The man with the two missing teeth had thought a great deal about killing Alex Rider. He had imagined it. He had planned it. Today he was going to do it.
His name was Skoda. At least, that was what he had called himself when he had been a drug dealer in west London. He had sold his little packets of death in pubs, at street corners and outside schools, until the day he had made just one mistake. He had chosen Brookland School and that was how he met Alex.
Skoda thought about that as he sat outside the school, ten months later, watching and waiting. It still seemed impossible. He had been living on a canal boat. The fourteen-year-old schoolboy had used a crane to hook the boat out of the water and he had dropped it – from a height – into the middle of a police conference. Skoda had been arrested immediately.
Worse than that, he had become a laughing
stock throughout the criminal world.
Skoda doubted Alex would recognize him now. He still had the missing teeth and pierced ears. But the incident with the canal boat had left terrible scars. They had patched him up in hospital but the stitch marks still showed. They began high on his forehead, ran the length of his nose, continued through his mouth and ended under his chin. The two halves of his face had been sewn back together by a doctor who had obviously never trained in cosmetic surgery. He looked hideous.
But Alex Rider would pay. Skoda had escaped from the prison hospital. He had made en-
quiries and he had finally discovered whom he had to blame for his misfortunes. He knew he would be arrested again eventually. But that didn’t matter.
Today it would be his turn to laugh.
Alex was coming out of drama when he ran into his new teacher ... literally. He was one of half a dozen boys and they were all breaking one of the Ten Commandments of Brookland School: thou shalt not run in the corridors. Somehow the others managed to get out of her way. Alex crashed into her.
Everyone had been talking about Miss Treat since she had arrived, just a few weeks ago. She was a supply teacher – physics and chemistry
– and suddenly everyone wanted to do science.
Miss Treat was young; still in her twenties and almost absurdly attractive, with blonde hair falling to her shoulders, amazing blue eyes and movie star lips. She dressed like a teacher with a grey, tailored jacket and serious shoes. But she walked like a model. The boys joked about her. The girls admired her. And Alex had just run into her. It was the first time they’d met.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Donna Treat.”
“You certainly are,” Alex replied.
She looked at him coolly. “You’re Alex Rider,” she said.
“Yes.” He wondered how she knew.
“I’ve been looking at your reports for last term. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I was away ... sick.”
“You seem to get sick a lot,” Miss Treat said.
Alex couldn’t tell her the truth. He couldn’t tell anyone. Even if he had been allowed to, nobody would have believed him.
He had no parents. He had been brought up by an uncle – Ian Rider – who had been a spy, working in an obscure department of MI6 ... a secret within a secret. Then his uncle had died and, somehow, they had manipulated Alex into taking his place. There were times, they had said, when a child could achieve things that an adult could not. And if he missed school? If he came back each time not just injured but with his whole life bent out of shape? It didn’t matter. He was doing it for his country. Nobody must know.
Of course, Miss Treat was right.
Despite his efforts to catch up, Alex was slipping
behind in class. She had read his reports. His form teacher: “Alex is a bright and pleasant boy but he would be doing much better if he turned up more regularly at school...”
And humanities: “Alex needs to join in more and to be part of the class. He was absent again this term. But he wrote a first-class essay on Russian politics and the collapse of the fleet at Murmansk.”
That had amused Alex. What he’d learned about Murmansk wasn’t out of a book. If it hadn’t been for him, Murmansk – along with half of Russia – would no longer exist.
Miss Treat was still watching him with those deep blue eyes. “Are you going on the trip this afternoon?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Are you interested in weapons?”
Alex thought briefly of all the guns and knives that, at different times, had been aimed at him. “Yes,” he said.
“Well enjoy it. But don’t run in the corridor.”
And then she was gone, brushing past him and disappearing into the staff room. Alex wondered what she did when she wasn’t working
as a supply teacher. A bell rang. Walking fast, he headed for the next class.
The exhibition at the British Museum was called Seven Hundred Years of War and had hundreds of weapons – from medieval bows to automatic machine guns – displayed in a dozen galleries. Two classes from Brookland School had gone, with Miss Treat and Mr Kydd (who taught history)
in charge. It was the last visit of the day. The museum was about to close.
Later, Alex would be unsure quite how he managed to lag behind. He had been looking at a case of replica guns. MI6 never let him have a gun. Maybe that was why he was interested. At the same time, he had become aware of a security
guard showing other visitors out of the gallery, before slowly walking over to him. The guard seemed to have been involved in a bad car accident. His face was divided by a line of stitches.
“Enjoying yourself?” the guard asked.
Alex shrugged.
“If you like weapons, you might be interested
in this one.”
The guard smiled and that was what saved Alex. The two missing front teeth. Instantly, Alex knew he had seen the man before – and he was already moving, sliding backwards, as the fake guard suddenly produced a vicious sword, taken from the kung fu gallery next door.
It was a unicorn sword, also called lin jiao dao: fifteenth century; Chinese. It had three
3
razor-sharp blades: one about a metre long and the others shorter, attached to the handle and shaped like lethal crescent moons.
The guard aimed for his head. As Alex leapt back, he actually felt the sword slice the air, less than a centimetre from his face. The guard came at him a second time, stabbing forward now with the three blades. Alex only just managed
to avoid them, hampered by his school uniform and backpack. He twisted back, lost his balance and fell. He heard the man laugh out loud as his shoulders crashed into the wooden floor and the breath was knocked out of him.
The guard walked forward, spinning the sword. That was when Alex remembered his name.
“Skoda!” he said.
“You remember me?”
“I never forget a face. But something seems to have happened to yours.”
Alex tried to get back up but Skoda pushed him back with the sole of his foot.
“You did this to me!” Skoda snarled, and Alex saw that the two halves of his head no longer worked at the same time. It was as if two people
were fighting for control of his face.
“And now you’re going to pay!” Skoda giggled.
“This is going to be slow. This is going to hurt!”
He raised the sword. There was nothing Alex could do. For once, he was helpless, on his back, with no gadgets, no clever moves. Skoda took a breath. He was like a butcher examining a prime cut of meat. His tongue hung out. It was also stitched in two halves.
There was a soft, thudding sound. Skoda pitched forward and lay still. There was a small, feathered dart sticking out of the back of his neck. Alex looked past him and his head swam.
Miss Treat was standing there, holding a tranquillizer
gun. “Are you hurt, Alex?” she asked.
Alex got unsteadily to his feet. “You...?” he began. He was staring at the gun.
“It’s all right,” Miss Treat said. “I’m with MI6.” She touched the unconscious drug dealer with the tip of her shoe. “We knew Skoda had escaped. We were afraid he might come after you. I was sent in to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re a spy?”
“I think the words you’re looking for are ... thank you!”
It was true. She had just saved his life. Alex looked around him. Seven hundred years of war. He was part of it now and had been ever since his uncle had died. MI6 had made him their secret weapon. They had put him into a glass case of their own and they were the ones with the key.
“Thank you, Miss Treat,” he said.
“Don’t mention it, Alex,” Miss Treat replied.
“Now, you’d better go down and find the
others while I deal with our friend.” She smiled at him. “And try to remember not to run!”
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Snakehead extra chapter- Coda
The airport belonged to another age, a time when
air travel was an adventure, when planes still had
propellers and had to stop at strange-sounding
places to refuel on their way across the world.
There was just one runway, a narrow strip of silvergrey
concrete cutting through grass that had been
perfectly mown. The single terminal was a white
building with a curving entrance and a terrace
where people could watch the planes take off. It
could have been the clubhouse of an expensive
golf course.
The airport had no name. Although it was only
an hour outside London, there were no road signs
pointing to it. Indeed, it seemed to have done its
best to lose itself in a maze of country lanes that
looped and twisted through thick woodland. The
local residents – and the nearest house was more
than a mile away – believed it was a private flying
club, used by millionaires with their own planes.
For a brief time, it had been.
CODA
It had been bought by the British secret service
back in the seventies, and now it was used for
flights that nobody talked about. People who
weren’t meant to be in the country arrived here
on planes that didn’t exist. There was no passport
control, because very few of the travellers carried
passports – and if they did, they would probably be
fake. A white control tower stood at the far end of
the runway. It managed not just the incoming and
outgoing flights but all the surrounding airspace.
When planes were ready to take off here, Heathrow
and Gatwick just had to wait.
At nine thirty on a cold morning at the end
of April, a blue Rover Vitesse was making its way
towards this secret airport. The sound of the V8
engine was almost inaudible as it cruised through
a virtual tunnel of leaves. The start of the month
had been warm and sunny, but there had been a
cold snap the night before, and the result was
a layer of fog floating over the ground, deadening
everything and turning the world a ghostly white.
A man and a woman were sitting in the back.
The driver had no idea who they were. His name
was Enderby and he was a low-level MI6 operative
trained for certain duties – the first of which was
never to ask questions. He had picked them up at a
London hotel at six o’clock exactly, loaded a single
suitcase into the boot and brought them here.
And yet, glancing in the rear-view mirror,
Enderby couldn’t stop himself wondering about
his passengers. He guessed they were husband and
wife. There was something about their body language
that said as much, even though neither of
them had uttered a word throughout the journey.
The man was in his thirties, well built with closecropped
fair hair and dark, tired eyes. He was
wearing a suit with an open-necked shirt. What
would you think he was, seeing him in the street?
Something in the City, perhaps. Private security.
Ex-army. This was a man who knew how to look
after himself. He had the relaxed confidence of
someone who is very dangerous.
The woman sitting next to him was unhappy –
Enderby had noticed that from the moment she had
stepped reluctantly into the car. He could see it
now in her eyes. They were nice eyes: blue, very
bright. But they were troubled. All in all, she was
very attractive. A couple of years younger than the
man, maybe an actress or a dancer. She was wearing
a jacket and grey trousers and – yes, there it
was – a wedding ring on her finger.
Enderby was right. The two people in the back
of his car were called John and Helen Rider. They
had been married for four years. They were here
because they were leaving the country – perhaps
permanently. They had been apart for a long time,
but that was all over now. Their new life together
was about to begin.
They had almost arrived. Enderby had driven this
route many times and recognized the elm tree with
the nesting box hanging from one of its branches.
The airport was half a mile away. However, he
was completely unaware of the advanced highresolution
camera with its 25mm varifocal lens
concealed inside the nesting box. And he would
have been surprised to learn that even now his
face was being examined on a television screen
inside the control tower. It was actually the third
hidden camera they had passed in the last five
minutes.
The car broke out of the wood and crossed a cattle
grid set in the road. If the driver had been
identified as an enemy agent, the grid would have
rotated and shredded the tyres. The airport lay
ahead; a plane was waiting on the runway. It was
an old twin-engine Avro Anson C19 that might
have been rolled out of a museum. Once used by
the RAF for coastal patrol, the Anson hadn’t been
seen in regular service for twenty years. Certainly
it suited the airport. They were both relics of the
past.
A slim, dark-haired man stepped out of the
terminal building, supporting himself on a heavy
walking stick. He had been sent to supervise the
departure. Enderby recognized him with surprise.
He had visited the man a couple of times recently
in hospital and had worked with him in the past.
His name was Anthony Howell. His middle name
was Sean.
People called him Ash.
The car slowed down and stopped. The man got
out, went round and opened the door for the
woman. The two of them moved forward to meet
Ash.
“John. Helen.” Ash smiled at them but he had
recently been in too much pain. It still showed.
“How are you, Ash?” John Rider asked.
“I’m OK.”
That obviously wasn’t true. Ash was feverish,
sweating. His hand was gripping the walking stick
so tightly that the knuckles were white.
“You look terrible.”
“Yeah.” Ash didn’t disagree. “They sent me to
say goodbye. Are you ready? I’ll get your case
loaded on board.”
He limped past them, over to the car. Enderby
unlocked the boot and took out the suitcase.
“He’s not very talkative,” Helen muttered.
“He’s hurt.” John glanced at his wife. “Are you
OK?”
“I don’t like leaving Alex.”
“I know that. Nor do I. But we didn’t have any
choice. You heard what the doctor said.”
Alex Rider was three months old. Just a few
days before, he had developed an ear infection
which meant that he couldn’t fly. Helen had left
him with a cheerful Irishwoman, Maud Kelly, a
maternity nurse who had been with them since
the birth. Helen’s first instinct had been to stay
with her infant son. But she also needed to be
with her husband. The two of them had been apart
for too long.
“Maud will come out with him next week,” John
Rider said.
“His new home.” Helen smiled, but a little sadly.
“It’s strange to think he’ll grow up speaking
French.”
“With a dad who’s a fisherman.”
“Better a fisherman than a spy.”
Secret agents don’t often retire. Some are killed
in action; some leave the field and end up behind
a desk, providing support for the men and women
who have taken their place. Even when they leave
the service, they are still watched – just in case
they decide to sell their secrets or go into business
for themselves.
John Rider was different. He had recently completed
a long and brutal assignment which had
culminated in a shoot-out on the island of Malta,
followed by his faked death on Albert Bridge in
London. During that time, he had inflicted serious
damage on the criminal organization known as
Scorpia. If Scorpia discovered that he was still
alive, they would make him a primary target. MI6
knew that. They understood that his usefulness
was effectively over. They had decided to let him
go.
Ash came back over to them. He had a mobile
phone in his hand. “The control tower just called,”
he said. “You’re all set for take-off.”
“Why don’t you come and stay with us, Ash?”
Helen suggested. “You could fly down with Alex.
A week in the sun would do you good.”
Ash tried to smile but something prevented him.
“That’s kind of you, Helen. Maybe…”
“Well, keep in touch.” John Rider was examining
the other man with a certain unease. The two of
them had worked together, but they had also been
friends for many years.
“Good luck.” Ash seemed in a hurry to get away.
They shook hands. Then Ash leant forward and
kissed Helen once on the cheek, but so lightly that
she barely felt his lips. The husband and wife
began to walk towards the plane.
“What’s wrong with him?” Helen asked as soon
as they were out of earshot. “I know he’s hurt. But
he seems so … distant.”
“He’s being axed.” John spoke the words casually.
“He screwed up in Malta and he knows it.
Blunt wants him out.”
“What will happen to him?”
“An office job somewhere. A junior outpost.”
“Does he blame you?”
“I don’t know, Helen. To be honest, I don’t really
care. It’s not my business any more.”
They had reached the plane. The pilot saw them
through the cockpit window and raised a hand in
greeting. His name was Robert Fleming and he had
flown with the RAF in the Falklands War. Killing
Argentine soldiers, some of them just kids, had
changed his mind about active service; and after
that he had allowed himself to be recruited by
MI6. Now he flew all over the world for them. The
co-pilot was a man called Blakeway. Both of them
were married. There was no cabin crew.
Standing on the terrace outside the terminal,
Ash watched John and Helen Rider climb the metal
staircase that led up to the plane. John stood aside
to let Helen go first, gently taking her arm as she
reached the top step. They entered the aircraft and
pulled the door shut from inside. A couple of
ground crew in white overalls wheeled the steps
away. The first of the Anson’s two propellers began
to turn.
Ash thought he was going to faint. The pain
in his stomach was worse than ever. It was as if
the Russian assassin Yassen Gregorovich had somehow
managed to stab him a second time and was
twisting the knife even now. The plane’s engines
had both started up but he could barely hear the
sound. The sky, the grass, the airport, the Anson
… nothing connected any more. He could feel
beads of sweat on his forehead. They were ice-cold.
Could he really do this?
Was he going to go through with it?
He had been released from hospital after six
weeks of treatment that had included being given
eleven pints of blood. The doctors had told him
what he already knew. He would never be the same
again. Not completely. There had been too much
damage. And the pain would always be with him.
He would need a barrage of drugs to keep it
at bay.
And had they been grateful, the people he
worked for, the ones who had caused this to happen
to him? He still remembered his meeting with
Alan Blunt. The head of MI6 Special Operations had
given him precisely five minutes: his injuries were
his own fault. He had totally mishandled the operation
in Mdina. He had disobeyed orders. He was
being taken off active duty with immediate effect.
Blunt hadn’t even asked how he was feeling.
Ash had known what he was going to do even
before he left Blunt’s office. For a moment, the
pain was forgotten; he felt only anger and disbelief.
How could they treat him like this? No. It was
obvious now. They had always treated him like this.
Nothing had changed. He had been overlooked and
underrated from the start.
But he had numbers. He had contacts. He didn’t
care what he had to do. He would show MI6 that
they were wrong about him. They had made a mistake
they were going to regret.
He made the call as soon as he was in the street,
away from the eavesdropping devices that were
scattered all over Special Ops HQ. After that,
things happened very quickly. That same evening,
he met a man in a south London pub. The next day,
he was interviewed at length by two blank-faced
men in an abandoned warehouse behind the old
meat market at Smithfield in Clerkenwell. Patiently
he repeated everything he had said the night
before.
The next call came two days later. Ash was given
twenty minutes to get across London to the Ritz
Hotel and a suite on the second floor. He arrived
in exactly the specified time, knowing that he had
almost certainly been followed the whole way and
that it had been arranged like this to prevent him
communicating with anyone else. There was to be
no chance of a trap.
After he had been thoroughly searched by the
two men he had met before, he was shown into the
suite. A woman was waiting for him, sitting on her
own in an armchair, her perfectly manicured fingers
curving round a flute of champagne. She was strikingly
beautiful with shoulder-length black hair and
glittering, cruel eyes. She was wearing a designer
dress, a whisper of red silk; diamond earrings; and
a single large diamond at her throat.
Ash tried not to show any emotion. But he knew
the woman. He had never met her but he had seen
her file. It was hard to believe that he was actually
in the same room as her.
Julia Rothman.
According to the file, she was the daughter of
Welsh nationalists, who had married – and murdered
– an elderly property developer for his wealth. She
was on the executive board of Scorpia. Indeed, she
was one of its founding members.
“You want to join us,” she said, and he heard a
hint of Welsh in her voice. She seemed amused.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think we’d be interested in
you?”
“If you weren’t interested in me, you wouldn’t
be here.”
That made her smile. “How do I know we can
trust you?”
“Mrs Rothman…” Ash wondered if he should
have used her name. He spoke slowly. He knew he
would only have this one chance. “I’ve spent four
years with MI6. They’ve given me nothing. Now
I’ve finished with them – or perhaps I should say
they’ve finished with me. But you probably know
that already. Scorpia always did have a reputation
for being well informed. How do you know you can
trust me? Only time will give you an answer to
that. But I can be useful to you. A double agent.
Think about it. You want someone inside Special
Operations. That can be me.”
Julia Rothman sipped her champagne but her
eyes never left Ash. “This could be a trick,” she
said.
“Then let me prove myself.”
“Of course. Anyone who joins Scorpia has to
prove themselves to our complete satisfaction, Mr
Howell. But I warn you: the test might not be an
easy one.”
“I’m ready for anything.”
“Would you kill for us?”
Ash shrugged. “I’ve killed before.”
“Before it was duty. For queen and country. This
time it would be murder.”
“I’ve already explained: I want to join Scorpia.
I don’t care what I have to do.”
“We’ll see.” She set the glass down, then produced
a white envelope. She slid it towards him.
“There is a name inside this envelope,” she said.
“It is the name of a man who has done us a great
deal of harm. Killing him will prove beyond all
doubt that you mean what you say. But a warning.
Once you open that envelope, you will have committed
yourself. You cannot change your mind. If
you try to do so, you will be dead before you leave
this hotel.”
“I understand.” Ash was uneasy. He picked up
the envelope and held it in front of him.
“We will provide the manner of his death,” Mrs
Rothman went on, “but you will be the one who
pulls the trigger. And when he is dead, you will be
paid one hundred thousand pounds. It will be the
first payment of many. Over the years, if you stay
true to us, Scorpia will make you very rich.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly Ash’s mouth was dry. The
envelope was still balanced on his fingertips.
“So are you going to open it?”
He made his decision. He ripped the envelope
open with his thumb. And there was the name in
front of him. Black letters on white paper.
JOHN RIDER
Julia Rothman looked at him quizzically.
So they knew. That was his first thought. The
elaborate trick that had been played on Albert
Bridge hadn’t worked – or if it had, there had
somehow been a leak. They had learnt that John
Rider was still alive. And as for this test, they knew
exactly what they were doing. Ash would have
been happy to kill anybody in the world. He would
have killed Blunt or anyone else in MI6. But
Scorpia had gone one better.
They were asking him to kill his best friend.
“John Rider…” His mouth had gone dry. “But
he’s—”
“Don’t tell us that he’s dead, Mr Howell. We
know he is not.”
“But why…?”
“You said you didn’t care what you did. This is
your assignment. If you want to prove yourself to
us, this is what you have to do.”
But could he do it? He asked himself again now,
watching the ancient plane as it completed the
final checks before take-off. The propellers were
buzzing loudly; the whole fuselage was vibrating.
And it wasn’t just John. It was Helen Rider too. He
had once loved her – or thought he had. She had
rejected him. But John had always stood by him.
No. That wasn’t true. Blunt had axed him and John
had done nothing to help.
The plane jerked forward and began to rumble
down the runway, picking up speed.
The bomb was on board. Ash had no idea how
Scorpia had got it there, or even how they had
found out about the flight in the first place. Such
details didn’t matter. The fact was that it was
there, and the cruelty of it was that Scorpia could
easily have detonated it without his help. The
bomb could have had a timer. They could have
transmitted the signal themselves. But they had
turned this into the ultimate test. If he did this,
there would be no going back. He would be theirs
for life.
We will provide the manner of his death, but you
will be the one who pulls the trigger.
He couldn’t do it. They were his closest friends.
He was the godfather of their child.
He had to do it. John and Helen were dead anyway.
And Scorpia would kill him if he failed.
The plane was halfway down the runway. Slowly
it rose into the air.
Ash took out his mobile phone and pressed a
three-digit number, followed by SEND.
The explosion was huge, much bigger than he
had expected. For a moment, the plane disappeared
completely, replaced by a scarlet fireball
that hovered fifteen metres above the runway.
There were no wings, no propellers, no wheels.
Only flames. And then, like some hideous firework,
broken pieces of glass and metal burst out of the
inferno, bouncing off the tarmac and slamming
into the lawn.
The plane had gone. There was nothing left of it.
The people inside would have died instantly.
Already alarms were sounding. Enderby and half
a dozen men were running towards the wreckage,
coming from every direction – as if there was anything
they could do. Black smoke billowed into the
sky.
Ash turned away and walked back inside. He was
sure that Scorpia would be watching. They would
know that he had done it. He had passed the test.
He took a deep breath and tasted smoke and burning
aviation fuel.
A new life. But how was he going to enjoy it
when he was empty inside? Too late. He had made
his choice.
Slowly he made his way down the stairs and out
onto the runway, limping towards the flames that
for him would never die.
air travel was an adventure, when planes still had
propellers and had to stop at strange-sounding
places to refuel on their way across the world.
There was just one runway, a narrow strip of silvergrey
concrete cutting through grass that had been
perfectly mown. The single terminal was a white
building with a curving entrance and a terrace
where people could watch the planes take off. It
could have been the clubhouse of an expensive
golf course.
The airport had no name. Although it was only
an hour outside London, there were no road signs
pointing to it. Indeed, it seemed to have done its
best to lose itself in a maze of country lanes that
looped and twisted through thick woodland. The
local residents – and the nearest house was more
than a mile away – believed it was a private flying
club, used by millionaires with their own planes.
For a brief time, it had been.
CODA
It had been bought by the British secret service
back in the seventies, and now it was used for
flights that nobody talked about. People who
weren’t meant to be in the country arrived here
on planes that didn’t exist. There was no passport
control, because very few of the travellers carried
passports – and if they did, they would probably be
fake. A white control tower stood at the far end of
the runway. It managed not just the incoming and
outgoing flights but all the surrounding airspace.
When planes were ready to take off here, Heathrow
and Gatwick just had to wait.
At nine thirty on a cold morning at the end
of April, a blue Rover Vitesse was making its way
towards this secret airport. The sound of the V8
engine was almost inaudible as it cruised through
a virtual tunnel of leaves. The start of the month
had been warm and sunny, but there had been a
cold snap the night before, and the result was
a layer of fog floating over the ground, deadening
everything and turning the world a ghostly white.
A man and a woman were sitting in the back.
The driver had no idea who they were. His name
was Enderby and he was a low-level MI6 operative
trained for certain duties – the first of which was
never to ask questions. He had picked them up at a
London hotel at six o’clock exactly, loaded a single
suitcase into the boot and brought them here.
And yet, glancing in the rear-view mirror,
Enderby couldn’t stop himself wondering about
his passengers. He guessed they were husband and
wife. There was something about their body language
that said as much, even though neither of
them had uttered a word throughout the journey.
The man was in his thirties, well built with closecropped
fair hair and dark, tired eyes. He was
wearing a suit with an open-necked shirt. What
would you think he was, seeing him in the street?
Something in the City, perhaps. Private security.
Ex-army. This was a man who knew how to look
after himself. He had the relaxed confidence of
someone who is very dangerous.
The woman sitting next to him was unhappy –
Enderby had noticed that from the moment she had
stepped reluctantly into the car. He could see it
now in her eyes. They were nice eyes: blue, very
bright. But they were troubled. All in all, she was
very attractive. A couple of years younger than the
man, maybe an actress or a dancer. She was wearing
a jacket and grey trousers and – yes, there it
was – a wedding ring on her finger.
Enderby was right. The two people in the back
of his car were called John and Helen Rider. They
had been married for four years. They were here
because they were leaving the country – perhaps
permanently. They had been apart for a long time,
but that was all over now. Their new life together
was about to begin.
They had almost arrived. Enderby had driven this
route many times and recognized the elm tree with
the nesting box hanging from one of its branches.
The airport was half a mile away. However, he
was completely unaware of the advanced highresolution
camera with its 25mm varifocal lens
concealed inside the nesting box. And he would
have been surprised to learn that even now his
face was being examined on a television screen
inside the control tower. It was actually the third
hidden camera they had passed in the last five
minutes.
The car broke out of the wood and crossed a cattle
grid set in the road. If the driver had been
identified as an enemy agent, the grid would have
rotated and shredded the tyres. The airport lay
ahead; a plane was waiting on the runway. It was
an old twin-engine Avro Anson C19 that might
have been rolled out of a museum. Once used by
the RAF for coastal patrol, the Anson hadn’t been
seen in regular service for twenty years. Certainly
it suited the airport. They were both relics of the
past.
A slim, dark-haired man stepped out of the
terminal building, supporting himself on a heavy
walking stick. He had been sent to supervise the
departure. Enderby recognized him with surprise.
He had visited the man a couple of times recently
in hospital and had worked with him in the past.
His name was Anthony Howell. His middle name
was Sean.
People called him Ash.
The car slowed down and stopped. The man got
out, went round and opened the door for the
woman. The two of them moved forward to meet
Ash.
“John. Helen.” Ash smiled at them but he had
recently been in too much pain. It still showed.
“How are you, Ash?” John Rider asked.
“I’m OK.”
That obviously wasn’t true. Ash was feverish,
sweating. His hand was gripping the walking stick
so tightly that the knuckles were white.
“You look terrible.”
“Yeah.” Ash didn’t disagree. “They sent me to
say goodbye. Are you ready? I’ll get your case
loaded on board.”
He limped past them, over to the car. Enderby
unlocked the boot and took out the suitcase.
“He’s not very talkative,” Helen muttered.
“He’s hurt.” John glanced at his wife. “Are you
OK?”
“I don’t like leaving Alex.”
“I know that. Nor do I. But we didn’t have any
choice. You heard what the doctor said.”
Alex Rider was three months old. Just a few
days before, he had developed an ear infection
which meant that he couldn’t fly. Helen had left
him with a cheerful Irishwoman, Maud Kelly, a
maternity nurse who had been with them since
the birth. Helen’s first instinct had been to stay
with her infant son. But she also needed to be
with her husband. The two of them had been apart
for too long.
“Maud will come out with him next week,” John
Rider said.
“His new home.” Helen smiled, but a little sadly.
“It’s strange to think he’ll grow up speaking
French.”
“With a dad who’s a fisherman.”
“Better a fisherman than a spy.”
Secret agents don’t often retire. Some are killed
in action; some leave the field and end up behind
a desk, providing support for the men and women
who have taken their place. Even when they leave
the service, they are still watched – just in case
they decide to sell their secrets or go into business
for themselves.
John Rider was different. He had recently completed
a long and brutal assignment which had
culminated in a shoot-out on the island of Malta,
followed by his faked death on Albert Bridge in
London. During that time, he had inflicted serious
damage on the criminal organization known as
Scorpia. If Scorpia discovered that he was still
alive, they would make him a primary target. MI6
knew that. They understood that his usefulness
was effectively over. They had decided to let him
go.
Ash came back over to them. He had a mobile
phone in his hand. “The control tower just called,”
he said. “You’re all set for take-off.”
“Why don’t you come and stay with us, Ash?”
Helen suggested. “You could fly down with Alex.
A week in the sun would do you good.”
Ash tried to smile but something prevented him.
“That’s kind of you, Helen. Maybe…”
“Well, keep in touch.” John Rider was examining
the other man with a certain unease. The two of
them had worked together, but they had also been
friends for many years.
“Good luck.” Ash seemed in a hurry to get away.
They shook hands. Then Ash leant forward and
kissed Helen once on the cheek, but so lightly that
she barely felt his lips. The husband and wife
began to walk towards the plane.
“What’s wrong with him?” Helen asked as soon
as they were out of earshot. “I know he’s hurt. But
he seems so … distant.”
“He’s being axed.” John spoke the words casually.
“He screwed up in Malta and he knows it.
Blunt wants him out.”
“What will happen to him?”
“An office job somewhere. A junior outpost.”
“Does he blame you?”
“I don’t know, Helen. To be honest, I don’t really
care. It’s not my business any more.”
They had reached the plane. The pilot saw them
through the cockpit window and raised a hand in
greeting. His name was Robert Fleming and he had
flown with the RAF in the Falklands War. Killing
Argentine soldiers, some of them just kids, had
changed his mind about active service; and after
that he had allowed himself to be recruited by
MI6. Now he flew all over the world for them. The
co-pilot was a man called Blakeway. Both of them
were married. There was no cabin crew.
Standing on the terrace outside the terminal,
Ash watched John and Helen Rider climb the metal
staircase that led up to the plane. John stood aside
to let Helen go first, gently taking her arm as she
reached the top step. They entered the aircraft and
pulled the door shut from inside. A couple of
ground crew in white overalls wheeled the steps
away. The first of the Anson’s two propellers began
to turn.
Ash thought he was going to faint. The pain
in his stomach was worse than ever. It was as if
the Russian assassin Yassen Gregorovich had somehow
managed to stab him a second time and was
twisting the knife even now. The plane’s engines
had both started up but he could barely hear the
sound. The sky, the grass, the airport, the Anson
… nothing connected any more. He could feel
beads of sweat on his forehead. They were ice-cold.
Could he really do this?
Was he going to go through with it?
He had been released from hospital after six
weeks of treatment that had included being given
eleven pints of blood. The doctors had told him
what he already knew. He would never be the same
again. Not completely. There had been too much
damage. And the pain would always be with him.
He would need a barrage of drugs to keep it
at bay.
And had they been grateful, the people he
worked for, the ones who had caused this to happen
to him? He still remembered his meeting with
Alan Blunt. The head of MI6 Special Operations had
given him precisely five minutes: his injuries were
his own fault. He had totally mishandled the operation
in Mdina. He had disobeyed orders. He was
being taken off active duty with immediate effect.
Blunt hadn’t even asked how he was feeling.
Ash had known what he was going to do even
before he left Blunt’s office. For a moment, the
pain was forgotten; he felt only anger and disbelief.
How could they treat him like this? No. It was
obvious now. They had always treated him like this.
Nothing had changed. He had been overlooked and
underrated from the start.
But he had numbers. He had contacts. He didn’t
care what he had to do. He would show MI6 that
they were wrong about him. They had made a mistake
they were going to regret.
He made the call as soon as he was in the street,
away from the eavesdropping devices that were
scattered all over Special Ops HQ. After that,
things happened very quickly. That same evening,
he met a man in a south London pub. The next day,
he was interviewed at length by two blank-faced
men in an abandoned warehouse behind the old
meat market at Smithfield in Clerkenwell. Patiently
he repeated everything he had said the night
before.
The next call came two days later. Ash was given
twenty minutes to get across London to the Ritz
Hotel and a suite on the second floor. He arrived
in exactly the specified time, knowing that he had
almost certainly been followed the whole way and
that it had been arranged like this to prevent him
communicating with anyone else. There was to be
no chance of a trap.
After he had been thoroughly searched by the
two men he had met before, he was shown into the
suite. A woman was waiting for him, sitting on her
own in an armchair, her perfectly manicured fingers
curving round a flute of champagne. She was strikingly
beautiful with shoulder-length black hair and
glittering, cruel eyes. She was wearing a designer
dress, a whisper of red silk; diamond earrings; and
a single large diamond at her throat.
Ash tried not to show any emotion. But he knew
the woman. He had never met her but he had seen
her file. It was hard to believe that he was actually
in the same room as her.
Julia Rothman.
According to the file, she was the daughter of
Welsh nationalists, who had married – and murdered
– an elderly property developer for his wealth. She
was on the executive board of Scorpia. Indeed, she
was one of its founding members.
“You want to join us,” she said, and he heard a
hint of Welsh in her voice. She seemed amused.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think we’d be interested in
you?”
“If you weren’t interested in me, you wouldn’t
be here.”
That made her smile. “How do I know we can
trust you?”
“Mrs Rothman…” Ash wondered if he should
have used her name. He spoke slowly. He knew he
would only have this one chance. “I’ve spent four
years with MI6. They’ve given me nothing. Now
I’ve finished with them – or perhaps I should say
they’ve finished with me. But you probably know
that already. Scorpia always did have a reputation
for being well informed. How do you know you can
trust me? Only time will give you an answer to
that. But I can be useful to you. A double agent.
Think about it. You want someone inside Special
Operations. That can be me.”
Julia Rothman sipped her champagne but her
eyes never left Ash. “This could be a trick,” she
said.
“Then let me prove myself.”
“Of course. Anyone who joins Scorpia has to
prove themselves to our complete satisfaction, Mr
Howell. But I warn you: the test might not be an
easy one.”
“I’m ready for anything.”
“Would you kill for us?”
Ash shrugged. “I’ve killed before.”
“Before it was duty. For queen and country. This
time it would be murder.”
“I’ve already explained: I want to join Scorpia.
I don’t care what I have to do.”
“We’ll see.” She set the glass down, then produced
a white envelope. She slid it towards him.
“There is a name inside this envelope,” she said.
“It is the name of a man who has done us a great
deal of harm. Killing him will prove beyond all
doubt that you mean what you say. But a warning.
Once you open that envelope, you will have committed
yourself. You cannot change your mind. If
you try to do so, you will be dead before you leave
this hotel.”
“I understand.” Ash was uneasy. He picked up
the envelope and held it in front of him.
“We will provide the manner of his death,” Mrs
Rothman went on, “but you will be the one who
pulls the trigger. And when he is dead, you will be
paid one hundred thousand pounds. It will be the
first payment of many. Over the years, if you stay
true to us, Scorpia will make you very rich.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly Ash’s mouth was dry. The
envelope was still balanced on his fingertips.
“So are you going to open it?”
He made his decision. He ripped the envelope
open with his thumb. And there was the name in
front of him. Black letters on white paper.
JOHN RIDER
Julia Rothman looked at him quizzically.
So they knew. That was his first thought. The
elaborate trick that had been played on Albert
Bridge hadn’t worked – or if it had, there had
somehow been a leak. They had learnt that John
Rider was still alive. And as for this test, they knew
exactly what they were doing. Ash would have
been happy to kill anybody in the world. He would
have killed Blunt or anyone else in MI6. But
Scorpia had gone one better.
They were asking him to kill his best friend.
“John Rider…” His mouth had gone dry. “But
he’s—”
“Don’t tell us that he’s dead, Mr Howell. We
know he is not.”
“But why…?”
“You said you didn’t care what you did. This is
your assignment. If you want to prove yourself to
us, this is what you have to do.”
But could he do it? He asked himself again now,
watching the ancient plane as it completed the
final checks before take-off. The propellers were
buzzing loudly; the whole fuselage was vibrating.
And it wasn’t just John. It was Helen Rider too. He
had once loved her – or thought he had. She had
rejected him. But John had always stood by him.
No. That wasn’t true. Blunt had axed him and John
had done nothing to help.
The plane jerked forward and began to rumble
down the runway, picking up speed.
The bomb was on board. Ash had no idea how
Scorpia had got it there, or even how they had
found out about the flight in the first place. Such
details didn’t matter. The fact was that it was
there, and the cruelty of it was that Scorpia could
easily have detonated it without his help. The
bomb could have had a timer. They could have
transmitted the signal themselves. But they had
turned this into the ultimate test. If he did this,
there would be no going back. He would be theirs
for life.
We will provide the manner of his death, but you
will be the one who pulls the trigger.
He couldn’t do it. They were his closest friends.
He was the godfather of their child.
He had to do it. John and Helen were dead anyway.
And Scorpia would kill him if he failed.
The plane was halfway down the runway. Slowly
it rose into the air.
Ash took out his mobile phone and pressed a
three-digit number, followed by SEND.
The explosion was huge, much bigger than he
had expected. For a moment, the plane disappeared
completely, replaced by a scarlet fireball
that hovered fifteen metres above the runway.
There were no wings, no propellers, no wheels.
Only flames. And then, like some hideous firework,
broken pieces of glass and metal burst out of the
inferno, bouncing off the tarmac and slamming
into the lawn.
The plane had gone. There was nothing left of it.
The people inside would have died instantly.
Already alarms were sounding. Enderby and half
a dozen men were running towards the wreckage,
coming from every direction – as if there was anything
they could do. Black smoke billowed into the
sky.
Ash turned away and walked back inside. He was
sure that Scorpia would be watching. They would
know that he had done it. He had passed the test.
He took a deep breath and tasted smoke and burning
aviation fuel.
A new life. But how was he going to enjoy it
when he was empty inside? Too late. He had made
his choice.
Slowly he made his way down the stairs and out
onto the runway, limping towards the flames that
for him would never die.
Christmas at Gunpoint
My uncle, Ian Rider, always told me he worked in international banking. Why did I believe him? Bankers don't usually spend weeks or even months away from home, returning with strange scars and bruises they are reluctant to explain.
They don't receive phone calls in the middle of the night and disappear at the drop of a hat. And how many of them are proficient in Thai boxing and karate; speak three languages and keep themselves in perfect physical shape?
Ian Rider was a secret agent; a spy. From the day he left Cambridge University, he had worked for the Special Operations division of MI6.
Just about everything he told me was a lie, but I believed him because, as an orphan, I had no parents and had lived with him all my life. And, I suppose, because when you're 13 years old you believe what adults say.
But there was one occasion when I came very close to realising the truth. It happened one Christmas, at the ski resort of Gunpoint, Colorado. Although I didn't know it at the time, this was going to be the last Christmas we would spend together.
By the following spring, Ian would have been killed on a mission in Cornwall, investigating the Stormbreaker computers being manufactured there. That was just a couple of months after my 14th birthday, when my life span out of control and I was eventually to become a spy myself.
Gunpoint had been named after the man who first settled there, a gold prospector called Jeremiah Gun. It was about 50 miles north of Aspen, and if you've ever skied in America you'll know the set-up.
There was a central village with gas fires burning late into the night, mulled wine and toasted marshmallows, and shops with prices as high as the mountains around them.
We'd booked into a hotel, the Granary, which was on the edge of the village, about a five-minute walk to the main ski lift. The two of us shared a suite of rooms on the second floor. We each had our own bedroom, opening on to a shared living space with a balcony that ran round the side of the hotel.
The Granary was one of those brand-new places designed to look 100 years old, with big stone fireplaces, woven rugs and moose heads on the walls. I hoped they were fake, but they probably weren't.
For the first couple of days we were on our own. The snow was excellent. There had been a heavy fall just before we arrived, but at the same time the weather was unusually warm, so we were talking powder and lifts with no queues. Soon we were racing each other down the dizzyingly steep runs high up over Gunpoint itself.
It was on the third day that things changed. It began with two new arrivals who moved into the room next door: a father and his daughter who was just a couple of years older than me. Her name was Sahara.
Her dad lived and worked in Washington DC. She told me he was 'something in government', and I guessed she was being purposely vague. Her mother was a lawyer in New York. The two of them were divorced and Sahara had to share Christmases between them.
She was very pretty, with long black hair and blue eyes, only an inch taller than me despite the age gap. She'd been skiing all her life, and she was fearless. Unlike me, she had her own boots and skis. At the time my feet were growing too fast so, as usual, I'd had to rent.
Sahara Sands. Her father was Cameron Sands, with silver hair, silver glasses and a laptop computer that hardly seemed to leave his side. He spent every afternoon in his room, working. Sahara didn't seem to mind. She was used to it, and anyway, now she had Ian and me.
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Two more people arrived on the same day as Sahara. They were sharing a smaller room across the corridor. I noticed them pretty quickly because they rarely seemed to be far away, although they never spoke to us.
They were both men in their late 20s, smartly dressed and very fit. They could have graduated from the same college.
One night in the hotel lounge I suggested they might be gay and Ian laughed. I' don't think so, Alex. Try again.' I thought for a moment. 'Are they bodyguards?'
'Better. At a guess, I'd say they're American Secret Service.'
I blinked. 'How do you know?'
'Well, they're both carrying guns.'
'Under their jackets?'
Ian shook his head. 'You could never draw a gun out of a ski jacket in time. They've got ankle holsters. Take a look the next time you see them.'
He looked at me over his brandy. 'You have to notice these things, Alex. Whenever you meet someone, you have to check them out... all the details. People tell a story the moment they walk into a room. You can read them.'
He was always saying stuff like that to me. I used to think he was just passing the time. It was only much later I realised he'd been preparing me. Just like the skiing and the scuba lessons. He was quietly following a plan that had begun almost the day I was born.
'Are they here with Cameron Sands?' I asked.
'What do you think?'
I nodded. 'They are always hanging around. And Sahara says her dad works in government.'
'Then maybe he needs protection.' Ian smiled. 'Let's see if you can find out their names by the end of the week,'he said. 'And the make of their guns.'
But the next day I had forgotten the conversation. It had snowed again. There must have been 10 inches on the ground, and it was bulging out over the roofs of the hotel like over-stuffed duvets.
Sahara and I switched to snowboards and spent about five hours on the chutes, bomb drops and powder stashes at the bowl area high up over Bear Creek.
I never guessed that just five months later I'd be using the same skills to avoid being killed by half a dozen thugs on snowmobiles, racing down the side of Point Blanc in southern France.
By half past three, with the sun already dipping behind the mountains, we decided to call it a day. We were both bruised, exhausted and soaked with sweat and melted snow. Sahara went off to meet her dad for a hot chocolate. I went back to the Granary on my own.
I had just dropped the board off at the rental shop and was slouching into the reception area when I saw my uncle, sitting on the corner of a sofa. I was about to call out to him - but then I stopped. I knew at once that something was wrong.
It's not easy to explain, but he had never looked like this before. He was completely silent and tense in a way that was almost animal. Ian had dark brown eyes, like me, but right now they were cold and colourless.
He hadn't noticed me come in: his attention was focused on the reception desk and a man who was checking into the hotel.
MYSTERY MAN
'People tell a story,' Ian had said. 'You can read them.' Looking at the man at the reception desk, I tried to do just that.
He was wearing a black rollneck jersey with dark trousers and a gold Rolex watch, heavy on his wrist.
He had blond hair; an intense yellow and cut short. It almost looked painted on. I would have said he was 30 years old, with a pock-marked face and a lazy smile. I could hear him talking to the receptionist. He had a Bronx accent.
So much for Chapter One. What else could I read in him? His skin was unusually pale. In fact it was almost white, as if he had spent half his life indoors. He worked out; I could see the muscles bulging under his sleeves.
And he had very bad teeth. That was strange. Americans wealthy enough to stay in a hotel like this would have taken more care of their dental work.
'You're on the fourth floor, Mr da Silva,' the receptionist said. 'Enjoy your stay.' The man had brought a cheap suitcase with him. That was also unusual in the land of Gucci and Louis Vuitton. He picked it up and disappeared into the lift.
I walked further into the reception area and Ian saw me. He knew I had been watching him. 'Is everything OK?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Who was that?'
'The man who just checked in? I don't know.' Ian shook his head as if trying to dismiss the whole thing. 'I thought I knew him from somewhere. How was Bear Creek?'
He obviously didn't want to talk about it, so I went up to my room, showered and got ready for dinner.
As I made my way back downstairs, I noticed one of the Secret Service men coming out of their room. He walked off down the corridor without saying anything to me. Sahara and her father weren't around.
We ate. We talked. Ian ordered half a bottle of wine for himself and a Coke for me. At around half past ten I found myself yawning. Ian suggested I go up and watch TV.
'What about you?' I asked.
'Oh...I might get a breath of air. I'll follow you up later.'
I left him and went back to the room - and discovered I didn't have the electronic card that would open the door. I must have left it inside when I was getting changed.
I went back to the dining room. Ian was no longer there. Remembering what he had said, I followed him outside.
And there he was. I will never forget what I saw that night.
There was a courtyard round the side of the hotel, covered with snow, a frozen fountain in the middle. It was surrounded by walls on three sides, with the hotel roofs - also snow-covered -slanting steeply down. The whole area was lit by a full moon like a prison searchlight.
Ian Rider and the man who called himself Da Silva were locked together, standing like some bizarre statue in the middle of the courtyard. They were fighting for control of a single gun, clasped in their hands, high above their heads.
I could see the strain on their faces. But what made the scene even more surreal was that neither of them was making a sound. In fact they were barely moving. Both were focused on the gun. Whichever brought it down would be able to use it on the other.
I called out. It was a stupid thing to do. I could have got my uncle killed. Both men turned to look at me, but it was Ian who took advantage of the interruption.
He let go of the gun and slammed his elbow into Da Silva's stomach, then bent his arm up, the side of his hand scything the other man's wrist. I had already been learning karate for six years and recognised the perfectly executed sideways block.
The gun flew out of the man's hand, slid across the snow and came to rest in front of the fountain.
'Go back, Alex!' my uncle shouted.
It took him less than two seconds but it was enough to lose him the advantage. Da Silva lashed out, the heel of his hand pounding into Ian's chest, winding him.
A moment later the blond man wheeled round in a vicious roundhouse kick. My uncle tried to avoid it, but the snow, the slippery surface, didn't help. He was thrown off his feet and went crashing down.
Da Silva stopped and caught his breath. His mouth was twisted in an ugly sneer, his teeth grey in the moonlight. He knew the fight was over. He had won.
That was when I acted. I dived forward, throwing myself on to my stomach and sliding across the ice. My momentum carried me as far as the gun. I snatched it up, noticing for the first time that it was fitted with a silencer. I had never held a handgun before. It was much heavier than I had expected. Da Silva stared at me.
'No!' My uncle uttered the single word quietly. It didn't matter what the circumstances were. He didn't want me to kill a man.
SNOWED UNDER
I couldn't do that. I knew it, even as I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. I emptied the gun - all seven bullets - but not at da Silva. I shot into the air above him, over his head. I felt the gun jerking in my hand. The recoil hurt my wrist. But then it was over. All the bullets had been fired.
Da Silva reached behind him and took out a second gun. My uncle was still on the ground; there was nothing he could do. I lay where I was, my breath coming out in white clouds. Da Silva raised his gun. I could see him deciding which one of us he was going to kill first.
And then there was a gentle rumble and a ton of snow slid off the roof directly above him. I had cut a dotted line with the bullets and - as I had hoped - the weight of the snow had done the rest.
Da Silva just had time to look up before the avalanche hit him. I think he opened his mouth -to swear or scream - but it was too late. The snow made almost no sound, just a soft thwump as it hit. In a second, he had gone. Buried under a huge white curtain.
My uncle got to his feet. I did the same. The two of us looked at each other. 'Do you think we should dig him up?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No. Let's leave him to chill out.'
There were so many things I wanted to know when we finally got back to our room. 'Who was he? Why did he have a gun? Why were you fighting him?'
Ian had phoned the police. They were already on the way, he told me. He would talk to them when they arrived. The gun he and Da Silva had been fighting over was beside him. I could still feel the weight of it in my hand. My wrist was aching from the recoil; I had never fired a handgun before.
'Forget about it, Alex,' he said. 'I recognised Da Silva from a news story. He's a wanted criminal. Bank fraud...'
'Bank fraud?' I could hardly believe it.
'I met him outside quite by chance. I challenged him - which was pretty stupid of me. He pulled out the gun...and the rest you saw.' Ian smiled. 'I expect he'll have frozen solid by now. At least he won't be needing a morgue.'
If I'd thought a little more, I'd have realised none of this added up. When I had come upon the two men, they were fighting for control of a single gun.
They had dropped it - and then Da Silva had produced a second gun of his own. So logic should have told me the first gun belonged to my uncle.
But why would he have brought a gun with him on a skiing holiday? How could he even have got it through airport security? It was such an unlikely thought - Ian carrying a firearm - that I accepted his story because there was no alternative.
Anyway, I was exhausted. It had been a long day and I was glad to crawl into bed. The next morning Ian told me he wouldn't be coming skiing.
Apparently he'd spoken to the police when they finally arrived, and they wanted him to go to the precinct and tell them as much as he could about Da Silva and the fight outside the hotel. The bad news was, Da Silva had got away.
'He must have burrowed out,' Ian said over breakfast; boiled eggs and grilled bacon. He never ate anything fried.
'Do you think he'll come back?' I asked. Ian shook his head. 'I doubt it. He knows I recognised him and he's probably out of Colorado by now. He won't want to hang around.'
'How long do you think you'll be?'
'A few hours. Don't let this spoil the holiday, Alex. Put it out of your mind. You can ski with Sahara today. She'll be glad to have you on your own.'
SLIPPERY SLOPE
But Sahara wasn't in her room. When I knocked on her door, it was opened by her father, Cameron.
'I'm sorry, Alex,' he said. 'You're just too late. She left a few minutes ago. But she'll probably call in later. I can ask her to meet you.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'I'll be up at Bear Creek.'
He nodded and closed the door, and as he did so I looked over his shoulder and saw he wasn't alone. The two young men were with him; one sitting on the sofa, the other standing by the window. The Secret Service men.
I could see his desk too. There, as always, was the laptop, surrounded by a pile of papers. If this was a holiday, I wondered what Cameron Sands did when he was at work.
I went downstairs to the boot room and a few minutes later I was clumping out to the ski lift with my skis over my shoulder. I wondered if Sahara would be able to find me. There were quite a few people around, and the thing about skiers is they all look more or less the same.
On the other hand, I was wearing a bright green jacket; a North Face Freethinker. She'd already joked about the colour and I was sure she'd recognise it a mile away.
But I saw her before she saw me. The nearest lift to the hotel was a gondola, taking 20 people at a time up to an area called Black Ridge, about 1,000 metres higher up. Sahara was at the front of the queue, standing between two men.
I knew right away they weren't ski instructors. They were too close to her, sandwiching her between them as if they didn't want to let her slip away.
One of them was round-faced and white. The other looked Korean or Japanese. Neither were smiling. They were big men: even with the ski suits I got a sense of over-worked muscle. Sahara was scared, I saw that too. And a moment later I saw why.
A third man had gone ahead of them and was waiting inside the gondola. I only glimpsed his face behind the glass but I recognised it instantly. It was Da Silva. His hood was up and he was wearing sunglasses, but his pale skin and ugly teeth were unmistakable. He was waiting while the other men joined him with the girl.
I started towards them, but I was already too late. Sahara was inside the gondola. The doors slid shut and the whole thing jerked forward, rising up over the snow. Sahara caught sight of me just as she was swept away. Her eyes widened and she jerked her head in the direction of the hotel. The message was obvious. Get help!
Sahara was being kidnapped in broad daylight. It was crazy, but there could be no doubt about it.
I turned and began to run...
I was running to get help. Six months later, I might have tried to do something myself. Three men had grabbed Sahara - and they weren't expecting trouble.
I might have gone after them, taking the next gondola and tracking them down. It might have occurred to me to stop the gondola in mid-air.
But, of course, everything was very different then. I was 13 years old. I was on my own in a Colorado ski resort called Gunpoint. And I wasn't even certain about what I'd just seen.
Could I really be sure that Sahara was being kidnapped? And if so, why? According to my uncle Ian, Da Silva, the kidnappers' leader, had been involved in some sort of bank fraud. Why would he be interested in the daughter of...
But Sahara's father, Cameron Sands, worked for the US government. He travelled with a pair of Secret Service men. That was when I knew I was right. Whatever was happening to his daughter, it must be aimed at him. He was the one I had to tell.
I stabbed my skis and poles into a mound of snow and ran back as fast as I could to the hotel - not easy in ski boots. You were meant to take your boots off downstairs, but I just clomped right in, through the reception area, into the lift and up to the second floor, where all our rooms were.
Because of the layout of the hotel, I got to the suite I shared with Ian before I reached Cameron's room. Acting on impulse, I went into the suite. Ian had said he was going to the police precinct to talk about Da Silva, but there was a chance he would still be there. If I told Ian what had happened, he would know what to do.
But he had already gone. I turned round and was about to leave when I heard someone talking. I recognised the voice. It was Sahara's dad. He was standing outside on the terrace, talking into a phone.
I went over to the French windows and saw him standing with his back to me. He was talking into the cordless phone from his hotel room. I could tell straight away there was something very wrong - his whole body was rigid, like he'd just been electrocuted. I heard him speak.
'Where is she? What have you done with her Da Silva?'
It had to be him at the end of the phone, calling on a mobile. He'd taken the girl and now he was talking to the dad, just like in the movies. What was he demanding? Money? Somehow, I didn't think so.
If you were into the money-with-menaces business, you'd be after the film stars and multi-millionaires staying at the resort.
Gently, I slid the window open so I could hear more. 'OK,' Sands spoke slowly. In the cold air his breath was white smoke, curling around him. 'I'll bring it. And I'll come alone. But I'm warning you...'
Whoever was talking to him had already cut him off. Sands lowered his arm, the phone sitting loose in his hand.
As far as I was concerned, that should have been it. I liked Sahara but I hardly knew her. Her dad had two Secret Service men somewhere in the hotel. Maybe they were still in the room, waiting for him to come back inside. This was none of my business.
But somehow I couldn't leave it there. At the very least, I had to know what was going to happen. I told myself I wasn't going to get involved, that I was being stupid. But I still couldn't hold back.
When Cameron came out of his room five minutes later, I was waiting for him in the corridor. He had changed into his ski suit and - here was the weird thing - he was carrying his laptop computer.
It was sticking out of a black nylon bag. As he went downstairs he pushed it inside and fastened the zip. There was no sign of the Secret Service men - but I'd heard what he said on the phone: he wasn't going to involve them. Wherever he was heading, he was going alone.
I followed him downstairs, out of the hotel and across to the gondola that carried skiers up to the mountains. I picked up my skis and poles on the way. He had his skis too.
The laptop was hanging around his chest in its nylon bag, slightly hidden under one arm. There weren't many people at the gondola now. Ski school had begun and the various classes were already practising their snowploughs on the lower slopes.
I watched Sahara's dad hold his lift pass out to be scanned, waited a few moments, then did the same. I'd pulled up my hood and put on my goggles.
We got into the same gondola and were only a few inches apart. But even if he looked in my direction, I knew he wouldn't recognise me. Anyway, he wasn't taking any notice of the people around him. He looked sick with worry.
Five minutes later we got out at Black Ridge, a wide shelf in the mountains with three other lifts climbing in different directions. Cameron put on his skis and I did the same. I knew he was a strong skier, but I reckoned I could keep up with him.
I didn't need to worry. He skied only as far as the nearest lift - a double chair - and took it up to Gun Hill. There was just one more lift that went up from here. It led to an area called The Needle.
It was as high as you could get, so high that even on a bright day like today the clouds still licked the surface of the snow. Once again I went with him, just a few chairs behind.
Da Silva was waiting for him at The Needle.
After we got off the lift, I stayed behind, tucked in close to the lift building's brickwork, watching as Cameron Sands skied down about 30 metres to a flat area beside the piste known as Breakneck Pass.
The name tells you all you need to know. It was the only way down, a double black diamond run of ice and moguls that started with a stomach-churning, zig-zagging chute, continued along the edge of a precipice and then plunged into a wood, with no obvious way between the trees.
Not many people came up here. My uncle said you'd need nerves of steel to take on Breakneck. Or a death wish.
Waiting with Da Silva were the fat man and the Korean I'd seen helping him kidnap Sahara at earlier. They had a scared-looking Sahara trapped between them. No one could see me.
I was 30 metres higher up, and the clouds and snow flurries chasing along the mountain ridge separated me from them. I wiped the ice off my goggles and watched.
Cameron said something. Sahara started forward but the two men held her back. Now it was Da Silva's turn. He was smiling. I saw him point at the laptop. Sands hesitated but not for very long. He lifted it off his shoulder and handed it over. Da Silva nodded to his companions.
They let Sahara go and she slithered - I wouldn't even call it skiing - across to her dad. He put an arm around her. The business was finished.
Except that it wasn't. I hadn't decided what I was going to do - until I did it. Suddenly I found myself racing down the slope, my legs bent and my shoulders low, my poles tucked under my arms, picking up as much speed as I could. Nobody was looking my way. They didn't realise I was there until it was too late.
I was moving so fast that, to them, I must have been no more than a blur. I snatched the laptop out of Da Silva's hand and kept going, over the lip and down the first stretch of Breakneck Pass.
In the next few seconds I found myself almost falling off the edge of the mountain, poling like crazy to avoid the first moguls and, at the same time, managing to get the bag strap over my head so the computer dangled behind me.
I nearly fell twice. If I'd had time to think what I was doing, I'd probably have lost control and broken both my legs. But instinct had taken over. I was 20 metres down the chute and heading for the next segment before Da Silva even knew what had happened.
He didn't hang around. I heard a shout and somehow I knew, without looking back, that the three men were after me. Da Silva wanted the computer. Sands had given it to him.
So he and his daughter weren't needed any more. I was the target now. All I had to do was get down to the bottom, which couldn't be more than two or three thousand metres from here. It was just a pity there was no one else around. If I could get back into a crowd, I'd be safe.
I heard a crack. A bullet slammed into the snow inches from my left ski. Who had fired? The answer was obvious but even so I found it hard to believe. Was it really possible to ski in these conditions and bring out a gun at the same time? The snow was horrible, wind-packed and hard as metal.
My skis were grinding as they carried me over the surface. I was grateful my uncle had insisted on choosing my equipment for me; I was using Nordica twin tips, wide under the foot and seriously stiff. It had taken me a while to get used to them but the whole point was that they were built for speed.
Right now they seemed to be flying, and as I carved and pivoted around the moguls I almost wanted to laugh. I didn,t think anyone in the world would be able to catch up with me.
But I was wrong. Either Da Silva and his men had spent a long time training for this or they'd been experts to begin with. I came to a gully and risked a glance back. There were less than 15 metres between us and they were gaining fast.
Worse still, they didn't seem to be exerting themselves. They had that slow, fluid quality you get in only the best skiers. They could have been cutting their way down a nursery slope.
I cursed myself for getting involved in the first place. Why had I done it? This had nothing to do with me.
But then I made it to the woodland. At least the trunks and branches would make it harder for anyone to take another shot at me. I was lucky I'd done plenty of tree skiing with Ian.
I knew that I had to keep up speed otherwise I'd lose control. Go too fast, though, and I'd risk impaling myself on a branch. The secret is balance. Or luck. Or something.
I didn't really know where I was going. Everything was just streaks of green and brown and white. I was getting tired. Branches were slashing at my face; my legs were already aching with all the twists and turns and the laptop was half-strangling me, threatening to pull me over backwards.
One of my skis almost snagged on a root. I shifted my body weight and cried out as my left shoulder slammed into a trunk - it felt as if I'd broken a bone. I almost lost control.
One of the men shouted something. I couldn't see them but it sounded as if they were just inches away. That gave me new strength. I shot forward on to a miniature ramp, which propelled me into the air and through a tangle of branches that scratched my face and tore at my goggles.
I was in the clear. The wood disappeared behind me and I fell into a wide, empty area. But I landed badly. My skis slipped and there was a sickening crash as I dived headlong into the snow. My bones shuddered. Then I was sliding helplessly in a blinding white explosion. My skis came free.
I was aware the surface underneath me had changed. It was smoother and more slippery. I stretched out a hand and tried to stop myself, but there was no purchase at all. Where was I? At last I slowed down and stopped.
Breathless and confused, I was sure I must have broken several bones. The laptop was round my throat and the ground seemed to be cracking up where I lay. No, actually it was cracking up.
As I struggled to my feet, I realised what had happened. I had gone spectacularly off-piste. There was a frozen lake on the west side of the mountain called Coldwater. I had landed right next to it and managed to slide in. I was on the surface of the ice. And it was breaking under my weight.
Da Silva and the two men had stopped on the edge of the lake. All three were facing me. Two of them had guns. My goggles had come off in the fall and Da Silva recognised me. 'You!' He spat out the single word. He didn't sound friendly.
There were about ten metres between us. Nobody moved.
'Give me the laptop,' he demanded.
I said nothing. If I gave him the laptop, he would kill me. That much I knew.
'Give me it or I will take it,' he continued.
There was the sound of something cracking. A black line snaked towards my foot. I steadied myself, trying not to breathe. Water, as cold as death, welled up around me. I wondered how much longer the ice would hold. If it broke I would disappear for ever.
'Why don't you come and get it?' I said.
Da Silva nodded and the Korean man stepped forward. I could see he wasn't too happy about it - I guess he'd been chosen because he was the lightest of the three.
But he wasn't light enough. On the third step, the ice broke. One minute he was there, the next he was down, his arms floundering and his face filling with panic as he tried to grip the sides of the hole. His breath came out as great mushrooms of white steam.
He tried to scream but no sound came out. His lungs must already have frozen.
He had taken a gun with him. They had only one other. Da Silva snatched it from the fat man - at least there was no way he was going to trust his weight on the ice - and pointed it at me.
'Give me the laptop,' he said. 'Or I will shoot you where you stand.'
'What will you do then?' I said. I took another step, moving away from the edge of the lake. The ice creaked. I could feel it straining underneath my feet. 'You can't reach me. You're too heavy.'
'The ice will harden in the night. I'll return for it tomorrow.'
'You think the laptop will still be working? A whole day and a night out here?'
'Give it to me!' Da Silva didn't want to argue any more. I could almost see his finger tightening on the trigger. I had absolutely no doubt that he was about to kill me.
'Alex . . . get down. Now!'
My uncle's voice came out of the wood. As Da Silva spun round, I dropped low, hoping the sudden movement wouldn't crack the ice. At the same time there were two shots. Da Silva had fired first. He'd missed. My uncle hadn't.
Da Silva seemed to throw his own gun away. He had been hit in the shoulder. He sank to his knees, gripping the wound. Blood, bright red in the morning sun, seeped through his fingers.
Ian Rider appeared. I had no idea how he'd managed to follow us down from The Needle. I'd never so much as glimpsed him. But that must have been what he'd done.
He skied to the very edge of the lake and spoke to me, his eyes never leaving Da Silva or the other man.
'Are you all right, Alex?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Come back over here. Give me the laptop and get your skis back on.'
I did as he told me. I'd begun to tremble. I'd like to say it was just the cold but I'm not sure that would be true.
'Who are you?' Da Silva demanded. I'd never heard a voice so full of hate.
'Your skis. Both of you . . .' My uncle raised the gun. The two men took off their skis. He gestured. They knew what to do. Da Silva and the fat man threw their skis into the lake.
Meanwhile, the Korean had managed to pull himself out. He was lying there shivering, blue with cold.
'Enjoy the rest of the day, gentlemen, my uncle said, and he and I set off together.
Da Silva and the others would have to walk down. It would take them hours - and I had no doubt the police would be waiting for them when they arrived.
And that was it really. What you might call my first mission. Sahara and her dad left the resort that day. I thought I'd never see them again but in fact I met Sahara a couple of years later.
She told me that her dad had been working in the office of America's Secretary of State for Defence - and his laptop had contained classified information about the withdrawal of American troops from Iraq. If it had leaked, the result would have been a huge embarrassment for the US government.
Someone must have paid Da Silva to steal the laptop, but he had failed. So he then engineered the kidnap and the attempted ransom. Something like that, anyway.
I never did find out how my uncle had arrived just in time to rescue me. He said it was just luck, that he'd seen Da Silva on the gondola and followed him up the mountain while I was racing back to the hotel.
Maybe that was true. He also said the gun he'd used was the same gun he'd snatched in the fight the night before. That certainly wasn't.
The funny thing was, we hardly talked about it again while we were in Colorado. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement between us. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.
When I look back on it, I wonder how stupid I could have been not to see what Ian Rider really was. A spy. But then again, I didn't know what I was either - what he'd made me. I remember he pretended to be very angry that I'd put myself in danger.
But at the same time I could see that secretly he was pleased. He'd been training me all my life to follow in his footsteps, and what happened at Gunpoint had shown him I was ready.
And that was just as well. In a few months time, I'd need to be.
They don't receive phone calls in the middle of the night and disappear at the drop of a hat. And how many of them are proficient in Thai boxing and karate; speak three languages and keep themselves in perfect physical shape?
Ian Rider was a secret agent; a spy. From the day he left Cambridge University, he had worked for the Special Operations division of MI6.
Just about everything he told me was a lie, but I believed him because, as an orphan, I had no parents and had lived with him all my life. And, I suppose, because when you're 13 years old you believe what adults say.
But there was one occasion when I came very close to realising the truth. It happened one Christmas, at the ski resort of Gunpoint, Colorado. Although I didn't know it at the time, this was going to be the last Christmas we would spend together.
By the following spring, Ian would have been killed on a mission in Cornwall, investigating the Stormbreaker computers being manufactured there. That was just a couple of months after my 14th birthday, when my life span out of control and I was eventually to become a spy myself.
Gunpoint had been named after the man who first settled there, a gold prospector called Jeremiah Gun. It was about 50 miles north of Aspen, and if you've ever skied in America you'll know the set-up.
There was a central village with gas fires burning late into the night, mulled wine and toasted marshmallows, and shops with prices as high as the mountains around them.
We'd booked into a hotel, the Granary, which was on the edge of the village, about a five-minute walk to the main ski lift. The two of us shared a suite of rooms on the second floor. We each had our own bedroom, opening on to a shared living space with a balcony that ran round the side of the hotel.
The Granary was one of those brand-new places designed to look 100 years old, with big stone fireplaces, woven rugs and moose heads on the walls. I hoped they were fake, but they probably weren't.
For the first couple of days we were on our own. The snow was excellent. There had been a heavy fall just before we arrived, but at the same time the weather was unusually warm, so we were talking powder and lifts with no queues. Soon we were racing each other down the dizzyingly steep runs high up over Gunpoint itself.
It was on the third day that things changed. It began with two new arrivals who moved into the room next door: a father and his daughter who was just a couple of years older than me. Her name was Sahara.
Her dad lived and worked in Washington DC. She told me he was 'something in government', and I guessed she was being purposely vague. Her mother was a lawyer in New York. The two of them were divorced and Sahara had to share Christmases between them.
She was very pretty, with long black hair and blue eyes, only an inch taller than me despite the age gap. She'd been skiing all her life, and she was fearless. Unlike me, she had her own boots and skis. At the time my feet were growing too fast so, as usual, I'd had to rent.
Sahara Sands. Her father was Cameron Sands, with silver hair, silver glasses and a laptop computer that hardly seemed to leave his side. He spent every afternoon in his room, working. Sahara didn't seem to mind. She was used to it, and anyway, now she had Ian and me.
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Two more people arrived on the same day as Sahara. They were sharing a smaller room across the corridor. I noticed them pretty quickly because they rarely seemed to be far away, although they never spoke to us.
They were both men in their late 20s, smartly dressed and very fit. They could have graduated from the same college.
One night in the hotel lounge I suggested they might be gay and Ian laughed. I' don't think so, Alex. Try again.' I thought for a moment. 'Are they bodyguards?'
'Better. At a guess, I'd say they're American Secret Service.'
I blinked. 'How do you know?'
'Well, they're both carrying guns.'
'Under their jackets?'
Ian shook his head. 'You could never draw a gun out of a ski jacket in time. They've got ankle holsters. Take a look the next time you see them.'
He looked at me over his brandy. 'You have to notice these things, Alex. Whenever you meet someone, you have to check them out... all the details. People tell a story the moment they walk into a room. You can read them.'
He was always saying stuff like that to me. I used to think he was just passing the time. It was only much later I realised he'd been preparing me. Just like the skiing and the scuba lessons. He was quietly following a plan that had begun almost the day I was born.
'Are they here with Cameron Sands?' I asked.
'What do you think?'
I nodded. 'They are always hanging around. And Sahara says her dad works in government.'
'Then maybe he needs protection.' Ian smiled. 'Let's see if you can find out their names by the end of the week,'he said. 'And the make of their guns.'
But the next day I had forgotten the conversation. It had snowed again. There must have been 10 inches on the ground, and it was bulging out over the roofs of the hotel like over-stuffed duvets.
Sahara and I switched to snowboards and spent about five hours on the chutes, bomb drops and powder stashes at the bowl area high up over Bear Creek.
I never guessed that just five months later I'd be using the same skills to avoid being killed by half a dozen thugs on snowmobiles, racing down the side of Point Blanc in southern France.
By half past three, with the sun already dipping behind the mountains, we decided to call it a day. We were both bruised, exhausted and soaked with sweat and melted snow. Sahara went off to meet her dad for a hot chocolate. I went back to the Granary on my own.
I had just dropped the board off at the rental shop and was slouching into the reception area when I saw my uncle, sitting on the corner of a sofa. I was about to call out to him - but then I stopped. I knew at once that something was wrong.
It's not easy to explain, but he had never looked like this before. He was completely silent and tense in a way that was almost animal. Ian had dark brown eyes, like me, but right now they were cold and colourless.
He hadn't noticed me come in: his attention was focused on the reception desk and a man who was checking into the hotel.
MYSTERY MAN
'People tell a story,' Ian had said. 'You can read them.' Looking at the man at the reception desk, I tried to do just that.
He was wearing a black rollneck jersey with dark trousers and a gold Rolex watch, heavy on his wrist.
He had blond hair; an intense yellow and cut short. It almost looked painted on. I would have said he was 30 years old, with a pock-marked face and a lazy smile. I could hear him talking to the receptionist. He had a Bronx accent.
So much for Chapter One. What else could I read in him? His skin was unusually pale. In fact it was almost white, as if he had spent half his life indoors. He worked out; I could see the muscles bulging under his sleeves.
And he had very bad teeth. That was strange. Americans wealthy enough to stay in a hotel like this would have taken more care of their dental work.
'You're on the fourth floor, Mr da Silva,' the receptionist said. 'Enjoy your stay.' The man had brought a cheap suitcase with him. That was also unusual in the land of Gucci and Louis Vuitton. He picked it up and disappeared into the lift.
I walked further into the reception area and Ian saw me. He knew I had been watching him. 'Is everything OK?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Who was that?'
'The man who just checked in? I don't know.' Ian shook his head as if trying to dismiss the whole thing. 'I thought I knew him from somewhere. How was Bear Creek?'
He obviously didn't want to talk about it, so I went up to my room, showered and got ready for dinner.
As I made my way back downstairs, I noticed one of the Secret Service men coming out of their room. He walked off down the corridor without saying anything to me. Sahara and her father weren't around.
We ate. We talked. Ian ordered half a bottle of wine for himself and a Coke for me. At around half past ten I found myself yawning. Ian suggested I go up and watch TV.
'What about you?' I asked.
'Oh...I might get a breath of air. I'll follow you up later.'
I left him and went back to the room - and discovered I didn't have the electronic card that would open the door. I must have left it inside when I was getting changed.
I went back to the dining room. Ian was no longer there. Remembering what he had said, I followed him outside.
And there he was. I will never forget what I saw that night.
There was a courtyard round the side of the hotel, covered with snow, a frozen fountain in the middle. It was surrounded by walls on three sides, with the hotel roofs - also snow-covered -slanting steeply down. The whole area was lit by a full moon like a prison searchlight.
Ian Rider and the man who called himself Da Silva were locked together, standing like some bizarre statue in the middle of the courtyard. They were fighting for control of a single gun, clasped in their hands, high above their heads.
I could see the strain on their faces. But what made the scene even more surreal was that neither of them was making a sound. In fact they were barely moving. Both were focused on the gun. Whichever brought it down would be able to use it on the other.
I called out. It was a stupid thing to do. I could have got my uncle killed. Both men turned to look at me, but it was Ian who took advantage of the interruption.
He let go of the gun and slammed his elbow into Da Silva's stomach, then bent his arm up, the side of his hand scything the other man's wrist. I had already been learning karate for six years and recognised the perfectly executed sideways block.
The gun flew out of the man's hand, slid across the snow and came to rest in front of the fountain.
'Go back, Alex!' my uncle shouted.
It took him less than two seconds but it was enough to lose him the advantage. Da Silva lashed out, the heel of his hand pounding into Ian's chest, winding him.
A moment later the blond man wheeled round in a vicious roundhouse kick. My uncle tried to avoid it, but the snow, the slippery surface, didn't help. He was thrown off his feet and went crashing down.
Da Silva stopped and caught his breath. His mouth was twisted in an ugly sneer, his teeth grey in the moonlight. He knew the fight was over. He had won.
That was when I acted. I dived forward, throwing myself on to my stomach and sliding across the ice. My momentum carried me as far as the gun. I snatched it up, noticing for the first time that it was fitted with a silencer. I had never held a handgun before. It was much heavier than I had expected. Da Silva stared at me.
'No!' My uncle uttered the single word quietly. It didn't matter what the circumstances were. He didn't want me to kill a man.
SNOWED UNDER
I couldn't do that. I knew it, even as I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. I emptied the gun - all seven bullets - but not at da Silva. I shot into the air above him, over his head. I felt the gun jerking in my hand. The recoil hurt my wrist. But then it was over. All the bullets had been fired.
Da Silva reached behind him and took out a second gun. My uncle was still on the ground; there was nothing he could do. I lay where I was, my breath coming out in white clouds. Da Silva raised his gun. I could see him deciding which one of us he was going to kill first.
And then there was a gentle rumble and a ton of snow slid off the roof directly above him. I had cut a dotted line with the bullets and - as I had hoped - the weight of the snow had done the rest.
Da Silva just had time to look up before the avalanche hit him. I think he opened his mouth -to swear or scream - but it was too late. The snow made almost no sound, just a soft thwump as it hit. In a second, he had gone. Buried under a huge white curtain.
My uncle got to his feet. I did the same. The two of us looked at each other. 'Do you think we should dig him up?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No. Let's leave him to chill out.'
There were so many things I wanted to know when we finally got back to our room. 'Who was he? Why did he have a gun? Why were you fighting him?'
Ian had phoned the police. They were already on the way, he told me. He would talk to them when they arrived. The gun he and Da Silva had been fighting over was beside him. I could still feel the weight of it in my hand. My wrist was aching from the recoil; I had never fired a handgun before.
'Forget about it, Alex,' he said. 'I recognised Da Silva from a news story. He's a wanted criminal. Bank fraud...'
'Bank fraud?' I could hardly believe it.
'I met him outside quite by chance. I challenged him - which was pretty stupid of me. He pulled out the gun...and the rest you saw.' Ian smiled. 'I expect he'll have frozen solid by now. At least he won't be needing a morgue.'
If I'd thought a little more, I'd have realised none of this added up. When I had come upon the two men, they were fighting for control of a single gun.
They had dropped it - and then Da Silva had produced a second gun of his own. So logic should have told me the first gun belonged to my uncle.
But why would he have brought a gun with him on a skiing holiday? How could he even have got it through airport security? It was such an unlikely thought - Ian carrying a firearm - that I accepted his story because there was no alternative.
Anyway, I was exhausted. It had been a long day and I was glad to crawl into bed. The next morning Ian told me he wouldn't be coming skiing.
Apparently he'd spoken to the police when they finally arrived, and they wanted him to go to the precinct and tell them as much as he could about Da Silva and the fight outside the hotel. The bad news was, Da Silva had got away.
'He must have burrowed out,' Ian said over breakfast; boiled eggs and grilled bacon. He never ate anything fried.
'Do you think he'll come back?' I asked. Ian shook his head. 'I doubt it. He knows I recognised him and he's probably out of Colorado by now. He won't want to hang around.'
'How long do you think you'll be?'
'A few hours. Don't let this spoil the holiday, Alex. Put it out of your mind. You can ski with Sahara today. She'll be glad to have you on your own.'
SLIPPERY SLOPE
But Sahara wasn't in her room. When I knocked on her door, it was opened by her father, Cameron.
'I'm sorry, Alex,' he said. 'You're just too late. She left a few minutes ago. But she'll probably call in later. I can ask her to meet you.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'I'll be up at Bear Creek.'
He nodded and closed the door, and as he did so I looked over his shoulder and saw he wasn't alone. The two young men were with him; one sitting on the sofa, the other standing by the window. The Secret Service men.
I could see his desk too. There, as always, was the laptop, surrounded by a pile of papers. If this was a holiday, I wondered what Cameron Sands did when he was at work.
I went downstairs to the boot room and a few minutes later I was clumping out to the ski lift with my skis over my shoulder. I wondered if Sahara would be able to find me. There were quite a few people around, and the thing about skiers is they all look more or less the same.
On the other hand, I was wearing a bright green jacket; a North Face Freethinker. She'd already joked about the colour and I was sure she'd recognise it a mile away.
But I saw her before she saw me. The nearest lift to the hotel was a gondola, taking 20 people at a time up to an area called Black Ridge, about 1,000 metres higher up. Sahara was at the front of the queue, standing between two men.
I knew right away they weren't ski instructors. They were too close to her, sandwiching her between them as if they didn't want to let her slip away.
One of them was round-faced and white. The other looked Korean or Japanese. Neither were smiling. They were big men: even with the ski suits I got a sense of over-worked muscle. Sahara was scared, I saw that too. And a moment later I saw why.
A third man had gone ahead of them and was waiting inside the gondola. I only glimpsed his face behind the glass but I recognised it instantly. It was Da Silva. His hood was up and he was wearing sunglasses, but his pale skin and ugly teeth were unmistakable. He was waiting while the other men joined him with the girl.
I started towards them, but I was already too late. Sahara was inside the gondola. The doors slid shut and the whole thing jerked forward, rising up over the snow. Sahara caught sight of me just as she was swept away. Her eyes widened and she jerked her head in the direction of the hotel. The message was obvious. Get help!
Sahara was being kidnapped in broad daylight. It was crazy, but there could be no doubt about it.
I turned and began to run...
I was running to get help. Six months later, I might have tried to do something myself. Three men had grabbed Sahara - and they weren't expecting trouble.
I might have gone after them, taking the next gondola and tracking them down. It might have occurred to me to stop the gondola in mid-air.
But, of course, everything was very different then. I was 13 years old. I was on my own in a Colorado ski resort called Gunpoint. And I wasn't even certain about what I'd just seen.
Could I really be sure that Sahara was being kidnapped? And if so, why? According to my uncle Ian, Da Silva, the kidnappers' leader, had been involved in some sort of bank fraud. Why would he be interested in the daughter of...
But Sahara's father, Cameron Sands, worked for the US government. He travelled with a pair of Secret Service men. That was when I knew I was right. Whatever was happening to his daughter, it must be aimed at him. He was the one I had to tell.
I stabbed my skis and poles into a mound of snow and ran back as fast as I could to the hotel - not easy in ski boots. You were meant to take your boots off downstairs, but I just clomped right in, through the reception area, into the lift and up to the second floor, where all our rooms were.
Because of the layout of the hotel, I got to the suite I shared with Ian before I reached Cameron's room. Acting on impulse, I went into the suite. Ian had said he was going to the police precinct to talk about Da Silva, but there was a chance he would still be there. If I told Ian what had happened, he would know what to do.
But he had already gone. I turned round and was about to leave when I heard someone talking. I recognised the voice. It was Sahara's dad. He was standing outside on the terrace, talking into a phone.
I went over to the French windows and saw him standing with his back to me. He was talking into the cordless phone from his hotel room. I could tell straight away there was something very wrong - his whole body was rigid, like he'd just been electrocuted. I heard him speak.
'Where is she? What have you done with her Da Silva?'
It had to be him at the end of the phone, calling on a mobile. He'd taken the girl and now he was talking to the dad, just like in the movies. What was he demanding? Money? Somehow, I didn't think so.
If you were into the money-with-menaces business, you'd be after the film stars and multi-millionaires staying at the resort.
Gently, I slid the window open so I could hear more. 'OK,' Sands spoke slowly. In the cold air his breath was white smoke, curling around him. 'I'll bring it. And I'll come alone. But I'm warning you...'
Whoever was talking to him had already cut him off. Sands lowered his arm, the phone sitting loose in his hand.
As far as I was concerned, that should have been it. I liked Sahara but I hardly knew her. Her dad had two Secret Service men somewhere in the hotel. Maybe they were still in the room, waiting for him to come back inside. This was none of my business.
But somehow I couldn't leave it there. At the very least, I had to know what was going to happen. I told myself I wasn't going to get involved, that I was being stupid. But I still couldn't hold back.
When Cameron came out of his room five minutes later, I was waiting for him in the corridor. He had changed into his ski suit and - here was the weird thing - he was carrying his laptop computer.
It was sticking out of a black nylon bag. As he went downstairs he pushed it inside and fastened the zip. There was no sign of the Secret Service men - but I'd heard what he said on the phone: he wasn't going to involve them. Wherever he was heading, he was going alone.
I followed him downstairs, out of the hotel and across to the gondola that carried skiers up to the mountains. I picked up my skis and poles on the way. He had his skis too.
The laptop was hanging around his chest in its nylon bag, slightly hidden under one arm. There weren't many people at the gondola now. Ski school had begun and the various classes were already practising their snowploughs on the lower slopes.
I watched Sahara's dad hold his lift pass out to be scanned, waited a few moments, then did the same. I'd pulled up my hood and put on my goggles.
We got into the same gondola and were only a few inches apart. But even if he looked in my direction, I knew he wouldn't recognise me. Anyway, he wasn't taking any notice of the people around him. He looked sick with worry.
Five minutes later we got out at Black Ridge, a wide shelf in the mountains with three other lifts climbing in different directions. Cameron put on his skis and I did the same. I knew he was a strong skier, but I reckoned I could keep up with him.
I didn't need to worry. He skied only as far as the nearest lift - a double chair - and took it up to Gun Hill. There was just one more lift that went up from here. It led to an area called The Needle.
It was as high as you could get, so high that even on a bright day like today the clouds still licked the surface of the snow. Once again I went with him, just a few chairs behind.
Da Silva was waiting for him at The Needle.
After we got off the lift, I stayed behind, tucked in close to the lift building's brickwork, watching as Cameron Sands skied down about 30 metres to a flat area beside the piste known as Breakneck Pass.
The name tells you all you need to know. It was the only way down, a double black diamond run of ice and moguls that started with a stomach-churning, zig-zagging chute, continued along the edge of a precipice and then plunged into a wood, with no obvious way between the trees.
Not many people came up here. My uncle said you'd need nerves of steel to take on Breakneck. Or a death wish.
Waiting with Da Silva were the fat man and the Korean I'd seen helping him kidnap Sahara at earlier. They had a scared-looking Sahara trapped between them. No one could see me.
I was 30 metres higher up, and the clouds and snow flurries chasing along the mountain ridge separated me from them. I wiped the ice off my goggles and watched.
Cameron said something. Sahara started forward but the two men held her back. Now it was Da Silva's turn. He was smiling. I saw him point at the laptop. Sands hesitated but not for very long. He lifted it off his shoulder and handed it over. Da Silva nodded to his companions.
They let Sahara go and she slithered - I wouldn't even call it skiing - across to her dad. He put an arm around her. The business was finished.
Except that it wasn't. I hadn't decided what I was going to do - until I did it. Suddenly I found myself racing down the slope, my legs bent and my shoulders low, my poles tucked under my arms, picking up as much speed as I could. Nobody was looking my way. They didn't realise I was there until it was too late.
I was moving so fast that, to them, I must have been no more than a blur. I snatched the laptop out of Da Silva's hand and kept going, over the lip and down the first stretch of Breakneck Pass.
In the next few seconds I found myself almost falling off the edge of the mountain, poling like crazy to avoid the first moguls and, at the same time, managing to get the bag strap over my head so the computer dangled behind me.
I nearly fell twice. If I'd had time to think what I was doing, I'd probably have lost control and broken both my legs. But instinct had taken over. I was 20 metres down the chute and heading for the next segment before Da Silva even knew what had happened.
He didn't hang around. I heard a shout and somehow I knew, without looking back, that the three men were after me. Da Silva wanted the computer. Sands had given it to him.
So he and his daughter weren't needed any more. I was the target now. All I had to do was get down to the bottom, which couldn't be more than two or three thousand metres from here. It was just a pity there was no one else around. If I could get back into a crowd, I'd be safe.
I heard a crack. A bullet slammed into the snow inches from my left ski. Who had fired? The answer was obvious but even so I found it hard to believe. Was it really possible to ski in these conditions and bring out a gun at the same time? The snow was horrible, wind-packed and hard as metal.
My skis were grinding as they carried me over the surface. I was grateful my uncle had insisted on choosing my equipment for me; I was using Nordica twin tips, wide under the foot and seriously stiff. It had taken me a while to get used to them but the whole point was that they were built for speed.
Right now they seemed to be flying, and as I carved and pivoted around the moguls I almost wanted to laugh. I didn,t think anyone in the world would be able to catch up with me.
But I was wrong. Either Da Silva and his men had spent a long time training for this or they'd been experts to begin with. I came to a gully and risked a glance back. There were less than 15 metres between us and they were gaining fast.
Worse still, they didn't seem to be exerting themselves. They had that slow, fluid quality you get in only the best skiers. They could have been cutting their way down a nursery slope.
I cursed myself for getting involved in the first place. Why had I done it? This had nothing to do with me.
But then I made it to the woodland. At least the trunks and branches would make it harder for anyone to take another shot at me. I was lucky I'd done plenty of tree skiing with Ian.
I knew that I had to keep up speed otherwise I'd lose control. Go too fast, though, and I'd risk impaling myself on a branch. The secret is balance. Or luck. Or something.
I didn't really know where I was going. Everything was just streaks of green and brown and white. I was getting tired. Branches were slashing at my face; my legs were already aching with all the twists and turns and the laptop was half-strangling me, threatening to pull me over backwards.
One of my skis almost snagged on a root. I shifted my body weight and cried out as my left shoulder slammed into a trunk - it felt as if I'd broken a bone. I almost lost control.
One of the men shouted something. I couldn't see them but it sounded as if they were just inches away. That gave me new strength. I shot forward on to a miniature ramp, which propelled me into the air and through a tangle of branches that scratched my face and tore at my goggles.
I was in the clear. The wood disappeared behind me and I fell into a wide, empty area. But I landed badly. My skis slipped and there was a sickening crash as I dived headlong into the snow. My bones shuddered. Then I was sliding helplessly in a blinding white explosion. My skis came free.
I was aware the surface underneath me had changed. It was smoother and more slippery. I stretched out a hand and tried to stop myself, but there was no purchase at all. Where was I? At last I slowed down and stopped.
Breathless and confused, I was sure I must have broken several bones. The laptop was round my throat and the ground seemed to be cracking up where I lay. No, actually it was cracking up.
As I struggled to my feet, I realised what had happened. I had gone spectacularly off-piste. There was a frozen lake on the west side of the mountain called Coldwater. I had landed right next to it and managed to slide in. I was on the surface of the ice. And it was breaking under my weight.
Da Silva and the two men had stopped on the edge of the lake. All three were facing me. Two of them had guns. My goggles had come off in the fall and Da Silva recognised me. 'You!' He spat out the single word. He didn't sound friendly.
There were about ten metres between us. Nobody moved.
'Give me the laptop,' he demanded.
I said nothing. If I gave him the laptop, he would kill me. That much I knew.
'Give me it or I will take it,' he continued.
There was the sound of something cracking. A black line snaked towards my foot. I steadied myself, trying not to breathe. Water, as cold as death, welled up around me. I wondered how much longer the ice would hold. If it broke I would disappear for ever.
'Why don't you come and get it?' I said.
Da Silva nodded and the Korean man stepped forward. I could see he wasn't too happy about it - I guess he'd been chosen because he was the lightest of the three.
But he wasn't light enough. On the third step, the ice broke. One minute he was there, the next he was down, his arms floundering and his face filling with panic as he tried to grip the sides of the hole. His breath came out as great mushrooms of white steam.
He tried to scream but no sound came out. His lungs must already have frozen.
He had taken a gun with him. They had only one other. Da Silva snatched it from the fat man - at least there was no way he was going to trust his weight on the ice - and pointed it at me.
'Give me the laptop,' he said. 'Or I will shoot you where you stand.'
'What will you do then?' I said. I took another step, moving away from the edge of the lake. The ice creaked. I could feel it straining underneath my feet. 'You can't reach me. You're too heavy.'
'The ice will harden in the night. I'll return for it tomorrow.'
'You think the laptop will still be working? A whole day and a night out here?'
'Give it to me!' Da Silva didn't want to argue any more. I could almost see his finger tightening on the trigger. I had absolutely no doubt that he was about to kill me.
'Alex . . . get down. Now!'
My uncle's voice came out of the wood. As Da Silva spun round, I dropped low, hoping the sudden movement wouldn't crack the ice. At the same time there were two shots. Da Silva had fired first. He'd missed. My uncle hadn't.
Da Silva seemed to throw his own gun away. He had been hit in the shoulder. He sank to his knees, gripping the wound. Blood, bright red in the morning sun, seeped through his fingers.
Ian Rider appeared. I had no idea how he'd managed to follow us down from The Needle. I'd never so much as glimpsed him. But that must have been what he'd done.
He skied to the very edge of the lake and spoke to me, his eyes never leaving Da Silva or the other man.
'Are you all right, Alex?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Come back over here. Give me the laptop and get your skis back on.'
I did as he told me. I'd begun to tremble. I'd like to say it was just the cold but I'm not sure that would be true.
'Who are you?' Da Silva demanded. I'd never heard a voice so full of hate.
'Your skis. Both of you . . .' My uncle raised the gun. The two men took off their skis. He gestured. They knew what to do. Da Silva and the fat man threw their skis into the lake.
Meanwhile, the Korean had managed to pull himself out. He was lying there shivering, blue with cold.
'Enjoy the rest of the day, gentlemen, my uncle said, and he and I set off together.
Da Silva and the others would have to walk down. It would take them hours - and I had no doubt the police would be waiting for them when they arrived.
And that was it really. What you might call my first mission. Sahara and her dad left the resort that day. I thought I'd never see them again but in fact I met Sahara a couple of years later.
She told me that her dad had been working in the office of America's Secretary of State for Defence - and his laptop had contained classified information about the withdrawal of American troops from Iraq. If it had leaked, the result would have been a huge embarrassment for the US government.
Someone must have paid Da Silva to steal the laptop, but he had failed. So he then engineered the kidnap and the attempted ransom. Something like that, anyway.
I never did find out how my uncle had arrived just in time to rescue me. He said it was just luck, that he'd seen Da Silva on the gondola and followed him up the mountain while I was racing back to the hotel.
Maybe that was true. He also said the gun he'd used was the same gun he'd snatched in the fight the night before. That certainly wasn't.
The funny thing was, we hardly talked about it again while we were in Colorado. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement between us. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.
When I look back on it, I wonder how stupid I could have been not to see what Ian Rider really was. A spy. But then again, I didn't know what I was either - what he'd made me. I remember he pretended to be very angry that I'd put myself in danger.
But at the same time I could see that secretly he was pleased. He'd been training me all my life to follow in his footsteps, and what happened at Gunpoint had shown him I was ready.
And that was just as well. In a few months time, I'd need to be.
about Anthony Horowitz
Anthony Horowitz's life might have been copied from the pages of Charles Dickens or the Brothers Grimm. Born in 1956 in Stanmore, Middlesex, to a family of wealth and status, Anthony was raised by nannies, surrounded by servants and chauffeurs. His father, a wealthy businessman, was, says Mr. Horowitz, "a fixer for Harold Wilson." What that means exactly is unclear "My father was a very secretive man," he says so an aura of suspicion and mystery surrounds both the word and the man. As unlikely as it might seem, Anthony's father, threatened with bankruptcy, withdrew all of his money from Swiss bank accounts in Zurich and deposited it in another account under a false name and then promptly died. His mother searched unsuccessfully for years in attempt to find the money, but it was never found. That too shaped Anthony's view of things. Today he says, "I think the only thing to do with money is spend it." His mother, whom he adored, eccentrically gave him a human skull for his 13th birthday. His grandmother, another Dickensian character, was mean-spirited and malevolent, a destructive force in his life. She was, he says, "a truly evil person", his first and worst arch villain. "My sister and I danced on her grave when she died," he now recalls.
A miserably unhappy and overweight child, Anthony had nowhere to turn for solace. "Family meals," he recalls, "had calories running into the thousands. I was an astoundingly large, round child." At the age of eight he was sent off to boarding school, a standard practice of the times and class in which he was raised. While being away from home came as an enormous relief, the school itself, Orley Farm, was a grand guignol horror with a headmaster who flogged the boys till they bled. "Once the headmaster told me to stand up in assembly and in front of the whole school said, 'This boy is so stupid he will not be coming to Christmas games tomorrow.' I have never totally recovered." To relieve his misery and that of the other boys, he not unsurprisingly made up tales of astounding revenge and retribution.
So how did an unhappy boy, from a privileged background, metamorphose into the creator of Alex Rider, fourteen-year-old spy for Britain's MI6? Although his childhood permanently damaged him, it also gave him a gift it provided him with rich source material for his writing career. He found solace in boyhood in the escapism of the James Bond films, he says. He claims that his two sons now watch the James Bond films with the same tremendous enjoyment he did at their age. Bond's glamour translates perfectly to the 14-year-old psyche, the author says. "Bond had his cocktails, the car and the clothes. Kids are just as picky. It's got to be the right Nike trainers (sneakers), the right skateboard. And I genuinely think that 14-year-olds are the coolest people on the planet. It's this wonderful, golden age, just on the cusp of manhood when everything seems possible."
Alex Rider is unwillingly recruited at the age of fourteen to spy for the British secret service, MI6. Forced into situations that most average adults would find terrifying and probably fatal, young Alex rarely loses his cool although at times he doubts his own courage. Using his intelligence and creativity, and aided by non-lethal gadgets dreamed up by MI6's delightfully eccentric, overweight and disheveled Smithers, Alex is able to extricate himself from situations when all seems completely lost. What is perhaps more terrifying than the deeply dangerous missions he finds himself engaged in, is the attitude of his handlers at MI6, who view the boy as nothing more than an expendable asset.
The highly successful Alex Rider novels include Stormbreaker, Point Blank, Skeleton Key, Eagle Strike, Scorpia, Ark Angel and the forthcoming Snakehead.
Anthony Horowitz is perhaps the busiest writer in England. He has been writing since the age of eight, and professionally since the age of twenty. He writes in a comfortable shed in his garden for up to ten hours per day. In addition to the highly successful Alex Rider books, he has also written episodes of several popular TV crime series, including Poirot, Murder in Mind, Midsomer Murders and Murder Most Horrid. He has written a television series Foyle's War, which recently aired in the United States, and he has written the libretto of a Broadway musical adapted from Dr. Seuss's book, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. His film script The Gathering has just finished production. And oh yes there are more Alex Rider novels in the works. Anthony has also written the Diamond Brothers series.
A miserably unhappy and overweight child, Anthony had nowhere to turn for solace. "Family meals," he recalls, "had calories running into the thousands. I was an astoundingly large, round child." At the age of eight he was sent off to boarding school, a standard practice of the times and class in which he was raised. While being away from home came as an enormous relief, the school itself, Orley Farm, was a grand guignol horror with a headmaster who flogged the boys till they bled. "Once the headmaster told me to stand up in assembly and in front of the whole school said, 'This boy is so stupid he will not be coming to Christmas games tomorrow.' I have never totally recovered." To relieve his misery and that of the other boys, he not unsurprisingly made up tales of astounding revenge and retribution.
So how did an unhappy boy, from a privileged background, metamorphose into the creator of Alex Rider, fourteen-year-old spy for Britain's MI6? Although his childhood permanently damaged him, it also gave him a gift it provided him with rich source material for his writing career. He found solace in boyhood in the escapism of the James Bond films, he says. He claims that his two sons now watch the James Bond films with the same tremendous enjoyment he did at their age. Bond's glamour translates perfectly to the 14-year-old psyche, the author says. "Bond had his cocktails, the car and the clothes. Kids are just as picky. It's got to be the right Nike trainers (sneakers), the right skateboard. And I genuinely think that 14-year-olds are the coolest people on the planet. It's this wonderful, golden age, just on the cusp of manhood when everything seems possible."
Alex Rider is unwillingly recruited at the age of fourteen to spy for the British secret service, MI6. Forced into situations that most average adults would find terrifying and probably fatal, young Alex rarely loses his cool although at times he doubts his own courage. Using his intelligence and creativity, and aided by non-lethal gadgets dreamed up by MI6's delightfully eccentric, overweight and disheveled Smithers, Alex is able to extricate himself from situations when all seems completely lost. What is perhaps more terrifying than the deeply dangerous missions he finds himself engaged in, is the attitude of his handlers at MI6, who view the boy as nothing more than an expendable asset.
The highly successful Alex Rider novels include Stormbreaker, Point Blank, Skeleton Key, Eagle Strike, Scorpia, Ark Angel and the forthcoming Snakehead.
Anthony Horowitz is perhaps the busiest writer in England. He has been writing since the age of eight, and professionally since the age of twenty. He writes in a comfortable shed in his garden for up to ten hours per day. In addition to the highly successful Alex Rider books, he has also written episodes of several popular TV crime series, including Poirot, Murder in Mind, Midsomer Murders and Murder Most Horrid. He has written a television series Foyle's War, which recently aired in the United States, and he has written the libretto of a Broadway musical adapted from Dr. Seuss's book, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. His film script The Gathering has just finished production. And oh yes there are more Alex Rider novels in the works. Anthony has also written the Diamond Brothers series.
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