Ark Angel (5 page)

Slowly he straightened his legs and stretched his arms and thought exactly what he thought every time it happened.

You’re still alive. You’re a prisoner. But for some reason they haven’t killed you yet.

Alex dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around him. He was in a room that was completely bare: no carpet, no curtains, no furniture, no decoration. Nothing. There was a wooden door, presumably locked, and a single window. He was surprised to see that it wasn’t barred, but when he staggered over to it, he understood why.

He was high up, seven or eight storeys. Dawn was only just breaking and it was hard to see through the dirty glass, but he guessed he’d been unconscious for a few hours and that he was still in London. It looked like he was being held in an abandoned tower block. There was another block opposite and, looking up, Alex could just see a huge banner strung between two wires running from the top of one building to the other. The first words were outside his field of vision but he could make out the rest: TOWERS

SOON TO BE AN EXCITING NEW DEVELOPMENT FOR EAST LONDON.

He went over to the door and tried it just in case. It didn’t move.

His left arm was aching badly and he massaged it, wondering how much damage he had done to himself.

This was meant to be his last night in the hospital! How could he have allowed himself to get involved with a gang of murderers who had broken in…? What for?

Alex rested his shoulders against a wall and slid back down to the floor, cradling his arm. He was still barefooted and he shivered. His single shirt wasn’t enough to protect him against the chill of the early morning. Sitting there, he played back the events that had brought him here.

Four men had come to St Dominic’s, but they hadn’t been interested in him. They had asked for the boy in the room next door: Paul Drevin. Suddenly Alex remembered where he had heard the name. He’d seen it in the newspapers—but not Paul. Nikolei. That was it. Nikolei Drevin was some sort of Russian multibillionaire. Well, that made sense. The men must have wanted his son for the most obvious reason.

Money. But they had accidentally kidnapped him instead.

What would they do when they found out? Alex tried to put the thought out of his mind. He had seen how they’d dealt with Conor, the night receptionist. Somehow he didn’t think they’d apologize and offer him the taxi fare home.

But there was nothing he could do. He sat where he was, slumped against the wall, watching the sky turn from grey to red to a dull sort of blue.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the door had opened and Spectacles was standing over him, an expression of pure hatred on his face. Alex wasn’t surprised. The last time they’d met, Alex had slammed a ten-kilogram oxygen tank into his groin. If there was any surprise, it was that just a few hours later the man had found the strength to stand.

Spectacles was holding a gun. Alex looked into the man’s eyes. They glinted orange behind the tinted glass and gazed at him with undisguised venom. “Get up!” he snapped. “You’re to come with me.”

“Whatever you say.” Alex got slowly to his feet. “Is it my imagination,” he asked, “or is your voice a little higher than it used to be?”

The hand with the gun twitched. “This way,” Spectacles muttered.

Alex followed him out into a corridor that was as dilapidated as the room where he had been confined. The walls were damp and peeling. Many of the ceiling tiles were missing, revealing great gaps filled with a tangle of wires and pipes. There were doors every ten or fifteen metres, some of them hanging off their hinges. Once, they would have opened into people’s flats. But it was obvious that—apart from rats and cockroaches—nobody had lived here for years.

Combat Jacket was waiting for them outside.

He had recovered from his encounter with the medicine ball but there was an ugly bruise on the side of his head where he had hit the wall. The two of them marched Alex down the corridor to a door at the end.

“In!” Spectacles said.

Alex pushed open the door and went through. He found himself in a large, open space with litter strewn across the floor and graffiti everywhere. There were windows on two sides, some of them covered by broken blinds. Alex guessed he was inside one of the flats, although the partition walls had been smashed through to make a single area. He could see an abandoned bath in one corner. In the middle, there was a table and two chairs. A man was sitting there, waiting for him. Spectacles prodded his gun into Alex’s back.

Alex stepped forward and sat down.

With a shiver, he examined the man sitting opposite him. He was dressed in what might once have been a uniform but the jacket was torn and missing buttons. The man must have been about thirty years old but it was impossible to be sure. His face and head had been tattooed all over. Alex saw the United States of America reaching down one cheek, Europe on the other. His nose and the skin above his lips were blue, the colour of the Atlantic Ocean. Brazil and West Africa touched the comers of his mouth. If the man turned round, Alex knew he would see Russia and China. He had never seen anything quite so strange—or so revolting—in his life.

With difficulty, Alex tore his eyes away and looked around. Combat Jacket and Spectacles were standing on either side of the doorway. Silver Tooth was lurking in a corner. Alex hadn’t noticed him in the shadows, but now he stepped into the light and Alex saw that his neck was swollen, two angry red marks burned into the skin. There was no sign of Steel Watch. Perhaps they’d been unable to peel him off the Magnetom.

The man with the tattoos spoke. “You have caused us a great deal of annoyance,” he said. “In truth, you should be dead.”

Alex was silent. He wasn’t sure yet what to say.

“My name is Kaspar,” the man continued.

Alex shrugged. “You mean … like Casper the friendly ghost?”

The man didn’t smile. “Why were you out of your room last night?”

“I needed some air.”

“It would have been better if you had simply opened the window,” Kaspar said. When he spoke, whole continents moved. It occurred to Alex that if he sneezed it would set off a global earthquake. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” Alex replied. “But it would be useful to have you around in a geography exam.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were in any position to make jokes.” Kaspar’s voice was flat and unemotional. He gestured at the other men. “You have caused my colleagues a great deal of pain and inconvenience. They would like me to kill you. Perhaps I will.”

“What do you want me for?” Alex demanded. “I will tell you.” Kaspar ran a finger down the side of his face. It travelled from Norway to Algeria. “I can see that you are surprised by my appearance. You may think it extreme. But these markings represent who I am and what I believe in. We are all part of this world. I have made the world part of me.” He paused.

“I am what you might call a freedom fighter. But the freedom I believe in is a planet free of the exploitation and pollution caused by rich businessmen and multinationals who would destroy all life simply to enrich themselves. We have global warming. The ozone layer has been decimated. Our precious resources are fast running out. But still these fat cats continue lining their pockets today with no thought or care for tomorrow. Your father is such a man.”

“My father? You’ve got it all wrong—” The man moved incredibly quickly. He stood up and lashed out, hitting the side of Alex’s head with the back of his hand. Alex snapped back, more startled than hurt.

“Don’t interrupt!” Kaspar commanded. “Your father made his fortune from oil. His pipelines have scarred three continents. And now, not content with damaging the earth, he is turning his attention to outer space.

Four species of wild birds have been made extinct by the launch of his rockets from the Caribbean. Apes and chimpanzees have been the unwilling victims of his test flights. He is an enemy of mankind and has therefore become a legitimate target of Force Three.”

Kaspar sat down again.

“There are those who think of us as criminals,” he went on. “But it is your father who is the real criminal, and he has forced us to act the way we do. Now we have decided to make him pay. He will give us one million pounds for your safe return. This money will be used to continue our struggle to protect the planet.

If he refuses, he will never see you again.

“That is why you were taken from St Dominic’s last night. You will remain with us until the ransom has been paid. I do not personally wish to harm you, Paul, but we have to prove to your father that we have you. We must send him a message that he cannot ignore. And I’m afraid that will demand a small sacrifice from you.”

Alex tried to speak but his head was reeling. It was all happening too fast. Before he could react, his right arm was seized from behind. Combat Jacket had crept up on him while Kaspar had been talking. Alex tried to resist, but the man was too strong. The cuff of his shirt was ripped open and the sleeve pulled back.

Then his hand was forced down on the table and his fingers spread out one by one. There was nothing he could do. Combat Jacket was holding him so tightly, his fingers were turning white. Silver Tooth approached from the other side. He had taken out his knife. He handed it to Kaspar.

“We could send your father a photograph,” Kaspar explained. “But what would that achieve? He will know by now that you have been taken by force. There are stronger ways of making our demands known, ways that he may find more persuasive.” He lifted the knife close to his chin, as if about to shave. The blade was fifteen centimetres long with a serrated edge. He examined his reflection in the steel. “We could send him a lock of your hair. He would, I’m sure, recognize it as yours. But then, he might take it as a sign of weakness—of compassion—on our part.

“And so I apologize, Paul Drevin. It gives me no pleasure to hurt a child, even a wealthy, spoilt child such as yourself. But what I intend to send your father is a finger from your right hand…”

Automatically Alex tried to pull back. But Combat Jacket had been expecting it. His full weight pressed down on Alex’s hand. His fingers were splayed, helpless, on the table.

“The pain will be great. But there are children all over the world who have only ever known pain and starvation, while boys like you languish in the playground of the rich. Do you play the piano, Paul? I hope not. It will not be so easy after today.”

He reached out and grabbed Alex’s little finger. That was the one he had chosen. The knife began its journey down.

“I’m not Paul Drevin!” Alex spat out the words urgently. His eyes had widened. He could feel the blood draining from his face. The knife was still moving. “You’ve made a mistake!” he insisted. “My name is Alex Rider. I was in room nine. I don’t know anything about Paul Drevin.”

The knife stopped. It was millimetres above his little finger.

“Do it!” Combat Jacket hissed.

“I was awake last night,” Alex insisted. The words came tumbling out. “I was coming back from the toilet. I saw your men outside my room. One of them pulled out a gun, and then they began chasing me. I didn’t know what was happening. I had to defend myself…”

“He’s lying,” Combat Jacket snarled. “I asked him his name.” He turned to Spectacles. “Tell him.”

“That’s right,” Spectacles agreed. “We saw his room. Room eight. It was empty. Then he appeared. We called out his name and he answered.”

Kaspar tightened his grip on the knife. He had made up his mind.

“I was in room nine, not room eight!” Alex was shouting now. His head was swimming. He could already see the knife cutting through flesh and bone. He could imagine the pain. Then suddenly he had a thought.

“What do you think I was in hospital for?” he demanded.

“We know what you were there for,” Kaspar replied. “Appendicitis.”

“Appendicitis. Right. Then look at my bandages. They’re nowhere near my appendix.”

There was a long pause. Alex could feel Combat Jacket still pressing down hard, longing for the cutting to begin. But Kaspar was uncertain. “Open his shirt,” he ordered. Nobody moved. “Do it!”

Combat Jacket was still holding Alex as tightly as ever but now Silver Tooth stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed hold of Alex’s shirt, tearing the top two buttons. Kaspar stared at the bandages crossing over his chest. Alex could feel his heart straining beneath them. “What is this?” Kaspar demanded. “I had a chest wound.”

“What sort of chest wound?”

“An accident on my bike.” It was the one lie Alex had told. He couldn’t tell them what had really happened. He didn’t want them to know who he was. “I met Paul Drevin,” he admitted. “He’s the same age as me. But he doesn’t look anything like me. Just make a phone call. You can find out easily enough.”

He took a deep breath. “You can cut off all my fingers if you want, but his father isn’t going to pay you a penny. He doesn’t even know I exist!”

There was another silence.

“He’s lying!” Combat Jacket insisted.

But Kaspar was already working it out for himself. He had heard Alex speak. Paul Drevin had a faint Russian accent. This boy had obviously lived in England all his life. Kaspar swore and stabbed down with the knife. The blade buried itself in the table less than a centimetre from Alex’s hand. The hilt quivered as he released it.

Alex saw the disappointment in the faces of Spectacles and Silver Tooth. But Kaspar had made his decision.

“Let go of him.”

Combat Jacket held him tightly for a moment longer, then released his arm and stood back, muttering something ugly under his breath. Alex snatched back his hand. His right arm was hurting as much as his left one. He wondered if Kaspar would send him back to the hospital. By the time he got out of here, he would need it.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Spectacles and Silver Tooth were waiting to escort him out, but Kaspar gestured for them to wait. He was examining Alex a second time, reassessing him. It was impossible to see behind the markings on his face, to know what was going on in his mind. “If it turns out that you are who you say you are,” he began, “if you really are not Paul Drevin, then you are of no use to us. We can kill you in any way that we please. And I think it will please my men to kill you very slowly indeed. So perhaps, my friend, it would have been better for you if there had been no mistake. Perhaps the loss of one finger might have been the easier way.”