Point Blanc by Anthony Horowitz Read Free Book Online Page A

he'd been hoping for.
    He stood up
and followed Mrs. Jones out of the room. As he left, Blunt was already
sifting through his documents as if he'd forgotten that Alex had been
there or even existed.

    ----
THE SHOOTING PARTY
    ^ >>
    THE
CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN Rolls-Royce Corniche cruised along a tree-lined avenue,
penetrating ever deeper into the Lancashire countryside, its 6.75-liter light
pressure V8 engine barely a whisper in the great, green silence all around.
Alex sat in the back, trying to be unimpressed by this car that cost as much as
a house. Forget the plush carpeting, the wooden panels, and the leather seats,
he told himself. It's only a car.
    It was the day
after his meeting at MI6, and, as Alan Blunt had ordered, his appearance had
completely changed. He had to look like a rebel, the rich son who wanted to
live life by his own rules. So Alex had been dressed in purposefully
provocative clothes. He was wearing a T-shirt cut so low that most of his chest
was exposed, and there was a leather thong around his neck. A baggy, checked
shirt, missing most of its buttons, hung off his shoulders and down to his
faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans, frayed at the knees and ankles. Despite his
protests, his hair had been cut so short that he almost looked like a skinhead,
and his right ear had been pierced. He could still feel it throbbing underneath
the temporary stud that had been put in to keep the hole from closing.
    The car had
reached a set of wrought iron gates, which opened automatically to receive it.
And there was Haverstock Hall, a great mansion with stone figures on the
terrace and seven figures in the price. Sir David's family had lived here
for generations, Mrs. Jones had told him. They also seemed to own half the
Lancashire countryside. The grounds stretched for miles in every direction,
with sheep dotted across the hills on one side and three horses watching from
an enclosure on the other. The house itself was Georgian: white brick with
slender windows and columns. Everything looked very neat. There was a walled
garden with evenly spaced beds, a square glass conservatory housing a swimming
pool, and a series of ornamental hedges with every leaf perfectly in place.
    The car
stopped. The horses swung their necks around to watch Alex get out, their tails
rhythmically beating at flies. Nothing else moved.
    The chauffeur
walked around to the trunk. "Sir David will be inside," he said. He
had disapproved of Alex from the moment he set eyes on him. Of course, he
hadn't said as much. But he was a professional. He could show it with his
eyes.
    Alex moved
away from the car, drawn toward the conservatory on the other side of the
drive. It was a warm day, the sun beating down on the glass, and the water on
the other side looked suddenly inviting. He passed through an open set of
doors. It was hot inside the conservatory. The smell of chlorine rose up from
the water' stifling him.
    He had
thought that the pool was empty, but as he watched, a figure swam up from the
bottom, breaking through the surface just in front of him. It was a girl,
dressed only in a white bikini. She had long, black hair and dark eyes, but her
skin was pale. Alex guessed she must be fifteen years old and remembered what
Mrs. Jones had told him about Sir David Friend. "He has a daughter
... a year older than you." So this must be her. He watched her heave
herself out of the water. Her body was well shaped, closer to the woman she
would become than the girl she had been. She was going to be beautiful. That
much was certain. The trouble was, she already knew it. When she looked at
Alex, arrogance flashed in her eyes.
    "Who
are you?" she asked. "What are you doing in here?"
    "I'm
Alex."
    "Oh,
yes." She reached for a towel and wrapped it around her neck.
"Daddy said you were coming, but I didn't expect you just to walk
in like this." Her voice was very adult and upper class. It sounded
strange, coming out of that fifteen-year-old mouth. "Do you swim?"
she