6.21 pm, Wednesday, 13th July

The Valencia, Skeleton Key

Alex hadn't thought that things could get any worse than him potentially murdering a whole yacht's worth of people, but apparently, they could.

Troy and Turner hadn't spoken to him much after they'd returned to their hotel that night, splitting up to shower and change out of wet clothes before rejoining each other for dinner. He knew that they had called the incident in - that Joe Byrne and Alan Blunt both knew what had happened, but nobody had said anymore to him about the explosion, so he was silently, desperately hoping that he wouldn't get in trouble for it.

And that Ian wouldn't either.

Turner would be dead if it hadn't been for him, but neither of the agents would admit it - as if, in some way, he had dented their professional pride. And they still insisted that he had blown up Mayfair Lady, killing everyone onboard. Even Alex was finding it hard to avoid a sense of responsibility. It was true that he had set fire to the petrol. What other reason could there have been for the explosion that had followed?

The CIA agents had disappeared the following day to "adjust the plan" since the Salesman was now well and truly out of the picture, but the day after that, he'd been ushered onto a plane flying from Miami to Kingston in Jamaica, and then onto a second plane there.

Turner had even given him a Nintendo Switch to keep him busy on the plane; something that Alex was suspicious about immediately. It wasn't like either agent to be kind to him, after all, and definitely not after the stunt he'd pulled onboard the Mayfair Lady. He didn't trust the device for one second - the last time he'd held a Switch, it had been modified with half a dozen gadgets by Smithers - but so far, at least, he hadn't discovered any of its secrets.

When they had finally reached Skeleton Key, a small island just off the coast of Cuba with heavy air that perpetually smelled of diesel, Alex had been ushered off to the Hotel Valencia's swimming pool for the day before remeeting the "Gardiners" for a family dinner.

They looked the part, he had to admit. The three of them talked like any family would. The towns they were going to visit, the beaches where they wanted to swim. Turner told a joke and Troy laughed loud enough to turn heads. But it was all fake. They weren't going anywhere and the joke hadn't been funny. Despite the food and the surroundings, Alex found himself hating every single minute of the role he had been forced to play.

The last time he had sat down with a family had been his dinner with Ian the night before he'd been kidnapped. It had been a Sunday which meant a roast - lamb, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding; all drowned in gravy. He hadn't appreciated it, at the time, too busy thinking about a maths test he'd have the following day and if football practice was going to go ahead that week in the rain and if Tom had gotten that new Xbox game yet and-

God, when was the last time he'd thought about Tom?

Alex suddenly found himself missing them all dreadfully, missing his family and friends and little terraced house off Cheyne Walk. It all seemed like a very long time ago and this meal, with these people, somehow turned the memories sour.

But at last, it was over and Alex was able to excuse himself and go to bed. He lay in the darkness, listening to the waves breaking against the sand. He could see thousands of stars through the open window - he had never realised there were so many of them, nor that they could shine so bright - almost as bright as the glowing red light just beneath the skin on his wrist.

He pulled the sheet over his head and forced himself to sleep.

7.28 pm, Thursday, 14th July

Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea

He was right - the Nintendo Switch hadn't been a peace offering from Turner and Troy, it had been a Geiger Counter. They weren't unaware of what the Salesman had sold General Sarov, they already knew that he'd bought a kilogram of weapons-grade uranium. And they weren't here playing happy families to keep an eye on the man, they were here to find out what the Russian president, due to arrive in a few days time, wanted with a nuclear bomb.

And now, the agents were missing.

And it was up to him to rescue them.

Because of fucking course it was.

It had been late afternoon when they'd set out from Puerto Madra, leaving the port with its fish markets and pleasure cruisers behind them. A man called Garcia was captaining the boat. Apparently, he was an "asset" of the CIA - meaning that he worked for them, for a fee, and kept them informed about what happened on the island from time to time.

After confronting Turner and Troy about the Geiger Counter, they had reluctantly told him the full story - how General Sarov's villa, the Casa de Oro, was built on an old sugar plantation at the tip of the island and only accessible either by the road, which was guarded at all times, or by the sea.

They chose the sea.

There was a natural fault line, a shaft inside the cliff that Casa de Oro was built on, that ran all the way from the bottom to the top. Garcia's family had been on the island for centuries and knew every inch of the coastline. According to him, the shaft was called the Devil's Chimney and was fitted with a metal ladder that was once used by smugglers three hundred years ago.

The only catch was that the water level had risen between then and now, which meant that the cave the ladder started in was submerged twenty metres underwater. Turner and Troy planned to swim down in scuba gear, climb the ladder to Sarov's garden on top of the cliff, and search the villa to find the bomb.

After that, their work was done.

Or, well, it would be, if the agents weren't currently missing.

"Something's wrong" Alex said, "What are we going to do? Didn't they have a backup plan? What did they tell you to do?"

"They tell me to wait for them" Garcia replied simply, "I wait an hour. I wait two hours. I wait all night…"

"But in another ten or fifteen minutes they're going to run out of air!"

"Maybe they enter the Devil's Chimney. Maybe they climb up".

"No. That wasn't their plan. And anyway, they've left all their equipment behind… Have you got any more scuba gear?"

Garcia stared at Alex, surprised. Then he slowly nodded.

Five minutes later, Alex stood on the deck dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt, with an oxygen cylinder strapped to his back. He would have liked to put on a wetsuit, but he hadn't been able to find one his size. He would just have to hope that the water wasn't too cold. He looked at his instrument console; pressure gauge, depth gauge and compass. He had 3000 psi in his air tank. More than he would need. Finally, he had a knife strapped to his leg. He probably wouldn't use it and would never normally have worn it - but right now, he needed the reassurance.

He went over to the side of the boat and sat down.

Garcia shook his head disapprovingly. Alex knew he was right. He was breaking the single most critical rule in the world of scuba diving - nobody ever dives alone. He had been taught scuba by his uncle when he was ten years old during the year they spent living in Greece, and if Ian Rider had been here now he would have been speechless with anger and disbelief.

If you get into trouble - a snagged air hose or a valve failure - and you don't have a buddy, you're dead. It's as simple as that. But this was an emergency. Turner and Troy had been gone for forty-five minutes. And Ian wasn't here to help him.

Alex crossed his hands, holding his mask and respirator in place, and then rolled backwards. He felt his arm knock against something on the side as the world spun upside down. The water rushed up to greet him and then his vision was pulled apart like a curtain opening as he found himself plunging into the water.

Thankfully, the sea was still warm, although Alex knew that, with the sun rapidly setting, it wouldn't be for long. Cold is a dangerous enemy for the scuba diver, sapping strength and concentration. The deeper he went, the colder it would get. He couldn't afford to hang around.

He swam down.

With his arms loosely folded across his chest, Alex let his fins propel him towards the shore. He was fifteen metres down, about five metres above the sea bed. A family of brightly coloured groupers swam past him; fat lips, bulging eyes and strange, misshapen bodies. Hideous and beautiful at the same time. It had been a year since Alex had last gone diving and he wished he had time to enjoy this.

He kicked forward. It didn't take him long to reach the edge of the cliff. The sea wall was of course much more than a wall; a seething mass of rock, coral, vegetation and fish life. A living thing. He forced himself to ignore the colours and sights of the underwater kingdom and concentrate on the rock face.

Something long and dark flashed past high above him. Alex saw it out of the corner of his eye but by the time he had turned, it was gone. Was there a boat on the surface?

He shook his head and went down another couple of metres, searching for the cave. In the end, it wasn't hard to find. The entrance was circular, like a gaping mouth. The cave hadn't always been underwater and over a period of time - millions of years - stalactites and stalagmites had grown, needle-sharp spears that hung down from the ceiling and protruded up from the floor.

It was like looking into the open mouth of some giant, undersea monster.

But he had to go in. There was no sign of Turner or Troy. Had the two agents decided to climb up after all? Should Alex try to climb after them?

He was about to swim forward when there was another movement just outside his field of vision. Whatever he had seen before had come back, swimming the other way. Puzzled, he looked up.

And froze.

He actually felt the air stop somewhere at the back of his throat. The last of the bubbles chased each other up to the surface. Alex just hung there, fighting for control. He wanted to scream. But underwater, it isn't possible to scream.

He was looking at a great white shark, at least three metres long, circling slowly above him. The sight was so unreal, so utterly shocking, that at first he quite literally didn't believe his eyes. It had to be an illusion, some sort of trick. The very fact that it was so close to him seemed impossible. He stared at the white underbelly, the two sets of fins, the down-turned crescent mouth with its jagged, razor-sharp teeth. And there were the deadly, round eyes, as black and as evil as anything on the planet. Had they seen him yet?

Alex forced himself to breathe. His heart was pounding. Not just his heart - his whole body. He could hear his breath, as if amplified, in his head. His legs hung limp beneath him, refusing to move. He was terrified. That was the simple truth. He had never been so scared in his life - not when he'd been kidnapped by two nameless men, not when he'd been injected with a listening and tracking device like a dog, not even when he'd heard Alan bloody Blunt tell him exactly what would happen to Ian should he disobey him.

He tried to force himself to calm down. His terror would guide the creature towards him. He had to relax! Don't splash. Don't make any sudden movements. Advice given to him by Ian came echoing back across the years. A shark will be attracted to shiny metal objects, brightly coloured clothes, and fresh blood. Alex slowly turned his head. His oxygen cylinder had been painted black. His t-shirt was white. There was no blood.

... Was there?

He turned his hands over, examining himself. And then he saw it. Just above the wrist on his left arm, directly above the red beacon currently covered with concealer, there was a small gash. He hadn't even noticed it, but now he remembered catching his wrist on the side of the boat as he fell backwards. A tiny amount of blood, brown rather than red, twisted upwards out of the wound.

Tiny, but enough.

A shark can smell one drop of blood in twenty-five gallons of water. Who had taught him that? He had forgotten, but he knew it was true. The shark had smelled him… and was still smelling him, slowly closing in.

Alex knew that he had only seconds between life and death. Slowly, trying not to make any disturbance in the water, he reached down. The knife was still there, strapped to his leg, and he carefully unfastened it. The weapon would be tiny against the bulk of the great white and the blade would seem pathetic compared to those vicious teeth - but Alex felt better having it in his hand.

He looked around him. Apart from the cave itself, there was nowhere to hide - and the cave was useless. The mouth was too wide. If he went inside, the shark would simply follow him. And yet, if he made it to the ladder, he might be able to climb it. That would take him out of the water - up the Devil's Chimney and onto dry land. True, he would surface in the middle of the Casa de Oro. But no matter how bad General Sarov might be, he couldn't be worse than the shark.

He had made his decision.

Slowly, keeping the shark in his sight, he began to move towards the cave's entrance. For a moment he thought the shark had lost interest in him. It seemed to be swimming away. But then he saw that he had been tricked. The creature turned and, as if fired from a gun, rushed through the water, heading straight for him.

Alex dived down, air exploding from his lungs. There was a boulder to one side of the cave and he tried to wedge himself into a corner, putting it between himself and his attacker. It worked. The shark curved away. At that moment, Alex lunged forward with the knife. He felt his arm shudder as the blade cut into the thick hide just under the two front fins. As the shark flickered past, he saw that it was leaving a trail of what looked like brown smoke. Blood. But he knew that he had barely wounded it - and he had probably angered it, making it all the more determined.

Worse, he was bleeding more himself. In his attempt to get out of the way, he had backed into the coral, which had cut his arms and legs. Alex felt no pain. That would come later. But now he really had done it. He had advertised himself: dinner, fresh and bleeding. It was a miracle that the great white hadn't been joined by a dozen friends.

He had to get into the cave.

Alex kicked with all his strength. The entrance to the cave loomed up in front of him. The shark came hurtling towards him. Its mouth was gaping, the dreadful teeth slicing through the water. Alex jerked backwards, twisting his spine. The shark missed him by centimetres.

He felt the surge of water pushing him away. Now the shark was in the cave, but he wasn't. It was turning to attack again, and this time it wouldn't be confused by the rock wall and the boulders. This time Alex was right in its sights.

And then it happened.

He heard a metallic buzz and, in front of his eyes, the stalagmites rose out of the floor and the stalactites dropped out of the ceiling, teeth that skewered the shark not once, but five or six times. Blood exploded into the water. Alex saw the dreadful eyes as its head whipped from side to side. He could almost imagine the creature howling in pain. It was completely trapped, as if in the jaws of a monster even more dreadful than itself.

How had it happened?

Alex hung in the water, shocked and uncomprehending. Slowly the blood cleared. And he understood.

Turner and Troy had been wrong. Sarov had known about the Devil's Chimney and he had made sure that nobody could reach it by swimming through the cave. The stalagmites and stalactites were fake. They were made of metal, not stone, and were mounted on some sort of hydraulic spring. Swimming into the cave, the shark must have triggered the ambush.

Even as he watched, the deadly spears retracted, sliding back into the floor and ceiling. Alex was beginning to understand the nature of the man who lived in the Casa de Oro. Whatever else he might be, Sarov left nothing to chance. And now he knew what had happened to the two CIA agents.

He felt sick. All he wanted to do was get away - not just out of the water but out of the country. He wished he had never come. He wished that Alan fucking Blunt would just leave him alone. He wished miserably that Ian was here.

There was still a lot of blood in the water. He swam back to the surface quickly, afraid that it would attract more sharks. The whole world had changed while he had been underwater. The sun had rolled behind the horizon and the sky, the sea, the land, the very air itself had become suffused with the deepest crimson. He could see Garcia's boat, a dark shadow, about twenty metres away and swam over to it.

Suddenly he was cold. His teeth were chattering - although they had probably been chattering from the moment he had seen the shark. Alex reached the side of the boat. Garcia was still sitting on the deck with a cigarette between his lips but didn't offer to help him out.

He slipped off his oxygen tank and heaved it onto the boat, then pulled himself out of the water. He winced. Out of the water, he could feel the wounds that the coral had inflicted on his limbs. But there was no time to do anything about that now. He went over to Garcia.

"We have to go" he said, "Turner and Troy are dead. The cave is a trap. Do you understand? You have to take me back to the hotel!"

Garcia said nothing. For the first time, Alex noticed something about the cigarette in the man's mouth - It wasn't actually lit. Suddenly uneasy, he reached out. Garcia fell forward. There was a knife sticking out of his back.

Alex felt something hard touch him between his shoulder blades and a voice whispered from somewhere behind him.

"A little late to be out swimming, I think. I advise you now to keep very still".

A speedboat which had been lurking in the shadows on the other side of the diving boat roared to life, lights blazing. Two more men climbed onboard, both of them speaking in Spanish. He just had time to glimpse the dark, grinning face of one of Sarov's macheteros before a sack was thrown over his head.

Something touched his arm and he felt a sting and knew that he had just been injected with a hypodermic syringe. Almost at once, the strength went out of his legs and he would have collapsed but for the invisible hands that held him up. And then he was lifted up and carried away.

Alex began to wonder if it would have made any difference if the shark had reached him after all. The men who were carrying him off the boat were treating him like someone who was already dead.

10.58 pm, Thursday, 14th July

Casa de Oro, Skeleton Key

Alex couldn't move.

He was lying on his back on a hard, sticky surface. When he tried to raise his shoulders, he felt his t-shirt clinging to whatever it was underneath him. It was as if he had been glued into place. Whatever had been injected into him had removed all power of movement from his arms and legs.

He knew that he had been loaded into the speedboat and taken back to the coast. Some sort of van had met him and brought him here. He had heard footsteps and rough hands had grabbed him, carrying him like a sack of vegetables.

Fingers brushed against the side of his neck and suddenly the bag was removed.

Alex blinked.

He was lying in a brightly lit warehouse or factory; the first thing he saw was the metal framework supporting the roof, with arc lamps hanging down. The walls were bare brick, whitewashed, the floor lined with terracotta tiles. There was machinery on both sides of him. He realised now that he was lying on a long conveyor belt.

A man stepped into his line of vision.

"Your name?"

"... Alex Gardiner".

"Your real name?"

"I just told you!"

"You lied. Your real name is Alex Rider".

"Why ask if you think you know?!"

The man nodded as if Alex had asked a fair question.

"My name is Conrad" he said, "Why are you here?"

"I'm on vacation with my mom and dad. Where are they?" Alex demanded, sticking to the cover story, "Why have you brought me here? What happened to the man on the boat? I want to go home!"

That last part, at least, wasn't a lie.

"No". There was no doubt at all in Conrad's voice. "Your accent is very convincing, but you are not American. You are English. The people you came with were called Tom Turner and Belinda Troy. They were agents of the CIA. They are now dead".

"I don't know what you're talking about. You've got the wrong guy!"

Conrad smiled.

"Lying to me is stupid and a waste of time. I have to know why you are here. It is an unusual experience to interrogate a child, but it is one I shall enjoy. You are the only one left. So tell me, Alex Rider, why did you come to Skeleton Key? What were you planning to do?"

"I wasn't planning to do anything!" Despite everything, Alex thought it was worth one last try. He was still speaking with an American accent. "My dad's a film producer. He's got nothing to do with the CIA! Who are you? And why have you brought me here?"

"I am losing my patience! Tell me what I want to know".

"I'm on vacation!" Alex said, "I've already told you!"

"You have told me lies! Now you will tell me the truth".

Conrad leaned down and picked up a large metal box with two buttons - one red, one green - attached to a thick cable. He pressed the green button. At once, Alex felt a jolt underneath him. An alarm bell rang. Somewhere in the distance, there was a loud whine as a machine started up. A few seconds later, the conveyor began to move.

Using all his strength, Alex fought against the drug that was in his system, forcing his head up so that he could look over his feet. The conveyor belt was carrying him towards two huge spinning grindstones about seven metres away. They were so close to each other that they were almost touching. The belt stopped just at the point where they met.

"You, Alex, are about to be fed into the crusher. I ask you to imagine the pain that lies ahead of you. Your toes will enter first. Then you will be sucked in one centimetre at a time. After your toes, your feet. Your legs and your knees. How much of you will pass through before you are allowed the comfort of death? Whatever else it is, I can promise you that it will not be sweet".

Conrad raised the box with the two buttons.

"Tell me what I want to know and I will press the red button. It stops the machine".

He lifted his head up again. The grindstones were getting closer with every second that passed. He could feel their vibration, transmitted down the conveyor belt.

"How much did the agents know?" Conrad demanded, "Why were they here?"

Alex slumped back. The pounding of the two stones enveloped him. He gritted his teeth, biting back his fear. He wanted to cry. He could actually feel the tears in his eyes. This wasn't what he wanted! He had never asked to be a spy! Why should he be expected to die like one?!

"You have perhaps fifty seconds more" Conrad said - and that was when Alex made up his mind.

There was no point in going silently to this bloody and unspeakable death. This wasn't a World War Two film with him as the hero. He was a schoolboy and everyone - Blunt, Mrs Jones, the CIA - had lied to him and played tricks on him to get him here.

Anyway, Conrad already knew who he was. He had called him by his real name. He knew that Troy and Turner had been American spies. There was only one piece of information he could add: The CIA were looking for a nuclear bomb. And why shouldn't he tell Conrad that? Because Blunt would overhear him and hurt Ian? It didn't matter - even if the Head of MI6 was currently listening in, Alex would still be dead before the reptilian bastard could even issue the order.

"They were searching for a bomb. A nuclear bomb. They know Sarov bought uranium from the Salesman. They came here with a Geiger counter. They were going to break into the villa and look for the bomb".

"How did they know?"

"I don't know!"

"Thirty seconds".

The rumbling and pounding was louder than ever. Alex looked up and saw the stones less than three metres away. Air was rushing between them and flowing over him. He could feel the breeze cold on his skin. Perspiration flowed down the side of his face and then followed the line of his jaw and curved behind his neck.

"It was Turner!" he yelled, "He found out from the Salesman. He was working undercover. They found out that he'd sold you the uranium and they came here looking for the bomb!"

"Did they know the purpose of the bomb?"

"No! I don't know. They didn't tell me! Now stop the machine and let me go!"

Conrad considered for a moment. The box was still in his hand.

"...No" he said, "I don't think so".

"What?!" He could barely hear himself above the noise of the grindstones. "But you said-"

"I lied. Just like you. But of course, I must kill you. You are of no further use".

Alex opened his mouth and screamed, trying to find the strength to separate himself from the conveyor belt. His brain knew what it wanted. His body refused to obey. It was useless.

"Goodbye, Alex".

And then - another voice. In another language. One that Alex didn't understand. Conrad said something. Alex could no longer hear. The man's lips moved but any sound was snatched away by the roar of the machine. Alex's bare toes were being battered by the wind that was forced through the stones. They were five centimetres away from being crushed. Four centimetres, three centimetres, two centimetres…

There was a gunshot.

Sparks.

The smell of smoke.

The grindstones were still spinning.

But the conveyor belt had stopped.

Alex's feet were jutting over the end of the belt. He could almost feel the spinning stone racing past his toes. Then the voice came again, speaking now in English.

"My dear Alex. I am so sorry. Are you alright?"

He tried to reply with the worst swear words he knew, but they wouldn't come. He couldn't even breathe. With a sense of gratitude, he passed out.