Under Cover (Agent 21)

by Chris Ryan

  He couldn’t think too long or too hard about it. If he was going to grab the briefcase, he needed to do it now.

  It was almost on instinct that he adjusted his Nike baseball cap so that the peak faced forward and not back. It would shadow his face a little better, he figured. Disguise him.

  Big mistake.

  Ricky scraped his chair back and stood up, pocketing his phone as he did so. Distance to the briefcase: four metres.

  He had covered three metres of it when Cole looked up at him.

  Ricky knew, in an instant, that something was wrong. Cole wasn’t staring at his face, but at his baseball cap. Ricky saw him silently mouth the letters ‘N’ and ‘I’.

  ‘Grab that boy!’ he hissed.

  For a big man, Dmitri moved very fast. Before Ricky could even take a step back, the Russian had reached out and seized his wrist. Ricky gasped with pain as Cole stood up and whipped the baseball cap from his head.

  Cole stared at the lettering on Ricky’s baseball cap, then back at Ricky.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Dmitri asked.

  ‘This boy broke into my house last night. It’s hardly a coincidence that he’s here now.’

  Ricky knew that he would remember the seconds that followed for the rest of his life – however long that might be. The jolly guy from behind the counter strode towards them, his face outraged. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What are you doing with that young man? Leave him alone!’

  ‘Stay out of it,’ growled Dmitri.

  ‘No I won’t. This is my gaff and he’s just a kid. Get your bleedin’ hands off—’

  He never finished his sentence. The dark-haired Russian had turned towards him and Ricky saw that he had a gun in his hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Russian raised it in the man’s direction.

  ‘No!’ Ricky shouted.

  But too late.

  The Russian fired.

  The shot was very quiet, but its result was deadly. The bullet slammed into the man’s forehead and a chunk of his skull the size of Ricky’s fist blasted away. A grotesque spatter of blood sprayed over several of the tables as the man slumped to the floor.

  There was a sudden, horrible silence. Ricky felt his muscles freeze.

  ‘Gregoriev, you idiot!’ Cole breathed. ‘You . . . you IDIOT.’

  But Gregoriev wasn’t looking at Cole. He had turned his gun on Ricky. The barrel was just half a metre from his face and Ricky could see right down it. He could feel the slight warmth of the metal . . .

  Suddenly Cole slammed the Russian’s gun arm away. ‘For God’s sake,’ he hissed. Then he turned his fearsome glare on Ricky. Dmitri gripped his wrist even harder and Ricky knew he had only seconds to act, otherwise there was a very good chance he’d be joining the dead man on the floor.

  – Remember what Felix told you: ‘If you find yourself in a fight with someone, forget all the fancy stuff. Put your hands on something very heavy and hit them over the head with it.’

  Ricky couldn’t work out if what he did next was stupid or brave. A bit of both, probably. He stretched his free arm out behind him and grabbed a greasy glass vase from the nearest table. With a great, forceful swing of his arm, he smashed it hard against Dmitri’s head.

  The vase shattered. Dmitri roared in pain and anger as a huge welt of blood and lacerated skin appeared on his forehead. He let go of Ricky’s wrist and clutched his wound. Ricky still had the base of the vase in his hand and its edges were jagged and sharp. He knew he only had one chance to get out of here, so as the second Russian was swinging his gun arm in his direction he hurled the glass at the gunman, who raised both hands to protect himself from the missile.

  – Get out of here! GET OUT OF HERE!

  Cole was pale-faced and frightened. His eyes bulged and Ricky could see that he was about to grab the briefcase from the table. Half of him knew it was foolish to delay, but he grabbed the case before Cole could get it.

  Then he turned and got ready to run.

  He might have made it if the dirty white tiles on the floor of the café hadn’t been covered in blood. The dead waiter had bled atrociously. He was surrounded by a pool of red, sticky fluid. As Ricky’s right foot slapped against the wet floor, he slipped. He tried to balance himself, but it was no good. Still clutching the briefcase, he tumbled to the floor, his legs sprawled over the dead man’s hard body. He felt his phone crack in his pocket, but was too scared to consider whether he’d lost the video footage. Right now it only meant one thing: he couldn’t call anyone for help.

  Sickened with fear, he scrambled to get to his feet again. But it was no good. Already the two burly Russians were standing over him. They didn’t care that their boots were spattered with the dead man’s blood. Dmitri’s face was covered with blood of his own, dripping down the side of his snarling face like a dreadful horror mask where the vase had hit him. And his colleague was there too, his eyes flashing. Both men had guns now, and they were both pointing them directly at Ricky.

  There was no escaping. Ricky closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot he knew would end his life.

  There was certainly a loud noise. But it wasn’t a gunshot, and Ricky wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least.

  It seemed to happen in slow motion. Ricky heard an ear-splitting crack, then opened his eyes just in time to see the entire glass frontage of the café shatter. With a deafening crash, a million glass shards fell to the floor like icy rain.

  In the split second after the explosion, Ricky saw a figure standing outside the café. It was a boy about Ricky’s age. He looked weirdly like Ricky himself, with a baseball cap, jeans, a black puffa jacket, a red scarf and black Converse trainers. And in that instant, Ricky knew he had seen him before. Twice. Once in the café in Frith Street. Then later the same evening, fixing his bike outside McDonald’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. The boy had a fierce, urgent look in his eyes, and he shouted a single word: ‘RUN!’

  Ricky didn’t need telling twice. The explosion had forced the two Russians to take a couple of steps backwards. They had raised their arms to cover their faces, so their weapons were no longer pointing at Ricky. He scrambled to his feet, holding the briefcase tightly, and sprinted for the exit. His feet crunched over the broken glass as he ran towards the strange boy, who was pointing to the far end of the street. ‘That way!’ he urged. ‘Go!’

  Ricky had sometimes had a dream where, no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t get to the place he was heading for. He felt like that now. It was only fifty metres to the end of the street, but as the two boys sprinted side by side as hard as they could, it felt to Ricky like they’d never get there.

  ‘We’re too close together,’ the boy shouted. ‘We’re an easy target. Split up.’

  The advice sounded so much like Felix that Ricky had to glance at the boy to check his eyes hadn’t been playing games. ‘Who are you?’ Ricky yelled.

  But the boy didn’t have time to answer. There was the sound of a single gunshot and a bullet flew so close over Ricky’s head that he could feel the rush of air as it passed. They were ten metres from the end of the street. ‘Turn right!’ the boy shouted.

  They veered right. Sweat was pouring from Ricky’s skin. Breathless, they turned the corner. The boy grabbed him by the arm. ‘Give me the briefcase,’ he said.

  ‘No way,’ Ricky snapped. He didn’t know who this kid was, and he certainly wasn’t going to surrender his hard-won evidence to him.

  The boy didn’t argue. Instead, he slapped Ricky on the shoulder. It was a weirdly friendly gesture, given what was happening, but it was hardly the strangest thing that had happened to Ricky that day, so he ignored it. ‘Then keep running,’ the boy said. ‘I’ll delay them as long as I can.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Ricky demanded again, more harshly this time.

  The boy had already turned away. ‘I’m Zak,’ he said. ‘Now go!’

  There was no time to argue. Whoever this boy was, he clearly knew what he was doing. And Ricky had no desire at all to c
ome face to face with those Russians again. His skin still felt clammy from the shock of seeing them kill the man in the café. He looked down and saw the man’s blood on his trousers. It made him shudder, but he knew he had no time for squeamishness.

  He checked his grip on the suitcase and inhaled deeply.

  Then he ran.

  19

  ALL SOULS

  Jacob Cole was trembling with rage and fear.

  He had never seen someone killed before. It wasn’t like in the movies. He would never forget the sight of that man with half his head blown away. It was this, even more than the fear of the police arriving, that made him sprint after the Russians as they chased the two kids.

  Cole might have been a thin man, but he wasn’t a fit one. He had a burning sensation in his chest by the time he reached the end of the road. He stood there panting, looking out onto the busier road. Dmitri and Gregoriev were arguing in Russian. They had hidden their weapons, thank God, now that there were more people about, and they were looking left and right, trying to spot those damn kids who were going to ruin everything.

  ‘There!’ Cole announced sharply.

  He had seen the second boy, who had appeared outside the shattered window. He was on the opposite side of the street, about fifteen metres to their right, sprinting towards a branch of Boots on the corner of the road.

  ‘What about the other one?’ Dmitri asked.

  He looked very alarming with his bloodied face and Cole could tell that he had violent intentions towards the kid in the Nike baseball cap. But they couldn’t get sidetracked: the briefcase was the important thing. If anyone found out what he’d been selling, it wouldn’t just be his career that would be at an end. It would be his freedom.

  ‘They were obviously together, you idiot,’ Cole snarled. ‘Find one and you’ll find the other. Get after him!’

  The Russians burst across the road, forcing a black cab to swerve sharply to avoid hitting them. Cole followed more carefully, but by the time he had reached the opposite pavement, the boy had disappeared. Still gasping for breath, he followed the Russians to the end of the street, where another road ran at right angles. Cole just managed to catch a glimpse of the kid on the other side. He was smiling at them. Then a bus trundled past, blocking him from view.

  By the time it had passed, the kid had disappeared.

  Cole felt his temperature rising. He wanted to hit someone. He found himself turning a full circle as he searched for the kids, but there was no sign of either of them. It was as if they had vanished into thin air. ‘You’ve lost them!’ he shouted accusingly at the Russians. A passer-by gave him a funny look, but he barely noticed. ‘FIND THEM!’

  But the two Russians didn’t move. They exchanged a grim, purposeful look, then nodded at each other.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?’ Cole screamed, ignoring the way that even more passers-by were staring at him and keeping their distance. ‘I TOLD YOU TO—’

  A brutal punch in the pit of his stomach silenced him – Dmitri was a strong man with a big fist, and it knocked the wind straight out of his lungs. Cole doubled over in pain, gasping desperately for breath but unable to find it. He felt Dmitri grabbing his arm fiercely. The Russian dragged him along the road while Cole coughed and spluttered. He was aware of Gregoriev walking just behind him to his right.

  ‘If you don’t want to end up like the guy in the café, keep walking,’ Dmitri said under his breath.

  Suddenly Cole heard police sirens. He glanced up ahead to see flashing blue lights coming their way. There was no need to wonder where they were going, and for the briefest moment, Cole considered shouting out. Perhaps he could try to get the attention of the oncoming police. But then he remembered the sight of the dead waiter, bleeding on the floor of the café. He needed to get away from there, before the police decided he was involved with the killing.

  And so he staggered along the pavement, Dmitri still gripping his arm, Gregoriev pacing menacingly behind. After thirty metres they took a left turn, then stopped outside a black people-carrier. Cole saw his reflection in the blacked-out windows. He looked gaunt and frightened. There was a beeping sound as Gregoriev pressed a key fob to unlock the vehicle, the side door slid open and Cole felt himself being pushed roughly inside.

  Seconds later the door had slammed shut and a clicking sound told Cole it was locked. Dmitri was sitting beside him. He had removed his handgun and was pressing it hard into Cole’s ribs. Gregoriev was up front behind the wheel.

  ‘You understand that I’ll kill you if you try to escape?’ Dmitri said.

  Too frightened to reply, Cole nodded vigorously. He thought he might be sick.

  Dmitri looked towards Gregoriev. ‘You know where to go?’

  Gregoriev nodded. From the glove compartment of the car he pulled out what looked like a small sat-nav unit, which he clipped to a bracket on the dashboard and switched on. It took thirty seconds to start up. Cole caught sight of a map with two dots on it. One red, one blue. The blue dot was moving, the red one stationary.

  ‘Go!’ Dmitri barked.

  Gregoriev turned the ignition key and the engine turned over. The tyres of the people-carrier screeched loudly as the vehicle jolted forward. The barrel of Dmitri’s gun jabbed harder into Cole’s ribs as it moved.

  And the MP realized he had made a horrible mistake . . .

  Ricky was running blindly. Questions ricocheted around his head. Who was that strange boy who had just rescued him? He must work for Felix, surely. What was the extra information Cole had given the Russians? Where were they now?

  What should he do?

  He couldn’t answer any of these questions. His only plan was to run. He tried to clear his mind, but the image of the dead body in the Happy Valley Café kept jumping gruesomely into his mind. Each time he saw that horrible picture in his head he felt nauseous. It had been his fault. If he hadn’t been recognized, the waiter would not have got involved. He would still be alive. The only way he could make good now was to ensure that the man’s death had been worthwhile – that the information he carried now got to the right people. To Felix.

  But his phone was bust. He had no way of contacting his mentor. So right now, the only thing he could do was run faster and harder as he clutched the heavy briefcase in his increasingly sweaty fist.

  Shops, buildings and road junctions passed him by. Ricky didn’t know where he was. He ran alongside a children’s playground where mums were building a snowman with their kids. Then past a supermarket car park. He stopped to catch his breath in a dank, smelly subway whose walls were covered with graffiti. But he had only taken a few deep breaths when he almost heard Felix’s voice cracking like a whip, admonishing him. It would only take his pursuers to come at him from either end of the subway and he’d be trapped. Or if anyone saw him with the briefcase, they’d probably assume he’d nicked it – and it might be worth their while nicking it from him . . .

  So he kept running.

  Many times he almost slipped on the snowy, slushy ground. His shoes and the bottom of his trousers were soaked, but still he kept on going. He could think of nothing but putting as much distance between himself and those terrifying, murderous Russians as possible. And Cole too. Creepy, cowardly, treacherous Cole: Ricky completely got why Izzy never wanted to go home again . . .

  Izzy. He pictured her sitting on the tube, waiting for midday. He pictured the police catching up with her and forcing her to go back to her abusive father. And the image of his dead sister Madeleine swam again into his head.

  You can’t bring your sister back by saving Izzy Cole, you know.

  That thought just made Ricky redouble his efforts. Cole and the Russians couldn’t regain the contents of this suitcase. They couldn’t catch Ricky and stop him from bringing them to justice . . .

  He had been running for twenty-five minutes and his energy was spent. He stopped suddenly, his body doubled over as he gasped for breath. Only after thirty seconds of inhaling deeply did he look around
.

  He was outside an old church whose stones were black from pollution. The church sat alongside a busy road, but there were very few pedestrians here. Even so, Ricky felt conspicuous. A panel on the railing surrounding the entrance said: ‘The Church of All Souls, Harlesden’.

  – Don’t just stand in the middle of the pavement where anybody can see you. Conceal yourself!

  The voice in his head was giving him good advice. Ricky’s eyes fell on the heavy wooden door of the church. He approached it and tried the iron handle. To his surprise, it twisted open. He stepped into the church. His foster parents had put him off churches, but this one looked like the normal everyday sort, not the kind they had dragged him along to.

  It was several degrees colder inside. Ricky stood at the entrance looking around to see if there was anybody in here. It appeared to be deserted. A bright winter sun was shining through the stained glass behind the altar up ahead and the light dazzled him slightly so he moved to the shade at the side of the church.

  – You need an exit strategy.

  He looked at the far end of the church. There was a door behind the altar and Ricky could see that it was ajar. If a threat entered through the main door, he could leave by the rear.

  He sat down next to a bookcase full of prayer books. Here, he placed the briefcase on his lap. He had not seen Dmitri lock the case, so he wasn’t surprised when it clicked open.

  Ricky found that his hands were trembling as he removed the manila folder from inside.

  He winced. From somewhere in the church there was a very quiet, high-pitched whine. Like electrical interference, but very faint. He looked around quickly, double-checking that there was nobody here. But no, the place seemed deserted. Where was the noise coming from? The altar, perhaps?

  Or maybe he was imagining it. The noise was extremely faint, and when he concentrated on it, it seemed to fade away.

  He turned his attention back to the folder. His hands still shaking slightly, he opened it.