Snakehead Read online

  “I could have been killed.” Alex remembered how the first bomb had blown him off his feet.

  “You weren’t in any real danger. All the missiles were launched with pinpoint accuracy. We knew exactly where you were all the time.”

  “How?”

  Ash smiled. “There was a beacon inside the heel of one of your sneakers. Colonel Abbott arranged that while you were asleep. It sent out a signal to the nearest inch.”

  “What about the mine?”

  “It had less explosive in it than you probably thought. And it was activated by remote control. I set it off a couple of seconds after you made that dive. You did pretty well, by the way.”

  “You were watching me all the time.”

  “Just put it behind you, Alex. It was a test. You passed. That’s all that matters.”

  The waiter arrived with the second beer. Ash lit a cigarette—Alex was surprised to see that he smoked—and blew smoke out into the warm evening air.

  “I can’t believe we’re finally meeting,” he said. He examined Alex closely. “You look a hell of a lot like your dad.”

  “You were close to him.”

  “Yeah. We were close.”

  “And my mother.”

  “I don’t want to talk about them, Alex.” Ash shifted uncomfortably, then reached out and drank some of his beer. “Do you mind? It was all a long time ago. My life’s moved on since then.”

  “It’s the only reason I’m here,” Alex said.

  There was a long silence. Then Ash smiled briefly. “How’s that housekeeper of yours?” he asked. “Jack What’s-her-name. Is she still with you?”

  “Yes. She said hello.”

  “She was an attractive girl. I liked her. I’m glad she stuck by you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Well…I moved on.” Ash paused. Then suddenly he leaned forward. His face was utterly serious and Alex saw that this was a tough, cold-hearted man and that he was going to have to watch himself when they were together.

  “All right. This is how we’re going to play it,” he began. “You’re in this smart luxury hotel because I wanted to ease you in. But tomorrow that all comes to an end. We’re going to have breakfast, and then we’re going up to your room and you’re going to become an Afghan boy, a refugee. We’re going to change the way you look, the way you walk, and even the way you smell. And then we’re going out there…” He pointed across the river. “You enjoy your bed tonight, Alex, because where you sleep tomorrow night is going to be very different. And trust me. You’re not going to like it.”

  He lifted the cigarette and inhaled. Gray smoke curled out of the corner of his mouth.

  “We should make contact with the snakehead in the next forty-eight hours,” he went on. “I’ll explain all that tomorrow. But this is what you’ve got to understand. You do nothing and you say nothing unless I tell you. You play dumb. And if I think the situation is getting out of hand, if I think you’re in danger, you’ll clear out. With no argument. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Alex was taken aback. This wasn’t what he had expected. It wasn’t what he’d flown six thousand miles to hear.

  Ash softened. “But I’ll make you this promise. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and when I feel I know you better, when the time is right, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. About your father. About what happened in Malta. About your mother and about you. The only thing I’ll never talk to you about is the way they died. I was there and I saw it and I don’t want to remember it. Is that okay with you?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Right. Then let’s get some food in us. I forgot to mention…the stuff you’re going to eat from now on may not be to your taste either. And you can tell me a bit about yourself. I’d like to know what school you go to and if you have a girlfriend and things like that. Let’s enjoy the evening. There may not be a lot of fun ahead.”

  Ash picked up his menu, and Alex did the same. But before he could read it, a movement caught his eye. It was just chance, really. The hotel had a private ferry that ran between the two banks of the river—a wide, spacious boat with antique chairs placed at intervals on a polished wooden floor. It had just arrived, and it was the roar of the engine going into reverse that had made Alex look up.

  A man was just climbing aboard. Alex thought he recognized him and his suspicion was confirmed when the man turned around and looked purposefully in his direction. The poppy had gone, but it was the man from the airport. He was sure of it. A coincidence? The man hurried on board, disappearing underneath the canopy as if anxious to get out of sight, and Alex knew that there was no chance about it. The man had spotted him in the arrivals area and followed him here.

  Alex wondered if he should mention it to Ash. Almost at once he decided against it. It was impossible for the snakehead to know that he was here, and if he made a fuss, if Ash decided he had been compromised, he might be sent home before the mission had even begun. No. Much better to keep quiet. But if he saw the man a third time, then he would speak out.

  So Alex said nothing. He didn’t even watch as the ferry began its crossing back to the other side. Nor did he hear the click of the camera with its special night scope and long-distance lens trained on him as his picture was taken again and again in the dwindling light.

  7

  FATHER AND SON

  THE NEXT MORNING, ALEX ate the best breakfast of his life. He had a feeling he was going to need it. The hotel offered a hot-and-cold buffet that included just about every cuisine—French, English, Thai, Vietnamese—with dishes ranging from eggs and bacon to stir-fried noodles. Ash joined him but spoke little. He seemed to be deep in thought, and Alex wondered if he wasn’t already having reservations about what lay ahead.

  “You’ve had enough?” he asked as Alex finished his second croissant.

  Alex nodded.

  “Then let’s go up to your room. Mrs. Webber will be here soon. We’ll wait for her there.”

  Alex had no idea who Mrs. Webber was, and it didn’t seem that Ash wanted to tell him. The two of them went back up to the nineteenth floor. Ash hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and pointed Alex to a seat next to a window. He sat down opposite.

  “Okay,” he began. “Let me tell you how this works. Two weeks ago, working with the Pakistani authorities, ASIS managed to pick up a father and a son heading into India on their way here. We interrogated them and discovered they’d paid the snakehead four thousand American dollars to get them into Australia. The father’s name is Karim. The son is Abdul. Get used to the names, Alex, because from now on that’s you and me. Karim and Abdul Hassan. The two of them were given an address in Bangkok. They were told to wait there until they were contacted by a man called Sukit.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “It took us a while to find out. But it turns out we’re talking about a Mr. Anan Sukit. He works for Major Yu. One of his lieutenants, you might say. Very high up. Very dangerous. It means we’re one step down the pipeline, Alex. We’re on our way.”

  “So we wait for him to get in touch.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the real Adbul?” Alex asked. He wondered how he could pretend to be someone he had never even met.

  “You don’t need to know much about him or his father,” Ash replied. “The two of them are Hazaras—a minority group in Afghanistan. The Hazaras have been persecuted for centuries. They get the worst education and the poorest jobs—in fact, most people think of them as hardly better than animals. Kofr—that’s the word they use for them. It means ‘infidel,’ and in Afghanistan it’s the worst four-letter word you can use about anyone.”

  “So where did they get their money?” Alex asked.

  “They had a business in the city of Mazar that they managed to sell just before it was taken from them. They hid out in the Hindu Kush until they made contact with a local agent for the snakehead, paid the money, and began their journey south.”

  “I don’
t suppose I look anything like an Afghan,” Alex said. “What do these Hazara people look like?”

  “Most of them are Asiatic…Mongul or Chinese. But not all of them. In fact, a lot of them managed to survive in Afghanistan precisely because they didn’t look too Eastern. Anyway, you don’t need to worry. Mrs. Webber will take care of that.”

  “How about language?”

  “You won’t talk. Ever. You’re going to pretend to be a simpleton. Just stare into the corner and keep your mouth shut. Try and look scared…as if I’m about to beat you. Maybe I will from time to time. Just to make us look authentic.”

  Alex wasn’t sure if Ash was being serious or not.

  “I speak Dari,” Ash went on. “That’s the language of the majority in Afghanistan and it’s the language the snakehead will use. I speak a few words of Hazaragi too—but we shouldn’t need them. Just remember. Never open your mouth. If you do, you’ll kill us both.”

  Ash stood up. While he had been talking, he had been grim—almost hostile. But now he turned to Alex with something close to desperation in his dark brown eyes. “Alex…” He paused, scratching at his beard. “Are you sure you want to do this? ASIS has got nothing to do with you. People smuggling and all the rest of it…you should be at school. Why don’t you just go home?”

  “It’s a little late now,” Alex said. “I agreed. And I want you to tell me about my dad.”

  “Is that the main reason you agreed to this?”

  “It’s the only reason.”

  “I don’t think I could forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for your father. That’s the truth of it.” Ash looked away, as if trying to avoid the memory. “One day I’ll tell you about it…Malta, and what happened after Yassen Gregorovich had finished with me. But I’ll tell you this right now. John wouldn’t thank me for getting you into trouble. In fact, he’d probably chew my head off. So if you’ll take my advice, you’ll call Brooke. Tell him you’ve changed your mind. And get out now.”

  “I’m staying,” Alex said. “But thanks anyway.”

  In fact, what Ash had just said—the mention of Yassen Gregorovich—had made Alex determined to learn more. Suddenly things were beginning to come together.

  Alex knew that his father, John Rider, had pretended to be an enemy agent, working for Scorpia. When MI6 wanted him back, they had arranged for him to be “captured.” That had been in Malta. But it had all been a setup. And Yassen Gregorovich had been there. Yassen was an international assassin, and Alex had met him fourteen years later—first when he was working for Herod Sayle, a second time inside the evil empire of Damian Cray. Yassen was dead now, but it seemed that he was still destined to be part of Alex’s life. Ash had met him in Malta. And whatever had happened on that island was part of the story that Alex wanted to know.

  “You’re sure?” Ash asked him one last time.

  “I’m sure,” Alex said.

  “Very well.” Ash nodded gravely. “Then I’d better teach you this. Ba’ad az ar tariki, roshani ast. It’s an old Afghan proverb, and there may come a time when you need to remember it. ‘After every darkness there is light.’ I hope it will be true for you.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Ash went over and opened it and a short, rather dumpy woman walked in, carrying a suitcase. She could have been a retired principal or perhaps a very old-fashioned schoolteacher. She was wearing a two-piece olive green suit and heavy stockings that only emphasized the fact that she had very shapeless legs. Her hair hung loose, with no apparent color or style. Her face could have been made of putty. She wore no makeup. There was a single brooch—a silver daisy—pinned to her lapel.

  “How are you doing, Ash?” She smiled as she came in and that, along with her broad Australian accent, seemed to bring her to life.

  “Good to see you, Cloudy,” Ash replied. He closed the door. “This is Mrs. Webber, Alex,” he explained. “She works for ASIS—a specialist in disguise. Her name is Chlöe, but we call her Cloudy. We think it suits her better. Cloudy Webber—meet Alex Rider.”

  The woman stumped over to Alex and examined him. “Hmmm…,” she muttered disapprovingly. “Mr. Brooke must need his head examined if he thinks we’re going to get away with this one. But I’ll see what I can do.” She heaved the suitcase onto the bed. “Let’s have all those clothes off you, boy. Socks, boxers, the lot. The first thing we’re going to start with is your skin.”

  “Wait a minute…,” Alex began.

  “For heaven’s sake!” the woman exploded. “You think I’m going to see anything I haven’t seen before?” She turned to Ash, who was watching from the other side of the room. “And it’s the same for you, Ash. I don’t know what you’re grinning about. You may look a bit more like an Afghan than him, but I’m going to have all your clothes too.”

  She unzipped the suitcase and took out half a dozen plastic bottles filled with various dark liquids. Next came a hairbrush, a vanity bag, and several tubes that might have contained toothpaste. The rest of the bag was packed with clothes that looked—and smelled—as if they had come out of a trash can.

  “The clothes are all from the thrift store,” she explained. “Donated in England and picked up in the market in Mazar-i-Sharif. I’ll give you two sets each, which is all you’ll need…you’ll wear them day and night. Ash—go and run a bath.” She unscrewed one of the bottles. The smell—seaweed and mineral spirits—reached Alex even on the other side of the room. “Cold water!” she added sharply.

  In the end, she let Alex take a bath on his own. She had mixed two bottles of brown dye with half a bath of cold water. Alex was instructed to lie in it for ten minutes, submerging both his face and his hair. He was shivering by the time he was allowed out and he didn’t dare look in the mirror as he dried himself—but he noticed that the hotel towels now looked as if they’d been dragged through a sewer. He pulled on a pair of ragged, shapeless boxers and came out.

  “That’s better,” Mrs. Webber muttered. She noticed the scar just above his heart. It was where Alex had been shot and nearly killed by a sniper following his first encounter with Scorpia. “That might be useful too,” she added. “A lot of Afghan boys have bullet wounds. Together, the two of you make quite a pair.”

  Alex didn’t know what she meant. He glanced at Ash—and then he understood. Ash was just pulling on a shapeless, short-sleeved shirt, and for a moment his chest and stomach were exposed. He too had a scar—but it was much worse than Alex’s, a distinct line of white, dead skin that snaked across his belly and down below the waistline of his trousers. Ash turned away, buttoning up the shirt, but he was too late. Alex had seen the terrible injury. It was a stab wound. He was sure of that. He wondered who had been holding the knife.

  “Come and sit down, Alex,” Mrs. Webber said. She had produced a tarp, which she had spread underneath a chair. “Let me deal with your hair.”

  Alex did as he was told, and for next few minutes he heard only the click of scissors and watched as uneven clumps of his hair tumbled to the ground. From the way she worked, he doubted that Mrs. Webber had received her training in a London salon. A sheep-shearing farm was more likely. When she had finished cutting, she opened one of the tubes and smeared a thick, greasy ointment over his head. Finally, she stepped back.

  “He looks great,” Ash said.

  “The teeth still need work. They’d give him away in a minute.”

  There was another tube of paste for his teeth. She rubbed it in, using her own finger. Then she produced two small plastic caps. They were both the size of a tooth, but one was gray and one was black.

  “I’m going to glue these in,” Mrs. Webber warned him.

  Alex opened his mouth and allowed her to fix the fake teeth into place. He grimaced. His mouth no longer felt like his own.

  “You’ll notice them for a day or two, but then you’ll forget them,” she said. She stepped back. “There! I’m all done. Why don’t you get dressed and take a look at yourself
?”

  “Cloudy, you’re damn good,” Ash muttered.

  Alex pulled on a faded red T-shirt and a pair of jeans—both of them dirty and full of holes. Then he went back into the bathroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. He gasped. The boy he was looking at certainly wasn’t him. He was olive-skinned, with hair that was short, dark brown, and matted in thick strands. Somehow the clothes made him look thinner than he really was. He opened his mouth and saw that two of his teeth seemed to have rotted and the rest were ugly and discolored.

  Mrs. Webber came in behind him. “You won’t need to worry about the skin color for two weeks,” she said. “Not unless you bathe…and I don’t think you’ll be doing that. You’ll have to check on the hair and teeth every five or six days. I’ll make sure Ash has plenty of supplies.”

  “It’s amazing,” Ash muttered. He was standing at the door.

  “I’ve got some sneakers for you,” Mrs. Webber added. “You won’t need socks. I doubt a refugee boy would wear socks.”

  She went back into the hotel room and produced a pair of sneakers that were stained and torn. Alex slipped them on.

  “They’re too small,” he said.

  Mrs. Webber frowned. “I can cut a hole for your toes.”

  “No. I can’t wear them.”

  She scowled at him, but even she could see that the sneakers were far too small. “All right.” She nodded. “You can hang on to your own. Just give me a minute.”

  She dug back into the suitcase and produced a razor, some old paint, and another bottle of some sort of chemical. Two minutes later, Alex’s own sneakers looked like they’d been thrown away ten years before. As he slipped them on, she set to work on Ash. He too had completely changed. He didn’t need to dye his skin, and his beard would have suited a Hazara tribesman. But his hair had to be hacked around, and he needed a completely new set of clothes. It was strange, but by the time she had finished, Alex and Ash really could have been father and son. Poverty had brought them closer together.