Scorpia

week, but Blunt had replaced them with agents from his own office. They would remain there for as long as necessary. He had also installed a metal detector next to the reception desk, identical to the sort you would find in an airport. All visitors had to pass through it.
    The other residents hadn’t been particularly happy about this, but they had been assured it was only temporary.
    Reluctantly they had agreed. They all knew that the woman who lived alone on the top floor worked for some government department. They also knew that it was better not to ask too many questions. The metal detector arrived; it was installed. Life went on.
    It was impossible to get into Melbourne House without passing the two agents on the front desk. There was a goods entrance at the back but it was locked and alarmed. The building couldn’t be climbed. The walls had no footholds of any sort; anyway, there were four more agents on constant patrol. Finally there was an agent on duty outside Mrs Jones’s front door, and he had a clear view of the corridor in both directions. There was nowhere to hide. The agent—in radio contact with those downstairs—was armed with a high-tech, fingerprint-sensitive automatic weapon. Only he could fire it, so if—impossibly—he was overpowered, his gun would be useless.
    Mrs Jones had protested about all these arrangements. It was one of the very few times she had ever argued with her superior.
    “For heaven’s sake, Alan! We’re talking about Alex Rider.”
    “No, Mrs Jones. We’re talking about Scorpia.”
    There had been no more discussion after that.
    At half past eleven that night, just hours after the deaths at Heathrow Airport, two agents were sitting behind the front desk. Both were in their twenties, dressed in the uniform of security guards. One was plump, with short, fair hair and a childish face that looked as if it would never need a shave. His name was Lloyd. He had been thrilled to get into MI6 straight from university, but he was fast becoming disappointed. This sort of work, for example. It wasn’t what he had expected. The other man was dark and looked foreign; he could have been mistaken for a Brazilian footballer. He was smoking a cigarette, even though it wasn’t allowed in the building, and this annoyed Lloyd. His name was Ramirez. The two men had started their night shift a few hours ago.
    They would be there until seven the next morning, when Mrs Jones left.
    They were bored. As far as they were concerned, there was no chance of anyone getting anywhere near their boss on the ninth floor. And as if to add insult to injury, they had been told to look out for a fourteen-year-old boy. They had been given a photograph of Alex Rider, and they both agreed that it was crazy. Why would a schoolboy be gunning for the deputy head of Special Operations?

    “Maybe she’s his aunt,” Lloyd mused. “Maybe she’s forgotten his birthday and he’s out for revenge.”
    Ramirez blew a smoke ring. “You really believe that?”
    “I don’t know. What do you think?”
    “I don’t care. It’s just a waste of time.” They had been talking about the events at Heathrow. Even though they were part of MI6, they were too junior to be told what had really happened to the football squad. According to the radio, the players had picked up a rare disease in Nigeria. Quite how they had all managed to die at the same moment hadn’t so far been explained.
    “It was probably malaria,” Lloyd guessed. “They’ve got these new mosquitoes out there.”
    “Mosquitoes?”
    “Super-mosquitoes. Genetically modified.”
    “Yeah. Sure!”
    Just then the front doors swung open and a young black man swaggered into the reception area, dressed in motorbike leathers, a helmet in one hand and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. There was a logo on his chest, repeated on the bag: Perelli’s Pizzas Grab yourself a pizza the action The agents ran their eyes over him.
    About seventeen or eighteen years old. Short, frizzy hair and a wispy beard. A gold tooth. And lots of attitude.
    He was smiling crookedly as if he wasn’t just delivering fast food to a fancy flat. As if he lived here.
    Lloyd stopped him. “Who are you delivering to?”
    The delivery man looked taken aback. He dug into his top pocket and pulled out a grubby sheet of paper.
    “Foster,” he said. “A pizza wanted on the sixth floor.”
    Ramirez was also taking an interest. It was going to be a long night. Nobody had come in or out