Endgame (Agent 21)

by Chris Ryan

  It took ten minutes to reach the tree line again. He suddenly felt safer, but that feeling of security didn’t last for more than thirty seconds. Because suddenly, as if from nowhere, he heard a sound he recognized from the previous night. A high-pitched howl that seemed to cut through him just as it cut through the air.

  – It’s a wolf.

  – Stay calm. Remember what Zak said. They don’t attack unless they’re desperate . . .

  Somehow, logic didn’t help. ‘Tasha!’ he hissed. ‘Zak! Where are you?’

  Silence.

  Ricky cursed under his breath. Where were they? He was, all of a sudden, shivering badly. He peered into the gloom of the forest, then out beyond the tree line. No sign of anyone.

  Another howl. Closer this time. A second wolf answered the call. It was just as close, but coming from a different direction.

  Ricky wanted to run with every ounce of his being. It took immense self-control to stay put. Zak’s RV strategy was clear – Ricky was only to move north if this location was occupied.

  He pressed himself up against a tree trunk just as a fourth howl cut through the air. He sensed movement to his eleven o’clock, deeper in the forest. Maybe twenty metres away, he wasn’t sure. His heart was like a drum beating in his ears. He didn’t even want to look in the direction of the movement.

  But he couldn’t help it.

  He saw the eyes first. Cold, yellow eyes glinting through the darkness.

  Ricky held his breath.

  More movement.

  The animal slinking towards him was thin and hungry-looking. It reminded Ricky of a cat stealthily stalking a mouse. Only this time, the mouse was him . . .

  The wolf was fifteen metres away – and advancing – when Ricky saw movement from his nine o’clock. There was a second beast, just as lean and ravenous-looking as the first . . .

  Both animals were ten metres away. He could see them much more clearly now. These wolves didn’t have the thick, luxurious coats he had seen in picture books. Their backs were covered with tufts of ragged fur, with occasional patches of piebald skin. They looked well used to fighting.

  Nine metres . . .

  – Shout out! Try to frighten them!

  Ricky knew he should, but somehow he couldn’t. He heard a low growl from the animals’ throats. He hugged the bagful of money – as if that would do any good – and looked up into the branches of the tree against which his back was pressed. The lowest limb was three metres high. There was no way he could climb it.

  Images of the wild bear from the previous night flashed through his mind. He remembered waving the burning branch at it. But tonight, he had no defence. And the wolves were still advancing.

  Maybe he should run. But that would make the wolves’ chase instinct kick in . . .

  Eight metres . . .

  Seven . . .

  ‘Zak!’ he managed to shout hoarsely. ‘Tasha! Help!’ His voice sounded deadened and dull against the thick white blanket all around. The wolves growled deeply, both at the same time. They paused for a moment, and something seemed to pass between them.

  Then they pounced.

  It all seemed to happen in slow motion. As the two wild animals lurched for him, there was a flash of white from his right-hand side. Ricky shouted out in alarm, but a fraction of a second later he realized what it was.

  Snow.

  Tasha’s husky was all fur, teeth and growls. He was a different animal to the one who had let Ricky scratch his neck: alert, strong and aggressive. With a fast and lithe movement, he positioned himself in the five metres of open ground between Ricky and the wolves. The two wild animals stopped in their tracks, a cloud of white powder bursting up all around them.

  They pawed the earth, but Snow stood his ground.

  Five seconds passed. For a horrific moment, the intensely hungry look in the wolves’ eyes made Ricky think they were going to attack the husky. But then Snow let out a low-throated growl, so deep that Ricky thought it might shake the snow from the trees. The two wolves scampered back a couple of metres.

  Snow bounded forward. He growled again. One of the wolves howled – an empty but terrifying sound of frustration. Snow barked three times, then growled for a third time.

  The wolves turned on their tails, and ran.

  Someone whistled from further in the forest. Snow’s ears pricked up, and he bounded over to where a slight figure was standing beneath a tree. It was Tasha. Snow sat obediently at her feet.

  ‘Good dog,’ Ricky heard her say. ‘You’s a good dog.’

  Midnight.

  Cruz Martinez’s quarters were stark and military. Just like almost everywhere on Big Diomede island. It was a Russian military base, and such places are not known for their comfort. He had a room with a single bed, a desk and a sink with a mirror. Cruz was one of the wealthiest people in the world, but he was happy to live frugally.

  As he stared in the mirror, he saw the face of someone who had not slept for many days. He hardly ever slept any more. Even when he did, he never felt refreshed. He had grown used to his reflection – those deep, black rings under the eyes of his thin face. He would stare at it for minutes at a time, vaguely wondering what had happened to the youthful features he once had. Not that he missed them.

  Another figure appeared in the mirror. A broad-shouldered man in Russian military uniform. His nose was red from too much vodka, and his eyes were pale and watery. His name was Rostropovich, and he was not a man to cross.

  ‘You don’t know where he is, do you?’ he said in stilted English from the doorway.

  Cruz turned slowly. ‘Of course I do.’ His voice was icy. ‘He is somewhere between Anchorage and here.’

  ‘That covers a lot of space, Martinez. I don’t like this plan of yours.’

  ‘You don’t like my plan?’ Cruz asked very quietly. ‘I fail to see how it could be any better. You want to get your hands on one of the British government’s most secret assets. Because he is not yet an adult, you are too scared to abduct him yourself. You want to lure him to an obscure, secure piece of Russian territory of his own accord, without him even knowing that he is walking into the jaws of your trap. You want the British to suspect that he has defected to you, but that you have had no hand in it. That is exactly what is happening. Trust me: Harry Gold will stop at nothing to rescue those pathetic creatures in Hangar 1H. He will step right into your clutches. And I’m not even charging you for my trouble, Rostropovich. All I ask is the opportunity to kill his two friends in front of him when he has arrived. That will be ample payment for me.’

  Rostropovich’s eyes narrowed. ‘What if he doesn’t make it?’

  Cruz walked towards him. ‘Then, Rostropovich, he will most likely die a lonely death on the Alaskan ice. I, for one, will not mourn him. But he is stronger and more determined than, for example, you. Cleverer too, although that is not so hard. He will be here, and I will be able to hand over your precious British spy, to interrogate in whatever depraved way you have in mind. From the look of it, he might even be bringing a friend or two.’ He gave a nasty kind of smile. ‘Buy one, get one free.’

  Rostropovich frowned. ‘You’d better make sure this all works out,’ he said.

  Cruz didn’t reply. He just turned his back on the Russian to indicate that the interview was over. He went back to looking in the mirror, pleased to see that the doorway was empty again. He stared into his own dark eyes. Were his doubts visible on his face? Would Rostropovich have known that Cruz had a nagging worry that even Agent 21 would find the difficulties involved in reaching this obscure corner of the earth insurmountable?

  He shook his head and turned his back on the mirror. Harry Gold would find a way. He always did. In twenty-four hours’ time, midnight on his favourite festival of el Día de Reyes, they would be face to face. Agent 21 would be on Russian soil – or rather, Russian ice – and he would be under Cruz’s control.

  Cruz’s father would be avenged.

  And Harry Gold would be wishing th
at his life would come to an end very, very soon.

  21

  MORIARTY

  It was almost dawn when Zak, Ricky and Tasha returned to the shack. The burning panic in Zak’s gut had intensified. It was January the sixth already – Epiphany, the day of Cruz’s deadline – but they were still hundreds of miles from their destination.

  They had taken a roundabout route through the forest, looping back on themselves frequently to check they weren’t being followed. And after his fright with the wolves, Ricky had moved a little slower than on the way out. Zak noticed that he kept very close to Snow.

  The family were still awake. They all looked very relieved as Tasha and Snow entered. Malcolm looked even more relieved to see Zak and Ricky.

  ‘What happened?’ Travis asked immediately. ‘Did you do it? Did you rip ’em off?’

  Ricky held up the red plastic bag. His face looked drawn and tired. Hardly surprising, Zak thought, after the evening he’d had.

  They carefully counted out the money. There was a massive amount – just shy of twenty thousand dollars in crumpled, used notes. The old man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  ‘A deal’s a deal,’ he said. ‘A thousand bucks to take you to Moriarty. Reckon he’ll want another couple of thousand, if he agrees to the flight. Looks like you made yourself a good profit, kid.’

  Zak felt a twinge of respect for the old guy. He was clearly a man of his word. He looked at Tasha and her brothers. He noticed again how lean they were. As hungry-looking as the wolves Snow had chased away. He counted out the two thousand dollars he needed, then pushed the rest of the money across the table. ‘Tasha says you all want to move back to the city,’ he said quietly. ‘With this money, you can do it.’

  Silence in the room. The rest of the family looked at the father. Zak couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a tear in the watery eyes of that grizzled old face. He turned to Tyler and Travis. ‘How long to get to Moriarty?’ he asked. His voice was thick and gruff.

  ‘Half a day,’ Tyler said. He was looking at Zak with a new expression. All the hostility had vanished from his voice. He walked up to Zak and shook him by the hand. ‘We’ll be happy to lead you there,’ he said.

  Zak looked at his watch. It was almost 5 a.m. They had nineteen hours until Cruz’s deadline. ‘We need to leave now,’ he said.

  Tyler nodded. Then he looked over at Malcolm. ‘Ain’t gonna lie to you,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure that one’s fit enough to make the journey. We could . . . we could maybe look after him for a bit . . .’ He looked around at his family to see if they agreed with the suggestion. Everyone nodded their agreement.

  Zak walked over to where Malcolm was sitting. ‘What do you reckon, buddy?’ he said. ‘Do you want to stay here, or come with us?’

  Malcolm blinked heavily. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said.

  Zak hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He turned to the others. ‘Let’s get ready,’ he said. ‘We leave immediately.’

  Their farewells were short. The mother and father – Zak realized he still didn’t even know their names – stood alongside Tasha and Snow outside the hut. They shook hands. Zak had the impression that the old man gripped his hand a little harder than he needed to. He was clearly grateful for what Zak had done.

  ‘Will you ever come back?’ Tasha asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zak told her honestly. The truth was, he hadn’t thought past his RV with Cruz Martinez. It was like a brick wall in his mind. He didn’t know what was beyond it. Maybe nothing.

  Tyler and Travis took the lead. They wore bearskin clothes and boots. It made them look like something out of another century. Zak, Ricky and Malcolm followed in their more modern snow gear. It felt safer moving in the daytime. Even though their visibility was less than ten metres, the conditions felt less harsh than when they had been stumbling blindly through the night. Tyler and Travis seemed to have an unerring sense of direction, and led them confidently across the frozen landscape.

  Every hour, they stopped for a cupful of water and a mouthful of the strong-tasting dried jerky the brothers had brought with them. Zak was glad of the sustenance as they trekked relentlessly in what the brothers insisted was a north-easterly direction. He had no choice but to assume they were right.

  And they were.

  It was just past midday when a bulky grey shape suddenly appeared in the distance. The little group of travellers stopped. It looked bleak and unwelcoming. Tyler and Travis turned to Zak.

  ‘Moriarty,’ Travis said.

  ‘You need to leave us here,’ Zak said.

  ‘What if he turns you away?’ Travis asked. ‘Word is, he’s a pretty weird old guy. And this weather . . .’ He looked around meaningfully into the heavy snow.

  ‘We’ll just have to deal with it,’ Zak said. ‘Trust me, the less you can be linked with us, the safer you’ll be. Get back home. Help your folks move back to the city. I’ve got a feeling this winter’s only going to get harder.’

  The two brothers nodded. Tyler shuffled slightly in the snow. ‘I, er . . . I’m sorry I accused you of taking my gun. Must’ve just mislaid it, like you said.’ He put his hand into his jacket and pulled out another firearm – a bulky old handgun that Zak could tell had seen better days. ‘Use it for shootin’ birds mostly,’ Tyler said. ‘But I reckon you could make use of it, wherever you’re going.’

  Zak carefully took the old handgun and stowed it away in his pack. He could feel Ricky’s eyes burning into him, and he remembered the conversation they’d had on the plane. The Agency recruited us because we were kids, but we can’t stay kids for ever.

  He turned back to Tyler. ‘Thank you,’ he said shortly. ‘I hope I won’t need it.’

  They all shook hands, then Zak, Ricky and Malcolm watched Tyler and Travis trudge back off into the distance.

  Zak turned his attention to the grey building. There was no indication of any aircraft here, or even of any inhabitants. They pressed on apprehensively. The building grew clearer. It looked like an enormous barn, with a thick layer of snow over the roof. When they were twenty metres from it, Zak stopped.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he said.

  Ricky and Malcolm paused too.

  ‘It’s music,’ Malcolm said. His eyes shone as he said it, and for the first time since they had arrived in Alaska he looked happy, despite the cold. And he was right. Coming from the building was the muffled, scratchy sound of old-fashioned dance music. A big band. Someone singing.

  They edged forward. There was no visible entrance in the side of the barn they were approaching, so they skirted clockwise around it. At the left-hand end of the building were two enormous barn doors. Yellow light was escaping from around them, and the music was louder. It was definitely coming from inside.

  Zak strode up to the doors. He clenched his fist and banged three times against them. They gave a huge, hollow echo.

  Almost immediately, the music stopped.

  There was a ghostly shriek of wind high above them. Zak and the others instinctively backed away from the doors as they heard footsteps. An ominous creaking sound as the door opened. The yellow light spilled out onto the snow . . .

  Zak had never seen a more grizzled-looking person than the man who appeared in the doorway. Despite probably only being in his late-thirties, the lines on his face were deeply etched, and his skin was so tanned and tough it looked like leather. He had a straggly beard. His hair receded far enough to show an ugly scar that stretched from his forehead almost to the top of his scalp. He had a thin cigar smoking in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were a piercing blue – very bright, but deeply mistrustful. But at the same time, there was something incredibly familiar about him. Zak had the uncanny feeling that they’d met somewhere before.

  He looked his visitors up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked. His voice was gruff, cracked and unfriendly. Zak was surprised to hear that he had a very distinct British accent.

  ‘We’re looking for Moriarty,�
� Zak said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. The end of his thin cigar glowed as he inhaled, before expelling a powerful jet of smoke from his nose. ‘You’d better get inside,’ he said. Zak blinked. This guy was definitely British, not Canadian or American. How come?

  The man – presumably Moriarty – turned and walked back into the building. Zak, Ricky and Malcolm followed.

  As soon as Zak entered, he realized that this was not so much a barn as an aircraft hangar. Parked up at the far end was a small light aircraft with a single propeller. The air was thick with the smell of fuel, and several panels on the underside of the plane were open. Moriarty had clearly been doing some running repairs. It looked to Zak as if he intended to ride out the winter here. There were many boxes of tinned food piled up in one corner of the hangar, and a small gas stove next to them. In another corner was a sleeping area – a single mattress with several thick blankets. A CD player sitting on an old table explained the music they had heard. A handful of discs were scattered around it and there were two large, very old, floor-standing speakers. One of the speakers had a half-drunk bottle of whiskey on it. The other had a VHF radio set sitting on top. But the thing that attracted most of Zak’s attention was a photograph in a frame, next to the half-empty bottle. It showed a teenage girl. And Zak recognized her face.

  ‘Gabs . . .’ he breathed. His Guardian Angel looked much younger in the picture, but it was definitely her.

  ‘What?’ Moriarty barked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Zak replied. He was still trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.

  There were a few fan heaters dotted around – Zak assumed there had to be a generator somewhere behind the hangar, powering them as well as the CD player and any other electricals. But the heaters had little effect on the temperature. It was extremely cold in here. The cold didn’t seem to worry Moriarty. He wore jeans, regular trainers and a thick, checked lumberjack shirt. He watched the three of them carefully as they traipsed over the threshold in their snow gear, bringing loose snow with them. His face grew even more suspicious as they pulled back their hoods. ‘So what is this?’ he said. ‘School trip?’