Scorpia

into?
    “Maybe more. Maybe many thousands.”
    “How?”
    “We don’t know. You may. All I can tell you now is that Scorpia have made a series of demands. We cannot give them what they want. And they’re going to make us pay a heavy price.”
    “What do you want from me?” Alex asked. All the strength seemed to have drained out of him.
    “Scorpia have made one mistake. They’ve sent you to us. I want to know everything you’ve seen—everything Julia Rothman told you. We still have no idea what we’re up against, Alex. You may at least be able to give us a clue.”
    Thousands of children in London.
    Assassination, Alex. It’s part of what we do.
    That was what she had said.
    This was what she meant.
    “I don’t know anything,” Alex said, his head bowed.
    “You may know more than you think. You’re all that stands between Scorpia and an unimaginable bloodbath. I know what you think of me; I know how you feel about MI6. But are you willing to help?”
    Alex slowly raised his head. He examined the man sitting opposite him and saw something he would never have believed. Alan Blunt was afraid. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
    “Good. Then finish your breakfast, have a shower and get changed. The prime minister has called a meeting of Cobra. I want you to attend.”

    Cobra.
    The acronym stands for Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, which is where, at 10 Downing Street, the meetings take place. Cobra is an emergency council, the government’s ultimate response to any major crisis.
    The prime minister is, of course, present when Cobra sits. So are most of his senior ministers, his director of communications, his chief of staff and representatives from the police, the army and the intelligence and security services. Finally there are the civil servants, men in dark suits with long and meaningless job titles.
    Everything that happens, everything that’s said, is recorded, minuted and then filed away for thirty years under the Official Secrets Act. Politics may be called a game, but Cobra is deadly serious. Decisions made here can bring down a government. The wrong decision could destroy the entire country.
    Alex Rider had been shown into another room and left to shower and change into fresh clothes. He recognized the Pepe jeans and World Cup rugby shirt: they were his own. Somebody must have been round to his home to fetch them, and seeing them laid out on a chair he felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t spoken to Jack since he had left for Venice. He wondered if anyone from MI6 had told her what was happening. He doubted it. MI6 never told anyone anything unless they had to.
    But as he pulled on the jeans, he felt something rustle in one of the back pockets. He dipped his hand in and took out a folded sheet of paper. He opened it and recognized Jack’s handwriting.
    Alex,
    What have you got yourself mixed up in this time? Two secret agents (spies) waiting downstairs.
    Suits and sunglasses. Think they’re smart, but I bet they don’t look in the jackets.
    Thinking of you. Take care of yourself. Try and come home in one piece.
    Love you, Jack.

    That made him smile. It seemed it had been a long time since anything had happened to cheer him up.
    As he had thought, the cell and interrogation room were beneath the MI6 headquarters. He was led out to a car park where a navy blue Jaguar XJ6 was waiting, and the two of them were driven up the ramp and out into Liverpool Street itself. Alex settled into the leather seat. He found it strange to be sitting so close to the head of MI6 Special Operations without a table or a desk between them. Blunt was in no mood to talk.
    “You’ll be brought up to date at the meeting,” he muttered briefly. “But while we’re driving there, I want you to think of everything that happened to you while you were with Scorpia. Everything you overheard. If I had more time, I’d debrief you myself. But Cobra won’t wait.”
    After that he buried himself in a report which he took from his briefcase, and Alex might as well have been alone. He looked out of the window as the chauffeur drove them west, across London. It was quarter past nine.
    People were still hurrying to work. Shops were opening. On one side of the glass, life was going on as normal.
    But once again Alex was on the wrong side, sitting in this car with this man, heading into God knows what.
    He watched as they arrived at Charing Cross and stopped at the lights at Trafalgar Square. Blunt was still reading.