Free Point Blank by Anthony Horowitz Page B

well eat here tonight. We don’t want to go out in the rain. Anyway, the food here is excellent. Do you like French food, Alex?‛
    ‚Not much,‛ Alex said.
    ‚Well, I’m sure we’ll find something that you like. Why don’t you freshen up after the journey?‛ She looked at her watch. ‚We’ll eat at seven—an hour and a half from now. It will give us an opportunity to talk together. Might I suggest, perhaps, some neater clothes for dinner? The French are informal, but—if you’ll forgive me saying so, my dear—you take informality a little far. I’ll call you at five to seven. I hope the room is all right.‛
    Room 13 was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. The door opened into a surprisingly large space, with views over the square. There was a double bed with a black-and-white comforter, a television and minibar, a desk, and, on the wall, a couple of framed pictures of Paris. A porter had carried up Alex’s suitcase, and as soon as he was gone, Alex kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. He wondered why they had come here. He knew the helicopter had needed refueling, but that shouldn’t have necessitated an overnight stop. Why not fly on straight to the school?
    He had more than an hour to kill. First he went into the bathroom—more glass and white marble—and took a long shower. Then, wrapped in a towel, he went back into the room and turned on the television. Alex Friend would watch a lot of television. There were about thirty channels to choose from. Alex skipped past the French ones and stopped on MTV. He wondered if he was being monitored. There was a large mirror next to the desk, and it would be easy enough to conceal a camera behind it. Well, why not give them something to think about?
    He opened the minibar and poured himself a glass of gin. Then he went into the bathroom, refilled the bottle with water, and put it back in the fridge. Drinking alcohol and stealing! If she was watching, Madame Stellenbosch would know that she had her hands full with him.
    He spent the next forty minutes watching television and pretending to drink the gin. Then he took the glass into the bathroom and dumped it in the sink. It was time to get dressed.
    Should he do what he was told and put on neater clothes? In the end, he compromised. He put on a new shirt, but kept the same jeans. A moment later, the telephone rang. His call for dinner.
    Mrs. Stellenbosch was waiting for him in the restaurant, a large, airless room in the basement. Soft lighting and mirrors had been used to make it feel more spacious, but it was still the last place Alex would have chosen. The restaurant could have been anywhere, in any part of the world. There were two other diners—businessmen, from the looks of them—but otherwise they were alone. Mrs. Stellenbosch had changed into a black evening dress with feathers at the collar, and she had an antique necklace of black and silver beads. The fancier her clothes, Alex thought, the uglier she looked. She was smoking another cigar.
    ‚Ah, Alex!‛ She blew smoke. ‚Did you have a rest? Or did you watch TV?‛
    Alex didn’t say anything. He sat down and opened the menu, then closed it again when he saw that it was all in French.
    ‚You must let me order for you. Some soup to start, perhaps? And then a steak. I’ve never yet met a boy who doesn’t like steak.‛
    ‚My cousin Oliver is a vegetarian,‛ Alex said. It was something he had read in one of the files.
    The assistant director nodded as if she already knew this. ‚Then he doesn’t know what he is missing,‛ she said. A palefaced waiter came over and she placed the order in French. ‚What will you drink?‛ she asked.
    ‚I’ll have a Coke.‛
    ‚A repulsive drink, I’ve always thought. I have never understood the taste. But of course, you shall have what you want.‛
    The waiter brought a Coke for Alex and a glass of champagne for Mrs. Stellenbosch. Alex watched the bubbles rising in the two glasses, his black, hers