Declassified file for hallowed_ink

[spyfestadmin]

Author: lazy_neutrino
Recipient: hallowed_ink
Title: Death's Head
Characters/Pairing(s): Alex, Jack, Paul Drevin, Tom Harris
Summary: Alex doesn't like it when his friends are threatened. But how good a friend is Alex?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None
Word Count: ~11,000
Author's Notes: I hope you like this, hallowed_ink! Thanks as always to my lovely beta reader, K.!


Death's Head

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

'Hey.'

Alex Rider didn't turn around. He was sitting on the wall surrounding Edinburgh Castle, his legs dangling into the abyss. Far below him, black dots wandered erratically across a stretch of green which was cut in half by a ribbon of grey track. Laughter floated up to him and the sound of fairground music. It was Good Friday and the Easter Market was in full flow.

Alex drew his legs up beside him and wriggled round. He pulled the letter from his pocket and read it again, although he remembered every word perfectly. It wasn't the kind of letter you got every day of the week.

Dear Alex (Paul Drevin had written),

I know we parted on difficult terms, and to be honest I never wanted to see you again, but I don't know who else to ask. I'm in Edinburgh for the Easter holidays and there's something funny going on here and no one seems to have noticed it except me. I don't want to say too much in a letter and I'm pretty sure my email is being read, so I'll be at the Castle on Friday at about 11 o'clock in the morning. We've got a guided tour scheduled for then but I'm pretty sure I can slip away.

Paul

The last time Alex had seen Paul was when he was airlifted to hospital from Flamingo Bay, minutes after his father had shot him in the chest by accident and seconds before Alex had killed his father. That had also been an accident, or, at least, Alex hadn't intended Nikolei Drevin to die. It was just the way things had worked out, that was all.

THE MEETING

Alex could hear Paul's unsteady breathing from yards away. He jumped down from the ledge and put a smile on his face, then turned round. Paul was smiling too, but his eyes were cautious. Losing a parent did that to you, thought Alex, even if it was a father like Nikolei Drevin who had humiliated his son and competed with him at every possible opportunity.

'Alex,' Paul rasped. He puffed at his inhaler. 'I'm glad you came.' There was a wooden bench nearby and he sank down on it, his inhaler still in his hand. Alex stood beside him.

'You look well,' he said. It wasn't really true. Paul's face was red with exertion and he was breathing deeply, but he looked a million times better than he had done outside the house at Flamingo Key, with his blood seeping into the sand. Alex sat down. 'I'm glad you're OK.'

Paul nodded. 'I'm glad you are too. How's MI6?'

Alex shook his head. 'I don't work for them anymore.' He could see that Paul didn't believe him so he changed the subject. 'I got your letter.'

Paul bit his lip. He looked worried. 'This is going to sound really stupid.' A woman strolled past, pushing an enormous pink pram with a frill around the edge. Behind her came a small boy eating an ice-cream that was almost as large as his head. Paul stopped talking. He and Alex watched until the tourists were out of sight.

'Go on.' Alex said.

'You won't laugh?'

Alex shook his head. He wasn't going to laugh.

'It's Project 2002,' Paul said. Images flashed through Alex's brain as he recalled what he knew about the project. It had been set up by some of Britain's most privileged teenagers, in an attempt to help some of the least privileged. A retired headmaster, who had won the lottery, had masterminded the idea and the first conference was scheduled to take place here in Edinburgh, during the May Bank Holiday half-term.

'Yeah.'

'I'm sort of -' Paul flushed. 'Well, I'm involved. I wanted to use some of Dad's money in a good way.'

'That's a really great idea, Paul.'

'The thing is, something isn't right.' Paul's face was earnest. 'I thought at first I was being paranoid.' He leaned closer. 'But I think somebody at the hotel isn't what he seems to be. I think someone's trying to sabotage the conference.'

Alex was silent, thinking. It sounded unbelievable, but Alex had seen enough unbelievable things happen to know that Paul could well be right. 'What makes you think so?' he asked.

Paul shook his head. 'Not here. I want you to see for yourself. Can you do that?'

'Where are you staying?'

'The Royal Scot. Everyone's staying at the Royal Scot. Why don't you come along for dinner tonight? There's a presentation afterwards by a headmistress from a comprehensive school in Glasgow - you know, one of those Superheads you read about - and you could get a good look at everybody there.'

Alex nodded. He would have to let Jack know his plans, but he didn't expect her to mind. On the contrary, she would be delighted that he had met up with friends while they were staying in Edinburgh. Alex hadn't told Jack about the letter, so when he'd suggested that they spend a few days up North, she'd been delighted. Like all Americans, she loved visiting old and beautiful cities and Edinburgh was one of the oldest and most beautiful of them all. They'd been there three days and Alex had barely seen her, but her hotel room was beginning to fill up with shopping bags.

'What time?'

Paul grinned. 'How about half-past seven?'

DINNER AT THE ROYAL SCOT

The Royal Scot was one of Edinburgh's oldest and most prestigious hotels, situated on Prince's Street not far from Waverley railway station. It was a tall, narrow building, over a hundred years old and squashed in between two even taller and older buildings as if it had been an afterthought. The St. Andrew's Cross hung from its flagpole and fluttered in the piercing Edinburgh wind.

Paul had chosen a table for two at the back of the restaurant and facing out into the room so that Alex had a good view of the other guests. This suited Alex. He hadn't felt comfortable dining out unless his back was to a wall since he had been shot by a Scorpia sniper right where he least expected it - on the street outside the headquarters of MI6. Things like that made you cautious, and Alex was definitely more cautious than he had been a year ago.

The waiter hovered discreetly as Alex sat down. Paul ordered a bottle of sparkling water and an orange juice. Ales chose a Coke. Once the drinks had arrived and they had chosen their food, he looked expectantly at Paul.

Paul sipped his orange juice and put it back on the table. 'This is the first conference of Project 2002,' he began. He sounded a little like Alan Blunt. 'The idea is that there are a lot of young people who've got more money than they know what to do with, and want to do something useful with it. There's also a lot of kids who aren't getting a fair deal.'

Alex nodded. He didn't tell Paul he had spent a couple of hours that afternoon looking the project up on the Internet.

'This meeting is really just for us to get to know each other.' Paul paused for a moment as the waiter returned with their food: chicken casserole for Paul and a steak for Alex. 'We've been here since last Saturday, just hanging together and talking - there are loads of good ideas coming out. Every evening there's a speaker of some kind who's got experience either of working with children or administering a charity. And of course, we wanted to meet Mortimore. You'll like him, Alex, he's really cool.'

Alex sipped his Coke and nodded. Mortimore Furlong was the man tasked with steering the project to a successful conclusion in its first year. He'd taken a job as headmaster of a failing comprehensive in Manchester and then redesigned his school so that it offered exactly what the kids in the area needed - a mixture of vocational and academic qualifications, breakfast and after-school clubs, and work experience that helped his kids get good jobs when they left. Ten years ago, half of Year 11 had ended up in prison. Last summer, five pupils had got into Oxford. Not bad from a school that hadn't even had a Sixth Form three years ago. Then Furlong had retired, and shortly after that he'd won the lottery on a quadruple rollover. Most people would have moved to the Bahamas, or bought a yacht. Mortimore Furlong had started Project 2002 instead.

'But,' Paul hesitated again. Alex took a slow look around the room. There was the usual gaggle of excited tourists, ladies with piles of shopping and enormous hats and a few groups of businessmen in expensive suits on expense accounts. The Royal Scot was somewhere you dined to be seen. He looked around again. He had expected to see some of Paul's group here, the members of Project 2002, but there was no obvious table that fitted the description Paul had given him.

Paul guessed what he was thinking. 'They've gone out,' he told Alex. 'We have dinner quite early because there's usually a speaker in the evening, but I said I was meeting a friend, so I waited till later. This way no one is going to come over and barge in.'

And hear what you're talking about, Alex thought.

Paul put his fork down and said slowly, 'I suppose it's having lived with Dad that gives me a kind of sixth sense that things aren't right. You remember I tried to warn you when you came to stay?'

Alex nodded. He remembered. When Nikolei Drevin had challenged Alex to a go-kart race, Paul had hinted, as strongly as he could, that it would be a bad idea to compete with his father directly. But Alex had ignored the warning, and won, almost killing himself in the process. He had seen what a bad loser Paul's father could be.

'There's someone here who gives me the same feeling.' Paul bit his lip again. 'You'll see tonight, when we go along to the talk. It's two things really. There's - it's difficult to explain - a feeling of hostility in the room, as if there's someone there who doesn't want us to succeed. And there's a security guard who creeps me out. I won't tell you which one. You'll spot him at once.'

Alex hadn't thought about security guards. It was obvious, really. With some of the richest teenagers in England staying together in a posh hotel, any nutcase or lunatic might decide to get his name in the papers by kidnapping them or blowing the hotel up. Everyone at the conference would be travelling with their own security team.

'Having a security guard would creep me out,' he said.

Paul smiled. 'You get used to it. The same way you get used to having your emails read and having to ask for money to buy trainers even though you've got billions in the bank. That was why I wrote you a letter, by the way. I knew they wouldn't think of that!' He looked pleased with himself.

Alex grinned. It had been a good idea. 'What happens when you come of age?'

Paul's face lit up. 'I'll give it all away and sack the lot of them! '

'What do you want me to do?'

'Come along to the talk tonight. If you're with me it'll be OK. Have a good look at everyone and get your bearings. Then - I'll leave that up to you. I just want to know what's going on, Alex. I don't want anyone to sabotage this.' His face was earnest.

Not for the first time, Alex felt a flash of sympathy for Paul Drevin.

The waiter removed their plates and offered them the dessert menu. Alex scanned it quickly. 'Have you tried the Reese's Pieces Cheesecake?' he asked Paul. Reese's Pieces were chocolate shells with a peanut butter filling. Alex had had them on his first trip to the States and thought they were delicious, but it was very hard to get hold of them in England.

Paul shook his head. 'I'm allergic to peanuts. The lemon swirl and raspberry mousse is really good, though.'

Paul was right. The mousse was delicious.

PROJECT 2002

Alex looked round curiously as they took their seats at the back of the meeting room. A plump woman in a tweed suit was bustling around at the front, fussing over a laptop and a whiteboard. She reminded him of Mrs Jones except for the fact that the smell of peppermints was conspicuously absent. There were ten or twelve teenagers in the room, clustered in groups of two or three and whispering together. They were all dressed in designer jeans and sweatshirts. Alex sighed. It didn't matter how much money you had, he thought. You still had to wear the right uniform.

The door behind them opened and a fresh, flowery scent wafted into the room. Alex shifted on his seat so he could see the new arrival without turning round to gawp. She was a petite blonde, with tanned skin, plucked eyebrows and too much makeup. Her teeth were a dazzling white. She was wearing bubblegum pink jeans and a white hoodie that clung to her figure.

Paul saw him looking and nudged him. 'That's Holly Waldorf,' he whispered.

'The one with the little dog?' Now Alex remembered. Holly Waldorf's father was on the British board of directors of an international chain of hotels. Although Holly was English, she had been educated in California. She was currently starring in a soap opera set in a New York acting school and had just launched her own underwear and perfume range. Alex suddenly realised just how much he missed Sabina Pleasure.

Paul nodded. 'She's really nice,' he whispered. 'She does loads for animal charities.' Then the lights dimmed and the room fell silent.

Alex didn't pay much attention to the talk. His eyes wandered round the room, taking in everyone and everything. The two boys in the corner who seemed to be paying attention but were playing Flash games on the phones balanced carefully on their laps. The way all the other girls seemed to be watching Holly Waldorf and following the talk at the same time. The security men at the door. There were four security men in the room. Alex had noticed them at once, as he was supposed to. They wore the usual dark suit with a suspicious bulge under one arm and cables coiled from their left ears. He didn't pay much attention to three of them: they were vigilant and attentive and their eyes roamed the room constantly, like Alex's.

The fourth one was different.

He was tall and exceptionally thin, as if he had been accidentally stretched as a child. His face was so pale it was almost white, and he fidgeted constantly. Every time Alex glanced at him, the security guard seemed to be in a world of his own, as if he was paying no attention to his job. Alex gave him a long hard look. Either he was very good at his job and this was all an act, or he was the worst security guard Alex had ever seen.

The guard - Alex nicknamed him Lanky - was now shifting from one foot to another, as if he needed to go to the bathroom. Alex felt Paul's elbow dig him in the ribs. He turned his head. Paul nodded. That's the one. But Alex didn't need to be told. Fresh air drifted into the room as Lanky edged the door open and slipped out. Alex was on his feet in an instant, following.

Although Alex had arranged to meet Paul at seven-thirty, he had arrived twenty minutes early so that he could have a look around and get his bearings. The nearest bathrooms to the meeting room were further down the corridor on the left. It was impossible to get to the meeting room without passing them. Alex wasn't surprised when Lanky turned right into the corridor and headed towards the lifts. He wasn't going to the bathroom. Alex hung back. If he got into the same lift, he would certainly be spotted. He could hardly get out on the same floor without arousing suspicion. He watched as the lift climbed 1...2...3. Third floor. Alex raced for the stairs.

Arriving at the third floor a few moments later, he saw Lanky knock on a door and wait. Then the security guard did something that roused Alex's suspicions even further. He looked up and down the corridor. Alex dodged out of sight behind a maid's trolley and watched as Lanky produced a hotel key from his pocket and opened the door. A moment later he had disappeared from view.

Alex thought furiously. Things weren't adding up. If Lanky had a key to the room, he had a right to be in there. But the way he'd looked up and down the corridor before going in had made it clear that he definitely hadn't wanted to be seen. That meant it wasn't his room. So either he was meeting someone in secret or he'd stolen the key. Either way, Alex wanted to find out more.

Pushing the trolley forward and staying out of sight behind it, Alex edged closer. He was almost at the room when a female voice said suspiciously, 'Excuse me, sir, what are you doing with my trolley?'

Alex froze. He put on his most charming smile and turned round. A severe-looking woman in a black dress and white apron was peering at him from a room further down the corridor.

'Um.' Alex thought quickly. 'I'm lost. I was looking for the gents.'

The maid's face relaxed a fraction. In fact, she almost smiled. 'On the ground floor, sir, just along from the lifts and past the meeting room. You can't miss it. Are you with the conference?'

'My friend is.' There was no point in lying. With the maid still watching him closely, Alex headed for the lift. It didn’t matter. He knew where he was going next. It was time to find out who was staying in room 312.

INTRODUCING MORTIMORE FURLONG

Paul greeted him eagerly as Alex slipped back into the conference room. No one else seemed to notice he had been away. That was all right by Alex.

'What happened?' Paul whispered.

Instead of answering, Alex asked a question of his own. 'Who's in room 312, do you know?'

Paul blinked. 'Holly Waldorf.'

Alex raised an eyebrow. 'And you know that how exactly?'

Paul went red and changed the subject. 'Come and meet Mortimore. I told him I was bringing a friend along.' Alex allowed Paul to take hold of his arm and let himself be pulled across the room to where a small man with a bent back was chatting to three girls. Someone pushed past him, leaving a fresh floral fragrance on the air. Alex turned and saw Holly Waldorf leave the room. He glanced sideways at Paul Drevin and saw that his friend was watching Holly, too, his face thoughtful. Alex grinned.

Mortimore Furlong had a brown face that was so lined and wrinkled that it looked as if someone had carved a nose, eyes and mouth into a giant walnut and placed it on human shoulders. His face cracked in a smile as Alex and Paul approached.

'Paul! Is this the friend you mentioned?' He turned his smile on Alex. It was like being caught in a lighthouse beam. 'I'm delighted you came along. This is going to be big. It's going to be brilliant. Has Paul told you about the project?'

Alex shook his head. 'I was hoping to hear about it from you.'

Mortimore beamed again. 'You look like an intelligent young man. I'm sure you follow the news. And I'm pretty sure you're tired of hearing that the teenagers of today are no good, aren't you?' Alex nodded. 'It's a good story for the tabloid newspapers,' Mortimore continued. 'But that's all it is - a story. I worked in comprehensives for thirty-five years and I can tell you there's not a bad child born. All most of them need is self-belief and a little help. And that's exactly what we're going to do. Project 2002 is going to target two thousand and two pupils from the toughest comprehensives. We're going to give them a residential school, in luxurious surroundings. We're going to provide each and every one of them with a mentor - an adult to talk to when things are getting tough, someone with experience they can benefit from. We're going to help these kids take control of their lives.'

'You mentioned a residential school,' Alex sad. 'What if they don't want to come? I mean, the kids you're talking about don't like school.'

'It'll be our job to make them want to come.' Mortimore patted him on the shoulder. 'That's a really excellent question. We've been lucky to attract people like Miss Waldorf to help with the project. The girls will know who she is - her pictures are in their magazines and she's on TV all the time. As far as they're concerned, she's the person they want to be. So we'll offer an evening session or two, run by Holly, where she'll talk about make-up, clothes and how to market yourself. '

'We'll have footballers, too,' Paul broke in eagerly. 'I've got contacts with Premier League players who'll come along for a kick-around. '

'And we'll get them to stress the importance of regular attendance and punctuality,' Mortimore continued. 'You don't get to be a Premier League player without commitment. '

Alex nodded. He certainly understood the value of commitment. He had spent most of his Christmas holidays under the stead eye of Jack Starbright catching up on schoolwork. Even though he had now managed to attend Brookland for almost a whole term, he had fallen far behind in all his subjects and his teachers were beginning to look at him with something like despair. What's the point of setting work for Alex? he could hear them thinking. He's not going to be in to do it, and even if, by some miracle, we manage to collect it and mark it, what are the chances that Alex will be in the lesson where we go through it? In just over a year, MI6 had destroyed Alex's reputation at school. The thought made him angry.

Mortimore Furlong looked at him curiously. 'Miles away, Alex?' he prompted. Alex shifted. 'Not really,' he said. 'I was just thinking, it's a really good idea.'

'We're going to start with London.' Mortimore said. 'Then Manchester, Newcastle, Birmingham, Glasgow - wherever the need is greatest. We'll start small, with one child from each school, and give them a chance to take our message back. People will want to come. I hope in a year or so we'll be flooded with applications. But we'll still rely most of all on the Head's recommendation.' He beamed. 'One good thing has come out of this recession, you know. I've managed to secure a conference centre, on the road out to Musselburgh. It was state-of-the-art when it was built but there just hasn't been the business to keep it going. The owners were delighted when I suggested taking it off their hands.'

'You got it!' Paul whooped and punched the air. A group of teenage girls turned round to smile at him and he stuffed his fist back in his pocket hastily.

Mortimore nodded. 'I phoned them a few minutes ago to confirm that we're accepting their terms. It's a wonderful venue. A few bits and pieces to tidy up, but it'll certainly be ready for the summer.'

Alex yawned. 'Time for me to get back, ' he said. 'Jack worries about me if I'm not in bed early. It wasn't true. A plan was beginning to crystallise and he wanted to get back to his hotel room so that he could think it through. 'Don't worry - I'll be in touch.' He gave Paul Drevin's arm a squeeze and nodded goodbye to Mortimore Furlong then wheeled round and headed down the corridor.

The hotel lobby had been designed for the rich business traveller. Deep armchairs were scattered around in seemingly random groups around low tables with smoked glass tops. Power points for laptops with multiple outlets were placed strategically near each table. It was a place where you could sit in comfort and finalise a million-dollar deal over an espresso or a whisky. Alex dropped into an armchair and extracted a piece of hotel notepaper and an envelope from the letter rack. He chewed on the tip of his pen for a moment, thinking. If anyone was watching, it would look as if he was writing a letter. Then he folded the blank notepaper in half and put it into the envelope, which he sealed. He shoved the pen back into his pocket and walked over to the reception desk.

'Excuse me,' he said. The girl gave him a polite smile. Alex pushed the envelope nervously across the counter. 'I've been asked to deliver this but I've just noticed my friend forgot to write a name on it. But I know who it's for.' He gave an accurate, but deliberately not too detailed, description of Lanky.

The girl nodded. She gave a reassuring smile. 'Mr. McVitie,' she said with a brilliant smile. 'No need to worry, sir. I'll make sure he gets it.'

'Thank you.' Alex smiled back. He took a few steps away from the reception desk and then dropped to one knee to tie his left shoelace which seemed to have come undone. He fiddled with it while the girl turned to the pigeonholes behind her and pushed the envelope in the one labelled 616. Then he turned and left the hotel.

MANY HAPPY EXPLOSIONS

Back in his own hotel bedroom, Alex worked quickly. He changed back into jeans and a sweatshirt, and his favourite Converse trainers. From under the bed, he pulled out a small rucksack, from which he extracted what looked like a harmless pair of fashion sunglasses. They were anything but.

When Alex had worked for MI6, his favourite person there had been a man named Smithers. Smithers, who was fat and pink and resembled an overgrown baby, was, Alex decided, the British Government's greatest asset. Smithers' job was inventing things and he was very, very good at it. He particularly enjoyed inventing gadgets for Alex to use.

Alex looked down at the sunglasses and grinned. So far there hadn't been much need for sunglasses in Edinburgh. These sunglasses, however, contained a miniature camera and could also be switched to night vision. He was lucky that sunglasses were in fashion at the moment, whatever the weather. Alex didn't have much time for fashion, but he was impressed by how Smithers always seemed to know what was acceptable teenage gear and what was not.

'Have fun looking mysterious,' Smithers had written on his birthday card, and then followed that with a detailed list of operating instructions. Alex was glad he had a good memory: the card had exploded in flames thirty seconds after he had taken it out of the envelope. Alex had only just got it into the sink in time.

Into one of the rucksack pockets he slipped his set of skeleton keys. The Royal Scot was an old-fashioned hotel and hadn't yet introduced key cards for the bedrooms. Alex was confident that he'd be able to pick the lock. It was something he'd learned on his SAS training, though he'd never yet had to put it into practice.

He pulled on his coat and gloves and left the hotel.

BREAKING AND ENTERING

Alex was lucky. The talks were still going on in the meeting room as he slipped past on his way to the lifts. It wouldn't do to bump into Paul Drevin now, and it also meant Lanky would still be on duty and his hotel room would be empty. Or ought to be empty. Alex wasn't taking any chances.

As one of the grand old hotels of Edinburgh's New Town, the Royal Scot had once had an army of live-in staff. The sixth floor had evidently been their living quarters; the rooms were packed a little closer together here and the carpet was a nauseating floral pattern, unlike the understated smoky cream of the lower floors. Alex glanced left and right as he came out of the lift. The fire escape was at the far end of the corridor; that might be useful in an emergency. The corridor was deserted. He hurried to the door of room 616.

He knocked confidently on the door and waited. No reply. He knocked again. Anybody inside would have heard him by now, so either the room was empty or the person inside had very good reasons for not wanting to be disturbed. Hoping it was the former, Alex dropped to his knees and produced his picklocks. Eight seconds later the door to room 616 was open.

The room was impeccably tidy. The floor was spotless and the bed had a turned down counterpane and squared corners to the sheets that would have passed muster in the military. Alex ought to know: he had made and remade enough beds when training with the SAS.

In the corner by the window was a wall-mounted TV; underneath it was a desk, varnished in tired hotel brown like the rest of the furniture in the room. Beside the desk was a Samsonite briefcase. Alex pulled out the picklocks again.

There was a bottle of water inside the briefcase, a Gideon bible, and a grey leather document file, about half an inch thick. The initials JM were stamped on the front of the file in gold. Jason McVitie. Alex placed the file gently on the desk and opened it. He stroked the bridge of his sunglasses, activating the miniature camera, and got to work.

The file contained names and addresses of secondary schools and their position in last summer's Government league tables. Beside the name of each school a couple of other names had been pencilled in: 'Christina Freshman', 'Caroline Bingley', 'Abel Markowitz'. Alex guessed these were the names of potential candidates at each school for a place on Project 2002. The lists didn't seem to be in any kind of order. In some cases a photograph of the school had been included, in others a printout from Google maps.

He turned the pages over slowly, careful to keep them in the same order and not to dislodge any smaller, loose pieces of paper that might have been enclosed. He could see no sign that any security precautions had been taken: whoever the briefcase belonged to wasn't expecting a visit. Alex grinned. And then he turned over another page and his heart froze in his chest.

He would have recognised the photograph anywhere, even though it was a few months out of date. The new Science block was up and running now, after the Mayor's visit to re-open it only a few weeks ago. In the photograph there were only concrete foundations and the Portakabins of the construction crew, fenced off securely from the curious eyes of the pupils. It was his school. Brookland.

The name Mike Cook had been pencilled in beside the name of the Headmaster, Henry Bray. That made sense. If the school had a hard case, Mike Cook was it: he had started by extorting dinner money from the new Year 7s and graduated to bullying and smoking weed just around the corner from the school gates. If anyone at Brookland could benefit from project 2002 it was Mike Cook.

But Mike Cook's name had been crossed out. Next to it, in blue ink, someone had written in tiny meticulous writing, 'Tom Harris.' And next to that 'best friend of Alex Rider.'

Alex took a deep breath. He forced himself to count to ten, slowly, and then again. One...two...three. He photographed the page, twice, and then held it close to get a close-up. He might be able to identify the writing later. Then he placed the page gently face down on top of the others and resumed his task. Ten minutes later he had finished. He returned to the briefcase, putting it on top of the desk and running his hands over it. It didn't seem to have any secret compartments. He put the document case and its papers carefully back inside and placed the briefcase back on the floor, exactly as he had found it. Then he lay down and squinted under the bed.

Nothing. On the bedside table was a book: Alex picked it up and let the pages fall open, hoping something useful would fall out but all that fell out was a train ticket from King's Cross to Edinburgh. He wrinkled his nose and put it back. He patted the edges of each bed as SAS training had taught him and headed for the tiny ensuite bathroom. This had beige wall paint with brown tiles and towels. The overall effect was that of a cup of cold coffee. A quick but thorough search of the washbag revealed nothing of interest.

Alex stood in the centre of the room. He knew he should get out quickly but his intuition was screaming at him that he had missed something, and Alex had learned to trust his intuition. He glanced at his watch. If he didn't get back quickly there was a chance that Jack Starbright would knock on his door to say goodnight, and he didn't want her to find him missing. Whatever was going on - and something was definitely going on - it would have to wait.

But as he came out of the lift into the lobby, Holly Waldorf erupted from the lift beside him, screaming. Her candy pink nightgown and the palms of her hands were covered in blood.

Alex stepped quickly behind a huge aspidistra to assess the situation. From the lounge, three hotel staff in orange uniforms came running; two of them took hold of Holly and led her through a door marked Staff Only while the third talked frantically into a pager. In a few minutes, the manager on duty and the police would be on their way.

EXIT JASON McVITIE

Trying to appear casual, Alex strolled down the corridor and along to the stairs. Then he raced up to the third floor. He was in luck; Holly had left her bedroom door open.

Alex knew he had only a few seconds to act. Hurrying into the room, he pushed the door to with his gloved hand. A quick glance told him everything he needed to know. The bedroom was scattered with make-up and discarded clothes and instruments that looked to Alex like something to do with torture. He guessed they were probably for curling hair. A typical girl's room. But the ensuite -

Blood dripped from the pretty vinyl shower curtain and there was a huge crimson smear along the patterned tiles that surrounded the bath. Crumpled in the bathtub lay the body of a tall, thin man. The hand dangling over the side was paper white. It didn't take an expert to recognise Jason McVitie, but the security guard would never fidget again: a commando knife was buried in his back. From the blood trails running towards the plug hole it looked as if he had been stabbed in the front as well, but Alex didn't dare to turn the body over to find out. Instead, feeling a little ghoulish, he whipped out his sunglasses and took as many photographs as he dared.

A bell tinkled in the corridor. The lift was on its way. Alex turned on his heel and bolted.

ALL CHANGE

'Alex. ' Jack Starbright poked him in the arm. Alex looked up. She pushed a National Express sandwich across the table towards him, then took the plastic lid off her coffee cup. The train chose that moment to roll violently and coffee splashed across the table. Jack made a face and pulled out a packet of tissues.

'Don't know why I bother,' she muttered. 'British coffee is bad enough but British train coffee is really something.' She upended a packet of powdered creamer into the cup and stirred it with a sliver of white plastic. 'Talk to me, Alex.' Her voice was soft but Alex knew the tone too well to argue. He pulled off his headphones and closed his book.

'What about?'

Jack's look was direct.

Alex shrugged. 'I was going to wait till we got back to the flat.'

'You were going to tell me.'

'I was.' It was the truth. He didn't know what he would do without Jack and he hated withholding things from her.

Jack sighed. 'You've got yourself mixed up in something again. Don't ask me how I know. I know you, Alex. But for your information, you've been shaking your head and staring at the same page for the last fifteen minutes. What's on your mind?'

Alex glanced around the train. Teenagers shaking their heads in rhythm with their iPods, businessmen engrossed in their computers, a mother playing a game with a toddler and a stuffed otter - no one was paying any attention to him and Jack.

He shrugged. 'OK. Don't shout at me.'

The look on Jack's face told him everything he needed to know. As if.

SCHOOL DAZE

Back at school, time seemed to drag for Alex. The front pages of the tabloids were covered in photographs of Holly Waldorf, which surprised him until he bought one to read and discovered Jason McVite had been her bodyguard. He learned a lot about Holly's private life, but almost nothing about McVitie: the police seemed to have no clues and Alex got the impression the newspapers didn't care that much anyway. It was just an excuse to print pictures of Holly modelling her lingerie range. Alex threw the paper in the bin on the way home. He didn't want to explain to Jack Starbright why he had pictures of Holly in her underwear.

He understood now why McVitie had had a key card for Holly's room, but now why he had been so secretive about going in? A secret meeting, perhaps. But Holly had not left the meeting and McVitie would be unlikely to meet someone else in his employer's room. Alex also had no idea why the man had been stabbed. It had not been an attack on Holly, because the killer had not waited for Holly to arrive. Had Holly killed McVitie? It seemed unlikely. The more he thought about it, the more certain Alex became that the murder was connected with Project 2002. McVitie had found something out and someone had killed him to prevent him talking. But what had he found?

It had to be the lists. Alex had found the lists in McVitie's room. He was certain now that McVitie had obtained them by stealth, in which case the owner of the lists might have gone back to retrieve them. If only Alex had thought to go back and check!

At night, unable to sleep and frustrated by his inactivity, he tossed and turned. Why was Tom Harris on the list? And why did it say best friend of Alex Rider? How could Alex be connected with Project 2002? He scoured the Internet and the papers for updates on the project. A steady trickle of stories was appearing, but nothing about which schoolchildren would be chosen. Would Tom receive and invitation in the post? Would he be summoned to Mr. Bray's office? What if he forgot to mention it to Alex? Alex felt sick. His gut feeling told him something bad was going to happen to Tom, and he was powerless to prevent it.

He didn't say anything to Tom. Instead, he made a determined attempt to take part in lessons and get his homework done - after all, he reflected, it might be a long time before he would be able to attend school again. MI6 had broken promises to him before and Alex knew it would only be a matter of time before they did so again. Not only that, but if he needed to truant school to help Tom, Alex knew he would seize it without thinking twice, whatever trouble it brought him in the future.

A few days before the end of term, Tom approached him in the schoolyard. 'Got something to show you,' he said, and drew Alex into a corner. Something glittered in his closed hand.

'What's that?'

Tom glanced cautiously around before speaking. 'Look,' he said, and opened his hand. On his palm lay a tiny golden egg.

It was about the size of a Creme Egg, and looked as if it was made of solid gold. Alex knew it couldn't be, though, because of the way Tom was holding it. A solid gold egg would have weighed considerably more.

He frowned. 'Where on earth did you get that?'

Tom beamed. 'I got this, too.' With his other hand, he pulled a scrunched up piece of card from his trouser pocket and handed it to Alex.

His heart sinking, Alex unfolded it. It was just what he had feared: an invitation to the Project 2002 conference, on the kind of stiff cream parchment the school office used for reward certificates. It was personalised with Tom's name and address.

'I never get picked for anything,' Tom said happily. He scratched his forehead. 'Even you seem like you don’t fit in, and then it turns out you're a spy. Nothing like that ever happens to me.'

Alex bit his lip. 'That's brilliant, Tom,' he said, knowing that his friend would expect him to say something. 'When is it?'

'Three weeks time, in Edinburgh. '

'Cool.' Alex let the egg wobble gently in his palm. 'Not sure I get this, though.'

'It's an Easter egg.' Tom shook his head. 'Teacher humour,' he explained when Alex looked blank. 'Apparently it's some kind of surprise, like the Easter eggs in games. Our first challenge is to look after it and bring it with us.'

'Don't you have to get permission to go?' It was Alex's last hope. Tom's parents had recently split up and neither of them seemed to have much time for Tom. Maybe they would forget to sign the consent form.

Tom gave him a cunning look. 'They sent a load of stuff. I forged Dad's signature and sent it back first class.'

Alex feigned cheerfulness. 'Sounds like maybe you ought to have been the spy, not me.'

They were still laughing when the bell went and it was time for Geography.

--

The car missed Alex by inches as he whistled round the corner. Not the driver's fault: Alex had been so wrapped up in his problems that he'd forgotten to signal that he was turning. He dismounted and wheeled the bike home, the golden egg heavy in his pocket. Tom had been puzzled when Alex had asked to borrow it over the weekend, but he'd said agreed anyway. Alex's lips came together in a thin line. Tom was a good friend. He'd trusted Alex when it seemed like madness to do so, covered for Alex in more than one sticky situation and now Alex needed all his wits about him if he was to work out what was going on and why Tom was involved.

Friend of Alex Rider. He didn't want it to be an epitaph.

Back home he forced himself to eat dinner slowly and calmly and discuss his day with Jack as if nothing had happened, then settled down in the living room to finish his homework. Jack brought her book in and curled up on the sofa opposite; once or twice he saw her shoot a troubled look at him, but Alex pretended not to notice.

As soon as his homework was finished he packed his books neatly back into his bag and headed up to his bedroom. Shutting the door behind him, he pulled the egg out of his pocket and produced the jeweller's lens Smithers had given him.

There was a fine crack along the middle of the egg, narrower than a human hair. It ran from top to bottom as if the egg was supposed to split into two halves. Alex gave it a gentle shake. It wasn't solid, but it wasn't hollow either. Something rattled inside it. He didn't dare shake the egg any harder unless he broke whatever it was meant to hold.

Fetching a nail file, he ran it delicately along the crack, hoping to prise the egg apart. No luck. Alex shook his head. Tomorrow he would visit Smithers and call in a favour. Smithers would be able to X-ray the egg or something and together they would discover its secret.

HATCHED AND DESPATCHED?

Alex lay very still, instantly awake. Without moving his body, he let his eyes slide towards the digital clock on his bedside table. The luminous green letters blinked at him. 3.43 a.m.

Keeping his breathing regular, as if he were asleep, he listened. No sound came from outside the bedroom door, so whatever had wakened him hadn't been Jack Starbright. It was something inside the room.

From his jeans pocket came a whirring sound. At once, Alex relaxed. He had forgotten to switch off his mobile phone. Wondering what idiot was sending him a text in the middle of the night, he sat up in bed and swung his legs out from under the duvet.

From the chest of drawers came a sharp click. Something glinted in the darkness. Alex froze. And the a second whirring began, a soft vibrating sound as if a miniature helicopter was rising into the air. Alex switched on his bedside light.

He stared across the room in mingled disbelief and horror. The two halves of the golden egg had fallen open and flying through the air towards him was what looked like an enormous insect. It homed in on him unerringly.

Suddenly conscious of his bare arms and legs, Alex jumped to his feet, pulling the duvet around him. The creature came closer. It was a nanocreature, he realised, a miniature of a Death's Head moth and perfect in every detail. The 'eyes' were infrared sensors, tuned to his body temperature, which could track him wherever he went. There was no way to hide.

And if he opened the door - Alex shuddered. Better to contain it in the room. With him.

The moth dived, stabbing at his arm with a tiny glass proboscis. Clear fluid spurted across the duvet. Alex bit back a cry of alarm and jumped back, knocking a mug of water from the bedside table. Without thinking, he grabbed the mug and used it like a cricket bat, aiming for the creature. It wheeled high up into the corner of the room, circling. Alex used the time to pick his school jumper off the floor and wrap it around his shoulders.

The robot buzzed again, almost angrily. Its wings blurred as it dived. Alex stood his ground, waiting. He had to time this exactly right, or he was going to find out the hard way what the clear fluid was.

He needn't have worried. As the insect came in for the kill, Alex stepped back, allowing it to overshoot. The creature slowed down for the turn - and Alex clapped his mug over it, trapping it against the bedroom wall.

Gingerly, he slid the mug down the wall until it was standing on the carpet. The artificial insect buzzed and banged against the china. Alex knew he would never feel safe drinking from that mug again, no matter how many times Jack ran it through the dishwasher. He pulled the heaviest textbook he could find from the bookcase and dumped it on top of the mug for good measure, then got dressed, ensuring no part of him remained exposed. Something hard bumped against his thigh and he pulled out his mobile phone. As he flipped up the lid, it began to vibrate in his hand. One new text message. It had better be something important.

Thinking of buying a yacht? Alex stared at his phone in disbelief. We've got together with Lighthouse Savings to come up with the best deals ever for you!

Alex flipped the lid down, breathing deeply. Penalty or no penalty, he was changing his provider.

He sat on the bed for a long time, thinking and watching the mug on the floor. Finally, as the first fingers of grey began to slip through the cracks in the curtain, he slid from the bed and sent a text message. At the same moment there came a small pouf from the floor and the acrid smell of burning plastic reached Alex's nostrils. Donning his hockey goalie gloves, he raised the mug.

A tangled heap of scorched plastic and ruined circuitry met his eyes. On his bedroom carpet - brand new at Christmas - was a round burn mark as if someone had stabbed a cigarette into the pile. Alex sighed. Why did his life have to be so complicated?

DRY, ROASTED

'Peanut essence.' Smithers nodded as he spoke, as if the words in some mysterious way pleased him. 'Though I've never seen it so concentrated before.' He added thoughtfully, 'I didn't know you were allergic to peanuts.'

'As far as I know, I'm not allergic to anything.' Alex shook his head.

'Odd.' Smithers frowned.

'It wasn't meant for me,' Alex said. His tone was mild but he was beginning to get angry. He sipped his Coke, forcing himself to calm down.

'Ah.' Smithers picked up the remains of the robot assassin and held it up to the light. 'This is beautiful. Really beautiful. What a waste. Ultrasonic trigger, keyed to a certain frequency, and set to self-destruct when the payload is delivered. '

Alex nodded. He had worked that much out for himself.

Smithers turned the moth over in his hand. 'Made in America, I should think,' he mused. 'Yes, definitely, I should say so. There was a chap at M.I.T - never mind. Sheer bad luck on their part about your phone. What an elegant idea.' With his free hand he picked up a pencil and scribbled some hieroglyphics on a memo pad. Alex stared at the bubbles in his Coke and wondered how he could have been friends with Tom Harris for four years and yet never have been interested enough to know that Tom was allergic to peanuts.

'Did you have a chance to look at that other thing?' Alex asked when it looked as if Smithers had completely forgotten than Alex was still there.

'Oh, yes. No problem.' Still sketching, Smithers nodded at a manila folder resting precariously on a chair. 'Take it with you. Everything's in there.'

BACK TO THE FUTURE

The train to Prestonpans departed from platform 4, and Alex seemed to be the only passenger that day. bitter Scottish wind appeared to have dropped, but the persistent drizzle had worked its way inside the collar of his overcoat and seemed to be rolling down his back in itchy, ice-cold drops. Alex wriggled. In his rucksack was the manila folder; he had digested its contents on the train up from London and he was now pretty sure he understood what had been going on. His lips tightened and he pressed his face to the window, watching the featureless flat landscape, broken only by identical white houses, rattle by. Lost in thought, he ate a sandwich without tasting it. Unable to face a second one, he stuffed the uneaten sandwich into his pocket. Maybe he would be hungry later. He doubted it.

The conference centre was a few miles out of town. Alex had planned his journey carefully; a taxi waited for him at the station exit. Outside a pub a mile from the centre he paid off the driver and waited in a nearby bus stop, checking his watch and looking around until the cab had disappeared. He didn't want anyone to associate him with the centre. As soon as the taxi was out of sight, he set off at a brisk march. Fifteen minutes later he was looking at his destination.

'Prestonpans Jacobite Conference Centre,' a huge white sign greeted him. 'Welcome to the future.' A solitary car was parked in the car park. It looked like the kind of car a headmaster might drive. Alex walked past the entrance, with its unmanned security checkpoint, and round the whole perimeter of the site so that he could get his bearings. As well as the car park in front, there was a second, smaller car park at the rear - probably, Alex thought, for the people who worked there. The delivery entrance looked promising. There would be no difficulty reaching it: the whole site was ringed by a low, white-topped brick wall.

Vaulting over the wall, Alex skirted outbuildings until he was standing outside the delivery entrance. As he had hoped, it was ajar. With workers busy preparing the site for Project 2002, there was almost certainly a supervisor around somewhere, and in Alex's experience, supervisors left doors open. Looking left and right, he slipped through the door and pulled it to behind him.

He prowled the deserted meeting rooms on the ground floor, their flipcharts still posed for a conference that Alex now knew would never happen. His trainers made no noise as he scaled a set of smart hardwood stairs to a stunning steel-and-glass mezzanine which looked out over a dreary housing estate. Looking right and left he could see a sweep of doors, all closed. Head or tails? Alex shrugged and turned left. In the room at the end he found what he was looking for.

The chairs in this room had been set out in a horseshoe, with a flipchart stacked in the corner of a blank wall. Tables had been pulled to one side to clear the room. And on the tables -

Alex halted noiselessly in the doorway.

Six or seven of the golden eggs lay on a table, glittering in the sunlight. Alex knew he had never seen anything so beautiful or so deadly. Despite himself, he crossed the room and stared down at them. Disturbed, perhaps, by his footsteps on the carpet, one rolled towards him and he lunged out to stop it falling to the floor. It nestled in his hand.

Smithers will love this, Alex thought. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wrap the egg.

'You!'

Alex froze. It was a voice he had heard a thousand times on the corridors at school, although the speakers had varied. It was the voice of someone who believed themselves utterly in control of the situation. The voice of authority.

Alex dropped the egg into the pocket of his jeans and turned.

'What are you doing her, boy?' Mortimore Furlong demanded. Any pretext of a generous gentle benefactor had vanished, Alex saw. The eyes fixed on him were the eyes of a madman.

'Hello, Mr. Furlong,' Alex said cheerfully. 'I thought I'd come and see how things were coming along.'

'I knew you were trouble.' Furlong scowled. 'But you're not going to be a problem for very much longer, I'm afraid.'

Alex nodded. 'My train is in twenty minutes,' he agreed. 'Otherwise I'll miss my connection in Edinburgh Waverley. It's been lovely meeting you again -'

'You can stop right there.' The headmaster took his hand from his trouser pocket. He was holding something in his fist, but Alex couldn't see what it was.

He smiled again, playing for time. 'Rock, paper, scissors? Great. One -'

Furlong opened his hand. One thumb rested on the button of a tiny remote control.

'One of my eggs is missing.'

Alex shrugged. 'Don't look at me. I'm no chicken.'

'If you were in my school,' Furlong snarled, 'I'd have given you the belt for cheek.'

Alex felt his cheeks grow hot with fury. 'You'd probably have enjoyed it, too. But the belt's banned now, Mr. Furlong. You've been away too long.'

Furlong smiled a dreadful smile. Alex felt a chill run down his spine. What did his enemy know that he had missed?

'In your pocket,' Furlong said, in a tone of deep satisfaction, 'is a tiny, but very effective bomb. We've had tremendous fun developing these. When I press this button...' He didn't need to go into detail. Then he smiled again. 'But first, I'm going to tell you why.'

Alex yawned. 'Don't bother. You're boring me already.' But Furlong was not listening. He walked across to the window at the far side of the room and half-turned, so that he could look out and keep an eye on Alex at the same time.

'Do you know,' he said in a soft voice, 'how long I was a teacher? Thirty-eight years. Thirty-eight years. All that time, trying to get kids through exams, raise targets, follow Government initiatives. Breakfast clubs, homework clubs, day trips to Alton Towers, mountain bikes for good attendance - and do you know what?' He whirled round. Drops of spittle flew from his mouth. 'They don't bloody turn up! Half my budget every year, wasted on kids who couldn't get out of bed even if you paid them. It stinks. The whole system stinks.' A curious glint appeared in his eyes. 'So I decided to do something about it.'

Alex yawned again. He stuck his hands in his pockets and dropped into a slouch.

'Stand up straight,' Furlong said at once. Alex concealed a grin. He'd met teachers like this before.

'One child in every school.' Furlong's eyes were distant as he stared out of the window. 'Just one, but what a difference it will make. We've done our research. In six months time, the worst child in every secondary school in the country will be nothing more than a memory.'

'Those eggs you sent -'

'Keyed to individual allergies. They've all got allergies, of course - bad parenting and poor nutrition will do that to a child. The head teachers were so keen to send us medical details. It's almost fashionable to have allergies these days.' He smiled to himself. 'And I'll be long gone. I rather fancy Peru. What do you think of Peru?'

'I think you must have been an awful teacher,' Alex said.

No one had ever said those words to Mortimore Furlong before. He took a step sideways as if knocked physically off balance. 'What?'

'You said it yourself.' Alex couldn't remember ever having been so angry. 'Junk food and parents who didn't know what to do. Didn't it ever occur to you that these kids needed your help?' Between his fingers, he gripped the golden egg, ready to throw.

'You disgraceful child! How dare you speak to me like that!' As Furlong's fingers pressed down on the button, Alex lobbed the egg behind the flipchart, then dived forward, rolling across the ground and covering his eyes. He wasn't sure what would happen to the eggs on the table behind him

There was a pop behind Alex, just as the egg exploded in the far corner and the flipchart burst into flames. Alex straightened up and took his hands from his eyes.

Something had happened to Mortimore Furlong. He had one hand across the lapel of his tweed jacket, the fingers outspread as if he was trying to hold something down. Between his fingers seeped something dark and red. His mouth gaped open and closed, like a fish. Alex felt his heart leap into his throat. At once he was back on that pavement outside the bank in London, feeling the warmth flow from his body into the cold, cold stone of the pavement. Hardly daring to move, he watched Furlong stagger and fall forward. Only then did Alex look round, to the boy who was standing in the doorway.

'Alex -' Paul Drevin's hand shook as it clutched the gun.

'It's OK, Paul.' Alex spoke with a confidence he did not feel. He was thinking quickly. 'I'll take the gun. It's OK.'

Paul glanced down at the gun and then up at Alex. In that instant, a new expression had come into his eyes.

'No,' he said. His hand was no longer shaking. 'No. I think I'll keep it.' He raised the gun and pointed it directly at Alex. 'Don't move.'

Alex sighed. 'If you're hoping to shock me, I guessed a long time ago.'

Paul scowled. 'I don't believe you.'

'Believe what you like. I can't say I care.' Alex shrugged. 'But why would Furlong pick on my best friend? That had to be someone I already knew. And the only person I know here - is you.'

All trace of the friendly, laughing boy Alex had once known had gone. 'I don't much care if you found out,' Paul told him. 'Did you think I wouldn't want revenge? You killed my father.'

'Your father -'

'He was everything you're going to say he was. Did you think I didn't know that? But he was still my father and I loved him. And you - you came along and took it all away.' The gun was pointing straight at Alex's heart and Paul's finger was whitening on the trigger. Alex almost stopped breathing. 'It's hard to get revenge on someone who hasn't got anything,' Paul continued. 'But I hired a detective and he told me about Tom Harris. So I'm going to take Tom away from you.'

'You're too late.' Alex met Paul's gaze squarely. 'I took the egg off him and got rid of it. It was a clever idea, though. Was it yours?' Deep in his pocket, Alex's hand closed around something soft and squidgy.

Paul nodded. 'The only good thing that ever came from my allergies.' His voice was filled with grim satisfaction. 'It doesn't matter. When I've finished here, I'll go after him again. You'll die knowing that. And you'll know it was all your fault.'

'You killed Lanky.' Alex was thinking quickly.

Paul 's smile chilled him to the bone. 'Holly's not as stupid as she looks. She hired him to check us out. I thought he didn't look like a proper bodyguard.' He glanced down at his hands. 'I heard them arrange a meeting. I knew he'd be waiting in her room. It was easy. I stabbed him in the back as he was walking away and he fell into the bath. Then I did it again, turned him over, and put the knife back. Nobody would expect that from me.'

'It gave Holly a fright. Did you need to do that?'

'I asked her out. Serves her right for turning me down.'

'You're right,' Alex agreed. 'She's definitely not as stupid as she looks.'

'I'm going to kill you for that.' Paul raised the gun.

'You could at least let me finish my lunch.' Alex's voice was plaintive. He pulled a squashed white triangle from his pocket. 'Want some?

'What have you got there?'

'Peanut butter.' The sandwich struck Paul Drevin between the eyes. As his hand went up to his face, his finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger and the gun fired. At the same time Alex launched himself into the air, twisting as he jumped. He felt the heat of the bullet as it whistled past his side and then he was rolling with Paul on the floor. His hand came down on something hard and metallic. The gun. Alex hurled it into a corner in disgust.

'Get it off me - get - it - off - 'Paul was wheezing already and hives were erupting on his flushed face. There was terror in his eyes.

Alex wiped peanut butter from the other boy's eyes, then rolled him over. He'd had first aid training with the SAS and he knew how to deal with anaphylactic shock. He just wasn't used to causing it. 'Where's your epipen?'

Paul nodded. 'Pocket -' Alex grabbed the stubby grey pen. Holding both Paul's wrists in his left hand, he pulled off the cap with his teeth and stabbed through Paul's Armani trousers until he heard the click. Counting to ten, he discarded the pen and pulled out his mobile phone.

'Emergency services,' said a chirpy female voice. 'Fire, police or ambulance?'

'Um,' Alex said. 'He considered the flipchart, still merrily burning in the corner, the gasping boy beneath him and the pistol somewhere on the other side of the room. 'I think you'd better send all three.'

Epilogue

It was a gorgeous evening in Edinburgh: the nicest Alex had seen, though that wasn't saying much. The sun was beginning to dip behind the tall stone houses and there was a still a hint of warmth in the twilight air. Alex and Jack Starbright sat at the rooftop bar of their hotel and smiled at each other.

'Cheers,' Alex said. He raised his glass. The ice in his Coke clinked as he knocked it against Jack's coffee cup.

'Cheers.' Jack made a face. 'Ugh, why do I never learn?'

Alex signalled to the bartender. 'Try a whisky instead. It is Scotland after all.'

'Great idea.'

They were silent for a minute or two, as the waiter fixed Jack an Islay single malt. Alex gave her an enquiring look. She nodded. 'Better than the coffee. So, it's all over then?' Alex nodded. 'Good. I've brought your Chemistry homework: you can do it on the train.' She picked up her whiskey and stared into it thoughtfully. 'I can't help feeling sorry for Paul Drevin. If someone had been there for him -'

'Like you are for me?' Alex interrupted. Jack gave him a startled look, and nodded.

'His dad, do you think?' she said slowly. 'Why do people turn out the way they do?'

'I don't know.' Alex gave her a mischievous grin. 'I think he just went a little nuts.'

END