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knew he had to call the police. He was amazed that he hadn’t seen one single nurse during the entire ordeal. He leant over the desk, reaching for the phone. A cool night breeze brushed across his neck.
    That should have warned him.
    Four men had come into the hospital but five had been assigned to the job. There was another man: the driver. And if the main doors hadn’t just opened, there wouldn’t have been a breeze.

    Too late Alex realized what that meant. He straightened up as fast as he could, but that wasn’t fast enough.
    He heard nothing. He didn’t even feel the blow to the back of his head.
    He crumpled to the floor and lay still.

KASPAR

    You’re in pain. That’s all you know. Your head is pounding and your heart is throbbing and you wonder if someone has managed to tie a knot in your neck.
    It was a feeling that Alex Rider knew all too well. He had been knocked out by Mr Grin when he was at the Stormbreaker assembly plant, by the vicious Mrs Stellenbosch at the Academy of Point Blanc, and by Nile at the Widow’s Palace in Venice. Even Alan Blunt had got one of his men to fire a tranquillizer dart into him when he had first infiltrated the headquarters of MI6.
    And it was no different this time, the slow climb back from nothing to the world of air and light. Alex became aware that he was lying down, his cheek pressed against the dusty wooden floor. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. With an effort he opened his eyes and then closed them again as the light from a naked bulb dangling overhead burned into them. He waited, then opened them a second time.
    Slowly he straightened his legs and stretched his arms and thought exactly what he thought every time it happened.
    You’re still alive. You’re a prisoner. But for some reason they haven’t killed you yet.

    Alex dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around him. He was in a room that was completely bare: no carpet, no curtains, no furniture, no decoration. Nothing. There was a wooden door, presumably locked, and a single window. He was surprised to see that it wasn’t barred, but when he staggered over to it, he understood why.
    He was high up, seven or eight storeys. Dawn was only just breaking and it was hard to see through the dirty glass, but he guessed he’d been unconscious for a few hours and that he was still in London. It looked like he was being held in an abandoned tower block. There was another block opposite and, looking up, Alex could just see a huge banner strung between two wires running from the top of one building to the other. The first words were outside his field of vision but he could make out the rest: TOWERS
    SOON TO BE AN EXCITING NEW DEVELOPMENT FOR EAST LONDON.
    He went over to the door and tried it just in case. It didn’t move.
    His left arm was aching badly and he massaged it, wondering how much damage he had done to himself.
    This was meant to be his last night in the hospital! How could he have allowed himself to get involved with a gang of murderers who had broken in…? What for?
    Alex rested his shoulders against a wall and slid back down to the floor, cradling his arm. He was still barefooted and he shivered. His single shirt wasn’t enough to protect him against the chill of the early morning. Sitting there, he played back the events that had brought him here.
    Four men had come to St Dominic’s, but they hadn’t been interested in him. They had asked for the boy in the room next door: Paul Drevin. Suddenly Alex remembered where he had heard the name. He’d seen it in the newspapers—but not Paul. Nikolei. That was it. Nikolei Drevin was some sort of Russian multibillionaire. Well, that made sense. The men must have wanted his son for the most obvious reason.
    Money. But they had accidentally kidnapped him instead.

    What would they do when they found out? Alex tried to put the thought out of his mind. He had seen how they’d dealt with Conor, the night receptionist. Somehow he didn’t