Agent 21 (14 page)

Frank put the radio on, then twisted the dial until he found a spoken-word station. Two men were arguing about something in Spanish, and it sounded pretty heated. When Frank himself spoke it was in a quiet voice. ‘The voices on the radio should mask our conversation if anyone’s listening in,’ he said.

Zak peered nervously over his shoulder. ‘Do you think anyone is?’

‘No,’ Frank shook his head. ‘But I won’t take any risks and neither must you. My house isn’t very big and I sweep it for bugs twice a day. But when we’re there, we don’t say anything about your real reason for being in Mexico. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘You’re enrolled at the
colegio
from tomorrow morning. You’ve got three days to settle in, then you make contact with Cruz on Thursday. Are you comfortable with the arrangements?’

Zak’s face darkened. ‘I guess so,’ he said.

Frank nodded and he gave Zak a sidelong glance. All the good humour he had displayed back at the airport had fallen away and he was now rather severe.
‘You’re younger than I thought,’ he said. ‘I hope they know what they’re doing, sending you out here. Martinez isn’t the sort of guy you want to underestimate.’

Zak didn’t reply. He looked out of the window again and thought of the dead bodies Michael had shown him – the family of Martinez’s enemy.

They continued to drive in silence.

Frank’s house was in an unassuming suburb of Mexico City. The house itself was a bungalow, identical to all the others that stretched along both sides of the street. There was a dusty yard at the front, and a shaded veranda with a wooden bench, a table and a hammock. Brown shutters on the windows meant that the inside was dark, but at least it was a little cooler, thanks to a series of rotating fans that hung from the ceiling. Zak’s bedroom was small and simply furnished: a bed, a fan, a cupboard and a small table. The window looked out into a back yard which had a small patch of lawn. It was the only one, Zak noticed, as he pushed open the shutters and looked along the line of back yards, that had any greenery.

‘An Englishman’s home is his castle, eh Harry?’ Frank was standing in the doorway of his room and his jolly nature had returned. ‘Couldn’t do without a bit of lawn. Course, it’s not quite what you’re used to,
but I hope you won’t mind slumming it with your old Uncle Frank for a bit.’ He pointed at a new rucksack on the desk. ‘School books in there, old boy. Everything you need – they sent me a list. Also paper, pens and pencils. Got you all kitted out for your big day tomorrow . . .’

That evening they ate a Mexican meal – tacos and refried beans – sitting out on the veranda. It was a relief when dusk came and the temperature grew a bit cooler. Children from the neighbouring houses came out to play football. They all noticed Zak, the newcomer; a few of them pointed at him. ‘You’ll soon become part of the furniture, Harry,’ Frank said as he bit into a taco. ‘I’m sure everything seems a bit unfamiliar, but you’ll soon find your feet. And I’ve no doubt you’ll make some good friends at school.’

They exchanged a glance and Zak remembered the picture of Cruz Martinez. ‘I hope so,’ he said, and they finished their meal in silence.

Colegio de Mexico
wasn’t a bit like school as Zak remembered it. Situated in a street named Avenida Luis Peron in the heart of a southern district of Mexico City, it was a vast complex ringed by a three-metre-high grey concrete wall. It was a little before eight o’clock in the morning when Frank and Zak pulled up in front of the main entrance. Here, the name of the school was carved into the concrete wall, and crowds of students with rucksacks slung over their backs were already entering. ‘Make sure you’ve got this area scouted out,’ Frank said below the sound of the radio.

Zak nodded and looked around. In front of the gate was a pavement, about five metres deep. Avenida Luis Peron itself was twenty metres wide and on the other side, behind some iron railings, was a park – a pleasant place with benches and trees for shade. The road itself was busy, though not as log-jammed as some Zak had seen so far.

He turned his attention to the school gates and the nagging sense of panic that he’d had with him since he woke up grew stronger. The prospect of walking into this strange school, an unknown foreigner, wasn’t very appealing. But he couldn’t put it off. ‘I’d better go,’ he said.

‘Wait,’ Frank replied, and he looked meaningfully into the rear-view mirror. A convoy of three vehicles was arriving: a black Mercedes with dark windows and personalized number plates flanked by two black Range Rovers, the windows also blacked-out. The Mercedes pulled in to the kerb just in front of Frank’s car; the Range Rovers remained stationary in the middle of the road. The drivers, whoever they were, were clearly ignoring the beeping horns of the vehicles jammed behind them because they were blocking the traffic.

Frank put a hand on Zak’s arm. ‘Watch,’ he said.

The two front doors of the Mercedes opened at precisely the same time and a man emerged from each one. They were both dressed the same, in black suits and dark glasses, and Zak immediately identified the guns they were carrying – the MP5 Kurz – weapons especially designed for close-quarter urban battle. The man on the pavement side opened the back door and waited for a figure to emerge.

When he did, Zak caught his breath. He recognized the newcomer immediately. It was Cruz.

Cruz Martinez was very slight – gangly almost, with thin limbs and arms that looked a little bit too long for his body. His hair was black and he wore very ordinary clothes: blue jeans, white trainers and a green T-shirt. If it weren’t for the armed guards, Zak reckoned he’d have passed him in the street and not given him a second look. Cruz looked awkward, though. As he stepped out of the car he barely acknowledged the armed chauffeur. It was almost, Zak thought, as if he hardly saw them.

Zak turned his attention back to the sub-machineguns. ‘That’s what I call a chaperone,’ he said.

‘Martinez wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Frank scratched his nose as he spoke so that his hand was covering his mouth. ‘It’s how things are done in Mexico. He knows that if someone wants to get to him, they’ll go for his family first. Cruz lives a dangerous life. If he didn’t have those bodyguards, he’d be abducted before he knew it.’ The old man removed his hand from his face. ‘Well, Harry,’ he said with a bright smile, ‘it’s five to eight. Time for school. Have a good day, won’t you? I’ll pick you up later.’

‘Yeah,’ Zak said. ‘Later.’

He stepped out of the car and into the hot morning air.

The two armed men accompanied Cruz to the gates. Zak noticed how the other students stepped
aside to let him through, their eyes lingering on the bodyguards’ weapons. None of them spoke to Cruz. The bodyguards didn’t cross over the threshold, however. One of them returned to the car; the other took up position at the school gates. Nobody argued with him, or suggested it was inappropriate for an armed man to be standing outside the school. Zak sensed that this was just normal. That nobody was going to quarrel with him . . .

By the time Zak got to the gates, Cruz had already gone into school and was nowhere to be seen. And as he walked into the school grounds, Zak sensed that Cruz and his guards were no longer the curiosity.
He
was. With his white skin and unfamiliar face, he attracted the stares of everyone he passed. He felt his skin prickle, but he kept his head up high and headed across the playground.

The school was a modern building. It was a place for the very rich, and looked like it. Three storeys high, it was surrounded by reflective glass which gleamed in the bright morning sunshine. Zak noticed that all the students, who were filing into an entrance in the middle of the ground floor, were well dressed in the latest trainers and expensive jeans. He was glad that he had taken Michael’s advice and got himself kitted out back in London with several sets of Converse trainers and Diesel jeans.

As he entered the main building, he saw a reception desk to his left. A woman with half-moon glasses and tightly pinned-back grey hair sat there. Zak approached and, in his best Spanish, explained who he was. ‘My name’s Harry Gold. I’m new here . . .’

Five minutes later, the woman was leading him down a long corridor on the top floor of the school and into a classroom. There were twenty other pupils in there, each sitting at individual desks. Even though there was no teacher, they were quiet, their mathematics books open in front of them. When Zak appeared, they gave him curious glances – neither friendly nor unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming. And in the far corner of the room, at the window end of the back row, sat Cruz. Unlike the other students, he didn’t seem all that interested in Zak’s arrival. He just stared out of the window.

There were two spare desks in the room. One was next to Cruz at the back; the other was up front. It took a Zak a split second to take the front desk. He wanted to get close to Cruz, it was true, but he couldn’t be obvious about it. Pretend to be the guy’s best friend from day one and he might get suspicious. And besides, as Michael had said back in the UK, they had things all worked out . . .

The maths teacher arrived – Señor Valdez, a short, fat man with a splendid moustache. He noticed Zak,
the new boy, immediately. ‘Welcome in Mexico City,’ he said in awkward English.

‘Er, thanks,’ Zak replied.

‘You are liking mathematics, yes?’ Señor Valdez’s eyes twinkled and he reverted to Spanish. ‘Write this down,’ he instructed the class, before scrawling a list of calculations on the board.

Zak was surprised by how much Spanish he understood. When Señor Valdez started asking questions, Zak kept quiet. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answers; he just wanted to keep a low profile.

The morning dragged. With the exception of an occasional ‘ola’, the other students largely ignored him, but that suited Zak fine. During the midmorning break, when everybody went outside, he sneaked into an empty third-floor classroom overlooking the playground and watched through the protection of the mirrored glass. From his vantage point, he could see the entire playground. Little groups of people had formed, little cliques. But no clique formed around Cruz Martinez; on the contrary, people were avoiding him. He paced the length of the school wall like a prisoner pacing the prison yard. From this distance, Zak couldn’t see the expression on his face, but he could see that Cruz’s shoulders were a little hunched, his gait plodding.

‘
Señor Gold!
’

Zak spun round to see Sanchez the maths teacher in the doorway.

‘
Si
, señor?’ he asked, his Spanish accent almost faultless.

‘It is not healthy to stay indoors on such a beautiful day.’

Zak gave him an apologetic look. ‘I’m not used to this climate yet,’ he said. ‘It would be too hot for me there.’

‘But Señor Gold, it is important for the new pupils to make friends.’ The maths teacher stroked his moustache and his eyes sparkled.

‘I will, señor,’ Zak said. ‘I promise.’

Sanchez gave a little shrug, then turned round and left. The truth was that setting himself up as a loner was all part of Zak’s game plan. He went back to watching Cruz. It wasn’t like Zak had even spoken to him, but he already felt he knew something about Cruz Martinez. Everybody knew of his father’s reputation – how could they not, when Cruz was taken to school every day by an armed convoy? The other pupils in the school gave him a wide berth, not out of respect but out of fear. Perhaps their parents had told them to stay away from the Martinez kid; perhaps they didn’t need telling. Whatever the truth, Zak sensed that Cruz was a bit dismissive of his schoolmates, but also lonely. He knew why the others
avoided him, and he knew that wouldn’t change any time soon. When the time came, Zak wanted Cruz to think of him as a kindred spirit.

For the rest of the morning, Zak spoke to nobody. He was quiet and studious in lessons; at lunch time he kept himself to himself.

In the mid-afternoon English lesson, the teacher – a tall woman with dark skin and honey-coloured hair – announced that they were to split into pairs and have conversations in English. Almost immediately, the rest of the class started shuffling around, quickly teaming up with their friends. Nobody offered to pair with Zak, and after about thirty seconds it was clear that there was only one other person left to be his partner.

‘Harry,’ the teacher announced, ‘you can go with Cruz. Hurry up now, we haven’t got all day . . .’

Zak felt his eyes twitch, but he tried to look unconcerned as Cruz stared at him from across the classroom. Zak stood up and walked over to where the Mexican boy was sitting. ‘Hi,’ he said casually, taking a seat. ‘I’m Harry.’

‘I know,’ Cruz replied in surprisingly good English. He had a scowl on his face, and somehow Zak just knew it was because no one had wanted to partner up with him.

‘I saw you arrive this morning,’ Zak said in an innocent tone of voice. ‘That was quite a convoy.’

Cruz shrugged. ‘My father is a businessman,’ he said. ‘A wealthy one. There’s a risk I might be kidnapped.’

‘What sort of business?’ Zak asked.

Cruz sniffed. ‘Just business,’ he said.

An awkward silence.

‘I understand,’ Zak said. ‘My dad was a successful businessman too, before he died. We had to be careful.’

Cruz looked interested. ‘Your father is dead?’