Skeleton Key

some fresh air.”
    “You are not to leave the plane.”
    “I‟m not going anywhere, General.”
    But Alex had already reached the door and felt the fresh Scottish breeze on his face. A tow-truck was pulling the steps away. He watched as a gap opened up between them and the door.
    Four… three … two…
    “Alex! Return to your seat!”
    Alex dropped the figurine and threw himself forward.
    Conrad Leapt up like an angry snake, the gun in his hand.
    The figurine exploded.
    Alex felt the blast behind him. There was a flash of light and a bang that sounded massively loud, although no windows broke and there was no fire or smoke. His ears rang and for a moment he couldn‟t see. But he was outside the plane. He had been outside the plane when the stun grenade went off. The steps were still moving away, disappearing in front of him. He was going to miss them! The asphalt surface of the fuel farm apron was five metres below. If he fell that distance, he would break a leg. He might even be killed. But he had made his move just in time. He landed flat on his stomach on the top of the staircase with his legs dangling in the air.
    Quickly he pulled himself to his feet. The man with the ginger hair was staring at him, astonished. Alex ran down the still-moving steps. As his feet came into contact with the ground, he felt a thrill of triumph. He was home. And it seemed that the stun grenade had done its job.
    There was no movement on the plane. Nobody was firing at him.
    “What the hell do you think you‟re doing?” the man demanded.
    Alex ignored him. This wasn‟t the right person to be talking to—and he needed to put as much distance as he could between himself and the plane. Smithers had said that the grenade would only incapacitate the enemy for a few minutes. Sarov and Conrad would wake up soon. And they would waste no time in coming after him.
    He ran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man snatch a radio out of his pocket and talk into it—but that didn‟t matter. There were other men around the plane, about to start refuelling. They must surely have heard the explosion. Even if Alex was recaptured, the plane wouldn‟t be allowed to leave.
    But he had no intention of being recaptured. He had already noticed a row of administrative buildings on the perimeter of the airfield and he made for them, the breath rasping in his throat.
    He reached a door and pulled at it. It was locked! He looked through the window. There was a hallway on the other side and a public telephone, but for some reason the building was closed.
    For a moment he was tempted to smash the glass—but that would take too long. Cursing quietly, he left the door and ran the twenty metres to the next building.
    This one was open. He found himself in a corridor with storerooms and offices on either side.
    There didn‟t seem to be anyone about. Now all he needed was a phone. He tried a door. It led into a room full of shelves with a photocopier and stationery supplies. The next door was locked.
    Alex was getting increasingly desperate. He tried another door and this time he was lucky. It was an office with a desk and, on the desk, a telephone. There was nobody inside. He ran in and snatched it up.
    But it was only now he realized that he had no idea what number to ring. The mobile that Smithers had given him had been equipped with a hot key—a direct link to MI6. But nobody had ever given him a direct number. What was he to do? Dial the operator and ask for military intelligence? They would think he was mad.
    He didn‟t have any time to waste. Sarov might already have recovered. Even now he might be on his way. The office had a window but it looked out the back, so there was no sign of the plane or the runway. Alex made a decision and dialled 999.
    The line rang twice before it was answered.
    It was a woman‟s voice. “You have rung the emergency services. Which service do you require?”
    “Police,” Alex said.
    “Connecting you now…”
    He heard the ring tone.
    And then a hand came down onto the telephone, cutting him off. Alex swung round, breathless, expecting to see Sarov in front of him—or worse still, Conrad with the gun.
    But it wasn‟t either of them. It was an airport security guard who had walked into the office while Alex was making his call. He was about fifty years old with greying hair and a chin that had sunk into his neck. His stomach bulged over his belt and his trousers stopped about two centimetres short of