Scorpia

different house to the one he had visited when he first arrived back in London. This one was on the edge of Regent’s Park. A man and woman were waiting for him, and he recognized them as the fake Italian parents who had accompanied him through Heathrow. They led him upstairs and showed him into a shabby bedroom with a bathroom attached. There was a late supper waiting for him on a tray. They left him there, locking the door behind them. There was no telephone. Alex checked the window. That was locked too.
    And now it was half past one the next day and Alex was sitting on the bed, looking out of the window at the trees and Victorian railings of the park. He was feeling a little sick. He had begun to think that Scorpia simply planned to leave him here until four o’clock, that they wanted him to die with the other children in London.
    And that reminded him of the nanoshells which he knew were inside him, resting inside his heart. He remembered the prick of the needle, the smiling face of Dr Steiner as he injected him with death. The thought of it made his skin crawl. Was he really doomed to spend the last hours of his life here, in this room, sitting on an unmade bed, alone?
    The door opened.
    Nile walked in, followed by Julia Rothman.
    She was wearing an expensive coat, grey with a white fur collar, buttoned up to her neck—another designer label. Her black hair was immaculate, her make-up as much a mask as the ones that had been worn at her party at the Widow’s Palace. Her smile was a brilliant red. Her eyes seemed more dazzling than ever, highlighted by perfectly applied black eyeliner.
    “Alex!” she exclaimed. She sounded genuinely delighted to see him, but Alex knew now that everything about her was fake: nothing was to be trusted.
    “I wondered if you were going to come,” Alex commented.
    “Of course I was going to come, my dear. It’s just that this is rather a busy day. How are you, Alex? I am so pleased to see you.”
    “Did you really kill her?” Nile asked. He was casually dressed in a loose jacket and jeans, trainers and a white sweatshirt.
    Mrs Rothman scowled. “Nile, do you have to be so direct?” She shrugged. “He’s talking about Mrs Jones, of course. And I suppose we do need to know what happened. The mission was a success?”
    “Yes.” Alex nodded. This was the most dangerous part. He knew he couldn’t talk too much; he was afraid of giving himself away. And he was horribly conscious of the brace. It fitted well, but it had to be distorting his speech, at least a bit. The wire across his teeth was transparent but, even so, surely Mrs Rothman would notice it.
    “So what happened?” Nile asked.
    “I managed to get inside her flat. It all went exactly like you said. I used the gun…”
    “And then?”
    “I took the lift back down and I was just on my way out when the two guys behind the desk grabbed me.” Alex had spent half the night rehearsing this. “I don’t know how they found out it was me. But before I could do anything they had me on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back.”
    “Go on.” Mrs Rothman was gazing at him. Her eyes could have been trying to suck him in.
    “They took me somewhere. A cell.” This part was easier—Alex was actually telling a version of the truth. “It was underneath Liverpool Street. They left me there overnight and then Blunt saw me the next day.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Not a lot. He knew I was working for you. They’d got satellite photographs of me arriving at Malagosto.”
    Nile glanced at Mrs Rothman. “That makes sense,” he said. “I’ve always had a feeling we’ve been under surveillance.”
    “He didn’t want to know very much,” Alex went on. “He didn’t really want to talk to me. He said I was going to be questioned somewhere out of London. I was left hanging around there for a bit, then a car came to collect me.”
    “You were handcuffed?” Mrs Rothman asked.
    “Not this time. That was their mistake. It was just an ordinary car. There was the driver in the front, and an MI6
    man in the back with me. I didn’t know where they were taking me and I didn’t want to go. I didn’t really care what happened. I didn’t even care if I was killed. I waited until they got a bit of speed up and then I threw myself at the driver. I managed to put my hands over his eyes. There was nothing much he could do. He lost control and the car crashed.”
    “Quite a few cars crashed,” Mrs Rothman