Bionic Agent (6 page)

Jordan shrugged. “Okay. Red Devil.”

“I won’t always be available to drive you around, you know. I’m busy on other things as well. Anyway,” she said, dropping down into fourth gear, “I heard
you’re going to get your own car if things go well.”

“A car? But...”

She glanced sideways at him. “You’ve got false ID. It wouldn’t take much to tweak your date of birth so you’re old enough. You’re big enough to pass for a
seventeen-year-old. Just.”

Jordan smiled to himself. His own car. Maybe a Ferrari or Porsche. He’d be the only fourteen-year-old on the road. Things weren’t all bad.

He looked across at her and said, “Are
you
enhanced in any way?”

“That’s an impertinent question to ask a woman!”

“I didn’t mean... I just wondered if all agents...”

Winter laughed. “I know what you meant. And, no, I’m all flesh and blood. You’re unique – in Unit Red or anywhere else.”

As Winter drove, Jordan used his wireless connection to run through the police file on the case. But Amy Goss kept appearing in his mind. Had his imagination conjured up her likeness or had he
logged on to a Unit Red file that contained her photo? He wasn’t sure, but she was certainly on his mind.

Perhaps she was linked to the case. The local police had looked into the possibility that a rival gang had muscled in on her father’s patch and announced itself with a spectacular show of
strength. They weren’t sure. They knew only that, after the big bang, Mr. Goss was no longer controlling the streets. Some of the same thugs were out there, but they weren’t working for
Mr. Goss any more. All of the usual police informants were too scared to whisper the name of the new gangland boss and Mr. Goss was keeping a low profile.

Then there was the motive of terrorism. But who or what was the target? Who had come off worst – apart from the Smith family and many other unlucky victims? The police decided that the oil
and gas industry had suffered most. That suggested sabotage by an extreme environmental group. Most suspicion fell on an outfit called the Protectors Of Planet Earth – or POPE – headed
by Henry Quickfall. Then there was the destruction of Sheerness Animal Breeding Station, possibly by animal rights activists. That was another of Henry Quickfall’s activities.

If the police file on possible terrorism had been printed on paper, it would have filled Winter’s car and more. It might have filled a lorry. Jordan hadn’t got a hope of absorbing it
all. He concentrated on the summaries that Angel had provided.

The Audi lurched as Winter pulled out to overtake. An April shower began to splatter the windscreen, blurring the view. The car detected the moisture and the wipers turned on automatically.

Five protest groups had claimed responsibility for the blast. One was an animal rights outfit, another campaigned against the arms trade, two were radical green movements, and the last was a
bunch of political extremists. After examining each claim thoroughly, the police concluded that there was no convincing evidence to back up any of the claims.

Realizing he was out of his depth, Jordan wondered what he had talked himself into. He didn’t know what to make of the case. He wasn’t an expert. He was just a boy with a strong arm.
He’d been taught all about intelligence work by Unit Red, but that didn’t make him a professional. Even so, his idea of terrorism didn’t match the events of a year earlier.

Surely a terrorist would have rammed a boat at full speed into the wreck of the
Richard Montgomery
, or downed a plane on it, in a spectacular suicide mission. A fanatic would have gone
out in a blaze of glory. Literally. But, according to the police file, Red Devil planted an underwater time bomb or a remote-controlled device on the wreck to provide the opportunity of escape. To
Jordan, that seemed too subtle for an act of terrorism. But what did he know about terror campaigns, sabotage and bombs?

One particular lead grabbed Jordan’s attention. Red Devil had left the site of the wreck and powered towards Southend-on-Sea, pursued by the river police. That was when the chaos had
begun. Before both boats had sunk, the police were able to identify the vessel they were chasing and had radioed its name to their headquarters, but they hadn’t got close enough to identify
who was in it. When the investigations began, the Quickfall family were immediate suspects because that boat belonged to Henry Quickfall’s sister. Cara Quickfall was so closely related to the
animal rights and environmental campaigner that the police had questioned her and Henry at length. Both had alibis and denied any knowledge of the explosion. Cara had even reported the theft of her
motorboat the day before the bombs went off.

The sinking of Cara Quickfall’s boat meant that Red Devil could be lying at the bottom of the river estuary. But almost everyone in the affected area had been accounted for. There was one
exception. Jordan caught his breath when he saw it. A schoolteacher called Salam Bool had never been traced after the explosion. After a year, his name was the only one left in the category of
Missing
. If the bomber had died that day, it was either Mr. Bool or an outsider.

Jordan felt nervous as they entered Lower Stoke. He’d promised himself always to look to the future but this assignment was a step back into his past. He reminded himself
that it had been his own idea. He’d made the decision to return, and it felt good, after a year of being dependent on others, to be in control of something. Even so, he was uneasy.

He wanted to take a look inside the sports centre because Mr. Goss’s heavies used to hang out there. If a new gang had moved into the area, he’d soon see the changes.

Winter wouldn’t let him get out at Shepherds Way. That was where Ben Smith used to live and Winter didn’t want the residents to see a boy gawping at the houses. Instead, she agreed
to drive past slowly. Even so, Jordan’s jaw dropped. By the light of the streetlamps, he could see that it was all different. Ben’s home had gone. Totally. Number fourteen and the house
next door – number sixteen – were identical new properties. Most of the nearby sheds and garages had vanished. Many had been replaced. Number twelve was a mosaic of the original house
and new building. Further along, a terrace of houses with tiny gardens had been squeezed into the space where there had been three roomy homes. Jordan barely recognized the neighbourhood.

Winter stopped the Audi just round the corner from the sports club and turned to Jordan. “Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

He nodded. “Amy’s dad owns it. At least, he used to. It was full of kids, but Mr. Goss’s people were always there as well. They broke fights up. There’s a door in the
corner that’s always locked. Only Mr. Goss’s heavies went in. If someone new’s taken over, everything’ll be different and I might hear something.”

“All right,” Winter said. “But remember it’s been rebuilt. Part of it anyway.”

“Just like me,” Jordan replied.

“I showed you the plans.”

“Yeah.”

“Remember your brief as well,” she said. “Avoid confrontation. If it looks like there’s going to be trouble, don’t get involved. Just leave.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me the first rule of Unit Red.”

“Have you forgotten it?” Jordan said. Because he wasn’t really in the mood for joking, he wiped the forced smile from his face and answered properly, “We’re always
undercover. We never ever mention Unit Red.”

Winter nodded, apparently satisfied. “I can’t stay here without raising suspicion. I’ll be round the corner in the car park.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll be online.” She pointed at the laptop on the back seat. “You can log on any time.”

“All right.” Jordan got out, closed the door, and took a deep breath of Lower Stoke air. It was surprisingly fresh. The oil refinery and gas terminal had gone. Their tall cylinders
were no longer silhouetted against the darkening sky.

At least the rain had stopped. The sports centre’s entrance was lit brightly in the evening gloom. As he walked towards it, he remembered how he used to hog the tennis court at the back of
the building and, even though he was really young at the time, he’d twice taken the place of a drummer who’d been too ill to perform a gig at the club. Those memories were off limits
now. They would only get in the way of what he had to do.

The past is past, as his mum used to say.

He wondered who he would see inside. He would have to play the part of a stranger if he recognized anyone.

Walking past a group of girls drinking cider on the pavement, Jordan didn’t linger outside. He had a feeling that, if he hesitated, he might lose his nerve. He opened the door and went
straight in. At once, a bouncer had him by the arm. His right arm. Jordan yanked it out of the big man’s grasp.

“Hey!” Clearly surprised by Jordan’s strength, the bouncer snapped, “What do you think you’re doing?”

It hadn’t been like this a year earlier. Amy’s dad didn’t put heavies on the door. “Someone said you’ve got snooker tables.”

“This your first time?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“Well, no one gets in without being frisked. Arms and legs out.”

The bouncer ran his cupped hands up each leg and said, “What’s this bulge?”

Jordan was hardly going to explain the battery implanted under his skin. He pulled up his right trouser leg and replied, “There’s nothing. It’s swollen, that’s all. A
medical condition.”

The doorman began to feel along both sleeves. Jordan knew that his right arm would not pass for normal. His coat and synthetic skin might disguise its true nature but the flawless fingers would
give it away. From a distance they looked real but, close up, they were clearly fake.

“What now?” the bouncer exclaimed.

“A false arm. I lost mine in a car accident.”

Unsure, the doorman grimaced. “Well...”

“You’re not going to stop me because I’m disabled, are you?” Jordan hated that word. He wasn’t disabled. He was more than able. He was enhanced. But he was willing
to exploit the word when it worked in his favour.

“Can you play snooker with it?”

He nodded.

The bouncer eyed him suspiciously and then carried on with the search. His hands patted Jordan’s back and chest. Then he stepped away. “Okay. You’re in. But no funny
business.”

The sports hall looked different. Less busy, but still well used. The snooker and pool tables were on the left. Beyond them was the entrance to the gym, climbing wall and boxing ring. Table
tennis and a suite of computer games were on the right. The dartboards at the back were unused. The door at the far end was still there and so was a sleazy group of people in their twenties and
thirties.

And the racket! Maybe it had always been noisy and he’d never really noticed. Now, with fantastic hearing, it was like being surrounded by chanting football fans. Yet Jordan didn’t
want to turn down the volume. He was trying to pick out any conversation that might tell him if this bit of Mr. Goss’s territory was under new management – and, if so, who was in
charge. Instinct told him to get as close as possible to the group at the far end. They were just hanging around, not playing games, in the area that Mr. Goss’s heavies used to occupy.

Strolling down the aisle between the various games, he spotted only a few faces that were familiar. Two boys playing pool used to be in one of Ben Smith’s classes. He recognized three
younger girls chatting near the computer games, but he didn’t know their names. A lot of the people were beyond school age and new to him. The sports centre was attracting a different crowd
altogether.

Lingering near the final snooker table, Jordan soon realized what the men by the door were doing. Watching them and catching snatches of whispered exchanges told him that they were dealing
drugs. Jordan was shocked. Mr. Goss wouldn’t have allowed it. Amy’s dad wasn’t exactly on the same wavelength as the law but, as far as Jordan knew, he didn’t do deals with
children. His heavies would have moved in on anyone trying to take advantage of the local kids. After all, he had a daughter to protect from that sort of thing.

“Oi!” one of the dealers shouted. “What are you doing?”

Jordan was nearly deafened. “Nothing.”

Two of them came over to him. “That’s what they all say. At first. What are you after?”

“I’m looking for a friend,” Jordan replied. “Nothing else.”

The two men laughed. One yelled over his shoulder, “He’s just looking for a friend!”

“Haven’t heard that before. Bring him over here.”

Jordan felt a hollowness in his stomach as the dealers pushed him in the back and the pack parted to let him through. Before he’d worked out what to do, he had his back to the door and a
threatening mob in his face. He wasn’t certain but two of the young men might once have been Mr. Goss’s heavies.

The ringleader said, “You come to buy or you keep clear. If you come to spy...” He shrugged theatrically. “What are we supposed to make of that? We might think you had
something to do with the law. That wouldn’t be good for your health. Know what I mean?” The man’s mouth was a black hole within a circle of bushy beard but the top of his head was
completely bald.

Jordan’s terahertz vision told him that, underneath the man’s sweatshirt, he had a gun tucked into his trouser belt.

After all he’d been through, Jordan thought he’d outlived the fear of being hurt. But he was still scared. He could feel sweat running down between his shoulder blades like a cold
glass marble. “Kids my age don’t become cops,” he said.

“You don’t look like a customer either. So, I ask myself, what are you?”

“I haven’t been here before. I didn’t know what was going on so I came to check it out. That’s all.”

The dealer interrupted. “Do I look like someone who believes in fairy stories?”

No. He looked like a thug. “I didn’t mean to...”

“You said you were looking for a friend. Changed your mind?”

Jordan shrugged.

“You’re on your own. What are we?” The big guy looked from side to side. “Eight? Ten? All used to taking care of business. Know what I mean? You’re cornered. Up
against a locked door. No way out.”