Skeleton Key

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.
    “Where are you going, Alex?” Sarov asked.
    Alex turned Michael Owen‟s head twice.
    “I‟m not going anywhere.”
    “What‟s that you‟ve got in your hands?”
    Alex hesitated. But if he tried to pretend he had nothing, Sarov would become even more suspicious than he already was. He held up the figurine. “It‟s my lucky mascot,” he said.
    “Michael Owen.”
    He took another step forward. He gave the player‟s head another turn back.
    Ten … nine … eight… seven…
    “Sit down, Alex,” Sarov said.
    “I‟ve got a headache,” Alex said. “I just want