Under Cover (Agent 21)

by Chris Ryan

  But Felix wasn’t wrong. There was no time for anything else other than his lessons. He turned up every morning at 9 a.m. exactly, peering across the threshold and politely asking if he could come in. Once inside, he worked Ricky hard.

  A couple of hours of every morning were spent in the gym, which was housed in one of the spare rooms of the flat. There were several weight machines, an exercise bike and even a treadmill. Ricky grew to hate that treadmill. He’d have been happy to bulk up with some bicep curls or shoulder presses, but Felix soon stamped on that idea. ‘You’re not fully-grown yet, so you could damage your body with too many weights. You need aerobic fitness, so get running on the treadmill.’

  ‘Don’t see you doing it,’ Ricky had replied grumpily.

  ‘Count the legs, Coco. Besides, I’ve done my stint of vomiting my guts out through exercise. Now it’s your turn.’ He’d picked a chunk of peanut brittle out of his sweet bag And Ricky was sick, several times. It didn’t seem to worry Felix, who watched without expression as he doubled over, retching. But as the weeks flew past, he found he could run for longer and longer, at higher speeds. He even found himself looking forward to those daily training sessions, though he’d never have admitted that to Felix. He had also had his hair cut – his long hair had kept sticking to his neck and it was far cooler to run with a shorter, if still scruffy, style. And that haircut was just about the only thing he’d had time to spend any money on.

  His brain had as much exercise as his body. After two weeks he could memorize half a pack of cards in fifteen seconds. After four weeks he could do a whole pack in thirty. ‘Not bad, huh?’ he said to Felix the first time he managed that feat. Somehow, a word of approval from Felix was beginning to matter.

  Felix had shrugged. ‘It’s a start,’ he said.

  But from then on, Ricky’s lessons in observation became even trickier. The following day, Felix led him out of the apartment and down a nearby main road. As they walked side by side, he said, suddenly, ‘What was the registration plate of the red Mini that just passed?’

  Ricky blinked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How do you think this works, Coco? You think that in real life someone’s going to spread out a pack of cards and ask you where the nine of clubs is? You need your eyes open and your brain in record mode all the time. You need to see everything. Remember everything. You were right when you said counting cards is just a party game. This’ – he stopped for a moment and rapped his walking stick on the pavement – ‘is real life.’

  They walked on in silence for another thirty seconds.

  ‘Blue Peugeot,’ Felix said suddenly. ‘What’s the—’

  ‘RE75 UHF.’

  If Felix was impressed, he didn’t show it. ‘We passed a betting shop thirty seconds ago,’ he replied immediately. ‘There was a man standing outside smoking a cigarette. What colour was his hair?’

  Ricky blinked again. ‘I thought we were doing number plates.’

  Felix raised an eyebrow. ‘You need to see everything,’ he repeated.

  And from that moment onwards, whenever they were out, Felix would fire impossible questions at Ricky. He would ask him the colour of someone’s tie a minute after they’d walked past. How many people were sitting outside a café 100 metres behind them? What had been advertised on the side of a London bus that had now driven out of sight?

  At first Felix’s constant questions were infuriating. After two weeks they were simply annoying. But gradually, Ricky found he was getting used not only to the questions, but also to remembering the smallest details of everything he saw. As he grew more accomplished at it, the world seemed like a different place, full of activity that he’d never have noticed beforehand. He counted pigeons sitting on telegraph wires, noticed the facial expressions of everyone who came into his field of view, even subconsciously catalogued the litter that they passed on the pavement. ‘You’ll be amazed,’ Felix told him one day, as his ability to observe grew, ‘how often the ability to notice and recall something very small can make the difference between life and death.’

  Life and death?

  Ricky didn’t like it when Felix used words like that. He wasn’t here to worry about life and death. Didn’t really want even to know what Felix was all about. Whenever his mind drifted towards that subject, he’d stopped himself thinking about it too hard. He was here to learn what he could, and then apply it to become a better thief. Simple. And seeing and remembering what other people missed would certainly help him do that.

  ‘I bet you’re not much of a fighter,’ Felix said one day as Ricky stepped off the treadmill, sweat trickling down his forehead, his T-shirt soaked. It was raining hard outside. Great clouds of rain were visible over the river from the window of the penthouse flat. Felix had arrived with a soaked rucksack over his shoulder and an umbrella which he had propped up by the door. But he didn’t look like he’d been using the umbrella – his clothes and balding head were soaked.

  Ricky eyed him suspiciously. Yesterday, Felix had rocked up with a dirty black bin liner full of rotting rubbish and a pair of thick rubber gloves. ‘Trash!’ he had announced with a smile. ‘You’ll be amazed what sort of information you can find by rummaging through people’s bins.’ Ricky had spent the next hour sorting through the stinking debris inside the bag, trying to work out what might be useful, and what might not. He found a stained old telephone bill and a bank statement, which Felix agreed would be priceless if you were trying to find out about the person who’d discarded them. As for the old baked bean cans and dirty nappies: not so much.

  ‘I said,’ Felix repeated, ‘that I bet you’re not much of a fighter.’

  ‘Well, I’m a brilliant bin man,’ Ricky replied sourly.

  ‘Don’t get touchy.’ Felix was in a strange mood today – probably because his clothes were still damp.

  ‘It’s better to run than fight, anyway,’ Ricky said.

  ‘Much better,’ Felix agreed. ‘But sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes we have to defend ourselves.’

  ‘You’re the one that doesn’t want me doing weights.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Felix. ‘But good fighting isn’t always about strength. Sometimes it’s about technique.’

  ‘I had karate lessons once,’ Ricky said. ‘I was rubbish at them.’

  ‘I’m not talking about karate,’ said Felix. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s all very well, but the best advice I can give you is this: if you find yourself in a fight with someone, forget all the fancy stuff. Get your hands on something very heavy and hit them over the head with it.’

  Ricky stared at him, as if to say: Is that the best advice you can give me?

  Felix seemed not to notice. ‘Of course, sometimes you can’t get your hands on something heavy, which means you have to improvise. Want to see one of the best weapons you can carry around with you?’

  ‘Uzi nine millimetre?’ Ricky suggested. He meant it as a joke, and was a bit taken aback when Felix seemed to take him perfectly seriously.

  ‘Not my weapon of choice. Too much of a recoil kick, and too flashy by half. Try walking down the street with an Uzi and you’ll stick out like a—’

  ‘Like a kid with a sub-machine gun?’

  ‘Well, exactly. The time might come, Coco, when you and I have a serious conversation about firearms and other weapons. But even the organization I work for would think twice about putting firearms in the hands of kids.’

  It was the first time Felix had ever mentioned such an organization. Ricky didn’t question him any further. He could tell when Felix was on a roll.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said instead. ‘Guns aren’t really my style.’

  ‘It’s not a question of style, Coco,’ Felix said irritably. ‘It’s a question of what’s practical. You can’t easily carry a firearm or a knife around with you without attracting all sorts of unwanted attention. Much better to carry one of these.’ He started patting himself down. ‘Now, where did I put it? Ah, here it is!’ He put his h
and in his back pocket and pulled out a pen.

  ‘Er, no, Felix, that’s a pen.’

  ‘Yep. Good one too,’ Felix said. ‘Cartier. A gift from a colleague of mine called Michael. I never leave home without it.’

  – Is he joking?

  Ricky peered at his mentor. He looked pretty serious.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ Ricky asked. ‘Squirt ink in someone’s eye?’

  ‘It’s a ballpoint, Coco,’ said Felix in a withering tone of voice. ‘Want to know how to use it, or are you going to be too busy making clever comments?’ Felix really was in a mood.

  ‘I want to know how to use it,’ Ricky said quietly.

  Felix nodded. ‘Good.’ He sniffed. ‘A pen is a good example of an improvised weapon,’ he said. ‘An improvised weapon needs to be something you can carry around with you that looks absolutely harmless – something nobody would ever think of as a weapon, but which is strong and sturdy enough to be used in self-defence.’ He dug his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. ‘Coins,’ he said. ‘A very good example. Everyone carries them and nobody thinks they’re dangerous. But if I throw a handful of coins hard enough at your face, believe me, you’re going to know about it.’

  Ricky winced slightly at the thought. ‘Point taken,’ he said.

  Felix returned the change to his pocket, then held up the pen again. ‘I suppose we’d better get this over with,’ he muttered. ‘Punch me, please.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Punch me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Hard as you can.’

  Reluctantly, Ricky stepped up to where Felix was standing. Half a metre between them. He looked at the floor, then suddenly swung out his right arm with his fist clenched, aiming for Felix’s jaw.

  Not for the first time, Felix’s agility surprised him. He lifted up his left arm in a quick, deft movement to block Ricky’s right hook. As he did this, he used his pen hand to stab at the soft flesh on the inside of Ricky’s elbow joint.

  ‘Ow!’ Ricky shouted. ‘That hurt!’

  Felix’s brow was furrowed and there were beads of sweat on his bald head. He mopped them off with the palm of his free hand. ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said mildly. ‘Would you like a sw—’

  ‘NO! I WOULDN’T LIKE A SWEET!’

  ‘It was kind of meant to hurt,’ Felix continued. ‘Soft flesh, you see. Always the most tender place to go for. If I’d struck a bit harder, I could have put you down for up to a minute. And then, of course, there’s the neck . . .’

  Ricky found himself involuntarily shielding his neck with the palm of his hand. There was something about the mournful way Felix was explaining all this that freaked him out.

  Felix dropped the pen onto the coffee table, then turned round and stomped over to where his rucksack and umbrella were leaning against the wall. He picked them up and carried them back to Ricky.

  ‘Brolly,’ he said. ‘Awesome weapon. Good solid spike at one end, and a bit of heft in the pole, if you get a good old-fashioned one that’s made of wood.’

  ‘I suppose you’d like to whack me over the head with it?’

  Felix’s brow creased even more. ‘I am sorry about the pen, Coco. But I did need to demonstrate. I think you get the idea with the umbrella, though.’ He dropped the brolly onto the floor, then started rummaging in his rucksack. ‘Here we go,’ he said, before pulling out a chunky hardback book.

  Ricky caught sight of the cover. It read: War and Peace. ‘More homework?’ he asked.

  ‘Eh?’ Felix looked at the cover himself. ‘Oh God, no – very long, very boring.’ He held the book up with the spine facing outwards. ‘Have a close look.’

  Ricky walked up to take the book. But as he approached, Felix jabbed the spine of the book so hard against his neck that Ricky felt his knees tremble and collapse beneath him.

  ‘OW!’ he shouted for the second time that morning, and clutched his pulsing neck.

  ‘Ah . . .’ Felix said. ‘Sorry . . . sorry . . . perhaps I hit you a bit harder than I meant to . . . but you get the point?’

  Ricky tried to explain that he got the point very well, but all that came out was a kind of strangled gurgling.

  ‘I must say, though,’ Felix continued, examining the book a little more closely, ‘there is a good solid spine on this one. War and Peace. I’ll have to remember that. I used Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets the other week, and that was rubbish.’ He jabbed it against his free hand a few times, then looked at Ricky again, who was still gasping on his knees. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me help you up. You look a bit unwell.’

  Ricky staggered to his feet. ‘Have you got any more surprises for me?’ he gasped.

  ‘Well, actually . . .’ Felix replied. He rummaged in his rucksack again and pulled out a newspaper. ‘This morning’s Times,’ he said.

  Ricky was still rubbing his neck. He peered at Felix. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Not at all. Very effective weapon, a newspaper. Watch.’

  Felix sat down at the coffee table and started folding the newspaper in half, then in half again. After several folds he had a thick, sturdy truncheon of paper. He swiped it gently through the air, as if weighing up its heft. Then, very suddenly, he slammed it against the table. Ricky started. He looked at the coffee table to check that the glass hadn’t cracked. It was still OK, but that didn’t put his mind at rest. ‘Tell me you’re not going to try that thing on me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Felix said. He sounded slightly hurt. Then he whacked the truncheon against the coffee table again. And yet again, Ricky started. It was quite obvious that Felix’s makeshift truncheon could do someone a lot of damage. ‘Would you like a go?’ Felix asked him.

  Ricky held out his hand and grabbed the truncheon as Felix got to his feet. It felt solid in his fist as he tapped it a few times against the palm of his free hand.

  ‘Try and hit me with it,’ Felix said, hitching the rucksack over one shoulder.

  This morning was getting crazier by the moment. ‘Why?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘Just try it, Coco.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He was sarcastic.

  ‘I promise not to cry.’

  Ricky sighed. He looked at the floor. Then, with a sudden movement, he stepped towards Felix and raised the truncheon. When he was half a metre away, he started to bring it down towards Felix’s head.

  Once again, Felix took Ricky by surprise. The older man twisted his rucksack shoulder towards him, and with one hand raised the rucksack itself. As Ricky brought the truncheon down, it hit the rucksack harmlessly. In another quick movement, Felix removed the pack from his shoulder. He flipped it so that the flaps were facing outwards, then deftly slung them over Ricky’s head. With one strong arm he twisted Ricky’s body so that he was facing away from him, the strap of the rucksack crossing his Adam’s apple.

  Then he pulled. Tightly.

  For the second time that morning, Ricky found himself struggling for air. He dropped the truncheon and tried to grab the straps to pull them away from his neck, but Felix’s grip on the rucksack was too firm.

  He started to feel dizzy.

  His knees went weak.

  He was going to faint . . .

  Only when he was sinking to the floor did Felix release the rucksack. Ricky fell to his knees as he inhaled several noisy lungfuls of air. Felix stood above him, an embarrassed frown on his face. He stretched out one hand to help Ricky to his feet.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No!’ Ricky rasped. ‘I nearly passed out!’

  Felix nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose that could happen.’ He looked around the room at the pen, the book, the newspaper and the rucksack in his arms. ‘Improvising,’ he said. ‘Very important. Forget knives and guns. Most of the time we just have to use the tools that are available to us. Here, you can have this.’ He handed Ricky the rucksack and limped towards the exit. ‘I think that’s
about enough for today,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll start learning about surveillance. Very important technique for a soldier.’

  ‘What do you mean, for a soldier?’ Ricky gasped. ‘You’re the soldier, not me.’

  Felix smiled. Then he pulled his ever-present bag of sweets from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. ‘If you say so,’ he said, before turning his back on the sore and battered Ricky, and leaving the room.

  8

  SURVEILLANCE

  ‘Meet Scruffy,’ Felix said the following day when he turned up at his usual time. He handed Ricky a small, creased photograph of a golden Labrador with big, sad eyes. When Ricky gave him a confused look, he added: ‘Scruffy’s your dog.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I don’t have a dog.’

  Felix gave him one of his infuriatingly smug smiles. ‘I know you don’t have a dog,’ he said. ‘You know you don’t have a dog. But the man in the street doesn’t.’

  Felix was being even more obscure than usual. ‘I suppose you are going to get around to telling me what you’re talking about?’ Ricky said.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ said Felix. ‘Stick that picture of Scruffy in your wallet. Sometimes, when you’re conducting surveillance on a person or location, you have to loiter in the same place for a long time. That attracts people’s attention. If someone challenges you, all you need to do is pull out your picture of Scruffy and show it to them. Say you were walking your dog in the area and it got away from you. Now you’re just hanging around for a bit on the off-chance that it comes back to the same place. If you can manage to look a bit tearful about the whole affair, so much the better. Oh, and we mustn’t forget to teach you how to fix your bike.’

  ‘Fix my bike?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Best cover in the world. Nobody looks twice at a cyclist fiddling with his chain. It means you can stay in the same place, watching and waiting, for ages. But you need to be doing proper repairs, because if anybody’s watching you who knows anything about bikes and they see you’re faking it, they’ll know it’s just a pretence.’

  ‘And you think that’ll happen a lot, do you?’ Ricky said. ‘People watching me watching them.’ He was seriously beginning to wonder what he had let himself in for now.