Snakehead

just said—the mention of Yassen Gregorovich—had made Alex determined to learn more. Suddenly things were beginning to come together.
    Alex knew that his father, John Rider, had pretended to be an enemy agent, working for Scorpia. When MI6 wanted him back, they had arranged for him to be “captured.” That had been in Malta. But it had all been a setup. And Yassen Gregorovich had been there. Yassen was an international assassin, and Alex had met him fourteen years later—first when he was working for Herod Sayle, a second time inside the evil empire of Damian Cray. Yassen was dead now, but it seemed that he was still destined to be part of Alex’s life. Ash had met him in Malta. And whatever had happened on that island was part of the story that Alex wanted to know.
    “You’re sure?” Ash asked him one last time.
    “I’m sure,” Alex said.
    “Very well.” Ash nodded gravely. “Then I’d better teach you this. Ba’ad az ar tariki, roshani ast. It’s an old Afghan proverb, and there may come a time when you need to remember it. ‘After every darkness there is light.’ I hope it will be true for you.”
    There was a knock at the door.
    Ash went over and opened it and a short, rather dumpy woman walked in, carrying a suitcase. She could have been a retired principal or perhaps a very old-fashioned schoolteacher. She was wearing a two-piece olive green suit and heavy stockings that only emphasized the fact that she had very shapeless legs. Her hair hung loose, with no apparent color or style. Her face could have been made of putty. She wore no makeup. There was a single brooch—a silver daisy—pinned to her lapel.
    “How are you doing, Ash?” She smiled as she came in and that, along with her broad Australian accent, seemed to bring her to life.
    “Good to see you, Cloudy,” Ash replied. He closed the door. “This is Mrs. Webber, Alex,” he explained. “She works for ASIS—a specialist in disguise. Her name is Chlöe, but we call her Cloudy. We think it suits her better. Cloudy Webber—meet Alex Rider.”
    The woman stumped over to Alex and examined him. “Hmmm…,” she muttered disapprovingly. “Mr. Brooke must need his head examined if he thinks we’re going to get away with this one. But I’ll see what I can do.” She heaved the suitcase onto the bed. “Let’s have all those clothes off you, boy. Socks, boxers, the lot. The first thing we’re going to start with is your skin.”
    “Wait a minute…,” Alex began.
    “For heaven’s sake!” the woman exploded. “You think I’m going to see anything I haven’t seen before?” She turned to Ash, who was watching from the other side of the room. “And it’s the same for you, Ash. I don’t know what you’re grinning about. You may look a bit more like an Afghan than him, but I’m going to have all your clothes too.”
    She unzipped the suitcase and took out half a dozen plastic bottles filled with various dark liquids. Next came a hairbrush, a vanity bag, and several tubes that might have contained toothpaste. The rest of the bag was packed with clothes that looked—and smelled—as if they had come out of a trash can.
    “The clothes are all from the thrift store,” she explained. “Donated in England and picked up in the market in Mazar-i-Sharif. I’ll give you two sets each, which is all you’ll need…you’ll wear them day and night. Ash—go and run a bath.” She unscrewed one of the bottles. The smell—seaweed and mineral spirits—reached Alex even on the other side of the room. “Cold water!” she added sharply.
    In the end, she let Alex take a bath on his own. She had mixed two bottles of brown dye with half a bath of cold water. Alex was instructed to lie in it for ten minutes, submerging both his face and his hair. He was shivering by the time he was allowed out and he didn’t dare look in the mirror as he dried himself—but he noticed that the hotel towels now looked as if they’d been dragged through a sewer. He pulled on a pair of ragged, shapeless boxers and came out.
    “That’s better,” Mrs. Webber muttered. She noticed the scar just above his heart. It was where Alex had been shot and nearly killed by a sniper following his first encounter with Scorpia. “That might be useful too,” she added. “A lot of Afghan boys have bullet wounds. Together, the two of you make quite a pair.”
    Alex didn’t know what she meant. He glanced at Ash—and then he understood. Ash was just pulling on a