Agent 21: Reloaded: Book 2 (7 page)

The Land Rover was khaki in colour, but so covered with dust that the paintwork was almost invisible. Bea immediately took the front passenger seat. ‘You’ll have more room back there, Jason, and it’s probably best if I help Marcus with directions.’

‘It’s a straight road, Bea,’ Marcus said mildly, catching Zak’s eye as he spoke. Once more, Zak tried not to smile as he crammed his rucksack onto the seat and sat next to it.

‘Is this your first time in Angola, Jay?’ Marcus asked as he negotiated his way through the chaotic traffic outside the terminal.

‘First time in Africa,’ Zak replied. ‘Er, why don’t we want to travel at night, Bea?’

He heard Bea drawing breath and prepared himself for a long explanation, but Marcus got there first, leaving Bea looking like the carpet had just been pulled from under her feet. ‘Angola has had a difficult history, Jay. I’m sure you know that.’

‘Civil war,’ Zak said.

‘Exactly.’ Marcus knocked the vehicle into third gear. ‘Things aren’t as bad now as they were a few years ago, but it’s still a dangerous country. Most of the Angolans are very good people who only want peace in their country. But not all of them. There’s a risk of bandits on the road, especially at night.’

‘Goodness, Marcus. A risk? The roads are very, very dangerous, Jason, and I want you to bear that in mind. You’re not to go wandering off. Some of these people will rob you of everything you have and would much rather kill you than leave you to identify them later.’

Zak looked through the window. Already the
airport buildings had retreated. They were on a busy main road, but it wasn’t exactly the M1. It had no tarmac or markings – just a dusty, pitted surface that made the Land Rover rattle as it went. On either side there was flat, parched earth as far as Zak could see. The occasional bush had managed to sprout and there were a few shacks made out of rotting timber and corrugated iron. They passed the rusting shell of an old car and Zak saw three children, no more than five years old, playing inside it.

He examined the position of the sun. It was ahead to their right. Given the time of day, that meant they were heading south.

Towards the village.

Twenty-four hours ago, Zak had been in the safety of St Peter’s Crag. Now he felt anything but safe. He felt like he had been transported to another world.

Journey time from Luanda airport to Lobambo, two hours forty-five minutes. The further south they travelled, the less barren the surroundings became. The parched earth gave way to low brush. The low brush gave way to thicker vegetation. By the time Marcus announced that Lobambo was just a kilometre away, Zak was sweaty and dirty. His skin was caked in dust and he was looking forward to getting out of that rattling Land Rover.

Lobambo was poor. That much was obvious. If there was diamond wealth in the area, the ordinary people had never got their hands on it. There were no streets or pavements – only areas of worn-down earth between the wood and iron shacks that passed as dwellings. Children were playing outside the shacks; women were rolling out bread or breast-feeding infants; men were sitting in groups, chatting. All the adults had the weathered skin of people who’d led a hard life. And some of the kids did too. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the Land Rover trundle by.

They passed a building site. Foundations had been dug into the earth and pallets of breeze blocks and timber were lying around. As at the airport, there was no sign of work, though. The only people on the site were four Angolan men. They were loitering lazily, one of them rolling a cigarette, two others playing some kind of dice game. Zak noticed that they all had weapons lying beside them.

More shacks. More stares. ‘Everyone looks nervous,’ Zak said.

‘And so would you, Jay,’ replied Marcus, ‘if for ten years the arrival of a stranger meant the arrival of somebody who wants to kill you.’

The shacks continued like this for perhaps a kilometre. Occasionally they would pass a more solid
structure, built of breeze blocks or concrete. ‘Bottle shop,’ Bea explained without being asked. Or, ‘Doctor’s surgery.’

Moments later, the sea came into view. The sun, all orange and pink, was setting on the horizon and the water twinkled in its light. It looked like it was full of jewels.

‘It’s amazing,’ Zak said, and even Bea seemed lost for words as she nodded her head in agreement. But Zak’s attention wasn’t just on the beauty of nature. He was examining the waterfront intently, comparing it to the mental snapshots he had taken of the satellite imagery Michael had provided. Almost straight ahead of them, Zak saw a pier. It stretched about 100 metres out to sea and was raised ten metres above the level of the water. To its left was a harbour. There was a series of ten much shorter jetties here, but the only boats moored against them were ramshackle fishing vessels.

Zak scanned the beachfront. He counted three palm trees set twenty metres back from the harbour. They were tall and thin and offered nothing in the way of camouflage. A wooden fisherman’s hut had once stood just in front of one of those trees, but it had long since collapsed and was now just a mess of timber surrounded by bits of driftwood. There was nowhere, Zak realized, that he could conceal himself
in this tiny harbour. Nowhere he could set up a suitable OP.

The Land Rover turned right, away from the harbour and along a golden stretch of beach. It was deserted and very beautiful – the sort of place Zak had only ever seen in holiday brochures. After 500 metres they stopped by a small encampment of sturdy canvas tents. There were ten of them, each one about five metres by five. Washing was hanging from lines between each tent and a small fire was burning ten metres in front of the encampment. Eight people were sitting around the fire. Seven of them had white skin and were about the same age as Bea. The eighth was black and a bit younger. Zak’s age, perhaps. It was difficult to tell.

Bea got out of the Land Rover the moment it stopped. She was talking almost before her feet touched the ground. ‘Come along, Jason, you must meet the others … I’ll introduce you … Don’t worry about your luggage …’ She walked off, still chatting, without noticing that Zak and Marcus hadn’t moved.

‘One of the challenges you’ll face out here,’ Marcus said tactfully, ‘is getting used to other people.’

‘Does she ever stop talking?’ Zak asked.

‘Course she does, Jay. The very second she falls asleep. But her heart is in the right place, even if her nose is always stuck into everybody’s business.’ He
winked at him. ‘Come on. I think you’ll find the others a bit more relaxed.’

Marcus was right. By the time he and Zak had walked up to the camp fire, the others were standing and smiling in their direction, although the younger local-looking boy had now moved away from the group. Marcus started making the introductions. ‘Jason, meet your fellow volunteers – Matt, Roger, Alexandra, Tillie, Jacqui, Ade and Christopher. Don’t worry, I won’t be testing you on their names
just
yet.’

Zak looked at each of them in turn.
Matt, Roger, Alexandra, Tillie, Jacqui, Ade, Christopher
, he repeated silently to himself, reassured somehow by his instant recall.

‘Where’s Bea?’ the guy introduced as Ade asked.

‘I thought it was quiet,’ someone murmured.

‘Over there.’ Zak pointed to a space between two of the canvas tents. He’d seen Bea as soon as he’d approached the camp fire. She was standing in the shadows, blinking furiously, but still watching them all. Watching Zak. For some reason it made him a bit nervous.

He turned to the others. ‘It’s nice of you all to let me join you,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty.’

Ade had very tanned skin. He was wearing just a
pair of turquoise knee-length swimming shorts. ‘Hands dirty?’ he asked, clearly confused.

‘Building the school.’ He looked around the group. Suddenly things seemed a bit awkward. ‘That’s what we’re here to do, isn’t it?’

A pause. ‘You didn’t tell him?’ Ade asked Marcus in surprise.

Marcus didn’t answer. He just put one hand on Zak’s shoulder. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have a chat later.’

He led Zak towards the tents, keeping a couple of metres ahead of him. It was almost as if he didn’t want to get caught in a conversation. And Zak couldn’t help noticing, as he walked away from the camp fire, that Bea was no longer staring at them.

She was no longer standing in the shadows.

She was nowhere to be seen.

7

NIGHT FISHING

19.45 hrs West Africa Time

ZAK’S TENT WAS
simple – a low bed covered with a mosquito net hanging from the ceiling; rush matting on the floor; a clothes rail with a few hangers; a battery-operated lamp. He dumped his stuff and sat quietly on the edge of his bed for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. He’d only just arrived in Lobambo and already things didn’t seem right. Why had everyone gone quiet when he’d asked about the school? And there was something about Bea that didn’t quite ring true. What was it? Zak was determined to find out.

But first he had to become one of the group again. To be Jason Cole and not Zak Darke. He cleared his head and prepared to rejoin them. It was fully dark when he walked outside again. The stars were amazing. As he walked towards the camp fire, Zak looked
up and quickly identified the Southern Cross. It was his first time in the southern hemisphere, so he had only ever seen this constellation on star charts. He remembered Raf teaching him about astro-navigation, one of the first lessons he’d ever had after being recruited. He wondered where his Guardian Angels were now. What did
they
have to do that was so important?

‘Hey, Jay.’ The others were all sitting around the fire, chatting quietly. Marcus stood up to welcome him.

‘Marcus,’ Zak replied with a nod.

‘We’ll eat soon. Come and meet an important member of our team.’ He led Zak round to the far side of the camp fire where the Angolan boy about the same age as Zak was sitting by himself. He had a shaved head and wore a very old Manchester United football top. With his right hand he was drawing shapes in the dusty ground. But it was his left arm to which Zak’s eyes were immediately drawn. The boy was missing half the arm. It finished at the elbow in a scarred, knobbly stump. Zak did his best not to stare at it.

‘This is Malek,’ Marcus said. ‘He speaks very good English, which is good, because our Portuguese is rotten. Right, Malek?’

‘Right, Marcus,’ Malek said with a grin that revealed crooked yellow teeth.

‘Malek helps us liaise with the locals. We’d be lost without him. Malek, this is Jay. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’ Marcus walked back to the other side of the fire.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ Zak asked, pointing at the patch of earth next to Malek.

The Angolan boy shook his head. He seemed quite shy.

Zak sat down. Nightfall had brought a chill in the air and he was glad of the warmth of the fire. Unlike Bea, Zak wasn’t naturally talkative; he felt a moment of panic as he cast around for a topic of conversation. ‘So,’ he said after a few awkward seconds and looking at the Man United shirt, ‘do you like football?’

‘All my friends like football,’ Malek replied. He spoke very slowly, with a pronounced African accent. He raised the stump of his left arm. ‘But it is difficult for me to play.’

Zak nodded. ‘How did that happen?’ he asked.

Malek stared towards the orange flames of the fire. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. He paused, and Zak felt a bit guilty for asking. Maybe this was something Malek didn’t want to talk about. But then the Angolan boy spoke again. ‘There was a war in my country,’ he said.

‘I heard,’ Zak said quietly.

‘It was very bad. Nearly thirty years of fighting.
Half a million people were killed. People like me …’ He looked meaningfully at the remnants of his arm. ‘People like me were the lucky ones.’

‘I guess we have different ideas of luck, Malek.’

Malek inclined his head. ‘Perhaps. Because of the war, there were many land mines in the countryside. I was with my mother. She had me in her arms. When she stepped on a land mine, she was killed immediately.’

Malek spoke without emotion. Zak didn’t know what to say.

‘It was only because her body took most of the blast that I survived. But a piece of shrapnel entered my arm. It took the townspeople two hours to find me. Any longer and I would have died.’

‘It must have been awful,’ Zak said.

Malek shrugged. ‘I was only three years old. The Red Cross were nearby and they amputated my arm. I have been like this for as long as I can remember.’

‘I lost my mother too,’ Zak said, before a warning bell in his head cautioned him not to say too much. ‘Jason Cole’
had
lost his mother, but his father was still alive. He had to make sure he was keeping fact and fiction separate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Malek said, and all of a sudden Zak could tell that there was a bond between himself and this quietly spoken African boy.

‘Do you remember your mother?’ Zak asked.

‘Sometimes,’ Malek replied. ‘Maybe. I have in my mind the picture of a kind face.’ He shrugged again. ‘But they say your mind can play tricks on you.’

‘I’m sure it’s her you remember,’ Zak told him.

Malek smiled for the first time. A sad smile. ‘Thank you, Jay. It is kind of you to say that.’

‘What about your father? Is he still alive?’

A dark look crossed Malek’s face. ‘I don’t know who my father was,’ he said. Zak could tell this was something he didn’t want to talk about.

The two boys sat in silence for a minute. Malek, Zak could tell, was an open, honest young man. And he realized, with a pang of guilt, that he was looking at him not just as a potential friend, but also as a good source of information. ‘How’s it going with the school?’ he asked.

Malek looked at him in surprise. ‘They did not tell you?’

Zak shook his head.

‘Perhaps they did not want you to be scared.’

‘Scared of what?’

‘The men with guns.’