Eagle Strike Read online

  Alex pressed down and on the screen his avatar walked forward and into a game environment that was alien and bizarre and brilliantly realized. The temple was a fusion of primitive art and science fiction, with towering columns, flaming beacons, complex hieroglyphics and crouching Aztec statues. But the floor was silver, not stone. Strange metal stairways and corridors twisted around the temple area. Electric light flickered behind heavily barred windows. Closed-circuit cameras followed his every move.

  “You have to start by finding two weapons in the first chamber,” Cray advised, leaning over Alex’s shoulder. “You may need them later.”

  The first chamber was huge, with organ music throbbing and stained-glass windows showing cornfields, crop circles and hovering spaceships. Alex found the first weapon easily enough. There was a sword hanging high up on a wall. But he soon realized there were traps everywhere. Part of the wall crumbled as he climbed it and reaching out for the sword activated a missile which shot out of nowhere, aiming for the avatar. The missile was a double boomerang with razor-blade edges, rotating at lightning speed. Alex knew that if he was hit, he would be cut in half.

  He stabbed down with his thumbs and his miniature self crouched. The boomerang spun past. But as it went, one of its blades caught the avatar on the arm. The audience gasped. A tiny flow of blood had appeared on the miniature figure’s sleeve and its face – Alex’s face – had distorted, showing pain. The experience was so realistic that Alex almost felt a need to check his own, real arm. He had to remind himself that it was only the avatar that had been wounded.

  “Pain synthesis!” Cray repeated the words, his voice echoing across the Pleasure Dome. “In the Gameslayer world, we share all the hero’s emotions. And should Alex die, the central processing unit will ensure that we feel his death.”

  Alex had climbed back down and was searching for the second weapon. The little wound was already healing, the blood flow slowing down. He dodged as another boomerang shot past his shoulder. But he still couldn’t find the second weapon.

  “Try looking behind the ivy,” Cray suggested in a stage whisper, and the audience smiled, amused that Alex needed help so soon.

  There was a crossbow concealed in an alcove. But what Cray hadn’t told Alex was that the ivy covering the alcove contained a ten thousand volt charge. He found out soon enough. The moment his avatar touched the ivy, there was a blue flash and it was thrown backwards, screaming out loud, its eyes wide and staring. The avatar hadn’t quite been killed, but it had been badly hurt.

  Cray tapped Alex on the shoulder. “You’ll have to be more careful than that,” he said.

  A buzz of excitement travelled through the audience. They had never seen anything like this before.

  And that was when Alex decided. Suddenly MI6, Yassen, Saint-Pierre … all of it was forgotten. Cray had tricked him into touching the ivy. He had deliberately injured him. Of course, it was just a game. It was only the avatar that had been hurt. But the humiliation had been his – and suddenly he was determined to get the better of Feathered Serpent. He wasn’t going to be beaten. He wasn’t going to share his death with anyone.

  Grimly, he picked up the crossbow and sent the avatar forward, further into the Aztec world.

  The second chamber consisted of a huge hole in the ground. It was actually a pit, fifty metres deep, with narrow pillars stretching all the way to the top. The only way to get from one side to the other was to jump from one pillar to the next. If he missed his step or overbalanced, he would fall to his death – and to make it more difficult it was pouring with rain inside the chamber, making the surfaces slippery. The rain itself was extraordinary. As Cray told the audience, the Gameslayer’s image technology allowed every raindrop to be realized individually. The avatar was soaking wet, its clothes sodden and its hair plastered to its head.

  There was a sudden electronic squawk. A creature with butterfly wings and the face and claws of a dragon swooped down, trying to knock the avatar off its perch. Alex brought the crossbow up and shot it, then took the last three leaps to the other side of the pit.

  “You’re doing very well,” Damian Cray said. “But I wonder if you’ll make it through the third chamber.”

  Alex was confident. Feathered Serpent was beautifully designed. Its texture maps and backgrounds were perfect. The Omni character was way ahead of the competition. But for all this, it was just another computer game, similar to ones that Alex had played on Xbox and PlayStation 2. He knew what he was doing. He could win.

  He made easy work of the third section: a tall, narrow corridor with carved faces on either side. A hail of wooden spears and arrows fired out of the wooden mouths but not one of them came close as the avatar ducked and weaved, all the time running forward. A bubbling river of acid twisted along the corridor. The avatar jumped over it as if it were a harmless stream.

  Now he came to an incredible indoor jungle where the greatest threat, among the trees and the creepers, was a huge robotic snake, covered in spikes. The creature looked horrific. Alex had never seen better graphics. But his avatar ran circles round it, leaving it behind so quickly that the audience barely had a chance to see it.

  Cray’s face hadn’t changed, but now he was leaning over Alex, his eyes fixed on the screen, one hand resting on Alex’s shoulder. His knuckles were almost white.

  “You’re making it look too easy,” he murmured. Although the words were spoken light-heartedly, there was a rising tension in his voice.

  Because the audience was now on Alex’s side. Millions of pounds had been spent on the development of the Feathered Serpent software. But it was being beaten by the first teenager to play it. As Alex dodged a second robotic snake, someone laughed. The hand on his shoulder tightened.

  He came to the fifth chamber. This was a mirror maze, filled with smoke and guarded by a dozen Aztec gods wrapped in feathers, jewellery and golden masks. Again, each and every one of the gods was a small masterpiece of graphic art. But although they lunged at the avatar, they kept on missing, and suddenly more of the people in the audience were laughing and applauding, urging Alex on.

  One more god, this one with claws and an alligator tail, stood between Alex and the pool of fire that would lead him to the next level. All he had to do was get past it. That was when Cray made his move. He was careful. Nobody would see what happened and if they did it would simply look as if he was carried away by the excitement of the game. But he was quite deliberate. His hand suddenly moved to Alex’s arm and closed tight, pulling it away from the controller. For a few brief seconds, Alex lost control. It was enough. The Aztec god reached out and its claws raked across the avatar’s stomach. Alex actually heard his shirt being torn; he almost felt the pain as the blood poured out. His avatar fell to its knees, then pitched forward and lay still. The screen froze and the words GAME OVER appeared in red letters.

  Silence fell inside the dome.

  “Too bad, Alex,” Cray said. “I’m afraid it wasn’t quite as easy as you thought.”

  There was a scattering of applause from the audience. It was hard to tell if they were applauding the technology of the game or the way Alex had taken it on and almost beaten it. But there was also a sense of unease. Perhaps Feathered Serpent was too realistic. It really was as if a part of Alex had died there, on the screen.

  Alex turned to Cray. He was angry. He alone knew that the man had cheated. But Cray was smiling again.

  “You did great,” he said. “I asked for a demonstration and you certainly gave us one. You make sure you leave your address with one of my assistants. I’ll be sending you a free Gameslayer system and all the introductory games.”

  The audience heard this and applauded with more enthusiasm. For a second time, Cray held out a hand. Alex hesitated for a moment, then took it. In a way, he couldn’t blame Cray. The man couldn’t allow the Gameslayer to be turned into a laughing stock on its first outing. He had an investment to protect. But Alex still didn’t like what had happened.

  “G
ood to meet you, Alex. Well done…”

  He climbed down from the stage. There were more demonstrations and more talks by members of Cray’s staff. Then lunch was served. But Alex didn’t eat. He had seen enough. He left the Pleasure Dome and crossed over the water, walking back through the park and all the way down to the King’s Road.

  Jack was waiting for him when he got home.

  “So how did it go?” she asked.

  Alex told her.

  “What a cheater!” Jack scowled. “Mind you, Alex. A lot of rich men are bad losers and Cray is very rich indeed. Do you really think this proves anything?”

  “I don’t know, Jack.” Alex was confused. He had to remind himself: a great chunk of the Gameslayer profits was going to charity. A huge amount. And he still had no proof. A few words on a phone. Was it enough to tie Cray in with what had happened in Saint-Pierre? “Maybe we should go to Paris,” he said. “That was where this all began. There was a meeting. Edward Pleasure was there. He was working with a photographer. Sabina told me his name. Marc Antonio.”

  “With a name like that, he should be easy enough to track down,” Jack said. “And I love Paris.”

  “It still might be a waste of time.” Alex sighed. “I didn’t like Damian Cray. But now that I’ve met him…” His voice trailed off. “He’s an entertainer. He makes computer games. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d want to hurt anyone.”

  “It’s your call, Alex.”

  Alex shook his head. “I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know…”

  The launch of the Gameslayer was on the news that night. According to the reports, the entire industry had been knocked out by the graphic quality and the processing power of the new system. The part that Alex had played in the demonstration wasn’t mentioned. However, something else was.

  An event had taken place that had cast a cloud over what would otherwise have been a perfect day. It seemed that someone had died. A picture flashed up onto the screen, a woman’s face, and Alex recognized her at once. It was the school-teacherly woman who had put Cray on the spot, asking him awkward questions about violence. A policeman explained that she had been run over by a car as she left Hyde Park. The driver hadn’t stopped.

  The following morning Alex and Jack went to Waterloo and bought two tickets for Eurostar.

  By lunchtime they were in Paris.

  RUE BRITANNIA

  “Do you realize, Alex,” Jack said, “Picasso sat exactly where we’re sitting now. And Chagall. And Salvador Dalí…”

  “At this very table?”

  “At this very café. All the big artists came here.”

  “What are you trying to say, Jack?”

  “Well, I was just wondering if you’d like to forget this whole adventure thing and come with me to the Picasso Museum. Paris is such a fun place. And I’ve always found looking at pictures a lot more enjoyable than getting shot.”

  “Nobody’s shooting at us.”

  “Yet.”

  A day had passed since they had arrived in Paris and booked into a little hotel that Jack knew, opposite Notre-Dame. Jack knew the city well. She had once spent a year at the Sorbonne, studying art. But for the death of Ian Rider and her involvement with Alex, she might well have gone to live there.

  She had been right about one thing. Finding out where Marc Antonio lived had been easy enough. She had only telephoned three agencies before she found the one that represented the photographer, although it had taken all her charm – and rusty French – to cajole his telephone number out of the girl on the switchboard. Getting to meet him, however, was proving more difficult.

  She had rung the number a dozen times during the course of the morning before it was answered. It was a man’s voice. No, he wasn’t Marc Antonio. Yes, this was Marc Antonio’s house but he had no idea where he was. The voice was full of suspicion. Alex had been listening, sharing the receiver with Jack. In the end he took over.

  “Listen,” he said. His French was almost as good as Jack’s, but then he had started learning when he was three years old. “My name is Alex Rider. I’m a friend of Edward Pleasure. He’s an English journalist—”

  “I know who he is.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  A pause. “Go on…”

  “I have to speak to Marc Antonio. I have some important information.” Alex considered for a moment. Should he tell this man what he knew? “It’s about Damian Cray,” he said.

  The name seemed to have an effect. There was another pause, longer this time. Then…

  “Come to la Palette. It’s a café on the rue de Seine. I will meet you there at one o’clock.”

  There was a click as the man hung up.

  It was now ten past one. La Palette was a small, bustling café on the corner of a square, surrounded by art galleries. Waiters with long white aprons were sweeping in and out, carrying trays laden with drinks high above their heads. The place was packed but Alex and Jack had managed to get a table right on the edge, where they would be most conspicuous. Jack was drinking a glass of beer; Alex had a bright red fruit juice – a sirop de grenadine – with ice. It was his favourite drink when he was in France.

  He was beginning to wonder if the man he had spoken to on the telephone was going to show up. Or could he be here already? How were they going to find each other in this crowd? Then he noticed a motorcyclist sitting on a beaten-up Piaggio 125cc motorbike on the other side of the street; he was a young man in a leather jacket with black curly hair and stubble on his cheeks. He had pulled in a few minutes before but hadn’t dismounted, as if he was waiting for someone. Alex met his eye; there was a flash of contact. The young man looked puzzled but then he got off his bike and came over, moving warily as if afraid of a trap.

  “You are Alex Rider?” he asked. He spoke English with an attractive accent, like an actor in a film.

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a child.”

  “What difference does it make?” Jack demanded, coming to Alex’s defence. “Are you Marc Antonio?” she asked.

  “No. My name is Robert Guppy.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He asked me to take you to him.” Guppy glanced back at the Piaggio. “But I have only room for one.”

  “Well, you can forget it. I’m not letting Alex go on his own.”

  “It’s all right, Jack,” Alex cut in. He smiled at her. “It looks like you get to visit the Picasso Museum after all.”

  Jack sighed. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “But take care.”

  Robert Guppy drove through Paris like someone who knew the city well – or who wanted to die in it. He swerved in and out of the traffic, ignored red lights and spun across intersections with the blare of car horns echoing all around. Alex found himself clinging on for dear life. He had no idea where they were going but realized there was a reason for Guppy’s dangerous driving. He was making sure they weren’t being followed.

  They slowed down on the other side of the Seine, on the edge of the Marais, close to the Forum des Halles. Alex recognized the area. The last time he had been here, he had called himself Alex Friend and had been accompanying the hideous Mrs Stellenbosch on the way to the Point Blanc Academy. Now they slowed down and stopped in a street of typically Parisian houses – six storeys high with solid-looking doorways and tall frosted windows. Alex noticed a street sign: rue Britannia. The street went nowhere and half the buildings looked empty and dilapidated. Indeed, the ones at the far end were shored up by scaffolding and surrounded by wheelbarrows and cement mixers, with a plastic chute for debris. But there were no workmen in sight.

  Guppy got off the bike. He gestured at one of the doors. “This way,” he said. He glanced up and down the street one last time, then led Alex in.

  The door led to an inner courtyard with old furniture and a tangle of rusting bicycles in one corner. Alex followed Guppy up a short flight of steps and through another doorway. He found himself in a la
rge, high-ceilinged room with whitewashed walls, windows on both sides and a dark wood floor. It was a photographer’s studio. There were screens, complicated lamps on metal legs and silver umbrellas. But someone was also living here. To one side was a kitchen area with a pile of tins and dirty plates.

  Robert Guppy closed the door and a man appeared from behind one of the screens. He was barefoot, wearing a string vest and shapeless jeans. Alex guessed he must be about fifty. He was thin, unshaven, with a tangle of hair that was black mixed with silver. Strangely, he only had one eye; the other was behind a patch. A one-eyed photographer? Alex couldn’t see why not.

  The man glanced at him curiously, then spoke to his friend.

  “C’est lui qui a téléphoné?”

  “Oui…”

  “Are you Marc Antonio?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. You say you are a friend of Edward Pleasure. I didn’t know Edward hung out with kids.”

  “I know his daughter. I was staying with him in France when…” Alex hesitated. “You know what happened to him?”

  “Of course I know what happened to him. Why do you think I am hiding here?” He gazed at Alex quizzically, his one good eye slowly evaluating him. “You said on the telephone that you could tell me something about Damian Cray. Do you know him?”

  “I met him two days ago. In London…”

  “Cray is no longer in London.” It was Robert Guppy who spoke, leaning against the door. “He has a software plant just outside Amsterdam. In Sloterdijk. He arrived there this morning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’re keeping a close eye on Mr Cray.”

  Alex turned to Marc Antonio. “You have to tell me what you and Edward Pleasure found out about him,” he said. “What story were you working on? What was the secret meeting he had here?”

  The photographer thought for a moment, then smiled crookedly, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Alex Rider,” he muttered, “you’re a strange kid. You say you have information to give me, but you come here and you ask only questions. You have a nerve. But I like that.” He took out a cigarette – a Gauloise – and screwed it into his mouth. He lit it and blew blue smoke into the air. “All right. It is against my better judgement. But I will tell you what I know.”