DELAYING TACTICS

Point of view: Third person omniscient

It was raining in London, the sort of rain that seems never to stop. The early evening traffic was huddled together, going nowhere. Alan Blunt was standing at the window looking out over the street when there was a knock at the door. He turned away reluctantly, as if the city at its most damp and dismal held some attraction for him. Mrs. Jones came in. She was carrying a sheet of paper. As Blunt sat down behind his desk, he noticed the words Most Urgent printed in red across the top.

"We've heard from Alex," Mrs. Jones said.

"Oh, yes?"

"Smithers gave him a Euro-satellite transmitter built into a portable CD player. Alex sent a signal to us this morning … at ten twenty-seven hours, his time."

"Meaning?"

"Either he's in trouble or he's found out enough for us to go in. Either way, we have to pull him out."

"I wonder…" Blunt leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. As a young man, he had gained a first-class honors degree in mathematics at Cambridge University. Thirty years later, he still saw life as a series of complicated calculations. "Alex has been at Point Blanc for how long?" he asked.

"A week."

"As I recall, he didn't want to go. Sir David Friend's daughter seems to have fallen in love with Alex. Her father contacted me, informing me that the girl has been sitting in her room staring into space for hours every day after he left. She hasn't been able to email or phone him, so she seems to be depressed. I'll have to let Friend know that Alex has reached out to us. The point is, Alex may no longer be one hundred per cent reliable."

"He sent the message." Mrs. Jones couldn't keep the exasperation out of her voice. "For all we know, he could be in serious trouble. We gave him the device as an alarm signal. To let us know if he needed help. He's used it. We can't just sit back and do nothing."

"I wasn't suggesting that." Alan Blunt looked curiously at her. "You're not forming some sort of attachment to Alex Rider, are you?" he asked.

Mrs. Jones looked away. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You seem worried about him."

"He's fourteen-years-old, Alan! He's an adolescent, for heaven's sake!"

"You used to have adolescent children."

"Yes." Mrs. Jones turned to face him again. "Perhaps that does make a difference. But even you must admit that he's special. We don't have another agent like him. A fourteen year old boy! The perfect secret weapon. My feelings about him have nothing to do with it. We can't afford to lose him."

"I just don't want to go blundering into Point Blanc without any firm information," Blunt said. "First of all, this is France we're talking about – and you know what the French are like. If we're seen to be invading their territory, they'll kick up one hell of a fuss. Secondly, Grief has got hold of boys from some of the wealthiest families in the world. If we go storming in with the SAS or whatever, the whole thing could blow up into a major international incident."

"You wanted proof that the school was connected to the deaths of Roscoe and Ivanov," Mrs. Jones said. "Alex may have it."

"He may have it and he may not. A twenty-four hour delay shouldn't make a great deal of difference."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"We'll put a unit on standby. They can keep an eye on things. If Alex is in trouble, we'll find out soon enough. It could play to our favor if he's managed to stir things up. It's exactly what we want. Force Grief to show us his hand."

"And if Alex contacts us again?"

"Then we'll go in."

"We may be too late."

"For Alex?" Blunt showed no emotion. "I'm sure you don't need to worry about him, Mrs. Jones. He can look after himself."

The telephone rang and Blunt answered it. The interview was over. Mrs. Jones got up and left to make the arrangements for an SAS unit to fly into Geneva. Blunt was right, of course. Delaying tactics might work in their favor. Clear it with the French. Find out what was going on. And it was only twenty-four hours.

She would just have to hope Alex could survive that long.

Alex found himself eating his breakfast on his own. For the first time, James Sprintz had decided to join the other boys. There they were – the six of them, suddenly the best of friends. Alex looked carefully at the boy who had once been his friend, trying to see what it was that had changed about him. He knew the answer. It was everything and nothing. James was exactly the same and completely different at the same time. Alex finished his food and got up.

James called out to him. "Why don't you come to class this morning, Alex? It's Latin."

Alex shook his head. "Latin's a waste of time."

"Is that what you think?" James couldn't keep the sneer out of his voice, and for a moment Alex was startled. For just one second it hadn't been James talking at all. It had been James who had moved his mouth. But it had been Dr Grief speaking the words.

"You enjoy it," Alex said. He hurried out of the room.

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since he had pressed the fast forward on the Discman. Alex wasn't sure what he had been expecting. A fleet of helicopters flying St. George's Cross would have been reassuring. But so far, nothing had happened. He even wondered if the alarm signal had worked. At the same time, he was annoyed with himself. He had seen Grief shoot the man called Baxter in the operating theatre, and he had panicked. He knew that Grief was a killer. He knew that the academy was far more than the finishing school it pretended to be. But he still didn't have all the answers. What exactly was Dr Grief doing? Was he responsible for the deaths of Michael J. Roscoe and Viktor Ivanov? And if so, why?

The fact was, he didn't know enough. And by the time MI6 arrived, Baxter's body would be buried somewhere in the mountains and there would be nothing to prove there was anything wrong. Alex would look like a fool. He could almost imagine Dr. Grief telling his side of the story…

"Yes. There is an operating theatre here. It was built years ago. We never use the second and third floors. There is a lift, yes. It was built before we came. We explained to Alex about the armed guards. They're here for his protection. But as you can see, lords, there is nothing unpleasant happening here. The other boys are fine. Baxter? No, I don't know anyone by that name. Obviously, Alex has been having bad dreams. I'm amazed that he was sent here to spy on us. I would ask you to take him with you when you leave…"

He had to find out more – and that meant going back up to the second floor. Or perhaps down. Alex remembered the letters in the secret lift. R for rez-de-chaussée. S had to stand for sous-sol, French for basement.

He went over to the Latin classroom and looked in through the half-open door. Dr Grief was out of sight, but Alex could hear his voice.

"Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas…"

There was the sound of scratching, chalk on a blackboard. And there were the six boys, sitting at their desks, listening intently. James was sitting between Hugo and Tom, taking notes. Alex looked at his watch. They would be there for another hour. He was on his own.

He walked back down the corridor and returned to his room, where he picked up the Harry Potter book with the stun dart in the spine. He slipped into the library. He had woken up still smelling faintly of soot and had no intention of making his way back up the chimney. Instead, he crossed over to the suit of armor. He knew now that the alcove disguised a pair of elevator doors. They could be opened from inside. Presumably there was some sort of control on the outside too.

It took him just a few minutes to find it. There were three buttons built into the breastplate of the armor. Even close to, the buttons looked like part of the suit – something the medieval knight would have used to strap the thing on. But when Alex pressed the middle button, the armor moved. A moment later, it split in half again and he found himself looking into the waiting lift.

This time, he pressed the bottom button. The lift seemed to travel a long way, as if the basement of the building had been built far underground. Finally, the doors slid open again. Alex looked out into a curving passageway with tiled walls that reminded him a little of a London tube station. The air was cold down here. The passage was lit by naked bulbs, screwed into the ceiling at intervals.

He looked out, then ducked back. There was a guard at the end of the corridor, sitting at a table reading a newspaper. Would he have heard the lift doors open? Alex leaned forward again. The guard was absorbed in the sports pages. He hadn't moved. Alex slipped out of the lift and quietly walked closer to the guard. He lifted the Harry Potter book and pointed it at the guard, then pressed the spine once, hard. There was no noise, but he felt the book shudder in his hand. The guard put a hand to his forehead and looked up. All the color drained out of his face. He slouched forward onto the table, unconscious.

Alex returned to the lift, turned around and crept down the passage, moving away from the guard. He reached the corner and turned into a second passageway lined with steel doors. There was nobody else in sight.

Where was he? There had to be something down here, or there wouldn't be any need for a guard. Alex went over to the nearest of the doors. There was a spy-hole set in the front and he looked through into a bare white cell with two bunk beds, a toilet and a sink. There were two boys in the cell. One he had never seen before, but he recognized the other. It was the red-haired boy called Tom McMorin. But he had seen Tom in Latin just a few minutes ago! What was he doing here?

Alex moved on to the next cell. This one also held two boys. One was a fair-haired, fit-looking boy with blue eyes and freckles. Once again, he recognized the other. It was James Sprintz. Alex examined the door. There were two bolts, but as far as he could see, no key. He drew back the bolts and jerked the door handle down. The door opened. He went in.

James stood up, astonished to see him. "Alex! What are you doing here?"

Alex closed the door. "We haven't got much time," he said. He was speaking in a whisper even though there was little chance of being overheard. "What happened to you?"

"They came for me the night before last," James said. "They dragged me out of bed and into the library. There was some sort of lift—"

"Behind the armor."

"Yes. I didn't know what they were doing. I thought they were going to kill me. But then they threw me in here."

"You've been here for two days?"

"Yes."

Alex shook his head. "I saw you having breakfast upstairs fifteen minutes ago."

"They've made duplicates of us." The other boy had spoken for the first time. He had an American accent. "All of us! I don't know how they've done it or why. But that's what they've done." He glanced at the door with anger in his eyes. "I've been here for months. My name's Paul Roscoe."

"Roscoe? Your dad's—"

"Michael Roscoe."

Alex fell silent. He couldn't tell this boy what had happened to his father, and he looked away, afraid that Paul would read it in his eyes.

"How did you get down here?" James asked.

"Listen," Alex said. He was speaking rapidly now. "I was sent here by MI6. My name isn't Alex Friend. It's Alex Rider. Everything's going to be OK. They'll send people in and get you all freed."

"You're … a spy?" James was obviously startled.

Alex nodded. "I'm a sort of spy, I suppose," he said.

"You've opened the door. We can get out of here!" Paul Roscoe stood up, ready to move.

"No!" Alex held up his hands. "You've got to wait. There's no way down the mountain. Stay here for now and I'll come back with help. I promise you. It's the only way."

"I can't—"

"You have to. Trust me, Paul. I'm going to have to lock you back in so that nobody will know I've been here. But it won't be for long. I'll come back!"

Alex couldn't wait for any more arguments. He went back to the door and opened it.

Mrs. Stellenbosch was standing outside.

He only just had time to register the shock of seeing her. He tried to bring up a hand to protect himself, to twist his body into position for a karate kick. But it was already too late. Her arm shot out, the heel of her hand driving into his face. It was like being hit by a brick wall. Alex felt every bone in his body rattle. White light exploded behind his eyes. Then he was out.