Scorpia

that’s actually a flamethrower. I call it the Napalm Organizer—”
    “No weapons,” Blunt said.
    “We can’t take the risk,” Mrs Jones agreed.
    “You’re right.” Smithers dragged himself slowly to his feet. “Just take care, Alex, old bean. You know how I worry about you. Don’t you dare get yourself killed. I want to see you again.”
    He left, closing the door behind him.
    “I’m sorry, Alex,” Mrs Jones said.
    “No.” Alex knew she was right. Even if he could persuade Scorpia that he had carried out his assignment, they still wouldn’t trust him. They would search him from head to toe.
    “Activate the tracking device as soon as you’ve found the dishes,” Blunt ordered.
    “It’s always possible they won’t take you to them,” Mrs Jones added. “In that event, if you can’t slip away, if you feel yourself to be in any danger, activate it anyway. We’ll send special forces in to pull you out.”
    That surprised Alex. She had never shown very much concern for him in the past. It was as if his breaking into her flat had somehow changed things between them. He glanced at her sitting bolt upright, neat and contained, chewing slowly on the peppermint, and guessed that there was something she wasn’t telling him. Well, that made two of them.
    “Are you quite sure about this, Alex?” she asked.
    “Yes.” Alex paused. “Can you really make them believe I escaped?”
    Blunt gave a thin, humourless smile. “Oh yes,” he said. “We’ll make them believe it.”
    It happened in London and made the six o’clock news.
    A car had been driving at speed on the Westway, one of the main roads leading out of the city. The car was high up – this part of the road was suspended on huge concrete pillars. All of a sudden it lost control. Witnesses saw it swerve left and right, careering into the other traffic. At least a dozen other cars were involved in the resulting pile-up. There was a Fiat Uno, crumpled up like paper. A BMW had one side torn off. A van full of flowers, unable to stop in time, crashed into them. Its doors swung open and suddenly – bizarrely – the road was covered with roses and chrysanthemums. A taxi, trying to avoid the chaos, hit the crash barrier and catapulted over the edge, smashing into an upstairs window of someone’s house.
    It was a miracle nobody was killed, although a dozen people were rushed to nearby hospitals. The aftermath of the accident had been recorded by traffic policemen in a helicopter, and there it was on television. The road was closed. Smoke was still rising from a burnt-out car. There was shattered metal and glass everywhere.
    A number of witnesses were interviewed andthey described what they had seen. There had been a boy in the front car, they said, the one that had started it all. They had seen him get out the moment it was all over. He had run back down the road and disappeared through the traffic. There had been a man – in a dark suit and sunglasses – who had tried to follow him. But the man had obviously been hurt. He had been limping. The boy had escaped.
    Two hours later the road was still closed. The police said they were looking for the boy urgently, to interview him. But apart from the fact that he was about fourteen years old and dressed in black, there was no description. They didn’t have a name. The traffic in west London had come to a standstill. It would take days to clear up the damage.
    Sitting in a hotel room in Mayfair, Julia Rothman saw the report and her eyes narrowed. She knew who the boy was, of course. It couldn’t be anyone else. She wondered what had happened. More to the point, she wondered when Alex Rider would get in touch.
    In fact, it wasn’t until seven o’clock that evening that Alex made the call. He was in a phone box near Marble Arch. He was already wearing the brace, giving his mouth time to get used to it. But still he found it hard to stop slurring his words.
    A man answered. “Yes?”
    “This is Alex Rider.”
    “Where are you?”
    “I’m in a call box on the Edgware Road.”
    This was true. Alex was dressed once again in the black ninja outfit which Scorpia had supplied him with. The phone box was outside a Lebanese restaurant. He had no doubt that Scorpia would be using sophisticated equipment to trace the call. He wondered how long it would take them to reach him.
    He thought back to the car crash. He had to admit that MI6 had stage-managed it brilliantly. No fewer than twenty cars had been