Under Cover (Agent 21) (24 page)

‘All Souls Church, Harlesden,’ Ricky said. And he picked up his pace to indicate that he didn’t want to talk any more.

It took ten minutes to find a taxi, and another ten to get to the church where Cole and the Russians had caught him. It was still deserted. They entered by the front gate and their footsteps echoed as they walked up the aisle towards the altar, then into the vestry behind, its door wide open. The ironmongery and timber on the inside was damaged where the Russians had forced it open. The table was still by the broken window, and the chair was on its side on the floor.

Zak looked around the room in silence. He seemed kind of impressed.

Ricky headed over to the shelf of prayer books. He picked out the book that he’d doctored, and was relieved that the documents were still there, as was the precious necklace he had stolen from Izzy’s mum.

He laid the items out on the table, then checked through the documents to make sure they were all there. ‘Cole was selling something else to the Russians,’ Ricky said. ‘Not just the codes. He was offering them the details of British agents across the world. I figured that wouldn’t be good.’

Zak looked at the documents. ‘You figured right,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve saved a lot of lives today, Ricky. If an agent’s cover is blown without him or her knowing it, their life is immediately in danger. That could have been me.’ He gave Ricky a piercing look. ‘Or you.’

Ricky couldn’t hold his gaze for long. He looked back down at the table and picked up the diamond necklace.

‘Flashy,’ Zak said. ‘Want to tell me what it is?’

‘I stole it from Jacob Cole’s house,’ Ricky said. He jutted out his chin. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me to give it back.’

‘I’m not going to tell you to do anything,’ said Zak.

There was a silence. Ricky had a question on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back.

– Ask him.

– What’s the point? It’s all over now. I’m not joining them.

– You’re being childish. Just ask him.

‘Did Felix tell you why I walked away?’ Ricky said finally.

Zak nodded. ‘You didn’t want to give up Izzy Cole’s location.’

‘Felix would have done it,’ Ricky said hotly. ‘He’d have sent her back to live with a father who beat her up. I wasn’t going to let that happen.’

‘And you didn’t.’ Zak seemed perfectly calm. It rather took the wind out of Ricky’s sails. They stood in silence again. This time it was broken by Zak. ‘In our line of work,’ he said, ‘you’re told to do things.
How
you do them is up to you. My advice is to listen to your Guardian Angel. Learn everything you can from him. But don’t stop thinking for yourself, because the moment you do that . . .’ His voice trailed away and he looked meaningfully at the necklace on the table. ‘You could be a great agent, Ricky. Do some good in the world. Or you can carry on as a thief. The choice is yours.’

‘You don’t understand anything,’ Ricky spat. ‘If I sell that necklace, I can stay safe for several months. Safe from adults. Safe from the street. Safe from all this . . .’ He waved his arm around the vestry to indicate the broken window.

‘I understand more than you think,’ said Zak. He picked up the documents from the table and stowed them in his jacket. ‘I thought you were OK. Maybe I was wrong.’ He walked towards the vestry door, but before he left he stopped and turned back to Ricky. ‘I wonder what your parents would say,’ he said.

‘My parents are dead,’ Ricky spat.

Zak smiled sadly. ‘Mine too. I decided to grow up after it happened. What did you decide?’ Without waiting for an answer, he quietly walked through the damaged vestry door and disappeared into the church.

Ricky listened to his footsteps fade and disappear. He grabbed the necklace and shoved it in his pocket. And then, because he had decided he didn’t want to come face to face with Agent 21 again, he climbed back out through the broken window.

Alone again.

Midday.

Izzy Cole stepped out onto the concourse at Piccadilly Circus. She looked towards the newspaper kiosk opposite the exit to Regent Street. Her sharp eyes tried to pick out Ricky. There was no sign of him at first. Everyone she saw milling around the kiosk was an adult.

But wait. Who was that? There was someone with their back to him, and it looked like a boy. He was handing over some money for a newspaper. Izzy walked fast towards him. He turned and she stopped. It wasn’t Ricky. The boy disappeared into the crowd. And although it was very busy, Izzy suddenly felt quite alone again.

Five minutes passed. Ten. No sign of him. Izzy reminded herself of what Ricky had said.
If I miss our meeting, then we’ll turn up at the same place, same time the following day
.

She felt foolish believing him. Ricky had let her down. She supposed she had better get used to it. Because she had learned one thing: in the end,
everybody
lets you down.

She wouldn’t be returning tomorrow. No way. She’d had enough of relying on other people. She was on her own now.

Izzy turned away from the kiosk and started walking, though she didn’t quite know where to. All she knew was that she
wasn’t
going home. She would have to spend the night on the street again. She had barely any money, and the only other option she could think of was Hunter’s. And if she went there, she’d lose everything.

At the last minute, she looked back over her shoulder, a tiny part of her expecting to see Ricky – late and flustered, but there at last.

He wasn’t, so she left.

It was mid-afternoon.

Ricky’s hand throbbed. He had bought disinfectant and bandages from a chemist. In a filthy alleyway he had poured the disinfectant over the cut on his hand, wincing as it stung his damaged flesh. He had bound it tightly, but already the clean bandage looked grubby. He would have to buy more medical supplies, but his money was running low – he only had ten pounds left in the world. And there was no way he could pickpocket anybody with his hand like this. Too clumsy. He’d be caught in an instant.

He walked up Kingsway, away from Holborn station. It had started snowing again, and all the other pedestrians had their heads down and their hands deep in their pockets. Not Ricky. He walked against the tide, snow settling on his hair and shoulders. And although his good hand was in his pocket, it wasn’t to keep it warm. It was to reassure himself that the necklace he had stolen from Mrs Cole – the only thing of any financial value that he owned – was still there.

After 300 metres, he turned right into Chancery Lane. There were far fewer people here, but out of habit Ricky stopped and looked carefully around. There was no sign of a tail. No Zak. No Felix. No nobody. He was almost sure he was alone and unobserved. But then, he told himself, he’d thought that before.

He continued for 200 metres along Chancery Lane, before crossing a road and taking a side street on the left. Moments later he was standing outside a doorway. A painted wooden plaque read: ‘F. S. Randolph, Jeweller’. Randolph was definitely the name of the guy Tommy had said was willing to buy stolen jewellery.

– So you’ve found your fence?

– No point keeping the necklace. It’s not my style.

He opened the door and stepped inside. There was a dusty, damp staircase straight ahead. It creaked as Ricky climbed it. On the dingy first-floor landing there was a half-open door. Ricky stepped into the room to find a wooden counter, about three metres long, with a brass bell sitting on the top. Behind the counter, four old men sat at desks on very low stools, so that their heads were only a few centimetres above the table tops. They all had eyeglasses attached to one eye, and were examining gemstones and other precious objects. None of them even flinched when Ricky rang the bell, let alone turned round to look at him.

Instead, from a room to the left of the counter, a small, sour-faced old man emerged. He reminded Ricky of Hunter, only older. The old man looked Ricky up and down, as though he were something very unpleasant.

‘What do you want, kid?’

‘Are you Randolph?’

‘I said, what do you want?’

Ricky took the necklace out of his pocket and placed on the table. If he hadn’t been looking carefully at the old man’s face, he would have missed the slight widening of his eyes. It told Ricky that the necklace truly was valuable.

The old man made to take it, but Ricky was faster. He grabbed the necklace back up from the counter.

‘
Are
you Randolph?’ he repeated.

The old man nodded.

‘I want to sell the necklace,’ Ricky said.

Randolph shrugged. ‘It’s just costume jewellery, son. I’ll give you fifty quid.’

Ricky didn’t reply. He dropped the necklace back into his pocket and turned towards the door.

‘All right, son,’ Randolph said quickly. ‘A thousand quid, take it or leave it.’

Ricky continued walking towards the door.

‘Ten grand, final offer.’

Ricky stopped, turned and walked back to the counter. ‘Cash?’ he said.

‘Cash.’

He waited as Randolph removed a thick wad of notes from under the counter. Licking his finger, the old man peeled off ten thousand pounds’ worth of crumpled, dirty twenty-pound notes. Ricky counted them carefully as they piled up on the desk, surprised by what a small pile such a large amount of money made. Randolph put the money in a paper envelope and Ricky tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then handed over the necklace.

They didn’t exchange any more words. Just a brief nod, then Ricky hurried back down the stairs and out into the snowy streets.

He felt on edge carrying such a lot of money around. This was all he had. To lose it would be a disaster.

Izzy Cole spent the rest of the day huddled in the same seat on a Circle Line train. She lost count of the number of times it orbited London. She was too busy staying warm, and keeping her mind off the night that was to come.

At 11:30 p.m., the train terminated at Edgware Road and Izzy shuffled out of the station into the dark, unwelcoming street above. It was as cold as she could ever remember it being. So cold that a tiny part of her mind even considered going back home. But she quickly rejected that idea. Home was where the monsters were.

She tramped up Edgware Road, moving quickly to keep warm. She soon reached Marble Arch, where she turned left to walk down Oxford Street. The Christmas lights were still shining brightly, and the road was crammed with night buses. She chose one at random, paid her fare to the end of the line and found a seat at the very back. Her seat was next to a middle-aged, balding man who smelled faintly of alcohol. He was reading an early edition of the following day’s newspaper. Izzy found her eyes wandering towards it.

She froze.

The front page of the paper was taken up by a picture of her father.

Her blood seemed to pump a little harder as she read the article underneath the photograph.

Prominent Tory MP Jacob Cole was today arrested on six counts of terrorism. It is not known if the shooting of a man at the Happy Valley Café is connected to the arrest, but several eye-witnesses report having seen Cole in the vicinity yesterday morning
 . . .

Izzy snapped her eyes away. She couldn’t read any more. A wave of nausea coursed through her, and her head felt as though it had split in two. One half spun horribly with the news of her father.
Six counts of terrorism?
She knew he was a bad man, but what had he really been involved in? The other half of her head grappled with the news that someone had been shot at the café.

Had that someone been Ricky? Was he dead?
Was that why he hadn’t turned up that day?

She knew then that she had to turn up tomorrow at twelve. Just to see.

She turned her head and looked out of the bus window. Everything was blurry because her eyes were filling with tears.

By the time morning came, Izzy had travelled the night bus route three times. Now she had arrived back at Trafalgar Square. She was very hungry and totally exhausted. Red-eyed and footsore, her limbs aching and her muscles crying out for sleep, she walked up towards Piccadilly again.

She had no more money for another tube ticket. She would just have to shelter in the station concourse, and wait.

The morning dragged on slowly. She kept walking round the circular concourse in a kind of daze, hardly knowing what time it was. Each time she passed the newspaper kiosk, she saw her father’s face on the front page of all the papers. Soon, her head was a jumble of that image and Ricky’s face. Lurking somewhere in the background were her mother’s features the last time Izzy had seen her.

You stupid girl
, Izzy heard her saying.
You stupid, stupid girl . . .

Midday. The morning had passed in a blur. Weak with hunger and exhaustion, Izzy stopped ten metres from the newspaper kiosk. A re-run of the previous day. Except today, everyone’s faces were a blur. She squinted at passers-by, trying to work out if any of them were Ricky. They gave her very funny looks in return. But none of them were him.

Five minutes past twelve. A dread sickness lurked in the pit of her stomach.

He was dead.

She was truly alone.

She felt the tears coming again. She wanted to scream. To run. To . . .

A hand on her shoulder.

Izzy spun round, her fist clenched. She was ready to hit someone. To protect herself, because from now on she’d need to do that for ever.

Ricky’s face stared calmly back at her.

He looked different. Tired, certainly. There were black rings around his eyes and his face was dirty. But there was something else. Ricky looked older. As though, in the day since Izzy had last seen him, he had witnessed things that most people never would. There was a serious frown on his forehead and his eyes were intense. He looked, Izzy thought, slightly scary.

‘You’re . . . you’re alive,’ she whispered.

A faint nod as he held up a bandaged hand. ‘Just.’

‘My father?’

‘Prison. A long time. Or so they tell me.’