Deadfall: Agent 21 (6 page)

Malcolm was already marching into another room just off the kitchen. He said nothing.

‘I hope this is a good idea,’ Raf murmured.

‘Trust me,’ said Zak. ‘It just feels right.’

‘We’ll see. Give him two minutes to get his stuff together. I’ll meet you outside.’

Malcolm’s stuff, which he brought back into the kitchen thirty seconds later, comprised a cellphone, a laptop and a circuit board that sprouted a mess of wires like coloured spaghetti.

‘School project?’ Zak asked, one eyebrow raised.

Malcolm didn’t speak, or even look at Zak as he stuffed these items into a beaten-up khaki shoulder bag.

‘You sure about this, buddy?’ Zak said.

Malcolm blinked at him, and for a moment Zak wondered if he’d heard what he said. But then he nodded vigorously. Not for the first time, Zak noticed something very childlike about him.

‘I’m bored here anyway,’ Malcolm said. ‘And it’s time to move on.’ He slung the bag over his shoulder and started towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped by a bookcase. There was a small framed photograph here: a picture of a middle-aged woman, rather plump, with a short bob of dark brown hair flecked with grey. Malcolm picked it up and looked at it.

‘Who’s that?’ Zak asked.

Malcolm returned the photo to its shelf where it slipped onto its back. ‘Nobody,’ he said with a note of finality. ‘Are we going or not?’

And without looking at Zak he strode out of the side entrance to the house.

Zak followed. As he walked past the bookcase, he glanced at the photograph. Who was it? Malcolm had no immediate family and he didn’t seem like the type to get sentimental over anyone. Why then did he have a photograph on display in this supposedly secret house of his?

And if it was that special to him, why didn’t he slip it into his rucksack?

Zak stashed that question in a corner of his mind. Then he turned his attention to the job in hand. Absentmindedly rubbing the patch of skin he had burned when freeing himself from the plasticuffs, he hurried towards the side entrance of Malcolm’s house and stepped out once more into the thick wall of the South African heat.

Raf was standing twenty-five metres away talking into his mobile phone. Malcolm loitered by the door. He had a sturdy key in his hand and looked like he was deciding whether or not to lock the door. He shrugged for a moment, then dropped the key in his pocket without bothering to lock up. Zak sensed
Malcolm didn’t intend to return to this house, ever.

Gabs was walking briskly along Mandela Drive, disapproval about their plan of action oozing from her even at a distance. An uncomfortable thought touched Zak’s mind. For the first time ever, they somehow didn’t quite feel like a team.

But he dismissed that idea. It would pass. For now, they had work to do.

Zak didn’t know who Raf had called, or what he’d said. He didn’t need to. All he knew, as they pulled alongside the runway of a private airfield in a remote area to the west of Jo’burg, was that a fixed-wing aircraft was waiting for them. It was about thirty feet in length, painted in red and white. A refuelling lorry was just driving away from the plane and two guys in blue overalls stood by it, wilting in the heat.

‘Cessna 172,’ Raf said as the Range Rover came to a halt about thirty metres from the aircraft. He shook his head. ‘Seriously, is that the best they can do?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, if you don’t want to travel further than a thousand miles or so –
and
that’s assuming excellent flying conditions and hoping we’ve got an auxiliary long-range tank fitted. We’ll need to refuel three times, maybe more.’

‘Four thousand miles,’ Malcolm said suddenly.

‘What is?’ Raf asked.

No reply.

‘What is it?’ Zak repeated.

‘Estimated distance from Johannesburg to Dakar.’

‘Did you just work that out?’

Malcolm nodded. ‘There’s a margin of error,’ he admitted. ‘But only about a hundred miles either way.’

Raf inclined his head. ‘Well, there you go.’

‘Cessna 172,’ Malcolm added. ‘Decent safety record, but not perfect. August 1969, Rocky Marciano killed in one. September 1978, two crashed over San Diego, 144 dead. May 1987 . . .’

‘Yeah, all right Malcolm, thanks.’

Zak smiled. Malcolm was weird, but you had to hand it to him: his brain was something else.

A pause.

‘I don’t like flying,’ said Malcolm.

‘You can always go home, sweetie,’ Gabs murmured.

‘No thank you. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay with you.’

Zak turned back to Raf. ‘You
do
know how to fly this thing safely?’

‘What? Yeah, of course. Gabs is pretty good too. We haven’t given you any flying lessons yet, have we? You can have a go if you want.’

‘I think I’ll leave it to the experts, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Chicken.’ Raf’s eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘She
is
pretty, though, isn’t she?’

‘If I didn’t know better,’ Gabs said, ‘I’d think you only wanted to go after Cruz because you fancy racking up a few more flying hours.’

‘What a ridiculous notion,’ Raf said. Then he winked at Zak.

‘So how
are
we going to refuel?’ Zak asked.

‘We’ll do what we normally do, Zak. Wing it.’

Zak and Raf grinned at each other. Gabs rolled her eyes.

Zak grabbed an empty rucksack from the back of the Range Rover. Then they left the vehicle where it was, and jogged towards the aircraft, where he caught sight of his face in a side window. It was still bruised from his encounter in the toy shop, but he’d grown used to the dull ache of his skin. Moments later, they had climbed the staircase and were inside.
Zak had always expected private planes to be glamorous affairs. Not this one. There were only four seats and they were very cramped. The whole aircraft stank of petrol. Raf pointed out a long-range tank at the back of the cabin with a certain amount of relief. ‘Much bigger tank than usual,’ he said. ‘Someone’s made some modifications. We might get away with only refuelling once.’

‘Whose aircraft
is
this?’ Zak asked as they strapped themselves in.

‘British government,’ Raf said. ‘At least, as good as. It’s kind of off the books. They’ll be paying some locals to maintain it for them so people like us can make use of it when we need to. Officially, we’re not here, remember?’

Right
, Zak thought.
We’re not here
. Only of course they
were
there, and Zak had to quash a moment of panic. This had all happened so quickly. Maybe Gabs was right. Maybe they
shouldn’t
be going after Cruz alone.

But if
they
didn’t, who would?

‘Let’s get strapped in for takeoff,’ Raf said, flicking switches on the instrument panel in front of him. A GPS positioning screen lit up, but Raf seemed to pay more attention to the small mechanical compass stuck on the dashboard, and Zak remembered something Raf had told him a long
time ago:
We might have all sorts of modern technology to help us, but that doesn’t mean you should forget the old ways.
Now that he’d been on the job for a while, Zak knew what he meant. There was something reassuring about that compass. As Raf continued to prepare the aircraft for flight, Zak noticed that Malcolm’s hand was shaking.

‘Make sure you pay attention to the safety announcement,’ Zak said.

‘What?’ Malcolm looked puzzled.

‘It’s a joke, Malcolm.’ But he clearly didn’t get it. ‘Nervous?’ Zak asked.

‘No,’ Malcolm shot back aggressively, his skin reddening again. ‘I’m not scared.’

Zak sniffed as the aircraft’s engines kicked into life. ‘You should be,’ he said quietly. ‘Very nervous. Fear isn’t a weakness, you know. It’s just our mind’s way of telling us to be careful.’

Like a child, Malcolm repeated himself stubbornly. ‘I’m
not
scared.’

‘Fine,’ Zak shrugged as the aircraft suddenly juddered into motion.

The Cessna turned a sharp corner then suddenly gained speed, pushing the passengers back into their seats. Zak didn’t feel like arguing. There was a long flight ahead, and something told him Malcolm
would have plenty of opportunities to be scared in the days to come.

Cruising altitude 8,500 feet. It was a cloudless sky and the flight was smooth. Zak felt a sense of fierce exhilaration at being up here in the air, so far from the normal life he’d left behind. At times he missed it, but right now he felt like he was more free than he’d ever been.

He patted down his pockets and drew out a pair of aviator shades to protect his eyes from the sun. Malcolm had none, and Zak saw him shield his eyes with one hand and stare at his lap.

The sight of the continent below was awesome. The earth was parched, but there were several shades of brown and gold that made it look strangely colourful. To the north-west, a river with all its tributaries glinted a deep, intense blue. Zak had heard people call Africa the dark continent, but from the air it didn’t look dark at all. A far cry from anything else he was used to, maybe. Different to everywhere else he knew. But not dark.

‘Where are we?’ Zak asked after an hour.

‘We’ve just crossed the border into Botswana, sweetie,’ Gabs said. Her peevishness seemed to have disappeared, but Zak decided it wouldn’t be a good
idea to take that for granted. He was about to ask where they would be setting down to refuel when the aircraft’s radio burst into life.

Zak fully expected to hear a barrage of air-traffic control babble. He didn’t. Instead he heard the voice of their handler Michael.

And he didn’t sound pleased.

‘
Who am I talking to?
’ Michael demanded.

‘Just the three of us, Michael,’ Gabs said calmly. She turned to Zak and put one finger to her lips.

‘
I’d have thought
you,
at least, would have better sense, Gabriella
,’ Michael said. ‘
And as for you, Raphael, I’d appreciate it if next time you wanted to play games, you didn’t go over my head
.’

Raf said nothing. He just kept his fists on the yoke as he kept the plane flying steady.

‘
I’ve a report from the airfield in Jo’burg that four of you boarded the plane. Who is the fourth person?
’

Another pause as Raf and Gabs glanced at each other. Malcolm looked up, suddenly alarmed. Zak shook his head at his companion in warning, and mouthed the word: ‘Quiet.’

‘Your intel is incorrect, Michael,’ Gabs said. ‘There’s only myself, Raf and Zak.’

‘
That’s not what I’ve been told
.’

‘Then you’ve been told wrong.’

Another pause.

‘
Don’t think you’ve heard the end of this, you three. But while you’re on the trail of Cruz Martinez, you might as well know that we’re tracking his aircraft. He’s just touched down in Gabon presumably to refuel. I’ll keep you updated of his progress.
’

‘Why,
thank
you, Michael,’ Gabs said in her best little-girl voice. Zak noticed, however, that her face remained intense and serious.

‘
Don’t try that on me, Gabriella
,’ Michael snapped. ‘
Something’s not right about all this. We go for months without a sighting of Cruz, then all of a sudden we’re playing catch with him over the skies of Africa. Be very, very careful when you’re on the ground. Do you understand that, Agent 17? And you, Agents 16 and 21?
’

‘Understood,’ Gabs stated.

‘
Zak, are you there?
’

‘Yes, Michael.’

There was a pause. ‘
How much do you know about Spitfire pilots during the Second World War?
’

Zak groaned inwardly. Michael always had some history lesson he wanted to impart. He saw Raf rotate one finger in the air, as if to say: keep him sweet.

‘Er, not that much, actually,’ he said.

‘
If a Spitfire pilot got hit by an enemy plane – a Messerschmitt or similar – his best bet was always to fly directly at the oncoming aircraft. That way, the enemy
craft would be too busy trying to avoid a collision to spend time aiming accurately at the Spitfire.
’

Another pause.

‘
You three are the Spitfire
,’ Michael continued. ‘
Cruz is the Messerschmitt. But there’s a difference, Zak. I think Cruz will risk a collision just to get a good shot at you. You need to be very, very careful
.’

‘There’s another difference,’ Zak said. ‘We’re not flying directly at him. We’re creeping up behind.’

Silence.

‘
No heroics, Zak. Cruz Martinez wants you dead. Make sure he doesn’t get what he wants. On this occasion, I want you to leave the fancy stuff to Raphael and Gabriella.
’

‘Roger that,’ Zak mumbled, but he didn’t know if his words reached Michael’s ears. The radio had cut out. There was just the hum of the aircraft and the chilly silence of its four passengers.

Malcolm looked green. He clearly hadn’t been joking about not liking flying, so Zak tried to chat with him to take his mind off things. And, also, to clear something up in his own mind.

‘Feel like telling me who that photograph was of?’ he asked. He sounded blunt, he knew, but there was no point tiptoeing around Malcolm.

‘Not really.’

‘You know,’ said Zak, ‘you’ve really got a way with words sometimes.’ He shrugged and looked out of the window.

A pause.

‘My cousin,’ Malcolm said. Zak turned to see that his companion was looking a little bit sheepish. He reminded himself that Malcolm didn’t really
mean
to be rude. It was just the way his brain worked. And there was something else. Zak was the closest thing this kid had to a friend. He owed Malcolm a bit of patience.

‘She looked older than you.’

Malcolm nodded. ‘Twenty-four years, six months and three days older,’ he said. His forehead creased. ‘Her name is Matilda. I miss her. She looked after me before . . .’ He waved one arm vigorously in the air. ‘Before all
this
.’