Under Cover (Agent 21)

by Chris Ryan

  20

  TRACKED

  There were only four sheets of paper inside. The first was headed:

  Security Clearance 1

  Trident Nuclear Deterrent

  Location Codes

  The rest of the page was filled with sequences of numbers that meant nothing to Ricky. But he knew that in the wrong hands, this single piece of paper could spell disaster.

  Felix’s voice rang in his head. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘nuclear winter’? Ricky shuddered. It was frightening to think that such an innocent-looking piece of paper had the potential to cause so much horror. He found himself automatically memorizing the codes.

  He put it to one side, and looked at the next document in the folder. This was completely different. Stapled to the top of the sheet was a passport photograph of a man with a friendly, open face and dark, scruffy hair. His name, according to the attached document, was Alistair Bishop. But the document explained that he had other names too: James Marshall, Raymond Carrick, Thomas Parker . . .

  Ricky’s mind flashed back to his first meeting with Felix. What was it Felix had said? Names. Some are more suitable than others for different occasions. Back then, Ricky had assumed that someone with lots of different names would be a criminal. Now it seemed more likely that they were part of the secret world. Like Felix. Like Zak, the boy who had just saved him.

  Like Ricky himself.

  Ricky read on. The first main paragraph of the document told him exactly who Alistair Bishop was:

  Bishop is currently Moscow correspondent for The Times. This is deep cover. He is an MI6 operative with excellent access to several high-level Russian ministers. In the past twelve months he has forwarded large quantities of classified intelligence which MI6 consider to be of especially high quality.

  Ricky blinked. He knew very little about the secret world, but he knew this: if the likes of Dmitri found out that this guy was a British spy, it would end very badly for him.

  He looked through the remaining documents. They contained the details of three more British agents. There was a Russian national high up in the Russian navy. There was a female aid worker in the Ukraine. And finally an English teacher at a school in St Petersburg where wealthy and influential Russians sent their children . . .

  – You understand what this is, right? Cole is selling the details of British agents working undercover abroad. If Dmitri and his friend get their hands on this information, these people are as good as dead.

  – And Cole said there was plenty more where these came from . . .

  Ricky felt his lip curling with distaste.

  Suddenly he winced again. That high-pitched whining had returned. Or maybe it had been there all along, and Ricky had zoned it out. He looked around again. There was definitely nobody else in the church. So where was it coming from?

  – Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. You need to think what you’re going to do next.

  Ricky looked at the documents in his hands. Perhaps he should destroy them now. That way the Russians could never get their hands on them. But something stopped him. If he destroyed the documents, he would destroy the hard evidence he had against Cole. He thought of Izzy, so terrified of her abusive father that she could never go home.

  His lip curled again. He wasn’t going to let Cole get away with this. No way.

  He placed the documents back in the metal briefcase. Then he clicked it shut.

  His eyes narrowed. The whining sound had stopped.

  A new tendril of fear unravelled itself in Ricky’s gut. He slowly opened the briefcase again. The whining sound returned.

  It felt as though Ricky was moving in slow motion. He took the folder out of the briefcase and laid it on the pew next to him. Then he examined the briefcase a little more closely.

  It took about ten seconds for him to realize that the briefcase had a false base. He managed to worm his fingers round the edges and detach it.

  The sight of what lay below made his breath catch in his throat. There was a mess of loose wires: brown, blue and yellow. They were connected to a circuit board and to a small battery cell with two AA batteries. For a horrible moment, Ricky thought he was looking at an explosive device. But then his eyes picked out a small chip soldered to the circuit board. In narrow white lettering it contained the letters: GPS.

  Ricky touched the mess of wires. The whining sound stopped. There was clearly a loose connection somewhere. If there hadn’t been, he would never have known that the suitcase contained what was, quite obviously, a tracking device.

  And if there was a tracking device, it meant there was someone tracking him.

  The Russians.

  – Get the batteries out. Quickly! Disable it!

  As soon as that thought rebounded in his head, he heard the screeching of tyres outside and he felt a surge of adrenalin.

  – They’re here! THEY’VE FOUND YOU!

  Ricky’s fingers felt suddenly clumsy as he fumbled to remove the batteries from the cell. Once they were out, he shoved them in his pocket and replaced the false base. He slammed the briefcase shut, then grabbed the folder. Removing his rucksack from his back, he crammed the documents inside. His fingers touched the jewellery he had stolen from Izzy’s house the night before, but right now he wasn’t thinking about diamonds. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder again, grabbed the briefcase and sprinted up the aisle.

  – Put the briefcase on top of the altar. When they see it, they’ll stop to look inside. It’ll give you a few extra seconds.

  Ricky did as the voice in his head told him. However, as he laid the briefcase on the altar, he heard voices outside. They were shouting in Russian. He had barely taken two steps away from the altar when the heavy door of the church swung open. Dmitri and Gregoriev appeared. They took one look at Ricky and sprinted up the aisle towards him, their heavy boots echoing around the church as they ran.

  Ricky sprinted for the door behind the altar and slipped through it. It led into a dark, poky vestry, and to his horror there was no external door – just a small window that couldn’t be opened. Frosted glass, wooden frame with peeling paint. Ricky spun round and examined the door. There was an internal bolt, which meant he could lock himself into this little room. He quickly engaged the bolt – just in time, because a second later he heard the heavy thumping of a fist against the door itself.

  But now he was stuck inside, sweating and panicking . . .

  – Think. Think!

  Ricky took in the contents of the room with a single glance. Along one wall was a line of priest’s cassocks, and along the opposite wall was another bookcase full of prayer books.

  He needed to hide the documents. It was only a matter of time before the Russians broke their way into the vestry. Minutes, if he was lucky. More likely seconds. He quickly strode up to the bookcase and removed a prayer book. Opening it up, he ripped out clumps of pages from the middle . . .

  There was a sudden thump on the door. It rattled alarmingly in the door frame. Ricky could picture either Dmitri or his mate shoulder-barging the door.

  – It’s not going to hold!

  Ricky lowered his rucksack and shoved his hand inside. He pulled out the documents, folded them twice and then placed them in the cavity he had created in the hymn book.

  There was another colossal crash against the door. The iron latch shuddered.

  – You’ve got less than thirty seconds!

  Ricky hesitated for a moment. Then he dug inside his rucksack for a second time and pulled out Izzy’s mum’s jewellery. He placed this inside the hymn book along with the documents, then carefully returned the doctored book to the shelf. He took a split second to satisfy himself that the damaged book looked no different to the others, then he took the ripped-up pages and shoved them inside the pocket of the dustiest, least-used cassock he could find. There was a pen inside the cassock. Instinctively, Ricky pocketed it for himself.

  Thud!

  An alarming creaking sound accompanied the third s
houlder-barge on the door. One more, maybe two, and the Russians would be in here.

  Ricky grabbed another prayer book from a different shelf. Then he turned his attention to the window.

  It was about two metres off the ground. In size, a metre square. Ricky reckoned he could climb through it, but he needed to shatter the glass first. He pushed the table up to the wall and lifted the heavy chair onto it.

  Thud!

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ricky could see that the bolt was splintering away from the door frame. He jumped onto the table, then awkwardly lifted the chair and slammed it feet first against the window.

  The glass held.

  He slammed again. Nothing.

  Thud!

  The bolt splintered inwards. The door was a couple of centimetres ajar.

  – It’ll only take one more hit!

  For the third time, Ricky slammed the chair against the glass, putting behind it all the strength his exhausted body could muster.

  Finally, it gave way.

  For the second time that morning, the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. Ricky threw the chair back towards the door – one more obstacle to slow the Russians down. There was still some jagged glass around the window frame, so he used his sleeve to force it away, then winced as a shard of glass sliced into the back of his hand. It started bleeding badly, but he couldn’t let that slow him down. Clutching the prayer book and the pen, he practically hurled himself through the open window, falling heavily on the hard ground outside.

  He winced as his knees and ankles jarred, then collapsed into a heap.

  Half a metre away from where he was standing, he saw a pair of feet.

  He looked up.

  Jacob Cole was staring down at him.

  Cole’s face was twisted with anger. There was a mad fire in his eyes, his grey hair was dishevelled and a vein pumped in his neck. He took a threatening step towards Ricky.

  Two steps.

  Ricky heard a clattering on the other side of the open window, and he knew the Russians had got into the vestry. He looked around. He was in a cobbled alleyway along the end of the church. High above him was the stained-glass window he’d seen from inside. The only way out was along the alleyway, which meant getting past Cole.

  Ricky held the pen in his good hand, the prayer book in his bleeding one. He pushed himself up to his feet.

  Cole sneered nastily. ‘I won’t be giving autographs today,’ he said. ‘And I really think it’s a bit late for prayers, don’t you, you stupid little boy?’

  Ricky looked at the prayer book. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

  He moved quickly. With a sudden, sharp gesture he whacked the sturdy spine of the prayer book hard against Cole’s neck. Cole made a pained, strangled sound, then staggered uncertainly. But Ricky wasn’t finished with him yet. With a brutal swipe of his arm, he stabbed the pen hard into Cole’s right thigh. It punctured his trousers and sank deep into his flesh.

  Cole howled in agony. Ricky left the pen sticking out of his leg, then jumped to his feet. ‘That’s for Izzy,’ he hissed, before pushing his open palm hard against Cole’s face and knocking him out of the way.

  He glanced back. Dmitri was already climbing out of the broken window.

  – Run.

  The voice in his head was more urgent than it had ever been.

  – Run! Run! Run!

  Ricky skittlered down the alleyway. He knew he had to find reserves of energy and speed from somewhere, and somehow he did. He ignored the blood flowing from his hand as he flew across the cobblestones. The open end of the alleyway was thirty metres away. He looked back over his shoulder to see Dmitri the same distance behind him. The welt that Ricky had inflicted on the Russian’s face looked even worse than before, but Dmitri wasn’t running after him. Instead he had pulled out his gun and was cocking it.

  Ricky sprinted even faster. Twenty metres to the exit. His skin tingled. He knew the gunshot was coming soon. Pictures flashed into his mind of the horrific, fatal wound the Russians had inflicted on the guy in the café.

  – Swerve! It’ll make you a more difficult target!

  He veered left and right. Fifteen metres to the exit.

  Gunshot!

  He knew exactly where the bullet had hit. On the wall, just to his left. It ricocheted off at an angle just in front of him, sending a cloud of powdered brick up into the air. Some of the debris smarted against his face, and he winced. But he kept moving forward, still swerving as he went, putting as much distance between himself and the gunman as he could.

  Ten metres to the exit.

  His muscles burned.

  Five metres.

  – Look out!

  Suddenly the opening to the alleyway was blocked. Gregoriev was there. The huge bulk of his body seemed to fill the exit, and he was holding the metallic briefcase flat out in front of him. Although Ricky tried to swerve past him he knew, without question, that he’d never manage it.

  Two seconds later he collided with the briefcase. It was like hitting a brick wall. Ricky felt the wind knocked from his lungs as he smashed into the sturdy metal. Then he shouted out in pain. The Russian had grabbed him by his bleeding hand. Now he had his other immense fist round Ricky’s neck and was squeezing so hard that Ricky felt his knees collapsing beneath him.

  He struggled and writhed, trying to get away, but it was no good. The Russian had him.

  And then the others were there – Dmitri and Cole. Ricky felt a sudden, heavy boot in his guts and a nasty, choking, coughing sound erupted from his throat.

  He heard Cole’s thin, weasly voice. ‘What are we going to do with him?’

  Another boot in the pit of his stomach. Ricky saw stars.

  Dmitri’s voice. A low, angry rumble. ‘First,’ he said, ‘we’re going to find out who put him up to this. Then we’re going to take back what we’ve paid for.’

  ‘What then?’ Cole hissed.

  ‘Then,’ said the Russian, ‘we’re going to kill him.’

  21

  FLASHBANG

  Ricky had never known fear like it.

  The two Russians had him, one on either side, gripping him hard around the elbow. Ricky struggled and writhed as they dragged him along the side of the church. Cole was limping alongside them. He had removed the pen from his leg, but had lost none of the anger in his eyes.

  Ricky racked his brains, trying to remember anything Felix had taught him that might be helpful in a situation like this. But none of his training had covered how to escape from two brutal thugs hell-bent on killing you. So he did the only thing that came to mind: he yelled.

  ‘Help! Help me!’

  ‘Shut him up,’ growled Dmitri. A split second later Ricky felt a fist connect violently with his stomach. He doubled over, gasping and spluttering. He wouldn’t be trying that again.

  They turned a corner and Ricky saw that they were at the front of the church again. There was a black people-carrier parked outside and the Russians dragged him towards it. In a matter of seconds he was inside and Dmitri had him pinned down in the back, a handgun digging sharply into his guts. Cole and Gregoriev were up front. The people-carrier screeched away. Nobody spoke. Sweat poured from Ricky’s clammy body almost as fast as the blood from his wounded hand. Half of him wanted to continue struggling. The other half knew that Dmitri would like nothing more than to slam a bullet into his guts.

  As they drove, the only sound came from Cole. His leg was obviously bothering him, and he kept muttering to himself – a low, unpleasant hiss, like a wounded snake. Ricky barely noticed where they were travelling. From the corner of his eye he saw a busy grey flyover and a signpost for the M1. He half registered a Big Yellow Storage Company, then twigged that they were in some faceless industrial estate.

  The people-carrier screeched to a halt outside some kind of big grey warehouse. A large white shutter covered the vehicle entrance. Dmitri held up a key fob, pressed a button and it automatically opened. It closed again once the vehicl
e was inside the warehouse.

  Total darkness. As Dmitri dragged Ricky out of the vehicle, the sound of the door slamming shut echoed for a good five seconds, making him realize that this was a big building. He felt himself being pressed violently down to his knees. The two Russians said something in their native language and a few seconds later a massive overhead strip light switched on. It was accompanied by an electric humming sound, just on the edge of Ricky’s hearing.

  Ricky saw that he was indeed in a massive warehouse. Stone floor. Iron rafters in the ceiling. He looked around for an exit strategy. There was a fire door at the far end of the warehouse, but it was heavily padlocked. In any case, if Ricky made a run for it, they’d shoot him down before he even went ten paces.

  Apart from that one door and the electric vehicle entrance, there was no means of escape.

  Dmitri stood over him. He had his gun pointing directly at his head. Not so close, though, that Ricky could reach out and grab the weapon. It struck him that Dmitri had done this sort of thing before.

  Gregoriev approached, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Ricky felt his strong hands patting him down. He located Ricky’s phone, pulled it out then dropped it on the floor and ground it into pieces with his heel.

  – The video evidence! It’s gone!

  But Ricky had more important things to worry about than his destroyed footage.

  ‘Hand over the documents,’ Dmitri demanded. ‘I don’t have them,’ Ricky whispered. His voice was hoarse, and after the kickings he’d received, it hurt to speak.

  Wrong answer. Dmitri’s knee cracked against the side of Ricky’s face. He felt his cheekbone go and a spurt of blood spray from his nose.

  ‘HAND OVER THE DOCUMENTS!’

  ‘I . . . don’t . . . have . . . them . . .’ Ricky gasped.

  Dmitri barked something in Russian and Gregoriev strode over and roughly yanked the rucksack off Ricky’s back. As Ricky cringed on the floor in pain, the Russian turned the rucksack inside out to empty its contents over the floor.

  Two items fell out. The first was the photograph of Ricky and his parents. The corner of the frame smashed against the hard floor. The letter from Madeleine followed. It settled on the ground next to the picture. The Russian grabbed it and pulled the letter from the envelope, clearly looking to see if Ricky had hidden the documents in there. When he saw it was just a letter, he screwed it up and threw it to the ground.