Bionic Agent (11 page)

“I used to be.” Jordan held out his artificial arm. “This doesn’t help.”

“Still sounds cool to me.”

“Thanks.”

“They call me Giddy,” he said. “What are you in for?”

“I’ve got a habit of setting fire to things. They said I’m doing it to get my own back for my accident.”

“Are you?”

Jordan shrugged. “I just like flames.”

He couldn’t ever remember being so untruthful when he was plain Ben Smith. Then again, he was trying not to dredge up his past. He guessed that being a secret agent was always going to
involve deception.

Giddy didn’t seem to sense any threat in the young offender. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jordan.”

“And what are you going to do when you get out?”

“How do you mean?”

“More arson?”

Jordan shrugged again.

“You’re young. You don’t want to come back here. It’s not a nice place to be.”

Jordan had learned that already. It was depressing. Everywhere he looked there were tall wire fences, locked doors, and prison guards. The place was a relentless grey. The loudest sounds were
barked commands and slamming gates. Everything happened slowly. Everyone walked at a snail’s pace. Nothing was worth running for. He spent a large part of every day in queues. Queues for
food, queues to go through doors, queues to be frisked, queues for the showers. Queues for everything. Prison erased choice and personality. Most of all, it was miserable because the prisoners
couldn’t just pack up and leave whenever they needed a break from life inside.

“After you’ve done your time, keep to drumsticks,” Giddy said. “Stay clear of matchsticks.”

“I’ll try.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“Oh?”

“How do you fancy playing in a band?”

It felt good to be thumping out a rhythm again, but it wasn’t with the same joy. He was drumming as part of a mission, he felt as if his strong right arm was about to
thrust the stick straight through the skin and, like most nervous drummers, he speeded up the beat too much.

Taking a break from rehearsals, drinking a weird liquid that was supposed to be tea, Jordan asked Giddy, “What are you in for?”

“Playing guitar very badly.”

“Seriously.”

Giddy smiled. “Not so different from what you did. They got me for setting fire to a military camp. Not for the first time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the arms industry.”

Jordan played dumb. Puzzled, he looked down at his artificial arm.

Giddy’s expression was part amusement, part annoyance. “No. Not that sort of arms industry.
Arms
. Missiles, bombs, guns and stuff.”

“Oh. Right.” Jordan paused before adding, “What’s the problem with them?”

“What’s the problem?” he exclaimed. “They kill people. That’s what.” He started waving his hands around and nearly knocked over his tea. “Bombs are what
go off in the Middle East or wherever. Not England. Not usually anyway. We’re divorced from it. We don’t understand what it’s like. We don’t have to hide in basements and
hope. We don’t have to bury victims. We’ve forgotten the reality of war. We make weapons and sell them all over the place, but don’t see the result.”

Jordan nodded. “I used to live near Canvey Arms Factory. It’s not there any more. It went up in the estuary explosion.”

“Good,” Giddy said.

Jordan looked into his face. “You didn’t... Did you?”

“Set it off?” Giddy shook his head. “No. But I’m glad someone did, because it taught us all a lesson. It brought home the havoc and destruction our bombs
cause.”

“People died.”

Giddy gazed at Jordan. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“You can’t be the only anti-bomb protester. Did one of your mates do it?”

“Bombs set off by people campaigning against bombs. Does that sound very likely to you?”

Jordan shrugged.

“A few of them claimed it, but I’d know if any of them did it.” Giddy shook his head and got to his feet. “No chance. Come on. I’ve written a song about it.
‘Arms Trade
’
. You’ll like it. It’s fast and furious. Suits your style. Let’s give it a go.”

Jordan knew that Gideon Riley would be kept in prison for a lot longer if he was convicted of the estuary explosion. So it was in his interests to deny that he was responsible. Jordan also
suspected that he might keep quiet to protect one of his campaigning friends. But Giddy had no reason to believe that Jordan – apparently a young offender – would tell the authorities
about their conversation. Jordan thought he was probably telling the truth.

As far as Jordan was concerned, he’d done the job. He could do no more. Being locked up for five days was quite enough. He played one gig with Giddy’s band for the inmates before he
exchanged a cell in jail for a small bedroom above the dead of Highgate Cemetery. Getting out of prison was like being able to breathe freely again. He was no longer confined, even if he was still
trapped within Unit Red.

Jordan was still puzzled by Mr. Bool’s suspicious behaviour. He wanted to get to the bottom of it. There was an obvious way to try for more information, but it made him
feel edgy. He’d decided to speak to Amy again. He wanted to find out if she’d heard anything about the teacher and his stolen phone since the explosion.

Jordan didn’t tell Winter that he was planning to speak to Amy Goss. He admitted only that he was going to Salam Bool’s school. Before he set out, Winter said, “You’ve
got to be careful around Medway now. Very careful. Melissa Pink and her people will be gunning for you in a big way.” She was bound to be right and her warning increased his tension.

Aiming to reach the school for the end of the last lesson, Jordan kept glancing round as he walked along the main road through Hoo.

Ahead of him, something was happening. It looked as if a car had spun off the road and slammed into a tree. Small flames were dancing around under the car, threatening an explosion at any
moment. He ran towards the scene of the accident. The driver’s door was open and a woman was kneeling beside it, struggling to yank the unconscious driver out.

Jordan went towards her.

“Get back!” she cried. “It’s going to blow.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a fire officer. Off duty. Now, get back!”

“But he’s wedged in.”

“Yes. By the steering wheel.”

“I’ll move it.” Jordan went round to the passenger’s door, opened it and lay across the front seats. They felt unnaturally warm. He put his right arm next to the
driver’s legs and prepared himself to strike upwards at the steering column.

“Don’t,” the firefighter said. “It’s metal. Too strong. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jordan ignored her. He rammed his arm into the steering column as hard as he could. But the blow didn’t shift it. He hit it again in the same place and this time it budged a fraction of a
centimetre. Nowhere near enough to make a difference.

Jordan’s third strike bent the steering column but it was still jammed against the driver’s chest.

Jordan could feel heat on his feet and ankles as they dangled outside. The flames were rising. The whole car was baking. He broke into a sweat. He probably had time for one more attempt.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself and then walloped the column again. This time, it gave way and the steering wheel jerked a few centimetres away from the driver. Adjusting his position,
Jordan gripped the wheel in his metal fist and pushed it towards the shattered windscreen to give more clearance.

“That’s it!” the fire officer shouted. Ignoring the man’s injuries – she didn’t have time to protect any broken bones – she grabbed him under his arms
and dragged him out.

Jordan got up and dashed round to the other side. He took the wounded man’s legs and helped to lift him away to safety. Together, they staggered a distance from the crashed car.

The woman stopped and lowered the driver’s shoulders carefully to the pavement.

Jordan did the same with his legs.

“I don’t know how you did that,” the firefighter said breathlessly, “but thanks.” Then she looked closely into Jordan’s eyes and gasped. “I know you,
don’t I?”

Jordan froze for a moment. He’d never seen her before. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“No one.”

Then she gazed at his artificial arm and it all clicked into place. “I remember,” she said. “It was a priority address in Shepherds Way. Something to do with the
police...”

Behind Jordan, the car exploded. The fire officer put her arm in front of her face to protect her eyes and Jordan used the opportunity. He darted away as fast as he could.

He was just out of sight of the burning wreck when he ran into several packs of school kids. Some were rushing towards him, keen to find out what had caused the blast.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” somebody shouted at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Somewhere in the distance, several sirens screeched. Police car, fire engine and ambulance, Jordan guessed. The confused wailing was getting louder.

Slowing to a walk, he merged with the crowds of students and got his breath back. Trying to ignore what had just happened, he went in the direction of Lower Stoke. He knew that was the way Amy
would go.

He saw her first from the back. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was Amy Goss, but he was certain. Her hair was different. Shorter. She was taller. Maybe slightly taller than he was. Jordan
recalled that she could put food away with great gusto. In an effort to stay trim, she always ordered a Diet Coke with her double cheeseburger and large fries.

Most of the students were strolling away from school in small noisy groups, but Amy walked alone. Jordan felt an overwhelming urge to befriend her, just as he’d done years earlier.

He speeded up until he drew level with her. “Hi,” he said. “You’re the girl I met the other night by the silo.”

Amy looked him up and down. “Jordan.”

“That’s right. You didn’t say your name.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“My mum made me eat lots of carrots when I was little.”

She smiled briefly. “So you can see in the dark.”

“Actually, I heard you talking to someone back there. I recognized your voice.”

Amy’s face creased. “Are you stalking me or something? Because, if you are, I should tell you I’ve got a pretty heavy family. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Jordan read something different in her moody eyes. No matter what she said, she knew that her family wasn’t so heavy any more.

A bunch of girls brushed past and one called out, “Caught yourself a live one this time?”

Amy scowled at the group and then ignored them.

Jordan ran his left hand through his thick black hair. He’d let it grow long to hide the bumps on his head and because Ben Smith had always kept it short. “I cut my last lesson so I
could come and find you.”

“Why?” She hesitated before adding, “If you say you like the sound of my voice, I’m going to scream till you get arrested.”

“You’re funny.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Jordan remembered a thirteen-year-old bundle of fun, a girl who distrusted any form of authority, a girl who spoke her mind. Now, he sensed that she was even more blunt. She also seemed less
mischievous. There was an air of sadness about her. The river blast had probably taken its toll.

Despite his nerves, Jordan grinned. “Did you know a teacher called Salam Bool?”

Amy stopped in her tracks.

“I take that as a yes,” said Jordan. “I know he taught at your school. You see, he lives next door to me. Or at least he did.”

“Everyone says he died in the explosion.”

“Round my way, they just say he’s missing. His house is still empty, waiting for him to come back. If he ever does.”

“What’s this got to do with me?” Amy asked.

“By those silos, you said something about school and it reminded me of him. I just wondered if you knew anything.”

“Why are the bottoms of your trousers all burned?”

“Are they?” Jordan looked down. She was right. They’d been scorched. “Did you hear the sirens a few minutes ago?” he said. “There was an accident just down
the road. I helped to pull a man from a burning car.”

“Are you telling me I’m talking to a hero?”

He shook his head. “I just lent a hand.”

Amy stopped again and turned to face him. “What’s up with your hand anyway? And your whole arm.”

“That was another car crash. You don’t want to know the details. I got fitted with a false one.”

Amy nodded. “Is that why you dash off to help someone in a pile-up?”

“I guess so.”

“I do know something about Mr. Bool,” she said, “but why should I trust you?”

He shrugged. “No idea.”

“At least that’s honest.”

Jordan waited. He hoped that she could still detect in him whatever she’d liked in Ben Smith.

Amy took a deep breath. “I don’t know why, but there’s something about you. I suppose I trust you enough.”

Inside, Jordan was screaming,
I’m a complete fraud
. Ben Smith wouldn’t have lied to her. But Jordan Stryker was finding it easier and easier to be underhand as his mission
progressed. What had he become? He knew, of course. He’d become a Unit Red agent. He wanted to be Amy’s friend, but he was using her instead.

“Just before Bool disappeared – just before the big blast – someone nicked his mobile. I didn’t know who’d done it at the time. A lot of people thought it was me,
but it wasn’t. It was a boy called Ed Hathaway. His mates gave the game away afterwards.” Amy shook her head at the hopelessness of boys. “Mind you, when I saw him, he
wasn’t showing off about what he’d done. He said he was going to make some silly calls with it, but he spotted these weird messages.”

“What weird messages?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know really. Ed said they looked like wanted posters. A photo of someone and an amount of money. Anyway, he was messing around with it when it rang. Mr. Bool
was just round the corner on another mobile. This was at the marina. Ed was with his crazy mates and brothers. Obviously, Mr. Bool knew some of the lads hung out there and he was checking if
they’d got his phone. Right in one.” She began to walk along the road again.