Skeleton Key

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 downstairs into the Complex. Once again he was using the telephone in the corner. Alex saw him put in a coin and dial a number.
    “I‟ll be right back,” he said.
    He got up and made his way over to the phone.
    The guard was standing with his back to him. This time he might be able to get close enough to hear what was being said, “…will be completely successful.” The guard was talking in English but with a thick accent. He still had his back to Alex. There was a pause. Then: “I‟m going to meet him now. Yes … straight away. He‟ll give it to me and I‟ll bring it to you.” Another pause.
    Alex got the feeling that the conversation was coming to an end. He took a few steps back. “I have to go,” the guard said. “Bye.” He put the receiver down and walked “Alex…?” Sabina called to him. She was on her own, sitting where he had left her. He realized she must have been watching what he did. He raised a hand and waved to her. He would have to find some way to explain all this later.
    The guard didn‟t climb back up to the surface. Instead he took a door which led to a long corridor, stretching into the distance. Alex opened the door and followed.
    The All England Tennis Club covers a huge area. On the surface it looks a bit like a theme park, though one whose only theme is tennis. Thousands of people stream along paths and covered walkways, an uninterrupted flow of brilliant white shirts, sunglasses and straw hats. As well as the courts, there are tearooms and cafes, restaurants, shops, hospitality tents, ticket booths and security points.
    But there is a second, less well-known world underneath all this. The entire club is connected by an underground maze of corridors, tunnels and roads, some big enough to drive a car through. If it‟s easy to get lost above ground, it‟s even easier to lose yourself below. There are very few signs and there‟s nobody standing at the comer to offer you information. This is the world of the cooks and the waiters, the refuse collectors and the delivery men. Somehow they find their way around, coming up in the daylight exactly where they are needed before disappearing again.
    The corridor in which Alex found himself was called the Royal Route and connected the Millennium Building with Court Number One, allowing the players to make their way to the game without being seen. It was clean and empty, with a bright blue carpet. The guard was about twenty metres ahead of him and it felt eerie to be so suddenly alone. There were just