Scorpia

said when you first came to my office and, as I told you, there are many other things you could do for Scorpia. But here’s the problem, my dear boy. You’re afraid of killing, so you’re afraid of Scorpia. You are not quite one of us—and I fear you never will be. That is not satisfactory.”
    “Are you asking me to leave?”
    “Not at all. I’m asking you only to trust us a little more. I’m searching for a way to make you feel that you belong with us completely. And I think I have the answer.”
    D’Arc switched off his computer and walked round from behind the desk. He was dressed in another suit—he wore a different suit every day. This one was brown, with a herringbone pattern.
    “You have to learn to kill,” he said suddenly. “You have to do it without any hesitation. Because, when you’ve done it once, you’ll see that actually it wasn’t such a big deal. It’s the same as jumping into a swimming pool.
    As easy as that. But you have to cross the psychological barrier, Alex, if you are to become one of us.” He raised a hand. “I know you are very young; I know this isn’t easy. But I want to help you. I want to make it less painful for you. And I think I can.
    “I am going to send you to England tomorrow. That same evening you will carry out your first mission for Scorpia and, if you succeed, there will be no going back. You will know that you are truly one of us and we will know that we can trust you. But here is the good news.” D’Arc smiled, showing teeth that didn’t look quite real.
    “We have chosen the one person in the world who—we think you’ll agree—most deserves to die. It is someone you have every reason to despise, and we hope that your hatred and your anger will drive you on, removing any last doubts you may have.
    “Mrs Jones. The deputy head of MI6 Special Operations. She was the one responsible for the death of your father.
    “We know where she lives; we will help you get to her. She is the one we want you to kill.”

Chapter 12: DEAR PRIME MINISTER…

    Just before four o’clock in the afternoon, a man got out of a taxi in Whitehall, paid with a brand-new twenty-pound note, and began to walk the short distance to Downing Street. The man had started his journey at Paddington, but that wasn’t where he lived. Nor had he come into London on a train. He was about thirty years old with short, fair hair, and he was wearing a suit and tie.
    It is not possible to walk into Downing Street, not since Margaret Thatcher erected huge anti-terrorist gates.
    Britain is the only democracy whose leaders feel the need to hide behind bars. As always, there was a policeman there, just coming to the end of his eight-hour shift.
    The man walked up to him, at the same time producing a plain white envelope made from the very finest paper.
    Later, when the envelope was analysed, it would be found to have come from a supplier in Naples. There would be no fingerprints, even though the man who had delivered it was not wearing gloves. He had no fingerprints: they had been surgically removed.
    “Good afternoon,” he said. He had no accent of any kind. His voice was pleasant and polite.
    “Good afternoon, sir.”

    “I have a letter for the prime minister.”
    The policeman had heard it a hundred times. There were cranks and pressure groups, people with grievances, people needing help. Often they came here with letters and petitions, hoping they would reach the prime minister’s desk. The policeman was friendly. As he was trained to be.
    “Thank you, sir. If you’d like to leave it with me, I’ll see it goes through.”
    The policeman took the letter—and his would be the only fingerprints that would show up later. Written on the front of the envelope in neat, flowing handwriting were the words: For the attention of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, First Lord of the Treasury, 10 Downing Street. He carried it into the long, narrow office which is little more than a Portakabin and which all members of the public must pass through before they can enter the famous street. This was as close as the letter would normally get to number ten. It would be re-routed to an office where a secretary—one of many—would open and read it. If necessary, it might be passed on to the appropriate department. More likely, after a few weeks, the sender would receive a standard, word-processed reply.
    This letter was different.
    When the duty officer received it, he turned it over, and that was