Anthony Horowitz: Skeleton Key

It was going to be much more difficult this time. Sarov might have forgiven him for his failed escape attempt in the car but Alex knew he would no longer trust him. And he couldn’t afford to make another mistake. If he was caught trying to escape a second time, there would be no reprieve, no mercy. In his heart, Alex seriously doubted that he would be able to slip past the Russian general or his twisted companion. Sarov was completely alert, as if he had been sitting there for ten minutes, not ten hours. Conrad was still watching him too. He was sitting quietly on the other side of the plane, a cat waiting for a mouse, his red eye blinking in the half light.

And yet…

Alex had the two gadgets Smithers had given him. And they were going to be landing in Britain! Just the thought of being in his own country, surrounded by people who spoke his language, gave Alex new strength. He had a plan and it would work. It had to.

He must have slept through the refuelling stop at Gander and several hours of the flight because the next thing he knew, it was light outside and the two guards were clearing away a breakfast of raw fruit and yoghurt that had been prepared in the Lear jet’s miniature kitchen. He looked out of the window. All he could see was cloud.

Sarov noticed that he had woken up. “Alex! Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you.”

“Still, you must have something to drink. It’s very easy to dehydrate on these long journeys.” He spoke a few words of Russian to one of the guards, who disappeared and came back with a glass of grapefruit juice. Alex hesitated before bringing it to his lips, remembering what had happened to Kiriyenko. Sarov smiled. “You don’t need to worry,” he said. “It’s just grapefruit juice. No added ingredients.”

Alex drank. The juice was cold and refreshing after his long sleep.

“We will be landing in Edinburgh in about thirty minutes,” Sarov told him. “We’re already in British airspace. How does it feel to be home?”

“If you’d like to drop me, I can get a train to London.”

Sarov shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

A few minutes later they began their descent. The pilot had been in radio communication with the airport and had confirmed that this was a routine refuelling stop. He would not be dropping or picking up any passengers and so needed no operating permit. Everything had been cleared with the airport authorities, making this touchdown as simple as a car pulling into a local garage. And despite Sarov’s fears, the British government had not invited the supposed VIP passengers for a diplomatic breakfast in Edinburgh!

The plane broke through the cloud and, with his face pressed against the window, Alex suddenly saw countryside with miniature houses and cars dotted around it. The brilliant sunshine of the Caribbean had been replaced by the grey light and uncertain weather of a British summer’s day. He felt a sense of relief. He was back! But at the same time, he knew Sarov would never allow him off the plane. In a way, it would have been less cruel if they had refuelled in Greenland or Norway. He was being given one last look at his own country. The next time he saw it, it would have been poisoned for generations to come. Alex reached into his pocket. His hand closed around the figurine of Michael Owen. The time was getting close…

The seat-belt signs came on. A moment later, Alex felt the pressure in his ears as they dropped out of the sky. He saw a bridge, somehow delicate from this height, spanning a great stretch of water. The Forth Road Bridge… it had to be. And there was Edinburgh, over in the west, its castle dominating the skyline. The airport came rushing up. He caught a glimpse of a bright, modern terminal, of waiting planes sitting on the apron surrounded by vans and trolleys. There was a bump as the wheels made contact with the runway and then the roar of the engines in reverse thrust. The plane slowed. They had landed.

Guided by the control tower, the Lear jet made its way to the end of the runway and into an area known as the fuel farm, far away from the main terminal. Alex gazed out of the window with a sinking feeling as the public buildings slid away behind him. For every second that they travelled, he would have further to run to raise the alarm-always assuming that he did even manage to get off the plane. The Michael Owen figure was in his hand now. What had Smithers told him? Twist the head twice one way and once the other to arm it. Wait ten seconds, then drop it and run. The confined space of an aircraft cabin seemed the perfect place to try it out. The only question was, how was Alex going to stop it knocking himself out too?

They came to a halt. Almost at once, a fuel truck began to drive towards them. Sarov had obviously prepared everything well in advance. There was a car following the truck and, looking out of the window, Alex saw that steps were being led up to the Lear jet’s door. That was interesting. It seemed that somebody wanted to come onboard.

Sarov was watching him. “You will not speak, Alex,” he said. “Not one single word. Before you even think of opening your mouth, I suggest you look behind you.”

Conrad had moved into the seat directly behind Alex. He had a newspaper balanced on his lap. As Alex turned, he lifted it to reveal a large black pistol with a silencer, pointing directly at him.

“Nobody will hear anything,” Sarov said. “If Conrad even thinks you are about to try something, he will fire. The bullet will pass through the seat and into your spine. Death will be instant but it will appear that you have simply fallen asleep.”

Alex knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as that. A person being shot in the back did not look like a person falling asleep. Sarov was taking huge risks. But this whole business was a huge risk. The stakes couldn’t be higher. Alex had no doubt that if he tried to tell anyone what was happening he would be killed immediately.

The door of the plane opened and a ginger-haired man in blue overalls entered, carrying a sheaf of papers. Sarov rose to greet him. “Do you speak English?” the man asked in a Scottish accent.

“Yes.”

“I have some papers here for you to sign.”

Alex turned his head slightly. The man saw him and nodded. Alex nodded back. He could almost feel Conrad pressing the back of his seat with the gun. He said nothing. And then it was over. Sarov had signed the papers and returned the man’s pen.

“Here’s a receipt for you,” the man said, handing Sarov a sheet. “And we’ll have you back in the air in no time at all.”

“Thank you.” Sarov nodded.

“Are you going to come out and stretch your legs? It’s a pleasant day here in Edinburgh. We can offer you some tea and shortbread if you want to come to the office.”

“No, thank you. We’re all a little tired. We’ll stay where we are.”

“OK. If you’re absolutely sure, I’ll get rid of the steps…”

They were going to take away the steps-and as soon as they were gone, Sarov would seal the door! Alex had only seconds in which to act. He waited until the man had left the cabin, then stood up. His hands were in front of him, the Michael Owen figure lying concealed in his palm.

“Sit down!” Conrad hissed.

“It’s all right, Conrad,” Alex said. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just stretching my legs.”

Sarov had sat down again. He was examining the paperwork the man had given him. Alex strolled past him. His mouth was dry and he was glad that the sensor that had been used at the gate of the Casa de Oro wasn’t on the plane. If it had been turned on him now, his heartbeat would have been deafening. This was his last chance. Alex carefully measured out each step. If he had been walking towards his own scaffold, he couldn’t have been more tense.