Bulman stayed where he was. Alex Rider. Alex Rider. The two words thundered through his head. The two words thundered through his head. Alex Rider. Alex Rider. He knew that he would never write his story. His hopes of a major scoop had been destroyed, along with all his riches. He dragged himself to his feet. He was still trembling. He knew that he would never write his story. His hopes of a major scoop had been destroyed, along with all his riches. He dragged himself to his feet. He was still trembling. Alex Rider. Alex Rider. How he wished he had never heard the name. How he wished he had never heard the name.

10.

GREENFIELDS.

THE BUS HEADED WEST DOWN THE HIGHWAY, turning off at Junction 15, near Swindon. It pa.s.sed through the attractive town of Marlborough, then on toward the vast area of empty gra.s.sland that was Salisbury Plain.

There was nowhere quite like it in the whole of England. Three hundred square miles in area, it had been inhabited long before the Romans had arrived. Stone henge stood on its southern edge. Traces of hill forts dating back to the Iron Age were still dotted around. The plain was used by the army, frequently shut down for night exercises using tons of live ammunition. And one small part of it had been leased out to Greenfields for a research center that the authorities had decided was best kept hidden, in the middle of nowhere.

Alex Rider was sitting in the back of the bus next to Tom Harris and James Hale. There were forty students from Brookland on the trip, along with two teachers-Mr. Gilbert and a prim, slightly nervous woman named Miss Barry, who taught music but who had been included to help with discipline. They had been driving for over two hours now and the initial excitement had long since faded away, replaced by the dull sense of endlessness that comes with any highway journey.

Alex took out the postcard that had arrived the day before. It showed a picture of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. On the back, someone had written a date-2/25-and a message: Paris is beautiful and fortunately we didn't manage to get lost. I hope you have a great time. Paris is beautiful and fortunately we didn't manage to get lost. I hope you have a great time. The signature was unreadable, but Alex recognized Smithers's writing. He had been expecting the card, and Smithers had told him how to use it. He slipped it away and turned to Tom. The signature was unreadable, but Alex recognized Smithers's writing. He had been expecting the card, and Smithers had told him how to use it. He slipped it away and turned to Tom.

"Can you do me a favor?" he said casually.

"Sure. What sort of favor?"

"While we're on this trip, I might have to disappear for a bit. So if there's any roll call, could you answer when you hear my name?"

Tom frowned. He spoke quietly so his voice wouldn't carry above the sound of the engine. "The last time you asked me to cover for you, we were in Venice," he said. "You're not doing that stuff again, are you?"

Alex nodded gloomily. He wasn't going to lie to his best friend.

"But I thought you'd finished with all that."

"Yeah. Me too. But it didn't quite work out that way." Alex sighed. "It's not anything dangerous, Tom. And it shouldn't take very long. I just don't want anyone to notice I'm missing."

"Okay. Don't get yourself killed."

They had been following a series of minor roads through swathes of green countryside that stretched to every horizon. This wasn't the England of pretty fields and hedgerows. There was something ancient and untamed about Salisbury Plain. It seemed to be completely deserted, with nothing-no buildings, no fences, no power lines, no people-for as far as the eye could see. There were a few clumps of trees huddled together on the hillsides, boulders and bits of debris thrown carelessly around. The wind was rippling through the gra.s.s, making strange patterns, like silent music chasing ahead of them as they rumbled slowly toward the top of a hill.

"Here it is," James said.

He was right. The Greenfields research facility had suddenly appeared in front of them, concealed in a miniature valley. It was somehow shocking after so much emptiness, like a gla.s.s-and-steel city, or perhaps a prison, or even a colony on another planet. It certainly looked completely alien here, in the middle of Wiltshire. The complex was shaped like a diamond, completely surrounded by a fence with links so tightly meshed that it was almost like a metal wall, glinting in the sun. A single sliding gate, heavily guarded, stood at the end of the tarmac road. At least the guards didn't seem to be armed-but they looked threatening enough, even without weapons.

"What is this place?" James muttered, staring out the window. "It seems like a lot of fuss for a bunch of vegetables."

There were about twenty buildings on the other side of the fence. Many of them were indeed greenhouses, but they were enormous, taller and more solid than anything that might be found in any garden. The rest were either offices, warehouses, or factories, most of them low-rise but some of them five or six stories high, with radio antennas, satellite dishes, and tall silver chimneys built onto the roofs. To one side, Alex saw what might have been a welcome center, sleek and white. A second building right next to the gate was square and solid with a sign marked SECURITY. But his eye was drawn to the construction at the very center of the complex. It was a huge dome, like something out of a science-fiction film, filled with vegetation. He could make out the leaves of palm trees licking at the gla.s.s, twenty or thirty yards high. Vines and knotted foliage hung down on all sides. It was connected to other buildings by four gla.s.s corridors, radiating out like points on a compa.s.s. The Biosphere, Alex thought. He didn't know where he had gotten the name from, but it seemed right.

Greenfields looked brand-new. There was a network of black tarmac roads separated by perfect rectangles of freshly mown gra.s.s. Or perhaps the gra.s.s had been genetically programmed to grow to exactly the right height. Silent electric vehicles were ferrying men and women from place to place. Some of them-presumably the scientists-were wearing white coats. Others were in suits. The guards wore green camouflage jackets, as if to remind themselves that the environment was what this was supposed to be all about. And everywhere, on dozens of poles and on the sides of every building, sophisticated cameras and light sensors gazed down from every angle so that if a single wasp or bee had flown in, someone somewhere would have known.

There was a loud whine inside the bus as Mr. Gilbert turned on the intercom system. "Please don't be alarmed by all the security," he said. His voice, amplified and relayed through the speakers, didn't sound very confident. "A lot of the work that they do here at Greenfields is sensitive. They have to protect themselves from compet.i.tors and from journalists and that sort of thing-and some of the plants they grow here have to be contained. I'm afraid we are all going to have to be searched as we go in-but it shouldn't take long. Please remember to leave all cameras and mobile phones inside the bus. They'll be perfectly safe here, and they won't be allowed inside."

There were general groans and protests, but as they drew closer to the gate, everyone began to open their backpacks, doing as they were told. They'd been on school trips before, but they weren't used to blank-faced guards and body searches. "I hope you know what you're doing," Tom muttered, glancing at Alex. Alex didn't reply. "It's a very simple matter. Hardly worthy of your talents "It's a very simple matter. Hardly worthy of your talents."He remembered Blunt describing the job. Why should he have been surprised by another lie?

The bus slowed down and stopped. They had reached the gate, which slid open slowly to allow them into a holding area. Someone rapped on the door and the driver opened it to allow a thin, unsmiling woman to step inside. Mr. Gilbert stood up and held out a hand, but she ignored him.

"Good afternoon," she said. Her voice was clipped and somehow artificial. She sounded like a speak-your-weight machine. "May I welcome you to Greenfields Bio Center. I am the supervisor here at Greenfields." She paused, running her eyes over the pa.s.sengers as if committing the faces to memory. "My name is Dr. Myra Beckett, and I will be looking after you during your visit."

It was hard to say how old Beckett might be. She was a severe, very masculine woman in a white coat that hung loose from her shoulders and somehow defined her. There was so little emotion in her face that it was hard to imagine her doing anything that didn't involve books, Bunsen burners, and bottles of chemicals. Her dark hair was cut short, with bangs that cut diagonally across her forehead, the last strands touching her left eye. She wore circular, gold-framed spectacles that looked cheap and didn't flatter her. It was obvious that she didn't care about her appearance. She had no makeup and no jewelry. She made no effort to be polite.

"We have not had a visit from a school before," she continued. "We will be showing you our laboratories, some of our cultivation centers, and finally, there will be a lecture on GM technology by one of our experts. Any photography or recording is forbidden. When you leave this bus, every one of you will be searched. This was agreed with your school when you were invited. All mobile telephones are to be left behind. You will follow me now, please."

"What a charming woman," Tom muttered.

"Yeah. I'm really glad we came," James agreed.

The supervisor had climbed off. The two teachers and the rest of the Brookland crowd followed her into the square building that had been designed exactly like a security area in an airport. There were uniformed men standing behind silver tables, X-rays for hand luggage, and metal detectors that everyone would have to pa.s.s through. Alex was one of the first to be searched. He watched as his backpack, with the pencil case inside, disappeared into one of the machines. At the same time, he was briskly patted down by a tight-lipped guard. The postcard that Smithers had sent him was in his inside pocket, and the guard pulled it out, glanced at the picture of the Eiffel Tower, then handed it back to him. His backpack appeared on the other side of the machine, but before he could reach it, another security man picked it up.

"Is this yours?"

"Yes." Alex nodded. All around him, his friends were being processed.

It was as if the guard sensed that something was wrong. He examined Alex, then opened the backpack and looked inside.

"It's just my schoolwork," Alex said.

The guard ignored him. He rifled through the books, then took out the pencil case and opened that too. For a moment Alex was certain that every alarm in the place was about to go off. The guard took out the rubber eraser and turned it over between his fingers. But then, as if he had suddenly lost interest, he shoved everything back into the bag and handed it over.

"Next!"

Alex joined the others at the far end of the security hall. He noticed that Mr. Gilbert was looking fairly disgruntled, and he understood why. They were only on a school outing. They were being treated as though they might all be terrorists.

Beckett didn't seem to care. "We will now proceed into the complex," she announced. "Please stay together. Before we log in, does anyone need to use the toilet?" There was silence. "Good. Then come this way. . . ." She led them to a final barrier, and Alex noticed they were counted electronically as they pa.s.sed through.

But at last they were inside Greenfields. Beckett gathered them in a group, standing in the open air with the great dome behind them. Now that he was closer to the gla.s.s, Alex could see that there was an entire ecosystem contained on the other side. Exotic-looking trees sprouted in all directions like green fireworks photographed just as they went off. There were strange plants and bushes fighting for s.p.a.ce, some of them carrying ugly, brilliant-colored berries or fruit. It had to be hot inside. A thick layer of steam hung in the air and Alex noticed beads of moisture trickling down the panes. To his surprise, there was a movement and a man appeared briefly, covered from head to toe in a white protective suit. He was inside the dome, carrying a piece of measuring equipment. He stood briefly by the window. Then he was gone.

"You are going to be with us for two hours," Beckett began. She didn't sound pleased. Indeed, she was making it clear that this entire visit was an irritation. "We will start by looking at some of the laboratories where you will see some of our techniques, including genetic transformation, cloning, and the particle delivery system-we call it the gene gun-that fires new DNA into plants. The gene gun was developed by our director, Leonard Straik. You will visit some of the greenhouses and storage facilities where we cultivate and store fruits and vegetables, some of which have never before existed on this planet. After that, you will be taken to our lecture theater." She pointed at the white building that Alex had noticed from the brow of the hill. "There will be a discussion about the need for GM technology and the ways that it can help the future of the planet. And finally"-she smiled so briefly that it seemed to be no more than a nervous twitch-"you are invited to our canteen for a cup of our own Greenfields Bio Center Blend coffee, which has been genetically modified to deliver a more satisfying flavor.

"Please do not at any time separate from the group. This is the very first occasion that we have opened our doors for a school visit, and some of the guards are a little nervous. I would be very sorry if any of you delightful young people were asked to leave. Also, do not touch anything. You will be standing close to many chemicals and plant specimens. Any of them could be dangerous. Are there any questions?"

"What's in there?" someone asked.

Beckett turned around and looked at the central greenhouse. For a moment her eyes seemed to flash behind the circular lenses. "We call that the Poison Dome," she explained. "For many years, Greenfields has been researching natural poisons . . . which is to say toxins such as ricin and botulin, which occur in nature and have the ability to kill human beings. Inside the Poison Dome, we grow some of the deadliest plants on the planet, including water hemlock, deadly nightshade, elephant's ear, death cap mushrooms, and castor beans. The manzanilla tree has attractive fruit that you may choose to swallow. If you do so, it will kill you instantly. There is also a white resin dripping out of it that will blister your skin or blind you. The leaves of the ongaonga from New Zealand only need to touch you to produce hideous burns. It might interest you to know that a common nettle that you may find growing in your garden-Urtica dioica-injects you with five neurotransmitters when it stings you. The nettles inside the Poison Dome have been genetically modified so that they will sting you with five hundred neurotransmitters. I would like to imagine the pain of such a death, but in truth, I do not have enough imagination."

She took out a tissue and touched it briefly against her lips.

"We are particularly interested in the way poisons interact," she continued. "So you will also find animal life in there, including specimens of the blue dart frog, which releases lethal toxins from its skin, the banana spider, the taipan snake, and the marbled cone snail. A single drop of its slime can kill an elephant." She paused and looked around the group. "If any of you would like to visit the Poison Dome, please let me know. Your visit will probably last about fifteen seconds before you die horribly."

n.o.body spoke. Miss Barry, the music teacher, had gone very pale.

"Very well. Let us head over to the first laboratory. I will ask your teacher to take a roll call when we enter and again when we leave."

Tom Harris glanced at Alex, looking more doubtful by the minute. Alex shrugged. He was remembering what Blunt had told him about Philip Masters, how the whistle-blower had died. His body had been unrecognizable when it was found, and now Alex had a good idea what might have happened to him. Well, here was certainly one area of the Bio Center he'd be careful to avoid.

They went into one of the taller buildings with a steel chimney rising above them and smoke trickling into the sky. Beckett let them in using an electronic swipe card that she carried around her neck, and they pa.s.sed into a clean, uncluttered pa.s.sageway, where Mr. Gilbert took their names. As they set off once again, Alex made sure he was lingering near the back. They pa.s.sed a restroom. Quickly he nudged Tom, who nodded back, and without hesitating Alex suddenly ducked sideways, throwing his weight against the door and plunging inside.

Suddenly he was alone, standing in a white-tiled room with two sinks and two mirrors in front of him. He waited until he could no longer hear the voices or the footsteps of his friends. n.o.body had seen him leave. It was time to get started.

He took out the postcard with the view of Paris and went over to the sink. He ran a paper towel under the tap, then wiped it over the picture. The Eiffel Tower and its surroundings dissolved and disappeared. Underneath, there was an intricately drawn map of the Greenfields Bio Center, showing all the buildings and pa.s.sageways, with two tiny lights already blinking. One was red. One was green. They told him where he was and where he had to get to.

He listened for a moment, and when he was sure that there was no one nearby, he slipped out into the corridor again, holding the postcard in front of him. According to the flashing display, the chief science officer-Leonard Straik-could be found in the building next door to this one, but the two of them were connected by a walkway, so Alex wouldn't have to go back outside. All in all, he didn't think he was in too much danger . . . at least not yet. He was wearing a school uniform, part of an invited group. If anyone did run into him, it would be easy enough to claim that he had simply lagged behind and become lost. And anyway, what was there to worry about? The research center might look sinister and it might have poison at its heart, but n.o.body had suggested it was breaking any laws. He was here simply because one man, Straik, might be a security risk. His job was an easy one. And half an hour from now, it would all be over.

Even so, his nerves were jangling as he made his way forward, the flashing light in the display signaling his progress. He had been heading in the same direction as the school party until he came to an open area where three corridors met with a concrete staircase heading up to the next floor. That was where the light seemed to be directing him. He went up the first few steps, then flattened himself against a wall as he heard footsteps approaching. A man and a woman appeared, both of them wearing white coats, walking down one of the pa.s.sageways below him. They were deep in conversation and didn't notice him. Alex waited until they were gone, then continued up.

The inside of the building was like a school or university. The walls were mainly whitewashed and bare, with signs pointing toward different blocks. There were no decorations, just fire extinguishers and display boards full of safety notices. The second floor was identical to the ground one, with doorways and interlinking corridors. Without Smithers's postcard, Alex wouldn't have had any idea where to go, but now he allowed it to lead him until he arrived at the gla.s.s bridge that led to the next building. It was more dangerous here. The bridge was about thirty feet long, exposed on both sides. From where he was standing, Alex could see electric vehicles pa.s.sing each other on the road underneath. A couple of guards walked slowly past, and Alex saw that these two were armed. He recognized the familiar shape of 19mm Micro Uzi sub-machine guns, hanging lazily against their chests, and wondered if the weapons had been kept hidden deliberately when the school party arrived.

To make matters worse, there were also several cameras pointing his way. Alex could wait until there was no one around, but he would still be spotted if he tried to cross the bridge. He opened his bag, took out the pencil case, and found the pocket calculator. Jamming the cameras might well advertise that something was wrong, but he had no choice. He pressed the plus b.u.t.ton three times, checked that the road was clear, then crossed the bridge.

He knew he was operating against the clock now. With the cameras down, security inside the complex would be heightened and it would be less easy to explain what he was doing if he was caught. He ran to the next corner, then jerked back as a door opened and a guard appeared, running down a corridor in front of him. It was obvious that Alex had pa.s.sed from an academic or administrative block into an area reserved for senior management and executives. The floor was suddenly carpeted. There were paintings-highly detailed watercolors of different plants-on the walls. The lighting was softer and the doors were made of expensive wood. According to the navigation system concealed inside the postcard, Straik's office was nearby, and Alex also knew its number: 225. That was the date that Smithers had written above the message.

He found it at the end of the corridor around the next corner. As he approached, he heard a door open somewhere downstairs and someone calling out. There were more footsteps . . . someone hurrying. A telephone was ringing insistently. n.o.body was answering it. They were only tiny details, yet Alex had the sense that something had changed inside Greenfields. The cameras were out of action, and that had made them nervous.

Was there anyone in Straik's office? There was only one way to find out. Alex took a deep breath and knocked. This was the moment of truth. If someone called out for him to come in, the whole thing would have been a waste of time.

There was silence.

Alex sighed. So far, so good. He took out the pencil case and removed the library card. He had noticed a card reader built into the wall beside every door that he had pa.s.sed, and Straik's was no different. Alex swiped his card through the reader, then fed it into the slot at the bottom of his pencil case. He felt the whole thing vibrate in his hand as the machinery that Smithers had built into the secret compartment did its work. A few seconds later, the library card slid out again. Alex swiped it a second time. The card had been reprogrammed. There was a click and Straik's door swung open.

Alex hurried in, closing the door behind him. He found himself in a large, comfortable office with views over the perfect lawn outside the security block. That was where they had gathered when they had first arrived, and for a fleeting moment Alex wondered if he had been missed yet. Had Tom been able to cover for him during the second roll call? He began to realize just how risky his plan had been-but it was too late now. He looked around him. Straik had four or five potted plants, which seemed to have been genetically modified to look artificial. There were half a dozen bookshelves, an antique mirror, and a gla.s.s-fronted cabinet with a scattering of scientific awards. A framed picture had recently been delivered but not yet hung. It was still in Bubble Wrap, leaning against the wall. Two designer armchairs sat side by side, opposite an antique desk. Straik's computer was on the desk.

Alex made straight for it. He just wanted to get this over with and then join his friends. Once he was back with the school group, he would be safe. Even if the security people realized there was an intruder at large, they would never suspect him. He had to admit that Alan Blunt was right. Sometimes it did help to be fourteen.

Straik had a leather chair, a ma.s.sive, swiveling thing that reminded Alex of the dentist. He sat down and took out the eraser that had come with the pencil case. Some of the gadgets that Smithers had supplied him with over the past year had been ingenious, but this one was very simple. He simply ripped the eraser in half, then pulled it apart to reveal the memory stick inside.

Straik's computer was already turned on, but Alex had no doubt that any important files would be encrypted and protected by a whole series of pa.s.swords. Fortunately, that wasn't his problem. Alex found the USB port. There was already a memory stick there and he took it out, laying it on the desk. Then he plugged in his own.

Immediately, the screen blazed into life with four columns of figures flickering and spinning crazily as the worm-or whatever was built into the memory stick-burrowed into the heart of the computer, sucking out its information. How long had Smithers said this would take? Alex thought he heard voices outside in the corridor, and he felt the cold touch of the air-conditioning against the sweat on his neck and brow. Half a minute. That was all. But the seconds seemed to stretch themselves in front of him as more and more files-thousands of them-appeared and disappeared, each one duplicated and stolen away.

57.2 GB downloaded of 85.3.

Alex forced his eyes away from the screen and looked at the desk, wondering what other secrets the director of Greenfields might have left scattered around. But there was nothing out of the ordinary: a diary with a few scribbled entries, some letters waiting to be signed. He glanced at them, but they were brief and uninteresting.

66.5 GB downloaded of 85.3.

He slid open one of the drawers. It held stationery-envelopes and headed notepaper, business cards, and a telephone directory. Two notebooks, both of them empty. He turned back to the screen. Only twenty gigabytes to go, but infuriatingly, the compuer seemed to have slowed down as whatever worms were hidden on the memory stick burrowed their way through the various firewalls. Even so, he wouldn't have time to go through the files. Most of them would make no sense to him anyway, and it would be impossible to tell which were important and which were simply routine.

71.1 GB downloaded of 85.3.

Alex knew that he was running out of time, that someone could arrive at any moment. Part of him was listening for footsteps in the corridor.

79.5 GB downloaded of 85.3.

The memory stick had almost done its work. But now someone really was approaching! Alex could hear two men talking, getting closer all the time.

On the screen, the horizontal bar came to the end of its journey.

Download complete.

The memory stick had finished its work. The computer screen went blank. There was a faint bleep as the lock was activated. Alex s.n.a.t.c.hed the memory stick and dived forward, making for the one hiding place he had seen inside the office. Already he was wondering what he would do if Straik decided to spend the whole day in his office. How would he get back to the school group? He would be trapped.

Alex had just managed to conceal himself when the door opened.

Two men came in.

From where Alex was crouching, he could see Leonard Straik as he approached the desk. The Greenfields director was reflected in the mirror, and with a sense of total shock, Alex realized that he recognized him. Silver hair rising up as if it had just been blown dry. Heavy lips and jowels. Small, watery eyes. The two of them had met recently. But where . . . ?

Then he remembered. Scotland. New Year's Eve. The man he had thought of as an accountant, playing cards with Desmond McCain. What had McCain called him? Leo. Of course! That was it. Leo was Leonard . . . Leonard Straik.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? We actually develop it ourselves, you know. But it still tastes disgusting."

"No. Not for me, thank you."

The other man came in, closing the door behind him. And that was an even bigger shock for Alex.

The second man was Desmond McCain.

11.

CONDITION RED.

" S O, IS IT READY FOR SHIPMENT?"

Alex remembered McCain's voice so well: not loud but deep and powerful, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with self-confidence. And yet he had difficulty p.r.o.nouncing his words. His smashed jaw wasn't quite able to form them perfectly. He had taken one of the designer chairs and was sitting with his back to Alex, the silver crucifix in his ear just visible above his right shoulder. Meanwhile, Straik had taken his place on the other side of the desk. The two men had no idea that anyone else was in the room.

It was fortunate that Straik liked big paintings. Whatever it was that he had bought for his office had provided Alex with his hiding place. He was squashed up behind it, in the awkward, triangular s.p.a.ce between the picture and the wall. There certainly wouldn't have been room for a full-grown adult here, and even he was cramped, the muscles in his thighs and shoulders already urging him to straighten up. He could make out a little of Straik and McCain reflected in the antique mirror, but he didn't dare lean too far forward. If he could see them, they would be able to see him.

"Of course it's ready," Straik replied. He sounded irritated. "I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"So where is it now?"

"The bulk of it is at Gatwick Airport. It's being carried out in a commercial Boeing 757. Completely routine. But I thought it might amuse you to have a look at it, so I've kept a sample for you here." Straik slid open one of the drawers of his desk and took something out. Alex craned forward, but he couldn't see what it was. "It took a little while longer than expected. We had problems with ma.s.s production."

"How much were you able to produce?" McCain asked.

"A thousand gallons. It should be more than enough. The main thing is to make sure that the temperature is kept constant when it's in the air. You have to remember, this stuff is alive. But that said, it's also fairly durable."