Scorpia (18 page)

The eighteen members of the football squad were sitting in business class. They were blank-faced and bleary-eyed, not just from the long flight but from the series of defeats they had left behind them. The tour had been a disaster from start to finish. These were only exhibition games. The results weren’t meant to matter, but the trip had been something of a humiliation.

As they gazed out of the windows, looking at the grey light and the grey tarmac of a Heathrow
twilight, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Heathrow. Once again, I’m sorry for the late running of this aircraft. I’m afraid I’ve just spoken to the control tower and for some reason we’re being re-routed away from the main terminal, so we’re going to be out here a little longer. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened, and we’ll have you out of here as soon as we possibly can.”

And here was something strange. As the plane taxied forward, two army jeeps appeared from nowhere, one on each side, escorting them along the runway. There were soldiers with machine guns in the back. Following instructions from the control tower, the plane turned off and began to move away from the main buildings. The two jeeps accompanied it.

Alan Blunt stood behind an observation window, watching the 747 through a pair of miniature binoculars. He didn’t move as the plane trundled towards a square concrete holding area. When he lowered the binoculars, his eyes still remained fixed on the distance. He hadn’t spoken for several minutes; he’d barely even breathed. There is nothing more dangerous than a government that does not trust its own intelligence and security services. Unfortunately, as Blunt was only too well aware, the prime minister had made his dislike of both
MI5 and MI6 clear almost from the first day he had come to power. This was the result.

“So what now?” Sir Graham Adair was standing next to him. The permanent secretary to the Cabinet Office knew Alan Blunt very well. They met once a month, formally, to discuss intelligence matters. But they were also members of the same club and occasionally played bridge together. Now he was watching the sky and the runway as if expecting to see a missile streaking towards the slowly moving plane.

“We are about to watch eighteen people die.”

“Kellner is a bloody fool, but even so I can’t see how they’re going to do it.” Sir Graham didn’t want to believe him. “The airport has been sealed off since six. We’ve trebled the security. Everyone is on the highest possible alert. You looked at the passenger list?”

Blunt knew just about everything about every man, woman and child who had boarded the plane in Lagos. Hundreds of agents had spent the past hour checking and cross-checking their details, looking for anything remotely suspicious. If there were assassins or terrorists on the plane, they would have to be under deep cover. At the same time, the pilots and cabin staff had been alerted to look out for anything amiss. If anyone so much as stood up before the squad had disembarked, they would raise the alarm.

“Of course we did,” Blunt said irritably.

“And?”

“Tourists. Businessmen. Families. Two weather forecasters and a celebrity chef. Nobody seems to have any understanding of what we’re up against.”

“Tell me.”

“Scorpia will do what they said they would do: it’s as simple as that. They never fail.”

“They may not find it so easy this time.” Sir Graham looked at his watch. It was nine minutes past seven. “It’s still possible they made a mistake warning us.”

“They only warned you because they knew there was nothing you could do.”

The plane came to a halt with the two jeeps on either side. At the same time, more armed soldiers appeared. They were everywhere. Some were in clusters on the ground, watching the plane through the telescopic sights of their automatic weapons. There were snipers dotted about on the roofs, all of them linked by radio. Armed policemen with sniffer dogs waited at the entrance to the main terminal. Every door was guarded. Nobody was being allowed in or out.

Sixty more seconds had passed. There were just five minutes to the deadline: quarter past seven.

On the plane the captain switched off the engines. Normally the passengers would already be standing up, reaching for their bags, anxious to leave. But by now they all knew something was wrong. The plane seemed to have stopped in the
middle of nowhere. Powerful spotlights had been trained on it, as if pinning it down. There was no tunnel connecting the door with the terminal. A vehicle edged slowly forward, bringing with it a flight of steps. Armed soldiers in khaki uniforms with helmets and visors crept along beside it. Whatever window the passengers looked out of, they could see armed forces totally surrounding the plane.

The captain spoke again, his voice deliberately calm and matter-of-fact.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have a situation here at Heathrow, but the control tower assures me that it’s all routine … there’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to be opening the main door in a moment, but I must ask you to remain in your seats until you’re given instructions to leave. We’re going to be disembarking our passengers in business class first, starting with those in rows seven to nine. The rest of you will be allowed to leave very shortly. Please can I ask for your patience for just a few minutes more.”

Rows seven to nine. The captain had already been told. These were the rows occupied by the football squad. None of the players had been informed of what was happening.

There were four minutes left.

The players stood up and began to collect their hand luggage, a variety of sports bags and souvenirs: brightly coloured clothes and wooden
carvings. They were glad they had been chosen to leave first. Some of them were thinking that it was all quite fun.

The steps connected with the side of the plane and Blunt watched as a man in orange overalls ran up to stand next to the door. The man looked like an airport technician but in fact he worked for MI6. A dozen soldiers sprinted forward and formed a circle around the steps, their guns pointing outwards so that they resembled a human porcupine. Every angle was covered. The nearest building was more than fifty metres away.

At the same time, a bus appeared. The bus was one of two kept at Heathrow for exceptional circumstances such as this. It looked ordinary but its shell was made of reinforced steel and its windows were bulletproof. Blunt had been in charge of all these preparations, working with the police and airport authorities. As soon as all the players were on board, it would leave the airport, not bothering with customs or passport control. Fast cars were waiting on the other side of the perimeter fence. The players, two or three in each, would be whisked to a secret location in London. By then they would be safe.

Or so everyone hoped. Blunt alone was less sure.

“There’s nothing,” Sir Graham murmured. “There’s nobody even close.”

It was true. The area surrounding the plane was empty. There were maybe fifty soldiers and
policemen in view. But nobody else.

“Scorpia will have been expecting this.”

“Maybe one of the soldiers.” Sir Graham hadn’t thought of this until now – when it was too late.

“They’ve all been checked,” Blunt said. “I went through the list personally.”

“Then for heaven’s sake—”

The door of the plane opened.

A stewardess appeared at the top of the steps, blinking nervously in the glare of the spotlights. Only now could she fully appreciate how serious the situation must be. It was as if the plane had landed in a battlefield. It was totally surrounded. There were men with guns everywhere.

The MI6 agent in the orange overalls spoke briefly with her and she went back inside. Then the first of the players appeared, a sports bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s Hill-Smith,” Sir Graham said. “He’s the team captain.”

Blunt looked at his watch. It was fourteen minutes past seven.

Edmund Hill-Smith was dark-haired, a well-built man. He looked around him, obviously puzzled. He was followed by the other squad members. A black player in sunglasses. His name was Jackson Burke; he was the goalie. Then one of the strikers, a man with blond hair. He was holding a straw hat, something he must have bought in a Nigerian market. One by one they appeared in the doorway and
began to walk down the stairs to the waiting bus.

Blunt said nothing. A tiny pulse was beating in his temple. All eighteen men were out in the open now. Sir Graham looked left and right. Where was the attack going to come from? There was nothing anybody could do. Hill-Smith and Burke had already reached the bus. They were safely inside.

Blunt twisted his wrist. The seconds hand on his watch passed the twelve.

One of the players, the last to leave the plane, seemed to stumble. Sir Graham saw one of the soldiers turn, alarmed. On the bus Burke suddenly jerked backwards, his shoulders slamming into the glass. Another player, halfway down the stairs, dropped his bag and clutched his chest, his face distorted with pain. He toppled over, knocking into the two men in front of him. But they too appeared to have been gripped by some invisible force…

One after another the players crumpled. The soldiers were shouting, gesticulating. What was happening was impossible. There was no enemy. Nobody had done anything. But eighteen healthy athletes were collapsing in front of their eyes. Sir Graham saw one of the soldiers speaking frantically into a radio transmitter and a second later a fleet of ambulances appeared, lights blazing, speeding towards the plane. So somebody had been prepared for the worst. Sir Graham glanced at Blunt and knew it had been him.

The ambulances were already too late. By the time they arrived, Burke was on his back, gasping his last few breaths. Hill-Smith had joined him, dropping to the floor of the bus, his lips mauve, his eyes empty. The steps were strewn with bodies, one or two feebly kicking, the others deadly still. The man with the blond hair was lost in a tangle of bodies. The straw hat had rolled away, blown across the runway by the breeze.

“What?” Sir Graham rasped. “How?” He couldn’t find the words.

“Invisible Sword,” Blunt said.

At that exact moment, a quarter of a mile away in Terminal Two, passengers were just arriving on a flight from Rome. At passport control the officer noticed a mother and a father with their son. The boy was fourteen years old. He was overweight, with black curly hair, thick glasses and terrible skin. There was a slight moustache on his upper lip. He was Italian; his passport gave his name as Federico Casali.

The passport officer might have looked more closely at the boy. There was some sort of alert out for a fourteen-year-old called Alex Rider. But he knew what was happening out on the main runway. Everyone knew. The whole airport was in a state of panic and right now he was distracted. He didn’t even bother comparing the face in front of him with the picture that had been circulated. What
was happening outside was much more important.

Scorpia had timed it perfectly.

The boy took his passport and slouched away, through customs and out of the airport.

Alex Rider had come home.

S
pies have to be careful where they live.

An ordinary person will choose a house or a flat because it has nice views, because they like the shape of the rooms, because it feels like home. For spies, the first consideration is security. There’s a comfortable sitting room – but will the window offer a target for a possible sniper’s bullet? A garden is fine – so long as the fence is high enough and there aren’t too many shrubs providing cover for an intruder. The neighbours, of course, will be checked. So will the postman, the milkman, the window cleaner and anyone else who comes to the front door. The front door itself may have as many as five separate locks and there will be alarm systems, night cameras and panic buttons. Someone once said that an Englishman’s home is his castle. For a spy, it can be his prison too.

Mrs Jones lived in the penthouse flat on the
ninth floor of a building in Clerkenwell, not far from the old meat market at Smithfields. There were forty flats altogether and the security check run by MI6 had shown that the majority of the residents were bankers or lawyers, working in the City. Melbourne House was not cheap. Mrs Jones had two thousand square metres and two private balconies on the top floor – a great deal of space, particularly as she lived alone. On the open market it would have cost her in excess of a million pounds when she bought it seven years ago. But as it happened, MI6 had a file on the developer. The developer had seen it and had been glad to do a deal.

The flat was secure. And from the moment Alan Blunt had decided his second in command might need protection, it had become more so.

The front doors opened onto a long, rather stark reception area with a desk, two fig trees and a single lift at the far end. There were closed-circuit television cameras above the desk and outside in the street, recording everyone who entered. Melbourne House had porters working twenty-four hours, seven days a week, but Blunt had replaced them with agents from his own office. They would remain there for as long as necessary. He had also installed a metal detector next to the reception desk, identical to the sort you would find in an airport. All visitors had to pass through it.

The other residents hadn’t been particularly
happy about this, but they had been assured it was only temporary. Reluctantly they had agreed. They all knew that the woman who lived alone on the top floor worked for some government department. They also knew that it was better not to ask too many questions. The metal detector arrived; it was installed. Life went on.

It was impossible to get into Melbourne House without passing the two agents on the front desk. There was a goods entrance at the back but it was locked and alarmed. The building couldn’t be climbed. The walls had no footholds of any sort; anyway, there were four more agents on constant patrol. Finally there was an agent on duty outside Mrs Jones’s front door, and he had a clear view of the corridor in both directions. There was nowhere to hide. The agent – in radio contact with those downstairs – was armed with a high-tech, fingerprint-sensitive automatic weapon. Only he could fire it, so if – impossibly – he was overpowered, his gun would be useless.