Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [109]
“Mr. Blunt . . . please, take a seat.”
The prime minister wasn’t happy, and it showed. Like all politicians, he didn’t entirely trust his spy masters and he certainly didn’t want one sitting opposite him now. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been in power very long. It was certainly too soon for his first international crisis. There were two men sitting with him, one on each side. They were trying to look relaxed, as if they just happened to be passing and had decided to pop in for the meeting.
“I don’t think you’ve met Simon Ellis,” the prime minister said, nodding at the fair-haired, rather plump man on his left. “And this is Charles Blackmore.” The other man was also young, though with prematurely gray hair. “I thought it might be helpful if they joined us.”
Blunt hadn’t met either of them, but of course he knew everything about them. They had both been at Winchester College with the prime minister. Ellis was now a junior civil servant in the Treasury. Blackmore had left a career in television to become director of strategy and communications. The two men loathed each other. The prime minister didn’t know this. They were also loathed by almost everyone else.
“Well . . . ,” the prime minister began. He licked his lips. “I’ve read your report on the situation in Kenya and it does seem to be very alarming. But the first question I really do have to ask you is—why did your agent feel it necessary to send his information via the Indian secret service?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Blunt replied. “We only know what you know, Prime Minister. It’s all in the file. Our agent was kidnapped and smuggled out of the country against his will. Somehow he must have managed to break free and fell in with an agent from RAW.”
“Research and Analysis Wing,” Blackmore muttered helpfully.
“We have no idea what RAW was doing in Kenya, and so far they’ve refused to tell us. I’m afraid foreign intelligence agencies are always overcautious when it comes to protecting their own. But if I may say so, Prime Minister, it’s completely irrelevant. What matters is the report itself and the very serious threat it contains.”
The prime minister picked up a sheet of paper that had been lying in front of him. “This was sent by e-mail,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And it suggests that this man, Desmond McCain, is engaged in a plot to poison the wheat crop in Kenya for his own financial gain.”
Blunt blinked heavily. “I’m glad you had time to read it,” he muttered.
The prime minister ignored the rudeness. He put the paper down. “What makes you believe this information is reliable?” he asked.
“We have absolutely no reason to doubt it.”
“And yet I understand that this agent of yours, the one who sent the report—which, incidentally, has no fewer than three spelling mistakes—is only fourteen years old.”
There was a long pause. The two advisers glanced at the prime minister, urging him on.
“Alex Rider. Is that his name?” the prime minister asked.
“He’s never let us down in the past,” Mrs. Jones cut in. She was carrying a slim leather case, which she opened. She took out a thin file marked TOP SECRET in red letters and handed it across. “These are the details of just four of the assignments he’s undertaken on our behalf,” she continued. “The most recent of them was in Australia.”
“Shouldn’t he be in school?”
“He called in sick.”
“Let me have a look . . .” The prime minister opened the file and read it in silence. “You certainly seem to have a very high opinion of him,” he remarked. “And let’s say for the sake of argument that it’s justified. Let’s assume that everything that he has told you is true—”
“Then by four o’clock this evening, the wheat field will have been activated,