Skeleton Key

his ankles. The man had a radio attached to his jacket. His name—George Prescott—was written on a badge on his top pocket. He was looming over Alex with a stern look on his face and, with a sinking heart, Alex recognized a real security nightmare: a man with the self-important smugness of the traffic warden, the car park attendant, any petty official.
    “What are you doing here, laddie?” Prescott demanded.
    “I need to make a telephone call,” Alex said.
    “I can see that. But this isn‟t a public telephone. This isn‟t even a public office. This is a secure complex. You shouldn‟t be in here.”
    “No, you don‟t understand. This is an emergency!”
    “Oh yes? And what sort of emergency do you mean?” Prescott obviously didn‟t believe him.
    “I can‟t explain. Just let me make the call.”
    The security guard smiled. He was enjoying himself. He spent five days a week plodding from one office to another, checking doors and turning off Lights. It was good to have someone he could boss about. “You‟re not making any calls until you tell me what you‟re doing here!” he said. “This is a private office.” His eyes narrowed.
    “Have you opened any drawers? Have you taken anything?”
    Alex‟s nerves were screaming but he forced himself to remain calm. “I haven‟t taken anything, Mr Prescott,” he said. “I just got off a plane that landed a few minutes ago—”
    “What plane?”
    “A private plane.”
    “Have you got a passport?”
    “No.”
    “That‟s a very serious matter. You can‟t enter the country without a passport.”
    “My passport is on the plane!”
    “Then I‟ll escort you back and we‟ll get it.”
    “No!” Alex could feel the seconds racing by. What could he say to this man that would persuade him to let him make the phone call? His mind was in a whirl and suddenly, for the first time in his life, he found himself blurting out the truth. “Listen,” he said. “I know this is hard to believe, but I work for the government. The British government. If you let me call them, they‟ll prove it to you. I‟m a spy—”
    “A spy?” Prescott‟s face broke into a smile. But there was no humour in it at all. “How old are you?”
    “Fourteen.”
    “A fourteen-year-old spy? I think you‟ve been watching too much television, laddie.”
    “It‟s true!”
    “I don‟t think so.”
    “Listen to me, please. A man has just tried to kill me. He‟s on a plane on the runway and unless you let me make this call, a lot of people are going to die.”
    “What?”
    “He‟s got a nuclear bomb, for God‟s sake!”
    That was a mistake. Prescott bristled. “I‟ll ask you not to take the name of the Lord in vain, if you don‟t mind.” He came to a decision. “I don‟t know how you got here or what you‟re playing at, but you‟re coming with me to security and passport control in the main terminal.” He reached out for Alex. “Come along now! I‟ve had enough of your nonsense.”
    “It isn‟t nonsense. There‟s a man called Sarov. He‟s carrying a nuclear bomb. He‟s planning to detonate it in Murmansk. I‟m the only one who can stop him. Please, Mr Prescott. Just let me phone the police. It‟ll only take me twenty seconds and you can stand here and watch me. Let me talk to them and afterwards you can take me wherever you like.”
    But the security guard wouldn‟t budge. “You‟re not making any calls and you‟re coming with me now,” he said.
    Alex made up his mind. He had tried pleading and he had tried telling the truth. Neither had succeeded, so he would just have to take the security guard out. Prescott moved round the desk, getting closer to him. Alex tensed himself, balancing on the balls of his feet, his fists ready. He knew that the man was only doing his job and he didn‟t want to hurt him but there was no other way. And then the door opened. “There you are, Alex! I was worried about you…” It was Sarov.
    Conrad was with him. Both of them looked ill—their skin white and eyes not quite focused.
    There was no expression on either man‟s face. “Who are you?” Prescott demanded. “I‟m Alex‟s father,” Sarov replied. “Isn‟t that right, Alex?”
    Alex hesitated. He realized he was still in combat position, about to strike out. Slowly, he lowered his arms. He knew it was over and tasted the bitterness of defeat. There was nothing he could do. If he argued in front of Prescott, Sarov would simply kill both of them. If he