1.30 am, Thursday, 31st March

Port Tallon, Cornwall

At one-thirty in the morning, Alex's eyes blinked open and he was instantly awake.

He slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in his darkest clothes, then left the room. He was half surprised that the door was open and that the corridors seemed to be unmonitored. But this was, after all, Sayle's private house and any security would have been designed to stop people coming in, not leaving.

Sayle had warned him not to leave the house the evening before. But the voices behind the metal door had spoken of something arriving at two o'clock. Alex had to know what it was. What could be such a big secret that it had to arrive in the middle of the night?

Running along the side of the house, he crouched low underneath the windows. In the distance, the airstrip was lit up and there were figures - more guards and technicians everywhere. One man he recognized, walking past the fountain toward a truck parked next to a couple of cars. He was tall and gangly, silhouetted against the lights, a black cutout. But Alex would have known Mr Grin anywhere.

"They come in tonight. At oh-two-hundred".

And Mr Grin was on his way to meet them.

The butler had almost reached the truck and Alex knew that if he waited any longer he would be too late.

Throwing caution to the wind, he left the cover of the house and ran out into the open, trying to stay low and hoping his dark clothes would keep him invisible. He was only fifty yards from the truck when Mr Grin suddenly stopped and turned around as if he had sensed there was someone there.

There was nowhere for Alex to hide.

He did the only thing he could and threw himself flat on the ground, burying his face in the grass. He counted slowly to five, then looked up. Mr Grin was turning once again. A second figure had appeared - Nadia Vole. It seemed she would be driving. She muttered something as she climbed into the front. Mr Grin grunted and nodded.

By the time Mr Grin had walked around to the passenger door, Alex was once again up and running. He reached the back of the truck just as it began to move. Alex clambered onto the moving tailgate and threw himself in. The truck was empty - and he was only just in time. Even as he hit the floor, one of the cars started up behind him, flooding the back of the truck with its headlights. If he had waited even a few seconds more, he would have been seen.

He was lying on a wooden floor, about ten feet across, with nothing to hold on to as the truck sped around hairpin bends. He only knew they had left the main road when he suddenly found himself being bounced up and down, and he was grateful that the truck was now moving more slowly. He sensed they were going downhill, following a rough track. And now he could hear something, even over the noise of the engine.

Waves.

They had come down to the sea.

The truck stopped. There was the opening and slamming of car doors, the scrunch of boots on rocks, and low voices talking. Alex crouched down, afraid that one of the guards would throw back the tarpaulin and discover him, but the voices faded and he found himself alone. Cautiously, he slipped out the back.

He was right. The convoy had parked on a deserted beach.

Mr Grin and the others had gathered beside an old stone jetty that stretched out into the black water. He was carrying a flashlight. Alex saw him swing it in an arc.

Growing ever more curious, he crept forward and found a hiding place behind a clump of boulders. It seemed that they were waiting for a boat. He looked at his watch. It was exactly two o'clock. He almost wanted to laugh.

Give the men flintlock pistols and horses and they could have come straight out of a children's book. Smuggling on the Cornish coast. Could that be what this was all about? Cocaine or marijuana coming in from the Continent? Why else come here in the middle of the night?

The question was answered a few seconds later. Alex stared, unable to quite believe what he was seeing.

A submarine. It had emerged from the sea with the speed and the impossibility of a huge stage illusion. One moment there was nothing and then it was there in front of him, ploughing through the sea toward the jetty, its engine making no sound, water streaking off its silver casing and churning white behind it. What was it doing here, off the coast of Cornwall?

Not for the first time, Alex felt very small and very young. Whatever was going on here, he knew he was way out of his depth - and he cursed Alan Blunt to the very depths of hell for ever getting him involved.

And then a man climbed out, stretching himself in the cold morning air. Even without the half-moon, Alex would have recognized the sleek dancer's body and the close-cropped hair of the man whose photograph he had seen only a few days before. It was Yassen Gregorovich - and that dramatic entrance had been very Red October of him.

Alex forced himself to stay where he was. He had to work this out. Yassen Gregorovich had supposedly met Sayle in Cuba. Now here he was in Cornwall. So the two of them were working together. But why?

Why should the Stormbreaker project possibly need a man like him?

2.57 am, Thursday, 31st March

Port Tallon, Cornwall

The guards from Sayle Enterprises had formed a line stretching back almost to the point where the vehicles were parked. After Yassen had given the order a metallic silver box with a vacuum seal had appeared, held by unseen hands, at the top of the submarine's tower. About forty more boxes followed one after another. By the end of the hour, they were almost finished. The boxes were being repacked now into the back of the truck that Alex had vacated.

And that was when it happened.

One of the men, standing on the jetty, dropped one of the boxes. He managed to catch it again at the last minute, but even so, it banged down heavily on the stone surface.

Everyone stopped.

Instantly.

It was as if a switch had been thrown and Alex could almost feel the raw fear in the air.

Yassen was the first to recover. He darted forward along the jetty, moving like a cat, his feet making no sound. He reached the box and ran his hands over it, checking the seal, then nodded slowly. The metal wasn't even dented.

With everyone so still, Alex heard the exchange that followed.

"I'm sorry" the guard said, "I won't do that again".

"No. You won't" Yassen agreed.

And shot him.

The bullet spat out of the gun. It hit the man in the chest, propelling him backwards in an awkward cartwheel. The man fell into the sea. For a few seconds, he looked up at the moon as if trying to admire it one last time. Then the black water folded over him.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-

Alex forced himself to stay calm.

Yassen had already gotten into the front seat of the truck with Vole, while Mr Grin went in one of the cars. As the truck picked up speed, rumbling back up toward the road, Alex left the cover of the rocks, ran forward and pulled himself in. There was hardly any room with all the boxes, but he managed to find a hole and squeezed himself into it.

He ran a hand over one of the boxes. It was about the size of a toaster, unmarked, and cold to the touch. Close up, it looked like the sort of thing you might take on a high-tech picnic. He tried to find a way to open it, but it was locked in a way he didn't understand.

He looked back out of the truck. The beach and the jetty were already far below them. The submarine was pulling out to sea. One moment it was there, sleek and silver, gliding through the water.

The next it had sunk below the surface, disappearing as quickly as a bad dream.

4.13 pm, Thursday, 31st March

Port Tallon, Cornwall

Alex was having a terrible, horrible, no good, really bad day.

He should have taken being woken up by an indignant Nadia Vole knocking on his door as the omen that it was, but instead, he'd allowed himself to get distracted by his own thoughts.

Yassen Gregorovich was working for Herod Sayle. That much was certain. But what about the boxes? They could have contained packed lunches for the staff of Sayle Enterprises for all he knew - Except that you don't kill a man for dropping a packed lunch.

Even worse, today was March thirty-first. There was only one day to go until the ceremony at the Science Museum. But Alex had nothing to report, and although usually, he'd be delighted to prove Alan Blunt wrong, there was something oddly hollow about this victory.

Because there was something going on, wasn't there? Yassen Gregorovich wasn't in Cornwall for a spring vacation. Alex had considered transmitting the fact that he had actually seen the man, but then he had decided against it. If Yassen was there, Mrs Jones had promised to pull him out - and he didn't know what Blunt would do to Ian if he didn't complete the mission.

Ian, whose birthday was today. Ian, who was likely celebrating it alone. Ian, who was likely not even celebrating it at all.

He'd spent the morning toying with the Stormbreaker - there'd been a guard posted in the corridor outside this time, which prevented him from doing any further snooping. After lunch, the man had escorted him all the way to the main gate, where Alex had experienced Bad Thing Number Three.

If you can call two men on quad bikes trying to murder you with cheese wire, guns, and a flamethrower a "bad thing".

Alex thought it might count.

Electrocuting one man and accidentally tossing the other one off a cliff was not how he'd pictured his Thursday afternoon.

Going to the library had been the first upside of the day - and not because no one had tried to kill him there, although that was clearly a bonus too. Figuring out that the reference numbers on that scrap of paper had referred to a book label had led him to the entrance of the old tin mine - the Kerneweck Shaft - which had finally, eventually, led him to here.

Here, being the moment that he regretted all of the terrible, horrible, no good, really bad things that had ended with him staring down a diver's dry suit, a rope tied to a rock, and a completely and utterly submerged tunnel.

Alex picked up the dry suit. It was too big for him, although it would probably keep out the worst of the chill. But the cold wasn't the only problem. The tunnel might run for ten yards. It might run for a hundred. How could he be sure that the last agent Blunt had sent hadn't used scuba equipment to swim through?

If Alex went down there, into the water, and ran out of breath halfway, he would drown. Again his imagination got the better of him. He could see himself, pinned underneath the rock in the freezing blackness.

He couldn't imagine a worse way to die.

Alex stood for a moment, holding the suit in his hands. Suddenly everything seemed unfair. He had never asked to be here. He had been forced into this by MI6 and he'd already done more than enough. There was nothing on earth that would make him enter the blackness of the water.

… But if he didn't do this, if he didn't complete this mission or even just report back anything substantial to Blunt and Jones, then it wasn't just his life that he was risking.

He pulled on the dry suit. It was cold, clammy, and uncomfortable. He zipped it up at the front. He hadn't taken off his street clothes and that had perhaps helped. The suit was loose in places, but he was sure it would keep the water out.

Moving quickly now, afraid that if he hesitated he would change his mind, Alex approached the water's edge. He reached out and took the rope in one hand. It would be faster swimming with both hands, but he didn't dare risk it. Getting lost in the underwater tunnel would be as bad as running out of air. The result would be exactly the same.

He took several deep breaths, hyperventilating and oxygenating his blood, knowing it would give him a few precious extra seconds.

Then he plunged in.

The cold was ferocious, a hammer blow that nearly forced the air out of his lungs. The water pounded at his head, swirling around his nose and eyes. His fingers were instantly numb. Clinging to the rope, he kicked forward. He had committed himself. There could be no going back.

Pull, kick. Pull, kick.

Alex had been underwater for less than a minute, but already his lungs were feeling the strain. The roof of the tunnel was scraping his shoulders and he was afraid that it would tear through the dry suit and gouge into his skin as well. But he didn't dare slow down.

Pull, kick. Pull, kick.

The freezing cold was sucking the strength out of him. How long had he been under? Ninety seconds? A hundred? He was in a black, swirling, freezing version of hell. And his breath was running out.

Pull, kick. Pull, kick.

And then the rope tilted upward and he felt his shoulders come clear and his mouth was wrenched open in a great gasp as he breathed air and he knew that he had just made it.

But made it to where?

His hand brushed against something, but his fingers were too numb to tell what it was. He reached out and pulled himself forward. His feet touched the bottom. And it was then that he realised he could see.

Somehow, from somewhere, light was seeping into the area beyond the submerged tunnel. Slowly, his vision adjusted itself. Waving his hand in front of his face, he could just make out his fingers - as well as the red glow from his wrist.

Unfortunately, it would seem that the damn tracker was depth proof too.

He was holding on to a wooden beam, a collapsed roof support. Using it as a makeshift jetty, he clambered onto the rock. At the same time, he became aware of a soft throbbing sound. He couldn't be sure if it was near or far, but he remembered what he had heard under Block D, in front of the metal door, and he knew that he had arrived.

7.02 pm, Thursday, 31st March

Port Tallon, Cornwall

The old mine shaft had been converted. It was being used as the outlet for some sort of air conditioning system. The light that had guided Alex here was coming out of the grills.

He knelt beside the first of these and looked through into a large white-tiled laboratory. The room was empty. Tentatively, Alex took hold of the grill, but it was firmly secured; bolted into the rock face. The second grill was also screwed in tight. Alex continued up the tunnel to a third grill. This one looked into a storage room filled with the silver boxes that Alex had seen being delivered by the submarine the night before.

He took the grill in both hands and pulled. It came away from the wall easily and looking closer, he understood why. Once again, Jones' last man had been here ahead of him. He had cut through the bolts holding it in place.

Alex set the grill down silently, glad that he had found the strength to go forward.

Carefully, he squeezed through the rectangular hole in the wall and into the room. At the last minute, lying on his stomach with his feet dangling below, he reached for the grill and set it back in place. Provided nobody looked too closely, they wouldn't see anything wrong.

The ground was a long way away, at least twice his own height, but that wasn't going to stop him now.

He dropped down and landed, catlike, on the balls of his feet. The throbbing was louder, coming from somewhere outside. It would cover any noise he made.

Alex glanced at his watch. It had taken him longer than he had thought to get through the mine. He stole forward. It wasn't exactly a passage that he had found. It was more of an observation platform. He reached the rail and looked down.

Alex hadn't had any idea what he would find behind the metal door, but what he was seeing now was far beyond anything he could have imagined. It was a huge chamber, the walls lined with computer equipment, electronic metres, and machines that blinked and flickered with a life of their own. It was staffed by forty or fifty people, some in white coats, others in overalls. Armed guards stood at each doorway, watching the work with blank faces.

This was where the Stormbreakers were being assembled.

The computers were being slowly carried in a long, continuous line along a conveyor belt, past the various scientists and technicians. The strange thing was that they already looked finished… and of course, they had to be. Sayle had told him. They were actually being shipped out during the course of the afternoon and night. So what last-minute adjustment was being made here in this secret factory?

And why was so much of the production line hidden away?

He looked more closely. He remembered the Stormbreaker that he had used and now he noticed something that he hadn't seen then. A strip of plastic had been drawn back in the casing above each of the screens to reveal a small compartment - and even as he watched, each computer was being passed under a bizarre machine which was carefully cropping opaque, silver test tubes into each container.

A movement caught his eye and Alex looked beyond the assembly line and through a huge window into the chamber next door. Two men in space suits were walking clumsily together, as if in slow motion. An alarm began to sound and suddenly they disappeared in a cloud of white steam. Were they being decontaminated? But what were they being decontaminated from?

"Agent Gregorovich, report to the biocontainment zone. This is a call for Agent Gregorovich".

A lean, fair-haired figure dressed in black detached himself from the assembly line and walked languidly toward a door that slid open to receive him.

For the second time, Alex found himself looking at the Russian contract killer, Yassen Gregorovich. What was going on?!

Alex thought back to the submarine and the vacuum-sealed boxes. Of course. Yassen had brought the test tubes that were even now being inserted into the computers. The test tubes were some sort of weapon that he was using to sabotage them. No. That wasn't possible. Back in Port Tallon, the librarian had told him that Ian Rider had been asking for books about computer viruses-

Viruses.

Decontamination.

The biocontainment zone…

Understanding came and with it something cold and solid jabbing into the back of his neck. Alex hadn't even heard the door open behind him, but he slowly straightened up as a voice spoke softly into his ear.

"Stand up. Keep your hands by your sides. If you make any sudden move, I'll shoot you in the head".

A single guard stood behind him, a gun in his hand. It was the sort of thing that Alex had seen a thousand times in films and on television, and he was shocked by how different the reality was. The gun was a Browning automatic pistol and one twitch of the man's finger would send a nine-millimetre bullet shattering through his skull and into his brain.

The very thought of it made him feel sick.

He stood up. The guard was in his twenties, pale-faced and puzzled. Alex had never seen him before, but more importantly, he had never seen Alex. He hadn't expected to come across a boy. That might help.

"Who are you?" he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm staying with Mr Sayle" Alex said. He stared at the gun. "Why are you pointing that at me? I'm not doing anything wrong!"

He sounded pathetic. A little boy lost. But it had the desired effect.

The guard hesitated, slightly lowering the gun. At that moment Alex struck - driving his elbow into the side of the man's head, just below his ear. The guard didn't even cry out. His eyes rolled and he went limp. Alex had almost certainly knocked him out with the single punch, but he couldn't take chances and followed it through with a knee into the groin.

The guard folded, his pistol falling to the ground. Quickly, Alex dragged him back, away from the railings. He looked down. Nobody had seen what had happened.

But the guard wouldn't be unconscious for long and Alex knew he had to get out of here, not just back up to ground level but out of Sayle Enterprises altogether. He had to contact Mrs Jones. He still didn't know how or why, but he knew now that the Stormbreakers had been turned into killing machines.

There were less than twenty-four hours until the launch at the Science Museum. Somehow Alex had to stop it from happening.

7.14 pm, Thursday, 31st March

Port Tallon, Cornwall

He ran.

He knew he couldn't go back the way he had come. He was too tired, and even if he could find his way back through the mine, he'd never be able to manage the swim a second time. His only chance was the door that had first led him here. It led to the metal staircase that would bring him to Block D. There was a telephone in his room. Failing that, he could use the Nintendo Switch to transmit a message. But MI6 had to know what he had found out.

Then the alarms went off.

He ran on, weaving in and out of the pipes, trying every door he came to. Footsteps approached. Alex just had time to hide himself on the floor, underneath one of the work surfaces, before the first door was thrown open and two more guards ran into the laboratory. They took a quick look around without seeing him.

"Not here!" one of them said. "You'd better go up!"

One guard walked out the way he had come. The other went over to the door and placed his hand on the glass identification panel. There was a green glow and the door buzzed loudly. The guard threw it open and disappeared. Alex rolled forward as the door swung shut and just managed to get his hand into the crack.

He waited a moment, then stood up. He opened the door. As he had hoped, he was looking out into the unfinished passageway where he had been surprised by Vole only the day before. The guard had already gone on ahead.

Alex slipped out, closing the door behind him, cutting off the sound of the siren. He made his way up the metal stairs, grateful to be back above ground. He found a door and slipped outside.

Keeping low, he ran past the fountain and across the grass. He thought about making for the main gate, but he knew that was hopeless. The guards would have been alerted. They'd be waiting for him. Nor could he climb the perimeter fence, not with the razor wire stretched out across the top.

No. His own room seemed the best answer. The telephone was there. And so were his only weapons, the few gadgets that Smithers had given him four days - or was it four years? - ago.

He entered the house through the kitchen, the same way he had left it the night before. He ran up the staircase and along the corridor to his room on the first floor. Slowly, he opened the door. It seemed his luck was holding out. There was nobody there. Without turning on the light, he went inside and snatched up the telephone. The line was dead.

Nevermind.

He found his Nintendo Switch, his yo-yo, and the zit cream and crammed them into his pockets. He had already decided not to stay here. It was too dangerous. He would find somewhere to hide out. Then he would contact MI6.

He went back to the door and opened it. With a shock he saw Mr Grin standing in the hallway, looking hideous with his white face, his ginger hair, and his mauve twisted smile. Alex reacted quickly, striking out with the heel of his right hand-

But Mr Grin was quicker.

He ducked to one side, then his hand shot out, the side of it driving into Alex's throat. Alex gasped for breath but none came. The butler made an inarticulate sound and lashed out a second time. Alex got the impression that behind the livid scars, he really was grinning, enjoying himself. He tried to avoid the blow, but Mr Grin's fist hit him square on the jaw.

He was spun into the bedroom, falling backwards.

He never even remembered hitting the floor.