SEEING DOUBLE

Point of view: Third person limited

James was already eating his breakfast when Alex came down: eggs, bacon, toast and tea. He had the same breakfast every day. He raised a hand in greeting as Alex came in. But the moment he saw him, Alex got the feeling that something was wrong. James was smiling but he seemed somehow distant, as if his thoughts were on other things.

"So, what was all that about last night?" James asked.

"I don't know…" Alex was tempted to tell James everything – even the fact that he was here under a false name and had been sent to spy on the school. But he couldn't do it. Not here, so close to the other boys. "I think I had some sort of bad dream."

"Did you go sleepwalking in the snow?"

"No. I thought I saw something, but I couldn't have. I just had a weird night." He changed the subject, lowering his voice. "Have you thought any more about your plan?" he asked.

"What plan?"

"Skiing."

"We're not allowed to ski."

"I mean … escaping."

James smiled as if he'd only just remembered what Alex was talking about. "Oh – I've changed my mind," he said.

"What d'you mean?"

"If I ran away, my dad would only send me back again. There's no point. I might as well grin and bear it. Anyway, I'd never get all the way down the mountain. The snow's too thin."

Alex stared at James. Everything he was saying was the exact opposite of what he had said the day before. He almost wondered if this was the same boy. But of course it was. He was as untidy as ever. The bruises – fading now – were still there on his face. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, pale skin – it was James. And yet at the same time, something had happened. He was sure of it.

Then James twisted round and Alex saw that Mrs. Stellenbosch had come into the room, wearing a particularly nasty lime-green dress that just came down to her knees. "Good morning, boys!" she announced. "We're starting today's lessons in ten minutes. The first lesson is history in the tower room." She walked over to Alex's table. "James, I hope you're going to join us today?"

James shrugged. "All right, Mrs. Stellenbosch."

"Excellent. We're looking at the life of Adolf Hitler. Such an interesting man. I'm sure you'll find it most valuable." She walked away.

Alex turned to James. "You're going to lessons?"

"Why not?" James had finished eating. "I'm stuck here and there isn't much else to do. Maybe I should have gone to lessons before. You shouldn't be so negative, Alex." He waved a finger to underline what he was saying. "You're wasting your time."

Alex froze. He had seen that movement before – the way he had waved his finger. Joe Canterbury, the American boy, had done exactly the same thing yesterday.

Puppets dancing on the same string.

What had happened the night before?

Alex watched James leave with the others. He felt he had lost his only friend at Point Blanc, and suddenly he wanted to be away from this place, off the mountain and back in the safe world of Brookland School. There might have been a time when he had wanted this adventure. Now he just wanted out of it. Press fast forward three times on his Discman and MI6 would come for him. But he couldn't do that until he had something to report.

Alex knew what he had to do. He got up and left the room.

He had seen the way the night before when he was hiding in the fireplace. The chimney bent and twisted its way to the open air – he had been able to see a chink of light from the bottom. Moonlight. The bricks outside the academy might be too smooth to climb, but inside the chimney they were broken and uneven, with plenty of hand and foot-holds. Maybe there would be a fireplace on the second or third floor. But even if there wasn't, the chimney would still lead him to the roof and – assuming there weren't any guards waiting for him there – he might then be able to find a way down.

Alex reached the fireplace with the two stone dragons. He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. Lessons would continue until lunch and nobody would wonder where he was. The fire had finally gone out, although the ashes were still warm. Would one of the guards come to clean it? He would just have to hope they would leave it until the afternoon. He looked up the chimney. He could see a narrow slit of bright blue. The sky seemed a very long way away and the chimney was narrower than he had thought. What if he got stuck? He forced the thought out of his head, reached for a crack in the brickwork and pulled himself up.

The inside of the chimney smelled of a thousand fires. Soot hung in the air and Alex couldn't breathe without taking it in. He managed to find some purchase for his feet and pushed, sliding himself about one meter up. Now he was wedged inside, forced into a sitting position with his feet against one wall, his back against the other and his legs and bottom hanging in the air. He wouldn't need to use his hands at all. He only had to straighten his legs to push himself up, using the pressure of his feet against the wall to keep himself in place. Push and slide. He had to be careful. Every movement brought more soot trickling down. He could feel it in his hair. He didn't dare look up. If it went into his eyes he would be blinded. Push and slide again, then again. Not too fast. If his feet slipped he would fall all the way back down. He was already a long way above the fireplace. How far had he come? At least one floor … meaning that he had to be on his way to the second. If he fell from this height, he would break both his legs.

The chimney was getting darker and tighter. The light at the top didn't seem to be getting any nearer. Alex found it difficult to maneuver himself. He could barely breathe. His entire throat seemed to be coated in soot. He pushed again and this time his knees banged into brickwork, sending a spasm of pain down to his feet. Pinning himself in place, Alex reached up and tried to feel where he was going. There was an L-shaped wall jutting out above his head. His knees had hit the bottom part of it. But his head was behind the upright section. Whatever the obstruction was, it effectively cut the passageway in half, leaving only the narrowest of gaps for Alex's shoulders and body to pass through. Once again, the nightmare prospect of getting stuck flashed into his mind. Nobody would ever find him. He would suffocate in the dark.

He gasped for breath and swallowed soot. One last try! He pushed again, his arms stretching out over his head. He felt his back slide up the wall, the rough brickwork tearing at his shirt. Then his hands hooked over what he realized must be the top of the L. He pulled himself up and found himself looking into a second fireplace, sharing the main chimney. That was the obstruction he had just climbed round. Alex levered himself over the top and dived clumsily forward. More logs and ashes broke his fall. He had made it to the second floor!

He crawled out of the fireplace. Only a few weeks before, at Brookland, he'd been reading about Victorian chimney-sweeps; how boys as young as six had been forced into virtual slave labor. He'd never thought he would learn how they had felt. He coughed and spat into the palm of his hand. His saliva was black. He wondered what he must look like. He would need to take a shower before he was seen.

He stood up. The second floor was as silent as the ground and the first. Soot trickled out of his hair and for a moment he was blinded. He propped himself against a statue while he wiped his eyes. Then he looked again. He was leaning on a stone dragon, identical to the one on the ground floor. He looked at the fireplace. That too was identical. In fact—

Alex wondered if he hadn't somehow made a terrible mistake. He was standing in a hall that was the same in every detail as the hall on the ground floor. There were the same corridors, the same staircase, the same fireplace – even the same animal heads staring miserably from the walls. It was as if he had climbed in a circle, arriving back where he had begun. He turned round. No. Here was one difference. There was no main door. He could look down on the front courtyard from the window; there was a guard leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. This was the second floor. But it had been constructed as a perfect replica of the ground.

Alex tiptoed forward, worried that somebody might have heard him climb out of the fireplace. But there was no one around. He followed the corridor as far as the first door. On the ground floor, this would be the library. Gently, a centimeter at a time, he opened the door. It led into a second library – again the spitting image of the first. It had the same tables and chairs, the same suit of armor guarding the same alcove. He ran an eye along one of the shelves. It even had the same books.

But there was one difference – at least, one difference that Alex could see. He felt as if he had strayed into one of those puzzles they sometimes print in comics or magazines. Two identical pictures. But ten deliberate mistakes. Can you spot them? The mistake here was that there was a large television set on a bracket built into the wall. The television was on. Alex found himself looking at an image of yet another library. He was beginning to feel dizzy. What was the library on the television screen? It couldn't be this one because Alex himself was not being shown. So it had to be the library on the ground floor.

Two identical libraries. You could sit in one and watch the other. But why? What was the point?

It took Alex about ten minutes to discover that the entire second floor was a carbon copy of the ground floor, with the same dining-room, living-room and games room. Alex went over to the snooker table and placed a ball in the middle. It rolled into the corner pocket. The room was on the same slant. A television screen showed the games room downstairs. It was the same as the library; one room spying on another.

He retraced his steps and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He wanted to find his own room, but first he went into James's. It was another perfect copy; the same sci-fi posters, the same mobile hanging over the bed, the same lava lamp on the same table. Even the same clothes strewn over the floor. So these rooms weren't just built to be the same. They were carefully maintained. Whatever happened downstairs happened upstairs. But did that mean there had been somebody living here, watching every movement that James Sprintz made, doing everything he did? And if so, had somebody else been doing the same for him?

Alex went next door. It was like stepping into his own room. Again there was the same bed, the same furnishings – and the same television. He turned it on. The picture showed his room on the first floor. There was the Discman, lying on the bed. There were his wet clothes from the night before. Had somebody been watching when he cut through the window and climbed out into the night? Alex felt a jolt of alarm, then forced himself to relax. This room – the copy of his room – was different. Nobody had moved in here yet. He could tell, just by looking around him. The bed hadn't been slept in. And the smaller details hadn't been copied. There was no Discman in the duplicate room. No wet clothes. He had left the wardrobe door open downstairs. Here it was closed.

The whole thing was like some sort of mind-bending puzzle. Alex forced himself to think it through. Every single young man who arrived at the academy was watched. All his actions were duplicated. If he hung a poster on the wall of his room, an identical poster was hung in an identical room. There would be someone living in this room doing everything that Alex did. He remembered the figure he had glimpsed the day before … someone wearing what looked like a white mask. Perhaps that person had been about to move in. But all the evidence suggested that for some reason he wasn't here yet.

And that still left the biggest question of all. What was the point? To spy on the boys was one thing. But to copy everything they did?

A door swung shut and he heard voices, two men walking down the corridor outside. Alex crept over to the door and looked out. He just had time to see Dr. Grief walk through a door with another man, a short, plump figure in a white coat. They had gone into the laundry room. Alex slipped out of the duplicate bedroom and followed them.

"…you have completed the work. I am grateful to you, Mr. Baxter."

"Thank you, Dr. Grief."

They had left the door open. Alex crouched down and looked through. Here at last was a section of the third floor that didn't mirror the first. There were no washing-machines or ironing-boards here. Instead, Alex found himself looking into a room with a row of sinks and through a second set of doors leading into a fully equipped operating theatre at least twice as big as the laundry room on the first floor. At the center of the room was an operating table. The walls were lined with shelves containing surgical equipment, chemicals and – scattered across the surface – what looked like black and white photographs.

An operating theater! What was its role in this bizarre, devilish jigsaw puzzle? The two men had walked into it and were talking together, Grief standing with one hand in his pocket. Alex chose his moment, then slipped into the outer room, crouching down beside one of the sinks. From here he could watch and listen as the two of them talked.

"So, I hope you're pleased with the last operation." It was Mr. Baxter who was speaking. He had half turned towards the doors and Alex could see a round, flabby face with yellow hair and a thin moustache. Baxter was wearing a bow tie and a checked suit underneath his white coat. Alex had never seen the man before. He was certain of it. And yet at the same time, he thought he knew him. Another puzzle!

"Entirely," Dr. Grief replied. "I saw him as soon as the bandages came off. You have done extremely well."

"I always was the best. But that's what you paid for." Baxter chuckled. His voice was oily. "And while we're on that subject, maybe we should talk about my final payment?"

"You have already been paid the sum of one million American dollars."

"Yes, Dr. Grief." Baxter smiled. "But I was wondering if you might not like to think about a little … bonus?"

"I thought we had an agreement." Dr. Grief turned his head very slowly. The red spectacles homed in on the other man like searchlights.

"We had an agreement for my work, yes. But my silence is another matter. I was thinking of another quarter of a million. Given the size and the scope of your Gemini Project, it's not so much to ask. Then I'll retire to my little house in Spain and you'll never hear from me again."

"I will never hear from you again?"

"I promise."

Dr. Grief nodded. "Yes. I think that is a good idea."

His hand came out of his pocket. Alex saw that it was holding an automatic pistol with a thick silencer protruding from the barrel. Baxter was still smiling as Grief shot him once, through the middle of the forehead. He was thrown off his feet and onto the operating table. He lay still. Dr. Grief lowered the gun. He went over to a telephone, picked it up and dialed a number. There was a pause while his call was answered.

"This is Grief. I have some garbage in the operating theater that needs to be removed. Could you please inform the disposal team?"

He put down the phone and, glancing one last time at the still figure on the operating table, walked to the other side of the room. Alex saw him press a button. A section of the wall slid open to reveal a lift on the other side. Dr. Grief got in. The lift doors closed.

Alex straightened up, too shocked to think straight. He staggered forward and went into the operating theatre. He knew he had to move fast. The disposal team that Dr. Grief had called for would be on their way. But he wanted to know what sort of operations took place here. Mr. Baxter had presumably been the surgeon. But for what sort of work had he been paid a million dollars?

Trying not to look at the body, Alex looked around. On one shelf was a collection of surgical knives, as horrible as anything he had ever seen, the blades so sharp that he could almost feel their touch just looking at them. There were rolls of gauze, syringes, bottles containing various liquids. But nothing to say why Baxter had been employed. Alex realized it was hopeless. He knew nothing about medicine. This room could have been used for anything from ingrown toenails to full-blown heart surgery.

And then he saw the photographs. He recognized himself, lying on a bed that he thought he knew too. It was Paris! Room thirteen at the Hotel du Monde. He remembered the black and white bedspread, as well as the clothes he had been wearing that night. The clothes had been removed in most of the photographs. Every inch of him had been photographed, sometimes close-up, sometimes wider. In every picture, his eyes were closed. Looking at himself, Alex knew that he had been drugged and remembered how the dinner with Mrs. Stellenbosch had ended.

The photographs disgusted him. He had been manipulated by people who thought he was worth nothing at all. From the moment he had met them, he had disliked Dr. Grief and his assistant director. Now he felt pure loathing. He still didn't know what they were doing, but they were evil. They had to be stopped.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The disposal team! He looked around him and cursed. He didn't have time to get out and there was nowhere in the room to hide. Then he remembered the lift. He went over to it and urgently stabbed at the button. The footsteps were getting nearer. He heard voices. Then the panels slid open. Alex stepped into a small silver box. There were five buttons: S, R, 1, 2, 3. He pressed R. He had remembered enough French to know that the R must stand for rez-de-chaussée, or ground floor. Hopefully, the lift would take him back where he had begun.

The doors slid shut a few seconds before the guards entered the theatre. Alex felt his stomach lurch as he was carried down. The lift slowed. He realized that the doors could open anywhere. He might find himself surrounded by guards – or by the other boys in the school. Well, it was too late now. He had made his choice. He would just have to cope with whatever he found.

But he was lucky. The doors slid open to reveal the library. Alex assumed this was the real library and not another copy. The room was empty. He stepped out of the lift, then turned round. He was facing the alcove. The lift doors formed the alcove wall. They were brilliantly camouflaged, with the suit of armor now sliced exactly in two, one half on each side. As the doors closed automatically, the armor slid back together again, completing the disguise. Despite himself, Alex had to admire the simplicity of it. The entire building was a fantastic box of tricks.

Alex looked at his hands. They were still filthy. He had forgotten that he was completely covered in soot. He crept out of the library, trying not to leave black footprints on the carpet. Then he hurried back to his room. When he got there, he had to remind himself that it was indeed his room and not the copy two floors above. But the Discman was there – and that was what he most needed.

He knew enough. It was time to call for the cavalry. He pressed the fast forward button three times, then went to have a shower.