He’s not tested. He’s not American!”
“Goddammit!” Suddenly Byrne was angry. “We’ve been through all this. You know how tough security is on the island-and with the Russian president on the way, it’s going to be worse than ever. You go into Santiago airport on your own and you won’t make it out the other side. Remember what happened to Johnson! He went in on his own, dressed up as a birdwatcher. That was three months ago and we haven’t heard from him since!”
“Well find us an American kid!”
“That’s enough, Turner. Alex has flown thousands of miles to help us and I think you could at least show a little appreciation. Both of you. Alex…” Byrne gestured at Alex to sit down. “Can I get you anything? You want a drink? A Coke?”
“I’m fine,” Alex said, and sat down.
Byrne opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bundle of papers and official documents. Alex recognized the green cover of an American passport. “Now this is how we’re going to work it,” he began. “The first thing is, all three of you are going to need fake IDs when you go into Cayo Esqueleto. I thought it would be easier to keep your first names-so it’s Alex Gardiner who’s going to be travelling with his mum and dad, Tom and Belinda Gardiner. Look after these documents, by the way. The agency is prohibited from manufacturing false passports and I had to pull strings to get hold of them. When this is over, I want them back.”
Alex opened the passport. He was amazed to find his own photograph already in place. His age was the same, but according to the passport he had been born in California. He wondered how it had been done. And when.
“You live in Los Angeles,” Byrne explained. “You’re at high school in west Hollywood. Your dad’s in the movie business and this is a week’s vacation to do some diving and see the sights. I’ll give you some stuff to read tonight, and of course everything’s been backstopped.”
“What does that mean?” Alex asked.
“It means that if anyone asks anything about the Gardiner family living in LA, it’ll all check out. The school, the neighbourhood, everything. There are people out there who’ll say they’ve known you all your life.” Byrne paused. “Listen, Alex. You have to understand. The United States of America is not at war with Cuba. Sure, we’ve had our differences, but for the most part we’ve managed to live side by side. But they do things their way. Cuba -and that means Cayo Esqueleto-is a country in its own right. They find you’re a spy, they’re going to put you in jail. They’re going to interrogate you. Maybe they’ll kill you-and there’s nothing we can do to stop them. It’s been three months since we heard from Johnson and my gut feeling is we’re never going to hear from him again.”
There was a long silence.
Byrne realized he’d gone too far. “But nothing’s going to happen to you,” he said. “You’re not part of this operation. You’re just watching from the sideline.” He turned to the two agents. “The important thing is to start acting like a unit. You only have two days until you leave. That means spending time together. I guess Alex will be too tired for dinner tonight but you can start by having breakfast together tomorrow. Spend the day together. Start thinking like a family. That’s what you’ve got to be.”
It was strange. Lying in bed in Cornwall, Alex had wished he could belong to a family. And now the wish had come true-though not in the way he had intended.
“Any questions?” Byrne asked.
“Yes, sir. I have a question,” Turner said. He was sulking. His mouth had become little more than a straight line quickly drawn across his handsome face. “You want us to play happy families tomorrow. OK, sir, if that’s an order, I’ll do my best. But I think you’re forgetting that tomorrow I’m meant to be seeing the Salesman. I don’t think he’ll be expecting me to turn up with my wife and child.”
“The Salesman?” Byrne was annoyed.
“I’m seeing him at midday.”
“What about Troy?”
“I’ll be there as back-up,” Troy said. “This is standard procedure-”
“All right!” Byrne thought for a moment. “The Salesman is on the water, right? Turner-you’ll go onto the boat. So Alex can stay with Troy, on land. Safely out of the way.”
Byrne stood up. The meeting was over. Alex felt another wave of tiredness surge through him and had to fight off a yawn. Byrne must have noticed. “You get some rest, Alex,” he said. “I’m sure you and I will meet again. And I really am grateful you’ve agreed to help.” He held out a hand. Alex shook it.
But special agent Troy was still sullen. “We’ll have breakfast at ten-thirty,” she said. “That’ll give you time to read all the paperwork. Not that you’ll probably sleep that much anyway. Where are you staying?”
Alex shrugged.
“I’ve put him up at the Delano,” Byrne said.
“OK. We’ll pick you up there.”
Turner and Troy turned round and left the room. Neither of them bothered to say goodbye.
“Don’t mind them,” Byrne said. “This is a new situation for them. But they’re good agents. Turner entered the military straight after college and Troy has worked with him many times before. They’ll look after you when you’re out in the field. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”
But somehow Alex doubted it. And he was still puzzled. A lot of work, a lot of thought had gone into this operation. False papers-with his photograph-had been prepared before he had even known he was coming. A whole identity had been set up for him in Los Angeles. And another agent, Johnson, had possibly died.
A simple surveillance operation? Byrne was nervous. Alex was sure of it. Maybe Turner and Troy were too.
Whatever was happening on Skeleton Key, they weren’t telling him the full truth. Somehow, he’d have to find that out for himself.
It was a room that didn’t really look like a room at all. It was too big. It had too many doors-and not just doors but archways, alcoves and a wide terrace open to the sun. The floor was marble, a chessboard of green and white squares that seemed somehow to exaggerate its size. The furniture was ornate, antique-and it was everywhere. Highly polished tables and chairs. Pedestals with vases and statuettes. Huge, gold-framed mirrors. Spectacular chandeliers. A giant stuffed crocodile lay in front of a massive fireplace. The man who had killed it sat opposite.
General Sarov was sipping black coffee out of a tiny porcelain cup. Caffeine is addictive and Sarov allowed himself only one thimbleful of coffee once a day. It was his single vice and he savoured it. Today he was dressed in a casual linen suit, but on this man it looked almost formal, with not a crease in it. His shirt was open at the collar revealing a neck that could have been carved out of grey stone. A ceiling fan turned slowly, a few metres above the desk where he was sitting. Sarov savoured the last mouthful of coffee, then lowered the cup and saucer back onto his desk. The porcelain made no sound as it came to rest on the polished surface.
There was a knock at the door-one of the doors-and a man walked into the room. Walked, however, was the wrong word. There was no word to describe exactly how this man moved.
Everything about him was wrong. His head sat at an angle on shoulders which were themselves crooked and hunched. His right arm was shorter than his left arm. His right leg, however, was several centimetres longer than his left. His feet were encased in black leather shoes, one heavier and larger than the other. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, and as he approached Sarov his muscles rippled beneath the cloth as if with a life of their own. Nothing in his body was co-ordinated, so although he was moving forwards, he seemed to be trying to go backwards or sideways. His face was the worst part of him. It was as if it had been taken to pieces and put back together again by a child with only a vague knowledge of the human form. There were about a dozen scars on his neck and around his cheeks. One of his eyes was red, permanently bloodshot. He had long, colourless hair on one half of his head. On the other, he was completely bald.
Although it would have been impossible to tell from looking at him, this man was only twenty-eight years old and, until a few years ago, had been the most feared terrorist in Europe. His name was Conrad. Very little was known about him, although it was said that he was Turkish, that he had been born in Istanbul, the son of a butcher, and that when he was nine he had blown up his school with a bomb made in chemistry class when he was given a detention for being late.
Again, nobody knew who had trained Conrad or, for that matter, who had employed him. He was a chameleon. He had no political beliefs and operated simply for money. It was believed that he had been responsible for outrages in Paris, Madrid, Athens and London. One thing was certain. The security services of nine
