Agent 21 (12 page)

Michael tapped his keypad again. The image changed to a grainy, black-and-white photograph and it took a moment for Zak to work out what it showed. There was a dusty street with poor-looking shacks along either side. Lying on the ground, its body twisted, was a corpse. ‘This photograph was taken about six months ago. The body belongs to one of Martinez’s associates who saw fit to embezzle money from him. He was found shot by the side of the road.’

A third picture appeared.

It showed a tree with a low, overhanging branch. Suspended from the branch by their necks were five bodies, semi-rotted, two of them children. ‘Martinez has a penchant for the hangman’s noose,’ Michael said quietly. ‘The guy you just saw with a bullet in his head? These are the bodies of his wife, his two children, his sister and brother. They were hanged in their village as a warning for anyone else who thought it might be a good idea to cross Martinez. Nobody dared touch them until the flesh had rotted from the
bones. Even then, nobody gave them a decent burial for fear of upsetting him.’

Zak stared in horror at the picture, his eyes lingering on the corpses of the children. It changed to an image of another man, who was almost as chilling as the picture of the corpses. He was incredibly skinny with a shaven head and a stubbly beard. But it wasn’t his hair that fascinated Zak; it was his right eye – or lack of it. The skin had grown over the empty socket, so it looked as if the eye had never been there.

‘Adan Ramirez,’ Michael said. ‘Nickname
Calaca
, which means “skeleton”. I wouldn’t call him that to his face, though. He’s Martinez’s head of security, the man who does his dirty work. Martinez is the business brain behind the operation, the kingpin. But Calaca’s the brawn. It’s impossible to say how many men he’s killed. Chances are that he doesn’t even know himself. I imagine you probably stop counting after the first couple of dozen.’

Calaca’s good eye stared out from the whiteboard. ‘He looks like a total psycho,’ Zak said.

‘That’s not a bad description,’ replied Michael. ‘He is well suited for the jobs Martinez gives him. But he shouldn’t be underestimated. Calaca is a very shrewd operator, in some ways shrewder than Martinez himself.’ Michael was staring at Zak, who felt a bit uncomfortable.

‘If Martinez is such a monster,’ he said, ‘why don’t the Mexican government do something about him?’

‘That’s a good question, Zak. The answer is pretty simple: corruption. Martinez is one of the richest men in the world. That puts him in a very powerful position because it means he can bribe high-ranking members of the government. For years now, both the British and Americans have put pressure on the Mexican government to bring Martinez to book. But he has them in his pocket. As long as he keeps greasing palms in Mexico City, he’s untouchable.’

‘That’s awful,’ Zak said.

‘Yes,’ Michael replied. ‘It is. Which is why something needs to be done about it.’

The old man stood up from his desk and started to pace the room between Zak and the whiteboard. ‘Tell me, Zak,’ he said. ‘Are you a keen student of Greek mythology?’

‘Er . . . no, not really.’

‘That’s a great shame. The ancients have a great deal to teach us. Let me tell you about the city of Troy. It’s said that the Greeks laid siege to it for ten years, but because its walls were so tall and sturdy, they couldn’t get into the city. So in the end, they stopped using force and started using their brains. One of their commanders was a man named Odysseus. He instructed his soldiers to build an enormous wooden
horse. It was hollow, so that some of the Greeks could hide inside it. When it was finished, they left it at the gates of Troy as a gift, then the entire Greek army – apart from those who were inside the horse – retreated from sight. The Trojans thought the Greeks had departed for good and they brought the horse into the city. That night, when everyone was in bed, the soldiers hidden inside the horse crept out and opened the city gates. The Greeks flooded in and put every last man in Troy to the sword.’

‘Messy,’ Zak said.

‘Yes. I rather think it would have been.’

‘What’s this got to do with Martinez?’

Michael raised one eyebrow slightly. ‘Martinez,’ he said, ‘is like the Trojans. He has a wall around him too, in the form of an extensive personal guard. He lives in a compound approximately three miles south of Mexico City and his security is more robust than any world leader. To lead an assault on the Martinez compound would be like sparking a small-scale war; not to mention breaking I don’t know how many international laws.’

He stared straight at Zak. ‘What we need,’ he said, ‘is a Trojan Horse.’

The moment he said that, Gabs stepped forward. She and Raf had been standing next to each other behind Michael’s desk, quietly listening to his
presentation. Now her face looked concerned. ‘Michael,’ she said, ‘you can’t be thinking of sending Zak in—’

‘
Gabriella!
’ Michael spoke like a teacher. ‘
Please!
’

Gabs looked down at the floor, but she couldn’t hide her anxiety. Nor could Raf who, although he had remained quiet, was frowning with uncertainty.

Michael turned his attention back to Zak. ‘I want you to be our Trojan Horse,’ he said.

Zak glanced back towards the image on the whiteboard. Calaca gazed back at him.

‘Are you saying you want me to kill Martinez?’ he asked.

Michael shook his head. ‘No. You’re not an assassin, Zak. And in any case, we want Martinez alive. Nobody in the world knows more about the cartels waiting in the wings to take over if and when he dies or gets brought to justice. If we’re to stop someone just as bad from replacing him, we need that information. And we need it now. The British government want Martinez brought to book and they’re prepared to risk a war with the Mexicans to do it. They’re already making their preparations. If we can get our hands on him first, we can stop that.’

‘This should be the Americans’ job,’ Gabs interrupted. ‘Mexico’s on their doorstep.’

‘The Americans aren’t willing to risk it,’ Michael
said. ‘A major diplomatic incident on their southern border is the last thing they need, and in any case they know how clever Martinez is. Evidence of his activities is impossible to find. He’s a skilled operator who keeps himself totally separate from anything that would incriminate him. No, the only thing that can bring Martinez down is us. And the only way we can get close to him is if we have somebody on the inside. We plan to insert an agent into his compound in the hope that they can get proof of his activities. Once they’ve done that, they’ll need to direct a special forces team into the compound to abduct him. If we have Martinez in custody
and
evidence of his drug trafficking, the Mexican authorities will hardly be in a position to complain. Do you understand everything I’ve said so far?’

Zak nodded. He didn’t quite trust himself to speak and not sound terrified.

‘Martinez is a very careful man. We’ve known for some time that he employs body doubles, much like Saddam Hussein used to in Iraq. Martinez’s body doubles are better than Saddam’s ever were. Our intelligence suggests that there are five of them, and they’ve all undergone extensive plastic surgery to make them indistinguishable from their master. Plus, they’ve studied his gait and his mannerisms. Our understanding is that it’s extremely difficult to tell which is the
real Martinez, but we’re hoping that if somebody gets close enough, they’ll be able to do it.’

Zak frowned. ‘But . . . you can’t expect me to break in to Martinez’s compound without anybody knowing—’

‘Zak,’ Michael interrupted, ‘you haven’t been listening. Think of the Trojan Horse. The Greeks didn’t have to send it into the city covertly – the Trojans brought it in themselves.’ He pressed his keypad yet again and Calaca disappeared. A new face replaced him. It was a boy, about Zak’s age, maybe a little older. With his black hair and dark eyes he looked very like Martinez himself. But there were differences. While Martinez’s face had been emotionless, this one was more expressive. There was something sad about him. Something wary.

‘This,’ Michael said, ‘is Cruz, Martinez’s son. Look at his picture closely, Zak, because Cruz Martinez is about to become your new best friend.’

Zak stared at the picture.

‘When I say that Cruz is to become
your
best friend,’ Michael continued, ‘what I mean is that he’s to become Harry Gold’s best friend. It’s very important – and I can’t stress this enough – that the moment we take you away from this island, you leave Zak Darke behind. You’re fully familiar with Harry Gold’s past, so you must be aware of his great-uncle Frank?’

It was like flicking a switch as Zak started to spout everything he knew. ‘Frank Gold,’ he said. ‘Born 1931 in Blackburn, brother of Harry’s paternal grandfather John. Never married, no children. Worked as a structural engineer until emigrating to Mexico in 1995.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘
Mexico
. . .’ he repeated

Michael was nodding in satisfaction. It clearly pleased him that Zak could remember this information so well. He brought up a new picture on the whiteboard: a thin, elderly man with a lined face, a
bald head and sharp eyes. ‘Meet your great-uncle,’ he said. ‘You look confused. What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’ Zak shrugged. ‘I guess I kind of thought all these relatives of Harry’s were as made-up as him.’

‘Some are,’ Michael said, ‘and some aren’t. That’s the art of deception. The best lies are the ones that have an element of truth in them. Remember that. Of course, it’s probably crossed your mind that Frank Gold might not be everything he seems. He is, in fact, a long-serving MI6 field operative.’

‘What’s his real name?’

Michael sighed. ‘This obsession with real names, Zak. You really must let go of it. If you think things through, you’ll realize how important it is that you don’t know Frank’s “real” name any more than he should know yours. After all, there’s no way you can give up information you don’t have, is there?’

‘No,’ Zak replied. ‘I guess not.’

‘As you’re aware, Frank Gold has been living in Mexico City for the best part of fifteen years. His cover is good and he’s melted into the local community. He’s part of the scenery, really. And as luck would have it, he’s just extended an invitation to Harry to come and stay with him for a year. Frank was very upset by the death of Harry’s parents, you see, and would like to do what he can for the lad –
especially as Harry’s Spanish is excellent and he’s shown a real interest in Mexican culture.’ He looked over at Gabs. ‘Harry’s Spanish
is
excellent, isn’t it?’

Gabs nodded mutely and Michael winked at Zak, looking rather pleased with his deception; but the mention of dead parents had been like a knife in Zak’s guts, and he just looked down.

Michael continued talking. He didn’t appear to notice Zak’s pain. ‘Of course, as Harry’s guardian, Frank needs to make sure that his great-nephew continues his schooling, so he has enrolled Harry into the
Colegio de Mexico
, one of the finest educational establishments in the capital. This also happens to be the school that Cruz Martinez attends.’

‘How convenient,’ Zak murmured.

‘Isn’t it though? Harry needs to make friends with him, Zak. Good friends. Hopefully that will give you a reason for being in Martinez’s compound, but after that it’s up to you. Remember, your primary objective is to locate hard evidence regarding Martinez’s involvement in drug trafficking. I can’t tell you what that evidence will be. You just have to use your intuition. Once you’ve gathered enough evidence, you’ll need to guide a special forces assault team into the compound, locate Martinez –
not
one of his body doubles – and help them abduct him.’

‘Michael,’ Gabs said. ‘This is too much for his
first assignment. It’s too difficult, too dangerous . . .’

Michael ignored her. ‘You’ll need this,’ he said, and he handed something to Zak. It was an iPhone, slightly scuffed around the edges as though someone had already been using it. ‘It’s been modified,’ Michael explained. ‘You need to keep it on you all the time. It contains a highly advanced GPS tracking chip that we’ve attached to the SIM card cradle.’

‘All phones have GPS chips these days,’ Zak said.

‘Not like this. It has its own built-in power source and can transmit much more powerful signals than most GPS devices. Special forces use these in the jungle where ordinary GPS chips get blocked by the canopy overhead.’

Zak glanced over at Raf. ‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to rely on GPS for navigation anyway.’

‘You’re not. This isn’t for navigating, Zak. It’s for us to know exactly where you are at any given moment. We have spy satellite technology – a dedicated satellite, just to follow you. This means that at a control centre in London we can have constant, real-time satellite images of where you are at all times. These images are very detailed – at least, they are during the daytime. It’s like having your very own security camera pointing right at you. There will be a special forces team inserted in-country close to Martinez’s compound. If you raise the alarm, they’ll be there to pick you up in minutes.’

‘How does he raise the alarm?’ Gabs asked. She looked as nervous as Zak felt.

‘By dialling one of two four-digit numbers. Six-four-eight-two means you’re compromised and need to be extracted. Five-eight-six-nine means you’re ready to guide in the SF team to abduct Martinez – but you can’t do that
until
you have evidence of his criminal activities. The phone also comes with a high-resolution camera and scanning mechanism, as well as all the standard audio and video recording capabilities. There will be a constant data connection wherever you are in the world, which will allow you to upload any evidence to a secure server then delete it from the phone. You’ll need to spend some time getting used to that device, Zak. It’s your lifeline.’