Skeleton Key (8 page)

Of course, they had known he would accept.

“We will want to keep in touch with you while you‟re away,” Mrs Jones muttered.

“I‟ll send you a postcard,” Alex said.

“No, Alex, that‟s not quite what I had in mind. Why don‟t you go and have a word with Smithers?”

Smithers had an office on the eleventh floor of the building and at first Alex had to admit he was disappointed.

It was Smithers who had designed the various gadgets Alex had used on his previous missions and Alex had expected to find him somewhere in the basement, surrounded by cars and motorbikes, hi-tech weapons and men and women in white coats. But this room was boring: large, square and anonymous. It could have belonged to the chief executive of almost anything; an insurance company, perhaps, or a bank. There was a steel and glass desk with a telephone, a computer, “in” and “out” trays and an anglepoise lamp. A leather sofa stood against one wall, and on the other side of the room was a silver filing cabinet with six drawers. A picture hung on the wall behind the desk; a view of the sea. But disappointingly, there were no gadgets anywhere. Not so much as an electric pencil sharpener.

Smithers himself was behind the desk, tapping at the computer with fingers almost too big for the keys. He was one of the fattest people Alex had ever met. Today he was wearing a black three-piece suit with what looked like an old school tie perched limply on the great bulge of his stomach. Seeing Alex, he stopped typing and swivelled round in a leather chair that must have been reinforced to take his weight.

“My dear boy!” he exclaimed. “How delightful to see you. Come in, come in! How have you been keeping? I hear you had a bit of trouble, that business in France. You really must look after yourself, Alex. I‟d be mortified if anything happened to you. Door!”

Alex was surprised when the door swung shut behind him.

“Voice activated,” Smithers explained. “Do, please, sit down.”

Alex sat on a second leather chair on the other side of the desk. As he did so, there was a low hum and the anglepoise lamp swivelled round and bent towards him like some sort of metallic bird taking a closer look. At the same time, the computer screen flickered and a human skeleton appeared. Alex moved a hand. The skeleton‟s hand moved. With a shudder, he realized he was looking at—or rather, through—himself.

“You‟re looking well,” Smithers said. “Good bone structure!”

“What…?” Alex began.

“It‟s just something I‟ve been working on. A simple X-ray device. Useful if anyone is wearing a gun.” Smithers pressed a button and the screen went blank. “Now, Mr Blunt tells me that you‟re off to join our friends in the CIA. They‟re fine operators. Very, very good—except, of course, you can never trust them and they have no sense of humour. Cayo Esqueleto, I understand…?”

He leant forward and pressed another button on the desk. Alex glanced at the painting on the wall. The waves had begun to move! At the same time, the image shifted, pulling back, and he realized that he was looking at a plasma television screen with a picture beamed by satellite from somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean. Alex found himself looking down on an irregularly shaped island surrounded by turquoise water. The image was time coded and he realized that it was being broadcast into the room live.

“Tropical climate,” Smithers muttered. “There‟ll be quite a lot of rainfall at this time of year.

I‟ve been developing a poncho that doubles as a parachute, but I don‟t think you‟ll need that.

And I‟ve got a marvellous mosquito coil. As a matter of fact, mosquitoes are about the only thing it won‟t knock out. But you won‟t need that either! In fact, I‟m told the only thing you actually do need is something to help you keep in touch.”

“A secret transmitter,” Alex said.

“Why does it have to be secret?” Smithers pulled open a drawer and took out an object which he placed in front of Alex.

It was a mobile phone.

“I‟ve already got one, thanks,” Alex muttered.

“Not one like this,” Smithers retorted. “It gives you a direct link with this office, even when you‟re in America. It works underwater—and in space. The pads are fingerprint sensitive so only you can use it. This is the model five. We also have a model seven. You hold it upside down when you dial or it blows up in your hand—”

“Why can‟t I have that model?” Alex asked.

“Mr. Blunt has forbidden it.” Smithers leant forward conspiratorially. “But I have put in a little extra for you. You see the aerial just here? Dial 999 and it‟ll shoot out like a needle. Drugged, of course. It‟ll knock out anyone in a twenty metre range.”

“Right.” Alex picked up the phone. “Have you got anything else?”

“I was told you weren‟t to have any weapons…” Smithers sighed, then leant forward and spoke into a potted plant. “Could you bring them up, please, Miss Pickering?”

Alex was beginning to have serious doubts about this office—and these were confirmed a moment later when the leather sofa suddenly split in half, the two ends moving away from each other. At the same time, part of the floor slid aside to allow another piece of sofa to shoot silently into place, turning the two-seater into a three-seater. A young woman had been carried up with the new piece. She was sitting with her legs crossed and her hands on her knee. She stood up and walked over to Smithers.

“These are the items you requested,” she said, handing over a package. She produced a sheet of paper and placed it in front of him. “And this report just came in from Cairo.”

“Thank you, Miss Pickering.” Smithers waited until the woman had left—using the door this time—then glanced quickly at the report. “Not good news,” he muttered. “Not good news at all.

Oh well…” He slid the report into the “out” tray. There was a flash of electricity as the paper self-destructed. A second later, there were only ashes left. “I‟m bending the rules doing this,” he went on. “But there were a couple of things I‟d been developing for you and I don‟t see why you shouldn‟t take them with you. Better safe than sorry.”

He turned the package upside down and a bright pink packet of bubblegum slid out. “The fun of working with you, Alex,” Smithers said, “is adapting the things you‟d expect to find in the pockets of a boy your age. And I‟m extremely pleased with this one.”

“Bubblegum?”

“It blows rather special bubbles. Chew it for thirty seconds and the chemicals in your saliva react with the compound, making it expand. And as it expands, it‟ll shatter just about anything. Put it in a gun, for example, and it‟ll crack it open. Or the lock on a door.”

Alex turned the packet over. Written in yellow letters on the side was the word BUBBLE 0-7.

“What flavour did you make it?” he asked.

“Strawberry. Now, this other device is even more dangerous and I‟m sure you won‟t need it. I call it the Striker and I‟d be very happy to have it back.”

Smithers shook the package and a keyring slid out to join the bubblegum on the desk. It had a plastic figurine attached, a footballer wearing white shorts and a red shirt. Alex leant forward and turned it over. He found himself looking at a three centimetre high model of Michael Owen.

“Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “But personally I‟ve never supported Liverpool.”

“This is the prototype. We can always do another footballer next time. The important thing is the head. Remember this, Alex. Twist it round twice clockwise and once anti-clockwise and you‟ll arm the device.”

“It‟ll explode?”

“It‟s a stun grenade. Flash and a bang. A ten second fuse. Not powerful enough to kill—but in a confined space it will incapacitate the opposition for a couple of minutes, which might give you a chance to get away.”

Alex pocketed the Michael Owen figure and the bubblegum along with the mobile telephone. He stood up, feeling more confident. This might be a simple surveillance operation, a paid holiday as Blunt had put it, but he still didn‟t want to go empty-handed.

“Good luck, Alex,” Smithers said. “I hope you get on all right with the CIA. They‟re not really like us, you know. And heaven knows what they‟ll make of you.”

“I‟ll see you, Mr Smithers.”

“I‟ve got a private lift if you‟re going downstairs.” As Smithers spoke, the six drawers of the filing cabinet slid open, three going one way, three going the other, to reveal a brightly lit cubicle behind.

Alex shook his head. “Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “I‟ll take the stairs.”

“Whatever you say, old boy. Just look after yourself. And whatever you do, don‟t swallow the gum!”

They had a late breakfast at a café in Bayside Marketplace, right on the quayside, with boats moored all around them and bright yellow and green water taxies nipping back and forth. Tom Turner and Belinda Troy had knocked on Alex‟s door at ten o‟clock that morning. In fact, Alex had been awake for several hours. He had fallen asleep fast, slept heavily and woken too early—

the classic pattern of trans-Atlantic jet-lag. But at least he‟d had plenty of time to read through the papers that Joe Byrne had given him. He now knew everything about his new identity—the best friends he had never met, the pet dog he had never seen, even the high school grades he had never achieved. And now he was sitting with his new mother and father watching the tourists on the boardwalk, strolling in and out of the pretty white-fronted boutiques that cluttered the area.

The sun was already high, the glare coming off the water almost blinding. Alex slipped on a pair of Oakley Eye Jackets and the world on the other side of the black iridium lenses became softer and more manageable. The glasses had been a present from Jack. He hadn‟t expected to need them so soon.

There was a book of matches on the table with the words THE SNACKYARD printed on the cover. Alex picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. The matches were warm. He was surprised the sun hadn‟t set them alight. A waiter in black and white, complete with bow tie, came over to take the order. Alex glanced at the menu. He had never thought it possible to have so much choice for breakfast. At the next table a man was eating his way through a stack of pancakes with bacon, hash browns and scrambled eggs. Alex was hungry but the sight took away his own appetite.

“I‟ll just have some orange juice and toast,” he said.

“Wholemeal or granary?”

“Granary. With butter and jam—”

“You mean jelly!” Troy paused until the waiter had gone. “No American kid asks for jam.” She scowled. “You ask for that at Santiago Airport and we‟ll be in jail—or worse—before you can blink.”

“I wasn‟t thinking,” Alex began.

“You don‟t think, you get killed. Worse, you get us killed.” She shook her head. “I still say this is a bad idea.”

“How‟s Lucky?” Turner asked.

Alex‟s head spun. What was he talking about? Then he remembered. Lucky was the Labrador dog that the Gardiner family was supposed to have back in Los Angeles. “He‟s fine,” Alex said.

“He‟s being looked after by Mrs Beach.” She was the woman who lived next door.

But Turner wasn‟t impressed. “Not fast enough,” he said. “If you have to stop to think about it, the enemy will know you‟re telling a lie. You have to talk about your dog and your neighbours as if you‟ve known them all your life.”

It wasn‟t fair, of course. Turner and Troy hadn‟t prepared him. He hadn‟t realized the test had already begun. In fact, this was the third time Alex had gone undercover with a new identity. He had been Felix Lester when he had been sent to Cornwall, and Alex Friend, the son of a multimillionaire, in the French Alps. Both times he had managed to play the part successfully and he knew that he could do it again now as Alex Gardiner.

“So how long have you been with the CIA?” Alex asked.

“That‟s classified information,” Turner replied. He saw the look on Alex‟s face and softened.

“All my life,” he said. “I was in the marines. It‟s what I always wanted to do, even when I was a kid … younger than you. I want to die for my country. That‟s my dream.”

“We shouldn‟t be talking about ourselves,” Belinda said angrily. “We‟re meant to be a family.

So let‟s talk about the family!”

“All right, Mom,” Alex muttered.

They asked him a few more questions about Los Angeles while they waited for the food to arrive. Alex answered on autopilot. He watched a couple of teenagers go past on skateboards and wished he could join them. That was what a fourteen year old should be doing in the Miami sunshine. Not playing spy games with two sour-faced adults who had already decided they weren‟t going to give him a chance.

The food came. Turner and Troy had both ordered fruit salad and cappuccino—decaffeinated with skimmed milk. Alex guessed they were watching their weight. His own toast came—with grape jelly. The butter was whipped and white and seemed to disappear when it was spread.

“So who is the Salesman?” Alex asked.

“You don‟t need to know that,” Turner replied.

Alex decided he‟d had enough. He put down his knife. “All right,” he said. “You‟ve made it pretty clear that you don‟t want to work with me. Well, that‟s fine, because I don‟t want to work with you either. And for what it‟s worth, nobody would ever believe you were my parents because no parents would ever behave like you two!”

“Alex—” Troy began.

“Forget it! I‟m going back to London. And if your Mr Byrne asks why, you can tell him I didn‟t like the jelly so I went home to get some jam.”

He stood up. Troy was on her feet at the same time. Alex glanced at Turner. He was looking uncertain too. He guessed that they would have been glad to see the back of him. But at the same time, they were afraid of their boss.

“Sit down, Alex,” Troy said. She shrugged. “OK. We were out of line. We didn‟t mean to give you a hard time.”

Alex met her eyes. He slowly sat down again.

“It‟s just gonna take us a bit of time to get used to the situation,” Troy went on. “Turner and me

… we‟ve worked together before … but we don‟t know you.”

Turner nodded. “You get killed, how‟s that gonna make us feel?”

“I was told there wasn‟t going to be any danger,” Alex said. “Anyway, I can look after myself.”