex knew that in his own way he had just said good-bye. Permanently. Alex got up too and the two of them shook hands.
And then the doorbell rang.
“That’s very strange,” Smithers said. “I’m not expecting any visitors.”
Alex followed him back out to the hall. Smithers snatched up the remote control that Alex had noticed earlier and pressed a button. At once, the royal family disappeared. Each gold frame contained instead a television screen with several views of the house, taken from different angles. The garden was empty but there was a man outside wearing a FedEx uniform, carrying a small parcel.
Smithers moved over to the wall and spoke into a microphone close to the door. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I’ve got a parcel for a Mr. Derek Smithers,” the man said.
“I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment. Can you leave it outside?”
“I’m sorry, sir. You have to sign for it.”
“Just give me a minute.” He clicked the microphone off and turned to Alex. “I think we may be in trouble,” he said. “This is an MI6 safe house. I designed it myself. But nobody knows I’m here, certainly not any parcel delivery companies.”
“Who do you think . . . ?” Alex looked at the screen, at the man waiting outside.
“Let’s take a closer look.”
The buttons on the remote control were almost too small for his pudgy fingers, but he chose another one and pointed the device at the TV screen. The image flickered and changed. Now the man in the FedEx uniform had become a gray-and-white ghost of himself. Alex remembered the mirrored panels he had seen. That must be where the X-ray cameras were hidden. And they revealed two things. The box that the man was delivering was empty. And he was carrying a gun. The shape of the weapon, tucked into the back of his trousers, was unmistakable.
“Now that’s interesting,” Smithers muttered. “Do you think this chap followed you here? Or has he come for me?”
“Either way, I hope you’re not going to let him in,” Alex said.
Smithers smiled. “I don’t think so.” He pointed the remote at the door. “I actually put the welcome mat in myself. Occasionally, though, it becomes an unwelcome mat, as he’s about to find out.” His thumb stabbed down. The doormat collapsed. It was hinged, like a trapdoor, and the fake FedEx man had been standing right in the middle of it. With a yell, he disappeared from sight.
“What’s underneath?” Alex asked.
“It heads directly to the Cairo sewers about ten yards down,” Smithers replied. “He’ll have a soft landing, but I’m afraid it won’t be a pleasant one.”
“Mr. Smithers . . .”
Alex pointed at another of the monitors, which only moments before had been a portrait of the Prince of Wales. It showed the front gate. Two cars had pulled up, and even as he watched, half a dozen men poured out, all of them Egyptian, all of them dressed in dark clothes. Perhaps they were all in radio contact, but somehow they seemed to know what had just happened. Warily, they made their way up the garden path. Two of them had machine guns slung across their chests. The others were carrying automatic pistols.
“How many gadgets do you have in this house?” Alex asked.
“Not enough.” Smithers nodded at a third screen. Four more men had joined the others, coming around the side of the building, bringing the total to ten. They were spreading out, surrounding the house like an invading army.
“What time did we say your plane was?” Smithers asked.
“Three thirty.”
The men were getting closer.
“Then we’d better get a move on. We don’t want you to be late.”
Smithers was still holding the remote control device, and Alex wondered what else it could do. The collapsing doormat had been simple but effective, and at least it had reduced the odds by one. But there were a lot of determined-looking men crossing the front garden, approaching the front door—and as far as Alex could see, that was the only way out. The attackers were all armed and they were taking no chances, moving carefully one step at a time, as if they were in a minefield. Smithers looked from one TV screen to the next. Alex had never seen him like this before. Like so many fat men, he had always seemed carefree and jolly. But right now, as he timed his next move, he was deadly.
One of the screens showed the pair of stone lions. Two men were passing between them, each one clutching a nasty-looking snub-nosed miniature machine gun, and Alex wondered if they really dared use them here, in the middle of a city that was always on the alert against terrorism. But there could be no doubting the determination in their eyes and in their very body language. They had come here for the kill. By the time the police arrived, they would be far away.
Smithers waited for the exact moment, then hit the next button. The two men partially disappeared in a cloud of white dust that sprayed out of the lions’ mouths. They were still there when it cleared, gazing at each other, wondering what had just happened. Alex had no idea either. He glanced at Smithers, who said nothing. Then one of the men threw away his gun and began to roll on the grass. A second later, the other did exactly the same. They were like small children, writhing on their backs, kicking their legs, and screaming. They had completely forgotten where they were or why they had come here.
“Itching powder,” Smithers muttered. “Super-strength. It was actually developed in the last war, but I’ve made a few improvements. To be honest with you, I’ve been itching to try it!”
The others had seen what had happened and looked at the two men, still rolling helplessly, in disbelief. Somebody shouted a command and they advanced on the house, colder and more angry than ever. Alex could see eight of them spread over the TV screens. He glanced at the door. Would it be strong enough to hold them back?
As if to answer t
he question, that was when they opened fire. Their weapons had been silenced, but even so, the sound of the bullets slamming into the walls, the windows, and the front door was deafening. It was like being inside a tin box in a hailstorm and Alex flinched despite himself. But the door didn’t so much as splinter. The windowpanes didn’t crack.
“The door’s armor plated!” Smithers shouted out. “And the windows are bulletproof glass. They’re not going to shoot their way in.”
“Can they cut their way in?” Alex asked.
“Yes. But they’d need—”
Smithers stopped. Alex had already seen it on the screens. Two of the men had run forward, both wearing body armor, their heads protected by welding masks. They carried with them an oxyacetylene torch with a cutting head capable of reaching temperatures up to 3500˚C. While the others fell back, the team knelt in front of the door, and a moment later there was a burst of harsh blue flame as they fired up the torch. Almost at once, Alex smelled burning. The inside of the door began to change color as it was attacked by the fierce heat, and a moment later a tiny tongue of flame burst through and began to move, curving around the handle and the lock.
“Well, they’re certainly well prepared,” Smithers muttered. He sounded more irritated than afraid.
“Can you hold them off?” Alex asked.
“Unfortunately not. This is only a grade-three safe house. Now, if we were in Jerusalem or Baghdad, that would be a different matter.”
Alex caught sight of a man swinging his arm. He was halfway down the garden, captured on one of the screens. For a crazy moment, Alex thought he was playing catch . . . then he understood. It wasn’t a ball. It was a grenade. It hit the roof and exploded. The whole house shook, sending the chandelier into a furious, jingling dance. Dust and broken plaster rained down and smoke billowed down the main staircase. Meanwhile, the oxyacetylene torch was making steady progress. The hissing flame had already moved a quarter of the way around the lock.
“I think we’re going to have to make a run for it,” Smithers said.
“Run?” It wasn’t a word that Alex would ever have associated with Smithers. A fast waddle would surely be the best he could manage. And anyway, how were they going to get out?
“There’s a back way.” Smithers must have known what he was thinking. “Don’t you worry about me,” he added. “The main thing is that you not get hurt.” He searched out another button on the remote control. Outside, the fountains stopped, and even as the last drops of water splashed down, they released a cloud of yellow smoke instead. The gunmen began to stagger across the lawn, covering their eyes and coughing. “Tear gas!” Smithers explained. “Shame this isn’t England or I could have had them with my exploding gnomes.”
Despite the defenses, the men had almost cut through the front door. The circle of burned-out metal was nearly complete. Smithers hurried back through the hall and into the kitchen and to Alex’s astonishment headed straight for the fridge. Surely this wasn’t the time for a snack! But when Smithers threw open the door, the food and the shelves had disappeared. Instead there was a stainless steel tunnel leading straight to the street. Behind them, Alex heard the front door crash open.
“After you!” Smithers cried.
Alex went first. It was a tight squeeze for Smithers, but he followed right behind and a few seconds later they were out in the street. Smithers still had the remote control. He pressed one last button and began to move away as fast as his legs would take him.
There was an explosion inside the house. Then another. Alex heard the screams of some of the men and wondered what exactly had blown up. The sofas? The toilet? With Smithers it could be anything.
It seemed to Alex that their best plan would be to disappear as quickly as possible into the crowd before reinforcements arrived—but that wasn’t going to be easy. For a start, the streets were too quiet. And anyway they had already been spotted. Alex heard a van screech to a halt. The back doors were thrown open and five more men came bundling out. Alex didn’t have time to see if they were armed too . . . nor did he have to look. There was a gunshot and a bullet spat into the brickwork close to his head. A few children had been playing soccer but they scattered instantly. An old man with a donkey and cart stood trembling with wide eyes, unsure what to do. Alex could hear the sirens of approaching police cars. They must have been alerted by the first grenade. But it was impossible to tell how near they were or, given the Cairo traffic, how quickly they might arrive.
Alex and Smithers ran around a corner, past the entrance to a mosque, and down an alleyway with fresh laundry hanging on lines above their heads. It was close to midday. The sun was directly overhead and the heat was fearsome. Alex wondered how far Smithers would be able to run before his heart gave out. But he was already determined. No matter what happened, he wasn’t going to leave the gadget master behind.
Smithers reached the end of the alley and came to a breathless halt, glancing left and right as he weighed up his options. “The souk!” he gasped. “We can lose them in the souk.”
“Who are they?” Alex demanded.
“Scorpia,” Smithers replied, and the single word told Alex everything he needed to know. Nobody else would have dared mount an armed assault in the middle of a highly populated Middle Eastern city. Nobody else was more determined to see him dead. From the very start, even when he had been attacked at Brookland, he had been aware of something unseen, some old enemy stealing out of his past. Well, now he knew. Part of him was grateful to Smithers for telling him the truth. But he was also angry. Blunt must have known that Scorpia was active in Egypt. Yet even so, he had sent Alex here like some sort of sacrificial lamb, forcing them to make their move.
For just a brief pause, Alex and Smithers were alone. Alex guessed that the Scorpia agents had decided to regroup. They would be waiting to see if any survivors came out of the house.
“Did you tell anyone you were coming to see me?” Smithers asked.
“No. Only Jack.”
“Were you followed?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then they didn’t know you were coming. It’s just bad luck you were with me. I’m the one that they’re after.”
A figure appeared at the top of the alleyway. Alex and Smithers set off again, crossing a courtyard of debris, past a couple of shops with interiors so dark it was impossible to see what they actually sold. The main road was in front of them, divided in half by ugly concrete pillars supporting a second road overhead. The traffic had become a solid, unmoving wall—in fact, the explosions and the approaching police must have brought the entire city to a halt. There were people streaming past in every direction. The sidewalks simply weren’t wide enough to contain them, and much of the available space was taken up by Egyptians with stalls selling sandals, cigarette lighters, scarves, souvenirs . . . each one managing to block the way ahead.
Smithers pointed. A metal footbridge led above the chaos, up and over to the other side. Alex could feel the sweat pouring off him. The clothes he was wearing were for England. He certainly hadn’t expected to run in them. He didn’t look back. Somehow he had the idea that if he managed to cross to the other side he might be safe.
It wasn’t the case. Halfway across the bridge, Smithers stopped to catch his breath. Alex turned and saw the five men from the van appear at the side of the road. There were two or three more behind them . . . the survivors from Smithers’s safe house. He and Smithers were in plain sight—but surely even Scorpia wouldn’t take them out in front of so many witnesses. He shouldn’t even have framed the question. A hail of bullets hit the metal side of the bridge, and as Alex dived for cover, they ricocheted all around. Remarkably, in all the noise and the confusion, nobody seemed to hear the shots. The two of them could have been killed without anyone even noticing.
Alex caught Smithers’s eye. The big man was crouching uncomfortably beside him. “Can you call for help?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not, old bean.”
“You must have more gadgets!”
“Just one!” Smithers checked the way was clear, then stood up again and ran forward. Alex had no choice but to follow—across the bridge and down the other side.
Behind them, the five Scorpia agents were already clambering up the first steps, determined to follow them into the souk.
For that was where they were now. Alex had plunged into a series of courtyards and alleyways so densely packed together that it was hard to say if he was inside or out. The Khan el-Khalili souk was the biggest in Cairo, a twisting labyrinth of tiny shops connected by steps, arches, and passages, with all manner of goods piled high on shelves, dangling from walls, and spilling out onto the street. Alex and Jack had already been there and had found the experience almost too much.
“You want gold? I make you good price.”
“Please—come in, my friend. No need to buy!”
“You English? Jolly good chap!”
Every shop had its own hawker trying to draw them in. And every hawker seemed to be selling the same thing: the same earrings, rugs, spices, decorated boxes, and incense sticks that Alex had already seen in the House of Gold and that were sold by everyone else. Everything here was somehow desirable. There was nothing that anyone really needed.
And now they were back in the middle of it with at least eight armed men less than a minute behind them.
“This way!” Smithers commanded.
He had already lurched down a corridor that specialized in sheeshas, the slender glass pipes that many Egyptians used to smoke fruit-flavored tobacco over bubbling water. As he went, his arm or leg must have knocked into one. The result was a domino effect. Pipe after pipe toppled into the next with a terrible smashing of glass and the outraged howls of the hawkers. Alex felt someone reach out and try to grab them. He wrenched himself free and kept going.