Ark Angel Alex Rider [6] Anthony Horowitz Puffin (2011) General, Action Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fiction, Family, Espionage, Adventure stories, Political Science, Mysteries Detective Stories, Orphans, Adventure and adventurers, Law Crime, Political Freedom Security, Orphans Foster Homes, Spies, Terrorism, True Crime Tags:Generalttt Action Adventurettt Juvenile Fictionttt Fictionttt Familyttt Espionagettt Adventure storiesttt Political Sciencettt Mysteries Detective Storiesttt Orphansttt Adventure and adventurersttt Law Crimettt Political Freedom Securityttt Orphans Foster Homesttt Spiesttt Terrorismttt True Crimettt From School Library Journal Grade 5-10-Alex Rider is giving it up. Being a teenage secret agent is just too dangerous. He wants his old life back. As he lies in the hospital bed recovering from a gunshot wound, he contemplates the end of his career with MI6, the British secret service. But then he saves the life of Paul Drevin, son of multibillionaire Nikolei Drevin, and once again he is pulled into service. This time his mission involves eco-terrorists, rockets to space, maniacal killers, and a less-than-idyllic tropical island. Is it all in a day's work, or will this truly be Alex Rider's last mission? The action-filled plot develops quickly and keeps readers on the edge of their seats. The over-the-top characters, with their exaggerated quirks and personalities, work well in this James Bond-like novel. Detailed background, technical, and political information, essential for any spy story, is uncomplicated and easy for most readers to understand. Though there are some references to previous missions, this title can certainly stand alone. Recommend it to your reluctant readers and get ready for them to line up for the rest of the series._-Heather E. Miller, Homewood Public Library, AL_ Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Gr. 6--9. In his sixth adventure Alex Rider runs afoul of a group of murderous "eco warriors" and befriends Paul Drevin, the lonely son of venerated multibillionaire Nikolai Drevin, who isn't what he seems. In fact, neither is Paul, as Alex finds out when he accompanies the father and son on a vacation to the family's luxurious home in Flamingo Bay, which happens to be the launching site of a rocket that will carry the observation module for Drevin's hugely publicized Ark Angel, the first hotel in space. Readers will need to suspend disbelief more than usual this time: Alex's solo trip into space is unquestionably over the top, and there are a few glitches in plotting. What's impossible to resist are the imaginative gadgets and the breakneck action, which Horowitz handles with his usual assurance and skill. Expect very high demand for this. The first title in the series, Stormbreaker (2001), is being released as a movie, and to celebrate the event, the publisher has redesigned the series' book covers to incorporate a snazzy holographic foil. Stephanie Zvirin Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved FORCE THREE The bomb had been timed to go off at exactly half past three. Strangely, the man it had been designed to kill probably knew more about bombs and terrorism than anyone else in the world. He had even written books on the subject. Looking After Number One: Fifty Ways to Protect Yourself at Home and Abroad might not be the snappiest of titles, but the book had sold twenty thousand copies in America, and it was said that the president himself kept a copy by his bed. The man did not think of himself as a target, but even so he was always careful. As he often joked, it would be bad for business if he was blown up crossing the street. His name was Max Webber, and he was short and plump with tortoise-shell glasses and jet-black hair that was actually dyed. He told people that he had once been in the SAS, which was true. What he didn’t tell them was that he had been dropped after his first tour of duty. In his forties he had opened a training centre in London, advising rich businessmen on how to look after themselves. He had become a writer and a journalist, frequently appearing on television to discuss international security. And now he was the guest speaker at the fourth International Security Conference, being held at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on the south bank of the Thames in London. The whole building had been cordoned off. Helicopters had been flying overhead all morning and police with sniffer dogs had been waiting in the foyer. Briefcases, cameras and all electronic devices had been forbidden inside the main hall, and delegates had been made to pass through a rigorous screening system before being allowed in. More than eight hundred men and women from seventeen countries had turned up. Among them were diplomats, businessmen, senior politicians, journalists and members of various security services. They had to feel safe. Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones were both in the audience. As the head and deputy head of MI6 Special Operations, it was their responsibility to keep up with the latest developments, although as far as Blunt was concerned, the whole thing was a waste of time. There were security conferences all the time in every major city but they never achieved anything. The experts talked. The politicians lied. The press wrote it all down. And then everyone went home and nothing changed. Alan Blunt was bored. He looked half asleep. At exactly two fifteen, Max Webber began to speak. He was dressed in an expensive suit and tie and spoke slowly, his clipped voice full of authority. He had notes in front of him but he referred to them only occasionally, his eyes fixed on the audience, speaking directly to each one of them. In a glass-fronted projection room overlooking the stage, nine translators spoke quietly into microphones, just a second or two behind. Here and there in the audience, men and women could be seen with one hand pressed against their earpiece, concentrating on what was being said. Webber turned a page. “I am often asked which is the most dangerous terrorist group in the world. The answer is not what you might expect. It is a group that you may not know. But I can assure you that it is one you should fear, and I wish to speak briefly about it now.” He pressed a button on his lectern and two words appeared, projected onto a giant screen behind him. FORCE THREE In the fifth row, Blunt opened his eyes and turned to Mrs Jones. He looked puzzled. She shook her head briefly. Both of them were suddenly alert. “They call themselves Force Three,” Webber went on. “The name refers to the fact that the earth is the third planet from the sun. These people wouldn’t describe themselves as terrorists. They would probably prefer you to think of them as eco-warriors, fighting to protect the earth from the evils of pollution. Broadly speaking, they’re protesting against climate change, the destruction of the rainforests, the use of nuclear power, genetic engineering and the growth of multinational business. All very commendable, you might think. Their agenda is similar to that of Greenpeace. The difference is that these people are fanatics. They will kill anyone who gets in their way; they have already killed many times. They claim to respect the planet but they have no respect at all for human life.” Webber clicked again and a photograph flashed up on the screen. There was a stir in the auditorium as the audience examined it. At first sight, they seemed to be looking at a picture of a globe. Then they saw that it was a globe sitting on a pair of shoulders. Finally they realized it was a man. He had a very round head which was completely shaven—including the eyebrows. And there was a map of the world tattooed on his skin. England and France covered his left eye. Newfoundland poked out over his right. Argentina floated around one side of his neck. A gasp of revulsion spread around the room. The man was a freak. “This is the commanding officer of Force Three,” Webber explained. “As you can see, he cares about the planet so much, he’s rather let it go to his head. “His name—or at least the name that he goes by—is Kaspar. Very little is known about him. It is thought he might be French, but we don’t even know for certain where he was born. Nor do we know when he acquired these tattoos. But I can tell you that Kaspar has been very busy in the last six months. He was responsible for the assassination of Marjorie Schultz, a journalist living in Berlin, in June; her only crime was to write an article criticizing Force Three. He planned the kidnapping and murder of two members of the Atomic Energy Commission in Toronto. He has organized explosions in six countries, including Japan and New Zealand. He destroyed a car manufacturing plant in Dakota. And I have to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, he enjoys his work. Whenever possible, Kaspar likes to press the button himself. “In my view, Kaspar is now the most dangerous man alive, for the simple reason that he believes the whole world is with him. And in a sense he’s right. I’m sure there are many people in this room who believe in protecting the environment. The trouble is, he would kill every single one of you if he thought it would help him achieve his aims. That is why I’m issuing this warning. “Find Kaspar. Find Force Three before they can do any more harm. Because with every day that passes, I believe they are becoming a more serious and deadly threat.” Webber paused as he turned another page of his notes. When he began speaking again, the subject had changed. Twenty minutes later, at exactly three o’clock, he finished. There was polite applause. Coffee and biscuits were being served in the foyer after the session ended, but Webber wasn’t staying. He shook hands briefly with a diplomat he knew and exchanged a few words with some journalists, then moved on. He was heading towards the auditorium exit when he found his way blocked by a man and a woman. They were an unlikely pair. There was no way he would have mistaken them for husband and wife, even though they were about the same age. The woman was thin with short black hair. The man was shorter and entirely grey. There was nothing interesting about him at all. “Alan Blunt!” Webber smiled and nodded. “Mrs Jones!” Very few people in the world would have recognized these two individuals, but Webber knew them instantly. “We enjoyed your talk, Mr Webber,” Blunt said, although there was little enthusiasm in his voice. “Thank you.” “We were particularly interested in your comments concerning Force Three.” “You know about them, of course?” The question was directed at Blunt, but it was Mrs Jones who answered. “We’ve heard about them, certainly,” she replied. “But the fact is, we know very little about them. Six months ago, as far as we can see, they didn’t even exist.” “That’s right. They were founded very recently.” “You seem to know a lot about them, Mr Webber. We’d be interested to learn where you got your information.” Webber smiled a second time. “You know I can’t possibly reveal my sources, Mrs Jones,” he said lightly. Suddenly he was serious. “But I find it very worrying that our country’s security services should be so ignorant. I thought you were meant to be protecting us.” “That’s why we’re talking to you now,” Mrs Jones countered. “If you know something, I think you should tell us—” Webber interrupted her. “I think I’ve told you quite enough. If you want to know more, I suggest you come to my next lecture. I’ll be talking in Stockholm a couple of weeks from now, and it may well be that I shall have further information about Force Three then. If so, I’ll be happy to share it with you. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll wish you good day.” Webber pushed his way between them and headed towards the cloakroom. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. It had gone perfectly—and meeting Alan Blunt and the Jones woman had been an unexpected bonus. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a plastic disc which he handed to the cloakroom attendant. His mobile phone had been taken from him when he went in: a security measure he himself had recommended in his book. Now it was returned to him. Ninety seconds later he emerged onto the wide pavement in front of the river. It was early October but the weather was still warm, the afternoon sun turning the water a deep blue. There were only a few people around—mainly kids rattling back and forth on their skateboards—but Webber still checked them out, just to make sure that none of them had any interest in him. He decided to walk home instead of taking public transport or hailing a taxi. That was something else he’d written in his book. In any major city, you’re always safer out in the open, on your own two feet. He had only taken a few steps when his mobile rang, vibrating in his jacket pocket. He dug it out. Somewhere in the back of his mind he seemed to recall that the phone had been switched off when he handed it to the cloakroom attendant. But he was feeling so pleased with himself, with the way his speech had gone, that he ignored this single whisper of doubt. It was twenty-nine minutes past three. “Hello?” “Mr Webber. I’m ringing to congratulate you. It went very well.” The voice was soft and somehow artificial. It wasn’t an Englishman speaking. It was someone who had learnt the language very carefully. The pronunciation was too deliberate, too precise. There was no emotion in the voice at all. “You heard me?” Max Webber was still walking, speaking at the same time. “Oh yes. I was in the audience. I am very pleased.” “Did you know that MI6 were there?” “No.” “I spoke to them afterwards. They were very interested in what I had to say.” Webber chuckled quietly. “Maybe I should raise my price.” “I think we’ll stick with our original agreement,” the voice replied. Max Webber shrugged. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was still a great deal of money. Paid into a secret bank account, it would come tax- free, no questions asked. And it had been such a simple thing to do. A quarter of a million for just ten minutes’ work! The man on the other end spoke again and suddenly his voice was sad. “There is just one thing that concerns me, Mr Webber…” “What’s that?” Webber could hear something else, in the background. Some sort of interference. He pressed the phone more tightly against his ear. “In your speech today, you made an enemy of Force Three. And as you yourself pointed out, they are completely ruthless.” “I don’t think either of us need worry about Force Three.” Webber looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “And I think you should remember, my friend, I served with the SAS. I know how to look after myself.” “Really?” Was the voice mocking him? For reasons Webber didn’t quite understand, he was beginning to feel uneasy. And the interference was getting louder; he could hear it in his mobile phone. Some sort of ticking. “I’m not afraid of Force Three,” he blustered. “I’m not afraid of anyone. Just make sure the money reaches my account.” “Goodbye, Mr Webber,” said the voice. There was a click. One second of silence. Then the mobile phone exploded. Max Webber had been holding it tight against his ear. If he heard the blast, he was dead before it registered. A couple of joggers were approaching from the other direction, and they both screamed as the thing that had just moments before been a man toppled over into their path. The explosion was surprisingly loud. It was heard in the conference centre where delegates were still drinking coffee and congratulating one another on their contributions. They also heard the wail of the sirens as the ambulance and police cars arrived shortly afterwards. Later that afternoon, Force Three called the press and claimed responsibility for the killing. Max Webber had declared war on them, and for that reason he had to die. In the same phone call they issued a stark warning. They had already chosen their next target. And they were planning something the world would not forget. THE BOY IN ROOM NINE The nurse was twenty-three years old, blonde and nervous. This was only her second week at St Dominic’s, one of London’s most exclusive private hospitals. Rock stars and television celebrities came here, she had been told. There were also VIPs from abroad. VIPs here meant very important patients. Even famous people get sick, and the ones who wanted to recover in five-star comfort chose St Dominic’s. The surgeons and therapists were world class. The hospital food was so good that some patients had been known to pretend they were ill so that they could enjoy it for a while longer. That evening, the nurse was making her way down a wide, brightly lit corridor, carrying a tray of medicines. She was wearing a freshly laundered white dress. Her name—D. MEACHER—was printed on a badge pinned to her uniform. Several of the junior doctors had already placed bets on which of them would persuade her to go out with them first. She stopped in front of an open door. Room nine. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Diana Meacher.” “I’m looking forward to meeting you too,” the boy in room nine replied. Alex Rider was sitting up in bed, reading a French textbook that he should have been studying at school. He was wearing pyjamas that had fallen open at the neck and the nurse could just make out the bandages criss-crossing his chest. He was a very handsome boy, she thought. He had fair hair and serious brown eyes that looked as if they had seen too much. She knew that he was only fourteen, but he looked older. Pain had done that to him. Nurse Meacher had read his medical file and understood what he had been through. In truth, he should have been dead. Alex Rider had been hit by a bullet fired from a .22 rifle from a distance of almost seventy-five metres. The sniper had been aiming for his heart—and if the bullet had found its target, Alex would have had no chance of surviving. But nothing is certain—not even murder. A tiny movement had saved his life. As he had come out of MI6’s headquarters on Liverpool Street, he had stepped off the pavement, his right foot carrying his body down towards the level of the road. It was at that exact moment that the bullet had hit him, and instead of powering into his heart, it had entered his body half a centimetre higher, ricocheting off a rib and exiting horizontally under his left arm. The bullet had missed his vital heart structures, but even so it had done plenty of damage, tearing through the subclavian artery, which carries blood over the top of the lung and into the arm. This was what Alex had felt when he was hit. As blood had poured out of the severed artery, filling the space between the lung and the thoracic cage, he had found himself unable to breathe. Alex could easily have died from shock or loss of blood. If he had been a man he almost certainly would have. But the body of a child is different to that of an adult. A young person’s artery will automatically shut itself down if cut—doctors can’t explain how or why—and this will limit the amount of blood lost. Alex was unconscious but he was still breathing, four minutes later, when the first ambulance arrived. There wasn’t much the paramedics could do: IV fluids, oxygen and some gentle compression around the bullet’s point of entry. But that was enough. Alex had been rushed to St Dominic’s, where surgeons had removed the bone fragments and put a graft on the artery. He had been in the operating theatre two and a half hours. And now he was looking almost as if nothing had happened. As the nurse came into the room, he closed the book and settled back into his pillows. Diana Meacher knew that this was his last night in hospital. He had been here for ten days and tomorrow he was going home. She also knew that she wasn’t allowed to ask too many questions. It was there in large print on his file: PATIENT 9/75958 RIDER/ALEX: SPECIAL STATUS (MISO). NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. NO PRESS. REFER ALL ENQUIRIES TO DR HAYWARD. It was all very strange. She had been told she would meet some interesting people at St Dominic’s, and she had been required to sign a confidentiality clause before she began work. But she’d never expected anything like this. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations. But what was the secret service doing with a teenage boy? How had Alex managed to get himself shot? And why had there been two armed policemen sitting outside his room for the first four days of his stay? Diana tried to push these thoughts out of her mind as she put the tray down. Maybe she should have stuck with the NHS. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I’m fine, thanks.” “Looking forward to going home?” “Yes.” Diana realized she was staring at Alex and turned her attention to the medicines. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?” “No, I’m all right.” Alex shook his head and for a moment something flickered in his eyes. The pain in his chest had slowly faded but he knew it would never leave him completely. He could feel it now, vague and distant, like a bad memory. “Would you like me to come back later?” “No, it’s all right, thanks.” He smiled. “I don’t need anyone to tuck me in.” Diana blushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall. You can call me any time.” “I might do that.” The nurse picked up her tray and walked out of the room. She left behind the scent of her perfume— heather and spring flowers—in the air. Alex sniffed. It seemed to him that since his injury, his senses had become more acute. He reached for his French book, then changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought. Irregular verbs could wait. It was his own future that concerned him more. He looked around at the neat, softly lit room that tried hard to pretend it belonged to an expensive hotel rather than a hospital. There was a TV on a table in the corner, operated by a remote control beside the bed. A window looked out over a wide north London street lined with trees. His room was on the second floor, one of about a dozen arranged in a ring around a bright and modern reception area. In the early days after his operation, there had been flowers everywhere, but Alex had asked for them to be taken away. They’d reminded him of a funeral parlour and he had decided he preferred being alive. But there were still cards. He had received more than twenty and he’d been surprised how many people had heard that he’d been hurt—and how many had sent a card. There had been a dozen from school: one from the head; one from Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary; and several from his friends. Tom Harris had sent him some photos taken on their trip to Venice and a note: They told us it’s appendicitis but I bet it isn’t. Get well soon anyway. Tom was the only person at Brookland who knew the truth about Alex. Sabina Pleasure had somehow discovered he was in hospital and had sent him a card from San Francisco. She was enjoying life in America but missed England, she said. She was hoping to come over for Christmas. Jack Starbright had sent him the biggest card in the room and had followed it up with chocolates, magazines and energy drinks, visiting him twice a day. There was even a card from the prime minister’s office—although it seemed the prime minister had been too busy to sign it. And there had been cards from MI6. One from Mrs Jones, another from Alan Blunt (a printed message with a single word—BLUNT—signed in green ink as if it were a memorandum not a get well card). Alex had been surprised and pleased to receive a card from Wolf, the soldier he had met while training with the SAS. The postmark showed it had been mailed in Baghdad. But his favourite had been sent by Smithers. On the front was a teddy bear. There was no message inside, but when Alex opened the card, the teddy bear’s eyes blinked and it began to talk. “Alex—very sorry to hear you’ve been hurt.” The bear was speaking with Smithers’ voice. “Hope you get better soon, old chap. Just take it easy— I’m sure you deserve a rest. Oh, and by the way, this card will self-destruct in five seconds.” Sure enough, to the horror of the nurses, the card had immediately burst into flames. As well as cards, there had been visitors. Mrs Jones had been the first. Alex had only just come round after surgery when she appeared. He had never seen the deputy head of Special Operations looking quite so unsure of herself. She was wearing a charcoal-grey raincoat which hung open to reveal a dark suit underneath. Her hair was wet and raindrops glistened on her shoulders. “I don’t quite know what to say to you, Alex,” she began. She hadn’t asked him how she was. She would have already got that from the doctors. “What happened to you in Liverpool Street was an unforgivable lapse of security. Too many people know the location of our headquarters. We’re going to stop using the main entrance. It’s too dangerous.” Alex shifted uncomfortably in the bed but said nothing. “Your condition is stable. I can’t tell you how relieved I am personally. When I heard you’d been shot, I…” She stopped herself. Her black eyes looked down, taking in the tubes and wires attached to the boy lying in front of her, feeding into his arm, nose, mouth and stomach. “I know you can’t talk now,” she went on. “So I’ll be brief. “You are safe here. We’ve used St Dominic’s before, and there are certain procedures being followed. There are guards outside your room. There’ll be someone there twenty-four hours a day as long as necessary. “The shooting in Liverpool Street was reported in the press but your name was kept out of it. Your age too. The sniper who fired at you had taken a position on the roof opposite. We’re still investigating how he managed to get up there without being detected—and I’m afraid we’ve been unable to find him. But right now, your safety is our primary concern. We can talk to Scorpia. As you know, we’ve had dealings with them in the past. I’m sure I can persuade them to leave you alone. You destroyed their operation, Alex, and they punished you. But enough is enough.” She stopped. Alex’s heart monitor pulsed softly in the dim light. “Please try not to think too badly of us,” she added. “After everything you’ve been through—Scorpia, your father… I will never forgive myself for what happened. I sometimes think it was wrong of us ever to get you involved in the first place. But we can talk about that another time.” Alex was too weak to reply. He watched as Mrs Jones got up and left, and he guessed that Scorpia must have decided to leave him alone, because a few days later the armed guards outside his room quietly disappeared. And now, in just over twelve hours, he would be out of here too. Jack had already been planning the weeks ahead. She wanted to take him on holiday to Florida or perhaps the Caribbean. It was October and the summer was definitely over, leaves falling and cold breezes coming in with the night. Jack wanted Alex to rest and regain his strength in the sun—but secretly he wasn’t so sure. He picked up the textbook again. He never thought he’d hear himself say this, but the truth was he just wanted to go back to school. He wanted to be ordinary again. Scorpia had sent him a simple, unforgettable message. Being a spy could get him killed. Irregular verbs were less dangerous. There was a movement at the door and a boy looked in. “Hi, Alex.” The boy had a strange accent—Eastern European, possibly Russian. He was fourteen, with short blond hair and light blue eyes. His face was thin, his skin pale. He was wearing pyjamas and a large dressing gown which made him seem smaller than he was. He was staying in the room next door to Alex and really had been treated for appendicitis, with complications. His name was Paul Drevin—the surname was somehow familiar—but Alex didn’t know anything more about him. The two of them had spoken briefly a few times. They were nearly the same age, and the only teenagers on the corridor. Alex raised a hand in greeting. “Hi.” “I hear you’re getting out of here tomorrow,” Paul said. “Yes. How about you?” “Another day, worst luck.” He hovered in the doorway. He seemed to want to come in, but at the same time something held him back. “I’ll be glad to leave,” he admitted. “I want to go home.” “Where is home?” Alex asked. “I’m not sure.” Paul was completely serious. “We live in London a lot of the time. But my father’s always moving. Moscow, New York, the South of France … he’s been too busy even to come in and see me. And we have so many houses, I sometimes wonder which is my home.” “Where do you go to school?” Alex had picked up on the mention of Moscow and assumed that Paul must be Russian. “I don’t go to school; I have tutors.” Paul shrugged. “It’s difficult. My life’s sort of weird, because of my father. Because of everything. Anyway, I’m jealous of you getting out before me. Good luck.” “Thanks.” Paul hesitated a fraction longer, then left. Alex gazed thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Perhaps his father was some sort of politician or banker. On the few occasions they had spoken he’d got the impression that the other boy was friendless. He wondered how many kids were admitted into this hospital who had fathers willing to spend thousands to make them better, but who had no time to visit them while they were there. It was nine o’clock. Alex flicked through the television channels, but there was nothing on. He wished now that he had accepted the sleeping pill from the nurse. A little sip of water and he would have been out for the night. And out of the hospital the next day. Alex was looking forward to that more than anything. He needed to start his life again. He watched half an hour of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. Then he switched off the television, turned off the light and curled up in the bed one last time. He rather wished Diana Meacher had come back to see him. Briefly he remembered the scent of her perfume. And then he was asleep. But not for long. The next thing Alex knew, it was half past twelve. There was a clock beside the bed, its numerals glowing in the dark. He woke up reluctantly, trying to climb back down into the pit from which he had come. The truth was, it was difficult to sleep when he had done nothing to make him tired. All day he’d been lying there, breathing in the clean, conditioned atmosphere that at St Dominic’s passed for air. He lay in the semi-darkness, wondering what to do. Then he got up and slipped into his dressing gown. This was the worst thing about being in hospital. There was no way out, nowhere to go. Alex couldn’t get used to it. Every night for a week, he’d woken up at about the same time, and finally he’d decided to break the rules and escape from the sterile box that was his room. He wanted to be outside. He needed the smell of London, the noise of the traffic, the feeling that he still belonged to the real world. He put on a pair of slippers and went out. The lights had been dimmed, casting no more than a discreet glow outside his room. There was a computer screen gleaming behind the nurses’ station but no sign of Diana Meacher or anyone else. Alex took a step forward. There are few places more silent than a hospital in the middle of the night and he felt almost afraid to move, as if he was breaking some sort of unwritten law between the healthy and the sick. But he knew he would just lie awake for hours if he stayed in bed. He had nothing to worry about. Mrs Jones was certain that Scorpia was no longer a threat. He was almost tempted to leave the hospital and catch the night bus home. Of course, that was out of the question. He couldn’t go that far. But he was still determined to reach the main reception with its sliding glass doors and—just beyond—a real street with people and cars and noise and dirt. By day, three receptionists answered the phones and dealt with enquiries. After eight o’clock there was just one. Alex had already met him—a cheerful Irishman called Conor Hackett. The two of them had quickly become friends. Conor was sixty-five and had spent most of his life in Dublin. He’d taken this job to help support his nine grandchildren. After they’d talked a while, Alex had persuaded Conor to let him go outside, and he had spent a happy fifteen minutes on the pavement in front of the main entrance, watching the passing traffic and breathing in the night air. He would do the same again now. Maybe he could stretch it to half an hour. Conor would complain; he would threaten to call the nurse. But Alex was sure he would let him have his way. He avoided the lift, afraid that the noise of the bell as it arrived would give him away. He walked down the stairs to the first floor, and continued along a corridor. From here he could look down on the polished floor of reception and the glass entrance doors. He could see Conor sitting behind his desk, reading a magazine. Even down here the lights were dimmed. It was as if the hospital wanted to remind visitors where they were the moment they came in. Conor turned a page. Alex was about to walk down the last few stairs, when suddenly the front doors slid open. Alex was both startled and a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be caught here in his dressing gown and pyjamas. At the same time, he wondered who could possibly be visiting St Dominic’s at this time of night. He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Now he could watch everything that was happening, unobserved. Four men came in. They were in their late twenties, and all looked fit. The leader was wearing a combat jacket and a Che Guevara T-shirt. The others were dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirts and trainers. From where he was hiding, Alex couldn’t make out their faces very clearly, but already he knew there was something strange about them. The way they moved was somehow too fast, too energetic. People move more cautiously when they come into a hospital. After all, nobody actually wants to be there. “Hey—how are you doing?” the first man asked. The words cut through the gloom. He had a cheerful, cultivated voice. “How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He sounded as puzzled as Alex felt. “We’d like to visit one of your patients,” the man explained. “I wonder if you can tell us where he is.” “I’m very sorry.” Alex couldn’t see Conor’s face, but he could imagine the smile in his voice. “You can’t visit anyone now. It’s almost one o’clock! You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” “I don’t think you understand.” Alex felt the first stirrings of nervousness. A note of menace had crept into the man’s voice. And there was something sinister about the way the other three men were positioned. They were spread out between the receptionist and the main entrance. It was as if they didn’t want him to leave. Or anyone else to enter. “We want to see Paul Drevin.” Alex heard the name with a shiver of disbelief. The boy in the room next to his! Why would these men want to see him so late at night? “What room is he in?” the man in the combat jacket asked. Conor shook his head. “I can’t give you that information,” he protested. “Come back tomorrow and someone will be happy to help you then.” “We want to know now,” the man insisted. He reached into his jacket and Alex felt the floor sway beneath him as the man produced a gun. It was equipped with a silencer. And it was pointing at the receptionist’s head. “What are you…?” Conor had gone rigid; his voice had risen to a high-pitched squeak. “I can’t tell you!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What do you want?” “We want the room number of Paul Drevin. If you don’t give it to me in the next three seconds, I will pull the trigger and the only part of this hospital you’ll ever need again will be the morgue.” “Wait!” “One…” “I don’t know where he is!” “Two…” Alex felt his chest hurting. He realized he was holding his breath. “All right! All right! Let me find it for you.” The receptionist began to tap hurriedly at the keyboard hidden below the top of his desk. Alex heard the clatter of the keys. “He’s on the second floor! Room eight.” “Thank you,” the man said, and shot him. Alex heard the angry cough of the bullet as it was spat out by the silencer. He saw a black spray in front of the receptionist’s forehead. Conor was thrown backwards, his hands raised briefly. Nobody moved. “Room eight. Second floor,” one of the men muttered. “I told you he was in room eight,” the first man said. “Then why did you ask?” “I just wanted to be sure.” One of them sniggered. “Let’s go and get him,” another said. Alex was frozen to the spot. He could feel his wound throbbing angrily. This couldn’t be happening, could it? But it was happening. He had seen it for himself. The four men moved. Alex turned and ran. EMERGENCY TREATMENT Alex took the stairs two at a time, a hundred different thoughts tumbling through his mind. Who were the four men and why were they here? What did they want with Paul? The name Drevin meant something to him, but this wasn’t the time to work out what it was. What could he do to stop them? He came to a fire alarm in a red box on the wall and stopped beside it. For a few, precious seconds his fist hovered over the glass. But he knew that setting off the alarm would do no good. For the moment, surprise was all he had on his side. The fire alarm would only tell the men that they had been seen, and then they would go about their work all the faster, killing or kidnapping the boy long before the police or fire brigade arrived. Alex didn’t want to confront the four men on his own. He was desperately tempted to call for help. But he knew it would come too late. He continued up the stairs, one small piece of knowledge spurring him on. The men had shown themselves to be single-minded and ruthless. But they had already made one mistake. When they had set off, they had been moving in the direction of the lift, and Alex knew something they didn’t. The lifts at St Dominic’s were the original bed lifts, almost twenty years old. They were designed to carry patients up from the operating theatres on the first floor and had to stop without even the slightest shudder. For this reason they were very, very slow. It would take Alex less than twenty seconds to reach the second floor; it would take the men almost two minutes. That gave him one minute and forty seconds to do something. But what? He burst through the doors and into the nurses’ area in front of his room. There was still nobody around, which was strange. Perhaps the four men had created some sort of diversion. That would make sense. They could have got rid of the nurse with a single phone call and right now she could be anywhere in the hospital. Alex stood panting in the half-light, trying to get his brain to work. He could imagine the lift making its way inch by inch towards him. He was painfully aware of the unevenness of the competition. The men were professional killers. Alex would have known that even if he hadn’t seen them murder the night receptionist. It was obvious from their body language, the way they smiled, the conversation he’d overheard. Killing was second nature to them. Alex couldn’t possibly fight them. He was unarmed. Worse, he was in pyjamas and slippers with a chest wound held together by stitches and bandages. He had never been more helpless. Once he was seen, he would be finished. He didn’t stand a chance. And yet he had to do something. He thought about the strange, lonely boy in the room next to his. Paul Drevin was only just fourteen—eight months younger than Alex. These men had come for him. Alex couldn’t let them take him. He looked at the open door of his own room—number nine. It was exactly opposite the lift, and was the first thing the men would see when they stepped out. Paul Drevin was asleep in the next room. His door was closed. Their names were visible in the half-light: ALEX RIDER and PAUL DREVIN. They were printed on plastic strips that fitted into a slot on each door. Underneath, also on strips, were the room numbers. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a plan started to form in Alex’s mind. Wondering if he had left himself enough time, he darted forward and snatched a teaspoon from a cup and saucer a nurse had left on the desk. Using the spoon handle, he prised his name and room number out of their slots, then did the same to the next door. It took another few seconds to snap the plastic strips back into place. Now it was Alex Rider who was asleep in room nine. The door to room eight was open and Paul Drevin wasn’t there. Alex ran into his room, pulled open the cupboard and grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans. He knew what he had done wasn’t enough. If the men glanced at the doors more than briefly, they would see the trick that had been played, because the sequence was wrong: six, seven, nine, eight, ten. Alex had to make sure they didn’t have time to examine anything. He had to make them come after him. He didn’t dare get dressed in sight of the lift. He hurried out with the clothes—past the nurses’ station, away from the two rooms. He came to a corridor leading off at ninety degrees. It ran about twenty metres to a pair of swing doors and another staircase. There was an open store cupboard on one side of the corridor and next to it a trolley with some sort of machine: low and flat with a series of buttons and a narrow, rectangular TV screen that looked like it had been squashed. Alex recognized the machine. There were also two oxygen cylinders. He could feel his heart pounding underneath the bandages. The silence in the hospital was unnerving. How much time had passed since Conor had been killed? Swiftly he stripped off the pyjamas and pulled on his own clothes. It felt good to be dressed again after ten long days and nights. He was no longer a patient. He was beginning to get his life back. The lift doors opened, breaking the silence with a metallic rattle. Alex watched the four men walk out. Quickly he summed them up. Two were black, two white. They moved as a single unit, as if they were used to working together. He gave them names based on their appearances. The man who had shot Conor was the leader. He had a broken nose that seemed to split his face like a crack in a mirror. Alex thought of him as Combat Jacket. The next was thin, with crumpled cheeks and orange-tinted glasses. Spectacles. The third was short and muscular, and obviously spent a serious amount of time at the gym. He had a heavy dull metal watch on his wrist, and that gave him his name: Steel Watch. The last man was unshaven, with straggly black hair. At some point he’d been to a bad dentist, who had left his mark very visibly. He would be Silver Tooth. All four were moving quickly, impatient after the long wait in the lift. This was the moment of truth. Combat Jacket registered the open door and the empty bed inside. He read the name. At that moment, Alex appeared, walking down the corridor as if he had just been to the toilet and was returning to his room. He stopped and gave a small gasp of surprise. The men looked at him. And immediately made the assumption that Alex had guessed they would. Even if they knew what their target was supposed to look like, they couldn’t see his face in the soft light. He was Paul Drevin. Who else could he be? “Paul?” Combat Jacket spoke the single word.