Agent 21: Codebreaker: Book 3

An unknown bomber is conducting a terror campaign in London. After an explosion on the tube leaves someone dead, Zak and his team are brought in to try and work out how this terror cell operates – but clues are scarce and they have no idea where, or when, the bomber will strike next. A teenage boy, currently detained in a young offender’s institute, claims he has the answer – but before Zak can question him, the boy is shot and falls into a coma. Will Zak be able to break the cipher before the bomber strikes again?

AGENT 21: BRIEFING DOCUMENT

AGENT 21

Real name:
Zak Darke

Known pseudonyms:
Harry Gold, Jason Cole

Age:
15

Date of birth:
March 27

Parents:
Al and Janet Darke [DECEASED]

Operational skills:
Weapons handling, navigation, excellent facility with languages, excellent computer and technical skills.

Previous operations:
(1) Inserted under cover into the compound of Mexican drug magnate Cesar Martinez Toledo. Befriended target’s son Cruz. Successfully supplied evidence of target’s illegal activities. Successfully guided commando team in to compound. Target eliminated. (2) Inserted into Angola to place explosive device on suspected terrorist ship, the theMV Mercantile. Vessel destroyed, Agent 21 extracted.

AGENT 17

Real name:
classified

Known pseudonyms:
‘Gabriella’, ‘Gabs’

Age:
27

Operational skills:
Advanced combat and self-defence, surveillance, tracking.

Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.

AGENT 16

Real name:
classified

Known pseudonyms:
‘Raphael’, ‘Raf’

Age:
30

Operational skills:
Advanced combat and self-defence, sub-aqua, land-vehicle control.

Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.

‘MICHAEL’

Real name:
classified

Known pseudonyms:
‘Mr Bartholomew’

Age:
classified

Recruited Agent 21 after death of his parents. Currently his handler. Has links with MI5, but represents a classified government agency.

CRUZ MARTINEZ (presumed dead)

Age:
17

Significant information:
Succeeded Cesar Martinez as head of largest Mexican drug cartel. Thought to blame Agent 21 for death of father. Highly intelligent. Profile remained low since coming to power. Thought to have drowned during sinking ofMV Mercantile.

PROLOGUE

Northern Ireland. 18 June, 1973

‘County Armagh? Oh, it’s as pretty as a picture.’

That’s what old Mrs Herder told her sons, and she was right. It
is
as pretty as a picture. Unless you’re a member of the British Army, in which case it’s hell on earth.

Lee Herder doesn’t notice the scenery. He’s blind to the little cobbled streets and the tiny cottages in this sleepy village of Ballycork. Blind to the cotton-wool clouds in an otherwise blue sky. All he sees is the group of Parachute Regiment soldiers, twelve of them, each carrying an L64 assault rifle as they keep a fifty-metre cordon around the central square. In the middle of the square is a stone monument to the fallen of two world wars, and a white Ford Capri.

Lee looks to his right. His older brother Richard – Sonny to their late mum and dad, Dick to everybody else – is there. The two brothers are dressed the same. Blast-resistant body armour on the outside of their standard-issue camouflage gear. Helmet. A belt containing the tools the two brothers need to disarm the car bomb under the Capri.

From the edge of the cordon, Lee sees a bird land on the driver’s-side wing mirror of the vehicle. Black and white wings. Green rump. He recognizes it as a chaffinch.

‘Let’s hope Tweetie Pie doesn’t hop onto the pressure plate,’ Dick says. ‘Could be noisy.’

Lee nods as they pass through the Paras’ cordon. This is their third car bomb in as many days. They were good bomb-disposal guys before their tour to Northern Ireland. Now they’re just about the best. But being the best doesn’t calm your nerves before each new job. No two devices are the same, and bomb-makers take pride in inventing clever booby traps for guys like Lee and Dick.

Clever ways to kill them.

They are kneeling down by the car now, staring at the rear wheel. Sweat trickles down the back of Lee’s neck. Whoever called this one in did well to notice the tiny triggers, one just in front of the tyre, one just behind it. Each trigger is made from a tiny ball of Blu-tack, sandwiched between two iron nails. Each nail has a wire attached to it. As soon as the car moves forward or backwards, the tyre will squash one of the triggers. The nails will touch and complete the circuit. Bang.

Defusing it is not going to be straightforward. The wires leading from each nail are taut, which rings alarm bells in the brothers’ minds.

‘Motion sensor?’ Lee suggests.

‘Motion sensor,’ his brother agrees.

They lie on their bellies as Dick shines a torch under the car. Sure enough, fifty centimetres in, a metal ring – no bigger than a wedding band – surrounds each bare wire. Lee remembers a game their dad had built for them when they were kids – a wiggly wire connected to a battery and a buzzer. You had to move a metal loop from one end of the wire to the other. If they touched, the buzzer would sound and you had to go back to the beginning. Same idea here, only there’s no buzzer and no starting again. The rings are connected to a mess of wires fixed to the undercarriage of the car, and the mess of wires is connected to enough bright orange Semtex plastic explosive to send the car sky high. He smiles as he wonders what his dad would say now if he could see them using their skills today. And he wishes – not for the first time – that their mum and dad had not been so cruelly taken from them, courtesy of a drunken teenage driver one wet night.

The brothers look at each other now. ‘Controlled explosion?’ Lee says. Dick nods. This device is crude and simple, but they can be the most difficult. The slightest movement will detonate the explosives. They stand up and walk back to the cordon.

An officer is waiting for them with an expectant look on his face. A glance at his stripes tell the brothers he’s in charge. ‘Well?’ he asks.

‘You need to evacuate everyone within a two-hundred-metre radius,’ Dick tells him. ‘It’s too risky to defuse and there’s a lot of orange cake under there. We’ll need to carry out a controlled explosion.’

Dick is already turning away when the officer says: ‘No.’

The two brothers give him a dangerous look.

‘What do you mean?’ Dick says.

‘I have my orders. The IRA will get almost as much attention if that thing explodes
without
killing anybody.’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ Lee says. ‘It’s booby-trapped . . . too dangerous . . .’

‘Fine.’ The officer is looking around now, as if hunting for someone else. ‘If you two aren’t up to the job, we’ll bring in somebody who is.’

Lee glances at his brother. He knows they’re both thinking the same thing: there’s nobody else in the British Army even half as qualified as them. It’s not arrogance. It’s just the truth. Do as the rupert says and send in another bomb-disposal guy and it would be sending them to their death.

Dick swears under his breath. ‘Get these soldiers further back,’ he says, talking not to the Para but to Lee.

‘Mate . . .’ Lee starts to say, but he doesn’t finish. His brother is already walking back to the car, his gait stiff on account of his protective gear. Lee thinks about calling after him, but doesn’t. He knows his brother too well. When his mind is made up, it’s made up. Instead he shouts to the Paras, ‘OK, everyone, move back!
Move back!
It’s a big one . . .’

The soldiers don’t move. It takes a barked instruction from the officer to make them retreat. By now, Dick has reached the Ford Capri. He’s lying on his back and is slowly easing himself under the car, like a mechanic. Lee can see nothing but his protective boots sticking out from underneath. He realizes he’s holding his breath.

A cloud passes in front of the sun. Lee feels a chill. He tells himself to stay calm. Dick taught him everything he knows about bomb disposal, and what his brother
doesn’t
know isn’t worth knowing.

A minute passes.

Two.

Movement. Lee startles. The chaffinch has returned, only now it’s not perched on the side mirror. It’s pecking at something on the road, fifty metres from his own position, but only a hand’s breadth away from one of the triggers. Lee wants to shout out, but he stops himself. The last thing his brother needs is a sudden surprise. Instead he takes a step forward, hoping to frighten away the little bird.

He can hear his own pulse as he takes another step.

And another.

The bird stops pecking and looks up. It stares at Lee, its head slightly cocked, as though listening carefully.

‘Fly away, birdie,’ Lee breathes.

But the bird doesn’t fly away. It stays where it is, inches from the trigger, still staring.

And so Lee takes another step forward.

It’s the worst mistake he’s ever made. The chaffinch does move, but in the wrong direction. It scuttles towards the undercarriage of the car.