Scorpia (28 page)

It was the signal for the Scorpia men to show themselves. Suddenly the SAS team found themselves under fire from both sides as a blazing torrent of bullets erupted from the abandoned shops. Somebody threw a grenade. A huge ball of flame and shattered concrete ripped through the air. One of the men was sent flying, his arms and legs limp. He crashed to the ground and lay still.

The SAS hadn’t been expecting a war, but in seconds they found themselves in the middle of one. They were outnumbered. The church was seemingly impregnable. The balloon was still rising.

One of the soldiers had dropped to his knee and was talking furiously into his radio transmitter.

“This is Delta One Three. We have engaged the enemy and are coming under heavy fire. We need immediate back-up. Urgent. Satellite dishes have been located. Request immediate air strike to take them out fast. They are being carried by hot-air balloon over the target area. Repeat, they are in a balloon. We cannot reach them. An air strike must respond … condition red. Over.”

The message was relayed instantly to Headquarters Strike Command at RAF High Wycombe, thirty miles outside London. It took them a few precious seconds to understand what they were being told, and a few more precious seconds to believe it. But in less than a minute, two Tornado
GR4 fighter jets were taxiing towards the main runway. Each plane was equipped with Paveway II general-purpose bombs with built-in laser guidance systems and movable tail fins. The pilots were fully trained in low altitude precision attacks. Flying at just over seven hundred miles per hour, they would reach the church in less than five minutes. They would blast the balloon out of the sky.

That was the plan.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have five minutes. This was the first real test for the Joint Rapid Reaction Force that had been created to tackle any major terrorist alert. But everything had happened too quickly. Scorpia had left it to the very last moment before revealing their hand.

By the time the planes got there, it would be too late.

Alex Rider pulled himself up the rope, one hand over the other, keeping a loop between his feet. He had done the same often enough in the school gym, but – he had no need to remind himself – this wasn’t quite the same.

For a start, even when he stopped to rest, he still went up. The balloon was rising steadily. The hot air inside the envelope weighed twenty-one grams per cubic foot. The cooler air of the London sky weighed roughly twenty-eight grams per cubic foot. This was the simple arithmetic that made the balloon fly. And that was exactly what Alex was
doing. If he had looked down, he would have seen the ground fifty metres below. He didn’t look down. That was something else that was different from a school gym. If he fell from this height, he would die.

But the platform was less than ten metres above him. He could see the great rectangle, blocking out the sky. Above it the burner was still blazing, shooting a tongue of flame into the bulging blue and white envelope. Alex’s shoulders and arms were aching. Worse than that, every movement sent pain shuddering through his bones. His wrists felt as if they were being torn apart. He heard another explosion and a sustained burst of machine-gun fire. He wondered if the SAS were shooting at him. If they had seen the balloon – and they must have – they would want to bring it down, no matter what the cost. What did his own life matter compared with the thousands who would die if the dishes reached one hundred metres?

The thought gave him new strength. If a stray bullet caught him while he was dangling from the rope, he would fall. For more than one reason he needed to be on that platform. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up.

Sixty-five metres, sixty-six… The balloon was unstoppable. But the distance between Alex and his goal was shortening. There was a third explosion and he risked a glance down. Almost at once he wished he hadn’t. The ground was a long way
below. The SAS men were the size of toy soldiers. He could see them taking up their positions in the street that led to the church, preparing to storm the front entrance. Scorpia’s men were in the derelict shops on either side. The explosion that Alex had just heard must have come from a hand grenade.

But the battle meant nothing to him. He had seen something else that filled him with dread. A man was climbing the other rope and there could be no mistaking the white blotches on his face. It was Nile. He was moving slowly, as if out of breath. Alex was surprised by that. He knew how fit and strong Nile was. He could almost see the muscles rippling beneath the man’s shirt as he reached up with one hand. He had to disable the dishes – permanently – before Nile arrived. After that, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Something struck his hand and he cried out. Alex had still been climbing, even with his eyes fixed on Nile – and he hadn’t seen that he had at last reached the platform. He had hit his knuckles against the edge of one of the dishes. For a moment he wondered if he could reach out and pull the bloody thing off. Let it fall and smash somewhere below. But he could see at once that the dishes were well secured with metal braces. He would have to find another way.

And first, that meant climbing onto the platform itself. This wasn’t going to be easy – and yet he
had to move quickly, giving himself as much time as possible before Nile caught up with him.

He leant backwards and let go of the rope with one hand. His stomach lurched and he thought he was going to fall. But then he lunged and grabbed hold of the edge of the railing that ran all the way around the platform. With a last effort, he heaved himself up and over, toppling down the other side. He landed awkwardly, banging his knee on the edge of a propane gas cylinder. He let the pain ripple through him as he tried to work out what to do.

He examined the balloon.

There were two propane tanks feeding the burner less than a metre above his head. Thick black tubes made of rubber or plastic connected them, and Alex wondered if he could unfasten them and make the flame go out. Would the balloon sink? Or would there be enough hot air in the envelope to keep it rising?

He examined the metal boxes that sat, like a complicated stereo system, in the centre of the platform. One box obviously controlled each dish. There was a tangled network of cables joining them all together. Each box had a single, blinking light – currently yellow. The power was on. The dishes were primed. But the terahertz beams hadn’t yet been activated. The fifth box was some sort of master control. It had a window set into the surface, a digital read-out. Seventy-seven … seventy-eight …
seventy-nine … Alex watched as the altitude was measured and the balloon moved ever nearer to the point of detonation.

And suddenly he had the answer. Disconnect the dishes. Do it before the platform reached one hundred metres. Do it before Nile arrived. How much time did he have? Very briefly he considered somehow unfastening the rope that Nile was climbing. But even if it was possible, he would never be able to bring himself to do it, to kill someone in such a cold-blooded way. Anyway, it would take too long. No. The four twinkling lights were his targets. Somehow he had to turn them off.

He got unsteadily to his feet and took a small step, the platform swaying slightly beneath him. For a moment he was afraid. Was the platform even designed to hold his weight? Move too fast and it might tip up and throw him off. He grimaced and edged forward. Apart from the hiss of the gas feeding the flame, the hot-air balloon was absolutely silent. Somewhere inside him, Alex wished he could simply sit back and enjoy the ride. The majestic envelope, soaring into the sky. The views of London. But he had perhaps less than a minute before Nile got there. And how long until the balloon reached the right height?

Eighty-three … eighty-four…

God. It was like being back in Murmansk again. Another digital counter, though that one had been going down, not up, and it had been attached to a
nuclear bomb. Why him? Alex fell to his knees and reached out for the first of the cables.

He quickly examined it. It was thick, attached to the master control by a solid-looking socket. He tried unscrewing it but it didn’t budge. He would have to tear it out, and in such a way that it would be impossible to reconnect. His hand closed around the cable and he pulled with all his might. Nothing happened. The connections were too strong: metal screwed into metal. And the cables themselves were too thick. He needed a knife or a pair of scissors; he had nothing.

Alex leant back and pressed his foot against the metal box. He strained, still gripping the cable, using his whole body weight. The balloon was still rising. A wisp of cloud slid past – or maybe it was smoke from the fight below. Alex swore through gritted teeth, his entire consciousness focused on the cable and its connection.

And suddenly it came free. Alex felt the cable tear. He fell back, his head slamming into the platform railing. Ignoring the new pain, he dragged himself back up. He could see the separate ends – the severed wires – sprouting out of his hands. There were deep welts in his palms, and he had hurt his head. But when he looked, he saw that one of the yellow lights had blinked out. One of the dishes was no longer functioning.

Ninety-three … ninety-four…

There were three left. And Alex knew he didn’t
have enough time to disconnect them all.

Even so, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the second. What else could he do? Once again he pressed the flats of his feet against the side of the box. He took a deep breath …

… and something flashed in the corner of his eye. Instinctively Alex threw himself sideways. The samurai sword, half a metre long, sliced the air so close to his face that he felt it. He realized that it had been aimed at his throat. But for the sun reflecting off the blade, he would have been killed.

Nile had reached the platform. He was standing in the corner, holding the railing. There had been two swords strapped to his back – he had thrown only one of them. Now he reached for the other. Alex was lying flat. He couldn’t move. There wasn’t enough room to do anything. He was an easy target, wedged between the metal boxes and the side of the platform. Above him the flame burned, carrying the balloon the last few metres.

Ninety-seven … ninety-eight … ninety-nine …

The digital display flickered to the final figure. There was a buzzing sound inside the master control and the lights on the three remaining connected boxes changed from yellow to red. The system had been activated. Terahertz signals were being beamed all over London.

Alex knew that inside him, in his very heart, the golden nanoshells had begun to break up.

Nile unsheathed the second sword.

* * *

Inside the church Mrs Rothman was beginning to realize that the battle was lost. Her men had fought well and they outnumbered the enemy – but they were simply outclassed. There had been many casualties and two more SAS units had arrived, providing back-up for the first.

She could see the fighting outside. Everything was being relayed to her by a series of hidden cameras. It was right in front of her on the television monitors, one for every angle. The street had been torn apart. A wounded SAS man was being dragged away by two of his comrades, dust and debris leaping up as the surface was strafed by enemy fire. More soldiers were moving from doorway to doorway, lobbing grenades through the windows behind them. This was the sort of fighting the SAS had experienced in Northern Ireland and the Middle East.

The whole area had been cordoned off. Police cars had moved in from every direction. They couldn’t be seen but their sirens filled the air. This was London. It was nearing the end of a working day. It was impossible to believe that something like this could really be happening here.

There was another explosion – closer this time. Thick smoke billowed over the open dome and paintwork rained down, flaking off the walls. Most of the Scorpia men had abandoned their positions, preferring to take their chances outside. A guard ran up to Mrs Rothman, blood streaking his face.

“They’re inside the church,” he rasped. “We’re finished. I’m leaving.”

“You’ll stay at your post!” Mrs Rothman snapped.

“To hell with that.” The guard spat and swore. “Everyone’s going. We’re all getting out of here.”

Mrs Rothman looked nervous, afraid of being left on her own. “Please, let me have your gun,” she begged.

“Sure. Why not?” The guard handed his weapon to her.

“Thank you,” she said, and shot him with a single, short burst.

She watched the man go sprawling, then went over to the monitors. The SAS were in the outer chamber. She could see them laying plastic explosives against the fake brick wall. It was hard to be sure, but she fancied they would need rather more explosive than they were using. She had designed the wall herself and it was solid steel. Even so, they would get through it eventually. They would not relent.

She glanced up at the balloon, now straining at the one remaining rope, a hundred metres above London. She knew it had reached the correct height – the equipment inside the church had told her this. In just another minute or so it would all be over. She thought of Alex Rider somewhere up above. All in all, it had been a mistake bringing him here. Why had she? To see him die, of course. She hadn’t been there when John Rider had died
and she wanted to make up for it. Miss the father; catch the son. That was why she had risked everything to bring Alex to the church, and she knew the other members of the executive board of Scorpia would be less than pleased. But it didn’t matter. The operation would succeed. The SAS were too late.

A huge explosion. The whole church shook. Three of the largest organ pipes keeled over and came crashing down. Brick and plaster fragments hung in the air. Half the television monitors went black. But the steel wall held. She had been right about that.

She threw the machine gun down and hurried to a door almost invisible in the wall of a side chapel. It was lucky that Mrs Rothman was the sort of person who prepared for every eventuality – including the need to slip out without being seen.

The guard she had killed had been right. It was definitely time to go.