by Chris Ryan
Silence.
Then, from the other side of the door, the sound of several locks being unfastened. It took a full thirty seconds before the door swung open.
Malcolm looked pale and unhealthy. His eyes – behind the thick lenses of his glasses – were darting around nervously. He made no attempt to invite them over the threshold.
‘Er, Happy New Year, Malcolm. Now can we come in?’ Zak asked.
Malcolm blinked, and looked slightly surprised by the request. But he stepped aside while Ricky and Zak entered. As soon as they were through the door, Malcolm started locking it again – Ricky saw that there were three separate mortice locks, and a steel bar that crossed the entire door. He looked around the rest of the room.
– Zak’s not wrong, said the voice in his head. The guy is a weirdo. Look at this place.
Malcolm’s apartment was a single large room, with a small kitchen area in one corner and a door leading to what Ricky assumed was a bathroom. The floor vibrated from the music playing below. A wooden broom was leaning against one corner, but a quick glance at the floor told Ricky it hadn’t been used very often. Every inch of one of the walls was plastered with crossword puzzles, meticulously filled in. On another wall was a collection of closed-circuit TV camera pictures, blurry and indistinct. They all seemed to contain one person. As Ricky peered a bit more closely, he realized that it was Zak – getting in and out of cars, ducking down into subways, running round street corners. Zak had obviously noticed this too. He was staring at the pictures with a slightly stressed look on his face.
‘Been keeping an eye on me, Malcolm?’
Malcolm clearly didn’t get the irony. He stared straight at Zak. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Ricky looked over at the kitchen area. He saw ten boxes of cornflakes, meticulously piled up. Next to them, packets of chocolate biscuits. In the middle of the room was a large table with five computer screens in a circle. Cables trailed all over the floor, and in one corner, piled just as neatly as the cornflakes, were seven iMacs, all boxed up.
‘Why is Michael dead?’ Malcolm asked directly.
‘Somebody shot him,’ Zak said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a small child. ‘It was very quick.’
‘Why did somebody shoot him?’
‘I don’t know. I think it was something to do with me.’
‘Why didn’t they shoot you, then? Wouldn’t that have been better?’
If Zak was offended, he didn’t show it. ‘Doesn’t the guy downstairs ever turn his music off?’ The thumping bass had just got louder, and the floor was vibrating.
‘I think he’s a drug addict.’
‘Because he plays loud music?’
‘No. I’ve seen him buying things on the street corner.’ Malcolm pointed towards the window.
Zak nodded. ‘Sit down, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’
There was only one place to sit – a workstation chair at one of the computer screens. Zak let Malcolm use it and, over the next few minutes, told him the story of what had happened that morning just as he had told it to Ricky – only this time he spoke very simply. Ricky watched Malcolm’s face closely. It was completely expressionless. Ricky couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and he found that very unnerving.
Once Zak had finished talking, Malcolm sat in silence for a moment.
‘I always hated Cruz Martinez,’ he finally said. ‘Now I hate him even more.’
‘You’ve got good reason, buddy,’ Zak said.
Ricky looked from one to the other. ‘Something I should know about?’ he asked.
Zak nodded. ‘Cruz killed someone very close to Malcolm. In cold blood. In front of him.’
‘My cousin,’ Malcolm said. ‘She was the only person who ever looked after me.’ He frowned. ‘Apart from Michael and Zak.’
Ricky was suddenly struck by the look of pain in Malcolm’s strange eyes. He felt a pang of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Malcolm stared into the middle distance for a moment, then appeared to shrug it off. ‘Between yesterday and tomorrow. What does that mean?’
‘I was hoping you could help us out with that,’ Zak said.
Malcolm blinked heavily and fast. ‘Give me the data stick,’ he said.
‘There’s no point, Malcolm. The link’s dead.’
‘Give it to me.’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘Please.’
Zak shrugged, put his hand in his pocket and gave Malcolm the data stick. Malcolm plugged it into the back of his computer and faced the screen. He clicked on the data stick icon, and his hands rested lightly on the keyboard. But before he could even type anything, a new video window popped up.
‘The opening frame’s different,’ Ricky said immediately. ‘It’s not all black – it looks like the camera’s pointing at the sun, or something. It’s a different video.’
‘Play it,’ Zak said. ‘And try to capture the video so we can watch it again.’
Malcolm fingers flew over the keyboard, then he clicked on the screen. The juddery video footage started to play.
Ricky could immediately tell that it was the sun, being shot through the window of an aircraft. He caught a glimpse of the plane’s wing as the camera panned round to reveal the interior of the aircraft.
– Small plane, said the voice in Ricky’s head. I’m thinking private jet. Very luxurious . . . Oh my God . . .
The camera was now focused on a person sitting in one of the seats. It was a woman. She had blonde, shoulder-length hair, and a face that had obviously been beautiful before she’d been captured. Now, though, it was a mess. Her nose had been broken, there was a huge swelling on her right cheek. Her face was streaked with blood, and her lip was split. She was blinking very fast, as though she had something in her eye. Ricky thought he recognized her from his last mission. He glanced at Zak. His expression was grimmer than Ricky had ever seen it. ‘That’s Gabs, isn’t it?’ he asked.
Zak nodded.
The camera panned left. It stopped on another figure, also blond, but male. If anything, he was in a worse state. His whole face was bruised and bleeding, and his left eye was so swollen that he couldn’t open it.
The video footage stopped.
‘Did you capture it?’ Zak asked in a thick voice.
Malcolm began typing again. The video started to replay.
‘They were abducted this morning, so that must be the rising sun,’ Zak said. He continued to scrutinize the screen. ‘Pause it,’ he said suddenly. Malcolm tapped the keyboard. ‘Look.’ Zak pointed at the screen. ‘I think that’s the door to the cockpit. The sun was shining through the rear starboard window. So they’re heading . . .’
‘North-west,’ Ricky said. ‘That means that if they left the UK this morning, they must be crossing the Atlantic.’ He gave Zak a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry, mate – I don’t know how we’re going to follow them if we have to get through passport control and the Agency’s looking out for—’
‘Play it again,’ Zak interrupted, as though Ricky hadn’t spoken. Malcolm tapped the keyboard. The footage rolled. They saw Gabs, her face brutalized, blinking erratically. ‘Slow it down,’ Zak said.
Malcolm clicked his mouse on the left-hand side of the screen. The footage moved to half speed. ‘Why is she blinking so much?’ Ricky asked.
Zak shook his head. ‘She’s not blinking,’ he said. ‘She’s sending us a message. Morse code.’
Ricky’s own eyes widened. He’d been taught Morse code, and now Zak had pointed it out, it seemed obvious that Gabs was giving a series of short and long blinks – dots and dashes. He followed them carefully.
Dot dash.
Dot dash dot dot.
Dot dash.
Dot dot dot. ‘A – L – A – S . . .’ he said slowly as he deciphered each letter, before the camera panned away from Gabs. Malcolm stopped the footage.
‘Alas?’ Ricky said. ‘That’s what you say when something’s going really badly, isn’t it? It doesn’t make any sense. Why
would she go to all that trouble, just to say “alas”? Maybe she meant to sign “alias” or something.’
‘No,’ Zak said. ‘If she signed “alas”, she meant “alas”. But she’s trying to tell us something else.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Malcolm, play the footage again.’
But Malcolm didn’t move. He was staring at the screen, his own eyes blinking almost as fast as Gabs’s had been.
‘Malcolm!’
Malcolm ignored them. He swung away from the computer terminal and moved over to one of the others, where he started typing furiously. Ricky could see the screen reflected in his glasses. Lines of code were scrolling up very quickly.
Suddenly he stopped typing and lowered his head. When he raised it again, a mysterious smile played across his lips.
‘What is it, Malcolm,’ Zak asked, his voice tense.
‘Two things,’ said Malcolm. ‘First thing, that video was uploaded from coordinates 60.985520, 41.646348. That’s about fifty miles off the coast of Greenland. I hacked into the global satellite communications network and triangulated the three satellites that received the signal.’
Ricky gave a low whistle. ‘You can do that?’
Malcolm looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Can’t you?’ he asked.
‘Leave it,’ Zak said in a low voice to his fellow agent. ‘And what’s the second thing, Malcolm?’ he asked.
‘Oh, that,’ said Malcolm. His smile became broader, and his glasses slipped down his nose a little. ‘I know where they’re going,’ he said.
10
BRAINIAC
Zak and Ricky stared at Malcolm. Ten seconds passed and Malcolm said nothing.
‘OK, brainiac,’ Zak urged him. ‘Where?’ He’d forgotten how frustrating his strange friend could sometimes be.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? We only saw the first four letters of Gabs’s message before the camera moved away from her. She wasn’t saying “alas”. She was saying “Alaska”.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. The very word made Zak feel chilled.
‘We can’t be sure of that,’ he said. ‘The message could have meant all sorts of— ’
‘We can be sure,’ said Malcolm. ‘One hundred per cent.’ He pointed at his screen. Zak and Ricky walked round to look at it. Malcolm had brought up a satellite map. There was an expanse of water, with a peninsula of snow-covered land on either side. In the middle of the water, about the same distance from both peninsulas, were two islands, very close together: a small one on the east, a larger one on the west.
‘What are we looking at?’ Zak demanded.
Malcolm pointed at the expanse of water. ‘The Bering Straits,’ he said. ‘It’s a body of water that separates–’
‘America from Russia,’ Zak filled in. ‘They’re off the north-west coast of Alaska. But why do you think that’s where they’re going?’
Malcolm pointed at the two islands. ‘These islands are called Big Diomede and Little Diomede. Big Diomede is Russian, Little Diomede is American – just off the Alaskan coast. They’re both in the middle of the Bering Straits. The International Date Line passes between the two islands. That means that, even though they’re very close, Big Diomede is twenty-one hours ahead of Little Diomede. And that means that for twenty-one hours a day, it’s a different day on each. They call Big Diomede “Tomorrow Island” and Little Diomede “Yesterday Island”.’
‘Between tomorrow and yesterday,’ Zak heard Ricky murmur. ‘Kind of makes sense . . . Hey, Zak, you were right – Malcolm is good at puzzles . . .’
Zak barely heard him. His body felt numb, but his mind was turning somersaults. They might have solved one puzzle, but there were much bigger puzzles outstanding. Such as: why was Cruz luring Zak out like this? If he’d wanted him dead, why hadn’t he just killed him when he shot Michael and Felix? None of it made any sense.
‘What’s the time difference between here and there?’ he said.
‘On this side of the date line,’ Malcolm said, ‘nine hours.’
Zak looked at his watch and did a quick calculation. ‘That gives us a few hours’ breathing space,’ he said. ‘Ninety-seven hours until midnight on Epiphany.’
‘Maybe we should go to the police,’ Ricky said. ‘There’s no way we can follow them that far.’
At the word ‘police’, Malcolm visibly started. He wheeled his chair back. His pale face had gone even whiter.
Zak flicked Ricky an irritated look. ‘Dear Mister Policeman,’ he said, a note of sarcasm in his voice, ‘we’re secret agents and our friends have been kidnapped and taken to the Bering Straits. We’ve only got ninety-seven hours to save them. You do believe us, don’t you?’
Ricky frowned. ‘No need to be like that,’ he said.
‘Sorry. Long morning. What else do you know about these islands, Malcolm?’
Malcolm still seemed nervous, and he spoke hesitantly. ‘Um . . . Big Diomede was a Russian military base during the Cold War. There’s a tiny population of indigenous people on Little Diomede, and in the winter months it’s possible to walk across the ice pack from one island to the other. Dangerous, though, and illegal . . .’
‘But if you wanted to meet between yesterday and tomorrow, that’s what you’d have to do, right?’
‘Right.’
Zak thought for a moment. Then he stuck his hand into his back pocket and pulled out the passport in the name of Harry Gold that he’d brought along with him. He handed it to Malcolm. ‘Can you get me on a flight to . . . I don’t know, somewhere close to Alaska? Using my Harry Gold identity?’
Malcolm looked at the passport, then up at Zak as though he was a simpleton. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But—’
‘Do it,’ Zak said. Malcolm raised an eyebrow. ‘Please?’ he added. Then, remembering that Malcolm didn’t much care about pleases and thank-yous: ‘What?’
‘Obvious, isn’t it?’ Ricky cut in. ‘If the Agency’s watching you, they’ll know the very second Harry Gold – or any other alias you use – is booked on a plane. They’ll be at the gate, waiting for you.’ Malcolm nodded in agreement.
‘I can deal with the Agency,’ Zak said grimly.
Ricky looked at him warily, as though he wasn’t sure how Zak would react to what he had to say. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I’m not saying you aren’t good. You are good. But we’ve already slipped through their fingers once. They’re not going to let it happen again.’
Zak felt himself sneering. But deep down, he knew Ricky was right. He’d be walking into a trap of his own making. He felt another surge of anger pass through his blood. Cruz’s cold face flashed in front of his eyes. If his enemy was here now, in front of him, he didn’t know how he’d react . . .
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Malcolm.
Zak snapped out of his reverie. ‘What?’
‘I said, I’ve got a—’
‘I mean, what’s your idea?’
‘I hack into the UK passport service. Order a new passport in a new name. They’ll deliver it here tomorrow, and I can put you on any flight you like.’
‘You can do that?’ Ricky said for a second time.
Malcolm looked affronted. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How do you think I manage to stay in this place by myself? I can get you anything like that you want.’
‘Do it,’ Zak told him. He hesitated, and glanced over at Ricky. ‘Get a second one for him. Any name will do.’
Within seconds, Malcolm had held up a smartphone to take their photographs. And in no time at all, his fingers were flying over the keyboard again.
The afternoon passed slowly, but not as slowly as the night. Zak paced the room like a caged animal. Each moment that passed was a moment closer to Cruz’s deadline. They were wasting time, and it made him want to howl.
The noise of drum and bass from the flat below stopped at sunset, but the bustle from the Soho street outside continued into the small hours. Malcolm didn’t offer them any food or a place to sleep. Zak and
Ricky asked for neither. Grief and anxiety had chased away their appetite, and the idea of sleeping seemed crazy. Zak thought they were off the grid at Malcolm’s, but he couldn’t be entirely certain. Having hacked into the passport system, Malcolm had given his address away so that new passports could be delivered there the next morning. That meant there was a weak link in the chain.
And so, as night fell, Zak and Ricky sat facing the locked door, while Malcolm typed incessantly at one of his workstations. Zak didn’t bother asking what he was doing – he doubted he’d understand it anyway. But when, just before midnight, the sound of his fingers on the keyboard became too much, he said, ‘Malcolm, what else do you know about these Diomede Islands?’
Malcolm looked up in surprise. It was almost as if he’d forgotten they were there. He blinked at them. ‘I know lots,’ he said. He nodded at his computer screen. ‘I’ve been researching.’
Zak had to smile. ‘Let’s hear it then, mate,’ he said.
‘Little Diomede – the American one – is very remote. A helicopter tries to deliver supplies there regularly, but sometimes the weather is too bad and they can’t get there. Right now they’ve gone a month without flights because it’s too dangerous.’
‘Great,’ Zak muttered.
‘It has a population of about one hundred and seventy Inuit islanders, who all live on the west side of the island, in the village of Diomede. Big Diomede is all military. When the Soviets were in charge of Russia, they moved all the islanders back to the mainland. It’s still full of military units.’
‘What’s the best way to get there?’ Ricky asked. ‘When flights are working, I mean.’
‘You need to get to a place in Alaska called Nome. That’s where the flights go from—’
As Malcolm spoke, there was a knock on the door. Everyone fell silent.
‘Expecting someone?’ Zak breathed.
Malcolm looked terrified. ‘I’ve never had a visitor,’ he said.
There was a horrible silence in the room. Zak cursed himself for not having been more vigilant. He’d broken one of the fundamental rules: always have an escape route. They were three storeys up, and there was no window-cleaning cradle to save him this time. He and Ricky should never have stayed here . . .