Point Blanc Read online

  “So you’re not going to send me home?”

  “No. The fact is, Alex, we were thinking of contacting you anyway. We need you again.”

  “You’re probably the only person who can do what we have in mind,” Mrs Jones added.

  “Wait a minute!” Alex shook his head. “I’m far enough behind at school as it is. Suppose I’m not interested?”

  Mrs Jones sighed. “We could of course return you to the police,” she said. “As I understand it, they were very keen to interview you.”

  “And how is Miss Starbright?” Blunt asked.

  Jack Starbright – the name was short for Jackie or Jacqueline, Alex wasn’t sure which – was the housekeeper who had been looking after Alex since his uncle had died. She was a bright, red-haired American girl who had come to London to study law but had never left. Blunt wasn’t interested in her health, Alex knew that. The last time they’d met, he’d made his position clear. So long as Alex did as he was told, he could stay living in his uncle’s house with Jack. Step out of line and she’d be deported to America and Alex would be taken into care. It was blackmail of course, pure and simple.

  “She’s fine,” Alex said. There was quiet anger in his voice.

  Mrs Jones took over. “Come on, Alex,” she said. “Why pretend you’re an ordinary schoolboy any more?”

  She was trying to sound more friendly, more like a mother. But even snakes have mothers, Alex thought.

  “You’ve already proved yourself once,” she went on. “We’re just giving you a chance to do it again.”

  “It’ll probably come to nothing,” Blunt continued. “It’s just something that needs looking into. What we call a search and report.”

  “Why can’t Crawley do it?”

  “We need a boy.”

  Alex fell silent. He looked from Blunt to Mrs Jones and back again. He knew that neither of them would hesitate for a second before pulling him out of Brookland and sending him to the grimmest institution they could find. And anyway, wasn’t this what he had been asking for only the day before? Another adventure. Another chance to save the world.

  “All right,” he said. “What is it this time?”

  Blunt nodded at Mrs Jones, who unwrapped a sweet and began.

  “I wonder if you know anything about a man called Michael J. Roscoe?” she asked.

  Alex thought for a moment. “He was that businessman who had an accident in New York.” He’d seen the news on TV. “Didn’t he fall down a lift-shaft or something?”

  “Roscoe Electronics is one of the largest companies in America,” Mrs Jones said. “In fact it’s one of the largest in the world. Computers, videos, DVD players … everything from mobile phones to washing-machines. Roscoe was very rich, very influential—”

  “And very short-sighted,” Alex cut in.

  “It certainly seems to have been a very strange and even a careless accident,” Mrs Jones agreed. “The lift somehow malfunctioned. Roscoe didn’t look where he was going. He fell into the lift-shaft and died. That’s the general opinion. However, we’re not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, there are a number of details that don’t add up. On the day Roscoe died, a maintenance engineer by the name of Sam Green called at Roscoe Tower on Fifth Avenue. We know it was Green – or someone who looked very much like him – because we’ve seen him. They have closed circuit security cameras and he was filmed going in. He said he’d come to look at a defective cable. But according to the company that employed him, there was no defective cable and he certainly wasn’t acting under orders from them.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “We’d like to. But Green has vanished without trace. We think he might have been killed. We think someone might have taken his place and somehow set up the accident that killed Roscoe.”

  Alex shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Mr Roscoe. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “I’m coming to that.” Mrs Jones paused. “The strangest thing of all is that, the day before he died, Roscoe telephoned this office. A personal call. He asked to speak to Mr Blunt.”

  “I met Roscoe at Cambridge University,” Blunt said. “That was a long time ago. We became friends.”

  That surprised Alex. He didn’t think of Blunt as the sort of man who had friends. “What did he say?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, I wasn’t here to take the call,” Blunt replied. “I arranged to speak with him the following day. By that time, it was too late.”

  “Do you have any idea what he wanted?”

  “I spoke to his assistant,” Mrs Jones said. “She wasn’t able to tell me very much, but she understood that Roscoe was concerned about his son. He has a fourteen-year-old son, Paul Roscoe.”

  A fourteen-year-old son. Alex was beginning to see the way things were going.

  “Paul was his only son,” Blunt explained. “I’m afraid the two of them had a very difficult relationship. Roscoe divorced a few years ago and although the boy chose to live with his father, they didn’t really get on. There were the usual teenage problems, but of course, when you grow up surrounded by millions of dollars these problems sometimes get amplified. Paul was doing badly at school. He was playing truant, spending time with some very undesirable friends. There was an incident with the New York police – nothing serious and Roscoe managed to hush it up, but it still upset him. I spoke to Roscoe from time to time. He was worried about Paul and felt the boy was out of control. But there didn’t seem to be very much he could do.”

  “So is that what you want me for?” Alex interrupted. “You want me to meet this boy and talk to him about his father’s death?”

  “No.” Blunt shook his head and handed a file to Mrs Jones.

  She opened it. Alex caught a glimpse of a photograph; a dark-skinned man in military uniform. “Remember what we told you about Roscoe,” she said. “Because now I want to tell you about another man.” She slid the photograph round so that Alex could see it. “This is General Viktor Ivanov. Ex-KGB. Until last December he was head of the Foreign Intelligence Service and probably the second or third most powerful man in Russia after the president. But then something happened to him too. It was a boating accident on the Black Sea. His cruiser exploded … nobody knows why.”

  “Was he a friend of Roscoe’s?” Alex asked.

  “They probably never met. But we have a department here that constantly monitors world news, and their computers have thrown up a very strange coincidence. Ivanov also had a fourteen-year-old son, Dimitry. And one thing is certain. The young Ivanov certainly knew the young Roscoe because they went to the same school.”

  “Paul and Dimitry…” Alex was puzzled. “What was a Russian boy doing at a school in New York?”

  “He wasn’t in New York.” Blunt took over. “As I told you, Roscoe was having trouble with his boy. Trouble at school, trouble at home. So last year he decided to take action. He sent Paul to Europe, to a place in France, a sort of finishing school. Do you know what a finishing school is?”

  “I thought it was the sort of place where rich people used to send their daughters,” Alex said. “To learn table manners.”

  “That’s the general idea. But this school is for boys only, and not just ordinary boys. The fees are ten thousand pounds a term. This is the brochure. You can have a look.” He passed a heavy, square booklet to Alex. Written on the cover, gold letters on black, were the two words:

  POINT BLANC

  “It’s right on the French-Swiss border,” Blunt explained. “South of Geneva. Just above Grenoble, in the French Alps. It’s pronounced Point Blanc.” He spoke the words with a French accent. “Literally, white point. It’s a remarkable place. Built as a private home by some lunatic in the nineteenth century. As a matter of fact, that’s what it became after he died … a lunatic asylum. It was taken over by the Germans in the Second World War. They used it as a leisure centre for their senior staff. After that, it fell into disrepair until it was
bought by the current owner, a man called Grief. Dr Hugo Grief. He’s the principal of the school. What I suppose you’d call the head-teacher.”

  Alex opened the brochure and found himself looking at a colour photograph of Point Blanc. Blunt was right. The school was like nothing he had ever seen; something between a German castle and a French chateau, straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. But what drew Alex’s breath, more than the building itself, was the setting. The school was perched on the side of a mountain, with nothing but mountains all around; a great pile of brick and stone surrounded by a snow-covered landscape. It seemed to have no business being there, as if it had been snatched out of an ancient city and accidentally dropped there. No roads led to the school. The snow continued all the way to the front gate. But looking again, Alex saw a modern helicopter pad projecting over the battlements. He guessed that was the only way to get there … and to leave.

  He turned the page.

  Welcome to the Academy at

  POINT BLANC…

  the introduction began. It had been printed in the sort of lettering Alex would expect to find on the menu of an expensive restaurant.

  …a unique school that is much more than a school, created for boys who need more than the ordinary education system can provide. In our time we have been called a school for “problem boys”, but we do not believe the term applies.

  There are problems and there are boys. It is our aim to separate the two.

  “There’s no need to read all that stuff,” Blunt said. “All you need to know is that the academy takes in boys who have been expelled from all their other schools. There are never very many of them there. Just six or seven at a time. And it’s unique in other ways too. For a start, it only takes the sons of the super-rich—”

  “At ten thousand pounds a term, I’m not surprised,” Alex said.

  “You’d be surprised just how many parents have applied to send their sons there,” Blunt went on. “But I suppose you’ve only got to look at the newspapers to see how easy it is to go off the rails when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth. It doesn’t matter if they’re politicians or popstars; fame and fortune for the parents often brings problems for the children … and the more successful the parents are, the more pressure there seems to be. The academy went into business to sort the young people out, and by all accounts it’s been a great success.”

  “It was established twenty years ago,” Mrs Jones said. “In that time it’s had a client list you’d find hard to believe. Of course, they’ve kept the names confidential. But I can tell you that parents who have sent their children there include an American vice-president, a Nobel Prize-winning scientist and a member of our own royal family!”

  “As well as Roscoe and this man, Ivanov,” Alex said.

  “Yes.”

  Alex shrugged. “So it’s a coincidence. Just like you said. Two rich parents with two rich kids at the same school. They’re both killed in accidents. Why are you so interested?”

  “Because I don’t like coincidence,” Blunt replied. “In fact, I don’t believe in coincidence. Where some people see coincidence, I see conspiracy. That’s my job.”

  And you’re welcome to it, Alex thought. He said, “Do you really think the school and this man Grief might have had something to do with the two deaths? Why? Had they forgotten to pay the fees?”

  Blunt didn’t smile. “Roscoe telephones me because he’s worried about his son. The next day he’s dead. We’ve also learned from Russian intelligence sources that a week before he died, Ivanov had a violent argument with his son. Apparently Ivanov was worried about something. Now do you see the link?”

  Alex thought for a moment. “So you want me to go to this school,” he said. “How are you going to manage that? I don’t have parents and they were never rich anyway.”

  “We’ve already arranged that,” Mrs Jones said. Alex realized that she must have made her plans before the business with the crane ever happened. Even if he hadn’t drawn attention to himself, they would have come for him. “We’re going to supply you with a wealthy father. His name is Sir David Friend.”

  “Friend … as in Friend’s supermarkets?” Alex had seen the name often enough in the newspapers.

  “Supermarkets. Department stores. Art galleries. Football teams.” Mrs Jones paused. “Friend is certainly a member of the same club as Roscoe. The billionaires’ club. He’s also heavily involved in government circles, as personal adviser to the prime minister. Very little happens in this country without Sir David being involved in some way.”

  “We’ve created a false identity for you,” Blunt said. “From this moment on, I want you to start thinking of yourself as Alex Friend, the fourteen-year-old son of Sir David.”

  “It won’t work,” Alex said. “People must know that Friend doesn’t have a son.”

  “Not at all.” Blunt shook his head. “He’s a very private person and we’ve created the sort of son no father would want to talk about. Expelled from Eton. A criminal record … shoplifting, vandalism and possession of drugs. That’s you, Alex. Sir David and his wife, Caroline, don’t know what to do with you. So they’ve enrolled you in the academy. And you’ve been accepted.”

  “And Sir David has agreed to all this?” Alex asked.

  Blunt sniffed. “As a matter of fact, he wasn’t very happy about it – about using someone as young as you. But I spoke to him at some length and, yes, he agreed to help.”

  “So when am I going to the academy?”

  “Five days from now,” Mrs Jones said. “But first you have to immerse yourself in your new life. When you leave here, we’ve arranged for you to be taken to Sir David’s home. He has a house in Lancashire. He lives there with his wife – and he has a daughter. She’s one year older than you. You’ll spend the rest of the week with the family, which should give you time to learn everything you need to know. It’s vital that you have a strong cover. After that, you’ll leave for Grenoble.”

  “And what do I do when I get there?”

  “We’ll give you a full briefing nearer the time. Essentially, your job is to find out everything you can. It may be that this school is perfectly ordinary and that there was in fact no connection between the deaths. If so, we’ll pull you out. But we want to be sure.”

  “How will I get in touch with you?”

  “We’ll arrange all that.” Mrs Jones ran an eye over Alex, then turned to Blunt. “We’ll have to do something about his appearance,” she said. “He doesn’t exactly look the part.”

  “See to it,” Blunt said.

  Alex sighed. It was strange really. He was simply going from one school to another. From a London comprehensive to a finishing school in France. It wasn’t quite the adventure he’d been expecting.

  He stood up and followed Mrs Jones out of the room. As he left, Blunt was already sifting through documents as if he’d forgotten that Alex had been there or even existed at all.

  THE SHOOTING PARTY

  The chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue, penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75 litre light pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great green silence all around. Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by a car that cost as much as a house. Forget the Wilton wool carpets, the wooden panelling and the leather seats, he told himself. It’s only a car.

  It was the day after his meeting at MI6 and, as Mrs Jones had promised, his appearance had completely changed. He had to look like a rebel – the rich son who wanted to live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully provocative clothes. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, Tommy Hilfiger jeans – frayed at the ankles – and trainers that were falling apart on his feet. Despite his protests, his hair had been cut so short that he almost looked like a skinhead and his right ear had been pierced. He could still feel it throbbing underneath the temporary stud that had been put in to stop the hole closing.

  The car had reached a set of wrou
ght-iron gates which opened automatically to receive it. And there was Haverstock Hall, a great mansion with stone figures on the terrace and seven figures in the price. Sir David had bought it a few years ago, Mrs Jones had told him, because he wanted a place in the country. Half the Lancashire countryside seemed to have come with it. The grounds stretched for miles in every direction, with sheep dotted across the hills on one side and three horses watching from an enclosure on the other. The house itself was Georgian: white brick with slender windows and columns. Everything looked very neat. There was a walled garden with evenly spaced beds, a square glass conservatory housing a swimming pool, and a series of ornamental hedges with every leaf perfectly in place.

  The car stopped. The horses swung their necks round to watch Alex get out, their tails rhythmically beating at flies. Nothing else moved.

  The chauffeur walked round to the boot. “Sir David will be inside,” he said. He had disapproved of Alex from the moment he had set eyes on him. Of course, he hadn’t said as much, he was too professional. But he showed it with his eyes.

  Alex moved away from the car, drawn towards the conservatory on the other side of the drive. It was a warm day, the sun beating down on the glass, and the water on the other side looked suddenly inviting. He passed through a set of doors. It was hot inside the conservatory. The smell of chlorine rose up from the water, stifling him.

  He had thought the pool was empty, but as he watched, a figure swam up from the bottom, breaking through the surface just in front of him. It was a girl, dressed in a white bikini. She had long black hair and dark eyes but her skin was pale. Alex guessed she must be about fifteen years old and remembered what Mrs Jones had told him about Sir David Friend. “He has a daughter … one year older than you.” So this must be her. He watched her pull herself out of the water. Her body was well-shaped, closer to the woman she would become than the girl she had been. She was going to be beautiful. That much was certain. The trouble was, she already knew it. When she looked at Alex, arrogance flashed in her eyes.