Skeleton Key
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Terrorism, #Juvenile Fiction, #Political Science, #Europe, #Law & Crime, #Political Freedom & Security, #Spies, #Orphans, #Orphans & Foster Homes, #Mysteries & Detective Stories, #People & Places, #Family, #Young adult fiction, #Tennis, #Sports & Recreation, #Miscellaneous, #Rider; Alex (Fictitious character), #Spies - Great Britain, #England, #Tennis stories, #Spy stories
IN THE DARK
Night came quickly to Skeleton Key.
The sun hovered briefly on the horizon, then dipped below. At once, the clouds rolled in—first red, then mauve, silver, green and black as if all the colours in the world were being sucked into a vast melting pot. A single frigate bird soared over the mangroves, its own colours lost in the chaos behind it. The air was close. Rain hung waiting. There was going to be a storm.
The single engine Cessna Skyhawk SP circled twice before coming in to land. It was the sort of plane that would barely have been noticed, flying in this part of the world. That was why it had been chosen. If anyone had been curious enough to check the registration number printed under the wing, they would have learned that this plane belonged to a photographic company based in Jamaica. This was not true. There was no company and it was already too dark to take photographs.
There were three men in the aircraft. They were all dark skinned, wearing faded jeans and loose, open-neck shirts. The pilot had long black hair, deep brown eyes and a thin scar running down the side of his face. He had met his two passengers only that afternoon. They had introduced themselves as Carlo and Marc but he doubted these were their real names. He knew that their journey had begun a long time ago, somewhere in Eastern Europe. He knew that this short flight was the last leg. He knew what they were carrying. Already, he knew too much.
The pilot glanced down at the multifunction display in the control panel. The illuminated computer screen was warning him of the storm that was closing in. That didn‟t worry him. Low clouds and rain gave him cover. The authorities were less vigilant during a storm. Even so, he was nervous. He had flown into Cuba many times, but never here. And tonight he would have preferred to have been going almost anywhere else.
Cayo Esqueleto. Skeleton Key.
There it was, stretching out before him, thirty-eight kilometres long and nine kilometres across at its widest point. The sea around it, which had been an extraordinary, brilliant blue until a few minutes ago, had suddenly darkened, as if someone had thrown a switch. Over to the west, he could make out the twinkling lights of Puerto Madre, the island‟s second biggest town. The main airport was further north, outside the capital of Santiago. But that wasn‟t where he was heading.
He pressed on the joystick and the plane veered to the right, circling over the forests and mangrove swamps that surrounded the old, abandoned airport at the bottom end of the island.
The Cessna had been equipped with a thermal intensifier, similar to the sort used in American spy satellites. He flicked a switch and glanced at the display. A few birds appeared as tiny pinpricks of red. There were more dots pulsating in the swamp. Crocodiles or perhaps manatees.
And a single dot about twenty metres from the runway. He turned to speak to the man called Carlo but there was no need. Carlo was already leaning over his shoulder, staring at the screen.
Carlo nodded. There was only one man waiting for them, as agreed. Anyone hiding within a few hundred metres of the airstrip would have shown up. It was safe to land.
The pilot looked out of the window and there was the runway. It was a rough strip of land on the edge of the coast, hacked out of the jungle and running parallel with the sea. The pilot would have missed it altogether in the dying light but for the two lines of electric bulbs burning at ground level, outlining the path for the plane.
The Cessna swooped out of the sky. At the last minute it was buffeted about by a sudden, damp squall that had been sent to try the pilot‟s nerve. The pilot didn‟t blink and a moment later the wheels hit the ground and the plane was bouncing and shuddering along, dead centre between the two rows of lights. He was grateful they were there. The mangroves—thick bushes, half-floating on pools of stagnant water—came almost to the edge of the runway. Go even a couple of metres in the wrong direction and a wheel might snag. It would be enough to destroy the plane.
The pilot flicked switches. The engine died and the twin-bladed propellers slowed down and came to a halt. He looked out of the window. There was a jeep parked next to one of the buildings and it was here that the single man—the red dot on his screen—was waiting. He turned to his passengers.
“He‟s there.”
The older of the two men nodded. Carlo was about thirty years old with black, curly hair. He hadn‟t shaved. Stubble the colour of cigarette ash clung to his jaw. He turned to the other passenger. “Marc? Are you ready?”
The man who called himself Marc could have been Carlo‟s younger brother. He was barely twenty-five and although he was trying not to show it, he was scared. There was sweat on the side of his face, glowing green as it caught the light from the control panel. He reached behind him and took out a gun, a German-built 10mm Glock automatic. He checked it was loaded, then slipped it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, under his shirt.
“I‟m ready,” he said.
“There is only him. There are two of us.” Carlo tried to reassure Marc. Or perhaps he was trying to reassure himself. “We‟re both armed. There is nothing he can do.”
“Then let‟s go.”
Carlo turned to the pilot. “Have the plane ready,” he commanded. “When we walk back, I will give you a sign.” He raised a hand, one finger and thumb forming an 0. “That is the signal that our business has been successfully concluded. Start the engine at that time. We don‟t want to stay here one second longer than we have to.”
They got out of the plane. There was a thin layer of gravel on the runway which crunched beneath their combat boots as they walked round the side to the cargo door. They could feel the sullen heat in the air, the heaviness of the night sky. The island seemed to be holding its breath.
Carlo reached up and opened a door. In the back of the plane was a black container, about one metre by two. With difficulty, he and Marc lowered it to the ground.
The younger man looked up. The lights on the landing strip dazzled him but he could just make out a figure standing still as a statue beside the jeep, waiting for them to approach. He hadn‟t moved since the plane had landed. “Why doesn‟t he come to us?” he asked.
Carlo spat and said nothing.
There were two handles, one on either side of the container. The two men carried it between them, walking awkwardly, bending over their load. It took them a long time to reach the jeep.
But at last they were there. For a second time, they set the box down.
Carlo straightened up, rubbing his palms on the side of his jeans. “Good evening, General,” he said. He was speaking in English. This was not his native language. Nor was it the general‟s. But it was the only language they had in common.
“Good evening.” The general did not bother with names that he knew would be false anyway.
“You had no trouble getting here?”
“No trouble at all, General.”
“You have it?”
“One kilogram of weapons grade uranium. Sufficient to build a bomb powerful enough to destroy a city. I would be interested to know which city you have in mind.”
General Alexei Sarov took a step forward and the lights from the runway illuminated him. He was not a big man, yet there was something about him that radiated power and control. He still carried with him his years in the army. They could be seen in his close-cut, iron grey hair, his watchful pale blue eyes, his almost emotionless face. They were there in the very way he carried himself. He was perfectly poised; relaxed and wary at the same time. General Sarov was sixty-two years old but looked twenty years younger. He was dressed in a dark suit, a white stmt and a narrow dark blue tie. In the damp heat of the evening, his clothes should have been creased.
He should have been sweating. But to look at him, he could have just stepped out of an air-conditioned room.
He crouched down beside the container, at the same time producing a small device from his pocket. It looked like a car cigarette lighter with a dial attached. He found a socket in the side of the box and plugged the device in. Briefly, he examined the dial. He nodded. It was satisfactory.
“You have the rest of the money?” Carlo asked.
“Of course.” The general straightened up and walked over to the jeep. Carlo and Marc tensed themselves—this was the moment when he might produce a gun. But when he turned round he was holding a black leather attaché-case. He flicked the locks and opened it. The case was filled with banknotes: one hundred dollar bills neatly banded together in packets of fifty. One hundred packets in all. A total of half a million dollars. More money than Carlo had ever seen in his life.
But still not enough.
“We‟ve had a problem,” Carlo said.
“Yes?” Sarov did not sound surprised.
Marc could feel the sweat as it drew a comma down the side of his neck. A mosquito was whining in his ear but he resisted the urge to slap it. This was what he had been waiting for. He was standing a few steps away, his hands hanging limply by his side. Slowly, he allowed them to creep behind him, closer to the concealed gun. He glanced at the ruined buildings. One might once have been a control tower. The other looked like a customs shed. Both of them were broken and empty, the brickwork crumbling, the windows smashed. Could there be someone hiding there? No. The thermal intensifier would have shown them. They were alone.
“The cost of the uranium.” Carlo shrugged. “Our friend in Miami sends his apologies. But there are new security systems all over the world. Smuggling—particularly this sort of thing—has become much more difficult. And that‟s meant extra expense.”
“How much extra expense?”
“A quarter of a million dollars.”
“That‟s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate for you. General. You‟re the one who has to pay.”
Sarov considered. “We had an agreement.” he said.
There was a long silence. Marc‟s fingers reached out behind his back, closing around the Glock automatic. But then Sarov nodded. “I will have to raise the money,” he said.
“You can have it transferred to the same account that we used before,” Carlo said. “But I have to warn you, General. If the money hasn‟t arrived in three days, the American intelligence services will be told what has happened here tonight … what you‟ve just received. You may think you are safe here on this island. I can assure you, you won‟t be safe any more.”
“You‟re threatening me,” Sarov muttered. There was something at once calm and deadly in the way he spoke.
“It‟s nothing personal,” Carlo said.
Marc produced a cloth bag. He unfolded it, then tipped the money out of the case and into the bag. The case might contain a radio transmitter. It might contain a small bomb. He left it behind.
“Good night, General,” Carlo said.
“Good night.” Sarov smiled. “I hope you enjoy the flight.”
The two men walked away. Marc could feel the money, the bundles pressing through the cloth against the side of his leg. “The man‟s a fool,” he whispered, returning to his own language.
“An old man. Why were we afraid?”
“Let‟s just get out of here,” Carlo said. He was thinking about what the general had said: I hope you enjoy the flight. Had he been smiling when he said that?
He made the agreed signal, pressing his finger and thumb together. At once the Cessna‟s engine started up.
General Sarov was still watching them. He hadn‟t moved, but now his hand reached once again into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around the radio transmitter waiting there. He had wondered if it would be necessary to kill the two men and their pilot. Personally, he would have preferred not to, even as an insurance policy. But their demands had made it necessary. He should have known they would be greedy. Given the sort of people they were, it was almost inevitable.
Back in the plane, the two men were strapping themselves into their seats while the pilot prepared for take-off. Carlo heard the engine rev up as the plane slowly began to turn. Far away, there was a low rumble of thunder. Now he wished that they had turned the plane round immediately after they had landed. It would have saved some precious seconds and he was eager to be away.
Back in the air.
I hope you enjoy the flight.
There had been no emotion whatsoever in the general‟s voice. He could have meant what he was saying. But Carlo guessed he would have spoken exactly the same way if he had been passing a sentence of death.
Next to him, Marc was already counting the money, running his hands through the piles of notes.
He looked back at the ruined buildings, at the waiting jeep. Would Sarov try something? What sort of resources did he have on the island? But as the plane turned in a tight circle, nothing moved. The general stayed where he was. There was nobody else in sight.