The alarm clock went off at exactly seven o’clock.
Derek Vosper woke up next to his wife in the small, end-of-terrace house that they occupied in Headington, a village about three miles outside Oxford. He swung himself out of bed and sat there for a moment in his striped pyjamas. He reached for his glasses, put them on, then headed into the bathroom. Meanwhile, Jane Vosper went downstairs to make the breakfast. She was overweight with dark brown hair that hung limply after a night’s sleep and that wouldn’t look any better when she’d brushed it. Her face was blank. She put the kettle on, sliced some bread for toast and took some eggs out of the fridge.
Neither of them was aware that they were being watched, that no fewer than twenty-eight cameras had been concealed around their home, picking up their every movement. A team from MI6 Special Operations had arrived just hours after the meeting at Liverpool Street had ended. Both the Vospers were at work and if there had been any neighbours around, they would have paid no attention to the Waitrose van which had pulled up outside the front door, nor to the three men who seemed to be making a perfectly ordinary delivery, carrying supermarket bags through the front door.
When they left, one hour later, there were cameras in the skirting board and in holes that had been specially drilled into the brickwork. More cameras had been concealed behind mirrors, on the edge of a lampshade and behind the screen of the TV. Each one had a lens which measured just 3.7 millimetres but which gave an 86-degree field of vision. This meant that there wasn’t a single square millimetre of the house that wasn’t in view. If the Vospers had chosen to go out into the garden, they might have noticed a bee hovering over the lawn. It was actually a miniature camera drone, operating under remote control and it was watching them through the windows.
There were also bugging devices scattered throughout the house. These were so sensitive that they had picked up the sound of Derek Vosper unscrewing his toothpaste tube. An unmarked white van was parked a short way down the road. Two men were sitting in the back, both wearing headphones, gazing at a bank of television monitors. They had been in position for three hours, replacing the team that had stayed there throughout the night.
“How do you want your eggs, dear?”
“I don’t think I fancy an egg today.”
“How about a yoghurt?”
“Thanks…”
Every word that the Vospers spoke was recorded, transcribed and sent over a secure line to the seventh floor – the Communications division – of MI6. But as they got dressed, made the bed and then sat at the kitchen table for breakfast, the husband and wife said nothing of any interest. There was no mention of the Grimaldis, nothing about Steel Claw. Perhaps they had been warned or perhaps they were just too nervous to talk about the day ahead. It was easier to pretend that they were an ordinary couple, setting off to their different jobs.
“Well, I’d best be on my way then.”
“Have you got your tea?”
“Yes. It’s here.”
They kissed each other goodbye and seventy-one seconds later, Jane came out of the front door carrying a handbag in one hand and a large, silver Thermos in the other. She was wearing a light raincoat over an olive-green jersey and dress. The bee briefly hovered over her as she walked down the path and got into the second-hand Mazda which was parked in the main road. It filmed her as she drove away. Derek Vosper was left behind. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.
In fact it was twenty past nine when he finally emerged, wearing a cheap suit and carrying a briefcase. As he walked the short distance to his own car, he was overtaken by an ice cream van and although he was completely unaware of it, he was briefly bathed in X-rays which not only showed him naked but revealed the contents of his pockets and briefcase. He had a telephone, an iPad, a book, some papers and pens, a packet of chewing gum. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that he might be involved in the theft of forty million pounds’ worth of gold. Derek Vosper had a slightly better car than his wife: a VW Golf. He opened the doors with a remote control and got in.
Thirty metres away, Alex Rider was sitting in the front seat of a Vauxhall Astra Sports Tourer, the same car that is used by many of the emergency services throughout the UK. This one, however, was anonymous, with no identification number or siren. It was oyster grey with a sunroof. Ben Daniels was next to him, behind the wheel. They had been outside the house since half past six.
Alex had watched Derek Vosper having his breakfast. The car had a satnav screen mounted in the front dashboard but, of course, it was much more than that. Ben Daniels had touched a switch on the car music system, which had silently pivoted around to reveal a state-of-the-art control panel with a dozen different dials and buttons. The Vauxhall had a sophisticated communications system that allowed him to tune in to the data flow coming from the house, channelling the same images as MI6. If the Vospers sent or received a text or an email, he would be able to read the contents. If they dialled a number on their mobile phone, he would have the name, the address and the life history of the person they were calling before they had even been connected. Alex wondered what other secrets were concealed within the car.
Ben started the engine. “It looks like we’re on the way,” he said.
“About time.” Alex had been grateful when Ben had asked for him to join the team but he was tired after his early start and even a bit bored. Watching a very ordinary couple having their breakfast wasn’t going to help him find Jack. And he was still unsure about the whole plan. Without knowing what it was, he was certain that something was wrong and he was worried that it was his fault. What was it that he had missed?
Derek Vosper’s VW overtook them and they set off after it, keeping a good distance behind.
“He’s heading into Oxford,” Ben muttered.
“To the museum?”
“I suppose so.”
“Here’s something I don’t understand,” Alex said as they continued forward at a steady thirty miles an hour. “There’s forty million pounds’ worth of gold statues inside the building. You think he’s going to steal it, using the helicopter. But he’s got to get it all outside first. How’s that going to work?”
“You said he wasn’t working alone.”
It was true. When Alex was at the Villa Siciliana, he had heard Vosper talking about money. “We should have charged more…” It was definitely “we”. Did he have other people working with him inside the museum? “Where’s the helicopter going to land?” he asked. “It’s the middle of Oxford.”
Ben Daniels shrugged. “On the roof?”
They had come in on the London Road. Now they crossed the River Cherwell with the great tower of Magdalen College over to the right. The road was very wide here with trees on either side. Derek Vosper was three cars ahead of them, heading towards a junction with traffic lights. He went through on green but before Ben could reach them, the lights suddenly changed to red. Alex felt a twitch of annoyance. They hadn’t even entered the town and already they might have lost their target. Sitting next to him, though, Ben didn’t seem concerned. He reached out and flicked another switch in the control panel. At once, like a magic trick, the lights changed back to green. The rest of the traffic was confused. Cars that had started moving forward jerked to a halt. Other drivers just sat there, unable to work out what had happened. Somebody hooted. Ben swerved round them and steered his way through a gap. At the end of the manoeuvre he was just one car behind Vosper.
“I sent out an electromagnetic pulse,” he said, before Alex could ask what had happened. “It interfered with the control box inside the traffic light. Very useful for getting round cities.”
Typical Smithers! Alex was sorry that the gadget master had left MI6. He would have liked to have seen him again.
They were heading down the High Street with more old and attractive buildings on either side. They passed a church with a homeless person – a very large black woman – sitting on a bench, surrounded by shopping bags. Neither of them saw the woman lean forward and speak into a microphone concealed in her sleeve.
“Target and pursuit vehicle have just gone past, heading for next junction. Vehicle 7K in close pursuit.”
They were forced into a one-way system and followed the VW past more colleges, parks and very neat, pastel-coloured houses. A few students went by on bicycles and Alex wondered what it must be like to study here, in this famous town. His education had been interrupted so frequently that he sometimes wondered if he would even get his A-levels, let alone a place at university. He made a mental decision. When this was all over, when he had found Jack, he would get himself a tutor and work day and night to catch up. Maybe one day it would be him on one of these bicycles, preparing himself for a real life.
“Target has turned into Walton Street, heading south.”
The speaker was a street cleaner in a yellow fluorescent jacket, standing behind a plastic bin and speaking into the microphone concealed in his broom. Ben and Alex passed him a few moments later, then turned left, following Vosper round a corner and past a theatre – the Oxford Playhouse. Alex saw him pull in ahead of them and instinctively looked for somewhere to park. The road was crowded. There seemed to be nowhere for them to stop and wait, apart from a narrow gap between a parked car and a builder’s skip. Ben slowed down and stopped so that the space was right beside him. It was barely five centimetres longer than the car, making it impossible to fit in. Alex saw him flip up the top of the gear handle. There was a tiny joystick inside. Ben glanced out of the window, then used his thumb to slide the joystick to the right. To Alex’s astonishment, the car, instead of moving forwards or backwards, suddenly slid sideways, neatly fitting into the gap.
“Omnidirectional wheels,” Ben explained. “Smithers was very pleased with them. They’re actually quite similar to what you’d find on a supermarket trolley. Very useful, occasionally.”
Alex looked out of the window. The Ashmolean Museum was just across the road, a very handsome, classical building built in the Greek style, with two wings and a massive portico at the front that could have been the entrance to a temple. It reminded Alex of the British Museum in London, except that it was smaller and somehow more welcoming. A long balustrade separated it from the street with steps leading into a courtyard. Two banners fluttered in the breeze. Each one showed a solid gold figure with the legend: SOUTH AMERICAN GOLD. There were no visitors yet. The museum opened at ten.
“What do we do now?” Alex asked.
“We wait.”
Ben leaned forward and dragged his finger across the satnav screen. It was touch-sensitive. The map of Oxford swiped across to be replaced by a moving film: the unmistakable shape of the assistant curator, walking down a corridor inside. Alex realized that MI6 technicians had been in the museum too. The camera was hidden somewhere above him, watching from behind. A girl came out of a doorway.
“Oh – Mr Vosper! I didn’t know you were in today.”
“Just come to catch up with some research.”
“Right.”
The image changed as Vosper went into his office and sat down at his desk. A second camera had taken over. Alex watched as he opened a laptop, booted it up and, a few minutes later, began to read a document on the screen.
“Let’s have a look,” Ben muttered.
Alex wasn’t at all surprised that MI6 had access to Vosper’s computer. After all, they’d found it easy enough to hack into his own mobile phone – as he’d discovered in Saint-Tropez. Briefly, he wondered about the sort of society he was living in, where everyone – innocent or guilty – could be watched. Ben tapped the screen a couple of times and the first page of a report appeared. It was headed: CELTIC ARTEFACTS: COLLECTION & INTERPRETATION. This was what Vosper was reading…
…and continued to read for the next hour and a half. The picture on the screen was now completely silent. There were just words, thousands of them, about Celtic jewellery and coins.
Meanwhile, the museum was now open and the day’s visitors had begun to arrive. The exhibition had been on for a while so it wasn’t quite as busy as it had been earlier in the summer. Even so, by eleven o’clock, two hundred people had bought tickets, unaware that they had all been photographed and scanned by facial recognition software and that MI6 knew everything about them before they had passed through the main entrance. Nor could they have known that the museum’s usual security staff had all been sent home for the day. They had been replaced by armed field agents. All bags were being thoroughly examined. More agents – in radio contact with one another – had joined the queue, pretending to be visitors and listening in on every word that was said. Mrs Jones had thrown a huge security net around the museum. Every street leading to and from the building was guarded by dozens more men and women. If the order was given, the museum – indeed, the entire area – could be cordoned off and isolated at a moment’s notice.
Alex stared at the screen as another page of type appeared. Vosper had reached a section entitled: IRON AGE BURIAL SITES. He was reading in silence. Nobody had come into his office. The telephone hadn’t rung. He had told his assistant that he had come to catch up with some research and that seemed to be exactly what he was doing. Alex had been in the car for several hours now. He was cramped and frustrated. Worse still, he was increasingly certain that this was a mistake. They’d all overlooked something. What was it?
He let his mind drift back to the Villa Siciliana and played over the conversation – although he had already done it many times before. He saw himself crouching at the door, watching Derek Vosper with the two brothers.
I’ve seen the names on the list.
It’s certainly going to be a dramatic afternoon.
I’m thinking about my other half…
They’re seeing Henry at half past three.
It was definitely Henry – not Hendrix. But Henry who? Alex had persuaded Ben to search the list of museum staff. There were three men called Henry but two of them worked in maintenance and one, a cloakroom attendant, was eighty-five. The name Henry didn’t seem to have any connection with South America or the gold. And there was something else that puzzled him. Who exactly were “they”, the people who were seeing Henry? Why was the time significant?
He’d gone over what he’d heard with both Ben Daniels and Mrs Jones. Alex had a good memory and all the work he had done for MI6 had helped to train him: he didn’t miss details. But this time there was something. Could it be something he’d seen on the boat? He remembered the map that he had found in Dragana Novak’s cabin. It hadn’t shown the Ashmolean Museum. The scale had been too big. In fact, it had shown Oxford and two other towns.
No. Alex tried to remember what John Crawley had said during the debrief. For some reason, he was sure that he’d said something that was a clue. He’d meant to ask Crawley about it at the time but everyone had moved on so quickly that he hadn’t had opportunity. And now he had forgotten! The one piece of information that would make everything else make sense.
“Here we go!” Ben muttered. “He’s moving again.”
Alex was miles away. He glanced at the screen to see that, at last, Derek Vosper had closed the document and got to his feet. He had been picked up by the hidden cameras, leaving his office.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Alex asked.
Ben looked at his watch. “It’s after one o’clock,” he said. “He’s probably going for lunch.”
Two minutes later, Vosper appeared in real life, coming out of the museum. Ben started the engine. “Once more unto the breach…” he muttered.
“What did you say?” Alex asked.
“Once more…”
“…unto the breach. Yes. It means let’s get moving! It’s from a play!”
And suddenly, Alex knew. The play was Henry V by William Shakespeare. He had studied it at school – when he was at school. It was Henry talking just before the Battle of Agincourt.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
The pieces had been in front of him all the time. It was only now, with no particular reason, that they had all come together to make sense. The key was the map. Oxford. Cheltenham.
And Stratford-upon-Avon.
Alex turned to Ben. “Quickly,” he said. “I want to know what’s on at the theatre.”
“Alex, I don’t think we have time…”
“Today. There’s a theatre in Stratford. The Royal Shakespeare Theatre.” Alex remembered going there once. It had been a lifetime ago.
Ben could hear the seriousness in Alex’s voice. Ahead of him, Vosper was coming down the main steps, on his way to his car. He stabbed at the dashboard screen, searching out the information. “Henry V,” he said. “It starts at half past three.”
It was what Alex had been expecting. It made complete sense. “That’s the Henry they’re going to see! Not Hendrix. I was right about what I heard. But it’s not a person. It’s a play! And the map I saw in Dragana’s cabin … it didn’t just show Oxford. It showed Stratford-upon-Avon. That’s where they’re heading.”
“That’s where who are going? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know…”
In front of them, Derek Vosper had reached his car and was just getting in. They watched him start the engine.
“We’ve got to get after him,” Ben said. He reached for the little joystick, to guide them out of the space.
“No.” Alex stopped him. “That’s the mistake we’ve been making. Vosper was there at the villa in France but this has got nothing to do with him. It’s his wife!”
“Jane Vosper?”
“Yes!” Alex knew he was right. “I actually heard him talking about her. He said he had to think about his other half – and I thought he meant the other half of the money he was owed. But he was talking about his wife!”
“But why? She’s just a coach driver.” Ben remembered what Crawley had said about her. “She works for a school.”
“Yes,” Alex agreed. “But he also said that she’d had a security check done by the police. Everyone in the room just accepted that because it didn’t show anything – she had no criminal record. But that was what I was meaning to ask! Why did they need to check on her in the first place? It must be because she works somewhere important, with lots of security. Maybe that’s the real target. Something’s going to happen between now and half past three and she’s involved!”
Ben hesitated, but only for a moment. He jabbed at the control panel and spoke urgently into a microphone somewhere in the dashboard. “This is Daniels – calling from Vehicle 7K. I need immediate intel on Jane Vosper. Repeat, Jane Vosper. We need to locate her at once!”
A few metres further down the road, Derek Vosper was about to pull out when he heard a squeal of tyres and looked in the mirror just in time to see a silver Vauxhall Astra, which had appeared from nowhere and which was overtaking him at high speed. He jammed his foot on the brake and stopped. It seemed to him that he had only avoided a collision by a matter of inches … and that was something he wouldn’t have wanted today of all days. He sat there for a moment watching the car as it tore into the distance. A traffic light which had been red instantly flicked back to green as it approached. And then it was gone.