Anthony Horowitz: Skeleton Key

“The guard?”

“The intruder. Dressed from head to foot in black with some sort of rucksack on his back. The guard alerted the police and we had the whole place searched. The Millennium Building, the courts, the cafes… everywhere. It took three days. There are no terrorist cells active in London at the moment, thank goodness, but there was always a chance that some lunatic might have planted a bomb. We had the anti-terrorist squad in. Sniffer dogs. Nothing! Whoever it was had vanished into thin air and it seemed he’d left nothing behind.

“Now, here’s the strange thing, Alex. He didn’t leave anything, but nor did he take anything. In fact, nothing seems to have been touched. As I say, if the guard hadn’t seen this chap, we’d never have known he had been there. What do you make of that?”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe the guard disturbed him before he could get his hands on whatever it was he wanted.”

“No. He was already leaving when he was seen.”

“Could the guard have imagined it?”

“We examined the cameras. The film is time-coded and we discovered that they had definitely been out of action for two hours. From midnight until two in the morning.”

“Then what do you think, Mr. Crawley? Why are you telling me this?”

Crawley sighed and stretched his legs. He was wearing suede shoes, shabby and down at heel. The dog had fallen asleep. “My belief is that somebody is intending to sabotage Wimbledon this year,” he said. Alex was about to interrupt but Crawley held up a hand. “I know it sounds ridiculous and I have to admit, the other committee members don’t believe me. On the other hand, they don’t have my instincts. They don’t work in the same business as me. But think about it, Alex. There had to be a reason for such a carefully planned and executed break-in. But there is no reason. Something’s wrong.”

“Why would anyone want to sabotage Wimbledon?”

“I don’t know. But you have to remember, the Wimbledon tennis fortnight is a huge business. There are millions of pounds at stake. Prize money alone adds up to eight and a half million. And then there are television rights, merchandising rights, corporate sponsorship… We get VIPs flying in from all over the planet-everyone from film stars to presidents-and tickets for the men’s final have been known to change hands for literally thousands of pounds. It’s not just a game. It’s a world event, and if anything happened… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Crawley obviously had been thinking about it. He looked tired. The worry was deep in his eyes.

Alex thought for a moment. “You want me to look around.” He smiled. “I’ve never been to Wimbledon. I’ve only ever seen it on TV. I’d love a ticket for Centre Court. But I don’t see how a one-day visit would actually help.”

“Exactly, Alex. But a one-day visit isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you see, I was wondering if you would consider becoming a ballboy.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Why not? You can stay there for the whole fortnight. You’ll have a wonderful time and you’ll be right in the middle of things. You’ll see some great matches. And I’ll be able to relax a little, knowing you’re there. If anything is going on, there’s a good chance you might spot it. Then you can call me and I’ll take care of it.” He nodded. It was obvious that he had managed to persuade himself, if not Alex. “It’s not as if this is dangerous or anything. I mean… it’s Wimbledon. There’ll be plenty of other boys and girls there. What d’you think?”

“Don’t you have enough security people already?”

“Of course we have a security company. They’re easy to see-which makes them easy to avoid. But you’d be invisible, Alex. That’s the whole point.”

“Alex…?”

It was Mr. Wiseman who had called out to him. The teacher was waiting for him. All the other players had left now, apart from two or three boys kicking the ball amongst themselves.

“I’ll just be a minute, sir,” Alex called back.

The teacher hesitated. It was rather strange, one of the boys talking to this man in his old-fashioned blazer and striped tie. But on the other hand, this was Alex Rider and the whole school knew there was something odd about him. He had been away from school twice recently, both times without any proper explanation, and the last time he had turned up again, the whole science block had been destroyed in a mysterious fire. Mr. Wiseman decided to ignore the situation. Alex could look after himself and he would doubtless turn up later. He hoped.

“Don’t be too long!” he said.

He walked off and Alex found himself left on his own with Crawley.

He considered what he had just been told. Part of him mistrusted Crawley. Was it just a coincidence, his coming upon Alex on a playing field in the middle of a game? Unlikely. In the world of MI6, where everything was planned and calculated, there were no coincidences. It was one of the reasons why Alex hated it. They had used him twice now, and both times they hadn’t really cared if he had lived or died, as long as he was useful to them. Crawley was part of that world and in his heart Alex disliked him as much as the rest of it.

But at the same time, he told himself, he might be reading too much into this. Crawley wasn’t asking him to infiltrate a foreign embassy or parachute into Iraq or anything remotely dangerous. He was being offered two weeks at Wimbledon. It was as simple as that. A chance to watch some tennis and-if he was unlucky-spot someone trying to get their hands on the club silver. What could possibly go wrong?

“All right, Mr. Crawley,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”

“That’s wonderful, Alex. I’ll make the arrangements. Come on, Barker!”

Alex glanced at the dog and noticed that it had just woken up. It was staring at him with pink, bloodshot eyes. Warning him? Did the dog know something he didn’t?

But then Crawley jerked on the leash and before the dog could give away any of its master’s secrets, it was quickly pulled away.

Six weeks later, Alex found himself on Centre Court, dressed in the dark green and mauve colours of the All England Tennis Club. What must surely be the final game in this qualifying round was about to begin. One of the two players sitting just centimetres away from him would go forward to the next round with a chance of winning the half a million pounds prize money that went with the winner’s trophy. The other would be on the next bus home. It was only now, as he knelt beside the net and waited for the serve, that Alex really understood the power of Wimbledon and why it had won its place on the world calendar. There was simply no competition like it.

He was surrounded by the great bulk of the stadium, with thousands and thousands of spectators rising ever higher until they disappeared into the shadows at the very top. It was hard to make out any of the faces. There were too many of them and they seemed too far away. But he felt the thrill of the crowd as the players walked to their ends of the court, the perfectly striped grass seeming to glow beneath their feet. There was a clatter of applause, echoing upwards, and then a sudden stillness. Photographers hung, vulture-like, over huge telephoto lenses while beneath them, in green-covered bunkers, television cameras swung round to take in the first serve. The players faced each other: two men whose whole lives had led up to this moment and whose future in the game would be decided in the next few minutes. It was all so very English-the grass, the strawberries, the straw hats. And yet it was still bloody, a gladiatorial contest like no other. “Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen…” The umpire’s voice rang out through the various speakers and then the first player served. Jacques Lefevre was French, twenty-two years old and new to the tournament. Nobody had expected him to get this far. He was playing a German, Jamie Blitz, one of the favourites in this year’s competition. But it was Blitz who was losing-two sets down, five games to two. Alex watched him as he waited, balancing on the balls of his feet. Lefevre served. The ball thundered close to the centre line. An ace.