Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [16]
“My father? You’ve got it all wrong—”
The man moved incredibly quickly. He stood up and lashed out, hitting the side of Alex’s head with the back of his hand. Alex snapped back, more startled than hurt. “Don’t interrupt!” Kaspar commanded. “Your father made his fortune from oil. His pipelines have scarred three continents. And now, not content with damaging the earth, he is turning his attention to outer space. Four species of wild birds have been made extinct by the launch of his rockets from the Caribbean. Apes and chimpanzees have been the unwilling victims of his test flights. He is an enemy of mankind and has therefore become a legitimate target of Force Three.”
Kaspar sat down again.
“There are those who think of us as criminals,” he went on. “But it is your father who is the real criminal, and he has forced us to act the way we do. Now we have decided to make him pay. He will give us one million pounds for your safe return. This money will be used to continue our struggle to protect the planet. If he refuses, he will never see you again.
“That is why you were taken from St Dominic’s last night. You will remain with us until the ransom has been paid. I do not personally wish to harm you, Paul, but we have to prove to your father that we have you. We must send him a message that he cannot ignore. And I’m afraid that will demand a small sacrifice from you.”
Alex tried to speak but his head was reeling. It was all happening too fast. Before he could react, his right arm was seized from behind. Combat Jacket had crept up on him while Kaspar had been talking. Alex tried to resist, but the man was too strong. The cuff of his shirt was ripped open and the sleeve pulled back. Then his hand was forced down on the table and his fingers spread out one by one. There was nothing he could do. Combat Jacket was holding him so tightly, his fingers were turning white. Silver Tooth approached from the other side. He had taken out his knife. He handed it to Kaspar.
“We could send your father a photograph,” Kaspar explained. “But what would that achieve? He will know by now that you have been taken by force. There are stronger ways of making our demands known, ways that he may find more persuasive.” He lifted the knife close to his chin, as if about to shave. The blade was fifteen centimetres long with a serrated edge. He examined his reflection in the steel. “We could send him a lock of your hair. He would, I’m sure, recognize it as yours. But then, he might take it as a sign of weakness – of compassion – on our part.
“And so I apologize, Paul Drevin. It gives me no pleasure to hurt a child, even a wealthy, spoilt child such as yourself. But what I intend to send your father is a finger from your right hand…”
Automatically Alex tried to pull back. But Combat Jacket had been expecting it. His full weight pressed down on Alex’s hand. His fingers were splayed, helpless, on the table.
“The pain will be great. But there are children all over the world who have only ever known pain and starvation, while boys like you languish in the playground of the rich. Do you play the piano, Paul? I hope not. It will not be so easy after today.”
He reached out and grabbed Alex’s little finger. That was the one he had chosen. The knife began its journey down.
“I’m not Paul Drevin!” Alex spat out the words urgently. His eyes had widened. He could feel the blood draining from his face. The knife was still moving. “You’ve made a mistake!” he insisted. “My name is Alex Rider. I was in room nine. I don’t know anything about Paul Drevin.”
The knife stopped. It was millimetres above his little finger.
“Do it!” Combat Jacket hissed.
“I was awake last night,” Alex insisted. The words came tumbling out. “I was coming back