Agent 21: Codebreaker: Book 3 (27 page)

A Land Cruiser was parked just ahead of them. A gunman opened the rear door and pushed Hendricks into the back seat, where somebody was waiting for him.

He was a thin young man. Not much older, Hendricks thought, than Harry Gold himself. There was a cold, cruel light in his eyes, and he remained silent until the gunmen had climbed into the vehicle and it had eased back into the traffic. Even then, his words were few and carefully chosen.

‘I confess myself disappointed,’ said the young man. ‘Your campaign has not been a success.’ His perfect English bore only the trace of a Spanish accent.

‘I wouldn’t say that, Señor Martinez,’ Hendricks mumbled.

‘What
would
you say?’

‘The first bomb did what it was intended to do. The second bomb too, even though the hospital was evacuated.’

Silence.

Hendricks found himself stuttering. ‘The third . . . the third device was compromised.’

‘Indeed?’

By chance – or perhaps by design – they had just arrived at Buckingham Palace. There was heavy security at the gates, but it was perfectly intact. Señor Martinez looked at it meaningfully.

Hendricks was sweating into his damp clothes. He looked straight ahead, through the windscreen, as the Land Cruiser continued to drive.

‘I gave you a considerable sum of money, Mr Hendricks. Our agreement was quite clear. You target three locations in London. One to target the transport system, as has been done before to great effect. One to show you are able to kill even the most innocent in your society if necessary to achieve your aims. And one of your own choice. To prove your ingenuity to me, you announce in advance the location of each explosion by one of the methods we discussed. Should you manage to make the covert announcement
and
successfully detonate the bombs, I would know that you were sufficiently skilful to be part of my organization. I would then continue to fund your little hobby. You have your reasons for wanting to target the people of the UK – reasons in which I have no particular interest – and I have mine. It could have been a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, we failed to discuss what would happen if you did
not
manage to carry this operation out to my satisfaction. I think that is a discussion we ought to have now, don’t you?’

Hendricks gave a barely noticeable nod.

‘How is it,’ the young man breathed, ‘that you came to fail so pathetically?’

‘The code,’ Hendricks whispered. ‘Someone cracked it. A . . . a boy. But I know his name. I can bring him to you. He is called Gold . . . Harry Gold . . .’

Hendricks felt the young man’s body stiffen.

‘Are you trying to mock me?’ he breathed.

Hendricks hardly knew what to say. ‘Of . . . of course not, Señor Martinez.’

‘Stop the car somewhere private,’ the young man told his driver.

‘Wh . . . what for?’ asked Hendricks.

‘So that we can continue our delightful conversation.’ He didn’t sound as though he found the conversation at all delightful. His voice was flat and monotone. There was a dead look in his eyes as the car crossed a bridge then took a small, badly kept road that meandered down to the edge of the river. It came to a halt and one of the gunmen opened the rear door again. He gave Hendricks an unfriendly nod to indicate that he should climb out. ‘Leave us,’ Señor Martinez told his guards once they were both outside the vehicle.

They were alone now, standing in the rain on the bank of the Thames, the ground underfoot oozing mud. London glowed on the other side of the river – the Houses of Parliament, the Eye – but here it was dark, gloomy and deserted.

The young man drew a gun. Hendricks stepped back, but slipped on the treacherous ground and fell clumsily. The tall teenager towered over him, his gun arm stretched out, the weapon pointing in his direction.

‘There is no room for failure in my organization, Mr Hendricks,’ he shouted over the noise of the rain. ‘And there is no room for anybody who might be in a position to tell Harry Gold that I am still alive.’ He stared at Hendricks, his eyes narrow and hard. ‘Harry and I, we have . . . history,’ he added. ‘Mexico, Africa . . . and the death of my father. Harry believes that
I
am dead. But as you can see, I am very much alive.’

Hendricks looked at him, confusion for a moment pushing fear from his face. ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ he shouted. And then, when he saw the total lack of expression on the young man’s face, ‘I would never tell Harry Gold anything about you. I’ll even kill him for you, if you like.’

The young man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will be the one to kill Harry Gold. This I have sworn.’ For the first time, a faint smile crossed his lips. ‘So I suppose I need a little bit of practice.’

Hendricks shook his head. He tried to crawl away, but could not get a grip in the mud. ‘Please,’ he begged in a hoarse voice. ‘
Please
 . . .’

The young man inclined his head and looked almost curiously at his prey. Then he fired three shots.

The first hit Hendricks in the stomach. The second in the neck. It was the third that killed him, blasting away a sizeable chunk of his skull and spattering the grey brain matter over the already oozing ground.

Hendricks’s body twitched, then fell limp. The rain continued to fall, and the dirty water of the rising tide lapped gently against his corpse.

The young man returned to his car, his face lost in thought. He did not speak to his guards, and they knew better than to speak to him, or to mention the blood spatter on his wet clothes. They were a silent party as they drove south, out of London and into the countryside beyond.

EPILOGUE

One week later

On a windswept island off the coast of Scotland, a boy looked out to sea.

Zak Darke had not trained since returning to St Peter’s Crag, nor had he taken any lessons. Raf and Gabs had not said to him that their work was suspended, but they clearly did not have the stomach for it either. When Zak had told them about Michael’s injury, they had grown pale. And now, on the rare occasions that they spoke, they avoided the subject. They hid their anxiety with awkward conversations about the weather. There was no concrete news from anyone higher up in the organization, no confirmation that their handler was either dead or alive. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, sweetie,’ Gabs had whispered when he’d told them what had happened at the warehouse. But that was easy to say and less easy to do. Guilt was all Zak felt. Nothing would make it go.

Gazing from the window in his bedroom, he narrowed his eyes. Through the mist surrounding the island, he saw something in the sky. A shadow, which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It could have been anything: a bird, a cloud formation. Zak sprinted from his room anyway, along the corridor and down the wide staircase that led to the entrance hall. At the front door, he quickly tapped a numeric code, then shot outside and peered into the distance. There was only one way to leave or arrive at this island: by helicopter. Sure enough, a chopper was landing fifty metres from the house. It stayed on the ground for less than a minute. By the time it had lifted off again, a figure had emerged, and now it was limping slowly towards the house with the aid of a stick.

Michael’s features did not become clear until he was twenty metres away from the house. By this time, Raf and Gabs had arrived. Gabs ran towards the old man, and even Raf – normally so stern – had a grin on his face. The sight of Michael’s thin, pallid face as, helped by Gabs, he limped into the house, was not enough to dampen Zak’s sudden elation. Michael was
alive
.

The old man was wheezing by the time he was sitting in an armchair in his office. Zak, Raf and Gabs waited silently and respectfully for him to regain his breath. They had a thousand questions, but they knew Michael would only answer them in his own time.

He addressed Zak first. ‘I have my life to thank you for, Zak. I’ll never forget that.’ With those words, Zak’s guilt lifted. ‘Next time you decide to shoot me, however, I’d appreciate it if you used a slightly softer round.’

Zak grinned at him; Michael just winced. From his pocket he pulled a piece of paper. It was a child’s crayon drawing, very colourful. At the top of the page was what looked like a black helicopter. A rope was hanging from it, and at the end of the rope a stick man. Underneath, in unsure lettering, were the words ‘thank you’.

‘From Ruby MacGregor,’ Michael said. ‘The little girl you and Gabs rescued from the hospital. I’m told she’s doing very well.’

Zak stared at the picture. Was that really how other people saw him? He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

Michael’s face grew serious again. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said. And so Zak did. He left nothing out, and when he had finished there was a silence in the room for a full minute. ‘It sounds like young Ruby and I are not the only ones who owe you a great deal, Zak. You’ll be pleased to know that the explosion under the palace caused no significant damage – all easily repairable and those tunnels are being sealed as we speak – and all relevant principals were evacuated as soon as the news of the bomb had been received, followed rapidly by all others on site, so there were no casualties. Also, no doubt, you’ll be intrigued to learn that Rodney Hendricks was found murdered by the banks of the Thames. It seems he was killed the same night he tried to destroy the palace.’

‘Why?’ Zak asked.

Michael pressed his fingers together. ‘Hard to say, Zak. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure. At a guess, I’d say that his coded messages were aimed at a third party. Perhaps he was trying to prove himself – that not only could he target major landmarks, but that he was also clever enough to reveal where they were, under our noses, without us realizing. He was wrong, of course – thanks to you, and young Malcolm Mann.’

Malcolm. Other than noticing his absence when returning to the flat – and they had spent only hours there before Gabs and Raf had called in to report and the agency had whisked them back up to Scotland – the strange boy had almost slipped Zak’s mind. With obvious difficulty, Michael put one hand into her coat and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to Zak. It showed Malcolm. His arm was in a sling, but he was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and walking along a golden beach. ‘South Africa,’ Michael said, answering the question on Zak’s lips. ‘And no, I don’t know how he got there – although I do believe the four of us – plus the agent who took this photograph – are now the only other people in the world who know that’s where he’s escaped to. I’ll be keeping my eye on him. It may be that we need his particular skill set before long.’

‘How’s he going to live? I mean, does he have any money?’

‘I don’t believe he’ll have too much difficulty making funds appear in his bank account, do you?’

Zak shook his head, and couldn’t help a small smile. It didn’t last long. There was another question on his lips. It had been bothering him ever since that night, but he hadn’t found the courage to bring it up in front of Raf or Gabs. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ he said.

Michael inclined his head. Zak had the impression he knew what was coming.

‘When they took Hendricks away, they were taking him to see . . .’ He looked at the floor. ‘To see someone called Martinez,’ he said quietly.

There was a pause.

‘Martinez is a very common name, Zak,’ Michael said.

‘I know, but—’

‘Cruz Martinez is dead, Zak. You saw him fall into the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of a storm.’

‘But what if—’

‘Our intelligence networks are very thorough. If Martinez was alive we’d know about it.’

‘He’s clever,’ Zak muttered.

‘So are we. He’s dead, Zak. Put him from your mind. You have other adversaries now.’

‘Michael’s right, sweetie,’ said Gabs. Her eyes were wide with sympathy, and Raf’s solid, dependable face clearly showed that he agreed.

Zak bowed his head. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘you’re probably right.’ He looked around the room. ‘I might . . .’ He jabbed one thumb in the direction of the door. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’

His Guardian Angels said nothing. They just watched him leave. Zak felt their eyes boring into his back as he left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

Up in his room, Zak took his place by the window again. They were right, of course. He
had
seen Cruz Martinez plunge into the stormy waves of the Atlantic. No one could survive that. Why, then, did he feel so unsure? Why was his pulse racing and his skin prickling? Why was it that, as he looked out to sea, he had the unnerving sensation that, somewhere out there – who could say where? – a gangly young man with dark hair was thinking about Zak as intently as Zak was thinking about him?

How long he sat there, these thoughts spinning in his mind, Zak couldn’t have said. All he knew was that the sun was setting by the time he closed the curtains and lay down on his bed to rest. Tomorrow was another day. Zak didn’t know what it would bring. He only knew he had to be ready.

DECODING MESSAGES

There are several instances of coded messages within the text where you might wish to check you have decoded them correctly.

Turn over to see the decoding process.

NOTE:
don’t cheat and check out these pages first as you could spoil the story for yourself if you do so!

NUMBERS FOR LETTERS

The numbers are matched to letters as follows in this grid: