Stormbreaker

of the bank muttered.
    “That’s the boy?” The speaker was a middle-aged woman. She had a strange, potato-shaped head and her black hair looked as if it had been cut using a pair of blunt scissors and an upturned bowl. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair. She was dressed in a severe gray suit and was sucking a peppermint. “Are you sure about this, Alan?” she asked.
    Alan Blunt nodded. “Oh yes. Quite sure. You know what to do?” This last question was addressed to his driver, who was also in the room.
    The driver was standing uncomfortably, slightly hunched over. His face was a chalky white. He had been like that ever since he had tried to stop Alex in the auto junkyard. “Yes, sir,” he said.
    “Then do it,” Blunt said. His eyes never left the screen.
    In the lobby, Alex had asked for John Crawley and was sitting on a leather sofa, vaguely wondering why so few people were going in or out. The reception area was quiet and claustrophobic, with a brown marble floor, three elevators to one side, and above the desk, a row of clocks showing the time in every major world city. But it could have been the entrance to anywhere. A hospital. A concert hall. Even a cruise liner.
    The place had no identity of its own.
    One of the elevators slid open and Crawley appeared in the same suit he had worn at the funeral but with a different tie. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Alex,” he said. “Have you come straight from school?”
    Alex stood up but said nothing, allowing his uniform to answer the man’s question.
    “Let’s go up to my office,” Crawley said. He gestured. “We’ll take the elevator.”
    Alex didn’t notice the fourth camera inside the elevator, but then, it was concealed on the other side of the oneway mirror that covered the back wall. Nor did he see the thermal intensifier next to the camera. But this second machine both looked at him and through him as he stood there, turning him into a pulsating mass of different colors, none of which translated into the cold steel of a hidden gun or knife. In less than the time it took Alex to blink, the machine had passed its information down to a computer that had instantly evaluated and then sent its own signal back to the circuits that controlled the elevator. It’s OK.
    He’s unarmed. Continue to the fifteenth floor.
    “Here we are!” Crawley smiled and ushered Alex out into a long corridor, with an uncarpeted wooden floor and modern lighting. A series of doors were punctuated by brightly colored abstract paintings. “My office is just along here.” Crawley pointed the way.
    They had passed three doors when Alex stopped. Each door had a nameplate and this one he knew. 1504: Ian Rider. White letters on black plastic.
    Crawley nodded sadly. “Yes. This was where your uncle worked. He’ll be much missed.”
    “Can I go inside?” Alex asked.
    Crawley seemed surprised. “Why do you want to do that?”
    “I’d be interested to see where he worked.”
    “I’m sorry.” Crawley sighed. “The door will have been locked and I don’t have the key. Another time perhaps.” He gestured again. He used his hands like a magician, as if he were about to produce a fan of cards. “I have the office next door. Just here…”
    They went into 1505. It was a large, square room with three windows looking out over the station. There was a flutter of red and blue outside and Alex remembered the flag he had seen. The flagpole was right next to the office. Inside there was a desk and chair, a couple of sofas, in the corner a fridge, on the wall a couple of prints. A boring executive’s office. Perfect for a boring executive.
    “Please, Alex. Sit down,” Crawley said. He went over to the fridge. “Can I get you a drink?”
    “Do you have Coke?”
    “Yes.” Crawley opened a can and filled a glass, then handed it to Alex. “Ice?”
    “No, thanks.” Alex took a sip. It wasn’t Coke. It wasn’t even Pepsi. He recognized the oversweet, slightly cloying taste of supermarket cola and wished he’d asked for water. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
    “Your uncle’s will…
    The telephone rang and with another hand sign, this one for “excuse me,” Crawley answered it. He spoke for a few moments, then hung up again. “I’m very sorry, Alex. I have to go back down to the lobby. Do you mind?”
    “Go ahead.” Alex settled himself on the sofa.
    “I’ll be about five minutes.” With a final nod of apology, Crawley