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Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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Monday morning, the start of a new week. Alex was sitting in room 1605, on the sixteenth floor of the anonymous building in Liverpool Street. He had sworn that he would never return here. The man and the woman with him in the room were the last two people he wanted to see.
And yet here he was. He had been drawn in as easily as a fish in a net.
As usual, Alan Blunt didn‟t seem particularly pleased to see him, preferring to study the file on the desk in front of him rather than the boy himself. It was the fifth or sixth time Alex had met the man in overall command of this section of MI6 and he still knew almost nothing about him.
Blunt was about fifty, a man in a suit in an office. He didn‟t seem to smoke and Alex couldn‟t imagine him drinking either. Was he married? Did he have children? Did he spend his weekends walking in the park or fishing or watching football matches? Somehow Alex doubted it. He wondered if Blunt had any existence at all outside these four walls. He was a man defined by his work. His whole life was devoted to secrets, and in the end his own life had become a secret itself. He looked up from the neatly printed report.
“Crawley had no right to involve you in this business,” he said. Alex said nothing. For once, he wasn‟t sure that he disagreed.
“The Wimbledon tennis championships. You nearly got yourself killed.” He glanced quizzically at Alex. “And this business in Cornwall. I don‟t like my agents getting involved in dangerous sports.”
“I‟m not one of your agents,” Alex said.
“There‟s enough danger in the job without adding to it,” Blunt went on, ignoring him. “What happened to the man on the jet ski?” he asked.
“We‟re interrogating him now,” Mrs Jones replied.
The deputy head of Special Operations was wearing a grey trouser suit, with a black leather handbag that matched her eyes. There was a silver brooch on her lapel, shaped like a miniature dagger. It seemed appropriate.
She had been the first to visit Alex as he‟d recovered in hospital in Newquay and she at least had been concerned about what had happened. Of course, she had shown little or no emotion. If anyone had asked, she would have said that she didn‟t want to lose someone who had been useful to her and who might be useful again. But Alex suspected this was only half the story. She was a woman and he was fourteen years old. If Mrs Jones had a son, he could well be the same age as Alex. That made a difference—one that she wasn‟t quite able to ignore.
“We found a tattoo on the man‟s arm,” she continued. “It seems that he was also a member of the Big Circle gang.” She turned to Alex. “The Big Circle is a relatively new triad,” she explained.
“It‟s also, unfortunately, one of the most violent.”
“I think I‟d noticed,” Alex said.
“The man you knocked out and refrigerated at Wimbledon was a Sai-b. That means „little brother‟. You have to understand how these people work. You smashed their operation and made them lose face. That‟s the last thing they can afford. So they sent someone after you. He hasn‟t said anything yet but we believe he‟s a Dai-io, or a „big brother‟. He‟ll have a rank of 438 …
that‟s one under the Dragon Head, the leader of the triad. And now he‟s failed too. It‟s a little unfortunate, Alex, that as well as half-drowning him, you also broke his nose. The triad will take that as another humiliation.”
“I didn‟t do anything,” Alex said. It was true. He remembered how the thruster had finally been torn away from his ankle. It wasn‟t his fault that it had hit the man in the face.
“That‟s not how they‟ll see it,” Mrs Jones went on. She sounded like a schoolteacher. “What we‟re dealing with here is Guan-shi.”
Alex waited for her to explain.
“Guan-shi is what gives Big Circle its power,” she said. “It‟s a system of mutual respect. It ties all the members together. It essentially means that
And yet here he was. He had been drawn in as easily as a fish in a net.
As usual, Alan Blunt didn‟t seem particularly pleased to see him, preferring to study the file on the desk in front of him rather than the boy himself. It was the fifth or sixth time Alex had met the man in overall command of this section of MI6 and he still knew almost nothing about him.
Blunt was about fifty, a man in a suit in an office. He didn‟t seem to smoke and Alex couldn‟t imagine him drinking either. Was he married? Did he have children? Did he spend his weekends walking in the park or fishing or watching football matches? Somehow Alex doubted it. He wondered if Blunt had any existence at all outside these four walls. He was a man defined by his work. His whole life was devoted to secrets, and in the end his own life had become a secret itself. He looked up from the neatly printed report.
“Crawley had no right to involve you in this business,” he said. Alex said nothing. For once, he wasn‟t sure that he disagreed.
“The Wimbledon tennis championships. You nearly got yourself killed.” He glanced quizzically at Alex. “And this business in Cornwall. I don‟t like my agents getting involved in dangerous sports.”
“I‟m not one of your agents,” Alex said.
“There‟s enough danger in the job without adding to it,” Blunt went on, ignoring him. “What happened to the man on the jet ski?” he asked.
“We‟re interrogating him now,” Mrs Jones replied.
The deputy head of Special Operations was wearing a grey trouser suit, with a black leather handbag that matched her eyes. There was a silver brooch on her lapel, shaped like a miniature dagger. It seemed appropriate.
She had been the first to visit Alex as he‟d recovered in hospital in Newquay and she at least had been concerned about what had happened. Of course, she had shown little or no emotion. If anyone had asked, she would have said that she didn‟t want to lose someone who had been useful to her and who might be useful again. But Alex suspected this was only half the story. She was a woman and he was fourteen years old. If Mrs Jones had a son, he could well be the same age as Alex. That made a difference—one that she wasn‟t quite able to ignore.
“We found a tattoo on the man‟s arm,” she continued. “It seems that he was also a member of the Big Circle gang.” She turned to Alex. “The Big Circle is a relatively new triad,” she explained.
“It‟s also, unfortunately, one of the most violent.”
“I think I‟d noticed,” Alex said.
“The man you knocked out and refrigerated at Wimbledon was a Sai-b. That means „little brother‟. You have to understand how these people work. You smashed their operation and made them lose face. That‟s the last thing they can afford. So they sent someone after you. He hasn‟t said anything yet but we believe he‟s a Dai-io, or a „big brother‟. He‟ll have a rank of 438 …
that‟s one under the Dragon Head, the leader of the triad. And now he‟s failed too. It‟s a little unfortunate, Alex, that as well as half-drowning him, you also broke his nose. The triad will take that as another humiliation.”
“I didn‟t do anything,” Alex said. It was true. He remembered how the thruster had finally been torn away from his ankle. It wasn‟t his fault that it had hit the man in the face.
“That‟s not how they‟ll see it,” Mrs Jones went on. She sounded like a schoolteacher. “What we‟re dealing with here is Guan-shi.”
Alex waited for her to explain.
“Guan-shi is what gives Big Circle its power,” she said. “It‟s a system of mutual respect. It ties all the members together. It essentially means that
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