Scorpia (16 page)

“I doubt there are many teenagers quite as experienced as Alex.”

“That’s what I began by saying. But even so …”

There was another pause. Mrs Rothman came to a decision. “Did Alex see Dr Steiner?” she asked.

“Yes. Everything was done exactly as you instructed.”

“Good.” She nodded. “You say that Alex won’t kill for us, but you could still be proved wrong. It’s just a question of giving him the right target – and this time I’m not talking about paper.”

“You want to send him on an assignment?”

“As you know, Invisible Sword is about to enter its final, critical phase. Introducing Alex Rider into the mix right now might provide an interesting
distraction, at the very least. And if he
did
succeed, which I believe he might, he could be very useful indeed. All in all, the timing couldn’t be better.”

Julia Rothman leant forward so that her eyes almost filled the screen.

“This is what I want you to do…”

There were two hundred and forty-seven steps to the top of the bell tower. Alex knew because he had counted every one of them. The bottom of the tower was empty, a single chamber with bare brick walls and a smell of damp. It had clearly been abandoned years ago. The bells themselves either had been stolen or had fallen down and been lost. The stairs were made of stone and twisted round, following the edges of the tower, and small windows allowed just enough light to see. There was a door at the top. Alex wondered if it would be locked. The tower was used occasionally during camouflage exercises, when the students had to creep from one side of the island to the other. It was a useful lookout post. But he hadn’t been up here before himself.

The door was open. It led to a square platform, about ten metres wide, out in the open air. Once there might have been a balustrade enclosing the platform and making it safe. But at some point it had been removed and now the stone floor simply ended. If Alex took three more paces he would step
into nothing. He would fall to his death.

Cautiously Alex walked to the edge and glanced down. He was right above the monastery courtyard. He could see the
makiwara
which had been set up earlier in the afternoon. This was a heavy pole with a thick leather pad wrapped around it at head height. It was used to practise kick-boxing and karate strikes. There was nobody in sight. Lessons for the day had ended and the other students were resting before dinner.

He looked across the woodland that surrounded the monastery, already dark and impenetrable. The sun was sinking into the sea, spilling the last of its light over the black water. In the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Venice. What was happening there right now? Tourists would be leaving their hotels, searching out the restaurants and bars. There might be concerts in some of the churches. The gondoliers would be tying up their boats. Winter might be a long way off but already it was too cold for most people to set out on an evening cruise. Alex still found it hard to believe that this island with all its secrets could exist so close to one of the world’s most popular holiday destinations. Two worlds. Side by side. But one of them was blind, utterly unaware of the existence of the other.

He stood there unmoving, feeling the breeze rippling through his hair. He was wearing only a long-sleeved shirt and jeans and he was conscious
of the evening chill. But somehow it was distant. It was as if he had become part of the tower – a statue or a gargoyle. He was on Malagosto because he had nowhere else to go; he no longer had any choice.

He thought back over the last couple of weeks. How long had he been on the island? He had no idea. In many ways it was just like being at school. There were teachers and classrooms and separate lessons, and one day more or less blurred into the next. Only the subjects here were nothing like the ones he had studied at Brookland.

First there was history – also taught by Gordon Ross. But his version of history had nothing to do with kings and queens, battles and treaties. Ross specialized in the history of weapons.

“Now, this is the double-edged commando knife, developed in the Second World War by Fairbairn and Sykes. One was a silent killing specialist, the other a crack shot with the rifle. Isn’t it a beauty? You’ll see it has a seven and a half inch blade with a crosspiece and a ribbed centre on both sides. It’s designed to fit exactly in your palm. You may find it a little heavy, Alex, as your hand isn’t fully developed. But this is still the greatest murder weapon ever invented. Guns are noisy; guns can jam. But the commando knife is a true friend. It will do its job instantly and it will never let you down.”

Then there were practical lessons with Professor
Yermalov. As Nile had said, he was the least friendly member of the staff at Malagosto: a scowling, silent man in his fifties who had little time for anyone. But Alex soon found out why. Yermalov was from Chechnya and had lost his entire family in the war with Russia.

“Today I am going to show you how to make yourself invisible,” he said.

Alex couldn’t resist a faint smile.

Yermalov saw it. “You think I am making a joke with you, Mr Rider? You think I am talking about children’s books? A cloak of invisibility, perhaps? You are wrong. I am teaching you the skills of the ninjas, the greatest spies who ever lived. The ninja assassins of feudal Japan were reputed to have the ability to vanish into thin air. In fact they used the five elements of escape and concealment – the
gotonpo
. Not magic but science. They might hide underwater, breathing through a tube. They might bury themselves a few centimetres below the surface of the earth. Wearing protective clothing, they might hide inside a fire. To vanish into the air, they carried a rope or even a hidden ladder. And there were other possibilities. They developed the art of sight removers or eye blinders. Blind your enemy with smoke or chemicals and you will become invisible. That is what I will show you now, and this afternoon Miss Binnag will be demonstrating how to make a blinding powder from hot peppers …”

There had been other exercises too. How to assemble and dismantle an automatic pistol while blindfolded (Alex had dropped all the pieces, much to the amusement of the other students). How to use fear. How to use surprise. How to target aggression. There were textbooks – including a manual on the most vulnerable parts of the human body, written by a Dr Three – as well as blackboards and even written exams. They sat in classrooms with ordinary desks. There was just one difference. This was a school for assassination.

And then there had been the demonstration. It was something Alex would never forget.

One afternoon the students had assembled in the main courtyard, where Oliver d’Arc was standing with Nile, who was dressed in white judo robes with a black belt around his waist. It was odd how often the two colours seemed to surround him, as if perpetually mocking his disease.

“Nile was one of our best students,” d’Arc explained. “Since his time here, he has risen up the ranks of Scorpia with successful assignments in Washington, London, Bangkok, Sydney – all over the world, in fact. He has kindly agreed to show you a few of his techniques. I’m sure you’ll all learn something from him.” He bowed. “Thank you, Nile.”

In the next thirty minutes, Alex saw a display of strength, agility and fitness he would never forget. Nile smashed bricks and planks with his elbows,
fists and bare feet. Three students with long wooden staffs closed in on him. Unarmed, he beat them all, weaving in and out, moving so fast that at times his hands were no more than a blur. Then he proceeded to demonstrate a variety of ninja weapons: knives, swords, spears and chains. Alex watched him throw a dozen
hira shuriken
at a wooden target. These were the deadly, star-shaped projectiles that spun through the air, each steel point razor sharp. One after another they thudded into the wood, hitting the inner circle. Nile never missed. And this was a man with some sort of secret weakness? Alex couldn’t see it – and he understood now how he had been defeated so easily at the Widow’s Palace. Against a man like Nile he wouldn’t stand a chance.

But they were on the same side.

Alex reminded himself of that now as he stood at the top of the bell tower, watching the night draw in and darkness take hold. He had made his choice. He was part of Scorpia now.

Like his father.

Had he made the right decision? At the time, it had all seemed very simple. Yassen Gregorovich had told the truth; Mrs Rothman had shown it to him on film. But he still wasn’t sure. There was a voice whispering to him in the evening breeze that this was all a terrible mistake, that he shouldn’t be here, that it wasn’t too late to get away. But where would he go? How could he return to England,
knowing what he did? Albert Bridge. He couldn’t erase the images from his mind. The three Scorpia agents waiting. Mrs Jones talking into the radio transmitter. The betrayal. John Rider pitching forward and lying still.

Alex felt hatred welling up inside him. It was stronger than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He wondered if it would be possible to live an ordinary life again one day. There seemed to be nowhere for him to go. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just took one more step. He was already standing on the very edge. Why couldn’t he just let the night take him?

“Alex?”

He hadn’t heard anyone approach. He looked round and saw Nile standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame.

“I’ve been looking for you, Alex. What are you doing?”

“I was just thinking.”

“Professor Yermalov said he thought he saw you come up here. You shouldn’t really be here.”

Alex expected Nile to come forward, but he stayed where he was.

“I just wanted to be alone,” Alex explained.

“I think you should come down. You could fall.”

Alex hesitated. Then he nodded. “All right.”

He followed Nile back down the twisting staircase and at last they emerged at ground level.

“Professor d’Arc wants to see you,” Nile said.

“To fail me?”

“What gave you that idea? You’ve done extremely well. Everyone is very pleased with you. You’ve been here less than a fortnight but you’ve already made great progress.”

They walked back together. A couple of students passed them and murmured a greeting. Only the day before, Alex had seen them fight a ferocious duel with fencing swords. They were deadly killers; they were his friends. He shook his head and followed Nile into the monastery and through to d’Arc’s study.

As usual, the principal was sitting behind his desk. He was looking as neat as ever, his beard perfectly trimmed.

“Do, please, sit down, Alex,” he said. He tapped a few keys on his computer and glanced at the screen through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I have some of your results here,” he went on. “You’ll be pleased to know that all the teachers speak very highly of you.” He frowned. “We do have one small problem, however. Your psychological profile…”

Alex said nothing.

“This business of killing,” d’Arc said. “I heard what you said when you first came to my office and, as I told you, there are many other things you could do for Scorpia. But here’s the problem, my dear boy. You’re afraid of killing, so you’re afraid of Scorpia. You are not quite one of us – and I fear you never will be. That is not satisfactory.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“Not at all. I’m asking you only to trust us a little more. I’m searching for a way to make you feel that you belong with us completely. And I think I have the answer.”

D’Arc switched off his computer and walked round from behind the desk. He was dressed in another suit – he wore a different suit every day. This one was brown, with a herringbone pattern.

“You have to learn to kill,” he said suddenly. “You have to do it without any hesitation. Because, when you’ve done it once, you’ll see that actually it wasn’t such a big deal. It’s the same as jumping into a swimming pool. As easy as that. But you have to cross the psychological barrier, Alex, if you are to become one of us.” He raised a hand. “I know you are very young; I know this isn’t easy. But I want to help you. I want to make it less painful for you. And I think I can.

“I am going to send you to England tomorrow. That same evening you will carry out your first mission for Scorpia and, if you succeed, there will be no going back. You will know that you are truly one of us and we will know that we can trust you. But here is the good news.” D’Arc smiled, showing teeth that didn’t look quite real. “We have chosen the one person in the world who – we think you’ll agree – most deserves to die. It is someone you have every reason to despise, and we hope that your hatred and your anger will drive you on,
removing any last doubts you may have.

“Mrs Jones. The deputy head of MI6 Special Operations. She was the one responsible for the death of your father.

“We know where she lives; we will help you get to her. She is the one we want you to kill.”

J
ust before four o’clock in the afternoon, a man got out of a taxi in Whitehall, paid with a brand-new twenty-pound note, and began to walk the short distance to Downing Street. The man had started his journey at Paddington, but that wasn’t where he lived. Nor had he come into London on a train. He was about thirty years old with short, fair hair, and he was wearing a suit and tie.

It is not possible to walk into Downing Street, not since Margaret Thatcher erected huge anti-terrorist gates. Britain is the only democracy whose leaders feel the need to hide behind bars. As always, there was a policeman there, just coming to the end of his eight-hour shift.

The man walked up to him, at the same time producing a plain white envelope made from the very finest paper. Later, when the envelope was analysed, it would be found to have come from a
supplier in Naples. There would be no fingerprints, even though the man who had delivered it was not wearing gloves. He had no fingerprints: they had been surgically removed.

“Good afternoon,” he said. He had no accent of any kind. His voice was pleasant and polite.