Anthony Horowitz - Skeleton Key

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.