Skeleton Key (19 page)

This one was open. He found himself in a corridor with storerooms and offices on either side.

There didn‟t seem to be anyone about. Now all he needed was a phone. He tried a door. It led into a room full of shelves with a photocopier and stationery supplies. The next door was locked.

Alex was getting increasingly desperate. He tried another door and this time he was lucky. It was an office with a desk and, on the desk, a telephone. There was nobody inside. He ran in and snatched it up.

But it was only now he realized that he had no idea what number to ring. The mobile that Smithers had given him had been equipped with a hot key—a direct link to MI6. But nobody had ever given him a direct number. What was he to do? Dial the operator and ask for military intelligence? They would think he was mad.

He didn‟t have any time to waste. Sarov might already have recovered. Even now he might be on his way. The office had a window but it looked out the back, so there was no sign of the plane or the runway. Alex made a decision and dialled 999.

The line rang twice before it was answered.

It was a woman‟s voice. “You have rung the emergency services. Which service do you require?”

“Police,” Alex said.

“Connecting you now…”

He heard the ring tone.

And then a hand came down onto the telephone, cutting him off. Alex swung round, breathless, expecting to see Sarov in front of him—or worse still, Conrad with the gun.

But it wasn‟t either of them. It was an airport security guard who had walked into the office while Alex was making his call. He was about fifty years old with greying hair and a chin that had sunk into his neck. His stomach bulged over his belt and his trousers stopped about two centimetres short of his ankles. The man had a radio attached to his jacket. His name—George Prescott—was written on a badge on his top pocket. He was looming over Alex with a stern look on his face and, with a sinking heart, Alex recognized a real security nightmare: a man with the self-important smugness of the traffic warden, the car park attendant, any petty official.

“What are you doing here, laddie?” Prescott demanded.

“I need to make a telephone call,” Alex said.

“I can see that. But this isn‟t a public telephone. This isn‟t even a public office. This is a secure complex. You shouldn‟t be in here.”

“No, you don‟t understand. This is an emergency!”

“Oh yes? And what sort of emergency do you mean?” Prescott obviously didn‟t believe him.

“I can‟t explain. Just let me make the call.”

The security guard smiled. He was enjoying himself. He spent five days a week plodding from one office to another, checking doors and turning off Lights. It was good to have someone he could boss about. “You‟re not making any calls until you tell me what you‟re doing here!” he said. “This is a private office.” His eyes narrowed.

“Have you opened any drawers? Have you taken anything?”

Alex‟s nerves were screaming but he forced himself to remain calm. “I haven‟t taken anything, Mr Prescott,” he said. “I just got off a plane that landed a few minutes ago—”

“What plane?”

“A private plane.”

“Have you got a passport?”

“No.”

“That‟s a very serious matter. You can‟t enter the country without a passport.”

“My passport is on the plane!”

“Then I‟ll escort you back and we‟ll get it.”

“No!” Alex could feel the seconds racing by. What could he say to this man that would persuade him to let him make the phone call? His mind was in a whirl and suddenly, for the first time in his life, he found himself blurting out the truth. “Listen,” he said. “I know this is hard to believe, but I work for the government. The British government. If you let me call them, they‟ll prove it to you. I‟m a spy—”

“A spy?” Prescott‟s face broke into a smile. But there was no humour in it at all. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“A fourteen-year-old spy? I think you‟ve been watching too much television, laddie.”

“It‟s true!”

“I don‟t think so.”

“Listen to me, please. A man has just tried to kill me. He‟s on a plane on the runway and unless you let me make this call, a lot of people are going to die.”

“What?”

“He‟s got a nuclear bomb, for God‟s sake!”

That was a mistake. Prescott bristled. “I‟ll ask you not to take the name of the Lord in vain, if you don‟t mind.” He came to a decision. “I don‟t know how you got here or what you‟re playing at, but you‟re coming with me to security and passport control in the main terminal.” He reached out for Alex. “Come along now! I‟ve had enough of your nonsense.”

“It isn‟t nonsense. There‟s a man called Sarov. He‟s carrying a nuclear bomb. He‟s planning to detonate it in Murmansk. I‟m the only one who can stop him. Please, Mr Prescott. Just let me phone the police. It‟ll only take me twenty seconds and you can stand here and watch me. Let me talk to them and afterwards you can take me wherever you like.”

But the security guard wouldn‟t budge. “You‟re not making any calls and you‟re coming with me now,” he said.

Alex made up his mind. He had tried pleading and he had tried telling the truth. Neither had succeeded, so he would just have to take the security guard out. Prescott moved round the desk, getting closer to him. Alex tensed himself, balancing on the balls of his feet, his fists ready. He knew that the man was only doing his job and he didn‟t want to hurt him but there was no other way. And then the door opened. “There you are, Alex! I was worried about you…” It was Sarov.

Conrad was with him. Both of them looked ill—their skin white and eyes not quite focused.

There was no expression on either man‟s face. “Who are you?” Prescott demanded. “I‟m Alex‟s father,” Sarov replied. “Isn‟t that right, Alex?”

Alex hesitated. He realized he was still in combat position, about to strike out. Slowly, he lowered his arms. He knew it was over and tasted the bitterness of defeat. There was nothing he could do. If he argued in front of Prescott, Sarov would simply kill both of them. If he tried to fight, the result would be just the same. Alex had just one hope Left. If he walked out of here with Sarov and Conrad and the security guard was still alive, there was just a chance that he might tell his story to someone who would report it to MI6. It would certainly be too late for Alex. But the world might still be saved.

“Isn‟t that right, Alex?” Sarov was waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Alex said. “Hello, Dad.”

“So what‟s all this business about bombs and spies?” Prescott asked.

Alex inwardly groaned. Why couldn‟t the man keep his mouth shut?

“Is that what Alex has been telling you?” Sarov asked.

“Aye. That and a whole lot more besides.”

“Has he made a telephone call?”

“No.” Prescott puffed himself up. “The wee rascal was helping himself to the phone when I came in. But I soon put a stop to that.”

Sarov nodded slowly. He was pleased. “Well… he does have a vivid imagination,” he explained.

“Alex has not been well lately. He has mental problems. Sometimes he finds it hard to distinguish between fantasy and reality.”

“How did he get in here?” Prescott demanded.

“He must have slipped out of the plane when nobody was watching. He has, of course, no permission to be on British soil.”

“Is he British?”

“No.” Sarov took hold of Alex‟s arm. “And now we must return to the plane. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Wait a minute!” The guard wasn‟t going to let them off that easily. “I‟m sorry, sir, but your son was strictly off-limits. And for that matter, so are you. You can‟t just go wandering around Edinburgh airport like this! I‟m going to have to report this.”

“I quite understand.” Sarov didn‟t seem at all perturbed. “I must get the boy back on the plane.

But I will leave you with my assistant, who will give you all the details you require. If necessary, he will accompany you to your superior‟s office. And I have to thank you for preventing my son from making a telephone call, Mr Prescott. That would have been most embarrassing for us all.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sarov turned and, still holding Alex‟s arm, led him out of the room.

An hour later, the Lear jet took off on the last leg of its journey. Alex was sitting in the same seat as before but now he was handcuffed to it. Sarov hadn‟t hurt him and no longer seemed even aware that he was on the plane. In a way, that was the most frightening thing about him. Alex had expected anger, violence, perhaps even a sudden death at the hands of Conrad. But Sarov had done nothing. From the moment that Alex had been escorted back onto the plane, the Russian hadn‟t so much as looked at him. There had, of course, been problems. The explosion on the plane and Alex‟s leap out of it had raised all sorts of questions. The pilot had been in constant communication with the control tower. The sound of the explosion had been a faulty microwave oven, he‟d explained. As for the boy? General Alexei Sarov, on the staff of the Russian president, was travelling with a nephew. The boy had high spirits. Very stupid, but everything was under control…

If this had been an ordinary private jet, the police would have been called. But it was registered to Boris Kiriyenko. It had diplomatic immunity. All in all, the authorities agreed, it would be easier to turn a blind eye and let it go.

George Prescott‟s body was discovered four hours later. He was sitting, slumped, in a stationery cupboard. There was a look of surprise on his face and a single, round bullet wound between his eyes.

By then, the Lear was in Russian airspace. Even as the alarm was raised and the police were finally called, the cabin lights were dimmed as the jet curved over the Kola Peninsula preparing for its final descent.

Airports are the same all over the world, but the one at Murmansk had managed to achieve a new level of ugliness. It had been built in the middle of nowhere so that, from the air, it looked like a mistake. At ground level, it offered just one low-rise terminal built out of glass and tired, grey cement, with eight white letters mounted on the roof.

MYPMAHCK

Alex recognized the Russian spelling. Murmansk. A city with thousands of people. He wondered how many of them would be alive in twelve hours‟ time. Now handcuffed to one of the two guards who had flown with them all the way from Skeleton Key, he was led across an empty runway. It had rained recently. The asphalt was wet and greasy, with pools of dirty water all around. There were no other planes in sight. In fact, the airport didn‟t seem to be in use at all. A few lights burned, dull yellow, behind the glass. But there were no people. The single arrivals door was locked and chained as if the airport had given up all hope of anyone ever actually coming there.

They were expected. Three army trucks and a mud-streaked saloon car were waiting. A row of men stood to attention, dressed in khaki uniforms with black belts and boots almost like Wellingtons rising to their calves. Each one of them carried a machine-gun on a strap across his chest. Their commander, wearing the same uniform as Sarov, stepped forward and saluted. He and Sarov shook hands, then embraced. They spoke for a few minutes. Then the commander snapped an order. Two of his men ran to the plane and began to unload the silver chest that was Sarov‟s nuclear bomb. Alex watched as it was taken out of the back and loaded into one of the trucks. The soldiers were well disciplined. Here was enough power to destroy a continent, but not one head turned as it was carried past.

With the bomb in place, the soldiers swivelled round and, marching in time, approached the two remaining trucks and climbed in. His hands cuffed together now, Alex was bundled into the front seat of one, next to the driver. Nobody looked at him. Nobody seemed too curious about who he was. Sarov must have radioed ahead and warned them that he would be there. He examined the man driving the truck. He was tough and clean-shaven with clear blue eyes. There was no expression on his face. A professional soldier. Alex turned and looked out of the window in time to see Sarov and Conrad getting into the car.

They set off. There really was nothing outside the airport, just a flat, empty landscape where even the trees managed to be stunted and dull. Alex shivered and tried to cross his hands to rub warmth into his shoulders. There was a clink from the handcuffs and the driver glanced at him angrily.

They drove for about forty minutes down a road pitted with holes. A few buildings, modern and characterless, crept up on them and suddenly they were in Murmansk itself. Was it night or day?

The sky was still light but the streetlamps were on. There were people on the pavements but they didn‟t seem to be going anywhere, just drifting along like sleepwalkers. Nobody looked at them as they followed a single road, four lanes wide. This was a boulevard in the centre of the city.

It was absolutely straight and seemed to go nowhere, with blank, uninteresting buildings on either side. Murmansk was made up of row after row of almost identical apartment blocks like so many match boxes. There didn‟t seem to be any cinemas, restaurants, shops—anything that would make life worth living.

There were no suburbs. The city just stopped and suddenly they were driving through empty tundra, heading for a horizon that had nothing at all to offer. They were fourteen hundred kilometres from the North Pole and there was nothing here. People with no life and a sun without a shred of warmth. Alex thought of the journey he had made. From Wimbledon to Cornwall.

Then London, Miami and Skeleton Key. And finally here. Was it to be finally? What a horrible place to finish his life. He really had come to the end of the world.

There were no other cars on the road and no street signs. Alex stopped even trying to see where they were going. After another thirty minutes they began to slow down, then turned off. There was a crunching sound under the wheels as they left the asphalt surface and continued along gravel. Was this where the Russians kept their submarines? He could only see a chicken wire fence and a dilapidated wooden kiosk trying to pass as a sentry box.

They stopped in front of a red and white barrier. A man appeared, dressed in dark blue with a loose, flapping overcoat and, showing underneath it, a tunic and a striped T-shirt. He was a Russian sailor. He couldn‟t have been more than twenty years old and he looked confused. He ran over to the car and said something in Russian.