Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [37]
“Are you okay?” Jack asked. She could see what was going on in his head.
Alex pulled himself together. “It feels strange, being back.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Yes. Let’s get it over with.”
They stopped in front of a tall, classical building that would have been just as much at home in New York but for the Union Jack that hung limply from a pole jutting out of the sixteenth floor. A set of rotating doors invited them in, and set in the wall to one side a brass plaque read, ROYAL & GENERAL BANK PLC. LONDON.
Strangely, the bank was fully operational, with loan desks, cash machines, tellers, and clients, and Alex wondered how many people must have accounts here without knowing what the real purpose of the building was. The entire place belonged to the Special Operations Division of MI6. The bank was nothing more than a cover. And for that matter, how many men and women would come out of those doors, never to return? Alex’s uncle had been one of them, dying for queen and country or whatever else motivated them. What difference did it make once you were dead?
“Alex?” Jack was watching him anxiously, and he realized that, despite what he had just said, he hadn’t moved. “The lion’s den,” she muttered.
“That’s what it feels like.”
“Come on . . .”
They went in.
The doors spun them from the cold reality of the city to the warmth and deception of a world where nothing was ever what it seemed. They were in a reception area with a row of elevators, a marble floor, half a dozen clocks—each one showing the time in a different country—and the inevitable potted plants. But there would be hidden cameras too. Their images would already be on the way to a central computer equipped with face-recognition software. And the two receptionists, both female and pretty, would know exactly who they were before they said a word.
One of them looked up as they approached. “Can I help you?”
“We have an appointment with Mrs. Jones.”
“Of course. Please take a seat.”
It was all so normal. Alex and Jack took their place on a leather sofa with a scattering of financial magazines on the table in front of them. Alex had come straight from school, so he was still in his uniform. He wondered what he must look like to passersby. A rich kid, perhaps, opening his first account.
A few minutes later, one of the elevators opened and a dark-haired woman in a black suit stepped out. As usual, she wore very little jewelry, just a simple silver chain around her neck. This was Mrs. Jones, the deputy head of Special Operations and the second most important person in the building. Despite the impact that she’d had on his life, Alex knew very little about her. She lived in an apartment in Clerkenwell, near the old meat market. She might have been married once. She had two children, but something had happened to them and they were no longer around. And that was it. If she’d ever had a private life, she’d left it behind her when she became a spy—and the spy was all that was left.
“Good afternoon, Alex.” She didn’t exactly seem pleased to see him. Her face was completely neutral. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Jones.”
“We’re ready to see you.” She turned to Jack. “I’ll bring Alex back down in about half an hour.”
Jack stood up. “I’m coming too.”
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Blunt prefers to see Alex on his own.”
“Then we’re leaving.”
Mrs. Jones shrugged. “That’s your choice. But you said on the telephone that you needed our help.”
“It’s all right, Jack.” Alex could see the way this was going, and he had quickly made his decision. It was always possible that Alan Blunt would agree to help him—but it would only be on his own terms. Any argument and Alex would be thrown out in the street. It