Crocodile Tears (37 page)

Alex was already twisting away, trying to put as much space between himself and the inferno as he could. He was too close. Blazing droplets of aviation fuel rained down from the sky. He felt them hit his shoulders and back and with horror realized he was on fire. But the grass had recently been watered. It was cool and damp under his hands. Alex rolled over again and again. His skin was burning. The pain was horrific. But after spinning half a dozen times, he had put out the flames.

He looked back at the tarmac. The charred, unrecognizable figure that had once been the Reverend Desmond McCain was on its knees. One final prayer. The silver earring had gone. There wasn’t very much of him left.

He heard shouting. Police and airport workers were running toward him. Alex couldn’t see them. He was stretched out on the grass, trying to bury himself in it. Was it really over at last, the journey that had begun in a Scottish castle and had led to an airport in Africa? How had he ever gotten himself into this?

He couldn’t move. And he was barely aware of the men who lifted him as gently as possible, laid him on a stretcher, and carried him away.

25

SOFT CENTERS

THE SNOW THAT HAD BEEN PROMISED in London had finally arrived.

Only a few inches had fallen during the night, but as usual, it had brought chaos to the streets. Buses had stayed in their depots, the subway system had shut down, schools were closed, and half the workforce had decided to take a day off and stay at home. Snowmen had appeared suddenly in all the London parks, standing under trees, leaning against walls, even sitting on benches . . . like some invading army that had come and seen and decided to take a well-earned rest before it set out to conquer.

It was the second week in February, and the winter had taken a grip on the city and seemed determined never to let go. The streets were empty, the parked cars huddled beneath their white blankets, but Jack Starbright had managed to persuade a taxi to bring her to St. Dominic’s Hospital in one of the northern suburbs of the city. She had been here before. It was a favorite place of the Special Operations Division of MI6 when its agents were injured in the field. This was where they sent them to recover. Alex had spent two weeks here after he had been shot by Scorpia.

Mrs. Jones was waiting for her in the reception area. She was wearing a black full-length coat with leather gloves and a scarf. It was hard to say if she had just arrived or if she was on her way out.

“How is he?” Jack asked.

“He’s much better,” Mrs. Jones said, and it occurred to Jack that she could have been talking about someone who had just recovered from a bad cold. “The burns have healed up and he won’t need any skin grafts. He won’t be playing any sports for a while. He fractured his ankle at Laikipia airport. But he has amazing powers of recovery. The doctors are very pleased with him.” She smiled. “He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Where is he?”

“Room nine on the second floor.”

“That’s the same room as last time.”

“Maybe we should name it after him.”

Jack shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. He won’t be coming back.”

The two women stood facing each other, each one waiting for the other to speak.

Mrs. Jones could see the accusation in Jack’s eyes. “This really wasn’t our fault,” she said. “Alex met McCain quite by accident. That business in Scotland had nothing to do with us.”

“But that didn’t stop you from sending him to Greenfields.”

“We had no idea that McCain was involved.”

“And if you had—would that have stopped you?”

Mrs. Jones shrugged. She had no need to answer.

There was a plastic bag resting on a chair. Mrs. Jones picked it up and handed it to Jack. “You might like to give this to Alex. It’s from Smithers. Some chocolates . . .”

“Oh yes? And what do they do? Explode when he puts them into his mouth?”

“They’re soft centers. Smithers thought he might enjoy them.”

Jack took the bag. She glanced toward the elevator, then back at Mrs. Jones. “Promise me that this will be the end of it,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, this time it was worse than ever. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Do you have any idea what this must be doing to him . . . inside his head, I mean?”

“Actually, I have a very good idea,” Mrs. Jones countered. “I asked our psychiatrists to run a few tests on him.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. But I mean it, Mrs. Jones. Alex has done enough. I want you out of his life.”

Mrs. Jones sighed. “I can’t promise you that, I’m afraid. First of all, it’s not my decision. And anyway, as I said, this didn’t begin with us. Alex has a knack for finding trouble without any help.”

“I’m not going to let it happen again.”

“Believe me, Jack. I’ll be very happy if you can prevent it.” Mrs. Jones pulled up her collar and tightened her belt. “Anyway,” she said, “Alex is waiting for you. You’d better go up.”

“I’m going. Please thank Mr. Smithers for the chocolates.”

Jack took the elevator to the second floor. She didn’t need to ask for directions. The layout of the hospital was all too familiar. As she approached the door of Alex’s room, a woman came out carrying a breakfast tray, and Jack recognized Diana Meacher, the attractive fair-haired nurse from New Zealand who had looked after Alex once before.

“Go right in,” the nurse said. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you. He’ll be so glad you’re here.”

Jack hesitated, composing herself. Then she went into the room.

Alex was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. His pajama top was open and she could see that, once again, he was heavily wrapped in bandages, this time around his neck and shoulders. His eyes were bright and he was smiling, but he looked bad. Pain had stamped its memory all over him. He was thin. The haircut that Beckett had given him when he was smuggled out of the country didn’t help.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Hi, Alex.”

She went over to him and kissed him very gently, afraid that she would hurt him. Then she sat down beside the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Terrible.”

“As terrible as you look?”

“Probably.” Alex put down the magazine, and Jack saw that even this movement made him wince. “They’ve taken me off painkillers,” he explained. “They say they don’t want me to get addicted to them.”

“Oh, Alex . . .” Jack’s voice caught in her throat. She had been determined not to cry in front of him, but she couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes.

“I’m fine,” Alex said. “I’m already much better than I was a week ago.” In fact, Alex had spent ten days in the hospital in Nairobi before MI6 had flown him home.

“I wanted to come out and see you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jack understood. If he looked this bad now, she could hardly imagine what he must have looked like then. He wouldn’t have wanted her to see him like that.

“Are you angry with me?” Alex asked.

“Of course not. I’m just relieved to see you. After you went missing, I was . . .” Jack stopped herself. “When can you come home?” she asked.

“I was talking to the nurse just now. She says that if all goes well, it should only be a couple of days. Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Jack said. “You know what Thursday is.”

“No.” Alex had no idea.

“Alex!” Jack stared at him.

“Tell me . . .”

“Thursday, February thirteenth. It’s your birthday, Alex. You’re going to be fifteen.”

“Am I?” Alex laughed. “So, what are you going to buy me?”

“What do you want?”

“I want to go home. I want peace and quiet. And I want that new version of Assassin’s Creed . . . it’s just come out on PlayStation.”

“I’m not sure those violent computer games are good for you, Alex.”

Jack didn’t tell him that she had already bought it and that a few of his closest friends were waiting for her call, hoping to come around.

Surely MI6 would leave him alone now. They had stolen almost a whole year of his life. But never again. Jack made herself that promise.

In front of her, Alex settled back into the pillows. His eyes were closed and even as she watched, he smiled and fell asleep.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT’S ALWAYS AMAZING how many people are willing to help me, giving up their time and opening doors that might otherwise stay closed—and it seems only right to name them here. I try to make the Alex Rider books as realistic as I can, and it simply wouldn’t be possible without them.

So to start at the beginning, Martin Pearce and Colin Tucker from British Energy showed me around the Size-well B nuclear power station in Suffolk. I’m assured that security there is rather tighter than it was at Jowada. I then visited the John Innes Center, which is part of the Norwich BioScience Institutes (and bears no resemblance at all to the Greenfields Center in this story). I was given an extensive tour by Dr. Wendy Harwood and Dr. Penny Sparrow, and they very kindly explained the principles of GM technology and demonstrated the gene gun that I describe in Chapter 13. I owe a special debt of thanks to Dr. Hugh Martin, a principal lecturer at the Royal Agricultural College, who first suggested to me the method by which Desmond McCain poisons the crops in Kenya.

Jonathan Hinks, who is the chairman of the British Dam Society, introduced me to the concept of the double curvature arch dam and arranged for me to see one. I spent a very pleasant day in Scotland with Kenny Demp ster, from Scottish and Southern Energy, who gave me an extensive tour of the Monar Dam (the only double arch dam in the UK), located in the very beautiful Glen Strathfarrar.

Lea Sherwood, the brilliant stunt arranger who appeared in the film of
Stormbreaker
, assured me that Alex’s escape in Chapter 23 would have been possible, but perhaps you shouldn’t try it at home. The Gaelic translation in Chapter 2 was provided by Dr. Robert Dunbar at the University of Aberdeen. And I owe an apology to Professor Robin Smith from London Imperial College, who gave me a lengthy lesson in physics that sadly didn’t make it to the final draft.

As always, I have relied on the guidance and advice of my three editors: Jane Winterbotham and Chris Kloet at Walker Books and Michael Green in New York. Also in New York, Don Weisberg and the rest of the Philomel team moved mountains to make publication possible. My agent, Robert Kirby, gave me some great support when I needed it. My assistant, Olivia Zampi, organized everything with incredible patience and precision. And my son, Cass, was once again the first to read the manuscript, even though he’s now much too old for it.

Finally, thanks to my wife, Jill Green, who had to live through the writing of this. It wasn’t always fun.