Eagle Strike Page 6

  “We couldn’t allow you to bring that girl here, Alex,” Blunt was saying. “You know perfectly well that you can’t just show off to your friends whenever—”

  “I wasn’t showing off,” Alex cut in. “Her dad was almost killed by a bomb in the South of France.”

  “We know all about the business in Saint-Pierre,” Blunt murmured.

  “Do you know that it was Yassen Gregorovich who planted it?”

  Blunt sighed irritably. “That doesn’t make any difference. It’s none of your business. And it’s certainly nothing to do with us!”

  Alex stared at him in disbelief. “Sabina’s father is a journalist,” he exclaimed. “He was writing about Damian Cray. If Cray wanted him dead, there must be a reason. Isn’t it your job to find out?”

  Blunt held up a hand for silence. His eyes, as always, showed nothing at all. Alex was struck by the thought that if this man were to die, sitting here at his desk, nobody would notice any difference.

  “I have received a report from the police in Montpellier, and also from the British consulate,” Blunt said. “This is standard practice when one of our people is involved.”

  “I’m not one of your people,” Alex muttered.

  “I am sorry that the father of your … friend was hurt. But you might as well know that the French police have investigated – and you’re right. It wasn’t a gas leak.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  “It turns out that a local terrorist organization – the CST – have claimed responsibility.”

  “The CST?” Alex’s head spun. “Who are they?”

  “They’re very new,” Mrs Jones explained. “CST stands for Camargue Sans Touristes. Essentially they’re French nationalists who want to stop local houses in the Camargue being sold off for tourism and second homes.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the CST,” Alex insisted. “It was Yassen Gregorovich. I saw him and he admitted it. And he told me that the real target was Edward Pleasure. Why won’t you listen to what I’m saying? It was this article Edward was writing. Something about a meeting in Paris. It was Damian Cray who wanted him dead.”

  There was a brief pause. Mrs Jones glanced at her boss as if needing his permission to speak. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Did Yassen mention Damian Cray?” she asked.

  “No. But I found his private telephone number in Yassen’s phone. I rang it and I actually heard him speak.”

  “You can’t know it was Damian Cray.”

  “Well, that was the name he gave.”

  “This is complete nonsense.” It was Blunt who had spoken and Alex was amazed to see that he was angry. It was the first time Alex had ever seen him show any emotion at all and it occurred to him that not many people dared to disagree with the chief executive of Special Operations. Certainly not to his face.

  “Why is it nonsense?”

  “Because you’re talking about one of the most admired and respected entertainers in the country. A man who has raised millions and millions of pounds for charity. Because you’re talking about Damian Cray!” Blunt sank back into his chair. For a moment he seemed undecided. Then he nodded briefly. “All right,” he said. “Since you have been of some use to us in the past, and since I want to clear this matter up once and for all, I will tell you everything we know about Cray.”

  “We have extensive files on him,” Mrs Jones said.

  “Why?”

  “We keep extensive files on everyone who’s famous.”

  “Go on.”

  Blunt nodded again and Mrs Jones took over. She seemed to know all the facts by heart. Either she had read the files recently or, more probably, she had the sort of mind that never forgot anything.

  “Damian Cray was born in north London on 5 October 1950,” she began. “That’s not his real name, by the way. He was christened Harold Eric Lunt. His father was Sir Arthur Lunt, who made his fortune building multi-storey car parks. As a child, Harold had a remarkable singing voice, and aged eleven he was sent to the Royal Academy of Music in London. In fact, he used to sing regularly there with another boy who also became famous. That was Elton John.

  “But when he was thirteen, there was a terrible disaster. His parents were killed in a bizarre car accident.”

  “What was bizarre about it?”

  “The car fell on top of them. It rolled off the top floor of one of their car parks. As you can imagine, Harold was distraught. He left the Royal Academy and travelled the world. He changed his name and turned to Buddhism for a while. He also became a vegetarian. Even now, he never touches meat. The tickets for his concerts are made out of recycled paper. He has very strict values and he sticks to them.

  “Anyway, he came back to England in the seventies and formed a band – Slam! They were an instant success. I’m sure the rest of this will be very familiar to you, Alex. At the end of the seventies the band split up, and Cray began a solo career which took him to new heights. His first solo album, Firelight, went platinum. After that he was seldom out of the UK or US top twenty. He won five Grammys and an Academy Award for Best Original Song. In 1986 he visited Africa and decided to do something to help the people there. He arranged a concert at Wembley Stadium, with all proceeds going to charity. Chart Attack – that was what it was called. It was a huge success and that Christmas he released a single: ‘Something for the Children’. It sold four million copies and he gave every penny away.

  “That was just the beginning. Since the success of Chart Attack, Cray has campaigned tirelessly on a range of world issues. Save the rainforests; protect the ozone layer; end world debt. He’s built his own rehabilitation centres to help young people involved with drugs, and he spent two years fighting to have a laboratory closed down because it was experimenting on animals.

  “In 1989 he performed in Belfast, and many people believe that this free concert was a step on the way towards peace in Northern Ireland. A year later he made two visits to Buckingham Palace. He was there on a Thursday to play a solo for Princess Diana’s birthday; and on the Friday he was back again to receive a knighthood from the Queen.

  “Only last year he was on the cover of Time magazine. ‘Man of the Year. Saint or Singer?’ That was the headline. And that’s why your accusations are ridiculous, Alex. The whole world knows that Damian Cray is just about the closest thing we have to a living saint.”

  “It was still his voice on the telephone,” Alex said.

  “You heard someone give his name. You don’t know it was him.”

  “I just don’t understand it!” Now Alex was angry, confused. “All right, we all like Damian Cray. I know he’s famous. But if there’s a chance that he was involved with the bomb, why won’t you at least investigate him?”

  “Because we can’t.” It was Blunt who had spoken and the words came out flat and heavy. He cleared his throat. “Damian Cray is a multimillionaire. He’s got a huge penthouse on the Thames and another place down in Wiltshire, just outside Bath.”

  “So what?”

  “Rich people have connections and extremely rich people have very good connections indeed. Since the nineties, Cray has been putting his money into a number of commercial ventures. He bought his own television station and made a number of programmes that are now shown all around the world. Then he branched out into hotels – and finally into computer games. He’s about to launch a new game system. He calls it the Gameslayer, and apparently it will put all the other systems – PlayStation 2, GameCube, whatever – into the shade.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “He is a major employer, Alex. He is a man of enormous influence. And, for what it’s worth, he donated a million pounds to the government just before the last election. Now do you understand? If it was discovered that we were investigating him, and merely on your say-so, there would be a tremendous scandal. The prime minister doesn’t like us anyway. He hates anything he can’t control. He might even use an attack on Damian Cray as an excuse to
close us down.”

  “Cray was on television only today,” Mrs Jones said. She picked up a remote control. “Have a look at this and then tell me what you think.”

  A TV monitor in the corner of the room flickered on, and Alex found himself looking at a recording of the mid-morning news. He guessed Mrs Jones probably recorded the news every day. She fast-forwarded, then ran the film at the correct speed.

  And there was Damian Cray. His hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a dark, formal suit, white shirt and mauve silk tie. He was standing outside the American embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square.

  Mrs Jones turned up the sound.

  “…the former pop singer, now tireless campaigner for a number of environmental and political issues, Damian Cray. He was in London to meet the president of the United States, who has just arrived in England as part of his summer vacation.”

  The picture switched to a jumbo jet landing at Heathrow Airport, then cut in closer to show the president standing at the open door, waving and smiling.

  “The president arrived at Heathrow Airport in Air Force One, the presidential plane. He is due to have a formal lunch with the prime minister at number ten Downing Street today…”

  Another cut. Now the president was standing next to Damian Cray and the two men were shaking hands, a long handshake for the benefit of the cameras which flashed all around them. Cray had sandwiched the president’s hand between both his own hands and seemed unwilling to let him go. He said something and the president laughed.

  “…but first he met Cray for an informal discussion at the American embassy in London. Cray is a spokesman for Greenpeace and has been leading the movement to prevent oil drilling in the wilds of Alaska, fearing the environmental damage this may cause. Although he made no promises, the president agreed to study the report which Greenpeace…”

  Mrs Jones turned off the television.

  “Do you see? The most powerful man in the world interrupts his holiday to meet Damian Cray. And he sees Cray before he even visits the prime minister! That should give you the measure of the man. So tell me! What earthly reason could he have to blow up a house and perhaps kill a whole family?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  Blunt sniffed. “I think we should wait for the French police to get back to us,” he said. “They’re investigating the CST. Let’s see what they come up with.”

  “So you’re going to do nothing!”

  “I think we have explained, Alex.”

  “All right.” Alex stood up. He didn’t try to conceal his anger. “You’ve made me look a complete fool in front of Sabina; you’ve made me lose one of my best friends. It’s really amazing. When you need me, you just pull me out of school and send me to the other side of the world. But when I need you, just this once, you pretend you don’t even exist and you just dump me out on the street…”

  “You’re being over-emotional,” Blunt said.

  “No, I’m not. But I’ll tell you this. If you won’t go after Cray, I will. He may be Father Christmas, Joan of Arc and the Pope all rolled into one, but it was his voice on the phone and I know he was somehow involved in what happened in the South of France. I’m going to prove it to you.”

  Alex stood up and, without waiting to hear another word, left the room.

  There was a long pause.

  Blunt took out a pen and made a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then he looked at Mrs Jones. “Well?” he demanded.

  “Maybe we should go over the files one more time,” Mrs Jones suggested. “After all, Herod Sayle pretended to be a friend of the British people, and if it hadn’t been for Alex…”

  “You can do what you like,” Blunt said. He drew a ring round the last sentence he had written. Mrs Jones could see the words Yassen Gregorovich upside down on the page. “Curious that he should have run into Yassen a second time,” he muttered.

  “And more curious still that Yassen didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, all things considered.”

  Mrs Jones nodded. “Maybe we ought to tell Alex about Yassen,” she suggested.

  “Absolutely not.” Blunt picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it. “The less Alex Rider knows about Yassen Gregorovich the better. I very much hope the two of them don’t run into each other again.” He dropped the paper ball into the bin underneath his desk. At the end of the day everything in the bin would be incinerated.

  “And that,” he said, “is that.”

  Jack was worried.

  Alex had come back from Liverpool Street in a bleak mood and had barely spoken a word to her since. He had come into the sitting room where she was reading a book and she had managed to learn that the meeting with Sabina hadn’t gone well and that Alex wouldn’t be seeing her again. But during the afternoon she managed to coax more and more of the story out of him until finally she had the whole picture.

  “They’re all idiots!” Alex exclaimed. “I know they’re wrong but just because I’m younger than them, they won’t listen to me.”

  “I’ve told you before, Alex. You shouldn’t be mixed up with them.”

  “I won’t be. Never again. They don’t give a damn about me.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll go,” Alex said.

  There was a white van parked outside. Two men were opening the back and, as Alex watched, they unloaded a brand-new bicycle, wheeling it down and over to the house. Alex cast his eye over it. The bike was a Cannondale Bad Boy, a mountain bike that had been adapted for the city with a lightweight aluminium frame and one-inch wheels. It was silver and seemed to have come equipped with all the accessories he could have asked for: Digital Evolution lights, a Blackburn mini-pump … everything top of the range. Only the silver bell on the handlebar seemed old-fashioned and out of place. Alex ran his hand over the leather saddle with its twisting Celtic design and then along the frame, admiring the workmanship. There was no sign of any welds. The bike was handmade and must have cost hundreds.

  One of the men came over to him. “Alex Rider?” he asked.

  “Yes. But I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order a bike.”

  “It’s a gift. Here…”

  The second man had left the bike propped up against the railings. Alex found himself holding a thick envelope. Jack appeared on the step behind him. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Someone has given me a bike.”

  Alex opened the envelope. Inside was an instruction booklet and attached to it a letter.

  Dear Alex,

  I’m probably going to get a roasting for this, but I don’t like the idea of you taking off on your own without any back-up. This is something I’ve been working on for you and you might as well have it now. I hope it comes in useful.

  Look after yourself, dear boy. I’d hate to hear that anything lethal had happened to you.

  All the best,

  Smithers

  PS This letter will self-destruct ten seconds after it comes into contact with the air so I hope you read it quickly!

  Alex just had time to read the last sentence before the letters on the page faded and the paper itself crumpled and turned into white ash. He moved his hands apart and what was left of the letter blew away in the breeze. Meanwhile the two men had got back into the van and driven away. Alex was left with the bike. He flicked through the first pages of the instruction book.

  BIKE PUMP – SMOKESCREEN

  MAGNESIUM FLARE HEADLAMP

  HANDLEBAR MISSILE EJECTION

  TRAILRIDER JERSEY (BULLETPROOF)

  MAGNETIC BICYCLE CLIPS

  “Who is Smithers?” Jack asked. Alex had never told her about him.

  “I was wrong,” Alex said. “I thought I had no friends at MI6. But it looks like I’ve got one.”

  He wheeled the bicycle into the house. Smiling, Jack closed the door.

  THE PLEASURE DOME

  It was only in the cold light of morning that Alex began to s
ee the impossibility of the task he had set himself. How was he supposed to investigate a man like Cray? Blunt had mentioned that he had homes in London and Wiltshire, but hadn’t supplied addresses. Alex didn’t even know if Cray was still in England.

  But as it turned out, the morning news told Alex where he might begin.

  When he came into the kitchen, Jack was reading the newspaper over her second cup of coffee. She took one look at him, then slid it across the table. “This’ll put you off your cornflakes.”

  Alex turned the paper round – and there it was on the second page: Damian Cray looking out at him. A headline ran below the picture:

  CRAY LAUNCHES £100M GAMESLAYER

  IT’S DEFINITELY THE HOTTEST TICKET IN LONDON. Today game players get to see the eagerly anticipated Game-slayer, developed by Cray Software Technology, a company based in Amsterdam, at a cost rumoured to be in excess of one hundred million pounds. The state-of-the-art game system will be demonstrated by Sir Damian Cray himself in front of an invited audience of journalists, friends, celebrities and industry experts.

  No expense has been spared on the launch, which kicks off at one o’clock and includes a lavish champagne buffet inside the Pleasure Dome that Cray has constructed inside Hyde Park. This is the first time that a royal park has been used for a purely commercial venture and there were some critics when permission was given earlier this year.

  But Damian Cray is no ordinary businessman. He has already announced that twenty per cent of profits from the Gameslayer will be going to charity, this time helping disabled children throughout the UK. Yesterday Cray met with the United States president to discuss oil drilling in Alaska. It is said that the Queen herself approved the temporary construction of the Pleasure Dome, which uses aluminium and PTFE fabric (the same material used in the Millennium Dome). Its futuristic design has certainly proved an eye-opener for passing Londoners.