Agent 21: Codebreaker: Book 3

by Chris Ryan

  Zak did as he was told, to find himself face to face with Rodney Hendricks. He had a handgun pointed at Zak’s forehead, and he had murder in his eyes.

  21

  MURDER IN HIS EYES

  ‘HARRY GOLD.’ HENDRICKS spoke in little more than a whisper.

  ‘Lee Herder,’ Zak replied.

  Hendricks’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you find out?’

  Zak didn’t answer immediately. He forced himself not to look towards the manhole. He wanted to give Hendricks no clue that Raf and Gabs were down there. If Hendricks thought they were dead – which he no doubt did – he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot them if they turned up alive. He just prayed they heard what was happening.

  ‘Ludgrove was investigating your brother’s death,’ Zak told him. ‘He was a good reporter.’

  Hendricks sneered. ‘He was too close to working out who I really was. That’s why he had to go. He won’t be meddling in anybody else’s affairs.’ His little round glasses were covered in raindrops. His beard was wet and dripping.

  Keep him talking, Zak thought to himself. As long as he’s talking, he’s not shooting. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I noticed that. I can’t help wondering how you lured him to Westminster Bridge.’

  ‘I guess you’ll have to carry on wondering,’ said Hendricks. ‘How did you know where the bombs were?’

  ‘The long-tailed shrike,’ Zak breathed. ‘Your codes were easy to crack if you knew where to look for them. What I don’t understand is why you put them out there in the first place.’

  Hendricks gave a mirthless snort of laughter. Zak noticed that his gun hand was shaking slightly.

  There was no movement from the manhole. Raf and Gabs clearly knew not to emerge. The hole itself was immediately to his nine o’clock. Hendricks was two metres away to his twelve o’clock. He had lowered his gun slightly so that it was pointing at Zak’s chest.

  ‘You don’t need to know that, Harry Gold,’ Hendricks breathed. ‘It hardly matters to you any more, in any case.’

  Zak stepped backwards, away from Hendricks. One pace. Two paces. Hendricks’s hand was still shaking. He’s a coward, Zak told himself. He prefers to massacre people with a bomb than to get his hands dirty . . .

  Hendricks didn’t lower the gun, but he stepped forward. He was next to the manhole cover now. When a clap of thunder cracked overhead, his hand jolted along with his frightened body.

  There was movement behind Hendricks. A vehicle turned into Chalker Mews. Its headlamps were on full beam. They lit up the heavy rain and cast long shadows along the cobbled street. At first, Zak thought the vehicle had stopped, but after a couple of seconds he realized it was moving slowly towards them. Hendricks surely knew it was there. He had to be able to see how the headlamps cast both his shadow and Zak’s against the back wall of the mews. Its arrival, however, didn’t seem to surprise or concern him. Zak could only assume he was expecting it. And that couldn’t be good news.

  Zak stepped backwards again, another two paces. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ he whispered.

  Hendricks advanced once more, just as Zak had hoped he would. That was his mistake.

  The manhole was behind him now. Out of sight. Zak grabbed his chance. ‘Now!’ he shouted.

  A look of confusion crossed Hendricks’s face. What did the boy mean? It was only at the very last second that he realized the instruction wasn’t meant for him. By then it was too late. Gabs had emerged from the manhole in absolute silence, like a snake from a jar. Only the upper half of her body was above ground level, but that was enough. She leaned towards Hendricks and hooked an arm around one of his ankles. Then she tugged.

  A shot rang out from Hendricks’s weapon, but he was already falling as he fired. The round sped harmlessly past Zak’s right thigh and embedded itself in the brick wall behind him. Hendricks hit the ground. He tried to regroup, to aim in Zak’s direction once more, but Zak was too quick for him. He lurched forward and kicked the weapon from his assailant’s hand. It clattered across the cobblestones as Gabs emerged fully from the manhole, followed immediately by Raf.

  Hendricks started crawling away, desperately trying to get his hands back on the weapon, but Raf was on him in an instant. He grabbed him by his thinning hair and pulled him to his feet. Hendricks cried out in pain as Gabs shot past him and retrieved the handgun. Zak’s attention, however, was elsewhere.

  The vehicle in Chalker Mews was now about twenty metres away from their position. Its lights were still blindingly bright – Zak had to squint to look at it – but the car itself had come to a halt. A door opened on either side and four figures stepped out into the rain.

  To Zak, blinded by the glare of the headlamps, they were little more than shadows. He could, however, make out the silhouettes of their weapons. They were not carrying handguns like Hendricks, but sub-machine guns, and they were raising them in the direction of the quartet at the end of the mews.

  Zak felt a moment of relief. Armed response. They were safe. But then he saw Hendricks’s face. There was a cruel gleam of elation, and in that instant Zak realized that these gunmen were not here to help him, Raf and Gabs. They were the enemy.

  ‘GET DOWN!’ he roared, flinging himself to the ground as he did so. His Guardian Angels reacted immediately, slamming their bodies down against the cobbles. They hit the dirt just in time. Three individual shots rang out, and Zak felt the displacement of air as a round flew a metre directly above where he was hugging the ground.

  Two more shots, but from Gabs this time. Her aim was accurate and each round shattered one of the vehicle’s headlamps, plunging Chalker Mews back into sudden darkness.

  More gunfire from beside the vehicle, but because the lights were out their aim was now awry. Zak and his Guardian Angels moved with one thought. Forget Hendricks: get to safety. He rolled along the wet cobbles towards the manhole. Once he reached it, he didn’t bother with the ladder, but just jumped back down into the relative safety of the tunnel before hurling himself out of the way to give Raf and Gabs the chance to follow suit. Raf came first, landing heavily on the ground. Gabs followed immediately afterwards. She was altogether more fleet of foot – as she hit the ground, she was already twisting her body around and aiming the handgun back up through the manhole. She fired a warning shot out onto the street, then fell to one knee, her gun arm stretched out, ready to fire on anyone who appeared in her field of view.

  Silence. Just the rain.

  And then the squealing of tyres up above, growing louder. In his mind, Zak saw the vehicle speeding up to the manhole before it screeched to a halt. A clatter of footsteps, and then a voice with a heavy European accent reached their hiding place. ‘All right, Hendricks, in the car. Vamos.’ The man spoke Spanish.

  ‘Where . . . where are we going?’ Hendricks’s voice was flustered.

  ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think, idiot? Señor Martinez, of course.’

  A scuffling sound. Shadows fell across the open manhole. Gabs kept her arm straight and her aim true, but nobody entered her line of fire.

  Zak heard the noise of doors slamming shut, and the vehicle reversing at great speed. And then there was silence once more.

  Simply the rain on the cobbles, and the frenzied beating of his heart.

  The interior of the car that ushered Rodney Hendricks away from Chalker Mews was very warm. So warm that his wet clothes started to steam, and his skin to itch. But he wasn’t paying attention to the steam or the soreness. He was paying attention to the armed men, one on either side, two in the front. They didn’t speak to him. They didn’t even look at him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  No answer.

  ‘I demand that you tell me where we are going.’

  The gunman to his right finally honoured him with a stare. His lip curled. You are in no position to demand anything, he seemed to say, though in reality he said nothing.

  The vehicle with no headlamps attr
acted warning horns from other cars. After about three minutes, the driver pulled into a side street and stopped. All four armed men climbed out. One of them pulled Hendricks’s arm to indicate that he should do the same.

  A Land Cruiser was parked just ahead of them. A gunman opened the rear door and pushed Hendricks into the back seat, where somebody was waiting for him.

  He was a thin young man. Not much older, Hendricks thought, than Harry Gold himself. There was a cold, cruel light in his eyes, and he remained silent until the gunmen had climbed into the vehicle and it had eased back into the traffic. Even then, his words were few and carefully chosen.

  ‘I confess myself disappointed,’ said the young man. ‘Your campaign has not been a success.’ His perfect English bore only the trace of a Spanish accent.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Señor Martinez,’ Hendricks mumbled.

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘The first bomb did what it was intended to do. The second bomb too, even though the hospital was evacuated.’

  Silence.

  Hendricks found himself stuttering. ‘The third . . . the third device was compromised.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  By chance – or perhaps by design – they had just arrived at Buckingham Palace. There was heavy security at the gates, but it was perfectly intact. Señor Martinez looked at it meaningfully.

  Hendricks was sweating into his damp clothes. He looked straight ahead, through the windscreen, as the Land Cruiser continued to drive.

  ‘I gave you a considerable sum of money, Mr Hendricks. Our agreement was quite clear. You target three locations in London. One to target the transport system, as has been done before to great effect. One to show you are able to kill even the most innocent in your society if necessary to achieve your aims. And one of your own choice. To prove your ingenuity to me, you announce in advance the location of each explosion by one of the methods we discussed. Should you manage to make the covert announcement and successfully detonate the bombs, I would know that you were sufficiently skilful to be part of my organization. I would then continue to fund your little hobby. You have your reasons for wanting to target the people of the UK – reasons in which I have no particular interest – and I have mine. It could have been a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, we failed to discuss what would happen if you did not manage to carry this operation out to my satisfaction. I think that is a discussion we ought to have now, don’t you?’

  Hendricks gave a barely noticeable nod.

  ‘How is it,’ the young man breathed, ‘that you came to fail so pathetically?’

  ‘The code,’ Hendricks whispered. ‘Someone cracked it. A . . . a boy. But I know his name. I can bring him to you. He is called Gold . . . Harry Gold . . .’

  Hendricks felt the young man’s body stiffen.

  ‘Are you trying to mock me?’ he breathed.

  Hendricks hardly knew what to say. ‘Of . . . of course not, Señor Martinez.’

  ‘Stop the car somewhere private,’ the young man told his driver.

  ‘Wh . . . what for?’ asked Hendricks.

  ‘So that we can continue our delightful conversation.’ He didn’t sound as though he found the conversation at all delightful. His voice was flat and monotone. There was a dead look in his eyes as the car crossed a bridge then took a small, badly kept road that meandered down to the edge of the river. It came to a halt and one of the gunmen opened the rear door again. He gave Hendricks an unfriendly nod to indicate that he should climb out. ‘Leave us,’ Señor Martinez told his guards once they were both outside the vehicle.

  They were alone now, standing in the rain on the bank of the Thames, the ground underfoot oozing mud. London glowed on the other side of the river – the Houses of Parliament, the Eye – but here it was dark, gloomy and deserted.

  The young man drew a gun. Hendricks stepped back, but slipped on the treacherous ground and fell clumsily. The tall teenager towered over him, his gun arm stretched out, the weapon pointing in his direction.

  ‘There is no room for failure in my organization, Mr Hendricks,’ he shouted over the noise of the rain. ‘And there is no room for anybody who might be in a position to tell Harry Gold that I am still alive.’ He stared at Hendricks, his eyes narrow and hard. ‘Harry and I, we have . . . history,’ he added. ‘Mexico, Africa . . . and the death of my father. Harry believes that I am dead. But as you can see, I am very much alive.’

  Hendricks looked at him, confusion for a moment pushing fear from his face. ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ he shouted. And then, when he saw the total lack of expression on the young man’s face, ‘I would never tell Harry Gold anything about you. I’ll even kill him for you, if you like.’

  The young man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will be the one to kill Harry Gold. This I have sworn.’ For the first time, a faint smile crossed his lips. ‘So I suppose I need a little bit of practice.’

  Hendricks shook his head. He tried to crawl away, but could not get a grip in the mud. ‘Please,’ he begged in a hoarse voice. ‘Please . . .’

  The young man inclined his head and looked almost curiously at his prey. Then he fired three shots.

  The first hit Hendricks in the stomach. The second in the neck. It was the third that killed him, blasting away a sizeable chunk of his skull and spattering the grey brain matter over the already oozing ground.

  Hendricks’s body twitched, then fell limp. The rain continued to fall, and the dirty water of the rising tide lapped gently against his corpse.

  The young man returned to his car, his face lost in thought. He did not speak to his guards, and they knew better than to speak to him, or to mention the blood spatter on his wet clothes. They were a silent party as they drove south, out of London and into the countryside beyond.

  EPILOGUE

  One week later

  On a windswept island off the coast of Scotland, a boy looked out to sea.

  Zak Darke had not trained since returning to St Peter’s Crag, nor had he taken any lessons. Raf and Gabs had not said to him that their work was suspended, but they clearly did not have the stomach for it either. When Zak had told them about Michael’s injury, they had grown pale. And now, on the rare occasions that they spoke, they avoided the subject. They hid their anxiety with awkward conversations about the weather. There was no concrete news from anyone higher up in the organization, no confirmation that their handler was either dead or alive. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, sweetie,’ Gabs had whispered when he’d told them what had happened at the warehouse. But that was easy to say and less easy to do. Guilt was all Zak felt. Nothing would make it go.

  Gazing from the window in his bedroom, he narrowed his eyes. Through the mist surrounding the island, he saw something in the sky. A shadow, which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It could have been anything: a bird, a cloud formation. Zak sprinted from his room anyway, along the corridor and down the wide staircase that led to the entrance hall. At the front door, he quickly tapped a numeric code, then shot outside and peered into the distance. There was only one way to leave or arrive at this island: by helicopter. Sure enough, a chopper was landing fifty metres from the house. It stayed on the ground for less than a minute. By the time it had lifted off again, a figure had emerged, and now it was limping slowly towards the house with the aid of a stick.

  Michael’s features did not become clear until he was twenty metres away from the house. By this time, Raf and Gabs had arrived. Gabs ran towards the old man, and even Raf – normally so stern – had a grin on his face. The sight of Michael’s thin, pallid face as, helped by Gabs, he limped into the house, was not enough to dampen Zak’s sudden elation. Michael was alive.

  The old man was wheezing by the time he was sitting in an armchair in his office. Zak, Raf and Gabs waited silently and respectfully for him to regain his breath. They had a thousand questions, but they knew Michael would only answer them in his own time.

  He addressed Zak first. ‘I have my life t
o thank you for, Zak. I’ll never forget that.’ With those words, Zak’s guilt lifted. ‘Next time you decide to shoot me, however, I’d appreciate it if you used a slightly softer round.’

  Zak grinned at him; Michael just winced. From his pocket he pulled a piece of paper. It was a child’s crayon drawing, very colourful. At the top of the page was what looked like a black helicopter. A rope was hanging from it, and at the end of the rope a stick man. Underneath, in unsure lettering, were the words ‘thank you’.

  ‘From Ruby MacGregor,’ Michael said. ‘The little girl you and Gabs rescued from the hospital. I’m told she’s doing very well.’

  Zak stared at the picture. Was that really how other people saw him? He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

  Michael’s face grew serious again. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said. And so Zak did. He left nothing out, and when he had finished there was a silence in the room for a full minute. ‘It sounds like young Ruby and I are not the only ones who owe you a great deal, Zak. You’ll be pleased to know that the explosion under the palace caused no significant damage – all easily repairable and those tunnels are being sealed as we speak – and all relevant principals were evacuated as soon as the news of the bomb had been received, followed rapidly by all others on site, so there were no casualties. Also, no doubt, you’ll be intrigued to learn that Rodney Hendricks was found murdered by the banks of the Thames. It seems he was killed the same night he tried to destroy the palace.’

  ‘Why?’ Zak asked.

  Michael pressed his fingers together. ‘Hard to say, Zak. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure. At a guess, I’d say that his coded messages were aimed at a third party. Perhaps he was trying to prove himself – that not only could he target major landmarks, but that he was also clever enough to reveal where they were, under our noses, without us realizing. He was wrong, of course – thanks to you, and young Malcolm Mann.’

  Malcolm. Other than noticing his absence when returning to the flat – and they had spent only hours there before Gabs and Raf had called in to report and the agency had whisked them back up to Scotland – the strange boy had almost slipped Zak’s mind. With obvious difficulty, Michael put one hand into her coat and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to Zak. It showed Malcolm. His arm was in a sling, but he was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and walking along a golden beach. ‘South Africa,’ Michael said, answering the question on Zak’s lips. ‘And no, I don’t know how he got there – although I do believe the four of us – plus the agent who took this photograph – are now the only other people in the world who know that’s where he’s escaped to. I’ll be keeping my eye on him. It may be that we need his particular skill set before long.’