Agent 21 (30 page)

On the other side of the desk stood a man with one eye, wearing a green Mexico football shirt. He didn’t
look like he wanted to take orders from this person; he also looked like he didn’t have a choice.

‘How much did my father pay you, Adan?’ asked Cruz Martinez.

Calaca told him.

‘From today, you earn double.’

Calaca looked surprised. ‘That is very generous, señor,’ he said.

‘Generosity has nothing to do with it,’ Cruz replied. ‘I am buying your loyalty. If I suspect you are shortchanging me, I will ask for more than my money back. You will serve me as you served my father. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, señor.’

‘The other cartels, do they know of his death?’

‘By now, señor, all of Mexico knows it. Your position is dangerous. The other cartels will move in on your business very quickly – more quickly, even, than the authorities will destroy the processing plant your father took the boy to.’

Cruz considered that for a moment. ‘Every government official we are bribing, and every police officer, they too are to have their payments doubled.’

‘Yes, señor. But you will have to do more than that. You will have to show that you have the stomach to stand up to your enemies, and to crush them when necessary.’

Cruz shook his head slowly. ‘You still have Raul in custody?’

‘As you instructed, señor.’

‘Good. Take him away and kill him. Leave his body on the doorstep of a police station. Let it be known that he had a problem with me taking over the family business. That will show that I’m not to be trifled with.’

An unpleasant sneer crossed Calaca’s face, as though he very much approved of the suggestion.’

‘Yes, señor.’

He turned to leave.

‘One more thing before you go, Adan.’

Calaca turned and Cruz gave him a flat, dead stare. ‘Harry Gold. Agent 21. Whatever you want to call him. Find out
who
he is. Find out
where
he is. Find out who he
works
for. Then find him. And when you have found him, bring him to me.’

‘Dead or alive, señor?’

Cruz raised an eyebrow. ‘Alive, Adan. Very much alive. Because when I have Agent 21 in front of me, I will require the pleasure of killing him myself. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Señor Cruz. It is understood.’

And with that, Adan Ramirez walked out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving his new boss alone with his thoughts.

Zak uses the stars to help him navigate. Check out how helpful
our night sky can be . . .

AGENT 21 is still active.
Zak Darke’s mission is not over.
Look out for him in the action-packed book two, coming soon . . .

Read on for a look at Chris Ryan’s famous, real-life tale of courage and survival

Our target was a disused mental hospital.

Five terrorists were inside, holding nine hostages captive. After a three-day siege, matters were moving swiftly to a head.

As commander of the SAS eight-man sniper team of ‘B’ Squadron, I was in charge of seven other men. We were positioned with our rifles at observation points in outhouses, trees and on the ground. Two men were watching each face of the hospital and sending back running commentaries over their throat-mike radios to the command centre. This had been set up in a separate building 200 metres from the front door. Each face of the hospital had been given a special code so that everyone knew which bit they were talking about.

From the command centre a police negotiator was talking to the chief terrorist. The terrorist was demanding safe conduct to Heathrow airport for himself and his colleagues; otherwise he would shoot one of the hostages. Meanwhile, the military officer commanding
the SP (Special Projects, or counter-terrorist) team was working out how to attack the building if the negotiations failed.

Suddenly a shot cracked out from within the hospital. A hostage had been executed. The terrorists called for a stretcher party to take the body away. The front door opened briefly, and a limp figure was bundled out. A four-man team ran over to collect it. Then the chief terrorist threatened to kill another hostage in half an hour if his demands were not met.

The moment had come for the police to hand over to the military. The police chief signed a written order passing command to the OC (Officer Commanding) of ‘B’ Squadron, the senior SAS officer present. The OC then gave the three eight-man assault teams their orders. The moment he had finished, the men moved to their entry points.

Now it was just a question of waiting for my snipers to get as many terrorists in their sights as possible. Listening to our commentaries on the radio, the OC suddenly called out the order we’d all been waiting for:

‘I have control. STAND BY . . . STAND BY . . . GO!’

For the past two days the grounds of the old hospital had been eerily silent. Now the whole
place erupted into action. Two vehicles screamed up to the building and a swarm of black-clad assaulters jumped out. Explosive charges blew in the windows. Within seconds, a Chinook helicopter was poised above the roof and more black figures were fast-roping out of it, abseiling down to the windows or entering through the skylights. Stun grenades blasted off; smoke poured out. The radio carried a babble of shots, shouts, explosions and orders.

In a matter of minutes the building had been cleared, the five terrorists killed and the remaining eight hostages rescued. The assault commander reported that he had control, and command was formally handed back to the police.

* * *

On this occasion, this had all been just an exercise – but as always, the assault had been realistic in every detail, and had been excellent training. Just another day for the Regiment, as members of the SAS refer to themselves. And exactly the kind of task we could at any time be called upon to perform, efficiently and explosively. Practice was essential.

‘Well done, everybody,’ the OC told us. ‘That was pretty good.’

We packed our kit into the vehicles and set out for SAS headquarters in Hereford. But on the way events took an unexpected turn.

It was 2 August 1990, and on the news we heard that Saddam Hussein, the tyrannical leader of Iraq, had just invaded Kuwait, a small country on his southern border.

‘So what?’ said one of the guys scornfully. ‘Saddam’s an idiot.’

‘Don’t be too sure of it,’ said someone else. ‘It’ll make big trouble, and we’ll probably find ourselves out there.’

He was right. Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait was the opening salvo of the 1990–1991 Gulf War. I don’t think any of us realized just how this news would change our lives.

* * *

For the next two months, nobody knew what was going to happen. The leaders of different governments around the world got together to discuss the situation and the UN Security Council called for Iraq to withdraw from Kuwait – and gave them a deadline. When the Iraqis did not leave Kuwait, a war was inevitable. In total thirty-four countries joined together in a coalition to oppose Saddam Hussein. These countries included not only
the USA and Great Britain but also Arab countries in the Middle East region, like Egypt and Syria.

‘A’ and ‘D’ Squadron went out to the Gulf for buildup training; but me and my mates in ‘B’ Squadron were told we wouldn’t be going, as it was our turn to take over what are known in the SAS as team tasks – assignments for which small teams of men are needed in various parts of the world.

The SAS is made up of four squadrons – A, B, D and G. Each squadron is made up of four troops – Air Troop, Mountain Troop, Boat Troop and Mobility Troop. There should be sixteen men in each troop, but because it is so difficult to get into the SAS, there are often as few as eight.

Rumours started to fly. Some people said we might become sky-marshals on civilian flights to the Middle East. It would mean pretending to be normal passengers, but in fact carrying weapons to deal with any terrorist who might attempt a hijack. The idea seemed quite likely – on the SP team we’d done lots of assaults on and inside aircraft, so we knew what to do.

But then, a week before Christmas, we were dragged into the briefing room at Hereford and told that half of ‘B’ Squadron was going to deploy to the Middle East after all.

That meant me.

When I heard the news, I went home and said to Janet, my wife: ‘Listen, we’re heading out.’ Normally, as so many missions are top secret, SAS guys say nothing to their wives and families about what they’re doing, but in this case it was obvious where we were going. After Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait, there had been so much coverage on television and in the newspapers, our destination could only have been the Gulf.

Christmas was not a relaxed time. The Regiment was stood-to throughout the holiday period, and we were busy getting our ‘green’ kit ready. In the SAS, ‘green’ refers to normal military operations, as opposed to ‘black’ work, like that on the SP team, for which you wear black gear from head to foot. I’d been in black roles for at least three years, so now I brought my webbing and bergen home to paint them in desert camouflage colours. We were having an extension built onto our house, and a builder called John was digging the footings. Seeing me at work outside, he came up and asked what I was doing.

‘Just painting my webbing.’

‘Those colours are a bit light, aren’t they?’

‘Well,’ I said carefully, ‘you’d be surprised. It works quite well.’ In fact, he was right: I had the colours too light and sandy, as I was to find out to my cost.