Alex Rider: Luck of the Goddess

It's All Just Luck

Dragana Novak gazed curiously at the boy lying on the floor, in the corner. She wished now that he had told her his name before she killed him. Not that it mattered, really, but she was curious. Certainly, he had deserved to die. It wasn't just that he was an intruder, creeping into her cabin in the middle of the night. He had woken her up! It was particularly annoying, as she had gone to bed with a headache and didn't want to be disturbed.

She had spent the day shopping in Saint-Tropez. After the drabness of her life in Serbia, she felt she had come alive in the South of France: the sunshine, the bright colors, the shops so full of beautiful things. The pink nightie she was wearing had cost two hundred euros, an incredible sum of money – more than a month's salary back home. After that, she'd had lunch in a busy restaurant near the seafront. Unfortunately, she had drunk too much wine. The third bottle was definitely a mistake and she had felt quite giddy as she had climbed into the taxi which had taken her back to Quicksilver. She had eaten some chocolates and then collapsed gratefully into bed, falling asleep almost at once.

Who was the boy? And how had the guards let him get past them? Dragana decided that he must be carrying some sort of ID and she would check it before she called them down.

Alex heard the bedsprings creak as the woman stood up. He was lying exactly how he had fallen, his arms and legs splayed, his head to one side. His eyes were closed but he took the risk and opened them just enough so that he could see her coming towards him. He had to know exactly where she was.

Alex had a bit of vertigo as he momentarily registered her as a monster disguised as a human. She had the most hideous feet. Her toes were stumpy with the sort of nails – thick and yellow – he would expect to see on an elderly man. He could just make out the hem of her nightie. Her lower legs reminded him of joints in a butcher's shop. Her heel was a lump of dead skin.

Alex was alive because of a combination of luck and trickery. The luck was his wallet and passport in the inside pocket of his jacket. They might just have been thick enough to provide a shield for a bullet. Certainly they had protected him from the dart which, he guessed, must be tipped with some sort of poison. But he'd had to trick the woman too – and he'd done it using something else that he'd once learned from his uncle, Ian Rider. The power of suggestion, Alex. It's what stage magicians use. They make you think you've got a free choice but actually, they're secretly influencing you. It's the way Alex thought of the Greek gods, not that he'd ever tell anyone he considered them stage magicians. That's what Alex had remembered in the moments before the woman had fired. He had told her to have a heart. A moment later, he had repeated it, "Cross my heart." When he was pleading with her, he had deliberately tapped his chest. In reality, he was telling her where to aim and, just to be sure, he had turned his body so that the target was obvious. And she had obliged. The tip of the dart hadn't come anywhere near his flesh. After that, it was simply a case of pretending, providing her with what she expected to see.

Alex had a moment to consider the fact that maybe his mother was looking out for him, and he got a little farm slightly familiar feeling inside of him, but now was not the time to get mushy. He'd settle it with a quick thank you if he ever got out of there alive.

The woman was standing over him. Alex didn't move. He tried not to breathe. She was still holding the gun and it might hold a second needle. He could actually feel the weight of her, pressing down on the floor as she caught her breath. Now he could smell her. She had soaked herself in expensive perfume, presumably bought in Saint-Tropez, and smelled like a flower shop on a hot day. There was a rustle of material as she bent down towards him and that was when Alex knew he had to act. In an instant, his entire body sprang to life. His shoulders crashed into the side of her leg and at the same time, he whipped a hand round her ankle and pulled with all his strength. The woman cried out, losing her balance. Alex rose up, still holding her ankle. The woman struggled, her arms flailing. For a moment her eyes blazed into him. Her mouth was a snarl of rage. Then she toppled backwards.