Scorpia

Suddenly there was something Alex wanted to know.
    “Is Mrs Jones married?” he asked.
    Blunt looked up. “She was.”
    “In her flat I saw a photograph of her with two children.”
    “They were hers. They’d be about your age now. But she lost them.”
    “They died?”
    “They were taken.”
    Alex digested this. Blunt’s replies were leaving him hardly any the wiser. “Are you married?” he asked.
    Blunt turned away. “I don’t discuss my personal life.”

    Alex shrugged. Frankly he was surprised Blunt had one.
    They drove down Whitehall and then turned right, through the gates that were already open to receive them.
    The car stopped and Alex got out, his head spinning. He was standing in front of probably the most famous front door in the world. And the door was open. A policeman stepped forward to usher him in. Blunt had already disappeared ahead. Alex followed.
    The first surprise was how large 10 Downing Street was inside. It was two or three times bigger than he had expected, opening out in all directions, with high ceilings and a corridor stretching improbably into the distance. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Works of art, lent by major galleries, lined the walls.
    Blunt had been greeted by a tall, grey-haired man in an old-fashioned suit and striped tie. The man had the sort of face that would not have looked out of place in a Victorian portrait. It belonged to another world, and like an old painting it seemed to have faded. Only the eyes, small and dark, showed any life. They flickered over Alex and seemed to know him at once.
    “So this is Alex Rider,” the man said. He held out a hand. “My name is Graham Adair.”
    He was looking at Alex as if he knew him—but Alex was sure the two of them had never met before.
    “Sir Graham is permanent secretary to the Cabinet Office,” Blunt explained.
    “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Alex. I have to say, I’m pleased to meet you. I owe you a great deal. More, I think, than you can imagine.”
    “Thanks.” Alex was puzzled. He didn’t know what Sir Graham meant, and wondered if the man had been involved in some way in one of his previous assignments.
    “I understand you’re joining us at Cobra. I’m very glad—although I should warn you that there may be one or two people there who know less about you and may resent your presence.”
    “I’m used to it,” Alex said.

    “I’m sure. Well, come this way. I hope you can help us. We’re up against something very different and none of us is quite sure what to do.”
    Alex followed the permanent secretary along the corridor, through an archway and into a large, wood-panelled room with at least forty people gathered around a huge conference table. Alex’s first impression was that they were all middle-aged and, with only a few exceptions, male and white. Then he realized how many faces he recognized. The prime minister was sitting at the head of the table. The deputy prime minister—fat and jowly—
    was next to him. The foreign secretary was fiddling nervously with his tie. Another man who might have been the defence secretary was opposite him. Most of the men were in suits but there were also uniforms—army and police. Everyone in the room had a thick file in front of them. Two elderly women, dressed in black suits and white shirts, sat in the corners, their fingers poised over what looked like miniature typewriters.
    Blunt waved Alex to an empty chair at the table and sat down next to him. Sir Graham took his seat on the other side. Alex noticed a few heads turn in his direction but nobody said anything.
    The prime minister stood and Alex felt the same buzz he’d experienced when he first met Damian Cray—the realization that he was seeing, close up, a face known all over the world. The prime minister looked older and shabbier than he did on television. Here there was no make-up, no subtle lighting. He looked defeated.
    “Good morning,” he said, and everyone in the room fell silent.
    The meeting of Cobra had begun.

Chapter 15: REMOTE CONTROL

    They had been talking for three hours.

    The prime minister had read out the contents of Scorpia’s letter, and copies had been placed in every file around the table. Alex had read his with a feeling of sick disbelief. Eighteen innocent people had already died and nobody in the room had any idea how it had happened. Would Scorpia go ahead with the threat to target children in London? Alex was in no doubt, but nobody had asked his