Agent 21 (18 page)

‘Harry Gold.’ Zak didn’t offer his hand.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a friend of Cruz’s.’

The boy made a snorting sound. ‘Cruz doesn’t
have
any friends. He spends too much time reading books.’

‘Well, he does now.’

The boy removed his sunglasses and gave Zak a poisonous look. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Er . . . Brylcreem salesman?’ Zak suggested, looking meaningfully at his hair.

The boy sneered. ‘You think you’re funny?’ He looked around the place as if he owned it. ‘I’m Raul,’ he said. ‘Remember the name.’ He put the glasses back on. ‘You’re not Mexican,’ he observed.

‘Spot on.’

‘So how come you speak Spanish?’

Zak smiled at him. ‘From a book,’ he said. ‘You should try reading one. It’s amazing what you can pick up.’

Raul looked like he was thinking up a response, but nothing came. So he just sneered again and walked away with a lazy gait.

‘Who’s the goon?’ Zak asked when Raul was out of earshot.

‘My cousin,’ said Cruz. ‘The son of my father’s late brother. You shouldn’t wind him up.’

‘Do you always let him talk to you like that?’ Zak carefully examined the uncomfortable look on Cruz’s face.

Cruz looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

‘Yeah, it does. How come he’s so impressed with himself?’

Cruz shifted from one foot to another. ‘It’s my father,’ he said. ‘He knows I’m not interested in the family business.’

‘You don’t like what he does?’

‘No, it’s not that. I would be a hypocrite. My father’s business has given us everything. I just want to do something different. He’s a proud man. It was hard for him to accept, but now he knows that I am serious. He would never think of passing the business on to somebody who wasn’t family – that’s the Mexican way – so he brought Raul in to live with us. Raul knows that puts him in a powerful position round here.’

Zak looked over to where Raul was disappearing
inside. He wondered if he’d been wise to make an enemy of Martinez’s nephew. He turned his attention back to Cruz. ‘So if you don’t want to go into business with your dad,’ he asked, ‘what
do
you want to do?’

Cruz looked faintly embarrassed. ‘I like science.’ He frowned. ‘It’s not something Raul would really understand.’

‘I get it,’ Zak said. ‘Back in England I used to—’

And then he stopped himself. He was getting a bit too close to talking about his own life, not Harry’s. And anyway, he sensed that Cruz didn’t want to talk about it any more, so he let it drop and they continued the tour.

‘This place is pretty cool,’ Zak said when they’d returned to the atrium. As he spoke he found himself naturally checking that he could correctly remember the layout of this big hallway, the position of the big central staircase and the location of the exits.

Cruz shrugged. ‘I guess,’ he said.

‘You don’t sound like you mean it.’ Zak remembered his cover. ‘You should see the place where I have to stay with my uncle,’ he said with a rich kid’s sneer.

Cruz looked around with a frown. ‘The man you shot was coming to kidnap me, wasn’t he?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘That’s what your father thinks.’

‘My father tells
you
more than he tells
me
.’ Cruz
didn’t sound bitter, exactly. Just sad. With a pang, Zak thought about his own father. ‘You should try to get close to him, Cruz,’ he said. ‘One day he won’t be there, and . . .’ Zak’s voice tailed off.

‘He’s not interested in me any more.’

‘I bet that’s not true.’

Cruz shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But look, thank you for this morning.’ Cruz put his hand out and Zak shook it for a second time, trying not to think about the blood that had spurted from Raf’s chest.

Cruz clearly noticed something in Zak’s face. ‘You shouldn’t worry about killing him. He was a dead man the moment he tried to kidnap me.’ Cruz’s eyes were hard.

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘Doesn’t it bother
you
?’

Zak shook his head.

‘Everybody dies sooner or later,’ said Cruz. ‘Why does it matter if it’s sooner and not later?’ He gave Zak a chilling stare. ‘Remember
La Catrina
,’ he said.

How could I forget
, Zak thought.

‘Er . . . those body doubles,’ he said, trying to probe for more information. ‘They’re pretty good likenesses.’

‘They’re perfect,’ said Cruz. ‘Even I can’t tell the difference sometimes.’

‘Must be pretty confusing.’

‘You get used to it. It’s no secret that there are many
people who want to kill my father.’ He looked around. ‘So, it doesn’t look like either of us are going to school for a bit,’ he said. ‘Do you want to watch a movie or something?’

‘Great,’ Zak said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘Lead the way.’ Together they headed to the TV room.

Zak didn’t mention it to Cruz, but as they left the atrium he noticed Calaca, standing almost hidden in a doorway, watching them, noting their movements and listening to every word they said.

Ten miles from Cesar Martinez Toledo’s compound, in the grounds of a long-deserted farmstead, there were two old barns. One of them – the larger of the two – had a collapsed roof so it was open to the elements. Anybody looking at it from outside might expect it to be filled with rubble, or old farming tools, or nothing. They certainly wouldn’t expect it to contain a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter.

But that’s exactly what it contained.

Maximum speed, 183 mph. Capacity, 2 flight crew and 14 troops. Rate of climb, 700 ft per minute. On either side of the fuselage there was an M134 Minigun capable of firing 7.62 mm rounds at a rate of up to 6,000 rounds per minute. All in all, not the kind of thing the average Mexican farmer
would expect to see in one of his outbuildings.

The second barn had a roof, but its contents were no less surprising. Just outside, semi-hidden by an abandoned truck, was a small signalling dish, its antenna pointing at the sky. Inside, there was a small generator in the corner, powering a bank of computer screens. Along the walls were a series of low beds – four of them occupied by sleeping men. Two other men had taken up position by the main door, assault rifles in hand. And at the bank of computer screens stood Gabs and Raf, both wearing comms earpieces and mikes.

They were staring at a high-definition, real-time satellite image of the Martinez compound. It was very clear: you could see the compound walls, the magnificent house, the lawns and even the sprinklers. They could tell Zak was inside – a flashing green dot superimposed on the house indicated his exact position.

‘Are you getting this?’ Michael’s voice came over the comms all the way from his centre of operations in London.

‘Roger that,’ replied Raf. ‘Looks like he’s in.’

‘He just made contact with Frank and confirmed he was safe.’

‘Any signs of coercion?’

‘Negative. Our working theory has to be that
he’s there as Martinez’s guest, not his prisoner.’

Gabs glanced at the satellite image. Look carefully enough and you could just see the observation posts dotted around the walls. ‘Given the security around that place,’ she said, ‘I’d say there’s not much difference between the two.’

‘Agreed,’ said Michael. ‘Stay on high alert. We need to be ready to extract him the moment he gives a distress call.’

Raf and Gabs exchanged a long look.

‘And well done, you two. I didn’t expect him to be inside so soon. You did a good job on him.’

A pause.

‘We’ll know just how good,’ Gabs said, ‘when we see if he comes out alive, won’t we?’

Michael didn’t answer and they went back to staring at their computer screens.

The afternoon sun was hot.

Calaca was in the habit of meeting with his employer to discuss business by the swimming pool. Martinez would always have a long, cold rum punch with plenty of ice, the rum imported especially from Havana. Calaca drank water. He knew that an attack on his master could come at any time. For that reason, two body doubles lounged at the far end of the pool, also drinking rum punches, there to confuse any hitmen. But body doubles or not, Calaca’s head needed to be clear, so he never touched alcohol.

‘Something isn’t right,’ he said as they stood by the pool.

‘You worry too much, Adan,’ replied Martinez.

‘That’s what you pay me for.’

Martinez shrugged and took a sip of his drink. What Calaca had just said was true.

‘It’s too neat,’ the one-eyed man continued. ‘This
new kid just
happened
to be there at the time someone tried to kidnap Cruz? I don’t believe it.’

Martinez stared at his head of security. He put his rum punch down on a little table covered with a neatly starched tablecloth, then put one arm around Calaca’s shoulders. He extended the other to indicate the vast and magnificent grounds all around him.

‘You see all this?’ he said. ‘It is mine for a reason. And do you know, Adan, what that reason is?’

‘The business,’ Calaca replied.

‘The business, yes,’ said Martinez. ‘But the business is only a success because we are willing to do what others will not. Young Harry Gold killed a man this morning, Adan. You and I know that life is cheap, but the authorities?’ He shook his head. ‘It is not in their nature to sacrifice a pawn to catch the king. Harry Gold is a brave boy. If we keep him here, he could be of use to us. And besides, Cruz owes him his life. For that I am grateful.’

‘But—’

‘No more buts, Adan.’ Martinez’s genial voice had become sharp and Calaca knew not to argue with him. ‘Harry Gold stays here. If nothing else, he will be a friend for Cruz. Do you understand me?’

Calaca bowed his head. ‘
Si
, Señor Martinez,’ he said. ‘I understand you.’ He turned and left the
swimming pool, leaving his boss to enjoy his rum punch and the sight of the setting sun.

Deep inside the headquarters of the CIA in Langley, Virginia, there is a wall. It is called the Memorial Wall. Ninety black stars are engraved on it, along with these words:
In honour of those members of the Central Intelligence Agency who gave their lives in the service of their country
.

The stout, middle-aged man who walked past the Memorial Wall paid it no attention. He never did. And as he left CIA headquarters via the concrete and glass archway that was the main entrance and exit, he caught nobody’s eye. Not that anybody wanted to stop and talk to him. They were all too busy for that, and he was a man of little importance.

It was 5 p.m. The man always left at this hour. He wasn’t an important cog in the intelligence wheel. Far from it. His job was simply to file intelligence, to make sure that the right nuggets of information were kept in the right place. Because, as he always told anyone who would listen, a piece of intelligence misfiled is a piece of intelligence lost.

He walked to his car. It was nothing all that special – a Toyota Prius that his wife had nagged him to buy because she said it was better for the environment. He didn’t care about that. What he really wanted was a
Lotus, but he hadn’t bought one because he knew it would be stupid to flash his money around. It would be far too glamorous a car for somebody on his pay grade. When he retired, maybe he’d treat himself; and if things carried on going the way they were, retirement could be just around the corner . . .

At the perimeter gates he slowed down and handed his biometric ID card to the policeman in his booth. ‘Watching the ball game tonight, Bob?’

Bob grinned. ‘Had the beers chilling all day. Another half an hour and I’m out of here.’ He inserted the ID card into his card reader then handed it back. ‘See you in the morning, Lou, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

‘Not if you drink too many of those beers.’ Lou winked at him and drove off.

Lou and his wife lived in a condo in downtown Washington. Journey time from Langley at this time of day, approximately one hour. But Lou wouldn’t be going home just yet. In fact he was driving northwest, ten miles along the 193 before he pulled off and drove another couple of miles to a little settlement that was too small even to have a name. There was a diner here – the sort of place only frequented by truck drivers. Lou had scoped the place out a year before. It had no security cameras of any kind, which meant he could be sure his presence would not be recorded. He knew
how the intelligence services worked, so he was able to keep one step ahead.

He pulled up outside the diner and walked in. A friendly waitress took his order – a coffee and a slice of blueberry pie – and while he waited for the food to come, Lou stepped over to the phone box on the far wall. He dug into his pocket for a couple of quarters, then dialled a number.

It rang eight or nine times before an unfriendly voice answered in Spanish.

‘
Si?
’

‘It’s me,’ said Lou.

No reply.

‘I have information.’