Agent 21 (19 page)

‘I’m listening.’

‘The British are planning to swipe Martinez. They’ve got someone on the inside. Thought you’d like to know.’ Lou couldn’t help looking pleased with himself, even though there was nobody to see.

A pause.

‘You have a name?’

‘Nope. Highly classified. All I have is a codename. Agent 21.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s your lot,’ said Lou. ‘You have a good evening now.’

He hung up and went to sit down at the table. He
looked at his watch. A quarter to six. Maybe he should just go home now. But then he smiled. His wife was expecting him home late, and the blueberry pie really did look too good to miss.

In the federal offices of the Mexican government an enormously fat man placed his phone back on its cradle. His name was Juan Michel, and despite the fact that his office was air-conditioned, he was sweating like a man in a sauna.

He sat quietly for a moment and considered what his CIA contact had just told him. To swipe Cesar Martinez Toledo was impossible. The Americans knew that, and they’d given up asking the Mexicans to help. It was the worst-kept secret in Mexican politics that Martinez was bribing half the government; and the idea that the British were equipped to do anything was a joke. No, this information from Langley sounded like a red herring. Perhaps he should discard it in the rubbish bin of his mind where it belonged.

But then he shook his head.

Martinez paid him well for his services and he didn’t want the payments to stop. Even if this intelligence was nonsense, he’d be a fool not to pass it on – just to show he was on the ball. He wiped his sweaty palms on his clothes, picked up the phone again and dialled a number.

Somebody answered almost immediately.

‘This is Juan Michel,’ said the fat man.

‘Good for you.’

Insolence
, thought Juan.
I shouldn’t have to put up with it
. But he thought of the money and kept quiet.

‘What do you want?’ the voice at the other end said.

‘I want you to put me through to Adan Ramirez. Tell him who it is. And tell him I have some information in which Señor Martinez will be most, most interested.’

‘Calaca wants you in here. He says it’s secure.’

The bedroom which Cruz led Zak to was even more flash than the one in Harry Gold’s flat in Knightsbridge. It had an enormous four-poster bed and an intercom he could use to call down to the kitchens. ‘Anything you want,’ Cruz said, ‘just buzz.’ There was an en-suite bathroom, of course, with a Jacuzzi, and one of the doors led to an enormous walk-in wardrobe filled with expensive new clothes and shoes. It was like an amazing hotel, with one difference. The corridor outside had a security camera, which was pointed directly at Zak’s door.

‘What’s with that?’ Zak asked Cruz.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Cruz replied.

Zak looked down the corridor. His was the only room to be under camera surveillance.

‘I don’t think anybody really uses them,’ Cruz continued.

Yeah, right
, thought Zak.

All he really wanted was a moment to himself. It had been a gruelling day, and everything had happened so quickly. He was exhausted and worried. He didn’t know if Raf was safe after that morning’s theatrics; or if his phone was broadcasting its signal to indicate where he was. He hoped that Raf and Gabs had managed to insert their unit somewhere nearby. But contact was out of the question, and he felt very alone.

He couldn’t allow himself to fade now, though. Martinez was expecting him for dinner and Zak had to keep up his pretence. His life depended on it.

He showered and changed, by which time it was seven thirty. Time to go down, so he slipped his phone into his pocket and left the room. Martinez and Cruz were waiting for him outside by the pool, and Raul was with them, along with two butlers. There was a neatly laid table, piled with more food than the four of them could possibly eat. Cruz was sitting down, a book open on his lap. Raul had a bottle of Coke in his hand, which he sucked at slowly through a straw while watching Zak approach.

‘Harry!’ Martinez sounded genuinely pleased to see him. ‘Come and join us. What will you drink?’

‘Coke, please,’ Zak said. Martinez nodded at one of the butlers, who fetched a bottle from an outdoor
fridge next to the table and handed it to Zak, who couldn’t help glancing towards the skeleton-like statues at the end of the pool.

Martinez noticed this. ‘You like
La Catrina
, Harry?’

‘Er, yeah,’ said Zak. ‘They’re great.’

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ He put one hand out towards Cruz’s cousin. ‘This is Raul,’ he said.

‘We met already,’ Raul said, one eyebrow raised.

‘Yeah,’ Zak added. ‘We have the same taste in literature.’

Martinez looked from one to the other. ‘Is there something I’m missing, gentlemen?’ he asked. The edge of his mouth was curled into a little smile, as though the thought of Zak and Raul being at each other’s throats rather delighted him.

‘Nothing,’ Raul said. He went back to sucking and staring.

Martinez put an arm round Zak’s shoulders like an affectionate uncle, and took him over to the table. ‘What will you eat, Harry? Roasted lamb? Beans? Bread?’

Zak was starving and he piled his plate high. Just as he was sitting down next to Cruz, however, Calaca appeared. It rather took the edge off Zak’s appetite. Martinez’s head of security was still wearing his green Mexican football shirt which covered the firearm at his hip, and he was clearly here to speak to his boss, but
he couldn’t help his one good eye flickering in Zak’s direction, shooting him a look of pure poison.

‘And here is Adan!’ Martinez announced. He winked at Zak. ‘If
La Catrina
were a man, he would look like my head of security, no? Yes, Adan? What is it?’

‘We need to speak. In private.’

A broad smile crossed Martinez’s face. ‘Adan, we are eating together—’

‘It’s important,’ interrupted Calaca. And there was something in his face that chilled Zak’s blood . . .

Martinez nodded. ‘Harry,’ he announced. ‘You will excuse me, I hope.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps you and Raul can discuss literature while I’m gone!’

Adan Ramirez led his boss back into the atrium.

‘What is it, Adan?’

Calaca looked around to check nobody was listening. ‘I’ve just had a call from one of our contacts inside the government.’

‘And?’

‘He has a source in the CIA. The source says that the British are preparing to target you.’

‘Pffff . . .’ Martinez was scornful. ‘Abduct
me
? The
British
? They wouldn’t dare. The source is mistaken.’

But Calaca wouldn’t be put off. ‘They have details,’ he said. ‘The intelligence suggests that they already
have somebody close to you. Codename, Agent 21. The information is very specific. I think we would be foolish not to take it seriously.’

Martinez nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps you are right.’

‘What about this Harry Gold,’ said Calaca. ‘Everybody else in this compound has been personally vetted by me. He is the only weak link.’

‘Harry Gold is only a kid. And kids don’t make good secret agents.’

‘Maybe. But he’s a kid who has already killed one man today.’

Martinez frowned. ‘Does he have a weapon?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And he has already been alone with me today. If he planned to kill me, he could have tried then. Anyway, I can recognize assassin material. Harry Gold isn’t it.’

Calaca sniffed. ‘I think you should let me ask him a few simple questions.’

Martinez appeared to think about that for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I know what your interrogations are like, Adan. I would like Harry to retain the use of his fingers.’

‘It’s never worried you before.’

‘This is different. I like the boy. He has guts. He stands up to Raul for one thing, which is more than Cruz can do. I can see that my son likes him too.
Perhaps if he spends time with Harry, he will learn to be more of a man.’

‘Or perhaps,’ said Calaca, ‘Raul will be inheriting your empire sooner than you think.’

A pause.

‘You forget yourself, Adan,’ said Martinez.

Calaca bowed his head. ‘Forgive me. I only want to be sure that your enemies are not closer than you think.’

Toldeo nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I want you to find out everything you can about Harry Gold. He has an uncle in Mexico City. Start with him. If anything doesn’t add up, tell me. But in the meantime, the kid must have no idea that we’re investigating him.’

‘You shouldn’t be in his presence without a guard,’ said Calaca. ‘I will send someone now. And the body doubles should be with you at all times – just in case.’

‘Very well, Calaca. Do what you need to. But remember – Harry must know nothing of this.’

Calaca nodded and watched as his boss stepped out of the atrium towards the swimming pool again. He heard his voice booming outside. ‘Harry! Eat some more! We need to build you up, like a Mexican . . .’

He left them to it. From his pocket he pulled a radio. He pressed the transmission button and ordered two guards and two body doubles to join the party by
the pool. Then he went down to the basement of the house.

Calaca had an office here. Opposite the office there was a cell with thick iron bars. This area was off-limits to everybody else in the household except Martinez, but his boss had no interest in it. The office was large – ten metres by ten – and well equipped with telephone lines, fibre-optic Internet connections and high-powered computer terminals. Adan Ramirez was a simple man from a simple background, but he had worked out long ago that to keep his boss safe, he needed to understand the technology that his enemies might use against him. These computer terminals gave him a direct link, among other things, to the files of the
Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional
– the Mexican intelligence service. Whatever information he needed would be at Calaca’s fingertips in minutes.

Calaca sat at his screen, logged on and typed the words
HARRY GOLD
.

A brief pause. And then the information started to come.

The first thing he brought up was Harry’s birth certificate. Born 3 September 1995 at University College Hospital, London. Parents Oliver and Fenella Gold, recently deceased. He found two passport photographs, one taken when Harry was five years old and the second when he was ten – and they were him
all right. There was a list of every flight Harry had ever taken, ending with his most recent journey from Heathrow to Mexico City. Calaca made a note of his arrival time, then continued to sift through the information. It was a disappointment: nothing suspicious, nothing to suggest Harry had any skill with a firearm, or was anything other than a bereaved rich kid with time and money on his hands.

After half an hour, Calaca changed his search.

FRANK GOLD
.

The picture of an old man appeared on the screen. According to the notes he was born in 1931 in Blackburn, Lancashire. He had been in Mexico for fifteen years. Before that he had been a structural engineer whose work had taken him all over the world. But now there was nothing to suggest he was anything other than one of the many British ex-pats in Mexico City.

Calaca logged out of the intelligence service’s mainframe and directed his browser to a different IP address: airport security at Mexico International. He typed in a username and password that he had acquired by bribing a member of the airport security team, and seconds later he had access to the closed circuit security camera footage for the last week. He checked the flight arrival time that he had scribbled down while looking at Harry’s details, then opened up
the files for the Terminal 2 security camera. A grainy black-and-white image of the airport appeared on the screen, with a white time code. Calaca navigated to a point twenty minutes after Harry’s flight arrival, then sat back to watch.

Harry appeared ten minutes in, with two suitcases which he set down beside him as the crowds jostled past and he looked around. After a moment he spotted someone, picked up his suitcases again and walked forward. The angle on the security camera was awkward, but Calaca could just make out that the person he’d approached was Frank Gold. Harry put out his hand, but Frank embraced him. It appeared to Calaca that he was truly pleased to see him. Either this was splendid acting, or it was a genuine reunion.

He paused the film and stared for several minutes at the still picture of Harry and Frank Gold. Were they authentic? They certainly appeared to be so. Maybe his boss was right. Maybe Harry Gold really was who he said he was. Calaca didn’t know why, but for some reason the thought disappointed him.

There was one more thing he could do. He couldn’t be sure that his boss would approve, but Martinez didn’t have to know. Calaca left the basement room, locked it and went back upstairs.

It was dark outside now. From the atrium he could just hear his boss talking to the kids, so he left them to
it and exited from the front of the house. The Range Rover he had used to collect Harry was still parked by the main gates. He climbed into the front and turned the ignition. Moments later, he had passed through the security perimeter of the compound and was driving through the night towards Mexico City.