Ark Angel Part 7

Hornchurch Towers.

The building that had burnt down. The picture had been taken just a few days before he had almost died there.

Either it was an incredible coincidence or Kaspar and his men the group that called itself Force Three had deliberately taken him to a block of flats that Drevin had just purchased. They had thought he was Paul Drevin. They had been planning to ransom him for the sum of a million pounds. So why had they taken him to a building that his father owned?

Alex undressed and got into bed. He couldn't sleep. He had thought he was meant to be having two weeks in the lap of luxury. Looked after and safe that was what Jack had said. He was beginning to feel that both of them might be wrong.

SHORT CIRCUIT.

The building was in SoHo, at the southern end of Manhattan. It stood between a delicatessen and a parking garage in a street full of converted warehouses with metal fire escapes, and boutiques that felt no need to advertise. There were no skysc.r.a.pers in this part of New York. SoHo prided itself on its village atmosphere, even if you needed a city salary to afford an apartment here. The entire neighbourhood was relaxed. People walked their dogs or ate their sandwiches in the autumn sun. There was little traffic. It was easy to forget the noise and the chaos just twenty blocks north.

Creative Ideas Animation fitted in perfectly. It sold cartoons: cells from the Simpsons and Futurama, original drawings from Disney and DreamWorks. It only had a small front window and there weren't many pictures on display. Unlike the other galleries in the area, its front door was locked. Visitors had to ring a bell. Even so, people would occasionally wander in off the street, but once they were inside they would find that the girl who worked there was unhelpful, the prices were ridiculous and there were better selections elsewhere. In the twenty years the gallery had been there, n.o.body had ever bought anything.

Which was precisely the idea. The people who worked at Creative Ideas Animation had no interest at all in art of any sort. They needed a base in New York and this was what they had chosen. SoHo suited them nicely. n.o.body noticed who went in or out. Not that it mattered anyway. They owned the garage next door and used a secret entrance round the side.

At six o'clock that evening, five men and two women were sitting round a conference table in a surprisingly s.p.a.cious and well-appointed room on the first floor just above the gallery. The table was a rectangle of polished gla.s.s on a chrome frame. The chairs were also made of chrome, with black leather seats. Clocks showing time zones around the world lined two of the walls. A large plasma screen covered a third. The fourth was a single plate-gla.s.s window facing a restaurant on the other side of the street. The gla.s.s was one way. n.o.body at the restaurant could see in.

All the people in the room were formally dressed in dark suits and crisp white shirts. Six of them were young and fit; they could have just come out of college. The seventh, at the head of the table, was more crumpled. He was a sixty-year-old black man with sunken eyes, grizzled white hair and moustache, and a look of perpetual tiredness.

One of the younger men was speaking.

"I have to report a development in England," he was saying. "It may not be relevant, but as you are aware, six days ago Nikolei Drevin was targeted by the environmental group Force Three. They were planning to abduct his son and hold him to ransom but they captured the wrong kid. It seems this other kid got in the way on purpose. He actually got himself kidnapped. Can you believe that?" He coughed. "What happened next is still unclear, but somehow the kid managed to escape and Drevin decided to reward him by making him part of the family. So now he's on his way over here. He'll be travelling with Drevin and Drevin's son down to Flamingo Bay."

"Does this kid have a name?" someone asked.

"Alex Rider." It was the older man who had spoken. "I think you should take a look at him." There was an unmarked file on the table in front of him. He leant forward, flipped it open and took out a photograph. He pa.s.sed it to the man sitting next to him. "This was sent to me last night," he explained. "This is the kid we're talking about. The woman with him is his guardian. He has no parents."

One after another, the four men and two women examined the photo. It showed Alex Rider and Jack Starbright as they entered the Waterfront Hotel, and had been taken by a concealed camera at ground level.

"The fact that Alex Rider has gotten himself involved changes everything," the older man went on. "I'm surprised Drevin hasn't checked up on him. It could be his first and his biggest mistake."

One of the women shook her head. "I don't understand. Who is is Alex Rider?" Alex Rider?"

"He's no ordinary kid. And let me say straight off that this is to go no further than this room. What I'm telling you is cla.s.sified but it seems we're in a need-to-know situation." He paused. "Alex is an agent working with MI6 Special Operations."

A mutter of disbelief travelled round the table.

"But, sir..." the woman protested. "That's crazy. He can't be more than fifteen years old."

"He's fourteen. And you're absolutely right. Trust MI6 to come up with an idea like this. But it's worked. Alex Rider is the nearest thing the Brits have to a lethal weapon."

"So how come he's got himself mixed up with Drevin?" the other woman asked.

The older man smiled to himself as if he knew something they didn't. In fact, he was only just beginning to work it out. "Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe it wasn't," he murmured. "But either way it's a whole new ball game. Alex Rider met Kaspar. He's been at the heart of Force Three. And now he's close to Drevin."

"You think he can help us?"

"He'll help us whether he wants to or not." The man gazed at the photo and suddenly there was a hardness in his eyes. "If Alex Rider comes to New York, I want to see him. Do you understand? It's a number one priority. Use any means necessary to get hold of him. I want you to bring that boy to me."

Over three thousand miles away, at Neverglade, Alex had just finished two sets of tennis with Paul Drevin. To his surprise, he'd been thrashed.

Paul was a brilliant player. If he'd wanted to, he could have served ace after ace and Alex wouldn't even have had a chance. He'd purposely slowed down his serve, but despite Alex's best efforts, the score had been threesix in the first set, foursix in the next. Alex would have happily played on, but Paul shook his head. He had slumped on the gra.s.s with a bottle of water. Alex noticed he'd also brought out his inhaler again. At the end of the last set he'd been struggling to breathe.

"You should join a club or something," Alex remarked, sitting down next to him. "Could you play compet.i.tively?"

Paul shook his head. "Two sets is all I can manage. After that my lungs pack in."

"How long have you had asthma?"

"All my life. Luckily it's not too bad, but then it kicks in and that's it. My dad gets really fed up."

"You can't help it if you're ill."

"That's not how he sees it." Paul glanced at his watch. "He'll be at the track by now. Come on. I'll walk over with you."

They left the rackets behind and walked across the lawn together. A man drove past on a tractor and nodded at them. Alex had noticed that none of the staff ever spoke to Paul; he wondered if they were allowed to.

"Aren't you going to race?" he asked.

"Maybe later. If it was just you and me, I wouldn't mind. But Dad..." Paul fell silent as if there was something he didn't want to say. "Dad takes it very seriously," he muttered.

"How fast do these karts go?"

"They can do a hundred miles an hour." Paul saw Alex's eyes widen. "They're not toys, if that's what you were expecting. My father had some business friends to stay a few months ago. One of them lost control round a corner and the kart flipped. They can do that. I saw it happen. He must have turned over six or seven times. He was lucky he was wearing a helmet, otherwise he'd have been killed."

"How badly was he hurt?"

"He broke his wrist and collarbone. His face was all cut up too. And you should have seen the kart! It was a write-off." Paul shook his head. "Be very careful, Alex," he warned. "My dad doesn't like to lose."

"Well, I don't think I've got any chance of winning."

"If you want my advice, you won't even try."

There was a question Alex had been dying to ask him all morning and he decided this was probably the right moment. "Why do you live with him and not with your mother?"

"He insisted."

"Do your parents really hate each other?"

"He never talks about her. And she gets angry if I ask her about him." Paul sighed. "What about your parents?"

"I don't have any. They died when I was small."

"I'm sorry." They walked on for a while in silence. "I wish I had a brother," Paul said suddenly. "That's the worst of it. Always being on my own."

"Can't you go to school?"

"I did for a bit. But it caused all sorts of problems. I had to have a bodyguard Dad insisted so I never really fitted in. In the end he decided it was easier for me to have lessons at home." Paul shrugged. "I keep thinking that one day I'll be sixteen and maybe I can walk out of here. Dad's not so bad, but I wish I could have my own life."

They had crossed the lawn and there was the track ahead of them: a kilometre of twisting asphalt, with seating for about fifty spectators, and six go-karts waiting in a side bay. Nikolei Drevin was already there, checking one of the engines. There were a couple of mechanics on hand but n.o.body else. This race was going to happen without an audience.

"Good luck," Paul whispered.

"Ah Alex!" Drevin had heard them approaching. He looked up. "Have you done this before?"

"A couple of times." Alex had been on the indoor track at King's Cross in London. "I don't think the karts were as powerful as these."

"These are the best. I had them custom-built myself. Chrome Molly frames and Rotax Formula E engines; 125cc, electric starter, water-cooled." He pointed. "You start them by pressing the b.u.t.ton next to the steering wheel. I hope you have a head for speed. They'll go from nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. That's faster than a Ferrari."

"How many circuits do you have in mind?"

"Shall we say three? If you cross the finishing line first, your favourite charity will be richer by a thousand pounds." Drevin picked up two helmets and handed one to Alex. "I hope this is your size."

Alex's helmet was blue; Drevin would be wearing black.

Alex slipped his on and fastened it under his chin. The helmet had a visor that slid down over his face, and protective pads for his neck and the sides of his head.

"This is your last chance, Alex," Drevin said. "If you're nervous, now is the time to back out..."

Alex examined the go-karts. They were little more than skeletons, a tangle of wires and pipes with a plastic seat in the middle and two fuel tanks behind. When he sat down, he would be just inches above the ground. And there was something else missing apart from the floor. He had already noticed that, unlike the karts he had driven at King's Cross, these had no wrap-around b.u.mpers. Now he understood what Paul had told him. The cars were lethal. The course was hemmed in with bales of straw, but if he lost control, if one of his tyres came into contact with Drevin's, he could all too easily flip over just like the friend Paul had mentioned. And if the engine sc.r.a.ped along the asphalt and sparks. .h.i.t the petrol tanks, the whole thing would explode.

Drevin was waiting for his answer. Looking at him casually holding his helmet, one thumb hooked into his designer jeans, Alex felt a spurt of annoyance. He was going to race this man. And he was going to win. "I'm not nervous," he said.

"Good. We'll do two practice circuits before we start. Paul can signal the first and last circuits with a flag."

Alex examined the course. It was a series of twists and sharp turns with two straight sections where he would be able to pick up speed. Part of the track rose steeply on metal legs and then sloped down the other side; it formed a bridge over another section of the track below. Alex realized he would have to slow down as he took it. He would be about six metres up and although the sides of the bridge were lined by a protective wall of rubber tyres, he didn't like to think what would happen if he lost control and hit them. After the bridge, there was a long tunnel with the finishing line on the other side.

He climbed into his kart and pressed the ignition b.u.t.ton. At once the engine burst into noisy life. Already Alex felt horribly exposed. The kart had no sides, no roof. He was sitting with his knees bent, his feet stretched out in front of him. He pulled a seat belt over his shoulder and attached it. It was too late to back out now. Drevin had started his kart and was moving off smoothly. Alex tested the pedals on either side of the steering column. There were just two. The left foot operated the brake, the right foot the throttle. His kart leapt forward, the engine anxious to blast him onto the track. Drevin was already well ahead. Alex gritted his teeth and pressed his foot down.

Nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. Alex didn't go as fast as that on the first practice circuit but, even so, the power of the engine took him by surprise. There was no speedometer and being so low it was hard to judge how fast he was really going. He guessed he was doing about forty miles an hour, although it felt a lot faster. The track was a blur. The whole circuit seemed to have contracted as his vision telescoped. He saw the grandstand whip past. The mechanics had stopped what they were doing and were watching his progress. His entire concentration was focused on his hands gripping the wheel. His arms were shuddering. He came to a corner and twisted the wheel right. He felt the tyres slide behind him and almost lost control. He was oversteering. Quickly he corrected himself. The kart entered the raised section and he found himself climbing. Halfway over the bridge, the track cornered sharply to the left. Alex swerved round and the wall of black tyres shimmered past. He had almost hit them. Already he regretted accepting this absurd challenge. He had only just come out of hospital. One mistake at this speed and he would be heading right back.

He completed his first circuit and began another. There was no sign of Drevin, and Alex wondered if he had left the track. Then there was a roar behind him and the Russian overtook, his face hidden beneath the black helmet. He had managed two complete circuits in the time that Alex had done one and a half. There was clearly going to be no contest unless Alex put his foot down. How fast had Paul said the karts could go? A hundred miles an hour. Madness!

And there was Paul, positioned on the grandstand, a chequered flag in his hand. Drevin had slowed down, waiting for Alex to catch up. The race was about to begin. Well, at least Alex had had a chance to test the worst corners and bends. He'd begun to work out his race line. And it occurred to him that he might have one big advantage over Drevin. He weighed a lot less than him. That would give him the edge when it came to speed.

But there was no time for further thought. The flag fell. They were off.

Forty miles an hour fifty sixty. Just inches above the blur of the tarmac, Alex pressed his right foot down as far as it would go and felt the burst of power behind him. He quickly caught up with Drevin. They came to a bend. Drevin took it tight, hugging the inside. Alex shot round the outside and suddenly he was in the lead as he screamed through the tunnel. So he was right: his weight would make the vital difference. Now all he had to do was stay ahead for the next two laps and he would win.

He had just begun the second circuit when his kart shuddered. For a moment, Alex thought the engine had misfired. Then it happened again, harder this time. He felt himself being jerked back in his seat and the bones in his neck rattled. The tyres slewed and he had to fight for control. A third knock. At this speed it felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. He glanced back and realized what was happening. Drevin was b.u.mping him from behind. He was being quite methodical about it; he wasn't trying to overtake. They were doing seventy miles an hour, suspended in the middle of a bare steel frame that offered no protection at all. Did Drevin want to kill them both?

Alex braked and immediately Drevin soared ahead, shooting up the raised section of the track. Alex followed, looking for an opportunity to slip past him. But Drevin was cheating again, zigzagging left and right, refusing to give him any s.p.a.ce. They roared down the slope and onto the straight, then plunged into the tunnel. After the bright sunlight, it was very dark inside. Alex accelerated and drew level with Drevin. Drevin twisted his wheel and crashed sideways into Alex.

The whole world leapt. Sparks exploded in the darkness as metal tore into metal. The walls of the tunnel rushed past. Desperately Alex fought for control, and as the two karts burst out into daylight, he dropped back. Once again Drevin had the lead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Paul wave the flag, signalling the third and final circuit. The race seemed to have lasted only seconds and it looked as if Drevin had it in the bag. Alex thought about letting him go. What did it matter who won? After all, this was Drevin's toy. Drevin was paying the bills. It might be polite to lose.

But something inside him rebelled against the idea. He stamped down, urging his kart on. Once more he drew level with his opponent. Now the two karts were side by side, heading up the ramp for the last time. Alex saw Drevin glance across and then wrench at his steering wheel. Alex understood at once what he was doing: Drevin was trying to knock him into the tyres and over the edge! For a horrible moment, Alex saw himself somersaulting sideways in his kart. He saw the world turning upside down and heard the grinding of metal as he hit the tarmac below. Would Drevin really kill him just to win a race? His nerves screamed at him. Stop now! Stop now! This was stupid. He had nothing to prove. This was stupid. He had nothing to prove.

Drevin slammed into him again. That was it. There was no way Alex was going to let the Russian billionaire win. He touched the brake, as if accepting defeat. Drevin shot ahead, swerving round the corner. Then Alex accelerated. But he didn't turn the wheel. Instead he aimed straight for the wall of tyres. He hit them head-on and, yelling out loud, soared into the air. For a brief moment he hung in s.p.a.ce. Black tyres cascaded all around him, spinning away like oversized coins. Then he was falling. The tarmac rushed up to greet him. There was a bone-shuddering crash as he hit the track below, and Alex was slammed into his seat. The steering wheel twisted in his hands, trying to pull away as he struggled for control. Somehow the kart kept going. Tyres bounced all around and he was forced to swerve wildly. But he had done it. He had cut the corner and now he was ten metres ahead of Drevin.

The tunnel loomed in front of him. He roared into the darkness and out the other side, across the finishing line. He slammed on his brakes. Too hard. The kart slewed round in an uncontrollable spin and stopped. The engine stalled. But the race was over.

Alex had won.

A few seconds later, Drevin pulled up next to him. He tore off his helmet. He was sweating heavily; his hair was plastered to his scalp. He was furious.

"You cheated!" he exclaimed. "You missed part of the track."

"You pushed me," Alex protested. "It wasn't my fault."

"We will race again!"

"No thanks." Alex had removed his helmet, glad to feel the breeze on his face. "It was a lot of fun but I think I've had enough." He climbed out of the kart. The mechanics were hovering beside the track, wondering if they should approach.

Paul arrived, still carrying the flag. "I can't believe what I just saw! That was amazing, Alex. But you could have been killed!"

"The race is void," Drevin said. "I did not lose!"

"Well, you didn't win either," Alex muttered.

Paul stood there helplessly, looking from one to the other. Drevin considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "It was a draw," he muttered. Then he turned and walked away.

Alex watched him go. "I see what you mean," he murmured. "He really doesn't like losing."

Paul turned to Alex, his expression serious. "You should be careful, Alex," he warned. "Don't make him your enemy." He ran after his father.

Alex was left standing alone.

INJURY TIME.

By Sat.u.r.day the race seemed to have been forgotten. Nikolei Drevin was in a good mood as he waited for another of his Rolls-Royces this one a silver Phantom to be brought round to the front door. It was an important day for him. Stratford East, the team he had bought for twenty million pounds, were playing Chelsea in the Premiership and, although they had been comprehensively beaten threenil by Newcastle only the week before, Drevin was in high spirits.

"Have you always supported Chelsea?" he asked Alex as they left the house.

"Yes." It was true. Alex lived only twenty minutes from Stamford Bridge and he had often gone to games with his uncle.

"The club was almost bankrupt when it was bought by Roman Abramovich." Drevin looked thoughtful. "I met him a few times in Moscow. We did not get on. I hope to disappoint both of you today."

Alex said nothing. There was an intensity in Drevin's voice that suggested that, as far as he was concerned, this was more than a game. The Rolls-Royce pulled up and the two of them got in.

Paul Drevin wasn't coming. He'd had a bad asthma attack the night before and his doctor, who was based twenty-four hours a day at Neverglade, had said he needed a day's rest. And so Alex found himself alone with Drevin in the back of the car as they were driven down the motorway to London.

"You have no parents," Drevin said suddenly.