Scorpia

the television monitors, one for every angle. The street had been torn apart. A wounded SAS man was being dragged away by two of his comrades, dust and debris leaping up as the surface was strafed by enemy fire. More soldiers were moving from doorway to doorway, lobbing grenades through the windows behind them. This was the sort of fighting the SAS had experienced in Northern Ireland and the Middle East.
    The whole area had been cordoned off. Police cars had moved in from every direction. They couldn’t be seen but their sirens filled the air. This was London. It was nearing the end of a working day. It was impossible to believe that something like this could really be happening here.
    There was another explosion – closer this time. Thick smoke billowed over the open dome and paintwork rained down, flaking off the walls. Most of the Scorpia men had abandoned their positions, preferring to take their chances outside. A guard ran up to Mrs Rothman, blood streaking his face.
    “They’re inside the church,” he rasped. “We’re finished. I’m leaving.”
    “You’ll stay at your post!” Mrs Rothman snapped.
    “To hell with that.” The guard spat and swore. “Everyone’s going. We’re all getting out of here.”
    Mrs Rothman looked nervous, afraid of being left on her own. “Please, let me have your gun,” she begged.
    “Sure. Why not?” The guard handed his weapon to her.
    “Thank you,” she said, and shot him with a single, short burst.
    She watched the man go sprawling, then went over to the monitors. The SAS were in the outer chamber. She could see them laying plastic explosives against the fake brick wall. It was hard to be sure, but she fancied they would need rather more explosive than they were using. She had designed the wall herself and it was solid steel. Even so, they would get through it eventually. They would not relent.
    She glanced up at the balloon, now straining at the one remaining rope, a hundred metres above London. She knew it had reached the correct height – the equipment inside the church had told her this. In just another minute or so it would all be over. She thought of Alex Rider somewhere up above. All in all, it had been a mistake bringing him here. Why had she? To see him die, of course. She hadn’t been there when John Rider had diedand she wanted to make up for it. Miss the father; catch the son. That was why she had risked everything to bring Alex to the church, and she knew the other members of the executive board of Scorpia would be less than pleased. But it didn’t matter. The operation would succeed. The SAS were too late.
    A huge explosion. The whole church shook. Three of the largest organ pipes keeled over and came crashing down. Brick and plaster fragments hung in the air. Half the television monitors went black. But the steel wall held. She had been right about that.
    She threw the machine gun down and hurried to a door almost invisible in the wall of a side chapel. It was lucky that Mrs Rothman was the sort of person who prepared for every eventuality – including the need to slip out without being seen.
    The guard she had killed had been right. It was definitely time to go.
    Alex lay on his back, his shoulders pressing against the railing of the platform. The first sword that Nile had thrown had sliced into the plastic floor, centimetres from his head, and it was still there, quivering, just beside his neck. Nile had unsheathed the second sword and was balancing it in his hand. He was taking his time. Alex knew that he had no need to hurry. He had nowhere to hide. They were less than three metres apart. Alex hadseen what Nile could do. There was no way he would miss.
    And yet.
    Why was he so slow? Taking his time with the sword, still clutching the railing with his other hand.
    Alex looked at him, examining the handsome, flawed face, searching for something in the man’s eyes.
    And found it.
    That look. He had seen it before. He remembered Wolf, the SAS soldier he had trained with. And suddenly everything made sense. The secret weakness that Mrs Rothman had mentioned. The reason why Nile had come second, not first, at Malagosto. He thought back to their meeting in the bell tower over the monastery. Nile had lingered at the door, unwilling to come forward, holding onto the frame in just the same way that he was holding onto the railing now. No wonder Nile had been so slow climbing up to the balloon.
    Nile was afraid of heights.
    But that wasn’t going