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I T WAS ANOTHER PERFECT DAY in the south of France. Once again, the mistralâthat irritating wind that pokes in from the northwestâhad decided to stay away and the sky was a huge, empty blue. In London, the summer had gotten off to its usual shaky start. It was pouring with rain and, with Wimbledon just a week away, everyone was watching the forecasts with a mixture of gloom and resignation. But the French Riviera, the famous Côte DâAzur, knew nothing of that. Here the sun rose early, shone all day, and only crept behind the horizon reluctantly and with the promise that it would soon return.
Alex Rider stood on the terrace of the villa at Mont Boron, just outside Nice. From here he had a stunning view of the entire bay, with the beaches of the Promenade des Anglais sweeping around in a great curve that reached all the way to the airport at the far end. Even as he watched, a British Airways jet took off, tiny in the distance, rising steeply before banking left and corkscrewing up into the sky. It was a reminder that tomorrow he too would be returning home. The visit would be over all too quickly.
This had been a stolen weekend. A school friend of hisâJames Haleâhad an incredibly rich uncle and aunt with a villa perched on the rock face: a couple of living rooms, three bedrooms, and a series of terraces, one above the other, with a circular swimming pool at the bottom and a vertical drop to the Mediterranean far below. James had been invited out and he had taken Alex with himâfive days of luxury and a welcome break from school.
Andrew and Celestine Hale were pleasant enough, elderly with no children of their own. He was English. She was French. The two of them ran a gardening and maintenance business looking after vacation homes. If there had been one fly in the ointment, it was that Celestine was always worrying about the boys. She had watched in horror as theyâd jumped off the terrace and into the pool. She didnât want them to go out on their ownâshe was afraid theyâd get lost. When they had gone snorkeling near the old port, she had been hunched up on the beach, certain theyâd be run over by one of the ferries heading out to Corsica. She was a real tantine , Alex thought. Not so much an aunt as an auntie, with a touch of the granny thrown in too.
But she was also a wonderful cook, and in the evenings, after a few glasses of wine, she seemed more relaxed. Most nights theyâd eaten in. Andrew Hale insisted that the restaurants in Nice were mainly overpriced and strictly for tourists. And with the views from the villaâthe sea glowing red and the city ablaze with pin-pricks of lightâthere was nowhere else that Alex would rather have been.
âSo, what are you doing this morning?â Alex hadnât heard Mr. Hale step out onto the terrace behind him. Jamesâs uncle was wearing a white jacket and a panama hat. He was on his way to visit a relative at Villefranche just down the coast, and for some reason James had to go with him. Until mid-afternoon, Alex would be on his own.
âIâm happy staying here,â Alex said. âI can hang out by the pool.â
âNonsense!â Andrew came over and stood beside him. âThis is your last day. You ought to do something memorable.â He thought for a moment, then a gleam came into his eyes. âHave you ever been parasailing?â
âNo.â
âWell, itâs great fun. Youâre not scared of heights, are you?â
âNot really.â
âThen you should give it a go.â He called back into the kitchen. âCelestine! Why donât you take Alex down to the Blue Beach?â Celestine appeared in the doorway. She was holding a plate, wiping it dry. âHe wants to go parasailing,â Andrew explained.
This wasnât quite true. But that was the way with Andrew Hale. Once he got an idea in his head, he always assumed that everyone would
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