Skeleton Key

expand. And as it expands, it‟ll shatter just about anything. Put it in a gun, for example, and it‟ll crack it open. Or the lock on a door.”
    Alex turned the packet over. Written in yellow letters on the side was the word BUBBLE 0-7.
    “What flavour did you make it?” he asked.
    “Strawberry. Now, this other device is even more dangerous and I‟m sure you won‟t need it. I call it the Striker and I‟d be very happy to have it back.”
    Smithers shook the package and a keyring slid out to join the bubblegum on the desk. It had a plastic figurine attached, a footballer wearing white shorts and a red shirt. Alex leant forward and turned it over. He found himself looking at a three centimetre high model of Michael Owen.
    “Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “But personally I‟ve never supported Liverpool.”
    “This is the prototype. We can always do another footballer next time. The important thing is the head. Remember this, Alex. Twist it round twice clockwise and once anti-clockwise and you‟ll arm the device.”
    “It‟ll explode?”
    “It‟s a stun grenade. Flash and a bang. A ten second fuse. Not powerful enough to kill—but in a confined space it will incapacitate the opposition for a couple of minutes, which might give you a chance to get away.”
    Alex pocketed the Michael Owen figure and the bubblegum along with the mobile telephone. He stood up, feeling more confident. This might be a simple surveillance operation, a paid holiday as Blunt had put it, but he still didn‟t want to go empty-handed.
    “Good luck, Alex,” Smithers said. “I hope you get on all right with the CIA. They‟re not really like us, you know. And heaven knows what they‟ll make of you.”
    “I‟ll see you, Mr Smithers.”
    “I‟ve got a private lift if you‟re going downstairs.” As Smithers spoke, the six drawers of the filing cabinet slid open, three going one way, three going the other, to reveal a brightly lit cubicle behind.
    Alex shook his head. “Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “I‟ll take the stairs.”
    “Whatever you say, old boy. Just look after yourself. And whatever you do, don‟t swallow the gum!”

NOT SO SPECIAL AGENTS
    They had a late breakfast at a café in Bayside Marketplace, right on the quayside, with boats moored all around them and bright yellow and green water taxies nipping back and forth. Tom Turner and Belinda Troy had knocked on Alex‟s door at ten o‟clock that morning. In fact, Alex had been awake for several hours. He had fallen asleep fast, slept heavily and woken too early—
    the classic pattern of trans-Atlantic jet-lag. But at least he‟d had plenty of time to read through the papers that Joe Byrne had given him. He now knew everything about his new identity—the best friends he had never met, the pet dog he had never seen, even the high school grades he had never achieved. And now he was sitting with his new mother and father watching the tourists on the boardwalk, strolling in and out of the pretty white-fronted boutiques that cluttered the area.
    The sun was already high, the glare coming off the water almost blinding. Alex slipped on a pair of Oakley Eye Jackets and the world on the other side of the black iridium lenses became softer and more manageable. The glasses had been a present from Jack. He hadn‟t expected to need them so soon.
    There was a book of matches on the table with the words THE SNACKYARD printed on the cover. Alex picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. The matches were warm. He was surprised the sun hadn‟t set them alight. A waiter in black and white, complete with bow tie, came over to take the order. Alex glanced at the menu. He had never thought it possible to have so much choice for breakfast. At the next table a man was eating his way through a stack of pancakes with bacon, hash browns and scrambled eggs. Alex was hungry but the sight took away his own appetite.
    “I‟ll just have some orange juice and toast,” he said.
    “Wholemeal or granary?”
    “Granary. With butter and jam—”
    “You mean jelly!” Troy paused until the waiter had gone. “No American kid asks for jam.” She scowled. “You ask for that at Santiago Airport and we‟ll be in jail—or worse—before you can blink.”
    “I wasn‟t thinking,” Alex began.
    “You don‟t think, you get killed. Worse, you get us killed.” She shook her head. “I still say this is a bad idea.”
    “How‟s Lucky?” Turner asked.
    Alex‟s head spun.