Free Point Blank by Anthony Horowitz Page A

minutes later, the helicopter took off. Alex watched through the window as Haverstock Hall got smaller and smaller and then disappeared behind them. He looked at Mrs. Stellenbosch, hunched over the controls, her eyes hidden by her goggles. He eased himself into his chair and let himself be carried away into the darkening sky. Then the clouds rolled in.
    The countryside was gone. So was his only weapon. Alex was on his own.

ROOM 13

    IT WAS RAINING IN PARIS. The city looked tired and disappointed, the Eiffel Tower fighting against a mass of heavy clouds. There was nobody sitting at the tables outside the cafes, and for once the little kiosks selling paintings and postcards were being ignored by the tourists, who were hurrying back to their hotels. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and the evening was drawing in, unnoticed. The shops and offices were emptying, but the city didn’t care. It just wanted to be left alone.
    The helicopter had landed in a private area of Charles de Gaulle airport, and a car had been waiting to drive them in. Alex had said nothing during the flight and now he sat on his own in the back, watching the buildings flash by. They were following the Seine, moving surprisingly fast along a wide, two-lane road that dipped above and below the water level. Their route took them past Notre Dame. Then they turned off, weaving their way through a series of back streets with smaller restaurants and boutiques fighting for space on the pavements.
    ‚The Marais,‛ Mrs. Stellenbosch said to Alex, pointing out the window.
    He pretended to show no interest. In fact, he had stayed in the Marais once with his uncle and knew it as one of the most sophisticated and expensive sections in Paris.
    The car turned into a large square and stopped. Alex glanced out the window. He was surrounded on four sides by the tall, classical houses for which Paris is famous. But the square had been disfigured by a single modern hotel. It was a white, rectangular block, the windows fitted with dark glass that allowed no view inside. It rose up four floors with a flat roof and the name HOTEL DU MONDE in gold letters above the main door. If a spaceship had landed in the square, crushing a couple of buildings to make room for itself, it couldn’t have looked more out of place.
    ‚This is where we’re staying,‛ Mrs. Stellenbosch said. ‚The hotel is owned by the academy.‛
    The driver took their cases out of the trunk. Alex followed the assistant director toward the entrance, the door sliding open automatically to allow them in. The lobby was cold and faceless, white marble and mirrors with a single potted plant tucked into a corner as an afterthought.
    There was a small reception desk with an unsmiling male receptionist in a dark suit and glasses, a computer, and a row of pigeonholes. Alex counted them. There were fifteen. Presumably, the hotel had fifteen rooms.
    ‚ Bonsoir , Madame Stellenbosch.‛ The receptionist nodded his head slightly. He ignored Alex. ‚I hope you had a good journey from England,‛ he continued, still speaking in French.
    Alex gazed blankly, as if he hadn’t understood a word. Alex Friend wouldn’t speak French. He wouldn’t have bothered to learn. But Ian Rider had made certain that his nephew was speaking French almost as soon as he was speaking English. Not to mention German and Spanish as well.
    The receptionist took down two keys. He didn’t ask either of them to sign in. He didn’t ask for a credit card. The school owned the hotel, so there would be no bill when they left. He gave Alex one of the keys.
    ‚I hope you’re not superstitious,‛ he said, speaking in English now.
    ‚No,‛ Alex replied.
    ‚It is room thirteen. On the first floor. I am sure you will find it most agreeable.‛ The receptionist smiled.
    Mrs. Stellenbosch took her key. ‚The hotel has its own restaurant,‛ she said. Her voice was gravelly and strangely masculine. Her breath smelled of cigar smoke. ‚We might as