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Nightshade (Alex Rider) - Softcover

Buch 13 von 14: Alex Rider

Horowitz, Anthony

 
9780593115329: Nightshade (Alex Rider)

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Alex Rider is now an IMDb TV/Amazon Original Series!

From internationally bestselling author Anthony Horowitz comes the twelfth thrilling installment of the Alex Rider series! Follow the world's greatest teen spy as he sets off to Gibraltar after the death of Scorpia, and enters into a battle against a new criminal organization: Nightshade.


Following the shocking events of Never Say Die, Alex Rider's world has changed: his biggest enemy, the evil organization Scorpia, has been destroyed. Alex is hoping his life can finally go back to normal, that he can go to school and spend time with his friends--but very quickly everything changes. A new and dangerous criminal organization--Nightshade--is rising.

When Alex discovers they've planned a mysterious attack on London, he will stop at nothing to take them down. But protecting his home city means facing off against a ruthless new enemy and putting his life at stake--again. And this time, there's no one to save him if he makes a mistake.

The #1 New York Times and internationally bestselling Alex Rider series is back with a vengeance in this edge-of-your-seat adventure. Perfect for fans of James Bond and Jason Bourne!

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Anthony Horowitz is a world-renowned screenwriter for film and television, having received multiple awards. And he is, of course, the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling Alex Rider novels, which have become bestsellers the world over, as well as spawned a major motion picture, a TV show, and a line of graphic novels. A master of the spy thriller, Anthony is the only writer authorized by both the Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming estates to write original Sherlock Holmes and James Bond novels, respectively. Anthony lives with his wife in London, England; they are parents to two grown boys. You can visit Anthony Horowitz online at AnthonyHorowitz.com.

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Prologue

The British Airways Airbus A-318 had been kept in a holding pattern before it landed at Heathrow. Looking out of the window, Alex Rider watched the familiar landmarks slide beneath him for a third time. There was the River Thames, snaking its way past Slough and Maidenhead. Then Windsor Castle, built in the eleventh century and now home to the queen, visible for miles around. In the distance, he could see the first high-rise apartments, springing up around the edge of London.
He glanced at Jack Starbright, who was dozing in the seat next to him. The two of them were on their way back from a long weekend in Amsterdam . . . a treat they had promised themselves ever since they had returned from Smoke City, the industrial compound in Wales where Alex had come face-to-face with the Grimaldi brothers, the last two survivors of the criminal organization known as Scorpia. The Grimaldis had been planning the kidnapping of the century, code name Steel Claw, and would have succeeded if Alex hadn’t stumbled across their path. But it had been close. Alex still woke at night remembering the huge steam train that had come blasting through the night, chasing him as he made for the single tunnel that provided the only means of escape.
So much had happened in the past few weeks. He had thought Jack was dead, but discovered she was still alive. That had changed everything for him, lifting a huge weight off his shoulders and giving him a fresh start. She had once been his housekeeper, but she had become his closest friend and he had been unable to manage without her. At the same time, he had left America, picking up the pieces of his old life in London: his home, his friends. Jack had gone back to her studies—she hoped to become a lawyer—while Alex had gone back to school. As an added bonus, the two of them had suddenly found themselves with more money than they had ever known. They would be secure for life.
They had earned a weekend away together, an opportunity to walk along the canals, to visit art galleries and coffee shops, to shop, relax, and enjoy life. Above all, they had spent time together, laughing off everything that had happened in the past year. Even Mrs. Jones, the head of MI6 Special Operations, had urged him to leave his adventures behind him and settle down in a more ordinary life. Alex was convinced that his time as a spy was all behind him now.
He was wrong.
The aircraft had just passed over Cookham, an attractive village on the banks of the River Thames, and if Alex had been able to look down twenty thousand feet, he would have been able to watch as a murder—which had been planned to the last detail several weeks before—was finally put into action.


The security officer sitting outside Clifford Hall on the edge of Cookham had noticed the plane circling and knew at once that it was flight BA 423 from Amsterdam. But then, he knew the flight path of every plane that took off from or landed at Heathrow just as he knew the names of everyone who lived in the village. He could even recognize them by their license plates: the plumber in his white van, the local magistrate in her Volvo, the bank manager in his new Ford Fiesta. The security officer was sitting in a folding chair next to the main gates with a newspaper in his lap. But he had not read a word of it. His job was to watch, to be ready, always to stay alert. And although he looked half-asleep, his hand was never very far away from the Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol that fitted snugly into the thumb-release paddle holster clipped onto his belt, under his jacket. If necessary, he could draw, take aim, and fire with total accuracy in less than two seconds.
His name was Robert Spencer. He had been a second lieutenant in Afghanistan until a roadside bomb had crippled him, ending his military career. He was now a senior officer in Protection Command, a highly specialized division of the London Metropolitan Police. His job was to look after the man who lived at Clifford Hall.
James Clifford—now Lord Clifford—had been a politician for more than forty years, but perhaps the most remarkable thing about him was that in all that time he had always been popular. He was a man who loved his country, who worked hard, who wanted to make a difference. He had been an extremely effective home secretary—in fact he had been so successful in his war on organized crime that, when he retired, it was decided that he should be given around-the-clock protection . . . just in case. He had, after all, made plenty of enemies.
He was retired now and lived with his wife in the handsome Georgian house that his family had owned for generations. Clifford Hall had the look of a French château with five bedrooms, a conservatory, and a perfect lawn that stretched all the way to the river with a view of Lock Island on the other side of a narrow stretch of water. Second Lieutenant Spencer had been given an apartment above the garage. There were CCTV cameras everywhere, and sitting in front of a bank of screens in his front room, he could see anyone who came near. Life in an English village is very much a matter of routine, and after all the time he had spent in Cookham, he had most of the day pinned down to the minute. 8:10 a.m.—the newspapers delivered. 8:25 a.m.—the mail. 9:00 a.m.—Mrs. Winters, the cleaning lady, arrives. 10:15 a.m.—Lady Clifford walks the dogs. And so on. There was almost no chance that anyone would seriously try to hurt Lord Clifford, but as Spencer knew from his time in the army, “almost” wasn’t good enough. He took his job seriously. And he liked Lord Clifford. He wanted to keep the old man safe.
As the British Airways flight curved out of sight, he became aware of two figures approaching the gate and the short drive that led to the front door. His hand slid an inch toward his gun, then stopped as he saw that the visitors were young girls, no more than twelve years old, dressed in the blue-and-red polo shirts that identified them as Girl Guides. One of them was carrying a wooden tray with a pile of chocolate muffins. They stopped in front of him.
“How can I help you girls?” Spencer asked.
“Hello. My name is Amy, and we’re raising money for our local campsite,” the first of them replied. She had fair hair, framing a very attractive face, blue eyes, and a scattering of freckles over her cheeks.
“We made them ourselves,” the other said. She was a year or two younger, a black girl with glasses and hair tied back in pigtails. “I’m Jasmine,” she added.
“They’re fifty p each.”
“Or you can buy three for a pound.”
Spencer smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m not into muffins.” He patted his stomach. “I have to watch my weight.”
“Would the people in the house like to buy some?” Jasmine, the girl with the pigtails, asked.
“I don’t think so.” Spencer shook his head. The truth was that he wouldn’t allow anyone to pass through the gates unless they were expected, not even someone as innocent as a Girl Guide.
But then a voice called out behind him. “I’d love a chocolate muffin. I’ll have it with my afternoon cup of tea.”
Spencer turned around. The front door was open. As luck would have it, Lord Clifford had chosen that moment to come into the garden for a little fresh air. Spencer stood up as his client, the man he was paid to protect, arrived at the front gate. He was wearing a blue blazer and a straw hat to protect himself from the hot sun, and he was supporting himself on a walking stick. He had suffered a heart attack earlier that summer, and he still hadn’t fully recovered his health. But he showed...

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