Skeleton Key

NOT SO SPECIAL AGENTS

Alex stood at the window, trying to make sense of the world in which he now found himself. Seven hours on a plane had drained something out of him which even the surprise of a seat in first class had been unable to put back. He felt disengaged, as if his body had managed to arrive but had left half his brain somewhere behind.

He was looking at the Atlantic Ocean. It was on the other side of a strip of dazzling white sand that stretched into the distance with loungers and umbrellas laid out like measurements on a ruler. Miami was at the southernmost tip of the United States of America and it seemed that half the people who came to the city had simply followed the sun. He could see hundreds of them, lying on their backs in the tiniest of bikinis and swimming trunks, thighs and biceps pounded to perfection in the gym and then brought out to roast. Sun worshippers? No. These people were here because they worshipped themselves.

It was late afternoon and the heat was still intense. But in England, eight thousand kilometres away, it was night-and Alex was struggling to stay awake. He was also cold. The air-conditioning in the building had been turned up to maximum. The sun might be shining on the other side of the glass but in this neat, expensive office, he was chilled. Miami Ice, he thought.

It hadn’t been the welcome he had expected. There had been a driver waiting for him when he arrived at the airport, a heavy-set man in a suit with Alex’s name on a card. The man was wearing sunglasses that obliterated his eyes, offering Alex two reflections of himself.

“You Rider?”

“Yes.”

“The car’s this way.”

The car turned out to be a stretch limousine. Alex felt ridiculous sitting alone in a long, narrow compartment with two leather seats facing each other, a drinks cabinet and a TV screen. It was nothing like a car at all, and he was glad that the windows, like the driver’s glasses, were darkened.

Nobody would be able to see in. He watched as the shops and boatyards on the airport perimeter slipped past and then they were suddenly crossing the water on a wide causeway that skimmed across the bay towards Miami Beach. Now the buildings were low-rise, barely taller than the palm trees that surrounded them, and painted astonishing shades of pink and pale blue. The roads were wide, but more people seemed to be sweeping half-naked down the centre line on roller blades than driving.

The limousine stopped outside a ten-storey white building with lines so sharp it could have been cut out of a giant sheet of paper. There was a coffee bar on the ground floor, with offices up above. Leaving Alex’s cases in the car, they went in through the lobby and took the lift (elevator, Alex reminded himself) up to the tenth. It opened directly onto the reception area of what looked Like an ordinary office, with two efficient girls behind a curving mahogany desk. A sign read: CENTURION INTERNATIONAL ADVERTIZING. CIA, Alex thought. Great!

“Alex Rider for Mr Byrne,” the driver said.

“This way.” One of the girls gestured at a door to one side. Alex wouldn’t even have noticed it otherwise.

Everything was different on the other side of the reception area.

Alex was confronted by two glass tubes with two sliding doors-one in, one out. The driver gestured and he stepped inside. The door closed automatically and there was a hum as he was scanned-for both conventional and biological weapons, he guessed. Then the door opened on the other side and he followed the driver down a blank, empty corridor and into an office.

“I hope you don’t feel homesick, so far away from England.”

The driver had gone and Alex was alone with another man, this one aged about sixty, with grizzled white hair and a moustache. He looked fit, but he moved slowly, as if he had just got out of bed or needed to get into it. He was wearing a dark suit that looked out of place in Miami, a white shirt and a knitted tie. His name was Joe Byrne and he was the deputy director for operations in the Covert Action section of the CIA.

“No,” Alex said, “I feel fine.” This wasn’t true. He was already wishing he hadn’t come. He would have liked to be back in London, even if it had meant hiding from the triads somehow. But he wasn’t going to tell Byrne that. “You have quite a reputation,” Byrne said.

“Do I?”

“You bet.” Byrne smiled. “Dr Grief and that guy in England -Herod Sayle. Don’t worry, Alex! We’re not meant to know about these things but these days… nothing happens in the world without someone hearing about it. You can’t cough in Kabul without someone recording it in Washington.” He smiled to himself. “I have to hand it to you Brits. Here at the CIA, we’ve used cats and dogs-we tried to put a cat into the Korean embassy with a bug in its collar. It was a neat operation and it would have worked, but unfortunately they ate it. But we’ve never used a kid before. Certainly not a kid like you…”

Alex shrugged. He knew Byrne was trying to be friendly, but at the same time the old man was uneasy and it showed.

“You’ve done some great work for your country,” Byrne concluded.

“I’m not sure I did it for my country,” Alex said. “It’s just that my country didn’t give me a lot of choice.”

“Well, we’re really grateful you’ve agreed to help us now. You know, the United States and Great Britain have always had a special relationship. We like to help each other.” There was an awkward silence. “I met your uncle once,” Byrne said. “Ian Rider.”

“He was here in Miami?”

“No. It was in Washington. He was a good man, Alex. A good agent. I was sorry to hear-”

“Thanks,” Alex said.

Byrne coughed. “You must be tired. We’ve booked you a hotel just a few blocks from here. But first I want you to meet special agents Turner and Troy. They should be here any moment.”

Turner and Troy. They were going to be Alex’s mother and father. He wondered which one was which.

“Anyway, the three of you will be leaving for Cayo Esqueleto the day after tomorrow,” Byrne said. He sat down on the arm of a chair. His eyes had never left Alex. “You need a bit of time to get over your jet-lag and, more importantly, you need to get to know your new mum and dad.” He hesitated. “I should mention to you, Alex, that they weren’t too crazy about your part in this operation. Don’t get me wrong. They know you’re a pretty smart operator. But you are fourteen.”

“Fourteen and three months,” Alex said.

“Yeah. Sure.” Byrne wasn’t sure if Alex was serious. “Obviously, they’re not used to having young people like you around when they’re in the field. It bugs them. But they’ll get used to it.

And the main thing is, once you’ve helped get them onto the island, you’ll be able to keep out of their way. I’m sure Alan Blunt told you-just stay in the hotel and enjoy yourself. The whole thing should only take a week. Two weeks, tops.”

“What exactly are they hoping to achieve?” Alex asked.

“Well, they need to get into the Casa de Oro. That’s Spanish. It means ‘golden house’. It’s an old plantation house that General Sarov has at one end of the island. But it’s not going to be easy, Alex. The island narrows and there’s a single track road with water on either side leading up to the outer wall. The place itself is more like a castle than a house. Anyway, that’s not your problem. We have people on the island who can help us find a way in. And once we get in we can bug the place. We have cameras the size of a pin!”

“You want to know what General Sarov is doing.”

“Exactly.” Byrne glanced down at his brightly polished shoes and suddenly Alex wondered if the CIA man was keeping something from him. It all sounded too straightforward-and what had Smithers said? You can never trust them. Byrne seemed pleasant enough, but now he wondered. There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a man and woman walked in.

Byrne stood up. “Alex,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Tom Turner and Belinda Troy. People… this is Alex Rider.”

The atmosphere in the room became icy in an instant. Alex had never met two people less pleased to see him.

Tom Turner was about forty, a handsome man, with fair, close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a face that managed to be both tough and boyish. He was dressed-strangely-in jeans, a white open-necked shirt and a loose, soft leather jacket. There was nothing wrong with the clothes. They just didn’t seem to suit him. This was a man who had been moulded by the work he did. With his clean-shaven, rather plastic looks, he reminded Alex of a dummy in a shop window. Turn him over, Alex thought, and you’d find CIA stamped on the soles of his feet.

Belinda Troy was a couple of years older than him, slim, with brown frizzy hair tumbling down to her shoulders. She was also casually dressed in a loose-fitting skirt and T-shirt, with a brightly coloured bag dangling from her shoulder and a loose string of beads around her neck. She didn’t seem to be wearing any make-up. Her lips were pressed tightly together. Not quite scowling, but still a hundred miles away from a smile. She reminded Alex of a schoolteacher… maybe one in a nursery school. Troy closed the door and sat down. Somehow she had managed to avoid looking at Alex from the moment she had entered the room. It was as if she was trying to pretend he wasn’t there.

Alex looked from one to the other. The strange thing was that despite their appearances, there was something identical about Tom Turner and Belinda Troy. It was as if they had both survived the same, bad accident. They were hard-bitten, emotionless, empty. Now he knew why the CIA needed him. If they’d tried to get these two into Skeleton Key on their own, they’d have been identified as spies before they’d even got off the plane.

“It’s nice to meet you, Alex,” Turner said in a way that made it sound quite the opposite.

“How was the flight?” Troy asked. And then, before Alex could answer. “I guess it must have been scary. Travelling on your own.”

“I had to close my eyes during take-off,” Alex said. “But I stopped trembling when we got to thirty-five thousand feet.”

“You’re scared of flying?” Turner was astonished.

“That’s crazy!” Troy turned to Byrne. “You’re putting this kid into a CIA operation and already we find out he’s scared of flying!”

“No, no, Belinda! Tom!” Byrne was embarrassed. “I think Alex was joking.”

“Joking?”

“That’s right. He’s just got a different sense of humour.”

Troy was tight-lipped. “Well, I don’t find it funny,” she said. “In fact, I think this whole idea is crazy. I’m sorry, sir…” she went on quickly, before Byrne could interrupt her. “You tell me this boy has a reputation. But he’s still a minor! Suppose he makes a dumb-ass joke when we’re in the field? He could blow our cover! And what about that accent of his? You’re not going to tell me he’s American?”

“He doesn’t sound American,” Turner agreed.

“Alex won’t need to talk,” Byrne said. “And if he does, I’m sure he can put on an accent.”

Turner coughed. “Permission to speak, sir?”

“Go ahead, Turner.”

“I agree one hundred per cent with special agent Troy, sir. I’ve got nothing against Alex. But he’s not trained. He’s not tested. He’s not American!”

“Goddammit!” Suddenly Byrne was angry. “We’ve been through all this. You know how tough security is on the island-and with the Russian president on the way, it’s going to be worse than ever. You go into Santiago airport on your own and you won’t make it out the other side. Remember what happened to Johnson! He went in on his own, dressed up as a birdwatcher. That was three months ago and we haven’t heard from him since!”

“Well find us an American kid!”

“That’s enough, Turner. Alex has flown thousands of miles to help us and I think you could at least show a little appreciation. Both of you. Alex…” Byrne gestured at Alex to sit down. “Can I get you anything? You want a drink? A Coke?”

“I’m fine,” Alex said, and sat down.

Byrne opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bundle of papers and official documents. Alex recognized the green cover of an American passport. “Now this is how we’re going to work it,” he began. “The first thing is, all three of you are going to need fake IDs when you go into Cayo Esqueleto. I thought it would be easier to keep your first names-so it’s Alex Gardiner who’s going to be travelling with his mum and dad, Tom and Belinda Gardiner. Look after these documents, by the way. The agency is prohibited from manufacturing false passports and I had to pull strings to get hold of them. When this is over, I want them back.”

Alex opened the passport. He was amazed to find his own photograph already in place. His age was the same, but according to the passport he had been born in California. He wondered how it had been done. And when.

“You live in Los Angeles,” Byrne explained. “You’re at high school in west Hollywood. Your dad’s in the movie business and this is a week’s vacation to do some diving and see the sights. I’ll give you some stuff to read tonight, and of course everything’s been backstopped.”

“What does that mean?” Alex asked.

“It means that if anyone asks anything about the Gardiner family living in LA, it’ll all check out. The school, the neighbourhood, everything. There are people out there who’ll say they’ve known you all your life.” Byrne paused. “Listen, Alex. You have to understand. The United States of America is not at war with Cuba. Sure, we’ve had our differences, but for the most part we’ve managed to live side by side. But they do things their way. Cuba -and that means Cayo Esqueleto-is a country in its own right. They find you’re a spy, they’re going to put you in jail. They’re going to interrogate you. Maybe they’ll kill you-and there’s nothing we can do to stop them. It’s been three months since we heard from Johnson and my gut feeling is we’re never going to hear from him again.”

There was a long silence.

Byrne realized he’d gone too far. “But nothing’s going to happen to you,” he said. “You’re not part of this operation. You’re just watching from the sideline.” He turned to the two agents. “The important thing is to start acting like a unit. You only have two days until you leave. That means spending time together. I guess Alex will be too tired for dinner tonight but you can start by having breakfast together tomorrow. Spend the day together. Start thinking like a family. That’s what you’ve got to be.”

It was strange. Lying in bed in Cornwall, Alex had wished he could belong to a family. And now the wish had come true-though not in the way he had intended.

“Any questions?” Byrne asked.

“Yes, sir. I have a question,” Turner said. He was sulking. His mouth had become little more than a straight line quickly drawn across his handsome face. “You want us to play happy families tomorrow. OK, sir, if that’s an order, I’ll do my best. But I think you’re forgetting that tomorrow I’m meant to be seeing the Salesman. I don’t think he’ll be expecting me to turn up with my wife and child.”

“The Salesman?” Byrne was annoyed.

“I’m seeing him at midday.”

“What about Troy?”

“I’ll be there as back-up,” Troy said. “This is standard procedure-”

“All right!” Byrne thought for a moment. “The Salesman is on the water, right? Turner-you’ll go onto the boat. So Alex can stay with Troy, on land. Safely out of the way.”

Byrne stood up. The meeting was over. Alex felt another wave of tiredness surge through him and had to fight off a yawn. Byrne must have noticed. “You get some rest, Alex,” he said. “I’m sure you and I will meet again. And I really am grateful you’ve agreed to help.” He held out a hand. Alex shook it.

But special agent Troy was still sullen. “We’ll have breakfast at ten-thirty,” she said. “That’ll give you time to read all the paperwork. Not that you’ll probably sleep that much anyway. Where are you staying?”

Alex shrugged.

“I’ve put him up at the Delano,” Byrne said.

“OK. We’ll pick you up there.”

Turner and Troy turned round and left the room. Neither of them bothered to say goodbye.

“Don’t mind them,” Byrne said. “This is a new situation for them. But they’re good agents. Turner entered the military straight after college and Troy has worked with him many times before. They’ll look after you when you’re out in the field. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

But somehow Alex doubted it. And he was still puzzled. A lot of work, a lot of thought had gone into this operation. False papers-with his photograph-had been prepared before he had even known he was coming. A whole identity had been set up for him in Los Angeles. And another agent, Johnson, had possibly died.

A simple surveillance operation? Byrne was nervous. Alex was sure of it. Maybe Turner and Troy were too.

Whatever was happening on Skeleton Key, they weren’t telling him the full truth. Somehow, he’d have to find that out for himself.

It was a room that didn’t really look like a room at all. It was too big. It had too many doors-and not just doors but archways, alcoves and a wide terrace open to the sun. The floor was marble, a chessboard of green and white squares that seemed somehow to exaggerate its size. The furniture was ornate, antique-and it was everywhere. Highly polished tables and chairs. Pedestals with vases and statuettes. Huge, gold-framed mirrors. Spectacular chandeliers. A giant stuffed crocodile lay in front of a massive fireplace. The man who had killed it sat opposite.

General Sarov was sipping black coffee out of a tiny porcelain cup. Caffeine is addictive and Sarov allowed himself only one thimbleful of coffee once a day. It was his single vice and he savoured it. Today he was dressed in a casual linen suit, but on this man it looked almost formal, with not a crease in it. His shirt was open at the collar revealing a neck that could have been carved out of grey stone. A ceiling fan turned slowly, a few metres above the desk where he was sitting. Sarov savoured the last mouthful of coffee, then lowered the cup and saucer back onto his desk. The porcelain made no sound as it came to rest on the polished surface.

There was a knock at the door-one of the doors-and a man walked into the room. Walked, however, was the wrong word. There was no word to describe exactly how this man moved.

Everything about him was wrong. His head sat at an angle on shoulders which were themselves crooked and hunched. His right arm was shorter than his left arm. His right leg, however, was several centimetres longer than his left. His feet were encased in black leather shoes, one heavier and larger than the other. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, and as he approached Sarov his muscles rippled beneath the cloth as if with a life of their own. Nothing in his body was co-ordinated, so although he was moving forwards, he seemed to be trying to go backwards or sideways. His face was the worst part of him. It was as if it had been taken to pieces and put back together again by a child with only a vague knowledge of the human form. There were about a dozen scars on his neck and around his cheeks. One of his eyes was red, permanently bloodshot. He had long, colourless hair on one half of his head. On the other, he was completely bald.

Although it would have been impossible to tell from looking at him, this man was only twenty-eight years old and, until a few years ago, had been the most feared terrorist in Europe. His name was Conrad. Very little was known about him, although it was said that he was Turkish, that he had been born in Istanbul, the son of a butcher, and that when he was nine he had blown up his school with a bomb made in chemistry class when he was given a detention for being late.

Again, nobody knew who had trained Conrad or, for that matter, who had employed him. He was a chameleon. He had no political beliefs and operated simply for money. It was believed that he had been responsible for outrages in Paris, Madrid, Athens and London. One thing was certain. The security services of nine different countries were after him, he was number four on the CIA’s most wanted list, and there was an official bounty of two million dollars on his head.

His career had come to a sudden and unexpected end in the winter of 1998 when a bomb that he had been carrying-intended for an army base-had detonated early. The bomb had quite literally blown him apart, but it hadn’t quite managed to kill him. He had been stitched back together by a team of Albanian doctors in a research centre near Elbasan. It was their handiwork that was so visible now.

He was working as Sarov’s personal assistant and secretary. He had done so for two years. Such work would once have been beneath him but Conrad had little choice now. And anyway, he understood the scope of Sarov’s vision. In the new world that the Russian intended to create, Conrad would have his rewards.

“Good morning, comrade,” Sarov said. He spoke in fluent English. “I hope we’ve managed to recover the rest of the banknotes from the swamp.”

Conrad nodded. He preferred not to speak.

“Excellent. The money will, of course, have to be laundered. Then it can be paid back into my account.” Sarov reached out and opened a leather-bound diary. There were a number of entries, each one in perfect handwriting. “Everything is proceeding according to schedule,” he went on. “The construction of the bomb…?”

“Complete.” Conrad seemed to have difficulty getting the word out of his mouth. He had to twist his face to make it happen at all.

“I knew I could rely on you. The Russian president will be arriving here in just five days’ time. I had an email from him confirming it today. Boris tells me how much he’s looking forward to his holiday.” Sarov smiled very briefly. “It will, of course, be a holiday that he is unlikely to forget. You have the rooms prepared?” Conrad nodded. “The cameras?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good.” Sarov ran a finger down the diary pages. He stopped at a single word that had been underlined with a question mark. “There still remains the question of the uranium,” he said. “I always knew that the purchase and delivery of nuclear material would be dangerous and delicate. The men in the aircraft threatened me and they have paid the price. But they were, of course, working for a third party.”

“The Salesman,” Conrad said.

“Indeed. By now, the Salesman will have heard what happened to his messenger boys. When no further payment arrives from me, he may decide to go ahead with his threat and alert the authorities. It’s unlikely, but it’s still a risk I am not prepared to take. We have less than two weeks until the bomb is detonated and the world takes on the shape that I have decided to give it. We cannot take any chances. And so, my dear Conrad, you must go to Miami and remove the Salesman from our lives-which will, I fear, involve removing him from his.”

“Where is he?”

“He operates out of a boat, a cruise liner called Mayfair Lady. It’s usually moored at the Bayside Marketplace. The Salesman feels safer on the water. Speaking personally, I will feel safer when he is underneath it.” Sarov closed the diary. The meeting was over. “You can leave straight away. Report to me when it is done.”

Conrad nodded a third time. The metal pins in his neck rippled briefly as his head moved up and down. Then he turned round and walked, limped, dragged himself out of the room.