Deadfall: Agent 21 (26 page)

Zak threw himself at his companion, tussling him to the ground even as a burst of rounds slammed into the glass. Three panes cracked like ice under a hammer. A fourth shattered completely.

‘Whatever you do,’ Zak hissed, ‘don’t stand up.’

Malcolm was shaking. ‘But . . . but how . . .’

‘Did you get the message out?’

Malcolm nodded.

Zak closed his eyes. Maybe – just maybe – it had been enough to divert the atrocity.

His eyes strayed up; the planes in the sky needed to land urgently. ‘You’ve got to get the airport comms back up and running,’ he whispered to Malcolm.

Malcolm nodded, but gestured towards the computers. ‘I’ll need them then,’ he said, his face tight with fear.

More gunfire. Bullets burst through the broken window and ricocheted off the far side of the control room and Malcolm gasped. Zak remained perfectly still, sitting with his back up against the bank of computer terminals. His eyes were closed, his forehead screwed up in a frown.

He felt like he was playing a game of chess. Checkmate was just round the corner, but so many things had to happen first.

He had to reverse a coup. He had to make sure Smiler was safe. And was it bad that the thing at the very front of his mind was revenge: on Sudiq, the man who had killed his parents?

He opened his eyes suddenly and turned to Malcolm. ‘I need you to do some things,’ he said. ‘Get those planes down, quickly. Then we’ve got work to do, and we haven’t got much time.’

Malcolm nodded again, and Zak was relieved
that he didn’t argue. The last few days had changed him.

‘Cruz is at the president’s residence, right?’

Another nod.

‘Can you get me a video link with him?’

‘We can just use our phones.’

Zak nodded with satisfaction. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘Please answer me honestly, Malcolm. When you were in Jo’burg, you had plenty of money. You were just hacking into other people’s bank accounts and twiddling the figures, right?’

Malcolm’s eyes fell. Once more he nodded his head.

‘Can you do it again? Now? From here?’

‘It’s a piece of cake,’ Malcolm said quietly.

‘OK.’ Zak looked up. They were sitting right below the computer terminal Malcolm had been using. ‘Remember . . . stay down,’ he instructed. Then, as quickly as he could, he jumped to his feet.

The gunshots started again as soon as Zak became visible through the windows of the control tower. Both of the East Side Boys were firing now, aiming through the broken window, and Zak felt a rush of displaced air as the bullets pinged above him and to his side. But he remained on his feet as he grabbed the screen and the keyboard of the terminal and yanked them off their bench. Seconds later, he
was on the floor again, surrounded by a mess of wires that spilled from the computer equipment, nervous sweat pouring off him. He checked the screen: its cursor was flashing, waiting for someone to start inputting data.

He looked at Malcolm. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Planes first, and then listen carefully. This is what we need to do.’

Smiler’s hands were shaking. How had he got himself into this position? Why was he here?

The two East Side Boys he had approached at the pier had clearly been expecting Smiler – or someone like him – to approach with a coffin full of money. And they’d swallowed his story that the boys he’d left behind in the jungle had tried to steal the money for themselves rather than bring it to the boss in Banjul. They’d given him a friendly slap on the back, then lifted the coffin out of the boat and carried it into a waiting truck. Then they’d driven Smiler and the coffin straight into the city centre.

Which was how he found himself, now, in a great white house with pillars at the front, far bigger and more grand than any other dwelling he’d ever seen, let alone set foot in. He had his back against the wall, trying to make himself as small and
inconspicuous as possible as he watched the scene that unfolded.

There were ten other people in the room. One of them was Boss – or Sudiq, as Smiler now knew his real name to be. He was strutting round the room like a proud cockerel. At one point he ruffled Smiler’s hair, like a fond uncle congratulating his favourite nephew.

Near him was the young man Cruz Martinez, who frightened Smiler far more than Sudiq ever could. His eyes had dark rings around them. They were cold and harsh.

Two men had their hands tied behind their backs. One wore a suit, the other a military uniform covered with decorations. From their conversation, Smiler had worked out this was the president of The Gambia and his military chief. Or rather, the
ex-
president of The Gambia, and his
ex
-military chief. They scowled with anger and humiliation, but were mostly ignored by the other six people in the room: swaggering East Side Boys. Their scarred faces were twisted into looks of supreme arrogance, and they strutted around like Sudiq, brandishing their firearms proudly.

In the centre of the room sat the coffin full of money.

‘Silence!’ Cruz shouted suddenly. Everyone
stopped moving. ‘Ten seconds,’ Cruz announced.

It felt for a moment like everyone was holding their breath. The seconds ticked down. Then, in the distance, they heard five low booms. Explosions.

A look of triumph crossed Cruz’s face. ‘It’s done!’ he shouted. ‘Scores of tourists have now died on Gambian soil. Soon it will no longer be a holiday resort, but a rogue state that exists to serve
our
purposes.’ He strode up to Sudiq and clasped his hand – Smiler saw an expression of the utmost greed pass between them. Then Cruz turned to address the president and his military chief and glanced at the coffin. ‘In ten minutes’ time,’ he said, ‘a stealth helicopter will arrive to airlift me’ – he smiled – ‘and my money, of course, out of here. You’ll be coming. Say goodbye to your country, gentlemen. You won’t be seeing it again—’

His speech was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of a cellphone. It came from Cruz’s pocket, and echoed around the suddenly silent room. Everyone stared at him, and Smiler knew why. The phones weren’t supposed to be working. So why was this one ringing?

Slowly, Cruz removed his phone, his eyes suddenly very dangerous. He stared at the screen for a moment, while the phone continued to buzz in his hand. Then he slowly pressed one finger to the screen and the ringing stopped.

A pause. Cruz stared at the screen.

‘Malcolm,’ Cruz breathed. ‘What the—?’

Then he fell silent again.

A voice emerged from the loudspeaker of the phone. ‘Hello, Cruz.’

Smiler recognized it immediately.

It was Zak.

Still crouching on the floor of the control tower, Zak stared at the screen of his phone. It was, he had to admit, satisfying to see the look of shock and confusion on Cruz’s face.

‘You’re dead,’ Cruz hissed.

Zak raised an eyebrow. ‘Dead? I don’t think so, mate. You haven’t got quite the body count you wanted today, I’m afraid. I’ve managed to warn the tourists you were trying to butcher at the Palace Hotel, by the way. I’m pretty sure they’ll have had enough time to evacuate. And the planes round the airport are down – no casualties there either.’

Cruz’s eyes grew narrow. ‘You’re lying,’ he whispered.

Zak shrugged. ‘You can think that if it makes you feel better,’ he said. ‘Or, of course, you can look around you. You know, for deadfall.’ He put on a patronizing voice, like he was talking to a kid. It was childish, he knew, but Zak had his reasons. He wanted to goad Cruz, to anger him.

To stop him thinking straight.

And by the look on Cruz’s face, it appeared to be working.

‘Anyway, mate,’ Zak continued conversationally, ‘it’s been lovely to catch up, but this isn’t just a social call. There’s something I thought you might like to see.’

Zak glanced over at Malcolm, who was crouched next to him at his computer terminal, and nodded. Malcolm started typing furiously. ‘It’s gone,’ he whispered after a few seconds.

Zak heard Cruz’s phone pinging at the other end. ‘I’ve just sent you a document,’ he said. ‘Have a look. I think you might find it interesting.’

Zak’s screen was filled with the image of Cruz’s fingertip tapping his own phone. He looked anxiously at Malcolm, who in turn was staring anxiously at his computer terminal.

They waited.

Smiler wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. In the distance – maybe hovering somewhere close to the open courtyard but not quite loud enough to drown out the tinkling sounds – he heard the beating of a helicopter. But he only paid it scant attention. Like everyone else in the room, his eyes were fixed on Cruz.

Cruz stared at the screen of his phone for what seemed like an age. Then he turned to Sudiq. If the look in his eyes had been dangerous before, now it was positively deadly.

‘Tell me, old friend,’ he whispered in the unfriendliest voice imaginable. ‘Do you have a Swiss bank account in the name of Sudiq Al-Tikriti Gomez?’

Sudiq’s eyes widened in surprise. But he didn’t deny it. ‘Yes.’

A moment of stark, uncomfortable silence.

‘Then perhaps you’d like to explain to me why it is that the sum of two million, three hundred and forty-six thousand, six hundred and twenty-five US dollars has been paid into that account in the past twenty-four hours.’

Silence.

‘A very precise amount, wouldn’t you say?’ Cruz added dangerously.

Sudiq blinked at him. ‘Don’t be stupid, Cruz.’ Cruz’s eyes flashed at the word. ‘That money’s there, in the coffin. You know it is.’

Smiler felt his mouth go dry. All of a sudden, he understood. He knew what Zak had done back at the camp . . .

‘Show me,’ said Cruz. Nobody in the room moved.

‘What is this?’ Sudiq said. He looked genuinely
baffled. ‘Cruz, your helicopter will be here any moment. You need to leave, get back to Mexico . . .’

‘
SHOW ME!
’

Sudiq flinched.

Cruz stormed up to one of the East Side Boys. ‘
Open it!
’ he hissed. The boys stepped towards the coffin.

The lid was firmly nailed down. One of the boys pulled out a sturdy, broad-bladed knife and yanked it in just underneath the lid. He started levering it up. There was a cracking, splintering sound as the lid separated from the base. It gave enough of a gap for the East Side Boys to worm their fingers in. There was another great cracking sound as they forcibly ripped the lid from the coffin. It was like jaws opening. The nails protruded like teeth.

The coffin was open. The East Side Boys stood back as Cruz approached. He stood over it, staring into the box for several seconds. From where he was standing, Smiler couldn’t see the contents. But then Cruz bent over and picked something out of it.

A rock, about the size of a human head. And then another. No wonder the coffin had been so heavy.

‘Would you care to explain this, Sudiq?’ Cruz whispered.

Sudiq staggered back. ‘I . . . I . . . I
can’t
explain it. It . . . it must be a trick.’

Cruz let the rock fall back into the coffin with a clatter. Then he started walking slowly towards Sudiq. ‘What did you think I would do when I found out, Sudiq?’ Cruz asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes were wild and Smiler noticed that his hands were shaking. ‘Laugh it off?
Forgive
you?’ He said the word ‘forgive’ with an unpleasant curl of his lip.

‘Cruz, please, I would never—’

‘
QUIET!
’ Cruz pulled a handgun from inside his jacket.

‘Señor Martinez, I served your father well for many years—’

‘And now,’ Cruz raged, ‘because I am not him, you think you can pull the wool over my eyes? You think you can steal money from me? You think you can make me a fool? Well, think again!’

Gunshot. So sudden and violent that Smiler felt his whole body jolt. It easily drowned the noise of the helicopter, which was getting much louder now.

Smiler’s eyes clamped shut of their own accord, then he slowly opened them.

He wished he hadn’t.

Zak flinched at the sound of the gunfire too. It sounded tinny and distorted through the speaker on his phone, but he knew what it meant. He
continued to watch the scene with cold eyes.

He sensed that Cruz was very deliberately showing him the image of Sudiq’s murdered body. Cruz was holding his camera phone about a metre away from the dead man’s butchered head and Zak could see through the blasted skull – the mashed-up brain matter was oozing like a yolk from an egg, covered with strands of matted, bloodied hair.

Zak stared, strangely unemotional, at the hideous corpse of the man who had killed his parents.

But only for a few seconds. Because then Cruz was there again, his face filling Zak’s screen.

‘That will be you, Harry,’ Cruz said without emotion. ‘Next time we meet.’

Zak said nothing. The temptation to tell him that he’d been duped – that Zak had tricked Cruz into killing his own accomplice, and Zak’s mortal enemy – was strong. He had to fight the urge to gloat, to tell him that Sudiq had never stolen so much as a dollar. That it had been Zak himself who had switched the money for a pile of useless rocks.

But some things were best left unsaid.

‘I think you’ve got a helicopter to catch, Cruz,’ he said finally. ‘I’d hop aboard now, before the Gambian military catch up with you. I doubt they’ll take too kindly to what you’ve just done. And I don’t think you can rely on the East Side Boys to protect
you, now you’ve just killed their boss. Do you?’

Cruz stared at the phone for a full ten seconds. Then, almost like a wild animal, he roared in frustration.

Zak couldn’t be sure, but he sensed that his enemy had just thrown his mobile onto the ground. Maybe even stamped on it. There was a clattering, crunching sound through the loudspeaker.

Then the screen started to flicker.

Smiler didn’t know where to look. At Cruz Martinez, blood-spattered and angry, standing over Sudiq’s dead body, his crushed phone lying at his feet? At the president and his army chief, who shrank back from Cruz’s sudden burst of fury with horrified faces? At the East Side Boys, who just looked like they wanted to run?

Or at the helicopter, whose underbelly he could now see hovering over the open courtyard adjoining this room that had just become a bloodbath?