Agent 21

1 THE SHADOW

‘Darke!’

Giggling in the classroom.

‘Darke!’

Zak looked up. He’d been staring out of the window, where the late afternoon sun was glowing over the school football pitch. He had a pencil in his hand, which he twirled through his fingers. On his table there was a circuit board. It was covered with transistors and diodes and connected to a small loudspeaker.

‘Zachary Darke,’ his physics teacher, Mr Peters, said in a nasal voice. Peters had bad skin, square glasses and a tragic dress sense. He’d only been teaching at the Camden High School in North London for six weeks, but in that time he’d managed to make himself unpopular with pretty much everyone. ‘You’ve got ten minutes left to complete your assignment. I don’t think staring out of the window is a very good way to—’

He was interrupted by a noise. Zak had flicked a switch and the sound of Lady Gaga singing ‘Just Dance’ filled the room. The physics teacher had told them to construct a transistor radio, after all.

Peters was a total nightmare. He loved to set his classes almost impossible tasks and watch them squirm as they failed to complete them. All of them except Zak. He was good at stuff like this, but even that didn’t seem to impress Peters. The jokers at the back singing along to the music didn’t impress him either. His pockmarked neck turned red. ‘Turn it off, boy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Zak replied. He stared back out of the window.

Mr Peters walked up to Zak’s table. Zak had grown tall in the last year — taller than a few of the teachers, even. It meant that some of them, like Peters, puffed themselves up when talking to him. ‘Showing off isn’t a very attractive habit, Darke,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t, sir. I was just—’

‘Quiet. I don’t want to hear another word from you.’

‘No, sir,’ Zak said, and went back to his daydreaming.

He had plenty to daydream about.

When the police had showed up six months ago on the doorstep of his uncle and aunt’s house to tell him what had happened to his parents, they had said it was food poisoning. An acute case, a terrible accident. It had affected everyone in the hotel dining hall that night. Fifty of them. And for a while Zak had believed them. Why wouldn’t he? The story had made it onto the news, and he was too shocked and upset anyway to think about it much.

But as time passed and the Nigerian police had refused to release his parents’ bodies for burial, Zak had grown suspicious. If it had been just food poisoning, then why the delay? Why couldn’t they just send his mum and dad back so they could have a proper funeral? And what was so virulent that it could kill fifty people at a single sitting? Zak had hit the Internet, done his research. There was botulism; e. coli, maybe. But Mum and Dad had been in good health. Those kind of bacteria might have made them feel very unwell, but kill them? And everyone else they were dining with? Not likely.

When school finished, he walked home with his cousin Ellie. She was in the year above, but they were good friends. This walking home together thing was a new one, though. Zak used to skateboard everywhere on the board his mum and dad had got him for his thirteenth birthday. However, he didn’t have the heart to use it now, which was why he preferred to walk.

Ellie chattered away like she always did. Zak’s cousin was a tall, pretty girl with long, honey-coloured hair and one of those friendly, open faces that people quickly take a shine to. Zak heard her, but didn’t listen. Something else had caught his attention.

For two weeks now, maybe three, Zak had had the strangest feeling. More than once, he’d thought he was going mad. He knew that nobody could really be following him, but it happened almost every day — twice a day, sometimes — that he was walking down the street, or buying something in a shop, or doing whatever he was doing, and he’d get that familiar, unpleasant feeling. A hotness on the back of his neck. A tingling.

At first, he would turn and look around. But he never saw anybody. Or he saw lots of people, just walking past or milling about. After a bit, he didn’t bother to turn. Instead, he would keep walking and try to look out of the corner of his eye. That was more successful. He’d sometimes be able to sense somebody walking along the opposite side of the road, or standing by the school gates. Whenever he turned to look, however, the person was gone. It was like they had a sixth sense — although Zak’s sensible side told him that was impossible…

He had the feeling now. They were walking along Camden Road. It was busy with the early rush-hour traffic, and the pavements were full of school kids. But there was something else — like a dark shadow on the edge of his vision, walking in the same direction on the opposite pavement.

Zak looked firmly ahead and tuned his ears in to Ellie’s conversation.

‘… so I told her that there was no way I was going if—’

‘Ellie, shh.’

She looked at him. ‘Don’t be so rude,’ she said.

‘Sorry. But listen, you see that turning up ahead to the right?’

Ellie looked ahead to see what he meant. It was a small turning about fifteen metres away that led into a little cobbled mews road. ‘Jasmine Mews?’

‘When we get there, turn into it, then run like hell to the end and hide.’

‘Why?’ Ellie asked. ‘What’s going on, Zak?’

‘It’s just a game,’ Zak said. ‘I want to play a trick on someone. You up for it?’

Ellie shrugged. ‘Suppose so,’ she said.

They continued to walk. Just as they reached the side street, Zak and Ellie turned sharply; and the moment they were out of sight of the main road, they ran down the cobbled mews.

There were only a few cars parked here, outside the small, cottage-like houses. At the end of the street was an alley running at right angles. They turned left into it, then stopped, out of breath. Zak pressed his back against the wall and peered round the corner.

He saw a man. From a distance it was difficult to make out his features, but he was quite tall, maybe in his sixties with a tanned face and scruffy, shoulder-length hair. The man stood at the end of the mews for just long enough to see that it was deserted. Then he quickly turned and walked away.

Zak felt Ellie tapping his shoulder. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ said Zak, his voice a million miles away. ‘I just don’t know.’

The next day was Saturday. Zak woke early. He always did these days. Since his parents’ death, sleep was hard to come by. He got dressed and went downstairs.

To his surprise, his aunt was already up. She was standing in the small kitchen, her hair in a net and a cigarette in her hand, boiling the kettle. She looked over her shoulder, saw Zak then turned her attention back to her tea-making. No ‘good morning’. No nothing. He shrugged and headed back towards the stairs.

His uncle and aunt — Vivian and Godfrey Lewis — didn’t want him there, and they weren’t afraid to show it. After Mum and Dad had died in Nigeria, they’d agreed to take him in. It had been a choice between them or moving up to Macclesfield where his other cousin, Ben, lived. But Zak hadn’t really wanted to relocate north, and Ben had a habit of ending up in crazy situations. So Vivian and Godfrey it was, and they didn’t let a day go by without reminding Zak in some small way that he wasn’t really welcome in the small terraced house of 63 Acacia Drive.

‘Zak!’

His aunt was at the bottom of the stairs. He turned round to look at her.

‘We’re taking Ellie out for the day. Lunch and then a movie. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’

Zak tried not to look disappointed. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be fine, Aunt Vivian.’

He continued walking up the stairs.

Ellie was in the doorway of her bedroom, still in her pyjamas. She had obviously heard her mum, and as Zak walked past, she mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry’ at him. He gave her a smile — it wasn’t her fault, after all — then continued towards his room.

A tap on his shoulder. Ellie had followed him and as he turned round she gave him a hug. ‘I wish you could come with us,’ she said.

Zak smiled. There was something about Ellie that always made him feel better. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Have a nice day, yeah?’

Ellie and her parents left at half past nine. The house was quiet. Zak spent some time on the family computer — he’d installed some plug-ins that kept his browsing history private, just in case he got in trouble for using it. But it was sunny outside and he felt cooped up. He decided to go for a walk.

There was a garage at the end of the road. Zak stopped off there and bought himself a can of Coke with the last of his change. He’d inherited what little money his mum and dad had, but it was in trust and his uncle and aunt weren’t exactly the generous types — at least, not when it came to Zak.

He walked to the park. It was busy — lots of younger kids out playing football or mucking about on the swings. A few people walking their dogs. Zak sat apart from them all on a wooden bench in the dappled shade of a tree. He sipped his Coke slowly and watched everybody enjoying their Saturday morning.

By the time Zak saw him, he didn’t know how long the man had been standing there. He was about fifty metres away, alone by the park railings and looking directly at Zak. He had hair down to his shoulders and a tanned, lined face. There was no doubt about it — he was the same man who had followed him and Ellie yesterday.

Zak felt himself crushing the Coke can slightly. Half of him wanted to stand up and rush away; the other half wanted to sit here. To stare the guy out.

The other half won.

Zak felt his skin prickling as the man walked towards him. Even though it was hot, the man wore a heavy coat and had his hands plunged into the pockets. He didn’t look directly at Zak, but kept his gaze elsewhere; and when he sat next to him on the bench, he barely seemed to know that Zak was there. He removed a silver cigarette case from his pocket and lit a thin, black cigarillo. The sickly smell of cherry tobacco filled the air.

Zak played it cool. He took a sip from his Coke before speaking. ‘Feel like telling me why you’ve been playing follow-my-leader?’ he asked.

‘It’s a beautiful day, Zak. A lovely day for a walk.’

Zak tried not to look surprised that the man knew his name.

‘Tell me what you want, or I’m out of here.’

Only now did the man look at him. He had piercing green eyes that looked rather youthful despite his leathery tanned face and long, grey hair. He also looked mildly surprised. ‘You’re free to go, of course, Zak, at any time at all.’

A pause.

‘So why have you?’ Zak asked.

‘Why have I what, Zak?’

‘Been following me?’

The man smiled. ‘Because I’m interested in you, Zak. I was very sorry, by the way, to hear about your parents.’

‘You seem to know a lot about me,’ Zak said.

‘Oh,’ the man replied, ‘I do. More than you might imagine. Congratulations, incidentally, on your achievement in your physics lesson yesterday. I understand that you were the only one who succeeded in making a transistor radio. A sound knowledge of electronics could be a useful skill, in certain lines of work.’

As he said this, he raised an eyebrow. It made Zak feel distinctly uncomfortable. He downed the rest of his Coke, crushed the can completely and stood up. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said. ‘Stop following me, all right, otherwise I’ll call the police, tell them I’ve got my very own stalker.’

The old man inclined his head, as if to say, It’s your choice. Zak started walking away.

‘Just one thing, Zak.’ The man’s voice stopped him short, but he didn’t turn round. ‘If you want to know the real reason your mum and dad died, we might want to talk some more.’

Zak didn’t look back. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either.

‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ the man continued. ‘Half past eleven. Think about it.’

Elsewhere in the park, children were shrieking with pleasure. A cloud briefly covered the sun, then drifted away again. Zak experienced it all in slow motion as the old man’s words echoed in his head.

He turned.

The wooden bench was empty. And when he cast around trying to find where the stranger had gone, the old man was nowhere to be seen.

2 TWO LESSONS

Zak’s bedroom was tiny, with just a bed and a bedside table, an alarm clock and a framed picture of his parents. There was no desk for him to do his homework, and as he wasn’t allowed to do it at the kitchen table it meant he had to study lying on the floor. The wallpaper was old and flowery — the sort of thing an eighty-year-old lady might like.

He didn’t sleep well that night. It was hard to say what spooked him more — that the old man had been following him, that he had known his name, or that his words had confirmed something that Zak had thought all along: that his parents’ death wasn’t what it seemed. More than once, as midnight crept into the small hours, he thought he might be going mad. He’d read about it, after all. When something bad happens to people, they start imagining things. Maybe the old man was just that — a figment of his imagination. An invention.

But deep down, Zak knew he wasn’t going mad. He knew what he’d seen, and what he’d heard. He also knew that nobody else would believe him except, perhaps, Ellie, and something warned him against getting her mixed up in all of this.

He nodded off just after dawn, and woke with a start when he heard a knock on his door. His alarm clock said 10 a.m.

‘Yeah?’

The door opened and Ellie appeared. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ said Zak, and he sat up.

She had toast for him, and a cup of tea. Zak knew what she was doing — trying to make up for the fact that her parents hadn’t included him yesterday. ‘You didn’t have to do this,’ he told her.

‘I know. I just thought today, maybe we could—’

‘I’ve got to be somewhere,’ Zak interrupted.

Ellie blushed. ‘OK,’ she said, before standing up.

‘I’ll be around this afternoon,’ Zak said. ‘Let’s do something then.’

Ellie’s eyes softened. ‘Yesterday was really boring,’ she whispered with a smile. ‘Just thought you’d like to know.’ She left the room.

Zak got dressed: jeans, trainers and a black hooded top. Normally he wore a hoodie because he liked the style. Today he was glad to be able to hide his face. He didn’t know why.

On the driveway in front of the house, Uncle Godfrey had the bonnet of his Ford Mondeo up and was peering closely at the engine. ‘Isn’t it working?’ Zak asked him.

His uncle glanced up at him. ‘Don’t you worry about it, Zachary. I can sort it out.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The car coughed and spluttered, then fell silent. His uncle tried again. Same result.

Zak glanced into the engine. It didn’t take him more than a couple of seconds to work out what was wrong — one of the spark plugs was loose, stopping the engine from firing. Hidden by the raised bonnet he put his hand in, found the plug and tightened it by a turn and a half. He just managed to get his hand out before his uncle tried the ignition again and the car purred into life.

‘Told you I could sort it,’ his uncle said as he got out again. ‘Well, don’t stand there gawping, Zachary. Haven’t you got anything to do?’

Zak allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Yeah,’ he said, walking away from the house and wiping his oily hand on his jeans. ‘Actually, I have.’

He arrived at the park early. He wasn’t sure why — it just seemed like the right thing to do. It was even busier than yesterday — the weather was warm and it was Sunday morning. He avoided the bench. Instead, he headed to a copse of trees about thirty metres away. It wasn’t thick, but one of the trunks was sturdy enough to hide behind and it gave him a view of the bench.

He looked at his watch. 11.21. No sign of the man. The air was filled with the shouts of children playing on the swings and slides. In the trees, he heard a bird call and instantly recognized the trilling for what it was: a chaffinch, warbling in the gentle morning sun.

11.25. Nothing. Zak didn’t know why he felt nervous. Obviously the guy wasn’t coming. He’d been stupid even to turn up.

The kids continued to play.

11.30. Two women with prams sat on the bench and started gossiping.

‘You’re an idiot, Zak,’ he murmured to himself, glad that he hadn’t gone straight to the bench, because sitting there by himself would have made him feel even more stupid.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

Zak felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach just as the aroma of cherry tobacco hit his nose. He spun round and there he was, standing about five metres behind him: the man, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

‘How did you get there?’ Zak demanded. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

The man looked unsurprised. ‘You weren’t supposed to hear me,’ he said.

Zak was feeling angry now. ‘Why didn’t you just go to the bench, like we said?’

The stranger raised an eyebrow. ‘Why didn’t you?’ he asked. And when Zak didn’t reply, the man said, ‘You could think of that as your first test. Or maybe your first lesson. Trust nobody. After everything I’ve heard about you, Zak, I’d have been a little disappointed if you’d trusted me, of all people. Someone you’d never met before. Someone whose name you don’t even know.’

‘I’m going home,’ Zak said, turning away. ‘I’ve had enough of these riddles.’

The man inclined his head. ‘You could,’ he said. ‘Only of course it isn’t really home, is it? Not really.’

Zak stopped. The man’s words had sent ice down his spine — not because he seemed yet again to know so much about Zak, but because they were true.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know my name?’ the man said.

‘I’d like to know what you’re playing at.’

‘I’m not playing, Zak,’ the stranger said. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. You can call me Michael.’

Zak looked at him. ‘What do you mean, I can call you Michael? Is that your name or isn’t it?’

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘Names, Zak, are like clothes. Easily changed. And just because a person has more than one, it doesn’t mean that any of them are any less real. Yes, Michael is my real name. One of them, anyway.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Not now perhaps. But if you come to work for me, it soon will.’

This crazy old man and his riddles were starting to get to Zak. ‘Work for you?’ he said. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not in the market for a job. You know, being thirteen and everything.’

For the first time, Michael smiled. ‘The market for a job?’ he said. ‘Very good. Very good, Zak.’ He brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and his green eyes twinkled. It made him look, for a moment, much younger. ‘I’ll enjoy working with you. Mr Peters said I would.’

‘What? Peters? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘A great deal, Zak. Mr Peters is one of our most accomplished people, and a very valued talent scout.’ A weary look crossed his face. ‘You aren’t about to ask me about his name as well, are you?’

Zak thought of his physics teacher — the cross, pinched face, the bad skin, the awful clothes and zero personality. The only thing that man was accomplished at was being a bore and a bully.

‘You look surprised, Zak. It’s worth remembering that people are not always what they seem. Call that lesson two, if you like.’

‘I get enough lessons at school.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘And by all accounts you are uncommonly good at them. But those sorts of lessons are a little limited in scope, are they not? That’s why we sent Mr Peters in. To find out how you might cope if we were to school you in certain topics lads your age don’t normally find on their curriculum. I’m happy to say that his reports have been extremely positive. Shall we walk? Or would you really prefer to leave without hearing what else I have to say?’

The chaffinch trilled again in the trees. ‘We’ll walk,’ Zak said.

They walked together away from the playground and into the green, open common beyond.

‘I’ll be straight with you, Zak,’ said Michael.

‘That would make a nice change.’ Seeing as how so far you’ve been about as straight as a paperclip, Zak thought.

‘I work for a government agency. You don’t need to know which one. In fact, it wouldn’t make any difference if I told you because you won’t have heard of it. Hardly anyone has. Even the Prime Minister is kept in the dark about us. So if you decide at the end of this conversation that you want nothing more to do with us, my advice is to keep quiet about everything I’ve told you. You won’t find us mentioned on the news, or on the Internet. Try to persuade people we exist, and they’ll just think you’re imagining things.’

‘Sounds like you’re the one who’s imagining things.’

Michael appeared not to hear him — or if he did, he ignored Zak’s comment and just carried on talking.

‘People don’t apply to work with us. They can’t. It’s not exactly as if we can just put an advertisement in the paper. We have to find them. That’s why we have people like Mr Peters. All schools need temporary teaching staff now and then, and it’s a very useful cover for us to insert our scouts. But the people we’re looking for are of a very particular type. It’s a crude way of putting it, but they fit a profile.’

Michael stopped, and so did Zak. They looked at each other.

‘You fit a profile, Zak,’ the old man said. ‘A very precise one.’

He continued to walk. Zak had to jog a little bit to keep up with him. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘What sort of profile?’

‘Intelligent,’ Michael replied. ‘Oh, your school grades are very good, of course, but that’s not quite what I mean. You have a particular aptitude for certain disciplines: science, languages. You’re physically fit, and as you proved just a few minutes ago, you have exceptionally good intuition.’ He smiled. ‘You remind me a bit of myself as a young man, in fact.’

Zak felt himself blushing. ‘You could be describing anyone,’ he said.

‘Not quite anyone, Zak. But you’re right. These attributes in themselves aren’t enough to set you apart from the crowd, so to speak.’

‘Then why are we having this conversation?’ Zak asked.

Zak sensed that Michael was choosing his words carefully.

‘Forgive me, Zak, but would I be right in saying that, since your parents passed away, there are very few people in the world who would actually… miss you?’

Zak felt a sudden emptiness in his stomach. He walked on in silence. Deep down he knew it was true. Apart from Ellie and her parents there was no other family close by, no real friends. Zak had always been a bit of a loner. He knew people saw that in him, and they kept their distance.

Michael was speaking again. ‘Your uncle and aunt are reluctant guardians, are they not?’

‘Yeah,’ said Zak. ‘You could say that.’

‘From the information at my disposal,’ Michael continued, ‘the arrangement is not a happy one.’

‘You’ve got a lot of information at your disposal, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘I have, haven’t I?’

Another silence as they carried on walking.

Zak was interested, despite himself. Interested enough, at least, to start asking some questions of his own. ‘When you say “working for you”, what do you mean?’

‘The duties are varied,’ said Michael, and Zak couldn’t help thinking he was avoiding the question.

‘Spying?’ he asked. Better to get things out in the open.

Michael looked straight ahead as he walked. His expression didn’t change. ‘That’s not a term we use,’ he said. ‘But yes, the gathering of intelligence comes into it. If you accept our offer, however, you’ll be trained in many other skills.’

‘Like what?’

‘Skills,’ Michael repeated. ‘There are situations, you see, when having a youngster like yourself would be a great asset for us. These situations would not be without risk. It’s important that you are equipped to deal with this risk. To cope in scenarios where you’re by yourself, undercover, with only your training to help you.’

As Michael spoke, a cloud drifted in front of the bright morning sun, just as it had the previous day. Zak fought off a shiver, but he didn’t know if it was the shade that caused it, or Michael’s words. They had reached the edge of the park, where iron railings with spikes on the top ran into an open gate that led to the main road.

‘If you decide to accept this offer, Zak, you need to understand what you’re taking on. Your life will change. You’ll never see the people you know again. Zak Darke will disappear.’

‘I can’t just disappear.’

‘It’s something we would deal with. It may be, Zak, that you like your life the way it is. That the future appears rosy. That number 63 Acacia Drive and its flowery wallpaper holds the key to your happiness. If that’s the case, I urge you to forget about everything I’ve said today. If it isn’t, well then, you should think about it carefully. Once you decide to go down this path, there’s no turning back. None at all.’

Zak looked around. They’d walked a fair way — the playground was a few hundred metres in the distance and the noise of traffic had replaced the sound of playing children.

‘I’m not interested,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I don’t even believe you’re who you say you are. So stop following me around unless you want me to go straight to the police.’

Michael acted as if he hadn’t heard Zak. For the first time, the old man removed one hand from his coat pocket and held out a business card. It was entirely plain, with a telephone number printed in black on one side. No name. No nothing.

‘Don’t feel you have to make a decision now,’ he said. ‘Or even tomorrow, or next week. Just when, and if, you’re ready.’ He kept holding the card out until Zak eventually took it. As he shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, Michael spoke again. His voice was light, as if this was just an afterthought. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there are certain advantages to our line of work, Zak. We get to learn things about people. Information.’ He looked directly at Zak, and his gaze seemed to pierce right through him. ‘You might even find out, for example, the real reason your parents died.’

Zak stared at him.

The old man looked up at the sky just as the sun came out again. ‘What a beautiful day,’ he said, his voice suddenly breezy. ‘I think I’ll continue this delightful stroll. You won’t see or hear from me again, Zak. Unless, of course, you decide to call that number.’

And without another word, Michael turned and walked back the way they had come. Zak stood and watched him, until the old man mingled with the crowd around the playground, and disappeared from sight.

3 FAMILY BUSINESS

For the rest of that day, Zak paced around North London. His mind was a jumble as he remembered snippets of the conversation with the man who called himself Michael:

I work for a government agency…Try to persuade people we exist and they’ll just think you’re imagining things… There are situations when having a youngster like you would be a great asset for us… You might even find out the real reason your parents died…

It was that last statement that rang in his head most clearly of all.

And when, later that afternoon, he made his way back to Acacia Drive, he noticed something. At no point since Michael had walked away had he sensed anybody following him. As he stood with his back to the door of number 63, everything was as it should be. Nobody was watching. He went straight up to his room, where he mulled over the events of the day until it was time to sleep.

The weather turned the following day. Grey clouds and drizzle. Ellie had flu, so she didn’t leave the house with him like she normally did. Zak decided to skateboard into school. He was the proud owner of an Element board with Ricta wheels — the last present his mum and dad had ever bought him. His parents had never had much money, and Zak had been surprised when they’d given him such a cool board. He looked after it carefully now, keeping it under his bed — not least because every time Aunt Vivian saw it, her eyes nearly popped out of her head and she referred to it as ‘that filthy thing’.

Outside the house, Zak slung his school bag over his shoulder and kicked off. At the end of Acacia Drive he turned right and a few minutes later he was steaming down Camden Road, expertly swerving out of the way of other pedestrians. He had just boarded past Jasmine Mews, however, when he braked. Two boys had clocked him and they were blocking the road. Zak felt his heart sink. Marcus Varley and Jason Ford were both in his class and had a habit of making a nuisance of themselves. Zak was one of the few people who had stood up to them, but it hadn’t made them back off and he’d learned just to keep out of their way. They had big grins on their faces and that was always a bad sign.

Zak tapped one end of the board and it flicked up into his hands. He jutted his chin out. If these two bullies thought they were going to intimidate him, they had another think coming.

‘Something wrong, lads?’ he asked.

‘Give us the skateboard, Darke,’ said Varley.

Zak rolled his eyes. One thing was for sure — nobody would be asking these two to do anything dangerous or exacting. In a situation requiring brains and fitness, they’d be as much use as a chocolate teapot.

‘Don’t take it personally, guys, but actually I’d rather stick my head down the toilet.’

Jason Ford sneered. ‘That could be arranged,’ he said, and he pulled something from his pocket. It was a knife — about four inches long and gleaming sharp. ‘Hand it over.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Jason,’ Zak breathed. ‘That’s not a toy.’

‘What’s wrong, Darke? Scared? Hand over the board.’

Warily, Zak laid the skateboard on the ground and stepped back. The two boys grinned at each other again and Jason stepped onto the board. You could tell he’d never used one before. He stretched out both arms to balance himself, waving his knife around in the air as he did so.

‘Be careful,’ Zak said.

‘Shut up, Darke.’

It was Marcus’s fault that it all happened. He clearly thought it would be funny to give Jason a little push. He didn’t check the road, so he failed to notice the double-length bus that was speeding towards them.

‘Marcus, no!’ Zak shouted, but too late.

Jason rolled backwards. When the skateboard hit the kerb, he tumbled and fell onto his back.

The bus was only ten metres away and the sound of its horn cut through the air. Marcus froze and Jason, lying in the road, just stared in horror at the oncoming vehicle.

It was up to Zak to act. He jumped off the pavement and pulled Jason up by the scruff of his neck, before hurling him back off the road. The bus sounded its horn again and Zak leaped back onto the pavement — just in time to see the bus’s wheels crush his skateboard to splinters.

‘NO!’ he shouted, and tears suddenly welled up in his eyes. ‘My board!’ The board my parents gave me, he shrieked silently. Their last present ever…

He spun round. Marcus looked like he was about to run away; Jason was lying on the ground, all the colour drained from his face. He had dropped the knife, which was lying on the pavement about a metre from him.

Zak picked it up and Jason started to gabble.

‘Give us it back, mate… it’s not mine, is it? It’s my brother’s… if he thinks I nicked it…’

Zak looked over at the remnants of his skateboard and fought back the tears. There was no point picking the bits up. It was ruined. Instead, he stepped back to the side of the road, bent down and held the knife over a drain grille.

‘What’s the matter, Jason?’ he said through gritted teeth, trying not to let the emotion sound in his voice. ‘Scared?’

He dropped the knife, waited to hear it splash and stood up again.

‘See you in class,’ he muttered at the two boys, and he continued making his way to school on foot.

He got there just as the bell was ringing and hurried down the busy corridors to his first lesson: physics. He was almost looking forward to seeing Mr Peters, to staring him down and working out from the reaction he got whether Michael’s story about the teacher was true. Zak was good at reading people’s faces. When he got into the classroom, however, he had a surprise. Peters wasn’t there. Instead, standing in front of the whiteboard, was the deputy head, Mr Jobs — or Jobsworth, as everyone called him.

‘All right, you lot — settle down,’ Jobsworth called above the racket of the pupils taking their seats. ‘Settle down!’ He looked around the class. ‘Has anyone seen Marcus Varley or Jason Ford?’

Zak said nothing.

‘Where’s Peters, sir?’ called someone from the back of the class, and there were a few laughs.

‘It’s Mr Peters to you,’ Jobsworth said. ‘And I’m sorry to say that he’s been called away on family business. We don’t know when — or if — he’ll be back.’

Nobody in the classroom appeared at all concerned by this news. Nobody, that is, except Zak. He sat down at his place, slightly stunned.

It made sense, of course. If Michael had been telling the truth about Peters, and he’d been at the school just to evaluate Zak, there was now no reason for him still to be here. Zak raised his hand.

‘What is it, Darke?’

‘What sort of family business, sir?’

Jobsworth looked offended by the question. ‘Are you part of his family, Darke?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then it’s not your business, is it? Now then, what were you doing in your last lesson?’

A groan from the class. ‘Transistor radios, sir.’

Jobsworth’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that for another two years,’ he said, clearly a bit annoyed.

‘Yeah, well we couldn’t,’ a voice piped up.

‘Except Darke,’ someone else added. And then in a whisper: ‘Swot.’

Laughter. Zak ignored it. ‘Settle down!’ Jobsworth shouted. ‘Open your text books at page fifteen.’

And the lesson began.

The day passed slowly. Zak was glad when it was over, but he still dawdled back to 63 Acacia Drive. Michael’s voice echoed in his mind. It isn’t really home, is it? Not really.

No, thought Zak. It isn’t. It’s just a place I live — if you can call it living. He remembered the skateboard. It upset him and his thoughts drifted, as they so often did, to his mum and dad. You might even find out the real reason your parents died…

It was quiet back at his uncle and aunt’s house. The grown-ups weren’t yet back from work; Ellie was sleeping. Zak plonked himself in front of the family computer and launched a web browser, glad he had set things up so nobody would be able to track his searches. He Googled SECRET GOVERNMENT DEPARTMENTS. All he found were weird sites filled with absurd conspiracy theories. He tried to track down Mr Peters, even Michael. Of course, that was just a dead end. It wasn’t like they had Facebook accounts. And so his Internet session finished like they all did, with him looking at the various news reports of the tragic food poisoning in Nigeria that had killed his parents.

Only it hadn’t been food poisoning. If the strange old man was telling the truth, it had been something else.

Back in his tiny room, he sat on his bed and held the framed picture of his mum and dad. They looked very happy in it, and Zak felt anger rising up in him. They shouldn’t be dead. There was more to this than anyone had told him. And he felt angry with Michael too, whoever he was. He should have just said then and there what had happened to them…

Zak fished the business card from his jeans pocket. It was a bit scuffed and crumpled now. He stared at the number for a full five minutes. Calling it couldn’t do any harm, surely…

Once he’d made the decision, he moved quickly. His uncle and aunt were still out, so he hurried downstairs and found the cordless phone sitting on a coffee table in the front room. His brick of a mobile phone had given up the ghost weeks ago and his guardians hadn’t thought it necessary to replace it. He took a deep breath, then dialled the number.

There was no ringing tone. Just a click and then silence.

‘Er… hello?’ Zak said.

No answer.

‘Er… this is Zak. Zak Darke.’ He felt a bit foolish.

‘Have you come to a decision?’

The voice was low. It sounded weird, as if it had been distorted in some way. It certainly didn’t sound like Michael.

Zak closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’

The voice continued. It was totally lacking in emotion.

‘If you have anybody to say goodbye to, do it now. This is the last time you’ll see them. It’s better that way for them, and for you. Do not, repeat do not, suggest that you are going anywhere. We will come for you tonight.’

‘What do you mean you’ll come for me? When…?’

But the voice was gone.

A noise outside the room. It was somebody coming into the house. Zak guiltily dropped the phone back onto the coffee table just as Aunt Vivian walked in. ‘Who were you talking to?’ she demanded, her eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

‘Nobody.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Zachary. I saw you put the phone down. Who were you talking to?’

‘The speaking clock.’ He raised his watch. ‘It’s running slow.’

His aunt narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s expensive,’ she said. ‘I’ll deduct it from your allowance.’

Zak felt himself flaring up, but he mastered it. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He left the room and trudged up the stairs. On the landing he realized that his hands were shaking and it took several deep breaths to get control of himself.

Ellie’s door, which had been closed, was slightly ajar. He knocked lightly.

‘Come in,’ his cousin called.

Ellie was sitting up in bed reading a book. ‘Hi.’

Zak nodded in return. ‘How you feeling?’ he asked, and his voice cracked slightly.

‘So so,’ Ellie replied. She narrowed her eyes. ‘How about you?’

‘Er… fine,’ he said. ‘I think.’

‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

He gave her a weak smile, then sat on the edge of her bed and took one of her hands in his. ‘Look, Ellie, I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for everything. For looking after me.’

She looked at him strangely, but didn’t say anything.

‘I just wanted to tell you, I’m going to be OK.’

‘I know you are, Zak. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

Zak frowned. He wasn’t sure at all. He felt like he was in a fast-moving river and he couldn’t do anything except go with the current. Getting out of the water was impossible.

‘Can I trust you?’ he asked.

‘Of course you can. Zak, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?’

‘Something’s about to happen,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Don’t ask me what. I want you to know I’ll be safe.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Zak said. ‘Not yet. But we never had this conversation, all right? Don’t tell your parents, don’t tell anyone. It’s for your own safety, and theirs.’

He saw tears in Ellie’s eyes. ‘Zak, you’re scaring me. What’s happening?’

But he couldn’t tell her. He bent down, put one hand on her shoulder then kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he returned to his bedroom.

There was only one thing he could do now, and that was wait…

4 A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

The house was silent.

Zak had waited until he’d heard the sound of his uncle and aunt going to bed. They had checked on Ellie, but not him, switched off the landing light and retired to their room. He lay quietly for another ten minutes, before slipping out of bed and changing from his pyjamas into some warm clothes. Once he was dressed, he climbed back under his duvet and lay on his side, watching the glow of his bedside alarm clock.

Watching and waiting, with butterflies in his stomach.

Midnight came and went. The house creaked and groaned, just like it always did. Zak remembered the time when he was much smaller and used to be scared of those sounds in the house where he’d grown up, until his dad had explained that it was just the beams contracting as the temperature dropped.

One o’clock. He was so wide awake it might as well have been midday. His mouth was dry with anticipation.

But then two o’clock arrived. The night was ebbing away and nothing was happening. Zak began to feel slightly foolish. Perhaps he should go to sleep and forget all about it…

It was eight minutes to three when he heard it.

At first he assumed it was just the house creaking again and he went back to his clock-watching. But when he heard the sound for a second time he realized it had a different quality. He also realized it was getting closer to his bedroom.

Zak sat up and threw the duvet off. His breath was suddenly heavy and his pulse was racing. When he saw his door open, he shivered and couldn’t tell whether it was fear or excitement. A bit of both, probably…

A figure entered and quietly closed the door behind him. The only light in the room came from the glow of the alarm clock, so Zak couldn’t make the intruder out very well — all he could tell was that he was tall, wore dark clothing and had a balaclava over his head.

‘Turn off the clock.’ The man’s voice was so quiet, it was little more than a breath.

‘Why?’ Zak asked.

‘You need your night vision. The clock compromises it. Turn it off and don’t ask any more questions.’

Zak flicked a switch on the alarm clock. Darkness filled the room.

He heard the man’s voice again. ‘Take your pyjamas.’

Zak wanted to ask why, but didn’t dare. He removed the pyjamas from under his pillow and then, almost as an afterthought, groped in the darkness for the picture of his mum and dad. ‘Leave it,’ the man breathed.

‘No way,’ Zak said. ‘I’m—’

He didn’t finish the sentence. The man stepped forward, grabbed his hand and forced him to return the picture to the bedside table. ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

Zak’s eyes were growing used to the darkness now, but as they trod lightly out of the bedroom, he saw that the bathroom door was open and a street lamp from outside gave them some light to work with. They crept downstairs. And at the bottom of the stairs, Zak stopped.

Even in the darkness he could see that the place was in chaos. The hallway was home to a chest of drawers that contained hats, scarves and other outdoor gear. Only now it didn’t, because its contents were scattered over the floor, as if someone had been rummaging through them, looking for something.

‘Come on,’ breathed the man, and he headed down the hallway to the front door. As Zak followed him, he glanced into the front room. The coffee table was upside down; the TV was missing; the whole place had been ransacked.

The door was open and the man was gesturing at him. Zak, still clutching his pyjamas, followed him out into the early morning air. The intruder closed the door so quietly that Zak didn’t even hear it click. Only now did he remove his balaclava. He was probably in his late twenties and had a square face with thick blond hair. His nose was flattened and his forehead was set in a permanent frown. He nodded at Zak without smiling, then swiftly turned and walked down the street.

Zak followed. They didn’t have far to go. The man stopped by a vehicle parked about twenty metres away — a white van with misted rear windows and a sign on the side with a phone number and the words ‘Emergency Plumbing Service — 24 hour call-out’.

‘I thought people like you were supposed to drive Aston Martins,’ Zak said. He tried to sound confident, but his voice trembled slightly.

‘People like me,’ replied the man, ‘drive whatever makes them anonymous. Aston Martins don’t do that.’ He opened the rear doors and Zak saw the family TV lying on its back, along with the DVD player and various other items he couldn’t quite make out.

‘You did all that just now?’

‘Get inside.’

‘I didn’t hear you break in.’

‘I’m quiet. Get inside.’

Zak had a moment of doubt. He looked over his shoulder back at the house he had just left. The street lamp outside it flickered slightly; 63 Acacia Drive was bathed in its yellow glow. Zak had no fondness for that house, but now it was time to leave, a part of him wanted to run back inside to the familiar flowery wallpaper. Back to his ordinary life. To get into this van was to take a step into the unknown…

‘Why have I brought my pyjamas?’ he asked suddenly. Nervously.

The man didn’t explain. He just put one hand on Zak’s back and gently but firmly pushed him into the back of the van. The doors shut behind him and once more he was plunged into darkness. Moments later, the engine started and the vehicle pulled away. Zak had to stop himself shivering…

He didn’t know how long they drove for. It was difficult to judge time in the darkness. He sat in the corner of the vehicle, clutching his knees, trying to make sense of what had just happened. When Ellie and her family woke up, the first thing they would see was that they’d been robbed. He could just imagine the reaction — Aunt Vivian screeching, Uncle Godfrey bellowing. He felt sorry for Ellie having to be part of it. Sorry and guilty. He didn’t know how long it would be before they realized that he was gone, and he didn’t know what they would think either. That he had stolen everything?

He narrowed his eyes in the darkness. No. They might think that at first, but when they discovered that his pyjamas weren’t there, they’d change their mind. Because if he intended to rob the house and run away, he’d hardly do it in his nightclothes…

The van, which had been twisting and turning, suddenly increased its speed and Zak imagined they were on a motorway. They drove for perhaps half an hour before he felt the vehicle veering from the main road and slowing down again. More twisting and turning before they came to a halt. The noise of the engine died away, but outside the van there was another sound, loud and mechanical. It grew louder as the doors opened, and when Zak peered outside, he saw what it was.

A helicopter. He felt slightly sick.

‘Get out,’ the blond man said. ‘Quickly.’

Zak did as he was told, and immediately his unruly hair started blowing around in the downdraught of the chopper. It was still dark, and they were in the middle of a big field with no sign of any houses nearby. In addition to his abductor, there was a second man — much shorter and wearing a black beanie hat.

‘Where are we?’ Zak yelled above the aircraft’s engines.

‘Just get on the chopper,’ the man yelled. ‘Now.’

‘Are you coming with me?’ he asked.

The man nodded and pointed to the helicopter. Its side door was open but there was no sign of anyone inside other than the pilot. Zak staggered towards it, keeping his head low and covering his ears with his hands. The man followed him and, once they were both safely inside, he closed the door. The short man stepped round to the front of the aircraft and gave the pilot a thumbs up, before running back to the plumber’s van.

Inside the chopper, Zak sat in one of the empty seats in the main cabin. The pilot looked back at him and made a gesture telling him to strap himself in, which Zak did. The moment his seat belt clunked together, the helicopter rose into the air.

‘Where are we going?’ Zak screamed over the noise. He’d never been in a chopper before, and he felt vulnerable as the ground disappeared underneath them.

But neither the pilot nor his frowning, blond-haired companion answered. They just looked straight ahead, bathed in the light from the chopper’s dashboard. If Zak had been feeling uneasy before, he felt doubly so now. But it was too late to do anything about it. With a turn of his steering lever, the pilot caused the aircraft to veer to the right. Then they straightened up and continued to fly through the night air.

Zak felt disorientated. Through the window of the chopper he could see lights of the towns over which they flew, but there was no way of knowing which towns they were or in what direction they were flying. It was only when dawn arrived after a couple of hours’ flight time that Zak was able to work it out. The first glimpses of light came from the right-hand side of the chopper. He knew the sun rose in the east, so they must be heading north.

On the ground below he could just make out mountains and lakes. He consulted his mental map of the country. Were they passing over the Lake District? Or had they gone further north, into the highlands of Scotland? He realized it was Scotland when he saw a crinkly coastline up ahead. The chopper flew over the sea — it was grey and threatening in the almost-light of dawn, and it made Zak shiver, especially when he felt the chopper losing height and he could make out the foam of the choppy waters.

Then there was land: a sheer, craggy cliff with moorland on top of it. The chopper flew low — low enough for its downdraught to cause hedges to buffet in the wind — before it reduced speed and gradually rested on the ground once more. The hum of the engines grew fainter, and although the rotary blades continued to spin, Zak could tell they were slowing down.

The blond-haired man opened the side door and jumped down. He turned and held up one hand to help Zak out. Zak ignored it and dismounted from the chopper by himself. They ran away from the downdraught and he stopped to look around.

It was just about the bleakest place Zak had ever seen. The dawn light was still a faint, steely grey. It didn’t do much for the featureless expanse around him. There were no trees; just moor as far as he could see, with only the occasional mound of crags erupting from the ground to break up the monotony. And in the distance, perhaps a mile away, a single house, lonely and imposing against the grey skyline.

The blond man pointed towards it just as it started to drizzle. ‘That’s where we’re going.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘We’ll run,’ he said.

Without waiting for a word from Zak, he started jogging in the direction of the house.

The drizzle was becoming gradually more intense. The helicopter, which couldn’t have been on the ground for more than thirty seconds, lifted up into the air again, leaving Zak on that featureless moor, getting wet. The blond man was already a hundred metres away and didn’t look like he was prepared to wait. Zak pulled his hood up over his head, and ran after him.

It took a minute or so to catch him up. ‘All right,’ the blond man said when Zak was alongside him. ‘Slow down, it’s not a race. You need to learn how to conserve your energy when you’re running. Anyone can sprint a couple of hundred metres, but for successful escape and evasion you need to know how to cover long distances.’

Zak looked over his shoulder. ‘Who am I escaping from?’ he asked.

‘No one,’ said the man. ‘Not yet.’

They ran on in silence.

It took about ten minutes to reach the house, by which time Zak was totally soaked. He bent over to get his breath back. The blond man, although he was also wet, didn’t seem remotely puffed. He strode up a flight of stone steps that led to an arched wooden door. On one side of the door, looking quite out of place on this big, old house, was an electronic keypad. The man typed in a number and Zak stood up just in time to see a red light shoot from the device and scan the man’s retina.

A pause. And then a slow hissing sound as the big door swung open. A figure appeared in the doorway. He was tall, with a deeply lined, tanned face and long grey hair spilling out onto his shoulders.

‘Michael…’ Zak muttered.

‘Hello, Zak. Hello, Raf,’ the man said. ‘It’s good to see you both here safely. All went well, I trust? I imagine you’d like some dry clothes, and something hot to drink.’ He turned and disappeared into the house.

Raf looked at Zak. ‘After you,’ he said politely.

Zak trotted up the stone steps. ‘You’re too kind,’ he replied. He walked up the steps, in out of the rain.

And then he spun round. The heavy door had hissed shut behind him. He couldn’t help feeling as if someone had just locked him in.

5 GUARDIAN ANGELS

Zak found himself in a large, high-ceilinged hallway with a chequerboard floor and an immense stone fireplace in which there was a roaring wood fire. He and Raf headed straight for it, and it was only a few seconds before their wet clothes started to steam in the warmth.

‘Where are we?’ Zak asked.

Michael looked around fondly. ‘St Peter’s House,’ he said. ‘The island itself—’

‘We’re on an island?’

‘Certainly,’ Michael replied. He walked up to a table on the other side of the room and picked up two large, white mugs — one for Zak, the other for Raf. Zak took a sip. Boiled water, nothing more. He made a sour face, which Michael noticed. ‘Drink it,’ the old man said. ‘Hydration is important. The island itself doesn’t have an official name — not one you’ll find on a map, anyway. Nobody lives here, but the locals on the mainland call it St Peter’s Crag. One name is as good as another. Or did I mention that to you before?’ He brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

‘You said something about dry clothes,’ Zak reminded him. Even though the fire was warm, he was shivering.

Michael looked at Raf. ‘Take him to his room,’ he said.

Raf nodded. At the far end of the hallway there was an ornate wooden staircase ascending against the wall. Zak followed Raf up it, then down a long corridor with oak-panelled walls and thick, old-fashioned carpet. There were heavy wooden doors along the corridor at intervals of about ten metres, each with modern opaque white door knobs; and one at the very end. It was this door which Raf opened. He stepped aside to let Zak in.

It was a small room, though a lot bigger than the one he had at his uncle and aunt’s house. In a far corner was a single bed with crisp, white sheets. Next to it was a clothes rail on which hung ten or twelve sets of Zak’s trademark jeans and dark hooded tops, with several pairs of new trainers on the floor underneath. Hanging on one of the stark white walls was a huge flat-screen TV — fifty inches, Zak reckoned, maybe more — and beneath that a glass table with a PlayStation.

‘It’s been modified,’ Raf said, when he saw Zak’s eyes linger on the console. ‘Special strategy and reflex exercises.’

‘No Modern Warfare?’ Zak asked.

‘You don’t need a games console for that.’ Raf walked up to the screen and put one finger to it. It immediately flickered into life, showing a plain web browser. ‘You’ve got Internet access, but there’s a firewall stopping you from sending emails or communicating with the outside world. Save yourself some time and don’t try to hack it. You won’t be able to.’

‘What am I?’ Zak asked. ‘A prisoner?’

‘Some walls,’ Raf said, ‘aren’t there to stop people getting out. They’re to stop people getting in.’ Zak didn’t think it was a very reassuring comment.

Opposite the flat screen there was another door, leading to a bright, modern bathroom. The lights flickered on automatically as soon as Zak walked in. ‘Take a shower,’ Raf told him. ‘Put on some dry clothes. We’ll come and get you in half an hour.’ Without another word, he turned and left.

It felt good to get out of his damp clothes and feel the steaming hot water on his back, but it did nothing to stop Zak’s uneasiness. Where was this place? What was it? He felt a million miles from anywhere, under the control of these strange people. He couldn’t help thinking he’d made a very serious mistake…

Zak tried not to think about how they knew exactly what size clothes he wore, but the clean jeans, top and trainers fitted perfectly. When he was dressed, he touched the flat screen just as Raf had done. It switched on and this time Zak checked the time on the top of the screen. 07.58. It had taken just under five hours for his world to change.

He thought of Ellie. She’d be awake now — they all would, and they’d have seen what had happened. They’d know he was missing. Zak felt a pang of guilt. But then he thought about why he was here. About his parents. A scowl crossed his face.

Zak reckoned he still had ten minutes before Raf came back to get him, and he wanted to know what was in the rooms along the corridor. He wasn’t at all sure that if he left his own room the door wouldn’t shut behind him, so he took one of the spare trainers and propped it against the door frame before stepping out into the corridor.

The closest two doors were directly opposite each other, about ten metres from Zak’s room. He tried the right-hand one first, gripping the white door knob and trying to turn it. Nothing moved — the door was locked, but it puzzled Zak that there was no keyhole or keypad. As far as he could tell, the only way to unlock this door was from the inside. The same went for the door opposite. Zak pressed his ear up against the wood to listen to anything going on inside.

Nothing.

Then… footsteps.

They were coming up the stairs at the end of the corridor. Zak glanced guiltily towards them and hurried back to his room. He wasn’t sure if he’d closed the door in time and he could feel his skin flushing. When Raf knocked and reappeared, though, he showed no sign of knowing that Zak had been snooping around.

Like Zak, Raf had changed, but was still dressed entirely in black — black jeans, black polo neck, black boots. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Zak said. ‘I guess.’ But ready for what, he didn’t really know.

The room to which Raf led him was back on the ground floor. It was large, with a big oak desk in the middle and floor-to-ceiling windows, through which Zak could just make out the sea, grey and threatening in the distance — an impossible perimeter that he knew he could never cross. The air was thick with the aroma of cherry tobacco. Michael was here, smoking one of his thin cigarillos, but he wasn’t alone. A woman stood in front of one of the windows. She was in her twenties with shoulder-length white-blonde hair and large, icy-blue eyes. Like Raf, she was dressed all in black, and she gave Zak a friendly, open smile as he walked in.

‘Good to see Raphael picked you up OK, Zak,’ she said. ‘Wanted to do it myself — us girls are better at creeping around in the dead of night, you know.’ She winked at him. ‘Raf says it’s because we’re more sneaky, but that’s such a horrid word. “Subtle” sounds much better, don’t you think?’

Michael interrupted her. ‘Zak, I’d like you to meet Gabriella. Gabriella, Zak.’

The woman walked forward. Her movements were like a cat’s — elegant but silent. As she walked past Michael she brushed an affectionate hand against his arm and Zak noticed that her nails were painted in baby pink. ‘Michael is so polite. He’s like someone’s grandfather, isn’t he? Maybe he is someone’s grandfather. I suppose we’ll never know.’ By now she was standing just in front of Zak, holding out her right hand. ‘Call me Gabs, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Everybody does.’

Zak shook her hand a bit warily. ‘Pleased to meet you, Gabs,’ he said.

Gabs rolled her eyes. ‘He’s adorable,’ she said to nobody in particular. ‘You know, Zak, if Raf had a face like yours, he could fool anyone.’ She winked at Raf. ‘Of course, we wouldn’t change him for the world, though.’

Raf’s frown grew more pronounced, but he didn’t say anything.

‘That’s enough, Gabriella,’ Michael said. ‘We don’t have time to play. There are things Zak needs to know.’ The old man walked to one side of the table and opened a drawer. He removed a piece of paper, then placed it on the table top. ‘Have a look, Zak,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think.’

Zak took the piece of paper. It was a printout of a newspaper article. The headline, in thick black lettering, was chilling enough, the rest even more so:

A teenager, still missing following a robbery on Monday night at the Camden home of his uncle and aunt, is feared dead, according to police sources. It is thought that Zachary Darke, 13 — who was staying with relatives after the tragic death of his parents six months ago — disturbed burglars when they entered the house. Police believe he may have recognized one of the intruders and was abducted to stop him revealing their identity.

Zak felt himself shiver. It was like staring at his own tombstone.

He looked around at the others in the room. Michael’s tanned face was expressionless. So was Raf’s; he stood hulking nearby with his arms crossed. Only Gabs showed any concern, her big blue eyes full of sympathy and her lips parted.

‘We’ll plant it in the local newspaper in about a week,’ Michael said. ‘Are you comfortable with that?’

‘Comfortable with being dead?’ Zak asked. ‘Not really. Do I get a funeral?’

‘Alas, your body won’t be found for some time. Which reminds me — I’ll be needing a single hair from your head. You needn’t look so perturbed, Zak, it’s perfectly simple. We’ll be on the lookout for a corpse of a similar size and shape as you. Suitably mutilated as to be unrecognizable, of course. We have ways of ensuring that your DNA is substituted for that of the deceased and for that I’ll need a single hair from your head. In answer to your question, yes, I’m sure there will be a funeral of sorts. I wouldn’t recommend investigating it, however. You never know what you might hear at such events. And in any case, your family and friends aren’t the only people who need to say goodbye to Zak Darke. You do too.’

He took something else out of the drawer: a plain brown padded envelope, which he handed to Zak.

Zak emptied it out onto the desk. There were five documents: a red passport, slightly dog-eared; an old birth certificate; an out-of-date library card; a printout of some emails going back a couple of years; and a mobile phone contract. The passport and the library card both had photographs. Zak didn’t know when the pictures had been taken, but he recognized the person well enough. It was him. A younger version, but definitely him.

He looked at the name on the documents. Zak Darke was nowhere to be seen. It was like he’d been scrubbed from the face of the planet and somebody else had parachuted in to take his place.

‘Meet Harry Gold,’ Michael said. ‘The new you.’

Zak continued to stare at the documents. They made him feel incredibly uneasy and he was only half listening as Michael continued to talk.

‘When I say “the new you”, what I mean is one of them. Part of your training, Zak, will be to assimilate new identities, quickly and thoroughly. Harry Gold has not led a very interesting life, but even dull lives are full of facts. You need to know everything about him — not just the big things, like where he lives or what schools he’s been to, but the little things too. His favourite food. What he likes to watch on TV. We have planted these little nuggets of information in the public domain, to make Harry seem like a real person. If somebody suspects you’re not who you say you are, they’ll test you by asking you about one of these inconsequential facts. And let’s just say it’ll be the kind of test where only ten out of ten will do. Do you understand?’

Zak nodded.

‘Only four people in the whole world will know your real identity, Zak, and three of them are standing in the room right now.’

‘Who’s the fourth?’ Zak demanded.

Michael carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It will be necessary for other people to know of your existence, but not of your identity. They will know you only by the codename Agent 21.’

‘Why 21?’ Zak asked. ‘What happened to Agents 1 to 20?’

A bland smile from Michael, and again he continued as though Zak hadn’t even said anything. ‘For the next few weeks, you will undergo a rigorous training schedule. Raf and Gabs will be your new teachers. Apart from them and myself, the only person you might see is an old man called Stan. He lives in a hut on the beach, and it’s his job to make sure nobody arrives on this island without us knowing, and to take occasional deliveries of supplies — we don’t want you starving, after all. If you see anyone else, it’s time to worry. Is that clear?’

Zak blinked. This was all going so fast. Too fast. He didn’t know who these people were. He didn’t know if he could trust them. He was beginning to think he’d made a terrible mistake. ‘I want to go home,’ he said.

The other three exchanged a long look. ‘People in your position always say that at first,’ Michael said quietly. ‘It’s quite impossible, of course, but you knew that all along, didn’t you?’

Zak didn’t answer, so Michael continued as if nothing had happened.

‘Good. Pay attention to Raf and Gabs, Zak. Everything they teach you will have the potential to save your life.’ He fixed Zak with a steely glare. ‘I just hope you’re as fast a learner as they say.’

Zak looked at the three of them in turn. They all looked deadly serious as they returned his gaze.

Me too, thought Zak. Me too. But he didn’t say it. He stuffed the documents back into their envelope. ‘Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?’ he asked.

Michael raised an eyebrow.

‘When we met in the park, you said you’d tell me about my parents.’

A silence descended on the room. He was aware of Raf and Gabs glancing briefly at each other. Michael turned and walked over to the window, where he looked out towards the sea.

‘As time goes on, Zak,’ he said, ‘you’ll learn that too much information can be a dangerous thing.’

Zak felt himself flaring up. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘You told me—’

Michael turned and held up one palm. ‘Please, Zak, let me finish. Too much information can be a dangerous thing. So can too little. What is important is that you know what you need to know.’

‘I need to know about my parents.’

‘And you will,’ said Michael, his voice calm, ‘when the time is right.’

‘No!’ Zak shouted. ‘We had a deal. You said you’d tell me. You better had, otherwise I’m leaving. I don’t care what you say.’

‘Leaving?’ Michael said. ‘And how exactly do you propose to do that, Zak? I know you’re a clever lad, but I’d be surprised if your skills extended to the flying of helicopters just yet. And the water really is rather choppy for swimming.’

Zak felt a twist in his stomach.

‘And even if you do make it back,’ Michael continued, ‘what will you tell people? They certainly won’t believe you about us, and if you can’t come up with anything convincing, I’m afraid the only conclusion they’re likely to come to is that you were in some way involved in the robbery of your uncle and aunt’s house.’

Zak stared at him in disbelief; Michael avoided his gaze.

‘Of course, I doubt your relatives would want to extend their hospitality to you if that were the case. You could always be fostered, and it’s true that there are some excellent care homes, but I’m not sure that’s a better option than 63 Acacia Drive, is it?’

Zak continued to stare. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Michael had trapped him, and there was no way he could get away…

Michael continued talking as mildly as if he was discussing the weather. ‘I have instructed Raphael and Gabriella to identify your weaknesses and build on your strengths. We have everything here that we need to do this. I might as well tell you now that you will only be able to gain access to those rooms in this house for which you have clearance.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ said Michael, ‘it’s perhaps a little melodramatic to say that this house has secrets but… it does. Any rooms for which you have not been cleared will be impossible for you to enter, much like the two doors you just tried outside your own room.’

Zak shot him a quick look and Michael smiled. ‘All the door knobs have fingerprint recognition technology,’ he said. ‘Only people with pre-approved fingerprints can gain access to certain rooms. In addition, the technology will check the temperature and pulse of anyone who tries to use the door knobs. Can you think why that might be?’

Zak shook his head.

‘Well, Zak,’ Michael explained, ‘it would only be a moment’s work to remove the hand of an authorized person from their arm and use it to gain access to restricted areas. Pulse recognition ensures that the hand is still… ah… attached to its owner.’ The old man let that sink in before he continued. ‘It might appear to you, Zak, that we are treating you unfairly. Nothing could be further from the truth. Our purpose is only to protect you until such time as you are fully able to protect yourself. There are a great many people out there who don’t play by the same rules as ordinary folk. You are already their enemy. If they could get their hands on you right now, they would. No place is entirely safe.’ He looked around. ‘Even here. You would do well to remember that and work hard during your training period. It’s for your benefit, after all.’

A stillness descended on the room as the adults stared at Zak. To break it, Michael addressed Gabs. ‘Perhaps, Gabriella, you could take Zak back to his room,’ he said. ‘Our friend has a lot to think about, and I imagine he could do with some sleep.’

‘Get some rest, sweetie,’ Gabs had told him once she’d delivered him back to his room. ‘You’ll need it. And don’t look so worried, Zak. Michael can be a little abrupt at times, but he’s a sweetheart really. And we’ll take care of you.’ She put one hand on his shoulder, squeezed it slightly, then left.

Zak sat on the edge of his bed, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. He felt exhausted, physically and mentally. He also felt like he’d been conned. Michael hadn’t forced him to come here, it was true; but he’d made it impossible to leave.

And then there was Raf and Gabs. Raphael and Gabriella…

Zak frowned. Something he only half remembered was nagging at him. He stood up and tapped the screen on the wall. The web browser instantly appeared. Another tap and a virtual keyboard covered the bottom half of the screen. Zak started typing. He concentrated on Raphael first, and soon had the information he wanted.

He stored that information away, then started searching not for Gabriella, but for…

Raf and Gabs weren’t their real names. Somehow it didn’t surprise him. And it didn’t surprise him, either, when he continued searching and found…

Zak sneered. So Raf and Gabs were his guardian angels, and Michael was their leader. At least that was how they saw themselves.

To Zak they seemed more like his jailers.

6 CALACA

It was still early in the morning, but the sun was already fierce. All the cars around Mexico City had their windows firmly shut and the air conditioning on full blast — including the large black Range Rover that edged its way slowly out of the city. Whereas lots of vehicles were beeping their horns at each other in frustration, the Range Rover drove slowly and carefully. Its driver patiently waited at red lights; if another car cut across his path — and it happened often — he let them in. He did nothing to draw attention to himself. That would be stupid.

The further the Range Rover drove from the centre of Mexico City, the less heavy the traffic became. The driver was able to move faster, but he was still careful to stay within the speed limit as he headed south on the road to Cuernavaca. After forty-five minutes, however, he veered off to the right, following a small, windy road. The vehicle passed through tiny villages, where the inhabitants looked at it with interest. Big cars like his might be common in the capital city, but out here they were rare. The only cars these poor villagers were likely to drive were dust-covered and more than twenty years old.

‘Stop.’

The instruction came from a man sitting in the back seat. It was a good job the windows of the Range Rover were blacked out, because if they weren’t he would have attracted a lot of attention. He was, after all, a remarkable-looking man. He was incredibly skinny, and at some point in the past he had lost his right eye. He never spoke about how it happened, but most people who met him assumed it was as a result of violence.

Violence attracts violence, and this was a violent person.

The skin in front of the missing eye had grown over. There was only the faintest hint of a scar, which you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know it was there. So to most people, the man in the back seat of the Range Rover looked as if he had been born with only one eye. His hair was shaved to hide the fact that it was balding, but he had a few days’ stubble on his face. And even though the air conditioning in the car was on, he was sweating profusely. He always did.

His name was Adan Ramirez. Behind his back, everyone called him Calaca — ‘skeleton’. To his face, they called him ‘Señor’.

The Range Rover stopped and the driver looked over his shoulder at Calaca. ‘Here, Señor?’

Calaca looked out of the tinted window. The road was no longer winding, but straight. It stretched for a good two miles in either direction and there were no vehicles approaching. He nodded at the driver.

‘Shall I do it, Señor?’ the driver asked.

Calaca shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘You will wait there.’

He opened the door and stepped outside into the brutal heat, where he instantly started sweating even more. Calaca walked round to the back of the Range Rover and opened up the boot. His lip curled when he saw what was inside.

It was a man. His mouth was gagged, his feet bound together and his hands tied behind his back. He scrunched his eyes shut because of the sudden influx of sunlight, before slowly opening them again. When he saw who was looking at him, he started to make squealing noises. He knew Calaca’s reputation; he knew to be scared.

Calaca ignored the noises. He grabbed the man by his hair and pulled him out of the Range Rover. He fell with a painful thud to the dusty road. Calaca kicked him. ‘Get to the side,’ he instructed. ‘Now.’

The man couldn’t get to his feet, so he shuffled like a worm to the edge of the road. Calaca bent down and removed the gag. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ he whispered.

‘P… p… please,’ the man stuttered. ‘I will do whatever you want. Please.’

But Calaca shook his head. ‘It is too late for that,’ he said. ‘You stole from my employer. You know what that means, don’t you?’

The terrified man shook his head manically. ‘It wasn’t me. You’ve made a mistake.’ Then he gave a low groan as Calaca pulled a gun from his pocket.

‘You will tell me the truth,’ he said.

‘I swear, Señor, there is nothing to tell.’

‘I will count to three. Tell me the truth and I might show you mercy. One…’

The man shivered on the ground. ‘Please, Señor…’

‘Two…’

‘It’s not me you want.’

A horrible pause.

‘Three.’

Calaca cocked his handgun.

‘Señor!’ the man squealed. ‘I am sorry! Please, I beg your forgiveness. Spare me. Please spare me…’

The one-eyed man nodded and a calm smile appeared on his thin lips. When he spoke again, he sounded almost pleased.

‘This,’ he announced, ‘is from Cesar Martinez Toledo. It is what happens when you betray him. You can expect your family to receive the same treatment.’

And without another word, Calaca opened fire.

7 LOCKED AND LOADED

It was night, and Zak had awoken suddenly. For a few seconds he was confused and, not knowing where he was, started looking for the alarm clock he kept by his bed in Acacia Drive. Then he saw Raf standing in the doorway of his room, his flat-nosed, frowning face illuminated by the moon that shone through the window, and he felt a sinking feeling inside.

‘Wake up,’ Raf said.

Zak sat up in his bed. It was his first night on the island and it felt like he’d only fallen asleep two minutes ago.

‘What time is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Midnight. Get dressed. We’re going out.’

‘Am I leaving?’ Zak felt suddenly hopeful.

‘Of course not.’

Gabs was waiting for them in the main hallway to the house. She smiled at him as he walked in behind Raf. ‘You look tired, sweetie,’ she said, running one hand unconsciously through her white-blonde hair.

‘Funny that,’ Zak replied. ‘It being midnight and everything.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Michael?’

‘Michael’s left,’ Gabs said. ‘You won’t be seeing him for a while.’

‘So it’s just me and my guardian angels, is it?’

Gabs and Raf exchanged a look. ‘Didn’t take you long to work that out,’ Gabs said. She held something up. ‘Put this on,’ she said.

‘What is it?’

‘A blindfold, sweetie.’

Zak took a step backwards. ‘No way,’ he said. He looked at the two adults nervously.

Gabs just smiled at him again. ‘What do you think we’re going to do, Zak? Kidnap you?’

‘You already did that.’

Raf walked up to Gabs, took the blindfold and approached Zak. ‘Actually, Zak, we didn’t. It was your decision to come here, and the sooner you start accepting that, the better. And if you think we’re blindfolding you because we want to hurt you in some way, think again. This isn’t the movies, you know. If somebody wants to kill you — and chances are that at some stage they will — they’ll just do it. There won’t be any of that James Bond stuff.’ He handed over the blindfold. ‘Put it on.’

Gabs was standing next to him now. ‘You need to start trusting us,’ she said. ‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

Zak looked from one to the other. Both dressed in black, they had equally serious expressions as they stood there. Zak stared at the ground for a moment then, slowly, put on the blindfold.

Immediately he heard the main door open. Raf took his hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said, his voice as firm as his grip.

They exited the house, Zak treading carefully as he went. And then they started to walk. At first it was difficult — the ground felt treacherous underneath him and he tripped several times, although Raf was always there to pull him up. Soon, though, he got the hang of it and they started covering ground more quickly, even when the cold wind started to bite. After about an hour they stopped. ‘You can take the blindfold off now,’ Raf said.

Zak did so. He blinked and looked around. They were in the middle of a featureless stretch of moorland, and although the almost-full moon was bright enough to cast a shadow, he couldn’t make out anything beyond about thirty metres. He shivered.

‘Do you know where you are?’ Raf asked him.

‘The middle of nowhere,’ Zak said.

‘So how will you find your way home?’

‘Follow my nose, I guess.’

Raf looked unimpressed. ‘You can do better than that. Imagine you need to get to a rendezvous point, and you know that the RV is two miles to your northwest. How are you going to do it?’

Zak thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I’ve got GPS on my phone.’

‘OK,’ Raf replied. ‘GPS is good, but you can’t rely on it. What if your battery’s down? What if you’ve stumbled in a ditch and water’s got into the mechanism? Let’s say you’ve got no GPS.’

Zak chewed lightly on his lower lip. He was getting into this now. ‘Map and compass?’

‘You’re in an area that has a lot of underground metallic ores. They’re messing with the accuracy of your compass.’

‘Does that happen?’

‘Sure.’

‘Then I don’t know. Wait — hang on…’

He looked up.

The stars were astonishingly bright. There was no light pollution in this deserted place, so they glowed like the fires they were.

‘Well done, Zak,’ Raf said quietly. ‘People have been using the stars to navigate since before there were even maps, let alone GPS. We might have all sorts of modern technology to help us, but that doesn’t mean you should forget the old ways. The time will probably come when you need them.’

He put one hand around Zak’s shoulder and pointed up. ‘You see that constellation?’ he asked. ‘It looks like a saucepan with the handle bending upwards.’

‘I see it,’ Zak said.

‘That’s Ursa Minor. Some people call it the Little Dipper. The third star of the handle — the bright one — is Polaris. The North Star. Walk towards it and you’ll always be heading north. You can work out your other bearings from that. Sometimes, though, you can’t see Ursa Minor.’

‘So how do you find the North Star?’ Zak asked.

Raf’s finger traced out another saucepan-shaped constellation. On this one, the third star of the handle bent crookedly down. ‘That’s Ursa Major,’ he said. Then he moved his arm across the sky and traced out a W-shaped constellation. ‘That’s Cassiopeia. Polaris is about halfway between the two constellations. Have you got that?’

Zak nodded.

‘Good. These stars need to become like friends. You never know when you might have to ask for their help. This technique works in the northern hemisphere. Do you know what that means?’

‘North of the equator,’ Zak said.

‘Right. In the southern hemisphere you need to look for a constellation called the Southern Cross to show you which way is south. I’ll show you that on a star chart another time.’ He paused. ‘Gabs was right, you know,’ he said after a moment. ‘You need to start trusting us.’

‘Michael told me I shouldn’t trust anyone.’

‘Well, we’re the exception that proves the rule. I know you’re angry with Michael, but you can’t let that get in the way. We’re here to teach you and help you. We can’t do that if you’re fighting with us.’

And Zak knew Raf was right. He looked at his guardian angel. ‘Just one thing,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ Raf asked.

‘Can we cut out these midnight alarm calls?’

Raf’s permanent frown softened slightly. ‘It’s a deal,’ he agreed. He held out his hand and Zak shook it.

‘Now,’ Raf continued, sounding suddenly brusque again, ‘close your eyes and turn round three times. Keep your eyes closed.’ Raf’s voice grew more distant. ‘The house is about three kilometres away to the south-east. I’ll see you back there.’

When Zak opened his eyes, his teacher had disappeared.

‘Raf!’ he called. ‘Raf!’

There was no reply. Zak felt a little surge of panic. He was on his own.

It was incredibly bleak out here by himself. The wind ruffled his hair and in the distance he could just make out the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. He shuddered. For the first time since being on the island he felt a desperate desire to be back within the walls of St Peter’s House.

Stay calm, he told himself. Remember what Raf just taught you…

He looked up. It took a moment to orientate himself and locate Polaris again. South-east, Raf had said. He faced the North Star, then turned 180 degrees. That was south. He held out his arms at right angles, so his right was pointing forward to the south and the left was pointing east. South-east bisected the two. Zak started jogging in that direction. Every few minutes he stopped and checked his bearing against Polaris, and occasionally he found he had veered off course, so he readjusted his direction before continuing.

Zak had been running for about five minutes when he heard it — or thought he heard it. It wasn’t much: just a vague rustling nearby. He found he was holding his breath as he stopped and looked around, his eyes straining to penetrate the dark.

‘Raf? Raf? Is that you?’

No reply. Just silence. ‘You’re probably hearing things,’ he muttered to himself, even as he felt a chill that was nothing to do with the cold night run down his spine. He quickly checked his bearings again and continued heading south-east. Only a little faster this time…

After about twenty minutes the house came into view. The yellow glow of the lights from inside almost looked welcoming.

Raf was waiting for him in a doorway; Gabs was nowhere to be seen. Raf looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-two minutes,’ he said. All traces of his former comradeship had disappeared and he seemed suddenly rather frosty. ‘We really need to work on your fitness.’

‘Did you come straight here?’ Zak asked.

‘Of course,’ Raf said. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing.’

Raf shrugged. ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an early start in the morning.’

When Raf said they would work on his fitness, he hadn’t been joking. Both he and Gabs woke Zak at six the next morning. They gave him high-energy foods to eat — bananas and oatmeal — which they consumed in a gleaming kitchen at the back of the house, then handed him some running gear and told him to get changed.

It was a bright, crisp morning and the first couple of kilometres were almost fun as he tried to keep up with Raf and Gabs. They maintained a punishing pace, however, and his muscles soon started to burn. ‘Keep up!’ Raf shouted as Zak lagged behind. He gritted his teeth, tried to forget about the pain and upped his speed.

‘Ten miles,’ Raf told him when they got back to the house. He and Gabs had barely broken into a sweat. ‘We do that every day and increase it by three miles a week. Go and get changed. You’ve got tuition for the rest of the day.’

It started with Spanish lessons. Then Mandarin. Then Arabic. Both Raf and Gabs were fluent in them all. As Zak was struggling with the Arabic alphabet, Gabs smiled at him. ‘We’ll have you talking like a native in a few weeks, sweetie,’ she said.

Zak wasn’t so sure.

The days passed. They turned into weeks. The routine didn’t change. Before long, Zak had almost forgotten why he was here, or the life he’d left behind. The training was everything, and it took up every second of his time. When he wasn’t running, he was pushing weights; when he wasn’t pushing weights, he was studying languages; when he wasn’t studying languages, he was being tutored in the arts of navigation.

Every night before bedtime, Raf handed him a piece of paper bearing facts about Harry Gold, Zak’s alter ego. And every night he would learn them. Harry Gold’s life was not so different to Zak’s. He too had lost his parents to illness — his mother to a rare form of cancer, his father to the lung condition that had plagued him all his life; he too was an only child who had gone to live with relatives. When Zak mentioned this to Gabs, she just smiled. ‘Of course, sweetie,’ she said. ‘The best disguises are the ones where you don’t have to try too hard.’

He considered asking about his own parents again, but something told him Gabs wouldn’t be any more forthcoming than Michael.

There was a lot to learn. After a week, Zak could recite Harry’s personal details off by heart; after two he knew where Harry had gone on holiday for the past ten years; and after three he could name his imaginary extended family down to the obscurest cousins living in Eastbourne or the great-uncle who emigrated to Mexico fifteen years ago and hadn’t returned to the UK since. Once a week, Gabs and Raf would test him with quickfire questions and Harry’s past started to become second nature to him.

When Zak wasn’t exercising his mind or his brain, he slept as soundly as the dead. He was four weeks in when he woke to the sound of the regular 6 a.m. knock on his door. ‘Forget the running gear,’ Raf’s voice came from outside. ‘We’re doing something else today.’ Zak changed into his jeans and hoodie then stepped outside.

‘Come with me,’ Raf told him.

‘Where?’

‘You’ll see.’

He led Zak down into the basement. Zak had never been there before. At the bottom of the stairs there was a metal door with one of the opaque white door knobs. ‘We’ve given you access to this room,’ Raf told him. ‘You can come down here to train any time you want.’

‘Train in what?’

‘Firearms,’ Raf said, and the door clicked open. Behind the door there was a firing range. It looked a bit like a bowling alley, but at the end of each lane there were no skittles: there were targets, shaped like human bodies with concentric circles printed on the chests. To the left-hand side was a glass table, and on the table lay a selection of weapons, with Gabs standing next to them in her trademark black clothes.

‘OK, Zak,’ Raf said. ‘This is where it starts to get interesting.’

Gabs interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that to him, Raf.’ Her face was very serious, her blue eyes intense. She ran one hand through her white-blonde hair. ‘You need to listen to me carefully, Zak. Once you’re activated, you’ll find yourself in some dangerous situations. The whole reason Michael wants you as an agent is so that you can get access to places where adults would cause suspicion. Nothing’s going to raise people’s eyebrows more than kids with guns, so you’ll find it pretty rare to be inserted anywhere with a firearm. You’ll likely be surrounded by them, though, so you need to know how to recognize and operate the major types.’

Zak nodded.

‘This isn’t playground stuff, Zak. Each one of these weapons can kill you instantly if you don’t use them properly.’ She glanced at Raf. ‘Interesting enough for you, Raf?’ she asked.

Raf grunted and approached the table. He picked up the weapon on the far left-hand side. ‘This is a handgun,’ he said. ‘We call it that because it’s designed to be held in one hand. Your other hand supports the firing arm. Some people call them pistols — same difference. They’re small, light and easy to carry. There are different types of handgun, but the ones you’re most likely to come across are revolvers and semiautomatics. Revolvers have a rotating chamber that normally holds between five and eight rounds. Semiautomatics use the energy from firing one round to load the next into the chamber. You only need to cock the hammer once, and the gun will do the rest. Are you getting this?’

‘I think so.’

‘This is a Browning Hi-Power. It’s one of the most common semi-automatic pistols in the world. There’s a safety switch on the side, but some handguns have their safety in the handle, which means the gun will only fire when the user is holding it. If the weapon is loaded and the safety’s on, we say it’s locked and loaded. This gun fires nine-millimetre rounds — that’s the size of the bullets — and has a thirteen-round magazine. All making sense?’

‘Nine-millimetre, thirteen rounds,’ Zak repeated. His brain ached from trying to take it all in.

Raf lay the handgun back on the table and picked up the next gun — a longer one this time. ‘This is an assault rifle,’ he continued. ‘AK-47. Some people call it a Kalashnikov after the guy who designed it. This is the most popular gun in the world. Other common types of assault rifle are the M16, the Colt Commando and the C4 carbine. The AK fires 7.62 millimetre rounds — people refer to these as seven-six-twos or thirty calibres. The safety catch on an assault rifle typically has three settings: off, semi-automatic and fully automatic. When it’s set to off, the weapon is safe; semi-automatic, each time you pull the trigger it will discharge one round; fully automatic and the weapon will continue firing until you take your finger off the trigger or it runs out of ammo.’

Raf moved on to a third weapon. ‘This is a Heckler and Koch MP5. It’s a sub-machine-gun. Machine guns are fully automatic; sub-machine-guns fire smallcalibre rounds similar to pistols. MP5s typically fire seven to nine hundred rounds per minute. If you see somebody carrying one, duck.’

Zak nodded.

‘We’ll start with the handgun,’ Raf said. ‘Put these on.’ He handed Zak a set of protective headphones, then he and Gabs both put some on themselves. Zak watched as Gabs picked up the Browning Hi-Power and inserted a magazine into the handle with a satisfying clunk. She approached one of the firing ranges, unlocked the safety catch and raised the handgun.

She fired three shots. One hit the target square in the forehead; the other two made holes in the centre of the chest. Gabs switched the safety back on and handed the gun to Zak.

He handled it gingerly at first. ‘Don’t be scared of it, sweetie,’ Gabs said. ‘You need to respect your firearm, but remember that you’re in charge. Now, switch off the safety and raise your arm.’

Zak did as he was told.

‘Steady yourself,’ Gabs told him. ‘When you fire there’ll be a recoil. You need to be ready for it. Take a shot in your own time.’

Zak lined the sights up with the target’s chest — for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to attempt a head shot. He took a breath and fired.

The recoil was worse than he was expecting, jarring his arm up and to the left. He looked hopefully at his target, but there wasn’t even a single mark on it.

Raf and Gabs glanced at each other. ‘We’ll practise every day,’ Raf said. ‘We’ll soon get you—’

But Zak was hardly listening to him. He had already lined up the sights with the target once more and this time he knew what was coming. He steeled himself, then fired again.

This time he didn’t miss. A small hole appeared just above the heart area. Zak switched the safety back on, lowered the gun and removed his ear-protectors. He turned to his guardian angels. ‘Every day, right?’ he asked as Raf and Gabs shared an astonished look.

He returned to the table, and put the gun back in its place.

8 AGENT 17

As the weeks went by, Zak’s training grew more intense. The runs grew longer, the weights heavier. His mind swam with new facts and techniques, his Spanish, Arabic and Mandarin became practically fluent and he learned to live with the constant bruising on both shoulders as he practised with the assault rifle. Raf taught him to drive, using an old Land Rover that bumped over the rough terrain around St Peter’s Crag. ‘Try not to break the vehicle,’ he said without a hint of a smile. ‘The RAC don’t come out this far.’ It was slow-going at first, but Raf was patient and in a couple of weeks Zak was driving like he’d been doing it all his life.

One day he ran with Gabs to the eastern edge of the island. Before they turned back, however, she stopped. ‘Wait up, Zak,’ she said. ‘We’re doing something different today.’

Zak nodded. He’d grown fond of Gabs. She was straight-talking and no-nonsense. When your world had changed, you needed someone like that.

They were on top of a cliff and there was a stiff breeze. Gabs pointed out to sea. In the distance there was a tanker, grey against the horizon.

‘See that ship?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

Zak gave her a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean? Because I’ve got eyes and it’s there. What are you talking about, Gabs?’

‘All right then,’ she smiled at him. ‘When you’re running about the island, do you ever see any animals apart from birds?’

Zak thought about it. ‘No,’ he admitted.

‘Why not? After all, you’ve got eyes, and I can promise you they’re there.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Concealment, sweetie. There’ll be times when you need to hide. To camouflage yourself, either because someone’s hunting you down or because you’re observing them. You can’t do that effectively unless you know why things are seen. Walk with me and I’ll explain it to you.’

They started strolling away from the cliff edge. ‘The first thing is shape,’ Gabs explained. ‘You knew that was a ship because you know what a ship looks like. I know what a human being looks like, so if I was observing you, I could easily recognize a full human shape. If you crouch down, though, or hide part of your body, my eyes would be less likely to pick you out.

‘After shape, there’s shadow. If you’re hiding, you need to be aware of where your shadow is falling, otherwise it’s a giveaway. Another giveaway is your silhouette. If you stand against a plain background, like the sky or a field, I’d be able to see you much more easily than if the background is uneven. Make sense?’

Zak smiled at her. ‘All I want to know,’ he said, ‘is why you’re trying to find me in the first place.’

‘Pay attention to this, sweetie. It’s important.’

‘Sorry. Shape, shadow, silhouette. Got that.’

‘Next thing is surface. If an object’s surface is different to its surroundings, it’ll stand out. Shiny things are the worst — if they catch the sunlight, they can be seen from miles. And spacing is really important.’

‘What do you mean.’

Gabs pointed up ahead. ‘See the boulders in that field?’

Zak looked. They were dotted all around. ‘Yeah, I see them.’

‘They’re all randomly spaced. Nature’s like that. Nothing is even. Remember that if you’re trying to melt into the background. Last thing: movement. You might be so well camouflaged that I could be staring straight at you and not know you’re there. But the second you move… it’s bye-bye.’

Gabs’s turn of phrase made him feel uneasy.

‘I wish I’d known all this when Michael was following me back in London,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure it would have done much good,’ Gabs replied. ‘Michael can find just about anybody, even if they don’t want to be seen.’

‘Is he that good?’ Zak asked.

‘He’s the best,’ said Gabs, and there was no doubt in her voice.

They walked for a bit in silence.

‘Gabs?’ Zak said after a bit. Something had been bothering him and he didn’t quite know how to say it.

‘Yeah?’

‘You know these operations I’m supposed to be training for? Nobody’s told me what they are. You know, what to expect.’

‘That’s because we don’t know yet. Me and Raf, anyway.’

‘What about Michael? Does he know?’

‘Maybe. He wouldn’t tell us if he did.’

They walked some more.

‘I’m scared,’ Zak admitted.

‘Good,’ said Gabs. She didn’t say it in a mean way; her voice was quite gentle.

‘What do you mean, good?’

‘Fear is an important emotion, Zak. You can’t stop it, but if you can admit you’re scared, that’s the first step to controlling it. And if you can’t control your fear, it can get in the way of you making the right decisions. A bit of fear is good. It keeps you alert. Trust me — in our line of work you don’t want to get blasé.’

‘I just wish I knew what our line of work was.’

‘You will, Zak. When you’re ready. There’s still a lot for you to learn.’

Zak frowned. ‘You know what scares me most of all?’

‘What’s that, sweetie?’

‘Michael calls me Agent 21. But he wouldn’t tell me what happened to Agents 1 to 20. I can’t help thinking they must be… you know… dead.’

Gabs looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘Would it help you to meet some of them?’ she asked.

Zak nodded mutely.

‘All right then.’ She held out her hand. ‘Agent 17, pleased to meet you.’

Zak blinked. ‘You mean… you’re…’

‘Of course. And Raf is my predecessor, Agent 16. But to be honest, we prefer “Gabs” and “Raf”. It’s so much more personal, don’t you think? Really, sweetie, you shouldn’t look so surprised. What do you think they do with us when we’ve outgrown our usefulness?’ She winked. ‘Find us a nice quiet little job in a garden centre somewhere? Come on, it’s getting cold. Let’s run back. Morse code this afternoon.’ And without waiting for an answer, she started jogging.

It rained for the rest of the day. Zak was glad they were inside, even if the piece of paper Gabs and Raf gave him looked very complicated. ‘Morse code is more than a hundred years old,’ Raf explained, ‘but you’d be surprised how useful it can be. You probably know how to send an SOS.’

‘Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot?’

‘Right. But once you’re proficient, you can use it to transmit any message. Most pilots and air-traffic controllers are fluent, and so are special forces signallers. Morse code uses rhythm to transmit messages — sequences of short and long elements to represent different letters, using sound or light. That piece of paper shows you the Morse code alphabet.’

Zak studied it.

‘Each dash is three times the length of a dot,’ Raf explained. ‘With practice, you should be able to deliver Morse code messages very quickly.’

‘Let me guess,’ Zak said. ‘The practice starts now.’

Gabs smiled at Raf. ‘He’s getting the hang of it, isn’t he?’

They spent the remainder of the afternoon learning and practising Morse code. After two hours, Zak had memorized it. After another two, he could send and decipher simple messages. More than once he saw Gabs and Raf glancing at each other, clearly impressed by the speed with which he picked it up. By the time the lesson was over, though, his brain was exhausted. He excused himself and went straight up to bed.

Zak lay in his room for a little while, thinking. In his first couple of weeks here, he’d been angry. Angry with Michael and, by extension, with Gabs and Raf. Things had changed. Somehow the knowledge that his guardian angels understood what he was going through made him feel better. They’d been working him hard, sure, but he found he didn’t mind that. He enjoyed it. The stuff he was learning on this craggy outpost of the British Isles was a load more interesting than being back at Camden High School, having to deal with idiots like Marcus Varley and Jason Ford. If it wasn’t for the fact that he missed Ellie, and that every time he thought about what might happen to him in the future he wanted to be sick, things would be absolutely fine…

A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. At least, he thought it was a knock at first, but soon realized it was more than that. A pattern.

Zak smiled. ‘Goodnight, Agent 17,’ he called, and he switched out his light. He might be uncertain about the future, but one thing was sure: tomorrow would be just as busy as today, and he needed a good night’s sleep.

9 BREAK-IN

The funny thing about being busy, Zak began to realize, is that you don’t notice how quickly time passes. Christmas came and went without any special celebration; then his birthday raced past — a day filled, as any other, with training.

But some days have more meaning than others. He had been on the island for six months when one morning he woke up at 5.30 a.m. — half an hour earlier than normal. He felt unusual as he climbed out of bed and into his bathroom. The lights — which were stark and white — flicked on automatically as he entered and he looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection that stared back at him looked different somehow. Older. The muscles in his arms were stronger, his face was lean and fit. His hair was still unruly, but his skin was a little more weathered from all the time he’d spent outside; there was a tightness around his eyes. Zak realized that he looked a bit like his dad — it was the first time he had ever noticed that.

His dad. The thought made him feel empty and he realized why he felt weird. He went back into the bedroom and tapped the computer terminal hanging on the wall. It switched on immediately and at the top right-hand corner he saw the date.

22 April.

A year to the day since his parents had died.

The months of training had been so intense that Zak had barely thought about them. Not properly, though they were always there in the back of his mind. Now he sat on the edge of his bed and stared into the middle distance, feeling empty.

The door opened. Zak looked over his shoulder to see Gabs standing there. She was wearing her usual black clothes and her large blue eyes were wide. ‘I thought you might be up early today, sweetie.’

Zak looked away, embarrassed that he could feel tears in his eyes.

‘Raf and I were talking,’ she continued. ‘We thought maybe you could take the day off.’

Zak looked through the window of his room. The early morning light was dreary and he could tell it would be a cold, unwelcoming day. But he also knew that sitting here in his room wasn’t the best way to get his head in order. He stood up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want a day off. Let’s get to work.’

They spent the morning on emergency First Aid, practising cardiopulmonary resuscitation techniques, before moving on to modern languages and finishing up on the firing range in the basement. By evening he was exhausted. He ate a quick supper and went to bed early. The sooner this day was over, he decided, the better.

It was a noise that woke him. At least, he thought it was. Zak’s eyes pinged open, and even though he stayed lying on his back, his senses were keen. He held his breath, eliminating the sound of his breathing from his senses. The moon shone through his window, casting long shadows inside the room.

Zak strained his ears. There was nothing. Just a thick blanket of silence.

The silence didn’t last for long.

When they came, it was hard and fast. There was an icy shattering as the panes of the window burst inwards and a figure fast-roped in, followed by two others. For a moment, Zak was paralysed with terror; but then he moved quickly. He rolled from the opposite side of his bed and instantly made for the door — his only available exit point. They were too fast for him, though. All three men were dressed in black and had balaclavas over their heads. The frontrunner grabbed him and forced one arm behind his back.

Zak felt drained with panic. ‘Raf!’ he yelled. ‘Gabs! Help!’ All of a sudden the sound of roaring engines filled his ears; a bright spotlight shone in through the broken window. His attacker pulled out a gun — a matt-black Glock 17 — and pressed it to Zak’s head.

Zak barely dared breathe.

‘Say another word,’ the man said, his voice muffled by the balaclava, ‘and it’ll be your last.’

That was enough for Zak. He felt his legs go weak, and it was all he could do to stand up.

Another of the masked men approached him. He was carrying some sort of harness which he pulled over Zak’s head and secured around the back. The guy with the Glock pushed him towards the window and reached out, pulling in a long rope with a metal link at the end. He clipped this link to the harness and put the gun against Zak’s head again.

‘Jump,’ he said.

Zak felt his stomach go. He peered out of the window. The noise was deafening here, the light blinding, but he could sense what was out there — a helicopter, hovering about twenty metres above the height of his window.

‘I won’t tell you again.’ The man pushed Zak right up against the broken glass. He was rough, and he meant it.

Zak didn’t have a choice. He climbed up onto the edge of the window frame, took a deep breath and stepped out. He felt his stomach go as he fell three or four metres; but then there was a jolt that winded him and sent him spinning round in the air. Instinctively he grabbed the rope above him, but by this time he could feel himself being winched up. In less than twenty seconds somebody inside the chopper — masked and anonymous just like the others — was pulling him into the aircraft.

‘What’s happening?’ Zak screamed in terror. ‘Who are you?’

No answer. One of the black figures unclipped his harness and pushed him towards the other side of the chopper. ‘Put your hands behind your head and kneel down,’ he shouted. Zak did as he was told.

He turned his head to look through the side window. The chopper’s searchlight was spinning now, lighting up the ground below like a prison searchlight trying to find an escaped convict. ‘Raf!’ Zak shouted. ‘Gabs! Help me!’ It didn’t take more than a few seconds to illuminate two figures on the ground. Raf and Gabs were both on one knee, weapons in each hand pointed up to the chopper. But it was obvious they couldn’t fire on the aircraft — bring it down and Zak would go down with it…

He looked back to the other side of the helicopter. The three masked men who had abducted him had been winched back in. The aircraft made a sudden tilt, then veered off away from the house.

Zak’s limbs were weak with fear. He counted the men in the aircraft — six in all, not counting the pilot up ahead, who was the only one without a balaclava, but the night vision goggles he wore obscured his features just as effectively. Three of the others had assault rifles pointed in Zak’s direction. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Zak whispered.

No one spoke.

Zak tried to think clearly through the horror. What were his options? What were his escape routes? He remembered something Raf had told him. If somebody wants to kill you — and chances are that at some stage they will — they’ll just do it. There won’t be any of that James Bond stuff. He wasn’t dead, which was something. It meant that whoever these people were, they wanted him alive. The guns pointing in his direction were just a threat, but even so, he wasn’t going to risk anything stupid…

The side door of the chopper was still open. Through it, Zak could see moonlight on the sea. It meant they had left the island but his bearings were shot and he couldn’t tell in which direction they were travelling. He raised his hands. ‘You won’t shoot me,’ he shouted over the noise of the chopper, doing what he could to sound confident. ‘So you might as well tell me where we’re going.’

There was no hesitation. No warning. One of the armed men stepped towards him and for a sickening moment Zak thought the guy was going to shoot him. He raised his gun, though, and with a sudden, sharp crack brought it down on the back of Zak’s shoulder.

Zak felt himself go dizzy. By the time he hit the floor, he was already unconscious.

The first thing Zak noticed when he awoke was the pain — a throbbing at the top of his back where the masked man had hit him, and a splitting headache.

The second thing he noticed was that he couldn’t move.

The third thing was that he was cold.

Zak opened his eyes. He was tied to a chair with a thick rope, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and T-shirt. He shuffled to see if he could move the chair, but he couldn’t: it was fixed to the ground. The room he was in was big — about twenty metres by twenty. The floor and walls were made of concrete and it was empty except for a big searchlight mounted on a tripod, with a long flex leading to a power point in the wall. It was set up about five metres from where Zak was sitting; beyond that there was a single door. Closed.

He shivered.

The back of his mouth was dry. After sitting there for fifteen nervous minutes he called out: ‘Hello?’ The word felt like it scraped his throat, and his hoarse voice echoed against the concrete walls.

Silence surrounded him once again.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long. He heard Gabs’s voice in his mind. If you can admit you’re scared, that’s the first step to controlling it. No worries there, then. He was terrified. He tried to work out why he was here; who had taken him. Michael had said there were plenty of people who wanted to get their hands on him, and that they didn’t play by the same rules as ‘ordinary folk’. But what could he tell these people? Gabs and Raf had spent the last six months training him, but he knew next to nothing about anything important…

The door opened. Zak jumped. Two men walked in — one tall, one short, but both dressed the same: black boots, black jeans, black tops, black gloves and black balaclavas. The taller man closed the door behind him just as Zak started to talk. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

They ignored him. The short man walked up to the searchlight and flicked a switch at the back. It burst into light, forcing Zak to clamp his eyes shut, and was close enough to give him a little warmth. He tried to open his eyes slightly, but the light was directed right at him. It hurt to look at it, so he kept them shut.

He heard a voice behind him. Low, muffled and serious. ‘What’s your name?’

Zak didn’t know what made him say ‘Harry Gold’ instead of ‘Zak Darke’. Instinct, probably — combined with six months of training. When he spoke, his voice was shaky and he worried that it sounded like he was lying. His inquisitor, however, just carried on with the questions.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Why are you asking me this?’ He shivered again, despite the warmth of the lamp.

‘Where do you live?’

‘One-two-five Antrobus Drive, Muswell Hill, London.’

‘What were you doing at St Peter’s Crag?’

‘Visiting relatives.’

‘On a deserted island?’

Zak clamped his mouth shut.

Silence. He could hear footsteps around him and one of the men switched the light off. Zak opened his eyes, but he was still dazzled. By the time his vision returned to normal, the men had left the room and closed the door behind them. Zak was left alone with his fear.

They returned an hour later and switched the light on again. Zak clamped his eyes shut again.

‘Nobody called Harry Gold has ever lived at one-two-four Antrobus Drive,’ the man said.

Zak spotted the trick immediately. ‘It’s one-two-five,’ he said. The information he’d spent so much time learning came easily into his mind.

His inquisitor didn’t sound at all concerned that his trap had been sprung. ‘There’s no Harry Gold at one-two-five either.’

‘Of course there is,’ Zak said. ‘It’s my home. What’s going on?’

But again there was no response. The men just turned the light off and left the room for a second time.

Zak was alone for longer this time round. Five hours, maybe six. The shivering grew worse as he became colder and more fearful. He grew tired too, and his head started to nod onto his chest. At that precise moment the door opened and one of the men entered with a bucket of water, which he threw at Zak’s head. It was icy cold, and caused him to catch his breath sharply. By the time he had regained control of his breathing, the man had left again and Zak was wide awake.

After that he lost track of what was happening. The men came and went. They asked him the same questions over and over.

‘Where have you been for the last six months?’

‘At home…’

‘Who is Agent 21?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…’

They asked him again and pretended that he’d given different answers — which he hadn’t. He could tell what they were doing — trying to confuse him to the point where he really did start contradicting himself — but as time went on he found himself increasingly unable to keep track of what he’d said and what he hadn’t. They came in at random intervals. Sometimes it was ten minutes between interrogations, other times it was an hour. And whenever tiredness threatened to overcome him, one of them was always there, bucket of water in hand, ready to wake him up. Before long he became truly desperate for sleep: not being allowed to rest had turned into the cruellest torture imaginable.

He was hungry too, and thirsty, but at no point did anybody mention food or drink. Zak tried to keep his mind off it by concentrating on his situation. How long had he been here? Twelve hours? Twenty-four? Longer? Maybe he should tell his captors the truth. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t know anything about anyone. Maybe if he just admitted who he really was, they’d let him go free…

Or maybe they wouldn’t.

His body was crying out for sleep now. He felt like he’d do anything for it. When the two men entered and switched on the light, he heard himself begging them. ‘Please… just let me go to sleep. I’ll be able to answer your questions much better…’

The short man walked behind Zak’s chair and bent over so his lips were just by Zak’s ear. ‘You can go to sleep, Harry,’ he said, ‘just as soon as you tell me the truth.’

‘I have been telling the truth…’ But Zak’s energy wasn’t really in the lie any more.

‘We know you’re not, Zak.’ It was the first time they had used his real name, and he made a weak effort to look confused. ‘You can’t go to sleep until you do…’

And it was then that Zak knew it was over. He could try to resist, but the sleep deprivation was too acute. Sooner or later he’d have to give in. This was a battle he just couldn’t win.

He closed his eyes.

‘How did you know my name?’

As he spoke, he heard his own voice tremble. He remembered the Glock his abductor had pressed against his head. These men were serious. He didn’t know what they wanted, but now they’d forced the truth out of him, Zak had a nasty feeling he was about to end up dead.

He breathed deeply as a feeling — as cold as ice — crept over his skin.

Silence.

The short man moved round to stand between Zak and the lamp, and the taller man joined him. Together they blocked the light and formed silhouettes. Zak blinked at them. His fear blunted every other sensation.

Except surprise…

It was the smaller man who peeled off the balaclava first, revealing a pockmarked face with a pinched expression and small piggy eyes that peered at Zak like a doctor assessing a patient.

It was a face that Zak recognized.

He blinked again and shook his head. ‘Mr Peters?’

‘A long way from Camden High, Zak,’ Peters said, and he turned to look at the taller man, who was removing his balaclava to reveal a tanned, lined face and long, grey hair.

‘Michael?’

Michael looked at his watch and then at Mr Peters. ‘Twenty-seven hours. What do you think?’

Mr Peter’s face remained stern. ‘I think he needs to sleep,’ he said, and without waiting for a reply he started to untie the rope that bound Zak.

It was like a dream. A nightmare. Zak’s brain was exhausted and confused. A hundred questions buzzed around in his head; hot anger boiled in his veins. It had been a con — a long, dreadful, exhausting con. But he was too tired to complain or even speak.

The men helped him to his feet and he staggered to the door. But that was the last thing he remembered. The rest was blackout.

10 A TROJAN HORSE

It was sunlight that woke him up. Bright sunlight, streaming through the window. He was back in his room at St Peter’s House, covered by his crisp, white bedclothes. The window looked like new and there was no sign of the break-in. But something was different. On the right-hand side of his bed was a metal stand with a plastic bag suspended from the top. It was full of clear liquid. A tube coiled its way from the bag to a needle inserted into the back of Zak’s hand.

‘It’s a saline drip. You needed rehydrating.’

Zak looked over in the direction of the voice. Michael was sitting in an armchair on the left-hand side of his bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘How do you think?’ He lay back and looked at the ceiling. Everything started flooding back: the room, the lack of sleep, the questioning. And all for what? One of Michael’s little games? Not for the first time, Zak felt a deep anger with the old man. ‘You’ve gone too far,’ he muttered.

‘Too far?’ Michael looked surprised. ‘I rather worry we didn’t go far enough. Interrogations are never a walk in the park, you know.’

Zak thought about that for a moment. ‘I failed, didn’t I?’ he said finally. ‘It was all a test and I failed.’

‘Some tests,’ Michael said, ‘are impossible to pass. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Interrogations are difficult, and we went out of our way to make sure you didn’t suspect it was an exercise. All things considered, I think you did rather well. Raphael and Gabriella have done a good job on you.’

Zak frowned. Despite his anger, he was disappointed in himself and he couldn’t help letting it show.

‘Yeah, but I still cracked in the end.’

‘Everyone cracks,’ Michael said, ‘in the end. Believe me, if you undergo a genuine interrogation, there’s really nothing you can do to avoid the inevitable. We chose sleep deprivation as a tool. It’s very effective, but most of the people you’ll encounter won’t be nearly so restrained. Trust me, you’ll talk. They’ll know that and you’ll know that. The only question is how long you’ll last.’

‘If I’ll talk in the end, what’s the point in resisting?’

‘There are lots of points. Maybe, given time, you’ll find a way to escape; maybe, if we know you’re in trouble, we’ll be able to send in a rescue team; maybe it will be crucial for the operation in hand that you buy us a few hours before your captors…’ He hesitated.

‘Before they kill me?’

‘One would hope it wouldn’t come to that, of course. Whatever the case, there are two pieces of advice I can give you. The first is this: don’t antagonize your captor. Be submissive, not confrontational. You don’t want to push them.’

‘And the second?’

‘Don’t forget the first time. You did well. You lasted twenty-seven hours. That’s good by anyone’s standards. You know you can do it. Remember that.’

Michael stood up and walked round to the other side of the bed. ‘With your permission,’ he said, ‘I’ll remove the drip now.’ Zak nodded, and the old man pulled the needle from his hand.

‘Ow!’

Michael ignored him. ‘Come downstairs when you’re ready. Raphael and Gabriella are waiting for you. We have things to discuss.’

He headed for the door.

‘Wait,’ Zak said.

Michael stopped.

‘I thought nobody was supposed to know about all this. So who were the men who took me?’

‘They were a unit from SAS headquarters in Hereford,’ Michael replied. ‘But they don’t know who you are. They believed it was a genuine operation too.’

‘In the habit of abducting kids, are they?’

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re in the habit of following orders. And they’ve done worse things than steal you from your bedroom, I can assure you.’

‘What about Gabs and Raf? I saw them from the helicopter. Were they in on it?’

‘Of course.’

Zak felt a little surge of resentment.

‘And the room? Where was it?’

For the first time, Michael smiled. ‘Here, of course,’ he said. ‘I told you this house had secrets. Do you think you’ll be long? We have an awful lot to talk about, you know.’

Zak didn’t hurry. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. His muscles were sore, his body weak. He got dressed slowly, like an invalid, and when he walked back down the stairs he gripped the banister to help him keep his balance.

Michael hadn’t said he’d be in the office where they’d all met on the first day he’d arrived, but Zak guessed he would be. For the past six months it had been out of bounds — he’d tried the door knob a couple of times. But today the door responded to his touch. He walked in to see Michael sitting at his desk, Gabs and Raf behind him on either side, framed by the big windows and looking towards the door. Raf stayed where he was, his face expressionless; but Gabs rushed towards him, her big eyes full of concern. She gave him a tight hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘It’s always the worst bit, sweetie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t warn you.’

Zak wriggled from her embrace. ‘Whatever,’ he said, and then felt a bit bad that Gabs looked hurt. ‘You just did what you had to do.’ He looked around the room. ‘Mr Peters not joining us?’

‘Unfortunately he has business elsewhere,’ Michael said.

‘I take it he’s the fourth person who knows who I am.’

‘Naturally. Take a seat, won’t you, Zak?’ Michael indicated a leather chair by the fireplace and Zak didn’t need any encouragement to sit down. ‘I’m pleased with your progress,’ he said.

‘You haven’t been here to see it.’

‘Raphael and Gabriella keep me well informed. Your fitness is good, your skills are excellent. I think the time has come to activate you.’

Zak swallowed nervously. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

‘It means we’re going to put you in the field.’

‘Another test?’

A pause. ‘No, Zak. Not another test. This will be for real.’

Gabs looked like she was about to say something, but Michael held up one hand to stop her. He opened one of the drawers of his desk, took out a slim, rectangular device, about twenty-five centimetres long, and tapped it. The lights in the room dimmed and a white panel descended from the ceiling against the wall opposite Zak. ‘Sitting comfortably?’ Michael asked. Another tap of the touch pad and a picture appeared on the panel.

It showed a man. He was perhaps in his late forties, though it was impossible to tell for sure because his skin was wrinkle-free and there was a tightness around the eyes and the edges of his face that suggested he’d had plastic surgery to make himself look younger. His skin was naturally dark, his eyes brown and his perfectly black hair was greased back over his scalp. He neither smiled nor frowned: his expression was emotionless.

‘This,’ said Michael, ‘is Cesar Martinez Toledo. Mexicans have two surnames — one from their father, one from their mother. Cesar is known as Señor Martinez and he is Mexico’s biggest and most powerful drug lord. About eighty per cent of the cocaine on the streets of Britain comes from his cartel. It’s thought that he imports coca leaves from Colombia and processes them into cocaine in labs hidden in the Mexican jungle. He’s impulsive and charming. He’s also probably the most violent man in Central America — and if you understand anything about the politics of the area, you’ll know that’s really saying something.’

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.’

11 DECISION TIME

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.’

Zak turned the phone over in his hand. It was cool and everything, but as lifelines went, it didn’t seem like much. ‘I don’t suppose it makes phone calls as well, does it?’ he asked.

Michael smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, it does. But once you’re inside the Martinez compound, you can’t make any.’

‘Why not?’

‘The data connection is secure, but voice messages are easy to intercept. In any case, Martinez’s compound is more than likely to be bugged to high heaven. You need to rely on the fact that we will know where you are at all times, and not contact us unless you’re dialling the distress code.’

He handed something else to Zak. It was a credit card, platinum in colour, with the words Coutts & Co written on it in copperplate. ‘Coutts are a private bank in London. When Harry’s parents died, they left him a lot of money. An account has been set up in his name with a large sum deposited for you to draw on.’

‘How much?’ Zak asked, intrigued.

‘A large sum. Should it start to dwindle, we’ll replenish it. It’s important for your safety that you should be able to get hold of money if you need it, but it would look suspicious if you went for weeks without spending anything and then suddenly let it be seen that you were wealthy. So you need to start spending from day one. Act like a rich kid. Buy whatever you want.’

‘Anything?’ Nobody had ever said this to him before — growing up, money had always been tight.

‘Anything. Clothes, gadgets — if you see something you like, buy it. Even if you don’t like it, buy it. It’s an important part of your cover, and your cover is everything. You can’t give anyone any reason to be suspicious of you. When Frank meets you at the airport, you greet him like a long-lost friend. You don’t talk to him about your real reason for being in Mexico City unless you are absolutely sure nobody can overhear you or even watch your lips moving. Even when you’re alone you’d be wise to keep quiet about it. The best way to make other people believe you really are Harry Gold is to act like you believe it yourself at all times.’

A silence descended on the room. It had all been a lot to take in and Zak felt confused. He was also alarmed by Gabs’s reaction. She was no coward, so for her to be worried about the dangers of infiltrating Martinez’s compound was unnerving.

‘There’s something else you need to know,’ Michael said. He looked at Raf and Gabs. ‘All three of you. The special forces unit will consist of six commandos, and will have an armed helicopter at its disposal with a special forces flight crew. Raphael, Gabriella, you’re to join them. You’ve trained Zak and you know him. I want you there in case he needs any backup. The SF unit will be under your personal command.’

For the first time during that meeting, Gabs smiled. Not a smile of happiness, but of relief.

‘The commandos will be taken from the Counter Revolutionary Warfare wing of the SAS,’ he continued. ‘This means they’re highly vetted and the closest we can get to an entirely secure unit. They are also well used to deniable missions. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is very much a deniable mission. That means that if anything goes wrong, the British government will deny all knowledge.’

Michael looked at each of them in turn. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind, I’d like a few words with Zak alone.’

Raf and Gabs looked a bit surprised, but they didn’t argue. As she walked past Zak towards the door, Gabs gave him an encouraging little smile. And then he was alone with Michael.

The old man didn’t speak for a minute. He just looked at Zak with those intense green eyes. In the end, Zak couldn’t hold his gaze and he glanced downwards.

‘You probably think,’ Michael said finally, ‘that I’m treating you rather badly.’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Zak said, and it was the truth.

‘You need to understand that I wouldn’t be activating you if I didn’t think that you were up to the job. But that doesn’t mean you have to go. There’s no obligation. The choice is yours.’

Zak thought about that for a moment before replying. ‘When I first came here, you said you’d tell me about my parents when the time was right. I think the time is right now. Tell me what you know and maybe I’ll think about going to Mexico.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘I don’t blame you for trying to negotiate, Zak. It’s what I’d do in your situation. But I’m afraid the answer’s still no. The time will come when you’ll understand why but that time hasn’t arrived yet. You need to make a decision without any thoughts of your parents clouding your judgement. And you need to make it now, Zak.’

Zak stood up. He walked over to the tall windows and looked out over the island. The sun that had been so bright when he woke up was now clouded over. It didn’t surprise Zak — the weather could change so quickly in this remote place and now it looked as windy and bleak as it always did.

‘What happens if I say no?’ he asked.

‘Then you stay here with Raphael and Gabriella. Continue your training and wait for something more’ — Michael sounded like he was searching for a word — ‘more appropriate to come along. Of course, if you continue to refuse activation, there’s a limit to how long you’ll remain useful to us.’

‘And what then?’

‘What then indeed.’

Another pause.

‘I’ll do you a deal,’ Michael said.

That made Zak turn around. ‘I didn’t think you were in the habit of making deals,’ he said.

‘I’m not. But in this instance… Go to Mexico. Infiltrate the Martinez compound. Try to find the evidence we need. If you don’t, we’ll pull you out and bring you back here. Either way I promise you — and it is a solemn promise — that next time we meet, I’ll tell you what happened to your parents.’

Michael’s face was serious. So serious that it didn’t even occur to Zak to doubt him.

‘You can pull me out any time?’ he asked.

‘Any time,’ Michael replied.

Zak nodded then turned to look out of the window again. ‘What if Cruz doesn’t take a shine to me?’ he asked. ‘A lot of people don’t at school. I mean, didn’t.’

Michael walked up to where Zak was standing. He stood next to him and also gazed out across the bleak scenery. ‘The secret to a successful operation,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘is not to leave anything to chance.’ He put one hand on Zak’s shoulder. ‘Cruz will take a shine to you. Martinez too, for that matter. I can absolutely promise you that. We’ve got it all worked out.’

It started to spit with rain, but compared to a drug lord’s compound, this bleak island no longer felt so unwelcoming.

‘What happens if this Martinez guy doesn’t get brought to justice?’ Zak asked.

‘Families will continue to die. Innocent children. And not just in Mexico, Zak. The drugs that he sends into the UK ruin more lives than we can even count.’

Zak dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand. He felt like he was on the edge of a cliff and didn’t have the courage to take the final step.

‘Yes or no, Zak. That’s all you have to say. Your decision.’

Zak took a deep breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the picture of Cruz staring from the whiteboard into the room, then he looked back out of the window at the darkening sky.

And finally he spoke.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Michael nodded. ‘Good. Then you need to listen carefully, Zak. I promised you that Cruz was to become your best friend. This is how we’re going to do it…’