Skeleton Key Read Online Free PDF

hand. The mobile phone fell to the floor.
    “Oh—I‟m sorry,” Alex said. Before the guard could stop him, he had leant down and picked up the phone. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before passing it back. “Here you are,” he said.
    The guard said nothing. For a moment his eyes were locked into Alex‟s and Alex found himself being inspected by two very black pupils that had no life at all. The man‟s skin was pale and pockmarked, with a sheen of sweat across his upper lip. There was no expression anywhere on his face. Alex felt the telephone being wrenched out of his hand and then the guard had gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
    Alex‟s hand was still in mid-air. He looked down at his palm. He was worried that he had given himself away, but at least he had learned something from the exchange. The mobile phone was a fake. It was too light. There was nothing on the screen. And it had no recognizable logo: Nokia, Panasonic, Virgin … nothing.
    He turned back to the two men at the table. Bryant had finished his water and crumpled the plastic cup in his hand. He was shaking hands with his friend, about to leave.

    The water…
    Alex had had an idea that was completely absurd and yet made some sort of sense out of what he had seen. He walked back across the restaurant and crouched down beside the dispenser. He had seen the same machines all over the tennis club. He took a cup and used its rim to press the tap underneath the tank. Water, filtered and chilled, ran into the cup. He could feel it, ice cold against his palm.
    “What the hell do you think you‟re doing?”
    Alex looked up to see a red-faced man in a Wimbledon blazer towering over him. It was the first unfriendly face he‟d seen since he had arrived. “I was just getting some water,” he explained.
    “I can see that! That‟s obvious. I mean, what are you doing in this restaurant? This is reserved for players, officials and press.”
    “I know that,” Alex said. He forced himself not to lose his temper. He had no right to be here and if the official—whoever he was—complained, he might well lose his place as a ballboy. “I‟m sorry, sir.” he said. “I brought a racquet over for Mr. Bryant. I delivered it just now. But I was thirsty, so I stopped to get a drink.”
    The official softened. Alex‟s story sounded perfectly reasonable. And he had enjoyed being addressed as “sir”. He nodded. “All right. But I don‟t want to see you in here again.” He reached out a hand and took the plastic cup. “Now on your way.”
    Alex arrived back at the Complex about ten minutes before play began. Walfor glowered at him but said nothing. That afternoon, Owen Bryant lost his match against Jacques Lefevre, the same unknown Frenchman who had so unexpectedly beaten Jamie Blitz two days before. The final score was 6-4, 6-7,4-6, 2-6. Although Bryant had won the first game, his play had steadily deteriorated throughout the afternoon. It was another surprising result. Like Blitz, Bryant had been a favourite to win.

    Twenty minutes later, Alex was back in the basement restaurant, sitting with Sabina, who was drinking a Coke Lite.
    “My mum and dad are here today,” she was saying. “I managed to get them tickets and in return they‟ve promised to get me a new surfboard. Have you ever surfed, Alex?”
    “What?” Alex was miles away.
    “I was talking about Cornwall. Surfing…”
    “Yes, I‟ve surfed.” Alex had learned with his uncle, Ian Rider. The spy whose death had so abruptly changed Alex‟s life. The two of them had spent a week together in San Diego, California. That had been years ago. Years that sometimes felt like centuries.
    “Is there something wrong with your drink?” Sabina asked.
    Alex realized he was holding his Coke in front of him, balancing it in his hand, staring at it. But he was thinking about water.
    “No, it‟s fine…” he began.
    And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard. He had come back