Eagle Strike by Anthony Horowitz

you’re not a spy, Alex. You know that. Even if Ian had some crazy idea about training you up. Three times now you’ve taken time off from school and each time you’ve come back a bit more bashed around. I don’t even want to know what you’ve been up to, but personally I’ve been worried sick!”
    “It wasn’t my choice…” Alex said.
    “That’s my point exactly. Spies and bullets and madmen who want to take over the world – it’s got nothing to do with you. So you were right to walk away in Saint-Pierre. You did the right thing.”
    Alex shook his head. “I should have done something. Anything. If I had, Sabina’s dad would never—”
    “You can’t know that. Even if you’d called the cops, what could they have done? Remember – nobody knew there was a bomb. Nobody knew who the target was. I don’t think it would have made any difference at all. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Alex, going after this guy Yassen on your own was frankly … well, it was very dangerous. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
    She was certainly right about that. Alex remembered the arena and saw again the horns and bloodshot eyes of the bull. He reached out for his glass and took a sip of Coke. “I still have to do something,” he said. “Edward Pleasure was writing an article about Damian Cray. Something about a secret meeting in Paris. Maybe he was buying drugs or something.”
    But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew they couldn’t be true. Cray hated drugs. There had been advertising campaigns – posters and TV – using his name and face. His last album, White Lines , had contained four anti-drugs songs. He had made it a personal issue. “Maybe he’s into porn,” he suggested weakly.
    “Whatever it is, it’s going to be hard to prove, Alex. The whole world loves Damian Cray.” Jack sighed. “Maybe you should talk to Mrs Jones.”
    Alex felt his heart sink. He dreaded the thought of going back to MI6 and meeting the woman who was its deputy head of Special Operations. But he knew Jack was right. At least Mrs Jones would be able to investigate. “I suppose I could go and see her,” he said.
    “Good. But just make sure she doesn’t get you involved. If Damian Cray is up to something, it’s her business – not yours.”
    The telephone rang.
    There was a cordless phone in the kitchen and Jack took the call. She listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Alex. “It’s Sabina,” she said. “For you.”
    *    *    *
    They met outside Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus and walked to a nearby Starbucks. Sabina was wearing grey trousers and a loose-fitting jersey. Alex had expected her to have changed in some way after all that had happened, and indeed she looked younger, less sure of herself. She was obviously tired. All traces of her South of France suntan had disappeared.
    “Dad’s going to live,” she said as they sat down together with two bottles of juice. “The doctors are pretty sure about that. He’s strong and he kept himself fit. But…” Her voice trembled. “It’s going to take a long time, Alex. He’s still unconscious – and he was badly burnt.” She stopped and drank some of her juice. “The police said it was a gas leak. Can you believe that? Mum says she’s going to sue.”
    “Who’s she going to sue?”
    “The people who rented us the house. The gas board. The whole country. She’s furious…”
    Alex said nothing. A gas leak. That was what the police had told him.
    Sabina sighed. “Mum said I ought to see you. She said you’d want to know about Dad.”
    “Your dad had just come down from Paris, hadn’t he?” Alex wasn’t sure this was the right time, but he had to know. “Did he say anything about the article he was writing?”
    Sabina looked surprised. “No. He never talked about his work. Not to Mum. Not to anyone.”
    “Where had he been?”
    “He’d been staying with a friend. A photographer.”
    “Do you know his name?”
    “Marc