Skeleton Key

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

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.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Alex opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself. There was no point arguing with these people. They’d already made up their minds, and anyway, they were the sort who were always right. He’d met teachers just like them. But at least he’d achieved something now. The two special agents had decided to loosen up.

“You want to know about the Salesman?” Troy began. “He’s a crook. He’s based here in Miami. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“He’s Mexican,” Turner added. “From Mexico City.”

“So what does he do?”

“He does just what his name says. He sells things. Drugs. Weapons. False identities. Information.” Troy ticked off the list on her fingers. “If you need something and it’s against the law, the Salesman will supply it. At a price, of course.”

“I thought you were investigating Sarov.”

“We are.” Turner hesitated. “The Salesman may have sold something to Sarov. That’s the connection.”

“What did he sell?”

“We don’t know for sure.” Turner was looking increasingly nervous. “We just know that two of the Salesman’s agents flew into Skeleton Key recently. They flew in but they didn’t fly out again. We’ve been trying to find out what Sarov was buying.”

“What’s all this got to do with the Russian president?” Alex still wasn’t sure he was being told the truth.

“We won’t know that until we know what it was that Sarov bought,” Troy said, as if explaining something to a six year old.

“I’ve been working undercover with the Salesman for a while now,” Turner went on. “I’m buying drugs. Half a million dollars’ worth of cocaine, being flown in from Colombia. At least, that’s what he thinks.” Turner smiled. “We have a pretty good relationship. He trusts me. And today just happens to be the Salesman’s birthday, so he invited me to go for a drink on his boat.”

Alex looked across to the sea. “Which one is it?”

“That one.” Turner pointed at a boat moored at the end of a jetty about fifty metres away. Alex drew a breath.

It was one of the most beautiful boats he had ever seen. Not sleek, white and fibreglass like so many of the cruisers he had seen moored around Miami. Not even modern. She was called Mayfair Lady and was an Edwardian classic motor yacht, eighty years old, like something out of a black and white film. The boat was one hundred and twenty feet long with a single funnel rising over its centre. The main saloon was at deck level, just behind the bridge. A sweeping line of fifteen or more portholes suggested cabins and dining rooms below. The boat was cream with natural wood trimmings, a wooden deck and brass lamps under the canopies. A tall, slender mast rose up at the front with a radar, the boat’s one visible connection with the twenty-first century. Mayfair Lady didn’t belong in Miami. She belonged in a museum. And every boat that came near her was somehow ugly by comparison.

“It’s a nice boat,” Alex said. “The Salesman must be doing well.”

“The Salesman should be in jail,” Troy muttered. She had seen the admiring Look in Alex’s eyes and didn’t approve. “And one day that’s where we’re going to put him.”

“Thirty years to life,” Turner agreed.

Troy dug her spoon into her fruit salad. “All right, Alex,” she said, “let’s start again. Your maths teacher. What’s her name?”

Alex looked round. “Her name is Mrs Hazeldene. And-nice try-but we learn maths in England. Americans learn math.”

Troy nodded but didn’t smile. “You’re getting there,” she said.

They finished their breakfast. The CIA agents tested Alex on a few more details, then lapsed into silence. They didn’t ask him about his life in England, his friends, or how he had stumbled into the world of MI6. They didn’t seem to want to know anything about him.

The skateboarders had stopped playing and were slumped on the boardwalk, drinking Cokes. Turner looked at his watch. “Time to go,” he muttered.

“I’ll stay with the kid,” Troy said.

“I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.” Turner stood up, then slapped his hand against his head. “Hell! I didn’t get the Salesman a birthday present!”

“He won’t mind,” Troy said. “Tell him you forgot.”

“You don’t think he’ll be upset?”

“It’s OK, Turner. Invite him out for lunch another time. He’ll like that.”

Turner smiled. “Good idea.”

“Good luck,” Alex said.

Turner got up and left. As he walked away, Alex noticed a man in a bright Hawaiian shirt and white trousers coming from the opposite direction. It was impossible to see the man’s face because he was wearing sunglasses and a straw hat. But he must have been involved in some sort of terrible accident-his legs were dragging awkwardly and there seemed to be no life in his arms. For a moment he was right next to Turner on the boardwalk. Turner didn’t notice him. Then, moving surprisingly quickly, he had gone.

Alex and Troy watched as Turner walked all the way along to Mayfair Lady. There was a ramp at the end of the jetty, leading up to deck level. It allowed the crew to wheel supplies on board. A couple of men were just finishing as Turner arrived. He spoke to them. One of them pointed in the direction of the saloon cabin. Turner went up the ramp and disappeared on board.

“What happens now?” Alex asked.

“We wait.”

For about fifteen minutes nothing happened. Alex tried to talk to Troy but her attention was fixed on the boat and she said nothing. He wondered about the relationship between the two agents. They obviously knew each other well and Byrne had told him they’d worked together before. Neither of them showed their emotions, but he wondered if their friendship might be more than professional.

Then Alex saw Troy sit up in her seat. He followed her eyes back to the boat. Smoke was coming out of the funnel. The engines had started up. The two crewmen Turner had spoken to were on the jetty. One of them untied the boat, then climbed onboard. The other one walked off. Slowly, Mayfair Lady began to move away from her mooring.

“Something’s gone wrong,” Troy whispered. She wasn’t talking to Alex. She was talking to herself.

“What d’you mean?”

Her head snapped round as she remembered he was there. “It was a ten minute meeting. Tom wasn’t meant to be going anywhere.”

Tom. It was the first time she had used his first name.

“Maybe he changed his mind,” Alex suggested. “Maybe the Salesman invited him on a cruise.”

“He wouldn’t have gone. Not without me. Not without cover. It’s against company procedure.”

“Then…”

“His cover’s been blown.” Troy ’s face was suddenly pale. “They must have found out he’s an agent. They’re taking him out to sea with them…”

She was standing up now but not moving, paralysed with indecision. The boat was still moving gracefully. Already a full half of its length was projecting out beyond the jetty. Even if she ran forward, she would never reach it in time.

“What are you going to do?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are they going to…?”

“If they know who he is, they’ll kill him.” She snapped the words as if this was somehow Alex’s fault, as if it was a stupid question that he should never have asked. And maybe it was this that decided him. Suddenly, before he even knew what he was doing, he was on his feet and running. He was angry. He was going to show them that he was more than the dumb English kid they obviously thought he was.

“Alex!” Troy called out.

He ignored her. He had already reached the boardwalk. The two teenagers he had seen earlier were sitting in the sun, finishing their drinks, and they didn’t see him snatch one of their skateboards and jump onto it. It was only as he pushed off, propelling himself over the wooden surface towards the departing boat, that one of them shouted in his direction, but by then it was too late.

Alex was balanced perfectly. Snowboards, skateboards, surfboards, they were all the same to him. And this skateboard was a beauty, a Flexdex downhill racer with ABEC5 racing bearings and kryptonic wheels. How typical of Miami kids to buy only the best. He shifted his weight, suddenly aware that he had neither helmet nor knee-pads. If he came off now, it was going to hurt. But that was the least of his worries. The boat was pulling away. Even as Alex watched, the stern with its churning propellers slid past the end of the jetty. Now the boat was at sea. He could see the name, Mayfair Lady, dwindling as it moved into the distance. In seconds it would be too far away to reach.

Alex hit the ramp that the men had been using to load and unload the boat. He soared upwards and suddenly he was in mid-air, flying. He felt the skateboard fall away from his feet, heard it splash into the sea. But his own momentum carried him forward. He wasn’t going to make it!

The boat was moving too fast. Alex was plunging down now, following an arc that was going to miss the stern by centimetres. It would bring him crashing down into the water-and then what? The propellers! They would slice him to pieces. Alex stretched out his arms and somehow his scrabbling fingers made contact with the rail that curved round the back of the boat. His body smashed into the metal stern, his feet dipping into the water above the propellers.

He felt the breath punched out of him. Somebody on the boat must have heard. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He would just have to hope that the noise of the engines had covered the collision. Using all his strength, he pulled himself up and over the rail. And then, finally, he was on the deck, soaked to the knees, his entire body aching from the impact. But he was onboard. And miraculously, he hadn’t been seen.

He crouched down, taking stock of his surroundings. The stern deck was a small, semi-enclosed area, shaped like a horseshoe. In front of him was the saloon cabin with a single window facing back and the door a little further down the side. There was a stack of supplies underneath a tarpaulin and also two large cans. Alex unscrewed one of the lids and sniffed. It was full of petrol. The Salesman obviously planned to be away for some time.

The entire deck, both port and starboard, was overshadowed by a canopy hanging down on either side of the main saloon and there was a wooden lifeboat suspended on two pulleys above his head. Resting briefly against the stern rail, Alex knew he was safe provided nobody actually walked to the back of the boat. How many crew members would there be? Presumably there was a captain at the wheel. He might have someone with him. Looking up, Alex glimpsed a pair of feet crossing the upper deck on the roof of the saloon. That made three. There could be two or three more inside. Six perhaps in total?

He looked back. The port of Miami was already slipping away behind him. Alex got up and slipped off his shoes and socks. Then he crept forward, moving absolutely silently, still nervous about being spotted from the upper deck. The first two windows of the saloon were closed but the third was open and crouching below it he heard a voice. A man was talking. He had a thick Mexican accent and every time he spoke the letter S, he whistled softly.

“You are a foolish man. Your name is Tom Turner. You work for the CIA. And I am going to kill you.”

Another man spoke briefly. “You’re wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alex recognized Turner’s voice. He glanced left and right. Then, with his shoulders against the cabin wall, he levered himself upwards until his head reached the level of the window and he could look in.

The saloon cabin was rectangular, with a wooden floor partially covered by a carpet that had been rolled back-presumably to avoid bloodstains. Unlike the boat, the furniture was modern, office-like. There wasn’t a great deal of it. Turner was sitting in a chair with his hands behind his back. Alex could see that some sort of parcel tape had been used to tie his arms and legs. He had already been beaten. His fair hair was damp and blood trickled out of the comer of his mouth.

There were two men in the cabin with him. One was a deckhand in jeans and black T-shirt, his stomach bulging out over his belt. The other had to be the Salesman. He was a round-faced man with very black hair and a small moustache. He was wearing a three-piece white suit, immaculately tailored, and brightly polished leather shoes. The deckhand was holding a gun, a large, heavy automatic. The Salesman was sitting in a cane chair, holding a glass of red wine. He rolled it in front of his nose, enjoying the aroma, then sipped.

“What a delicious wine!” he muttered. “This is Chilean. A Cabernet Sauvignon grown on my own estate. You see, my friend, I am successful. I have businesses all over the world. People want to drink wine? I sell wine. People want to take drugs? They are mad, but that is no concern of mine. I sell drugs. What is so wrong with that? I sell anything that anyone wishes to buy. But, you see, I am a careful man. I did not buy your story. I made certain enquiries. The Central Intelligence Agency is mentioned. And that is why you find yourself here.”

“What do you want to know?” Turner rasped.

“I want to know when we are one hour out of Miami because that is when I intend to shoot you and dump you over the side.” The Salesman smiled. “That is all.”

Alex sank down again. There was no point listening to any more. He couldn’t go into the cabin. There were two of them and only one of him. And although he had a weapon, it wouldn’t be enough. Not against a gun. He needed a diversion.

Then he remembered the petrol. Glancing quickly at the upper deck he prepared to go back to the stern, then froze as the door of the bridge opened and a man came out. There was nothing Alex could do; nowhere he could hide. But he was lucky. The man, dressed in the faded uniform of a ship’s captain, had been smoking a cigarette. He stopped long enough to throw the butt into the sea, then went back the way he had come without turning his head. It had been a close escape and Alex knew it could only be a matter of time before he was noticed. He had to move fast.

He ran on tiptoe to the petrol cans. He tried tilting one of them but it was too heavy. He looked around for a rag, couldn’t find one and so took off his shirt, ripping it apart in his hands. Quickly he pushed the sleeve into the can, soaking it in petrol. Then he pulled it out, leaving only the end still dangling inside; a makeshift fuse. What would happen when he set fire to the petrol? Alex guessed that the explosion would be enough to attract the attention of everyone onboard but not strong enough to kill anyone or sink the boat. Since he was still going to be onboard, he would just have to hope he was right.

He reached into his pocket and took out the book of matches that he had been playing with in the restaurant. Cupping his hand to protect the flame from the breeze, he lit first one match, then the whole book. He touched the flame against the rag that had once been his shirt. The whole thing was alight in a second.

Running forward again, he returned to the saloon cabin. He could hear the Salesman still speaking inside.

“Another glass, I think. Yes. But then I’m afraid I must leave you. I have work to do.”

Alex looked in. The Salesman was standing at a table, pouring himself a second glass of wine. Alex looked back over his shoulder. There was no one there. Nothing had happened. Why hadn’t the petrol caught fire? Had the wind blown out his makeshift fuse?

And then it exploded. A great mushroom of flame and black smoke leapt into the air at the back of the boat, snatched away instantly by the wind. Somebody shouted. Alex saw that the petrol had splashed all over both decks. There was fire everywhere. The canopy right above his head was alight. Whatever had been packed underneath the tarpaulin was also blazing. More shouting. Footsteps thudded towards the stern deck. Now was the time to move.

“See what is happening!”

Alex heard the Salesman snap the command and a second later the deckhand came racing out. He disappeared round the other side of the cabin.

That just left the Salesman himself, on his own with Turner. Alex waited a few seconds, then stepped into the doorway, once again reaching into his trouser pocket. Turner saw him before the Salesman. His eyes widened. The Salesman turned. Alex saw that he had put down his glass and picked up a gun. For a moment neither of them moved. The Salesman was looking at a fourteen-year-old boy, barefoot and naked from the waist up. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that Alex could be any threat to him, that it was this boy who had set fire to his boat. And in that moment of hesitation, Alex made his move.

When he brought his hand up, he was holding a mobile phone. He had already dialled two nines before he’d gone in. He pressed the button for a third time as he aimed with the phone.

“It’s for you!” he said.

He felt the phone shudder in his hand and, silently, the aerial spat out of the top, the plastic peeling back to reveal a shining needle. It travelled across the cabin and hit the Salesman square in the chest. The Salesman had reacted fast, already bringing his gun round. But a second later his eyes rolled and he slumped to the floor. Alex jumped over him, picked up a knife from the table and went over to Turner.

“What the hell…?” the CIA man began. Alex could see at once that he wasn’t badly hurt. At the same time, his mood didn’t seem to have improved. He looked from the phone to the unconscious figure of the Salesman. “What did you do to him?” he asked.

“He got the wrong number,” Alex said. He cut through the adhesive tape.

Turner got to his feet and snatched up the gun that the Salesman had dropped. He checked the clip. The gun was fully loaded. “What happened?” he demanded. “I heard an explosion!”

“Yeah. That was me. I set the boat alight.”

“What?”

“I set fire to the boat.”

“But we’re on the boat!”

“I know.”

Before Alex could say any more, Turner moved, twisting round, snapping into combat position, arms up, legs apart. There was a stairwell at the far end of the cabin. Alex hadn’t noticed it before. A figure had appeared, coming up from below. Turner fired twice. The figure crumpled back down. Turner stopped. Black smoke was seeping into the cabin. There was a second explosion and the entire boat rocked as if seized by a sudden squall. There was shouting outside on the deck. Looking out of the window, Alex could see flames.

“That must have been the second petrol tank,” he said.

“How many tanks are there?”

“Just the two.”

Turner seemed almost dazed. He forced himself to a decision. “The sea…” he said. “We’re going to have to swim.”

The CIA agent went first, edging sideways out of the cabin. Suddenly the deck was full of people. There were at least seven of them. Alex wondered where they had all come from. Two of them, young men in dirty white shirts and jeans, were fighting the flames with extinguishers. There were two on the roof, another on the deck. All of them were shouting.

Smoke was trailing into the sky behind the boat. The lifeboat was ablaze. Part of the canopy was on fire. At least nobody knew quite what had happened. Nobody had seen Alex come on board. The explosions had taken them all by surprise and all they cared about was getting the fire under control. However, as Turner came out of the cabin, one of the men on the upper deck saw him. He called out in Spanish.

“Move!” Turner shouted.

He ran for the edge of the boat. Alex followed.

There was the deafening chatter of a machine-gun and what was left of the canopy above his head was torn to shreds. Bullets smashed into the deck sending chips of wood flying. A glass bulb exploded. Alex wasn’t even sure who was firing. All he knew was that he was trapped in the middle of smoke and flames and bullets and a lot of men who wanted him dead. He saw Turner dive over the side. There was another burst from the machine-gun and Alex felt the deck rip itself apart centimetres from his bare feet. He yelled out. Splinters slammed into his ankle and heels. He spurted forward and threw himself over the handrail. For what felt like an eternity everything was chaos. He could feel the wind racing over his bare shoulders. There were more gunshots. Then he plunged headfirst into the Atlantic and disappeared beneath the surface.

Alex allowed the ocean to embrace him. After the battlefield that Mayfair Lady had become, its water was warm and soothing. He swam down, a powerful breaststroke that took him ever deeper. Something whizzed past him and he realized that he was still being shot at. The further down he went, the safer he would be. He opened his eyes. The salt water stung but he needed to know how far he was going. He looked up. Light glimmered at the surface but there was no sign of the boat. His lungs were beginning to hurt. He needed to breathe. But still he waited. He would have been happy if he could have stayed underwater for an hour.

He couldn’t. With his body crying out for oxygen, Alex kicked reluctantly for the surface. He came up gasping, with water streaming down his face. Turner was next to him. The CIA agent looked more dead than alive. Alex wondered if he had been hit, but there was no sign of any blood. Perhaps he was in shock.

“Are you all right?” Alex asked.

“Are you crazy?” Turner was so angry that he actually swallowed water as he spoke. He spluttered and fought to keep himself from going under. “You could have gotten us killed!”

“I just saved your life!” Alex was getting angry himself. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think so? Look!”

With a sense of dread, Alex swivelled round in the water. Mayfair Lady hadn’t been destroyed. The fire was out. And the boat was coming back.

He had been underwater for perhaps ninety seconds. In that time, the ship had continued forward with all hands fighting the flames and nobody at the wheel. The engine had been at full throttle and it was now about five hundred metres away. But the captain had obviously returned to the bridge. The boat was wheeling round. Alex could make out four or five men standing at the bow. All of them were armed. They had seen him. One of them pointed and shouted. He and Turner were helpless, floating in the water with perhaps one weapon between them. Soon the boat would reach them. They were sitting targets, to be picked off like ducks in a fair.

What could he do? He looked at Turner, hoping the older man would produce something, some rabbit out of the hat. Didn’t the CIA have gadgets? Where was the inflatable speedboat or the concealed aqualung? But Turner was helpless. He’d even managed to lose the gun.

Mayfair Lady completed her turn.

Turner swore.

The boat drew closer, slicing through the water.

And then it exploded. This time the explosions were huge, final. There were three of them, simultaneous, in the bow, the middle and the stern. Mayfair Lady was blown into three quite separate pieces, the funnel and main saloon heaving themselves out of the ocean as if trying to escape from the rest of the boat. Alex felt the Shockwave travel through the water. The blast was deafening. A fist of water smashed into him, almost knocking him out. Pieces of wood, some of them on fire, rained down all around. He knew at once that nobody could have survived. And with that knowledge came a terrible thought.

Was it his fault? Had he killed them all?

Turner must have been thinking the same thing. He said nothing. The two of them watched as the three sections of what had once been a classic motor yacht sank and disappeared.

There was the sound of an outboard motor. Alex twisted round. A speedboat was racing towards them. He saw Belinda Troy at the wheel. She must have somehow commandeered it and come after them. She was on her own.

She helped Turner out of the water first, then Alex. For the first time, Alex realized that he couldn’t see land. He felt that it had all happened so quickly. And yet Mayfair Lady had managed to put several kilometres between itself and the coast before it was destroyed.

“What happened?” Troy asked. The wind had caught her long hair and spread it all around her. She looked as if she was having hysterics. “I saw the boat blow. I thought you were-” She stopped and caught her breath. “What happened?” she repeated.

“It was the kid.” Turner’s voice was neutral. He was still trying to catch up with the events of the last few minutes. “He cut me free…”

“You were tied up?”

“Yes. The Salesman knew I was with the agency. He was going to kill me. Alex knocked him out. He had some sort of cell phone…” He was stating the facts, but there was no gratitude. The boat rocked gently. Nobody moved. “He blew up the boat. He killed them all.”

“No.” Alex shook his head. “The fire was out. You saw. They’d got the boat under control. They were turning round, about to come back-”

“For God’s sake!” The CIA man was almost too tired to argue. “What do you think happened? You think one of the lights fused and Mayfair Lady just happened to blow up? You did it, Alex. You set the gas alight and that’s what happened.”

Gas. The American for petrol. It was one of the words they had tested him on at the Snackyard that morning. A century ago.

“I saved your life,” Alex said.

“Yeah. Thanks, Alex.” But Turner’s voice was bleak.

Troy climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. The speedboat turned and they headed back towards the shore.