Anthony Horowitz - Alex Rider 1 - Stormbreaker (v1.0) Page 6

  Smithers held up a final cartridge. It was labeled BOMBER BOY.

  “Do I get to play this one?” Alex asked.

  “You can play all four of them. They all have a built in games function. But as the name might suggest, this is actually a smoke bomb. This time the cartridge doesn’t go into the machine. You leave it somewhere in a room and press START three times on the console, and the bomb will be set off by remote control. Useful camouflage if you need to escape in a hurry.”

  “Thank you, Smithers,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. J.” Smithers stood up, his legs straining to take the huge weight. “I’ll hope to see you again, Alex. I’ve never had to equip a boy before. I’m sure I’ll be able to think up a whole host of quite delightful ideas.”

  He waddled off and disappeared through a door that clanged shut behind him.

  Mrs. Jones turned to Alex. “You leave tomorrow for Port Tallon,” she said. “You’ll be going under the name of Felix Lester.” She handed him an envelope. “The real Felix Lester left for Florida yesterday. You’ll find everything you need to know about him in here.”

  “I’ll read it in bed.”

  “Good.” Suddenly she was serious and Alex found himself wondering if she was herself a mother. If so, she could well have a son his age. She took out a black-and-white photograph and laid it on the table. It showed a man in a white T shirt and jeans. He was in his late twenties with light, close-cropped hair, a smooth face, the body of a dance The photograph was slightly blurred. It had been taken from a distance, possibly with a hidden camera. “I want you to look at this,” she said.

  “I’m looking.”

  “His name is Yassen Gregorovich. He was born in Russia, but he now works for many countries. Iraq has employed him. Also Serbia, Libya, and China.”

  “What does he do?” Alex asked.

  “He’s a contract killer, Alex. We believe it was he who killed Ian Rider.”

  There was a long pause. Alex had almost managed to persuade himself that this whole business was just some sort of crazy adventure … a game. But looking at the cold face with its blank, hooded eyes, he felt something stirring inside him and knew it was fear. He remembered his uncle’s car, shattered by bullets. A man like this, a contract killer, would do the same to him. He wouldn’t even blink.

  “This photograph was taken six months ago, in Cuba,” Mrs. Jones was saying. “It may have been a coincidence, but Herod Sayle was there at the same time. The two of them may have met. And there is something else.” She paused. “Rider used a code in the last message he sent. A single letter. Y.”

  “Y for Yassen.”

  “He must have seen Yassen somewhere in Port Tallon. He wanted us to know…”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Alex asked. His mouth had gone dry.

  “Because if you see him, if Yassen is anywhere near Sayle Enterprises, I want you to contact us at once.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll pull you out. It doesn’t matter how old you are, Alex. If Yassen finds out you’re working for us, he’ll kill you too.”

  She took the photograph back. Alex stood up.

  “You’ll leave here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock,” Mrs. Jones said. “Be careful, Alex. And good luck.”

  Alex walked across the hangar, his footsteps echoing. Behind him, Mrs. Jones unwrapped a peppermint and slipped it into her mouth. Her breath always smelled faintly of mint. As head of Special Operations, how many men had she sent to their deaths? Ian Rider and maybe dozens more. Perhaps it was easier for her if her breath was sweet.

  There was a movement ahead of him and he saw that the parachutists had gotten back from their jump. They were walking toward him out of the darkness with Wolf and the other men from K Unit right at the front. Alex tried to step around them, but he found Wolf blocking his way.

  “You’re leaving,” Wolf said. Somehow he must have heard that Alex’s training was over.

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. “What happened on the plane…” he began.

  “Forget it, Wolf,” Alex said. “Nothing happened. You jumped and I didn’t. That’s all.”

  Wolf held out a hard. “I want you to know … I was wrong about you. You’re all right. And maybe … one day it would be good to work with you.”

  “You never know,” Alex said.

  They shook.

  “Good luck, Cub.”

  “Good-bye, Wolf.”

  Alex walked out into the night.

  PHYSALIA PHYSALIA

  « ^ »

  THE SILVER GRAY Mercedes S600 cruised down the freeway, traveling south. Alex was sitting in the front passenger seat with so much soft leather around him that he could barely hear the 389 horsepower, 6-liter engine that was carrying him toward the Sayle complex near Port Tallon, Cornwall. At eighty miles per hour, the engine was only idling. But Alex could feel the power of the car. One hundred thousand pounds worth of German engineering. One touch from the unsmiling chauffeur and the Mercedes would leap forward. This was a car that sneered at speed limits.

  Alex had been collected that morning from a converted church in Hampstead, North London. This was where Felix Lester lived. When the driver had arrived, Alex had been waiting with his luggage, and there was even a woman he had never met before—an M16 operative—kissing him, telling him to brush his teeth, waving goodbye. As far as the driver was concerned, Alex was Felix. That morning Alex had read through the file and knew that Lester went to a school called St. Anthony’s, had two sisters and a pet Labrador. His father was an architect. His mother designed jewelry. A happy family—his family if anybody asked.

  “How far is it to Port Tallon?” he asked.

  So far the driver had barely spoken a word. He answered Alex without looking at him. “A few hours. You want some music?”

  “Got any John Lennon CDs?” That wasn’t his choice. According to the file, Felix Lester liked John Lennon.

  “No.”

  “Forget it. I’ll get some sleep.”

  He needed the sleep. He was still exhausted from the training and wondered how he would explain all the halfhealed cuts and bruises if anyone saw under his shirt. Maybe he’d tell them he got bullied at school. He closed his eyes and allowed the leather to suck him into sleep.

  It was the feeling of the car slowing down that awoke him. He opened his eyes and saw a fishing village, the blue sea beyond, a swath of rolling green hills, and a cloudless sky. It was a picture off a jigsaw puzzle, or perhaps a holiday brochure advertising a forgotten England. Seagulls swooped and cried overhead. An old tugboat—tangled nets, smoke, and flaking paint—pulled into the quay. A few locals, fishermen and their wives, stood around, watching. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon and the village was caught in the silvery light that comes at the end of a perfect spring day.

  “Port Tallon,” the driver said. He must have noticed Alex opening his eyes.

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Not if you’re a fish.”

  They drove around the edge of the village and back inland, down a lane that twisted between strangely bumpy fields. Alex saw the ruins of buildings, half-crumbling chimneys, and rusting metal wheels and knew that he was looking at an old tin mine. They’d mined tin in Cornwall for three thousand years until one day the tin had run out. Now all that was left was the holes.

  About another mile down the lane a metal fence sprang up. It was brand-new, twenty feet high, topped with razor wire. Arc lamps on scaffolding towers stood at regular intervals and there were huge signs, red on white. You could have read them from the next county:

  SAYLE ENTERPRISES

  Strictly Private

  “Trespassers will be shot,” Alex muttered to himself. He remembered what Mrs. Jones had told him. “He’s more or less formed his own private army. He’s acting as if he’s got something to hide.” Well, that was certainly his own first impression. The whole complex was somehow shocking, alien to the sloping hills and fields.

  The car reached the main gate, where there was a security cabin and an electronic barrier. A guard in a blue-and-gray uniform with SE printed on his jacket waved them through. The barrier lifted automatically. And then they were following a long, straight road over a stretch of land that had somehow been hammered flat with an airstrip on one side and a cluster of four high tech buildings on the other. The buildings were large, smoked glass and steel, each one joined to the next by a covered walkway. There were two aircraft next to the landing strip. A helicopter and a small cargo plane. Alex was impressed. The whole complex must have been a couple of miles square. It was quite an operation.

  The Mercedes came to a roundabout with a fountain at the center, swept around it, and continued up toward a fantastic sprawling house. It was Victorian, redbrick topped with copper domes and spires that had long ago turned green. There must have been at least a hundred windows on five floors facing the drive. It was a house that just didn’t know when to stop.

  The Mercedes pulled up in the front and the driver got out. “Follow me.”

  “What about my luggage?” Alex asked.

  “It’ll be brought.”

  Alex and the driver went through the front door and into a hall dominated by a huge canvas—Judgment Day, the end of the world painted four centuries ago as a swirling mass of doomed souls and demons. There were artworks everywhere. Watercolors and oils, prints, drawings, sculptures in stone and bronze, all crowded together with nowhere for the eye to rest. Alex followed the driver along a carpet so thick that he almost bounced. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic and he was relieved when they passed through a door and into a vast, cathedral-like room that was practically bare.

  “Mr. Sayle will be here shortly,” the driver s
aid, and left.

  Alex looked around him. This was a modern room with a curving steel desk near the center, carefully positioned halogen lights, and a spiral staircase leading down from a perfect circle cut in the ceiling about fifteen feet high. One entire wall was covered with a single sheet of glass, and walking over to it, Alex realized that he was looking at a gigantic aquarium. The sheer size of the thing drew him toward it. It was hard to imagine how many thousands of gallons of water the glass held back, but he was surprised to see that the tank was empty. There were no fish, although it was big enough to hold a shark.

  And then something moved in the turquoise shadows and Alex gasped with a mixture of horror and wonderment as the biggest jellyfish he had ever seen drifted into view. The main body of the creature was a shimmering, pulsating mass of white and mauve, shaped roughly like a cone. Beneath it, a mass of tentacles covered with circular stingers twisted in the water, at least ten feet long. As the jellyfish moved, or drifted in the artificial current, its tentacles writhed against the glass so that it looked almost as if it was trying to break out. It was the single most awesome and repulsive thing Alex had ever seen.

  “Physalia physalia.” The voice came from behind him and Alex twisted around to see a man coming down the last of the stairs.

  Herod Sayle was short. He was so short that Alex’s first impression was that he was looking at a reflection that had somehow been distorted. In his immaculate and expensive black suit with gold signet ring and brightly polished black shoes, he looked like a scaled-down model of a multimillionaire businessman. His skin was dark and his teeth flashed when he smiled. He had a round, bald head and very horrible eyes. The gray pupils were too small, surrounded on all sides by white. Alex was reminded of tadpoles before they hatch. When Sayle stood next to him, the eyes were at the same level as his and held less warmth than the jellyfish.

  “The Portuguese man-of-war,” Sayle continued. He had a heavy accent brought with him from the Cairo marketplace. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t keep one as a pet,” Alex said.

  “I came upon this one when I was diving in the South China Sea.” Sayle gestured at a glass display case and Alex noticed three harpoon guns and a collection of knives resting in velvet slots. “I love to kill fish,” Sayle went on. “But when I saw this specimen of Physalia physalia, I knew I had to capture it and keep it. You see, it reminds me of myself.”

  “It’s ninety-nine percent water. It has no brain, no guts, and no anus.” Alex had dredged up the facts from somewhere and spoken them before he knew what he was doing.

  Sayle glanced briefly at him, then turned back to the creature hovering over him in its tank. “It’s an outsider,” he said. “It drifts on its own, ignored by the other fish. It is silent and yet it demands respect. You see the nematocysts, Mr. Lester? The stinging cells? If you were to find yourself wrapped in there, it would be an unforgettable death.”

  “Call me Alex,” Alex said.

  He’d meant to say Felix, but somehow it had slipped out. It was the most stupid, the most amateurish mistake he could have made. But he had been thrown by the way Sayle had appeared and by the slow, hypnotic dance of the jellyfish. The gray eyes squirmed. “I thought your name was Felix.”

  “My friends call me Alex.”

  “Why?”

  “After Alex Ferguson. He’s the manager of my favorite soccer team.” It was the first thing Alex could think of. But he’d seen a soccer poster in Felix Lester’s bedroom and knew that at least he’d chosen the right team. “Manchester United,” he added.

  Sayle smiled. “That’s most amusing. Alex it shall be. And I hope we will be friends, Alex. You are a very lucky boy. You won the competition and you are going to be the first teenager to try out my Stormbreaker. But this is also lucky, I think, for me. I want to know what you think of it! I want you to tell me what you like … what you don’t.” The eyes dipped away and suddenly he was businesslike. “We have only three days until the launch,” he said. “We’d better get a bliddy move on, as my father used to say. I’ll have my man take you to our room and tomorrow morning, first thing, you must get to work. There’s a math program you should try … also languages. All the software was developed here at Sayle Enterprises. Of course we’ve talked to children. We’ve gone to teachers, to education experts. But you, my dear … Alex. You will be worth more to me than all of them put together.”

  As he had talked, Sayle had become more and more animated, carried away by his own enthusiasm. He had become a completely different man. Alex had to admit that he’d taken an immediate dislike to Herod Sayle. No wonder Blunt and the people at M16 had mistrusted him! But now he was forced to think again. He was standing opposite one of the richest men in England, a man who had decided out of the goodness of his heart to give a huge gift to English schools. Just because he as small and slimy, that didn’t necessarily make him an enemy. Perhaps Blunt was wrong after all.

  “Ah! Here’s my man now,” Sayle said. “And about bliddy time!”

  The door had opened and a man had come in, dressed in the black suit and tails of an old-fashioned butler. He was as tall and thin as his master was short and round, with a thatch of close-cropped ginger hair on top of a face that was so pale it was almost paper white From a distance it had looked as if he was smiling, but as he drew closer, Alex gasped. The man had two horrendous scars, one on each side of his mouth, twisting up all the way to his ears. It was as if someone had at some time attempted to cut his face in half. The scars were a gruesome shade of mauve. There were smaller, fainter scars where at one time his cheeks had been stitched.

  “This is Mr. Grin,” Sayle said. “He changed his name after his accident.”

  “Accident?” Alex found it hard not to stare at the terrible wound.

  “Mr. Grin used to work in a circus. It was a novelty knife-throwing act. For the climax he used to catch a spinning knife between his teeth. But then one night his elderly mother came to see the show. She waved to him from the front row and he got his timing wrong. He’s worked for me now for a dozen years and although his appearance may be displeasing, he is loyal and efficient. Don’t try to talk to him, by the way. He has no tongue.”

  “Eeeurgh!” Mr. Grin said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Alex muttered.

  “Take him to the blue room,” Sayle commanded. He turned to Alex. “You’re fortunate that one of our nicest rooms has come up free—here, in the house. We had a security man staying there. But he left us quite suddenly.”

  “Oh? Why was that?” Alex asked, casually.

  “I have no idea. One moment he was here, the next he was gone.” Sayle smiled again. “I hope you won’t do the same, Alex.”

  “Thi … wurgh!” Mr. Grin gestured at the door, and leaving Herod Sayle standing in front of his huge captive, Alex left the room.

  He was led back along a passage, past more works of art, up a staircase, and then along a wide corridor with thick wood-paneled doors and chandeliers. Alex assumed that the main house was used for entertaining. Sayle himself must live here. But the computers would be constructed in the modern buildings he had seen opposite the airstrip. Presumably he would be taken there tomorrow.

  His room was at the far end. It was a large room with a four-poster bed and a window looking out onto the fountain. Darkness had fallen and the water, cascading ten feet into the air over a semi-naked statue that looked remarkably like Herod Sayle, was eerily illuminated by a dozen concealed lights. Next to the window was a table with an evening meal already laid out for him: ham, cheese, salad. His luggage was lying on the bed.

  He went over to his case—a Nike sports bag—and examined it. When he had closed it up, he had inserted three hairs into the zip, trapping them in the metal teeth. They were no longer there. Alex opened the case and went through it. Everything was exactly as it had been when he had packed, but he was certain that the sports bag had been expertly and methodically searched.

  He took out the Color Game Boy, inserted the Speed Wars cartridge, and pressed the start button. At once the screen lit up with a green rectangle, the same shape as the room. He lifted the Game Boy up and swung it around him, following the line of the walls. A red flashing dot suddenly appeared on the screen. He walked forward, holding the Game Boy in front of him.