Eagle Strike

stared out from the covers. Jet-black hair cut short like a schoolboy‟s. A very round face with prominent cheeks and brilliant green eyes. A small nose, almost too exactly placed right in the middle. Thick lips and perfect white teeth.
    The third book had been written quite a few years later. The face was a little older, the eyes hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, and this Damian Cray was climbing out of a white Rolls-Royce, wearing a Versace suit and tie. The title of the book showed what else had changed: Sir Damian Cray: The Man, The Music, The Millions. Alex glanced at the first page, but the heavy, complicated prose soon put him off. It seemed to have been written by someone who probably read the Financial Times for laughs.
    In the end he didn‟t buy any of the books. He wanted to know more about Cray, but he didn‟t think these books would tell him anything he didn‟t know already. And certainly not why Cray‟s private telephone number had been on the mobile phone of a hired assassin.
    Alex walked back through Chelsea, turning off down the pretty, white-fronted street where his uncle, Ian Rider, had lived. He now shared the house with Jack Starbright, an American girl who had once been the housekeeper but had since become his legal guardian and closest friend. She was the reason Alex had first agreed to work for MI6. He had been sent undercover to spy on Herod Sayle and his Stormbreaker computers. In return she had been given a visa which allowed her to stay in London and look after him.
    She was waiting for him in the kitchen when he got in. He had agreed to be back by one and she had thrown together a quick lunch. Jack was a good cook but refused to make anything that took longer than ten minutes. She was twenty-eight years old, slim, with tangled red hair and the sort of face that couldn‟t help being cheerful, even when she was in a bad mood. “Had a good morning?” she asked as he came in. “Yes.” Alex sat down slowly, holding his side. Jack noticed but said nothing. “I hope you‟re hungry,” she went on. “What‟s for lunch?” “Stir-fry.”
    “It smells good.”
    “It‟s an old Chinese recipe. At least, that‟s what it said on the packet. Help yourself to some Coke and I‟ll serve up.”
    The food was good and Alex tried to eat, but the truth was that he had no appetite and he soon gave up. Jack said nothing as he carried his half-finished plate over to the sink, but then she suddenly turned round.
    “Alex, you can‟t keep blaming yourself for what happened in France.”
    Alex had been about to leave the kitchen but now he returned to the table.
    “It‟s about time you and I talked about this,” Jack went on. “In fact, it‟s time we talked about everything!” She pushed her own plate of food away and waited until Alex had sat down. “All right. So it turns out that your uncle—Ian—wasn‟t a bank manager. He was a spy. Well, it would have been nice if he‟d mentioned it to me, but it‟s too late now because he‟s gone and got himself killed, which leaves me stuck here, looking after you.” She quickly held up a hand. “I didn‟t mean that. I love being here. I love London. I even love you.
    “But you‟re not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three times now you‟ve taken time off from school and each time you‟ve come back a bit more bashed around. I don‟t even want to know what you‟ve been up to, but personally I‟ve been worried sick!” “It wasn‟t my choice…” Alex said. “That‟s my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world—it‟s got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.”
    Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina‟s dad would never—”
    “You can‟t know that. Even if you‟d called the cops, what could they have done? Remember—
    nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don‟t think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don‟t mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You‟re lucky you weren‟t killed.”
    She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure