Agent 21 (20 page)

It was 10 p.m. and Frank Gold was getting ready for bed. His night-time routine was always the same: he would lock all the doors and windows to his house, then check all the most likely places for bugs – down the back of radiators, behind pictures. He knew he was being ultra-cautious, but it was the habit of a lifetime. Only when he was sure the place was secure did he go to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He was just squeezing the toothpaste onto the toothbrush when he heard a noise. A creaking sound. He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror.

Silence.

Frank turned on the tap and moistened his toothbrush.

The creaking of a door. He looked in the mirror again and his blood ran cold.

There was someone behind him. Frank saw a monstrous face with only one eye. The man was wearing a green Mexico football shirt and he had a handgun pointed straight at the back of Frank’s head.

‘Make a single move I don’t like,’ the man said in a rasping voice, ‘and I shoot.’

Very slowly, Frank laid his toothbrush and toothpaste tube by the sink, turned off the tap and raised his hands above his head. ‘Easy, old boy,’ he said, a tremor in his voice. He watched in the mirror as the one-eyed man took a step backwards.

‘The bedroom,’ said the intruder. ‘Now.’

Frank sat on the edge of the bed, his hands on his head. The one-eyed man moved an armchair so he could sit opposite him, about two metres away. He kept the gun pointing at Frank’s chest.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I’m going to ask you a few simple questions and you’re going to give me a few simple answers. Who is Harry Gold?’

Frank stared directly at the intruder. He knew that if he gave any sign that he was lying, young Harry would be dead before the night was over.

‘M . . . my nephew,’ he stuttered. ‘Actually, my great-nephew.’

The intruder gave a thin smile. ‘You’re lying. By the time I’ve finished with you, you will be telling me the truth. Why not save yourself the pain and tell me the truth now?’

Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. There’s been a mistake. I . . . I heard about what happened this morning, but the police won’t tell me where he is.
Do you know? He called me, but wouldn’t say where—’

He didn’t finish his sentence. The man lowered his gun towards Frank’s leg, and fired. The weapon wasn’t suppressed, so the noise was ear-numbingly loud. Frank jumped, fully expecting to have been shot. But all he felt was a rush of air as the bullet whizzed past his left knee and landed harmlessly in the mattress of the bed.

‘I never miss, old man,’ said the intruder. ‘The next shot will hit you in the knee. Do you have any idea how painful that is?’

Frank shook his head. His mind was turning over like a cement mixer. He knew who this man was, of course. He recognized his face from the briefing papers and he knew what he was capable of. Adan Ramirez clearly had his suspicions about Harry. But suspicions were all they were: if he had anything concrete, Harry would already be dead. So would Frank, for that matter.

He had to keep up the pretence. Even if Ramirez kneecapped him, he had to keep up the pretence . . .

‘Please don’t shoot me . . .’

‘Then tell me who Harry Gold is.’ ‘I swear,’ Frank whispered. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just worried about him.’

It was impossible to read the expression on
Ramirez’s face. ‘I will count to three,’ he said. ‘One . . .’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Two . . .’

‘Please, señor, you have to believe me.’

‘Three.’

The men looked at each other. Frank was wide-eyed with genuine terror, but Ramirez looked puzzled. As though this interrogation had not gone the way he expected. He stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will leave it there for now. Do not try to contact Harry, if you want him to stay alive. Do you understand?’

Frank nodded.

‘We have eyes everywhere, Señor Gold. If you call the police, I will know about it within minutes. Don’t make the mistake of not believing me.’

‘Yes, señor,’ Frank whispered. ‘Just tell me, is he safe?’

‘For the moment,’ Ramirez said. He flicked his gun hand. ‘Open the door and let me out. Now.’

Frank watched Ramirez’s Range Rover leave from behind the safety of his window. His hands were shaking and his stomach churned. Only when the rear lights had disappeared from view did he make the call on a secure, encrypted sat phone which he kept under a loose floorboard in his bedroom.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ Michael’s voice was alert, even though it was half past three in the morning in the UK. ‘You sound out of breath.’

Frank recounted what had happened. ‘They’re on to him,’ he said. ‘We should pull him out.’

A pause.

‘Negative,’ said Michael.

‘That’s insane.’

But Michael stood firm. ‘If they truly suspected him,’ he said, ‘you’d both be dead by now. You know that. Stay on high alert and do what Ramirez tells you. We need him to think he’s got you running scared.’

He
has
got me running scared
, Frank thought to himself as he finished the conversation. He hid the sat phone away again then walked into the kitchen, where he fetched a bottle of malt whiskey from the cupboard. He was getting too old for this sort of thing, he decided, and right now he
really
needed a drink.

Dinner felt like it had gone on for ever. It had been an awkward affair, full of long silences and dark looks from Raul. Martinez himself had seemed to enjoy it – he was almost jolly as he kept the conversation going – but Zak’s mind was somewhere else.

What was it that Calaca had needed to speak to his boss about? And why had the body doubles and guards appeared just after their little chat? Something told Zak that their secret conference concerned him. Now he was back in his bedroom, he decided he
had
to find out what was going on. If they were on to him, he needed to know so he could make the distress call and get out of there . . .

He couldn’t just walk out of the room. The security camera was on him and if anyone noticed him leaving at this time of night, he’d have some difficult questions to answer. But stuck here in his room he wasn’t going to gather any information about anything.

Instead, he looked up.

The ceiling was made up of plaster panels, each one about a metre square. Zak jumped up onto the table, from where he could just reach one of the panels. He pushed, and it moved. Sliding the panel to one side, he grabbed the edges of the opening and pulled himself up. The muscles in his arms burned as they took all his weight, but Raf and Gab’s training sessions had paid off and moments later he was above the rafters and replacing the plaster panel. He used his thumbnail to mark the panel so he would remember which one it was when he returned.

It was dimly lit up here. His bedroom ceiling had down-lighters, the backs of which glowed faintly in this gloomy attic space. Zak looked over towards the ceiling of the neighbouring room. This room’s down-lighters were switched off.

It meant the room was unoccupied. He hoped.

Zak crept across the rafters, careful not to tread on the panels. A foot through the plaster would be a tricky one to explain . . . When he thought he was above the room next door, he carefully moved one of the panels – just a few centimetres – and peered down.

The room was dark. And empty.

He lowered himself down and managed to swing onto the bed, which broke his fall. He quickly moved to the door, opened it a little and checked the corridor
was empty. He saw the security camera, firmly directed towards his own room. But nothing else, so he slipped out in the opposite direction and carefully started to creep towards the stairs that overlooked the atrium. The sound of the songbirds in their cage reached his ears as he crouched low behind the banisters of the hallway that looked over the atrium. Zak breathlessly peered round the top of the staircase. He saw Calaca’s figure. The bony man was staring into the birdcage. Zak crept back along the banister again and stopped when he was just above Calaca and the birdcage, his back pressed to it.

He listened.

Calaca had been waiting in the atrium for a full fifteen minutes by the time Martinez turned up. He was wearing a thick velvet dressing gown and was flanked by two guards and two body doubles. All three versions of Martinez smoked fat cigars, and even Calaca didn’t know which was the real Martinez until the entourage held back, leaving the two men to speak in hushed tones by the cage full of songbirds.

‘Well?’ asked Martinez.

‘Where is the boy?’ Calaca countered.

‘In bed. Fast asleep, I should think. It’s been a long day.’

Calaca nodded. ‘Maybe you were right,’ he said.
‘His story stands up. He seems to be who he says he is.’

Martinez took a deep drag on his cigar, surrounding himself in a cloud of smoke. ‘You did well to be suspicious,’ he said. ‘I thank you for it.’

Calaca inclined his head.

‘But if Harry Gold is not Agent 21,’ Martinez continued, ‘then you must look to your own security personnel.’

Calaca bristled. ‘I trust them all,’ he said.

‘Of course you trust them,’ said Martinez. ‘That is why they are such a risk. If I were to plant somebody in this household, I would start with them. They have the run of the house, and they carry firearms.’ Martinez gave Calaca a meaningful stare. ‘You are my head of security, Adan,’ he said. ‘I trust you. But I want to know you are capable of investigating your own people. Otherwise I will be forced to find another head of security who can. Am I understood?’

Calaca’s one eye twitched. ‘Yes, Señor Martinez,’ he said, his voice emotionless. ‘You are understood.’

‘Then do what is necessary.’ Martinez puffed once more on his cigar and peered towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘A beautiful night!’ he announced to nobody in particular. ‘Sleep well, Adan.’ He turned and left the atrium. Seconds later, Calaca followed.

* * *

Zak remained pressed against the banister wall. He’d heard enough of their conversation to realize he’d had a lucky escape. Somehow they knew about Agent 21, but they’d decided it wasn’t him.

He waited for silence in the atrium below him, then prepared to return to his room. But just as he was pushing himself to his feet, he heard a sound that he’d been dreading.

Footsteps.

They were coming back along the corridor that led to his room. For a moment he froze. If anyone found him here, he’d never be able to explain it; but his only escape route was down the stairs into the atrium. And so, moving as quickly and as silently as possible, he headed for the top of the staircase. The atrium looked empty, so he rushed down, looking for a place to hide. There was nowhere in the atrium itself – it was all too open – and he stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, paralysed with indecision. But then he heard the sound of people talking up on the landing, and he knew he
had
to move. He sprinted across the atrium and into a narrow corridor that led to a flight of steps into the basement. It wasn’t ideal – he didn’t know where these steps ended up and he could be fixing himself into a corner – but he was there now and was running out of options . . .

The staircase was dark. It led down to a long
corridor. On the right-hand side there was a steel door with a numeric keypad on the outside. Opposite the door was a sight that made him feel slightly sick. It was a cell, not unlike the one he’d been in that morning, with sturdy iron bars and big lock on the door. It was empty, but Zak didn’t even want to think what happened to anybody who ended up in there.

This, Zak thought to himself, would be a
very
bad place to be caught.

He gave it two minutes, no longer, before tiptoeing back up the stairs. He took a deep breath, then looked out into the atrium.

It was empty.

All he could do now was move across the open space to the stairs and hope he didn’t bump into anyone. Best not to run, because if anybody
did
see him, it would look suspicious. If he was walking, maybe he could talk himself out of the situation.

It took an age to reach the staircase, and another age to climb it. Zak could hear his heart pumping in his ears and he was breathing like he’d just run a mile. He turned left at the top of the stairs and walked along the corridor until it turned a corner round to the left.

And then he stopped.

There was a guard standing five metres away – a young man, no more than twenty years old, wearing
a khaki uniform with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Zak stared at him.

The guard stared back.

He had something in his hands, but Zak was too scared to clock what it was. His mind started turning over as he tried to work out an excuse for not being in his room.

The guard looked over his shoulder. Then back at Zak. ‘Please,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘Do not tell Señor Ramirez you saw me here.’ To Zak’s astonishment, the guard looked terrified.

‘Where should you be?’ Zak asked, trying to sound full of authority.