Agent 21: Codebreaker: Book 3 Page 3

  Zak ignored that. He was still catching up with what Michael had told him. ‘Is he crazy?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Michael said. ‘Unusual, but not unstable.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing in a secure hospital?’

  ‘The British government had him sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Rather a good idea actually, coming from them. So long as he’s certified insane, they can refuse to extradite him. Malcolm, alas, fails to see it that way. Admittedly, he doesn’t appreciate the full situation. He believes the authorities really do think he’s mentally disturbed.’

  Zak stared at his handler. ‘That’s horrible,’ he whispered.

  Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘He’s safe where he is, and can be looked after. Do you really think he’d receive the same level of care in a Federal jail – if the Americans even let him survive the extradition process? Or at the hands of the Chinese?’

  ‘The Chinese?’

  ‘Certainly. A computer hacker who is able to access the deepest secrets of American intelligence would be quite an asset, wouldn’t you say? We know for a fact that the Chinese are interested in Malcolm Mann. The Iranians too, as it happens. Believe me, he doesn’t understand the danger he’s in, or that for the moment his accommodation at Harrington is the safest place for him to be. Of course, it isn’t all charity. There are certain sectors within MI6 that would give their eyes and teeth to have Malcolm’s technical ability. He’s puzzle-mad, this lad. If he can’t get his hands on a computer, he’ll tackle anything – Sudokus, crosswords, logic puzzles . . . But now he’s been supplied with a computer and an Internet connection in the hope that his keystrokes can be logged. He has, alas, found his way round this. We’re none the wiser as to his methods.

  ‘The Americans have agents posted around the institution. We know they’re there; they know we know they’re there. So far they’ve not been so bold as to try to kidnap him, but if we move him, they’ll know about it. It would cause a diplomatic incident, bring the politicians on board. Nobody wants that.’

  There was a pause while Zak tried to get his head around this information. ‘Does he think he’s mad?’ he asked finally.

  ‘“Mad” isn’t really the word people use, Zak.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Another pause. ‘No,’ Michael said finally. ‘But, of course, nor do many people in such places, so he does rather fit in.’

  ‘I still don’t see what all this has to do with a bomb on the underground.’

  ‘Patience, Zak,’ Michael said in a low voice. ‘I’m coming to that.’ He cleared his throat and appeared to be collecting his thoughts. ‘This morning, at approximately 0100 hours, Malcolm asked to speak to his psychiatrist. In all the time he has been in the institution he hasn’t spoken once to an adult. Yesterday morning, he told his psychiatrist that there would be a terrorist attack at Pimlico Station very soon. Given Malcolm’s rather curious history, the psychiatrist immediately reported it. It was, as you’ve seen, ignored by the powers that be.’

  In his mind, Zak saw an image of a burning, mangled tube train and its burning, mangled passengers . . .

  ‘Why did they ignore it?’ he asked.

  Michael shrugged. ‘The authorities receive tip-offs galore, most of them from cranks and time-wasters. It’s normally the case that genuine tip-offs can be confirmed by more than one source. That’s the way intelligence gathering works. There was no real reason to believe that young Michael was doing anything other than trying to get attention.’

  ‘How did the kid know about the bomb?’ Raf asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Michael replied. ‘He won’t tell us. Like I say, he refuses to speak to adults. He believes he’s been poorly treated by them.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Zak muttered.

  ‘Possibly,’ Michael said.

  ‘Has he broken into the Americans’ systems again?’ Raf cut in. ‘Is that where he got the intel?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we should keep in mind. All he will say is this: that he will reveal his source when he’s released from the hospital. This is what the government intend to do. I disagree with the decision. Our security services are not as secure as they think they are. That’s one of the reasons we exist as an organization. If Malcolm Mann is released, I believe he will be in danger of assassination by the Americans or abduction by just about any other foreign power you care to name. And there are better ways of extracting information from people.’

  ‘You don’t mean torture?’ The words burst out of Zak.

  ‘Please, Zak. I’m not a barbarian. I would only condone that in the most extreme circumstances. No, it is the duty of our agency to do something a little cleverer, even if we are doing so behind the back of a blundering government. Which is where you come in.’

  Zak looked at Raf and Gabs; they were already staring directly at him.

  ‘You’re going to break him out of the hospital,’ Michael said. ‘We’ll plant the idea in the government’s head that the Americans did it, and in the Americans’ heads that the Chinese did it. While they’re all shouting at each other, we can concentrate on the important business of finding out exactly how he came by this information.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It strikes me, Zak, that you’ve asked that question before.’ There was a pause. ‘It has to be you because Malcolm doesn’t respond to adults. We’re gambling that he’ll follow someone his own age, so long as you play it right. And, of course, can avoid any . . . compromising situations with any agents from other countries who may be watching our young Malcolm.’

  ‘By play it right, you mean . . .’ Zak knew Michael well enough by now to realize that he would most likely already have a strategy.

  ‘I suggest lying to him,’ his handler said bluntly. ‘I want you to tell him that you’re his only way out of there. That you work for a government agency that makes use of young people like him, and that you’re the living proof. Be very persuasive, Zak. We need every last bit of information he can give you. Lives could depend on it.’

  ‘And when he’s told me everything? What then?’

  ‘Then we’ll inform the government that we’ve managed to locate him, extracted what information from him that we need, and put him straight back where he came from.’

  ‘For his own good?’

  ‘For his own good.’

  Zak sat very still. He didn’t know why, but he had an urge not to let any emotion show on his face. Not that he didn’t feel it. Half of him was shocked at Michael’s callousness, that he would let this boy rot in an institution and not even tell him why. The other half was excited. No other word for it. His mouth was suddenly dry with anticipation, his heart beating slightly faster. In a corner of his mind he wondered if it would always be like this, every time he was sent out on a job. He hoped so. Being stuck here on St Peter’s Crag with Gabs and Raf had its advantages, but it was a lonely way to live. He realized that, after two major operations, one in Mexico and one on the high seas, he missed the thrill of being out in the field – of putting all his expertise into action, even if it was dangerous. It crossed his mind that Michael was shaping him to be that way, but he dismissed that thought almost immediately.

  ‘When do I leave?’ he asked.

  Michael gave him a satisfied smile. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘The government plan to release Malcolm Mann tomorrow. That means we have to get him out tonight.’

  3

  GREEN LIGHT

  London. The same day. 1545hrs

  IT NEVER FAILED to amaze Zak how quickly his surroundings could change. This morning he had been on the lonely island of St Peter’s Crag. By mid-afternoon a helicopter containing him, Gabs and Raf was touching down on a helipad at the top of a tall building in Canary Wharf.

  Zak wore aviator shades, a grey, oversized beanie hat and had a plain black rucksack slung over his shoulder. Flanked by Raf and Gabs, he descended to street level. Bankers in suits hurried by, mobiles pressed to their ears.
There was a high police presence on the streets, and there was barely a pedestrian who didn’t eye these uniformed officers nervously. But they were far too busy to notice the three of them climb into the back of an ordinary London black cab, its orange FOR HIRE sign extinguished. The driver barely acknowledged them. He certainly didn’t speak as the cab glided away from the wharf into the centre of town. ‘Only way to travel,’ Gabs said with a half-smile. ‘Nothing so ordinary as a black cab in London. Park anywhere, drive in bus lanes. MI5 have a whole fleet of them.’ She nodded at the driver. ‘And us too,’ she said.

  Zak knew London well, having lived in Camden with his cousin Ellie and his aunt and uncle, after the death of his parents. And he was also familiar with the apartment in Knightsbridge to which they drove. He’d been here once before, in advance of his first ever op. He remembered how on edge he’d been as he waited to take a flight to Mexico City, where his mission was to befriend Cruz Martinez, the son of South America’s most notorious drug trafficker. He felt a pang of guilt. The last time Zak had seen Cruz was as he’d disappeared beneath the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Zak pushed the guilt from his mind. Cruz had brought his death on himself. He’d made his own choices.

  Now, on his second visit to the apartment, Zak felt different. Nervous? Sure. But better prepared. More confident in his own abilities. In his own training.

  The flat was luxurious – a snooker table, every games console under the sun, a fridge full of food in a kitchen bigger than most people’s houses – but neither Zak nor his Guardian Angels were interested in any of that. They concentrated on the three brown parcels waiting for them on the kitchen table. Raf and Gabs took the parcels marked Agent 16 and Agent 17 respectively. Zak opened the parcel marked Agent 21.

  It contained five objects.

  The first looked like an ordinary hotel keycard. Zak knew, though, from his briefing with Michael, that it wasn’t for an ordinary hotel. This was his ticket in and out of Harrington Secure Hospital. It would open every door he came across. At least, that was the idea.

  The second object was a shiny new iPhone, pre-programmed with distress codes Zak hoped he wouldn’t need, and with detailed electronic mapping of the hospital.

  The third looked a little like an electric shaver, but with two metal prongs emerging from one end. This was a Taser. Powerful enough to stun but not kill. ‘The hospital wardens patrol alone,’ Michael had told him. ‘There’s never more than two at a time in the building itself.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound all that secure to me,’ Zak had said.

  ‘Don’t get blasé, Agent 21. It only takes a single person to raise the alarm. If anybody sees you, you need to put them out of action. And I can’t emphasize enough how you need to be eyes on for any other interested parties in the vicinity. Remember, other agencies from outside the UK have young Malcolm in their sights, and we cannot afford to lose him.’

  Item four: a wallet. It contained £200 in used notes, a credit card and a library card for Marylebone library. The library card had Zak’s photo, but a different name. He had learned that names were like clothes – you wear whatever’s most suitable for the job in hand. This particular name was a garment he’d worn before: Harry Gold. It was Harry who had travelled to Mexico. Harry who had befriended Cruz. Harry who had watched as Gabs gunned down his new friend’s father, the man responsible for the death of Zak’s parents. ‘Hello, mate,’ he murmured, before slipping the card back into the wallet and turning his attention to item five.

  It was a weapon: a five-shot, 9mm Smith and Wesson snubnose revolver, housed in a neat leather ankle holster. Like Michael had said before they left, a secure hospital is exactly the kind of place you want to keep your firearm hidden in an unexpected location. If you came across an unstable inmate, you wouldn’t want them to find your gun.

  Raf and Gabs had no such worries. They would not be entering Harrington, so their parcels contained Browning semi-automatics, with extra magazines of 9mm rounds. For thirty seconds or so the silence in the apartment was broken only by the clicking and clunking of each of them carefully checking their weapons and making them safe. It wasn’t until they were stowed away that Gabs spoke.

  ‘Ready, sweetie?’ she asked.

  ‘Ready,’ said Zak.

  2357hrs

  They had ditched the black cab. Now they sat in a black Honda CR-V in the darkness of the Cowper Lane Retail Park in South London. Zak had counted three other identical vehicles on the way here. True, they probably didn’t have reinforced polycarbonate windows, enough to withstand all but the highest-impact rounds, but it was such a common make of vehicle that nobody would look at them twice. Perfect cover.

  The retail park was deserted. PC World, Mothercare and Marks & Spencer were all closed at this time of night, and theirs was the only vehicle in the vast car park. The car park faced onto Cowper Road itself – a busy thoroughfare, but without any pedestrians as they were at least half a mile from the nearest residential area, pubs or restaurants.

  Raf sat in the driving seat, his eyes switching between the side- and rear-view mirrors. Gabs sat in the back with Zak. ‘Remember,’ she breathed. ‘Michael thinks the hospital could be being watched. We can’t take the vehicle too close at this time of night – it’ll attract attention. Don’t lose your guard once you’ve extracted the target.’

  Zak nodded. He had lost the shades and the beanie, and wore a black T-shirt and a pair of combats baggy enough to disguise the snubnose at his ankle.

  ‘And, Zak,’ Raf said. The blond man was looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I was watching you back on St Peter’s Crag. You don’t approve of Michael keeping this kid under lock and key. Fine. That’s your choice. Just don’t let it get in the way of your job. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  Zak sniffed, but didn’t answer.

  ‘He’s right, sweetie,’ Gabs said quietly.

  Zak avoided her eye. Instead, he peered out of his window using a small, handheld scope to take in the surroundings and match them up to the maps of the area he’d already memorized on the chopper flight. The hospital was on the other side of Cowper Road, with another road called The Avenue running at ninety degrees to Cowper and along the eastern edge of the hospital. The hospital itself was surrounded first by its own car park, about the size of four or five tennis courts, and then by a wire fence about two metres high. He counted only seven vehicles parked on the hospital premises, but the barrier by the entrance was still manned – Zak focused in on a sturdy-looking man reading a newspaper in his little booth who would no doubt not even notice him if he walked along Cowper Road and turned right into The Avenue and along the eastern side of Harrington. Zak observed that the section of The Avenue that ran alongside the hospital was closed to road traffic – two wide orange barriers and a sign indicating that roadworks were about to start. He wondered if Michael had been pulling strings.

  He double-checked that his keycard and phone were in his back pocket. Then he nodded at Gabs. ‘I’m going in,’ he said, and he stepped out of the vehicle.

  It was a warm night, but very humid. A storm was coming. You could smell it in the air and almost immediately he left the vehicle, Zak heard a low rumble of thunder in distance. As he walked out of the retail park and left along Cowper Road, he came to a bus stop. A boy and a girl, both about sixteen, were snogging ferociously and clearly didn’t even notice him as he passed. There was, so far as he could see, nobody else around – just cars and buses passing through. He kept his head down, and at the end of Cowper Road he crossed over and turned right, passing the orange barriers in the road itself.

  He was on the eastern edge of Harrington Secure Hospital’s car park now, walking alongside the high wire fence. On the opposite side of The Avenue was a children’s playground – deserted, obviously – with common ground beyond it that disappeared into the night. The blackness unnerved Zak. It was like a cloak, hiding who knows what. He walked along the narr
ow pavement, keeping his head down. Only when he was adjacent to the hospital building itself did he stop.

  The building was approximately twenty metres beyond the metal fence. From his rucksack, Zak took a pair of sturdy wire cutters and started cutting a small hole in the bottom of the fence. It took about thirty seconds to breach the perimeter. It crossed his mind that it had been rather easy and that anyone could easily do it, but then he reminded himself of something: the security here was to stop people getting out, not in.

  He checked all around. No sign that anyone had seen him. And so he approached the building.

  It was a bleak-looking place. Zak remembered the time his mum had taken him to hospital when he broke his arm falling from a tree. The memory gave him a pang – it seemed like a lifetime ago. But as he approached the grey walls of the building, for a second he was back at that hospital, crying as his mum tenderly squeezed his good hand.

  Zak yanked himself back to the present. He was by a side door, sturdy and grey. There were bins outside it, which suggested to Zak that these were the kitchens. A good place to gain access at this time of night. Supper over, breakfast not for several hours. If anywhere was going to be deserted, it was here. To the side of the door was a keycard slot. It had a tiny red light above it, which flashed green as Zak inserted his card. The door clicked open and he was in.

  The kitchens were dark. From his rucksack, Zak took a pencil-thin torch and switched it on. A beam of light – red, because that would preserve his night vision – cut through the darkness like a laser. As he moved it around the room it illuminated steel worktops and chiller cabinets. There was a strange smell – half disinfectant, half boiled vegetables. On the other side of the kitchen, ten metres away, was a second door, with the red glow of another key-card slot just to its right.

  Zak strode across the kitchen, stowed his torch and slid the keycard into the slot.

  Green light.