Excerpt from Ark Angel by Anthony Horowitz, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

PATIENT 9/75958 RIDER/ALEX:

SPECIAL STATUS (MISO).

NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. NO PRESS.

REFER ALL INQUIRIES TO DR. HAYWARD.

It was all very strange. She had been told she would meet some interesting people at St. Dominic’s, and she had been required to sign a confidentiality clause before she began work. But she’d never expected anything like this. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations. But what was the secret service doing with a teenage boy? How had Alex managed to get himself shot? And why had there been two armed policemen sitting outside his room for the first four days of his stay? Diana tried to push these thoughts out of her mind as she put the tray down. Maybe she should have stuck with the NHS. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Looking forward to going home?”

“Yes.”

Diana realized she was staring at Alex and turned her attention to the medicines. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?” “No, I’m all right.” Alex shook his head and for a moment something flickered in his eyes. The pain in his chest had slowly faded, but he knew it would never leave him completely. He could feel it now, vague and distant, like a bad memory.

“Would you like me to come back later?”

“No, it’s all right, thanks.” He smiled. “I don’t need anyone to tuck me in.”

Diana blushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall. You can call me anytime.”

“I might do that.”

The nurse picked up her tray and walked out of the room. She left behind the scent of her perfume—heather and spring flowers—in the air. Alex sniffed. It seemed to him that since his injury, his senses had become more acute.

He reached for his French book, then changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought. Irregular verbs could wait. It was his own future that concerned him more. He looked around at the neat, softly lit room that tried hard to pretend it belonged to an expensive hotel rather than a hospital. There was a TV on a table in the corner, operated by a remote control beside the bed. A window looked out over a wide north London street lined with trees. His room was on the second floor, one of about a dozen arranged in a ring around a bright and modern reception area. In the early days after his operation, there had been flowers everywhere, but Alex had asked for them to be taken away. They’d reminded him of a funeral parlor and he had decided he preferred being alive.

But there were still cards. He had received more than twenty and he’d been surprised how many people had heard that he’d been hurt—and how many had sent a card. There had been a dozen from school: one from the head; one from Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary; and several from his friends. Tom Harris had sent him some photos taken on their trip to Venice and a note:

They told us it’s appendercitis but I bet it isn’t.

Get well soon anyway.

Tom was the only person at Brookland who knew the truth about Alex.

Sabina Pleasure had somehow discovered he was in the hospital and had sent him a card from San Francisco. She was enjoying life in America but missed England, she said. She was hoping to come over for Christmas. Jack Starbright had sent him the biggest card in the room and had followed it up with chocolates, magazines, and energy drinks, visiting him twice a day. There was even a card from the prime minister’s office—although it seemed the prime minister had been too busy to sign it.

And there had been cards from MI6. One from Mrs. Jones, another from Alan Blunt (a printed message with a single word—blunt—signed in green ink as if it were a memorandum, not a get-well card). Alex had been surprised and pleased to receive a card from Wolf, the soldier he had met while training with the SAS. The postmark showed it had been mailed in Baghdad. But his favorite had been sent by Smithers. On the front was a teddy bear. There was no message inside, but when Alex opened the card, the teddy bear’s eyes blinked and it began to talk.

Reprinted from Ark Angel by Anthony Horowitz by permission of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © April 2006, Anthony Horowitz. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.