Agent 21 (11 page)

‘One-two-five Antrobus Drive, Muswell Hill, London.’

‘What were you doing at St Peter’s Crag?’

‘Visiting relatives.’

‘On a deserted island?’

Zak clamped his mouth shut.

Silence. He could hear footsteps around him and one of the men switched the light off. Zak opened his eyes, but he was still dazzled. By the time his vision returned to normal, the men had left the room and closed the door behind them. Zak was left alone with his fear.

They returned an hour later and switched the light on again. Zak clamped his eyes shut again.

‘Nobody called Harry Gold has ever lived at one-two-four Antrobus Drive,’ the man said.

Zak spotted the trick immediately. ‘It’s one-two-five,’ he said. The information he’d spent so much time learning came easily into his mind.

His inquisitor didn’t sound at all concerned that his trap had been sprung. ‘There’s no Harry Gold at one-two-five either.’

‘Of course there is,’ Zak said. ‘It’s my home. What’s going on?’

But again there was no response. The men just turned the light off and left the room for a second time.

Zak was alone for longer this time round. Five hours, maybe six. The shivering grew worse as he became colder and more fearful. He grew tired too, and his head started to nod onto his chest. At that precise moment the door opened and one of the men entered with a bucket of water, which he threw at Zak’s head. It was icy cold, and caused him to catch his breath sharply. By the time he had regained control of his breathing, the man had left again and Zak was wide awake.

After that he lost track of what was happening. The men came and went. They asked him the same questions over and over.

‘Where have you been for the last six months?’

‘At home . . .’

‘Who is Agent 21?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’

They asked him again and pretended that he’d given different answers – which he hadn’t. He could tell what they were doing – trying to confuse him to the point where he really did start contradicting himself – but as time went on he found himself increasingly unable to keep track of what he’d said and what he hadn’t. They came in at random intervals. Sometimes it was ten minutes between interrogations, other times it was an hour. And whenever tiredness threatened to overcome him, one of them was always there, bucket of water in hand, ready to wake him up. Before long he became truly desperate for sleep: not being allowed to rest had turned into the cruellest torture imaginable.

He was hungry too, and thirsty, but at no point did anybody mention food or drink. Zak tried to keep his mind off it by concentrating on his situation. How long had he been here? Twelve hours? Twenty-four? Longer? Maybe he should tell his captors the truth. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t know anything about anyone. Maybe if he just admitted who he really was, they’d let him go free . . .

Or maybe they wouldn’t.

His body was crying out for sleep now. He felt like
he’d do anything for it. When the two men entered and switched on the light, he heard himself begging them. ‘Please . . . just let me go to sleep. I’ll be able to answer your questions much better . . .’

The short man walked behind Zak’s chair and bent over so his lips were just by Zak’s ear. ‘You can go to sleep, Harry,’ he said, ‘just as soon as you tell me the truth.’

‘I
have
been telling the truth . . .’ But Zak’s energy wasn’t really in the lie any more.

‘We know you’re
not
, Zak.’ It was the first time they had used his real name, and he made a weak effort to look confused. ‘You can’t go to sleep until you do . . .’

And it was then that Zak knew it was over. He could try to resist, but the sleep deprivation was too acute. Sooner or later he’d have to give in. This was a battle he just couldn’t win.

He closed his eyes.

‘How did you know my name?’

As he spoke, he heard his own voice tremble. He remembered the Glock his abductor had pressed against his head. These men were serious. He didn’t know what they wanted, but now they’d forced the truth out of him, Zak had a nasty feeling he was about to end up dead.

He breathed deeply as a feeling – as cold as ice – crept over his skin.

Silence.

The short man moved round to stand between Zak and the lamp, and the taller man joined him. Together they blocked the light and formed silhouettes. Zak blinked at them. His fear blunted every other sensation.

Except surprise . . .

It was the smaller man who peeled off the balaclava first, revealing a pockmarked face with a pinched expression and small piggy eyes that peered at Zak like a doctor assessing a patient.

It was a face that Zak recognized.

He blinked again and shook his head. ‘Mr
Peters
?’

‘A long way from Camden High, Zak,’ Peters said, and he turned to look at the taller man, who was removing his balaclava to reveal a tanned, lined face and long, grey hair.

‘
Michael?
’

Michael looked at his watch and then at Mr Peters. ‘Twenty-seven hours. What do you think?’

Mr Peter’s face remained stern. ‘I think he needs to sleep,’ he said, and without waiting for a reply he started to untie the rope that bound Zak.

It was like a dream. A nightmare. Zak’s brain was exhausted and confused. A hundred questions buzzed around in his head; hot anger boiled in his veins. It had been a con – a long, dreadful, exhausting con.
But he was too tired to complain or even speak.

The men helped him to his feet and he staggered to the door. But that was the last thing he remembered. The rest was blackout.

It was sunlight that woke him up. Bright sunlight, streaming through the window. He was back in his room at St Peter’s House, covered by his crisp, white bedclothes. The window looked like new and there was no sign of the break-in. But something was different. On the right-hand side of his bed was a metal stand with a plastic bag suspended from the top. It was full of clear liquid. A tube coiled its way from the bag to a needle inserted into the back of Zak’s hand.

‘It’s a saline drip. You needed rehydrating.’

Zak looked over in the direction of the voice. Michael was sitting in an armchair on the left-hand side of his bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘How do you think?’ He lay back and looked at the ceiling. Everything started flooding back: the room, the lack of sleep, the questioning. And all for what?
One of Michael’s little games? Not for the first time, Zak felt a deep anger with the old man. ‘You’ve gone too far,’ he muttered.

‘Too far?’ Michael looked surprised. ‘I rather worry we didn’t go far enough. Interrogations are never a walk in the park, you know.’

Zak thought about that for a moment. ‘I failed, didn’t I?’ he said finally. ‘It was all a test and I failed.’

‘Some tests,’ Michael said, ‘are impossible to pass. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Interrogations are difficult, and we went out of our way to make sure you didn’t suspect it was an exercise. All things considered, I think you did rather well. Raphael and Gabriella have done a good job on you.’

Zak frowned. Despite his anger, he was disappointed in himself and he couldn’t help letting it show.

‘Yeah, but I still cracked in the end.’

‘Everyone cracks,’ Michael said, ‘in the end. Believe me, if you undergo a genuine interrogation, there’s really nothing you can do to avoid the inevitable. We chose sleep deprivation as a tool. It’s very effective, but most of the people you’ll encounter won’t be nearly so restrained. Trust me, you’ll talk.
They’ll
know that and
you’ll
know that. The only question is how long you’ll last.’

‘If I’ll talk in the end, what’s the point in resisting?’

‘There are lots of points. Maybe, given time, you’ll find a way to escape; maybe, if we know you’re in trouble, we’ll be able to send in a rescue team; maybe it will be crucial for the operation in hand that you buy us a few hours before your captors . . .’ He hesitated.

‘Before they kill me?’

‘One would hope it wouldn’t come to that, of course. Whatever the case, there are two pieces of advice I can give you. The first is this: don’t antagonize your captor. Be submissive, not confrontational. You don’t want to push them.’

‘And the second?’

‘Don’t forget the first time. You did well. You lasted twenty-seven hours. That’s good by anyone’s standards. You know you can do it. Remember that.’

Michael stood up and walked round to the other side of the bed. ‘With your permission,’ he said, ‘I’ll remove the drip now.’ Zak nodded, and the old man pulled the needle from his hand.

‘
Ow!
’

Michael ignored him. ‘Come downstairs when you’re ready. Raphael and Gabriella are waiting for you. We have things to discuss.’

He headed for the door.

‘Wait,’ Zak said.

Michael stopped.

‘I thought nobody was supposed to know about all this. So who were the men who took me?’

‘They were a unit from SAS headquarters in Hereford,’ Michael replied. ‘But they don’t know who you are. They believed it was a genuine operation too.’

‘In the habit of abducting kids, are they?’

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re in the habit of following orders. And they’ve done worse things than steal you from your bedroom, I can assure you.’

‘What about Gabs and Raf? I saw them from the helicopter. Were they in on it?’

‘Of course.’

Zak felt a little surge of resentment.

‘And the room? Where was it?’

For the first time, Michael smiled. ‘Here, of course,’ he said. ‘I told you this house had secrets. Do you think you’ll be long? We have an awful lot to talk about, you know.’

Zak didn’t hurry. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. His muscles were sore, his body weak. He got dressed slowly, like an invalid, and when he walked back down the stairs he gripped the banister to help him keep his balance.

Michael hadn’t said he’d be in the office where they’d all met on the first day he’d arrived, but Zak guessed he would be. For the past six months it had been out of bounds – he’d tried the door knob a
couple of times. But today the door responded to his touch. He walked in to see Michael sitting at his desk, Gabs and Raf behind him on either side, framed by the big windows and looking towards the door. Raf stayed where he was, his face expressionless; but Gabs rushed towards him, her big eyes full of concern. She gave him a tight hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘It’s always the worst bit, sweetie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t warn you.’

Zak wriggled from her embrace. ‘Whatever,’ he said, and then felt a bit bad that Gabs looked hurt. ‘You just did what you had to do.’ He looked around the room. ‘Mr Peters not joining us?’

‘Unfortunately he has business elsewhere,’ Michael said.

‘I take it he’s the fourth person who knows who I am.’

‘Naturally. Take a seat, won’t you, Zak?’ Michael indicated a leather chair by the fireplace and Zak didn’t need any encouragement to sit down. ‘I’m pleased with your progress,’ he said.

‘You haven’t been here to see it.’

‘Raphael and Gabriella keep me well informed. Your fitness is good, your skills are excellent. I think the time has come to activate you.’

Zak swallowed nervously. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

‘It means we’re going to put you in the field.’

‘Another test?’

A pause. ‘No, Zak. Not another test. This will be for real.’

Gabs looked like she was about to say something, but Michael held up one hand to stop her. He opened one of the drawers of his desk, took out a slim, rectangular device, about twenty-five centimetres long, and tapped it. The lights in the room dimmed and a white panel descended from the ceiling against the wall opposite Zak. ‘Sitting comfortably?’ Michael asked. Another tap of the touch pad and a picture appeared on the panel.

It showed a man. He was perhaps in his late forties, though it was impossible to tell for sure because his skin was wrinkle-free and there was a tightness around the eyes and the edges of his face that suggested he’d had plastic surgery to make himself look younger. His skin was naturally dark, his eyes brown and his perfectly black hair was greased back over his scalp. He neither smiled nor frowned: his expression was emotionless.

‘This,’ said Michael, ‘is Cesar Martinez Toledo. Mexicans have two surnames – one from their father, one from their mother. Cesar is known as Señor Martinez and he is Mexico’s biggest and most powerful drug lord. About eighty per cent of the cocaine on
the streets of Britain comes from his cartel. It’s thought that he imports coca leaves from Colombia and processes them into cocaine in labs hidden in the Mexican jungle. He’s impulsive and charming. He’s also probably the most violent man in Central America – and if you understand anything about the politics of the area, you’ll know that’s really saying something.’