Scorpia

Why not?”
    Mrs Jones had also got to her feet. “We needed your help to find the dishes. There was no question about it.
    Everything depended on you. But I didn’t want to manipulate you. I know you think that’s what we always do, but if I’d told you the truth about Julia Rothman and then given you a homing device and sent you in after her, I’d have been using you in the worst possible way. You went in there, Alex, for exactly the same reason that your father went to Albert Bridge, and I wanted you to have that choice. That’s what makes you such a great spy. It isn’t that you were made one or trained to be one. It’s just that in your heart you are one. I suppose it runs in the family.”

    “But I had a gun! I was in your flat…”
    “I was never in any danger. Quite apart from the glass, you couldn’t even bring yourself to aim at me, Alex. I knew you couldn’t. There was no need to tell you then. And I didn’t want to. The way Mrs Rothman had deceived you was so horrible.” She shrugged. “I wanted to give you the chance to work things out for yourself.”
    For a long moment nobody said anything.
    Alex turned away. “I need to be on my own,” he mumbled.
    “Of course.” Mrs Jones went over to him and touched him lightly on the arm. It was the arm that was the least burnt. “Come back when you’re ready, Alex.”
    “Yes—I will.”
    Alex moved to the door. He opened it but then seemed to have second thoughts. “Can I ask one final question, Mrs Jones?”
    “Yes. Go ahead.”
    “It’s just something I’ve always wondered and I might as well ask you now.” He paused. “What’s your first name?”
    Mrs Jones stiffened. Sitting behind his desk, Alan Blunt looked up. Then she relaxed. “It’s Tulip,” she told him.
    “My parents were keen gardeners.”
    Alex nodded. It made sense. He wouldn’t have used that name either.
    He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Chapter 20: A MOTHER’S TOUCH

    Scorpia never forgot.
    Scorpia never forgave.
    The sniper had been paid to take revenge and that was what he would do. His own life would be forfeit if he failed.
    He knew that in a few minutes, a fourteen-year-old boy would walk out of the building which pretended to be an international bank but was really nothing of the sort. Did it matter to him that his target was a child? He had persuaded himself that it didn’t. It was a terrible thing to kill a human being. But was it so much worse to kill a twenty-seven-year-old man who would never be twenty-eight than a fourteen-year-old boy who would never be fifteen? The sniper had decided that death was death. That didn’t change. Nor did the fifty thousand pounds he would be paid for this hit.
    As usual he would aim for the heart. The target area would be a fraction smaller this time but he would not miss. He never missed. It was time to prepare himself, to bring his breathing under control, to enter that state of calm before the kill.
    He focused his attention on the gun that he was holding, the self-loading Ruger .22 model K10/22-T. It was a low velocity weapon, less deadly than some he might have chosen. But the gun had two huge advantages. It was light. And it was very compact. By removing just two screws he had been able to separate the barrel and the trigger mechanism from the stock. The stock itself folded in two. He had been able to carry the whole thing across London in an ordinary sports bag without drawing attention to himself. In his line of work, that was the critical thing.
    He squared his eye against the Leupold 14x50mm Side Focus scope, adjusting the cross hairs against the door through which the boy would pass. He loved the feel of the gun in his hands, the snug fit, the perfect balance.

    He had had it customized to suit his needs. The stock was laminated wood with water-resistant adhesive, making it stronger and less likely to warp. The trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it—but he would only need a single shot.
    The sniper was content. When he fired, for the blink of an eye, as the bullet began its journey down the barrel, travelling at three hundred and thirty-one metres per second, he and the rifle would be one. The target didn’t matter. Even the payment was almost irrelevant. The act of killing was enough in itself. It was better than anything in the world. In that moment, the sniper was God.
    He waited. He was