Free Skeleton Key by Anthony Horowitz Page A

weeks…
    His own uncle had been one of them, sent to check on security in a computer factory on the south coast. But Ian Rider had never made it back.
    Alex wanted none of it. There were still a few weeks of the summer holidays left and he wanted to see Sabina again. The two of them had talked about northern France and the Loire Valley, youth hostels and hiking. He had friends in London. Jack Starbright, his housekeeper and closest friend, had offered to take him with her when she visited her parents in Chicago. Seven weeks of normality. Was it too much to ask?
    And yet, he remembered what had happened on the Cribber when the man on the jet ski had caught up with him. Alex had seen his eyes for just a few seconds but there had been no mistaking their cruelty and fanaticism. This was a man who had been prepared to chase him across the top of a twenty-foot wave in order to mow him down from behind—and he had come perilously close to succeeding. Alex knew, with a sick certainty, that the triad would try again.
    He had offended them … not once now, but twice. Blunt was right about that. Any hope of an ordinary summer had gone out the window.
    “If I help your friends in the CIA, you can get the triad to leave me alone?” he asked.
    Mrs Jones nodded. “We have contacts in the Chinese underworld. But it will take time, Alex.
    Whatever happens, you‟re going to have to go into hiding—at least for the next couple of weeks.”
    So why not do it in the sun?
    Alex nodded wearily. “All right,” he said. “It seems I don‟t really have a lot of choice. When do you want me to leave?”
    Blunt took an envelope out of the file. “I have your air ticket here,” he said. “There‟s a flight this afternoon.”
    Of course, they had known he would accept.
    “We will want to keep in touch with you while you‟re away,” Mrs Jones muttered.
    “I‟ll send you a postcard,” Alex said.
    “No, Alex, that‟s not quite what I had in mind. Why don‟t you go and have a word with Smithers?”
    Smithers had an office on the eleventh floor of the building and at first Alex had to admit he was disappointed.
    It was Smithers who had designed the various gadgets Alex had used on his previous missions and Alex had expected to find him somewhere in the basement, surrounded by cars and motorbikes, hi-tech weapons and men and women in white coats. But this room was boring: large, square and anonymous. It could have belonged to the chief executive of almost anything; an insurance company, perhaps, or a bank. There was a steel and glass desk with a telephone, a computer, “in” and “out” trays and an anglepoise lamp. A leather sofa stood against one wall, and on the other side of the room was a silver filing cabinet with six drawers. A picture hung on the wall behind the desk; a view of the sea. But disappointingly, there were no gadgets anywhere. Not so much as an electric pencil sharpener.
    Smithers himself was behind the desk, tapping at the computer with fingers almost too big for the keys. He was one of the fattest people Alex had ever met. Today he was wearing a black three-piece suit with what looked like an old school tie perched limply on the great bulge of his stomach. Seeing Alex, he stopped typing and swivelled round in a leather chair that must have been reinforced to take his weight.
    “My dear boy!” he exclaimed. “How delightful to see you. Come in, come in! How have you been keeping? I hear you had a bit of trouble, that business in France. You really must look after yourself, Alex. I‟d be mortified if anything happened to you. Door!”
    Alex was surprised when the door swung shut behind him.
    “Voice activated,” Smithers explained. “Do, please, sit down.”
    Alex sat on a second leather chair on the other side of the desk. As he did so, there was a low hum and the anglepoise lamp swivelled round and bent towards him like some sort of metallic bird taking a closer look. At the same time, the computer screen