Endgame (Agent 21) (8 page)

There was the sound of a heavy fist banging on the door. Zak looked over his shoulder, then back out of the window. He knew he had no option.

He took a deep breath, then climbed through the open window, trying to stop his brain focusing on the terrifying drop from here to the ground – the very thought of which made the strength drain from his muscles.
Concentrate on the cradle
, he told himself.
Concentrate on the cable.

He heard the door burst open. He looked down. The cradle had descended another five metres. He couldn’t wait.

He pushed himself out and, still clutching the baseball cap, let his body fall.

Zak kept his arms by his side and his legs straight as he tried to ignore the horrible rushing sound in his ears. The drop seemed to take an age. He tried to look straight down – to keep his eyes on the landing zone of the cradle – but he couldn’t stop himself from looking further afield and seeing the awful vertical distance he’d fall if he missed his target . . .

Suddenly, with a great clatter, he hit the cradle. He bent his knees as his feet made contact, as though he were landing after a parachute drop, and let his body fall to the floor. The whole cradle juddered and rocked with the impact. Zak, sweating profusely, found he was still holding his breath, waiting to feel if the cradle was still safely descending.

It was.

Zak rolled over onto his back and looked up. There was a chance that the armed men in Ricky’s flat would check the window. If that happened, he needed to know, because it would mean a welcoming party when he reached the ground. But as the cradle descended, nobody appeared at the window.

It took five minutes to descend. Bizarrely, the nursery rhyme ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ started whizzing around his head.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
The wind
was
blowing, and the cradle
was
rocking. Zak lay very still, moving only to pull the lime-green baseball cap back onto his head. As the cradle touched the ground, Zak prepared himself for an argument. Whoever was operating the cradle would be less than pleased to see a teenager walking out of it. He pulled the peak of the baseball cap over his eyes, and stood up.

He was right to expect a commotion. Standing next to the cradle were two middle-aged men, one of them slightly balding. To the side, where the override controls for the cradle were situated, was a third man. They were all looking at Zak with expressions of outrage.

‘What’s your game, son?’ said the bald man. ‘This thing ain’t a toy, you know?’

Zak quickly looked from each man to the other. Which of them had the kindest face? He selected the guy next to the bald man. He looked like the oldest of the three. There was something about his eyes that told Zak he’d be sympathetic. Zak put on what he hoped was a scared face, and addressed this older man directly. ‘They were chasing me,’ he said. ‘These big guys – five of them. They beat my friend up and they were going to do the same to me, and steal my wallet, and . . .’

‘All right, lad, all right,’ said the man. ‘Now you just climb out of the cradle and tell us what these fellas looked like.’

Zak nimbly did as he was told. ‘Don’t make me grass them up,’ he said. ‘If they find out, they’ll come after me. I’m really sorry about the cradle, I know I shouldn’t have done it, I just couldn’t think of anything else . . .’

The three window cleaners exchanged a look.

‘Go on,’ said the balding guy. ‘Get out of here.’

Zak gave him a grateful look and immediately edged away from them. ‘And don’t do it again!’ the bald guy shouted after him.

He wanted to run. To sprint away from Ricky’s apartment block as quickly as possible. But he knew that would just attract attention to himself. So he set a steady pace, skirting round the edge of the plaza, his shoulders hunched and his head down.

Zak had practically forgotten the drama of jumping into the cradle. That was in the past, and his mind was firmly set on the future. He had less than four days to find Raf and Gabs. Four days, and almost nothing to go on. As he headed towards the nearest underground station, he repeated Cruz’s sinister words in his head.
I am taking them to a place between yesterday and tomorrow.
It didn’t make any sense.
Today
was between yesterday and tomorrow, but ‘today’ was a time, not a place.

He continued to struggle with the riddle as he bought himself a ticket and, checking around to see that nobody was watching him, headed through the barrier, down the escalator and then – almost as a reflex – back up it to check nobody was following. He hoped Ricky was dealing with the armed response unit OK. He seemed like a good guy. A bit undercooked, maybe – but he
had
just lost Felix in the middle of his training. Zak made his way onto the westbound platform. He took a seat at the far end and continued to think. He knew that if Raf and Gabs were here, they’d tell him not to take Cruz’s bait. But he also knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, nothing would stop them from hunting him down and getting him home.

A cool breeze from the other end of the platform told Zak that a train was approaching. A wave of fatigue crashed over him as he stood up and moved to the edge of the platform. It had been a physically and emotionally exhausting morning. He wished he was back in bed on St Peter’s Crag and then, with a jolt, realized there was a good chance he’d never see that place again.

The train arrived and the door hissed open. Zak stepped into the carriage. It was only half full and he easily found a seat. As he sat down, another passenger took the seat next to him. A young guy wearing a blue baseball cap.

Zak swore under his breath. Either he was too tired, or too preoccupied, or he was losing his edge.

He turned to look at his neighbour, who smiled. ‘You’re not the
only
one who can creep up on people,’ said Ricky.

Ricky couldn’t work Zak out. Half an hour ago he had needed his help. Now, as they sat side by side on the underground, he seemed furious to be in Ricky’s company. He put it down to the stress of the morning. Ricky felt it too.

They didn’t speak. Both of them knew to keep quiet in public. At Piccadilly Circus, Zak got off the train and Ricky followed. Only when they were out in the street, walking north through Golden Square, did Ricky strike up a conversation.

‘So where are we going?’

‘I’m going this way,’ Zak said. ‘I don’t know about you – you just seem to be tagging along.’

Something snapped inside Ricky. He grabbed Zak’s left forearm. Zak suddenly spun through a quarter-circle, with the speed and deftness of a cat, his right arm raised and ready to strike. It was the reflex action of someone prepared to fight. Zak’s movement, however, was precisely matched by Ricky, who had raised his left arm, ready to block the blow.

They stared at each other, then carefully lowered their arms.

‘Listen, mate,’ said Ricky. ‘I know you’ve been in this job for longer than me, but I just slipped away from four heavily armed men who were looking for you, and now they’ll be looking for me too. So spare me the sulks and tell me: where are you going?’

They stood almost like statues for a moment.

Then Zak sighed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘A lot has happened in the past few hours. I’m not thinking straight.’

Ricky grinned at him. ‘Two heads are better than one.’

‘Yeah. And three heads are better than two. Cruz has set us a puzzle, and there’s a guy I know who’s very good at puzzles. Just a kid. He lives on Lexington Street, just up here.’

They started walking again.

‘So who is this guy?’ Ricky asked.

‘His name’s Malcolm.’

‘Is he an agent?’

‘Nope.’

‘Is he trained?’

‘God, no.’

‘Do you trust him?’

Zak stopped, seemed to think about it for a minute, then put his hand up and wobbled it slightly, as if to say, ‘Sort of.’

‘You’re not filling me with confidence, mate.’

‘Malcolm’s all right. We’ve been on a couple of missions together. I’ve seen him do seriously amazing things with computers. One time, he took over the whole of Twitter. Then another time, in Africa, he reverse-engineered the whole mobile phone network.’ The corner of Zak’s mouth turned upward. ‘He’s pretty good at crosswords too.’

‘So how come you know about him and the Agency doesn’t?’

‘It’s complicated. Michael put him up in a flat in Soho, but he kept it quiet from the Agency. There are a lot of people in our line of work who’d like to get their hands on him – not all of them friendly. We kind of had a feeling he might come in useful one day. I guess today’s that day.’

‘I bet it’s a pretty dodgy place,’ Ricky said.

‘How do you know?’

‘I used to have this landlord who let me live underage in one of his rooms. The fact that I didn’t want anyone asking questions meant he didn’t need to worry too much about making sure it was fit for human habitation.’

They took a right-hand turn, past warm, inviting cafés that were full of punters, then left into Lexington, where they stopped outside a tall, rather shabby terraced building, with a black front door. Zak sniffed. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said, ‘but Malcolm’s a bit of a weirdo. He gets nervous around strange faces. Best to let me do the talking.’

Ricky shrugged.

There was an intercom by the door. Zak pressed the button.

No answer.

‘Maybe he’s gone out,’ Ricky said.

‘To be honest, Malcolm’s not the “going out” kind.’

‘You’re really bigging him up, you know that?’

As Ricky spoke, there was a noise above them. They both looked up. A window had opened three floors up. A boy about their age had poked his head out. He had a thin face, greasy brown hair and brown glasses. He stared at them for about five seconds, then disappeared back into the building.

‘Is that him?’ Ricky asked.

‘Yeah, that’s him.’ Zak raised his hand to ring the buzzer again, but there was a small tinkling sound as a key fell onto the pavement. Ricky picked it up and handed it to Zak, who opened the front door and let them in.

It was dark inside, and it didn’t smell too fresh. They closed the door behind them and felt their way up a steep, creaking, rickety staircase. There were apartments off the first- and second-floor landings, both of which had music blaring from them – Taylor Swift from the first floor, old-school drum and bass from the second. The third-floor landing, however, was silent. The number 3 had been roughly painted on the door, which was firmly shut.

Zak knocked.

No answer.

‘Malcolm, mate. It’s me. You need to open up.’

‘How do I know you’re not going to kill me?’ came a muffled voice from behind the door.

‘Why does everyone think I’m going to kill them?’ Zak muttered in a slightly exasperated voice. ‘I’ve
never
killed anyone.’

‘It’s probably just the way you look,’ Ricky whispered. ‘Look, mate, are you sure about this guy? He sounds more than weird.’

Zak ignored that. ‘Malcolm, how many times have I saved your life? Come on, buddy, open up.’

‘Michael told me not to open the door to anyone.’

Zak and Ricky exchanged a look. ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm,’ Zak said in a quiet voice. ‘Michael’s dead.’

Silence.

Then, from the other side of the door, the sound of several locks being unfastened. It took a full thirty seconds before the door swung open.

Malcolm looked pale and unhealthy. His eyes – behind the thick lenses of his glasses – were darting around nervously. He made no attempt to invite them over the threshold.

‘Er, Happy New Year, Malcolm. Now can we come in?’ Zak asked.

Malcolm blinked, and looked slightly surprised by the request. But he stepped aside while Ricky and Zak entered. As soon as they were through the door, Malcolm started locking it again – Ricky saw that there were three separate mortice locks, and a steel bar that crossed the entire door. He looked around the rest of the room.

– Zak’s not wrong
, said the voice in his head.
The guy is a weirdo. Look at this place.

Malcolm’s apartment was a single large room, with a small kitchen area in one corner and a door leading to what Ricky assumed was a bathroom. The floor vibrated from the music playing below. A wooden broom was leaning against one corner, but a quick glance at the floor told Ricky it hadn’t been used very often. Every inch of one of the walls was plastered with crossword puzzles, meticulously filled in. On another wall was a collection of closed-circuit TV camera pictures, blurry and indistinct. They all seemed to contain one person. As Ricky peered a bit more closely, he realized that it was Zak – getting in and out of cars, ducking down into subways, running round street corners. Zak had obviously noticed this too. He was staring at the pictures with a slightly stressed look on his face.

‘Been keeping an eye on me, Malcolm?’

Malcolm clearly didn’t get the irony. He stared straight at Zak. ‘Of course,’ he said.

Ricky looked over at the kitchen area. He saw ten boxes of cornflakes, meticulously piled up. Next to them, packets of chocolate biscuits. In the middle of the room was a large table with five computer screens in a circle. Cables trailed all over the floor, and in one corner, piled just as neatly as the cornflakes, were seven iMacs, all boxed up.

‘Why is Michael dead?’ Malcolm asked directly.

‘Somebody shot him,’ Zak said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a small child. ‘It was very quick.’

‘Why did somebody shoot him?’

‘I don’t know. I think it was something to do with me.’

‘Why didn’t they shoot
you
, then? Wouldn’t that have been better?’

If Zak was offended, he didn’t show it. ‘Doesn’t the guy downstairs ever turn his music off?’ The thumping bass had just got louder, and the floor was vibrating.

‘I think he’s a drug addict.’

‘Because he plays loud music?’

‘No. I’ve seen him buying things on the street corner.’ Malcolm pointed towards the window.

Zak nodded. ‘Sit down, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’