CHAPTER FOUR: A FRIEND INDEED

.

For the first time since his uncle's death, Alex felt like a normal fourteen-year-old again. And it felt great.

He and James had bolted from the Royal & General and raced down to Liverpool Street Station, where they boarded the first tube they came upon. They didn't care where it took them, as long as it got them away from MI6. Max kept up with the boys surprisingly well, remaining as firmly attached to them as a shadow. James completely ignored his bodyguard. He must have been used to it, Alex thought, growing up surrounded by security, servants, everything that a millionaire's son could ask for. Or didn't ask for.

It was a little unnerving, the constant reminder that James Sprintz was a person of wealth and importance. Alex had to wonder a few times why James was being so nice to him. Maybe he was lonely, ignored by his parents, had no mates at school. Being constantly expelled couldn't have helped; with James' history of delinquency, Alex couldn't imagine he had very many close friends. He wasn't a weirdo or anything—he seemed as much of a normal kid as Alex. If Alex Rider was what one might call normal. Maybe it was their misfit natures that caused them to get along so well. After all, James was the only person Alex's age who knew his secret. It was a liberating feeling, not having to watch every word he said around James or tiptoe around the truth, all the while pretending he wasn't just some government tool. When Alex was with James he didn't feel as if he had the black cloud of MI6 hanging over his head. For once he could just be himself.

The tube, by happy chance, led them west to Piccadilly Circus, and together the boys spent the rest of the morning prowling Shaftesbury Avenue, wandering in and out of stores, goofing around, and generally behaving like a couple of kids. Alex discovered that James was a football fan, though he claimed he wasn't very good at the sport, and that he liked punk and surf music (whatever that was). Alex wasn't familiar with any of James' favorite bands, and James, who couldn't fathom that there was a person on Earth who hadn't heard of The Ramones, had immediately hauled Alex to the nearest music store to rectify the problem. They spent nearly an hour in Zavvi, sampling CDs and video games and almost breaking a PlayStation in the process. It was fun.

After the media blitzkrieg, James had insisted they keep up their entertainment binge by going to a movie. Alex would rather have stayed outside and enjoyed the sunny weather, but James was obviously more of the "indoor" sort, possibly even a bit of a geek, and he wasn't accustomed to hearing the word "no". Alex finally agreed, and James had happily paid for both of their tickets. They'd spent the next hundred minutes slouched in their seats, hypnotized by Lara Croft kicking villain ass in the tightest clothes ever made. James chuckled under his breath every time the buxom female lead was onscreen, and added some pretty witty (and raunchy) commentary. Alex found himself idly wondering if women like this actually existed. It would be nice, wouldn't it? Put them to work for MI6, save the world every other week, get Yassen Gregorovich off his back . . .

Alex winced. No, no. He wasn't going to think about that now, not when he'd practically forgotten all about being a spy and was finally beginning to feel like a regular person. No, he was going to sit here and ogle Angelina's Jolie's massive knockers until the credits rolled, then smile and walk out of the theater whistling Rule Britannia. No way was he going to let MI6 control his thoughts as well as his actions.

It was well past noon by the time the movie let out, and both James and Alex were famished. They headed for the nearest fast food restaurant and ordered to go, then roamed around looking for a shaded, green spot to sit and eat lunch.

It was just after three o'clock now and the boys were loitering under the trees at Green Park , finishing the last soggy French fries from their lunches whenever they stopped talking long enough to chew. Alex slurped lukewarm Coke through a straw and listened to James describe his family, his favorite football club, his trip to New York the month before. For a boy who'd spent most of his life sheltered by money and power, James seemed to know a lot about the gritty reality of the world. He talked like someone who had seen the darker side of life, someone who wasn't fourteen. Alex wondered if Point Blanc had done this to him, or if perhaps there was more to James' life than garden parties and armed escorts.

The day had warmed up enough that James found it necessary to shrug off his sport coat. Alex happened to glance over and notice what looked like a large square Band-Aid on James' upper arm. "What's that?" he asked, pointing.

James looked down at the patch as if he'd forgotten about it, then passed Alex a one-sided smirk. "Trying to kick the habit."

"Really? It's that bad?"

"Bad enough for my mother. She finally had it with me smoking in her car. Next thing I know I'm on the Patch and forbidden to carry a lighter. Overreacting, as usual." James reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a shiny silver Zippo, nonchalantly flicking the lid open and closed. "I've had this one for years. Never leave home without it."

Alex briefly wondered if James was a pyromaniac. It would definitely be on par with his bad boy reputation. "How long have you smoked?"

"Since I was twelve. I started just to piss off my parents. I didn't smoke very often, but it was still enough to annoy them."

Alex stared at the patch and tried to imagine what it'd be like if he were battling a nicotine addiction at fourteen. All the images of black lungs and stained teeth from his health books didn't paint a pretty picture of the future. "How's it going, quitting?"

"I don't know. I just started yesterday."

"Well, you seem to be doing alright."

James shrugged and absently plucked at the grass. "It's easier not to think about it when I'm around other people, especially if they're not adults."

Alex's eyes wandered over Max's subtle, ever-present person. He was standing perhaps ten meters away under a tree, arms crossed, his cautious gaze sweeping the area and looking for any sign of threat.

"I know what you mean," Alex murmured, thinking about how different his life had been before Yassen Gregorovich had ruined it in one fell swoop.

For a few moments neither of them spoke. Then James finished off the rest of his Sprite and said haltingly, as if bringing up a delicate subject, "So . . . your dad was really a spy?"

"My uncle," Alex corrected. "But yes, he was a spy."

"Oh. I didn't know he was your uncle. What about your parents?"

"They died in a plane crash when I was a baby. Ian was the only family I had left."

"Was he . . . I mean, it wasn't an accident, was it? He really got killed by bad guys?"

Alex nodded, staring listlessly at passers-by. His face had lost all expression, as if he were reliving all of the unpleasant memories of the Stormbreaker mission and his brief, tragedy-laden life.

James noticed the change that had come over Alex and immediately tried to backpedal. "Hey, if I'm getting too personal, just say so. I mean, I don't want to offend you and it's none of my business anyway—"

"No, it's all right. It's actually sort of nice to be able to talk about this with someone who . . . you know. Is my age."

James smiled like he'd just been complimented. "I know, right? With me being tutored at home now, I haven't talked to anyone under thirty in at least two weeks. All my old friends have forgotten me. You know, the ones I had before Point Blanc. They weren't really friends, though. Just guys I hung out with. You still go to school, right? MI6 hasn't dragged you out of it?"

"Not yet. But they might as well have for all the days I missed last term."

"Hm, yeah. Kind of hard to save the world and turn in your homework on time, I bet."

Alex grinned despite himself, his grim mood beginning to lift. "I guess. What about you? What's your tutor like?"

"Well, I haven't shot her with an air pistol yet, so I guess I stand a chance at learning something. Whatever, ich geb's auf."

The boys shared a chuckle. Before being sent to Point Blanc, James had been expelled from his school in Dusseldorf for plinking one of his teachers with just such a weapon. It seemed as if his wild days were behind him now, and the teenager sitting in the shade with Alex wasn't that much different from himself. Still, he had to wonder . . .

"Look, James," he said. "Don't take this personally or anything, but why are you here? Really."

James looked genuinely surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

God, Alex hated doing this. It felt as bad as cheating or stealing. Why did he have to be so suspicious of everybody? Why couldn't he believe that people were still kind and genuine? This whole spy business was ruining his life from every angle. "I'm sorry. It's just that . . . I'm not the sort of . . ." Oh, hell with it. Tell the truth. "I don't have a lot of friends these days, James. I have a problem trusting people, no matter how nice they are."

"Well, that's understandable. You are a spy, after all," James pointed out.

"So you see why I'm so . . ." Alex struggled to find the right words. He didn't want to drive James away with his stupid problems, yet that's exactly what he felt like he was doing. "Why we . . . Why I can't—"

"Why a spoiled little rich boy would go out of his way to befriend someone he barely even knew? Is that it?"

Alex felt his face flush with embarrassment. "I don't think you're a spoiled—"

James waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, that's exactly what I am. Look up 'spoiled rotten brat' in the dictionary and you'll see my picture." He grinned lopsidedly at Alex. "But I understand. People like us don't exactly end up best mates, do we?"

"I don't know."

James scooted closer to Alex, until their shoulders bumped and they were sitting hip-to-hip. "Look. Alex. When I heard what you'd done, escaping from the academy on a bloody ironing board and all that, and bringing down Dr Grief, I was . . . well, truthfully, I was a little jealous at first. In school I never got along with your kind. You know. The sporty, straight-A, overachiever types. But then I thought, 'You know, this Alex guy saved my life, he must be pretty damn cool.' So I wanted to meet you, see if you were as cool as I thought you were."

"And?"

"Well," James huffed. "Aside from not knowing anything about The Ramones, I guess you're a pretty okay guy. I'll just have to let you borrow my CDs or something. Get you into the movies more often."

"Shut up," Alex snapped, but he was smiling.

"Seriously though," said James, "I really do mean it. You're a hell of a guy, Rider. I like you." He threw a soft punch at Alex's shoulder. "Thanks for saving my arse."

"Maybe next time you'll learn to keep your arse out of trouble."

"Ha, we'll see. Which reminds me, we haven't been to Funland yet."

Alex's face fell. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious!" James jeered, springing to his feet.

"We'll be thrown out of there in five minutes."

"Wanna bet? I say three ."

"I'm not betting anything—you're mad!" Alex cried, but James grabbed onto his arm and pulled him to his feet. "No, really, I can't go. Jack—" Oh no, Jack.

James stopped pulling when he saw the look of horror cross his friend's face. "Uh oh. What's up?"

Alex looked at his watch and grimaced. "Brilliant. I told Jack I was going to be back after lunch and it's already three-twenty."

James stood still a moment, letting it sink in nice and slow, before resuming his task of dragging Alex roughly in the direction of Funland. "Oh well. She'll forgive you."

"No, James, I can't, really. Ever since Ian . . . and MI6. Just. I don't want her to worry."

"What's she got to worry about?" James asked, frowning, as if he couldn't grasp that a parent or caretaker would actually worry if a child wasn't home by a certain time.

"Plenty, believe me," Alex muttered.

James looked suddenly depressed, like he'd just been told playtime was over and he had to go home and study for an exam. "Aw, come on."

"You come on."

"What?"

"I left my bike at Sloane Square. We can take the tube back together."

"Oh. Okay." James threw his coat over his shoulder and studied the ground, his dark hair falling loose from where he'd tucked it behind his ears. "Um. I don't really have to be anywhere for a while, so . . . I mean, is it alright if I come back to your place for a little while?"

Alex shrugged. "Sure. You're not riding on my bike, though."

"Pfft. You can have it—I heard bike-riding will make your bollocks fall off."

"Wha—that's insane!"

"Nuh uh, I read it in a magazine! That Lance Armstrong guy, you know him, he's a professional cyclist, and one day his left bollock just popped right off in the middle of a race—"

"He had cancer, for God's sake!"

"—and it fell out of his shorts and got caught in someone's spokes—"

"You're horrible!"

"—and then a dog made off with it and Lance Armstrong saw it and chased after it—"

Alex had to turn away and cover his mouth to keep from laughing. James grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, raving hysterically.

"—and the next thing you know the whole Tour De France was cutting through a field, chasing after this bollock-snatching dog!"

Alex didn't think he'd ever laughed this hard in his life. As irreverent as it was, the image of Lance Armstrong pedaling furiously after a mongrel with a whole troop of cyclists behind him, screaming for the return of his testicle, was something that brought tears to Alex's eyes.

"—and when they finally ran that mangy mutt down, it was covered in these big long bald patches from all the tires peeling out—"

"Stop, stop!" Alex begged, clutching his stomach and falling over, dragging James down with him.

"I'm dead serious, that really happened!"

"Oh, bollocks."

Now it was James' turn to cry. The two teens gasped and guffawed, sprawling all over the grass as if they couldn't tell up from down, going on about dogs and bikes and bollocks and drawing a few disapproving looks from passing pedestrians. They didn't care. They were in their own little world.

A few trees over, Max took off his sunglasses with a sigh and began to polish them. Kids. As far as he was concerned, they didn't grow up nearly fast enough. And some of them never did.

Four o'clock found Alex walking his bike through west Chelsea with James, snickering as he parroted back some of the colorful German slang James was teaching him. Though they'd left Green Park in a hurry, the warm sun and pleasant day had soon slowed them to a lazy, comfortable stroll. James agreed to vouch for Alex if he looked in danger of getting chewed out, but neither of them seemed to care too much one way or another. In a way, Alex was feeling the slightest bit sad that the day was coming to an end. He'd had a lot of fun, had probably laughed more today than in the past two weeks, and chances to just be himself were getting fewer and farther in between.

"I'm going to leave for Switzerland on Monday," James said, sounding a bit sad himself. "My dad thinks I should start learning about banking, so I'm meeting him down there for some kind of stupid field trip. 'Take your kid to work and bore him to death day' or something. Scheiße."

"Preparing to take over the family business someday?"

James shoved his hands in his pockets and sulked. "That's what he thinks. If I had anything to say about it . . . Well, it sure as hell wouldn't be anything nice."

Alex looked over at James, scowling unhappily, and knew exactly how he felt. All his life Ian Rider had been training his nephew to become a spy, and even though Alex had thought the martial arts lessons and holidays abroad were just for fun, in truth they had been a deceptive cover for all of the skills Alex would need when he joined MI6.

MI6. The people who ruthlessly used him and didn't seem to care about his life one way or another. And who did he have to thank for all this? Yassen Gregorovich. Damn that man. Alex wasn't a hateful or violent person by nature, and he certainly wasn't one to want to bludgeon someone to death with a shovel, but there were always exceptions.

Alex heaved a heavy sigh and tried to dredge some cheer from his crummy mood. He owed James that much. "You'll still be here tomorrow, right? Maybe we can get together, hang out or something."

James immediately brightened. "Sounds like a plan. My mother wants me to go somewhere with her tomorrow morning, but I should be free the rest of the afternoon. Hey, you could even come over if you want. She's got an indoor pool. We can see who'll be the first to paralyze himself jumping from the high dive."

"That's not even funny," said Alex, but he was smiling nevertheless.

In a few minutes they'd reached the Rider residence on Cheyne Walk, and Alex leaned his bike up against the front stoop.

"I feel kind of bad about your bodyguard," he said, staring over James' shoulder at Max, hanging back a few doors down. "Shouldn't we invite him in?"

"Nah, he's a big boy," James said airily. "He can look after himself for a little while."

"I thought he was looking after you," Alex snorted, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

"Yeah, that's just what we want you to think—I'm really a fourteenth-degree black belt and I can shoot lightning bolts out of my fingertips. Byeerowowowow!"

He gave Alex a demonstration, sticking his fingers into Alex's side and making him squawk. They stumbled through the front door in a guffawing, roughhousing scuffle and then hastily tried to regain their composure in the foyer. The house was silent—no radio, no TV, no vacuum whirring or washing machine humming. Jack must be out; she was usually the noisy sort.

"Jaack, I'm home!" Alex called as James closed the door behind them. "Hello, anyone here?"

Something crinkled under his sneaker and he abruptly paused, lifting his foot from a legal-sized manila envelope lying in the middle of the foyer. Alex frowned. Since when did the postal service deliver twice in the same day? He bent down and retrieved the envelope, his skin already beginning to crawl.

"What's that?" James asked, peering over Alex's shoulder.

"I don't know."

There was no address, no stamp, no writing of any kind on the outside. The envelope wasn't even fully sealed. There was no way it could have gone through the mail, even if the postman had decided to make a second trip. This had been delivered personally. With his heart beginning to pound, Alex unfolded the flap and shook out its contents.

It was a paper wallet of standard-sized photos, like the kind developed at a photo boutique. This one had Shutterfly Photography printed all over it. There were no negatives, and the photos flopped around loosely. Alex pulled them out and stared at the first photo, a sickening-hot feeling blooming in his stomach.

It was a photo of James and himself walking down the street, McDonald's take-out in hand, on their way to Green Park.

"Oh God," James muttered, his voice low and worried. "Alex, what is this?"

Quickly Alex flipped to the next photo. He and James were leaving Cineworld, their smiles frozen on their faces as they chatted excitedly about the movie they'd just seen. In the next photo they were coming out of Zaavi and on their way to the theater. Alex shuffled through a chronology of his entire day, with some of the images so disturbingly close-up that Alex found himself digging for any memory of suspicious individuals or noises, but all of his attention had been focused on James. He couldn't remember a thing.

The last photo—or the first, technically—was that of Alex and James boarding the tube at Liverpool Street Station. And then it was back to the latest. That was it. A handful of intimate, invasive photos that served no real purpose other than to inform Alex that not even the toughest, most expert bodyguards could save him from being stalked. And there could be no question who the intended target was; Alex's face was centered and focused in every single photo.

"Looks like you have a fan," James said with a nervous grin.

Alex stuffed the photos back in the wallet and turned to give James a solemn, serious look. "There's only twelve of them. Twenty-four is the usual number of exposures. That means half of these photos are missing."

"Well, where are the rest?"

"I don't know." Alex stared down at the wallet. "But maybe someone at Shutterfly Photography will be able to tell me."