Skeleton Key (2 page)

The runway lights went out.

“What the…?” The pilot swore viciously.

Marc stopped his counting. Carlo understood at once what was happening. “He‟s turned the lights off,” he said. “He wants to keep us here. Can you take off without them?”

The plane had turned a half-circle so that it was facing the way it had come. The pilot stared out through the cockpit window, straining to see into the night. It was very dark now, but there was an ugly, unnatural light pulsating in the sky. He nodded. “It won‟t be easy, but…”

The lights came back on again.

There they were, stretching into the distance, an arrow that pointed to freedom and an extra profit of a quarter of a million dollars. The pilot relaxed. “It must have been the storm,” he said. “It disrupted the electricity supply.”

“Just get us out of here,” Carlo muttered. “The sooner we‟re in the air, the happier I‟ll be.”

The pilot nodded. “Whatever you say.” He pressed down on the controls and the Cessna lumbered forward, picking up speed quickly. The runway lights blurred, guiding him forward.

Carlo settled back into his seat. Marc was watching out of the window.

And then, seconds before the wheels left the ground, the plane suddenly lurched. The whole world twisted as a giant, invisible hand seized hold of it and wrenched it sideways. The Cessna had been travelling at one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. It came to a grinding halt in a matter of seconds, the deceleration throwing all three men forward in their seats. If they hadn‟t been belted in, they would have been hurled out of the front window—or what was left of the shattered glass. At the same time there was a series of ear-shattering crashes as something whipped into the fuselage. One of the wings had dipped down and the propeller was torn off, spinning into the night. Suddenly the plane was still, resting tilted on one side.

For a moment, nobody moved inside the cabin. The plane‟s engines rattled and stopped. Then Marc pulled himself up in his seat. “What happened?” he screamed. “What happened?” He had bitten his tongue. Blood trickled down his chin. The bag was still open and money had spilled into his lap.

“I don‟t understand…” The pilot was too dazed to speak.

“You left the runway!” Carlo‟s face was twisted with shock and anger.

“I didn‟t!”

“There!” Marc was pointing at something and Carlo followed his quivering finger. The door on the underside of the plane had buckled. Black water was seeping in underneath, forming a pool around their feet.

There was another rumble of thunder, closer this time.

“He did this!” the pilot said.

“What did he do?” Carlo demanded.

“He moved the runway!”

It had been a simple trick. As the plane had turned, Sarov had switched off the lights on the runway using the radio transmitter in his pocket. For a moment, the pilot had been disoriented, lost in the darkness. Then the plane had finished its turn and the lights had come back on. But what he hadn‟t known, what he wouldn‟t have been able to see, was that it was a second set of lights that had been activated—and that these ran off at an angle, leaving the safety of the runway and continuing over the surface of the swamp.

“He led us into the mangroves,” the pilot said.

Now Carlo understood what had happened to the plane. The moment its wheels touched the water, its fate had been sealed. Without solid ground beneath it, the plane had become bogged down and toppled over. Swamp water was even now pouring in as they slowly sank beneath the surface. The branches of the mangrove trees that had almost torn the plane apart surrounded them, bars of a living prison.

“What are we going to do?” Marc demanded, and suddenly he was sounding like a child. “We‟re going to drown!”

“We can get out!” Carlo had suffered whiplash injuries in the collision. He moved one arm painfully, unfastening his seat-belt.

“We shouldn‟t have tried to cheat him!” Marc cried. “You knew what he was. You were told—

“Shut up!” Carlo had a gun of his own. He pulled it out of the holster underneath his shirt and balanced it on his knee. “We‟ll get out of here and we‟ll deal with him. And then somehow we‟ll find a way off this damn island.”

“There‟s something…” the pilot began.

Something had moved outside.

“What is it?” Marc whispered.

“Shhh!” Carlo half stood up, his body filling the cramped space of the cabin. The plane tilted again, settling further into the swamp. He lost his balance then steadied himself. He reached out, past the pilot, as if he was going to climb out of the broken front window.

Something huge and horrible lunged towards him, blocking out what little light there was in the night sky. Carlo screamed as it threw itself head first into the plane and onto him. There was a glint of white and a dreadful grunting sound. The other men were screaming too.

General Sarov stood watching. It wasn‟t raining yet but the water was heavy in the air. There was a flash of lightning that seemed to cross the sky almost in slow motion, relishing its journey.

In that moment, he saw the Cessna on its side, half-buried in the swamp. There were now half a dozen crocodiles swarming all over it. The largest of them had dived head first into the cockpit.

Only its tail was visible, thrashing about as it gorged itself.

He reached down and lifted up the black container. Although it had taken two men to carry it to him, it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands. He placed it in the jeep, then stood back. He allowed himself the rare privilege of a smile and felt it, briefly, on his lips. Tomorrow, when the crocodiles had finished their meal, he would send in his field workers—the macheteros—to recover the banknotes. Not that the money was important. He was the owner of one kilogram of weapons grade uranium. As Carlo had said, he now had the power to destroy a small city.

But Sarov had no intention of destroying a city.

His target was the entire world.

Alex caught the ball on the top of his chest, bounced it forward and kicked it into the back of the net. It was then that he noticed the man with the large white dog. It was a warm, bright Friday afternoon, the weather caught between late spring and early summer. This was only a practise match but Alex took the game seriously. Mr. Wiseman, who taught PE, had selected him for the first team and he was looking forward to playing against other schools in west London.

Unfortunately, his school, Brookland, didn‟t have its own playing fields. This was a public field and anyone could walk past. And they could bring their dogs. Alex recognized the man at once and his heart sank. At the same time he was angry. How could he have the nerve to come here, into the school arena, in the middle of a game? Weren‟t these people ever going to leave him alone?

The man‟s name was Crawley. With his thinning hair, blotchy face and old-fashioned clothes, he looked like a junior army officer or perhaps a teacher in a second-rate private school. But Alex knew the truth. Crawley belonged to MI6. Not exactly a spy, but someone who was very much a part of that world. Crawley was an office manager in one of the country‟s most secret offices. He did the paperwork, made the arrangements, set up the meetings. When someone died with a knife in their back or a bullet in their chest, it would be Crawley who had signed on the dotted line.

As Alex ran back to the centre line, Crawley walked over to a bench, dragging the dog behind.

The animal didn‟t seem to want to walk. It didn‟t want to be there at all. Crawley sat down. He was still sitting there ten minutes later when the final whistle blew and the game came to an end.

Alex considered for a moment. Then he picked up his jersey and went over to him.

Crawley seemed surprised to see him. “Alex!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise! I haven‟t seen you since … well, since you got back from France.”

It had only been four weeks since MI6 had forced Alex to investigate a school for the super-rich in south-east France. Using a false name, he had become a student at the Point Blanc Academy only to find himself taken prisoner by the mad headmaster, Dr Grief. He had been chased down a mountain, shot at and almost dissected alive in a biology class. Alex had never wanted to be a spy and the whole business had convinced him he was right. Crawley was the last person he wanted to see.

But the MI6 man was beaming. “Are you on the school team? Is this where you play? I‟m surprised I haven‟t noticed you before. Barker and I often walk here.”

“Barker?”

“The dog.” Crawley reached out and patted it. “He‟s a Dalmatian.”

“I thought Dalmatians had spots.”

“Not this one.” Crawley hesitated. “Actually, Alex, it‟s a bit of luck running into you. I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

Alex shook his head. “Forget it, Mr. Crawley. I told you the last time. I‟m not interested in MI6.

I‟m a schoolboy. I‟m not a spy.”

“Absolutely!” Crawley agreed. “This has got nothing to do with the … um … company. No, no, no.” He looked almost embarrassed. “The thing is, what I wanted to ask you was … how would you like a front row seat at Wimbledon?”

The question took Alex completely by surprise. “Wimbledon? You mean … the tennis?”

“That‟s right.” Crawley smiled. “The All England Tennis Club. I‟m on the committee.”

“And you‟re offering me a ticket?”

“Yes.”

“What‟s the catch?”

“There is no catch, Alex. Not really. But… let me explain.” Alex was aware that the other players were getting ready to leave. The school day was almost over. He listened as Crawley went on. “The thing is, you see, a week ago we had a break-in. Security at the club is always tight but someone managed to climb over the wall and get into the Millennium Building through a forced window.”

“What‟s the Millennium Building?”

“It‟s where the players have their changing rooms. It‟s also got a gym, a restaurant, a couple of lounges and so on. We have closed circuit television cameras but the intruder disabled the system—along with the main alarm. It was a thoroughly professional job. We‟d never have known anyone had been there except for a stroke of luck. One of our night guards saw the man leaving. He was Chinese, in his early twenties—”

“The guard?”

“The intruder. Dressed from head to foot in black with some sort of rucksack on his back. The guard alerted the police and we had the whole place searched. The Millennium Building, the courts, the cafes … everywhere. It took three days. There are no terrorist cells active in London at the moment, thank goodness, but there was always a chance that some lunatic might have planted a bomb. We had the anti-terrorist squad in. Sniffer dogs. Nothing! Whoever it was had vanished into thin air and it seemed he‟d left nothing behind.

“Now, here‟s the strange thing, Alex. He didn‟t leave anything, but nor did he take anything. In fact, nothing seems to have been touched. As I say, if the guard hadn‟t seen this chap, we‟d never have known he had been there. What do you make of that?”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe the guard disturbed him before he could get his hands on whatever it was he wanted.”

“No. He was already leaving when he was seen.”

“Could the guard have imagined it?”

“We examined the cameras. The film is time-coded and we discovered that they had definitely been out of action for two hours. From midnight until two in the morning.”

“Then what do you think, Mr. Crawley? Why are you telling me this?”

Crawley sighed and stretched his legs. He was wearing suede shoes, shabby and down at heel.

The dog had fallen asleep. “My belief is that somebody is intending to sabotage Wimbledon this year,” he said. Alex was about to interrupt but Crawley held up a hand. “I know it sounds ridiculous and I have to admit, the other committee members don‟t believe me. On the other hand, they don‟t have my instincts. They don‟t work in the same business as me. But think about it, Alex. There had to be a reason for such a carefully planned and executed break-in. But there is no reason. Something‟s wrong.”

“Why would anyone want to sabotage Wimbledon?”

“I don‟t know. But you have to remember, the Wimbledon tennis fortnight is a huge business.

There are millions of pounds at stake. Prize money alone adds up to eight and a half million. And then there are television rights, merchandising rights, corporate sponsorship… We get VIPs flying in from all over the planet—everyone from film stars to presidents—and tickets for the men‟s final have been known to change hands for literally thousands of pounds. It‟s not just a game. It‟s a world event, and if anything happened … well, it doesn‟t bear thinking about.”

Crawley obviously had been thinking about it. He looked tired. The worry was deep in his eyes.

Alex thought for a moment. “You want me to look around.” He smiled. “I‟ve never been to Wimbledon. I‟ve only ever seen it on TV. I‟d love a ticket for Centre Court. But I don‟t see how a one-day visit would actually help.”

“Exactly, Alex. But a one-day visit isn‟t quite what I had in mind.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you see, I was wondering if you would consider becoming a ballboy.”

“You‟re not serious?”

“Why not? You can stay there for the whole fortnight. You‟ll have a wonderful time and you‟ll be right in the middle of things. You‟ll see some great matches. And I‟ll be able to relax a little, knowing you‟re there. If anything is going on, there‟s a good chance you might spot it. Then you can call me and I‟ll take care of it.” He nodded. It was obvious that he had managed to persuade himself, if not Alex. “It‟s not as if this is dangerous or anything. I mean … it‟s Wimbledon.

There‟ll be plenty of other boys and girls there. What d‟you think?”

“Don‟t you have enough security people already?”

“Of course we have a security company. They‟re easy to see—which makes them easy to avoid.

But you‟d be invisible, Alex. That‟s the whole point.”

“Alex…?”

It was Mr. Wiseman who had called out to him. The teacher was waiting for him. All the other players had left now, apart from two or three boys kicking the ball amongst themselves.

“I‟ll just be a minute, sir,” Alex called back.