Stormbreaker: Chapters 14–17

Alex recoiled away from her as she leaned over him.

He realized that thrashing about in the water would only create the current that would bring the creature over to him.

Alex contorted his body and managed to stay down, flailing madly with his legs to propel himself sideways.

Alex had no idea how much pressure the water was exerting on the huge plates of glass, but the whole thing was held together by a framework of iron girders that fitted around the corners on both the inside and the outside of the glass, the metal faces held together by a series of rivets.

Alex had no idea how much pressure the water was exerting on the huge plates of glass, but the whole thing was held together by a framework of iron girders that fitted around the corners on both the inside and the outside of the glass, the metal faces held together by a series of rivets.

It was still falling in torrents through the holes where the windows had been, the rest of it draining away through the floor.

Bruised and dazed, Alex stood up, water curling around his ankles.

Alex backed into a corner of the room, his whole body taut.

Whatever Alan Blunt and MI6 wanted to turn him into, he wasn’t ready to shoot in cold blood.

He was suspended underneath the plane by a single thin white cord, twisting around and around as he was carried ever farther into the air.

There was Battersea Power Station, standing proud with its four great chimneys still intact, even though much of its roof had long ago been eaten away.

There was no other way. He knew that. So he had jumped.
Once he was over the threshold, it wasn’t so bad.

The parachute blossomed open above him and he was jerked back upward, the harness cutting into his armpits and sides.

The room was caught between old and new, between stone colonnades and stainless steel floors, between the very latest in high tech and old curiosities from the Industrial Revolution.

A podium had been set up in the center for Sayle, the prime minister, his press secretary, and the minister of state for education.

Mrs. Jones, dressed in black with a large brooch on her lapel, was next to him.

“I’m glad that Mr. Sayle has such happy memories of our school days together and I’m glad that the two of us, together, today, can make such a vital difference to our nation’s schools.”

Directly south of it was a tall white tower surmounted by a green dome: Imperial College.

The whole city had become a fantastic jigsaw puzzle and he knew he only had seconds to piece it together. A wide, extravagant building with churchlike towers and windows. That had to be the Natural History Museum.

How small it looked compared to the other landmarks, a rectangular building jutting in from the main road with a flat gray roof and, next to it, a series of arches, the sort of thing you might see on a railway station or perhaps an enormous conservatory.

Somehow he managed to maneuver himself over the museum.

But sometime recently it must have leaked because the curators constructed a second roof of plastic sheeting over the top.

As the last pieces of glass fell and disintegrated on the terra-cotta floor, movement and sound returned to the East Hall in an ever-widening wave.

As the last pieces of glass fell and disintegrated on the terra-cotta floor, movement and sound returned to the East Hall in an ever-widening wave.

On the podium, a plume of gray smoke rose out of the side of the broken, useless Stormbreaker.

“But all in all you’re to be congratulated, Alex. You not only lived up to our expectations. You way exceeded them.”

“The newspapers had to print something, of course,” she went on. “The story we’ve put out is that Sayle was attacked by a hitherto unknown terrorist organization and that he’s gone into hiding...”

Fortunately, Sayle was so fanatical that he programmed them so that the smallpox virus could only be released by the prime minister at the Science Museum.

There was a long silence. It seemed that the two spymasters had said all they wanted. But there was one question that nobody had tackled.
“What happens to me?” Alex asked.

“You’ve done very well, Alex,” Mrs. Jones said, trying to sound more conciliatory.

She held up a hand to ward off any argument.

He glanced at the driver, huddled over the wheel in a horribly knitted, homemade cardigan, and slumped onto the backseat.

He glanced at the driver, huddled over the wheel in a horribly knitted, homemade cardigan, and slumped onto the backseat.

Alex looked down, expecting to see blood. There was nothing. He couldn’t feel anything. Then Sayle staggered and fell onto his back. There were two gaping holes in his chest.

Still holding the gun that had killed Herod Sayle, he walked over and examined the body, prodding it with his shoe.