Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [80]
Alan Blunt began to eat his lunch. He was still puzzled about the mushroom soup, but his department would work on it. That was the important thing. In the meantime, Alex Rider was already out of his mind.
16
SPECIAL DELIVERY
ALEX COULD TELL JACK was in a bad mood. She had made the breakfast as she did every morning—boiled eggs for him, fruit and muesli for her. There had been a freshly ironed jacket waiting for him in his room. But she had stamped around the kitchen in silence, and when she had loaded the dishwasher, she had slid the plates in as if she had a personal grudge against them.
He knew what had upset her. “Jack,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She lifted up the toaster and wiped away imaginary crumbs.
“I am. Really.”
Jack turned around and let out a sigh. She could never stay angry for long and they both knew it. “I just don’t understand you sometimes,” she said. “We both agreed that Greenfields wasn’t your business. You did what you were told and you were lucky to get out alive. So what on earth did you think you were up to?”
“I don’t know.” Alex thought for a moment. “I just felt angry after being told off by Mr. Bray. And I thought, if I could only find out what McCain was doing . . .”
“What exactly is he doing?” Jack sat down at the table. “You say there was a film set, an African village. But why? What’s the point?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. McCain runs a charity. First Aid. They have appeals all over the world. Maybe that’s his plan. He wants to raise money for something that hasn’t happened.”
“A fake charity appeal.”
“Exactly. He shows a film of some village that doesn’t exist. People send in money. He gets to keep it.”
Jack thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. “It wouldn’t work, Alex. These days, everything is on TV or in the newspapers. People would find out soon enough if it wasn’t true.”
“Can you think of anything else?”
“No. But I think we should go back to MI6 and leave it to them this time.” She glanced meaningfully at him. “Okay?”
Alex smiled. “That’s what I’d already decided,” he said. “Do you mind going back?”
“Of course not,” Jack replied. “I’m beginning to wonder where this is all going to end. You go to a party in Scotland and you end up at the bottom of a lake. A school field trip almost lands you in the hospital. And now this!” She took one of Alex’s toast slices and bit it in half. “The trouble is, you’ve got too much of the spy in you. It’s all your uncle’s fault. And your father’s. And your grandfather’s. For all we know, he was probably a spy too.”
Alex looked at his watch. It was a quarter past eight. “I ought to be on my way to school,” he said.
“Yes.” Jack nodded. “Let’s not get into any more trouble with Mr. Bray.”
Alex ran up to his room, collected his books, and put on the spare jacket. He was about to leave when he noticed the black gel-ink pen that Smithers had given him resting on his desk. On impulse, he slipped it inside his pocket. He knew that Tom Harris would get a kick out of seeing it.
He hurried back downstairs and out through the hall, calling out a last “Good-bye!” as he went.
“Don’t forget your scarf!” Jack called back.
She was too late. It was cold outside but dry, and there was no wind. Alex hoisted his knapsack over his shoulder and made his way along the backstreets that would lead him to the King’s Road.
This part of Chelsea was full of elegant townhouses standing side by side with expensive cars parked outside. In a few months, the trees would blossom and the wisteria would tumble down the brickwork. Ian Rider had liked being here because it was quiet and private and yet still in the middle of the city. He’d always had a hatred of the suburbs. “A nice place for children and vets.” Alex could still hear his slightly cryptic remark.
There was a FedEx van at the end of the street, badly