Crocodile Tears Part 13

It was the moment to ask what Bulman really wanted to know. "So why are you interested in Alex, Mr. McCain?" he continued casually. "I have to tell you, whatever you do with that kid is fine with me. But I would be interested to know-"

"I'm sure you would, Mr. Bulman." The round white eyes settled on him, and for a moment he shuddered. "You are a journalist, I understand."

"That's right."

"I would hate to think that you might be tempted to write about this meeting today."

"That depends how much you're going to pay me."

"We've already agreed on the price," Straik muttered. "Twenty thousand dollars, in cash."

Bulman licked his lips. He could taste the mint from the chewing gum. "I agreed to that price before I realized that Mr. McCain was involved," he said. "But I thought, under the circ.u.mstances, that we might renegotiate."

"I agree with you," McCain said. "That's exactly what I've decided to do."

He took out a gun and shot the journalist three times; once in the head, once in the throat, and once in the chest. Bulman's last gesture was one of surprise. His eyes widened even as his hands flew up and his body jerked in the chair. Then he slumped back. Blood trickled down from the three bullet holes, spreading across his s.h.i.+rt.

"Was that completely wise?" Straik asked.

"It was unavoidable," McCain replied. He slipped the gun back into his pocket. "He wasn't going to keep quiet. He was greedy. A week from now or a year from now, he would have made himself a nuisance."

"I'm sure. But are we safe?"

"I would doubt very much that he told anyone he was coming here. There's nothing to connect him with you or me. He was a journalist. Now he's a dead journalist. Who really cares about the difference?"

"And what about Alex Rider?" Straik got up and went over to the window. He made a signal and a moment later there was the sound of an engine starting up. "We can't go ahead, Desmond. Poison Dawn is finished."

"No." McCain hadn't raised his voice, but the single word was dark and thunderous. The two of them had known each other for years, but at that moment Straik wondered if he fully understood what went on inside the other man's head. There was a sort of madness there. He wouldn't listen to any argument. "We have been planning this too long," McCain said. "We've spent too much time and too much money. Everything is in place."

"But if MI6 knows what we're doing . . ."

"They can't know. It's impossible."

"They sent the boy. First to Scotland and then to Greenfields."

"I'm not so sure." McCain glanced at Bulman as if he'd forgotten that he'd just shot him and was expecting him to make some comment. "When Alex Rider came to Kilmore Castle, he was a guest of another journalist, Edward Pleasure. There was a teenage girl too. When he came to Greenfields, he was with a school party. It was quite different. I don't quite know what's going on here, but it may not be quite as cut and dried as it seems."

"Even so . . ."

McCain held a hand up for silence. "We are not canceling Poison Dawn," he said. "And certainly not yet. It seems to me that we have to meet with this Alex Rider and have a little talk."

"You think he'll just walk in here?"

"I have something else in mind." McCain stood up. "We are about to make an unimaginable amount of money," he said. "Two hundred million dollars. Maybe more. But that means we have to take risks. More than that, we have to make sure that we move one step ahead of the opposition. And that's exactly what we're going to do."

He reached forward and grabbed Harry Bulman by the front of his s.h.i.+rt. The journalist had never been a small man, and now he had become, in every sense, a dead weight. Even so, McCain pulled him effortlessly to his feet and dragged him over to the door. Still holding him, he stepped outside. A mechanical digger had started up while he was talking with Straik and it was waiting for him on the other side of the door with its metal arm raised. There was a driver sitting behind the window, smoking. McCain threw down the body and the driver revved up the engine and trundled forward. There was a crunch of machinery as the arm was lowered and the dead man was picked up. Then the digger reversed, carrying Bulman toward the muddy excavation that would soon be his grave.

McCain watched him go. "Well, it looks as if Mr. Bulman finally got what every journalist wants," he said.

Straik glanced at him.

"A scoop."

McCain had made his decision. He set off, avoiding the puddles so that he wouldn't get his shoes dirty as he made his way toward his car.

"So what exactly do you think is going on?"

Even as Alan Blunt posed the question, a waiter approached his table with the main course: steak and kidney pie for him, a tuna salad for Mrs. Jones. The two of them preferred not to talk as the plates were positioned and the wine was poured. They were having lunch at Blunt's club, the Mandarin, in Whitehall. And although all the waiters had received security clearance, the two of them preferred not to talk while there was any chance of being overheard. A great many members of the Mandarin were either politicians or intelligence chiefs, and it was said to be the most unfriendly place in London. n.o.body trusted anybody. Members very rarely spoke to each other at all.

That morning, Blunt and his deputy had been given a full briefing by the chief science officer at MI6, a fiercely intelligent woman called Redwing. She had a.n.a.lyzed the liquid that had seeped into Alex Rider's jacket after the test tube he had stolen had smashed. Her report-she was always thorough-had begun with wool, polyester, and apple juice. The first two, of course, were the materials of the jacket itself. The third had perhaps been a spill during school lunch.

But the rest of the ingredients had been more interesting. According to Redwing, the test tube had contained something that she called bitrites infestans bitrites infestans. This was essentially a biological soup that seemed to have been developed from a variety of different mushrooms. It was too soon to say which mushrooms exactly had been used, but preliminary tests were surprising. The liquid was completely harmless. It even had a nutritional value. Although it would taste disgusting, it could be consumed by humans or animals with no side effects. Redwing had eaten once or twice at the Mandarin, so she had concluded by saying, "They could serve it at your club, Mr. Blunt, and you might not even send it back. Why they're making so much of it is a little puzzling. A thousand gallons? Is that what your agent said? Well, I can't tell you what they're going to do with it, but I can a.s.sure you that the worst it would give you is indigestion. . . ."

Alex had told Jack what had happened at Greenfields, and she had in turn informed MI6. The appearance of Desmond McCain, the chase through the complex, the Poison Dome, the escape from the roof . . . they knew all of this. But, like Alex, they still had no clear idea what exactly was going on.

The waiter retreated and Mrs. Jones tried to answer Blunt's question. "I'm not at all surprised that McCain is up to no good," she said. "He has a criminal record, after all."

"Didn't he convert to Christianity?"

"So he claims-and to be fair, his charity, First Aid, has done some very good work. But after what Alex has told us . . ."

"Of course." This time, Blunt was going to believe everything Alex had said. After all, as much as it embarra.s.sed him to admit it, the boy had been right in the past and MI6 had been proved wrong. "Is there any link between McCain and this man Leonard Straik?" he asked.

"None that we've been able to find."

"What do we know about McCain's movements in the past five years?"

"I'm having a report prepared. It'll be on your desk this afternoon."

Blunt broke the crust on his pie and examined the contents. The food at the Mandarin Club was not good, but the members liked it that way. It reminded them of school. "I have to say, I'm quite worried about all this," he said. "I always had a feeling that the department would have to turn its attention to GM food one day. There are people out there doing things that half the world doesn't even understand."

"We are what we eat." Mrs. Jones had lost her appet.i.te. She put down her knife and fork.

"That was why I was interested in Mr. Straik. And if he's working hand-in-hand with McCain, that's certainly alarming. We need to know what the two of them are up to."

"What about Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked.

"As usual, Alex has done an extremely good job. We really are going to have to make sure we recruit him full-time after he finishes college. He's already shown himself to be more resourceful than a great many of our adult agents." Blunt stuck his fork into the pie and pulled out a piece of rather fatty meat covered in thick brown gravy. "But as far as this business is concerned, he's no longer involved. Maybe you should drop him a note, Mrs. Jones. We've treated him badly in the past, but perhaps we could send him a brief thank-you? And maybe we should enclose a bag of candy."

Alan Blunt began to eat his lunch. He was still puzzled about the mushroom soup, but his department would work on it. That was the important thing. In the meantime, Alex Rider was already out of his mind.

16.

SPECIAL DELIVERY.

ALEX COULD TELL JACK was in a bad mood. She had made the breakfast as she did every morning-boiled eggs for him, fruit and muesli for her. There had been a freshly ironed jacket waiting for him in his room. But she had stamped around the kitchen in silence, and when she had loaded the dishwasher, she had slid the plates in as if she had a personal grudge against them.

He knew what had upset her. "Jack," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" She lifted up the toaster and wiped away imaginary crumbs.

"I am. Really."

Jack turned around and let out a sigh. She could never stay angry for long and they both knew it. "I just don't understand you sometimes," she said. "We both agreed that Greenfields wasn't your business. You did what you were told and you were lucky to get out alive. So what on earth did you think you were up to?"

"I don't know." Alex thought for a moment. "I just felt angry after being told off by Mr. Bray. And I thought, if I could only find out what McCain was doing . . ."

"What exactly is is he doing?" Jack sat down at the table. "You say there was a film set, an African village. But why? What's the point?" he doing?" Jack sat down at the table. "You say there was a film set, an African village. But why? What's the point?"

"I've been thinking about that. McCain runs a charity. First Aid. They have appeals all over the world. Maybe that's his plan. He wants to raise money for something that hasn't happened."

"A fake charity appeal."

"Exactly. He shows a film of some village that doesn't exist. People send in money. He gets to keep it."

Jack thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. "It wouldn't work, Alex. These days, everything is on TV or in the newspapers. People would find out soon enough if it wasn't true."

"Can you think of anything else?"

"No. But I think we should go back to MI6 and leave it to them this time." She glanced meaningfully at him. "Okay?"

Alex smiled. "That's what I'd already decided," he said. "Do you mind going back?"

"Of course not," Jack replied. "I'm beginning to wonder where this is all going to end. You go to a party in Scotland and you end up at the bottom of a lake. A school field trip almost lands you in the hospital. And now this!" She took one of Alex's toast slices and bit it in half. "The trouble is, you've got too much of the spy in you. It's all your uncle's fault. And your father's. And your grandfather's. For all we know, he was probably a spy too."

Alex looked at his watch. It was a quarter past eight. "I ought to be on my way to school," he said.

"Yes." Jack nodded. "Let's not get into any more trouble with Mr. Bray."

Alex ran up to his room, collected his books, and put on the spare jacket. He was about to leave when he noticed the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him resting on his desk. On impulse, he slipped it inside his pocket. He knew that Tom Harris would get a kick out of seeing it.

He hurried back downstairs and out through the hall, calling out a last "Good-bye!" as he went.

"Don't forget your scarf!" Jack called back.

She was too late. It was cold outside but dry, and there was no wind. Alex hoisted his knapsack over his shoulder and made his way along the backstreets that would lead him to the King's Road.

This part of Chelsea was full of elegant townhouses standing side by side with expensive cars parked outside. In a few months, the trees would blossom and the wisteria would tumble down the brickwork. Ian Rider had liked being here because it was quiet and private and yet still in the middle of the city. He'd always had a hatred of the suburbs. "A nice place for children and vets." Alex could still hear his slightly cryptic remark.

There was a FedEx van at the end of the street, badly parked across the corner, and two men dressed in overalls examining a clipboard that they held between them. They were obviously lost, and as Alex approached, one of them came over to him.

"Excuse me, mate," he said. "We've got a delivery for Packard Street. You wouldn't know where it is, would you?"

Alex shook his head. "There's no Packard Street around here."

"Are you sure? That's what it says here." The man held out the clipboard, inviting Alex to take a look.

It was the empty van that alerted him.

The doors of the van were open, and if they were making a delivery to an address in Chelsea, why was there nothing inside?

Alex jerked back, but it was already too late. The two men had maneuvered Alex between them so that they were perfectly placed, one of them in front of him, one of them behind. He heard the clipboard hit the sidewalk. It was just a prop. They didn't need it anymore.

One of the men grabbed him by the throat. Alex twisted around, trying to break free. At the same time, he saw something that sent a chill up his spine. The second deliveryman had produced a hypodermic syringe. They weren't here to kill him. They were here to take him. The van was for him.

Alex put everything he had been taught into action. He knew that it would be almost impossible even for two grown men to drag him into the van . . . unless they made contact with the needle. That was what he had to avoid. So he didn't waste any energy trying to break free of the neck lock. It was too strong anyway. Instead, he used the man's own strength against him, levering himself back, raising both legs off the ground and las.h.i.+ng out. The man with the syringe had been looking for somewhere to plant it, and with a smile of satisfaction, Alex saw the soles of his shoes smash into it, breaking it against the man's chest. If they'd been planning to knock him out, they could forget it. Now it would be twice as hard to make him disappear.

So far, no more than about ten seconds had pa.s.sed since the attack had begun, and Alex knew that time was on his side. The streets of Chelsea might be quiet, but it was eight thirty in the morning and people would be on their way to work. He couldn't call for help. He was still being strangled. But someone would see what was happening. They had to.

Sure enough, a figure turned the corner and Alex was overjoyed to see the blue-and-silver uniform of a policeman. Alex felt the man behind him loosen his grip as the policeman ran forward, and he gratefully sucked in air.

"What's going on here?" the policeman demanded.

"They . . . ," Alex began, and stopped as he felt something stab him in the back, just above his waist. A second needle! The man who had been holding him must have taken it out of his pocket. But surely . . .

The policeman wasn't doing anything, and even as the strength drained out of him and his legs buckled, Alex understood. The policeman wasn't any more real than the deliverymen had been. They were all in it together. Alex had been tricked and there was nothing he could do as whatever drug had been pumped into him coursed through his system. He saw the street tilt and then turn sideways and knew that the only reason he wasn't lying flat on the sidewalk was because the deliverymen had caught him and were carrying him into the van.

He was angry with himself. Only a few minutes ago, Jack had been accusing him. He could have died at Elm's Cross and she would have never known what had happened to him. He had promised her it would never happen again. And yet it already had. In a few hours, the school would report him missing. She would think he had betrayed her again. If he died, he would never be able to tell her the truth.

This was all his fault. He shouldn't have gone to the film studio. He should never have gotten involved with Desmond McCain in the first place. He wished he could call Jack and tell her. But it was too late. Barely conscious, already unable to struggle, he was bundled into the back of the van. He didn't even hear the doors slam shut.

Alex opened his eyes.

Someone was doing something to his head. A lock of light brown hair twisted, falling in front of his eyes. At the same time he heard the snip of scissors. He was sitting in a chair in what looked like a hotel room. They hadn't tied him up, but they didn't need to. He was still drugged and couldn't move. He'd been taken out of his school uniform and dressed in an ill-fitting tracksuit. They were cutting his hair. The two deliverymen were standing over him. There was a window covered by a blind and, at the very corner of his vision, an unmade bed. No carpet. His feet seemed to be resting on some sort of metal shelf, but he didn't have the strength to look down.

The two men were talking, their voices like distant echoes that he couldn't make out. One of them noticed he was awake and grabbed his head, squeezing his cheeks between thumb and fingers. More of his hair tumbled down into his lap. He could feel the cold air touching his scalp.

"He's back," the man said.

"Good."