Scorpia Rising

them I’m not well or something.” Alex felt a little sad about that. He’d have liked to have said good-bye to some of the friends he’d made. But he knew it was better not to. There would have been too much to explain. “We can get a flight tomorrow afternoon.”
    “I agree with you,” Jack said. She lifted her glass of wine and swirled it in front of her. “But there’s just one problem. I’m not sure England’s going to be safe for you, Alex. Remember how this all started. Someone tried to kill you.”
    Alex knew that she was right. “Where, then?” he asked.
    “Well, I’ve been thinking. It’s probably a crazy idea and you don’t have to make a decision. But I was wondering if you wouldn’t be happier in America.”
    “America?”
    Jack nodded. “It’s just a thought, Alex. You might be safer there . . . in every sense. Away from Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones. You could start a new life, maybe in Washington. You know I’ve got family there.” She paused. “The funny thing is, I was going to talk to you about it before all this began.”
    “You want to go home?”
    “I wouldn’t go without you.”
    “I don’t know, Jack. I really don’t.” Alex tried to imagine leaving Brookland School behind him, all his friends, the house in Chelsea. And would MI6 leave him alone, even if he was on the other side of the world? “London’s got to be safer than it is here. Let’s go home and see how things work out.”
    “Sure.” Jack smiled. “Two business-class tickets to Heathrow. We might as well travel in style—and I can always get MI6 to pay. The important thing is that we’re leaving Cairo. Are you certain you don’t want me to come with you to see Mr. Smithers?”
    “No. I’ll be all right.”
    “You won’t let him change your mind?”
    “I don’t think he’ll even try. I’ve always had the feeling that he’s on my side.”
    “Well, that sounds like a plan.” Jack lifted her glass. “So the toast is—home!”
    Alex raised his own. “Home!”
    The two of them clinked glasses in the setting sun.

    Night comes slowly in the Sahara Desert.
    By eight o’clock, the sands were burning a deep yellow and the shadows from the olive trees were stretching out as if trying to escape from the trunks that bound them. But the sun was still there, sitting on the horizon, and the heat of the day was only beginning to retreat. The salt lakes were like sheets of steel, utterly still. There didn’t seem to be a breath of wind.
    The crack of the bullet tore through the great silence, splitting the very air. Seventy yards away from the tip of the rifle, a black-and-white photograph of Alex Rider shuddered briefly, pinned to a wooden stake that had been driven into the sand. It was a perfect shot. A round hole appeared where his right eye had once been, the last in a row of five that snaked across his forehead. Lying on his stomach, Julius Grief lowered the sniper rifle—the Arctic Warfare L96A1 that had been brought to him from Cairo. It was a beautiful weapon, he thought. He couldn’t wait to use it for real.
    In the distance he heard soft applause. Razim was standing on the parapet of the old French fort, wearing a freshly laundered, very white dishdasha.
    “Come inside, Julius,” he called out. “We’re about to turn on the night defenses and I wouldn’t want to see you being blown apart.”
    Julius stood up, brushing sand off his chest and thighs. He was wearing loose-fitting shorts and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair had been cut a little shorter since his escape from the Gibraltar prison. He was also thickly smeared with sunscreen . . . He burned easily and it was important that his appearance remain the same.
    He had been brought by ship from Gibraltar, all the way around the northern tip of Africa to the resort town of Marsa Matruh, and then driven south to Siwa. He had been at the fort for two weeks, almost exactly the same time that Alex had spent at the Cairo International College of Arts and Education. Razim had been keeping a close watch on him. The entire world thought he was dead and it was vital that things stay that way. Of course, Julius had complained. It was as if he had been transferred from one prison to another, and in the end Razim had allowed him to visit Cairo with the promise that he would wear a baseball cap and dark glasses to conceal his identity and that he would stay well clear of Alex Rider. Razim had been furious to learn that