Anthony Horowitz - Skeleton Key

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.

Alex had a window seat near the front of the plane. Troy was next to him with Turner on her other side, next to the aisle. A family on holiday (on vacation, he reminded himself). Troy was reading a magazine. Turner had a film script. He was meant to be a producer and had spent the journey making notes in the margin, just in case anyone happened to be looking. Alex was playing with a Game Boy Advance. He wondered about that. Turner had given it to him just before they’d left Miami. It had been very casual, standing in the departure lounge.

“Here, Alex. Something to keep you busy on the plane.”

Alex was suspicious. He remembered that the last time he’d held a Game Boy, it had been filled with gadgets invented by Smithers at MI6. But as far as he could tell, this one was completely ordinary. At least, he’d got to level five of Rayman and so far it hadn’t exploded in his hands.

He looked out the window. They had been in the air for about an hour. This had been their second flight of the day. They had gone from Miami to Kingston, Jamaica, and had caught the second plane there. They had been given the sort of snack that people expect, but never enjoy, on a plane. A sandwich, a small square of cake and a plastic tub of water. Now the stewardesses returned, hastily collecting the trays.