by Rob Stevens
‘This is Yankee,’ Archie whispered. ‘Where are you guys?’
‘North-east corner of the floor.’ It was Gemma’s voice. All quiet.’
Archie glanced instinctively to Gemma’s location and saw her kneeling by a stretcher at the edge of the crash mats. She was dressed in navy blue trousers, a white shirt with black epaulettes and a navy beret.
‘I’m loving the costume,’ Archie muttered. ‘Especially the hat. It’s very . . . French.’
‘Shut it. Or you might be needing this stretcher.’
Archie smirked at Gemma’s response and scanned the hall. ‘What’s your position, Zulu?’
‘I’m in deep, over,’ came Barney’s eager response. ‘I’m blending in, in the western press enclosure.’
Archie turned to scan the photographers crouching in front of the first row of seats. All of them were hunched over their tripods, following the sporting action through their long lenses – except for one, who was standing up. And smiling and waving.
‘Yeah,’ Archie muttered. ‘I think I see you. Are you next to the clown who’s standing up and waving like a lunatic?’
‘No!’ Barney replied with delight. ‘That actually is me! Look.’
With the sort of flourish normally used by magicians producing rabbits from nowhere, Barney pulled off his beanie hat to reveal his tight blond curls.
‘Wow,’ Archie said drily. ‘So it is. I’d never have spotted you.’
There were a considerable number of uniformed police officers peppered around the edge of the arena and he knew from the briefing that at least as many again were hidden from view. Out of sight, high in the rafters of the stadium, scores of police marksmen were watching proceedings through the telescopic sights of their high-power rifles. He knew as well that two of the vans in the car park emblazoned with the logos of news agencies contained SWAT teams, ready to storm the building at a second’s notice.
But, even knowing there was such a high level of security present, Archie felt strangely vulnerable. How could they hope to identify one lone lunatic among the masses of spectators and competitors – especially one who could change her appearance at the drop of a hat? The teenage boy wearing the Chelsea shirt in the front row could easily be her, as could the man in the hat or the old lady drinking tea from a flask.
‘Where are you?’ Archie said under his breath. ‘And what exactly is your evil intention, Evelyn Tension?’
In a
Small Room
Somewhere
in the
O2 Arena . . .
Evelyn Tension studied the small digital screen on the back of the camera, nodding approvingly as she scrolled through the photographs. ‘My, my, Kurt,’ she whispered. ‘You have been a busy boy.’
Shrugging off an olive green coat, Kurt peeled away his wig and smiled. ‘And I got voice samples for all of them,’ he announced proudly.
‘You are an angel.’ Tension batted her long eyelashes. ‘I have to admit I’d rather underestimated you. If you carry on like this I may have to reconsider who is my favourite Von Grosskopf brother.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ snapped Klaus Von Grosskopf, who was wearing a tweed suit and studying a laptop computer on the other side of the small room.
‘Do calm down, Klausy,’ Tension giggled, walking her fingers up Kurt’s arm. ‘I’m just saying that Kurt here has surprised me with his ingenuity.’
Kurt peeled back his mask, which stretched like a rubber band before snapping free from his face and hanging limply in his hand. Tension looked at his mangled features and shuddered, her hand recoiling as if she’d touched a deadly snake.
‘Goodness me, what a diference!’ she exclaimed. ‘Those masks are so convincing even I’d forgotten how repulsive you really are, Kurt.’
Kurt grinned and sniffed a slimy yellow trail of snot back into the hole in the middle of his face.
‘Klausy you’re reinstated,’ Tension said sweetly. ‘Can you forgive me? You’ve always been my number one really.’
‘Just give me the audio files and I’ll make up the Vox Spots,’ Klaus instructed.
Kurt handed his brother a small Dictaphone, which Klaus connected to the USB port on his laptop computer. As Klaus played back the recorded voices, each one produced a distinctive saw-toothed trace on the screen. His single thick eyebrow sank down over his beady eyes as he tapped furiously at the keyboard. Eventually a slot on the side of the laptop spat out two black discs, about the size of pennies.
‘So how do those things work?’ asked Kurt, his single eye narrowing with curiosity.
‘Simple,’ Klaus announced, with an air of superiority. ‘Everyone’s voice has a unique sound – like an audio fingerprint. Just one word is enough to define someone’s precise vocal identity. The software I developed analyses the exact frequencies of each voice and imprints that information on to one of these.’ Klaus held up one of the black discs on the end of his forefinger. ‘Using tiny electrical impulses, the Vox Spot will modify the sound waves in the larynx to exactly mimic the sound of anyone’s voice.’
‘Amazing,’ said Kurt.
‘I simply refuse to take all the credit for the idea,’ said Tension, taking the black disc from Klaus. ‘I mean, without your brother doing the repetitive number-crunching, it may have taken me a few weeks longer to perfect the Vox Spots.’
Klaus looked incredulous. ‘I wrote the whole program!’
Tension pressed the black spot on to her throat where it stuck. When she spoke again her voice had been transformed into that of a teenager. ‘Of course you did, Klausy.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘I provided the inspiration and you mucked in with the perspiration. That’s what makes us such a good team. Where would I be without you to do my donkey work?’
Klaus ground his teeth into a smile.
‘It’s so weird hearing the kid’s voice come out of your mouth,’ Kurt giggled.
‘For real.’ Tension approached Kurt with a bouncy stride. ‘Er, it’s like, totally, like, weirding me out, man, you get me?’
‘That’s funny!’ Kurt snorted and the yellow bogey shot out of the hole in his face and attached itself to his chin.
Tension was swaggering around the room while the brothers laughed at her antics. ‘I ain’t got nuffin to do so I’m just gonna hang out, staring at my mobile phone, d’ya know what I mean?’
‘You’re just like a real teenager!’ Kurt wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Except you look so old.’
Kurt’s last word reverberated like the off-key chime of an old clock. Tension’s piercing green eyes narrowed. Kurt froze. The yellow worm on his chin quivered.
When Tension spoke, her words were a brittle whisper. ‘Nobody calls me old.’
Kurt’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Suddenly Tension smiled brightly. ‘That reminds me, I’d better put my face on,’ she said breezily.
Taking the memory card from Kurt’s camera, she slid it into the back of the Face-mapping-quick-drying-liquid-latex-mask-gun. Selecting the photo of the person she was to impersonate, she turned the gun on herself and pulled the trigger, closing her eyes as the fine spray coated her skin.
‘There.’ Tension smiled, pulling on a black wig. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like an annoying kid,’ said Klaus.
‘Excellent,’ said Tension, slipping her mask-gun into a rucksack. ‘So you both know the plan?’
Klaus nodded. Kurt produced another mask-gun from a hold-all and cocked its silver chamber.
‘OK. Get your disguises on and get ringside. Let’s do this and let’s do it right. I’m going to have some fun with our friendly undercover kid. But I’m going to make it quick – I can’t bear the feel of this nylon suit against my skin a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. Very soon the whole world will be sorry Adam Winchester ever crossed Evelyn Tension.’ The assassin threw her head back and let out a triumphant cackle, which the Vox Spot on her throat converted into an altogether less threatening teenage giggle.
Tension’s laughter died suddenly. ‘Honey, luck has got nothing to do with it.’
Archie wandered casually along the edge of the mats towards the two boxing rings and sat down on one of the benches, as he carefully scanned the crowd. A moment later a kid with spiky black hair appeared and sat next to him. Archie chin-jerked him before unwinding the bandages wrapped tightly around his hands. He had noticed many of the boys anxiously adjusting their bandages. It seemed to be a ritual display rather than a necessary function, but it created the impression of someone who was meticulously prepared for battle.
The sound of Highwater’s clipped voice in his earpiece interrupted Archie’s thoughts.
‘All agents from IC. Skywalker is in the building.’ The mention of Toby Winchester’s codename made the hairs on the back of Archie’s neck stand up. Suddenly the mission felt very real. ‘Skywalker is entering the arena through the southern ingress,’ Highwater continued. ‘Two PPOs are in attendance. All agents maintain vigilance and report any suspicious activity.’
Archie’s eyes instinctively locked on the southern entrance where a lean figure, wearing a tracksuit and a black baseball cap, entered the arena. He was followed closely by two Personal Protection Officers, dressed casually in jumpers and jeans. As Toby Winchester anonymously walked passed the crowd Archie detected a slight ripple of activity from some individuals. A man in a navy anorak lowered his paper momentarily and a young woman waving a flag suddenly produced a camera phone. Were they members of the public who happened to have recognised the Prime Minister’s son or undercover agents monitoring their comms channel? Or was one of them a highly trained assassin waiting for the perfect moment to strike?
Archie’s body was tingling with anticipation and fear. Fear was OK, though. His father had always told him that nothing focuses the mind quite like a double dose of terror.
‘That’s Toby Winchester, that is,’ the spiky-haired kid observed.
Archie wasn’t sure if it was the mention of Winchester’s name or the fact that someone had actually spoken to him that surprised him more.
‘What? As in the Prime Minister’s son?’ he asked with a dubious sneer.
‘That’s the one.’ The boy answered, untucking the end of one bandage and unwinding it rapidly.
‘How d’you know that?’ Archie said, turning to his neighbour.
The boy smiled wryly. ‘Cos I’m fighting him in the first round, that’s why. I’ve seen him at a few competitions. He’s pretty good.’
‘D’you think you can beat him?’
The boy’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Course I can, man,’ he bragged. ‘I’m gonna take him down so hard he won’t know what’s hit him, you get me? Toby Winchester will be sorry we ever met. He’s a dead man, man.’
Archie held the boy’s gaze – looking deep into his dark pupils. He laughed nervously but the boy’s expression remained completely serious.
‘Mind you, if I knock out the Prime Minister’s son I’ll probably get bumped off by the SAS, you know what I mean?’
Archie’s throat suddenly constricted. Was the kid simply joking about the SAS – or did he know they were present? Archie felt the blood draining from his face as it occurred to him he might actually be talking to Evelyn Tension.
Archie peered closely at the boy’s widow’s peak and aquiline nose, wondering if they were real or just another elaborate latex disguise. The boy frowned and Archie realised he needed to get a grip, quickly.
‘Definitely!’ He smiled weakly and pointed to the roof, his finger trembling slightly. ‘There’s probably loads of snipers up there waiting to take you out if you don’t let him win.’
‘Tell me about it.’ The boy’s spiky head nodded and he mimed a sniper firing off a couple of rounds. Standing up he said, ‘Listen I’ve got to go and warm up – my bout starts in half an hour.’ The boy gave Archie the chin-jerk. ‘Catch ya later.’
Archie jerked his chin back and watched the boy walk away, his shoulders rolling with each stride. ‘Maybe I’ll catch you later,’ he muttered.
Leaning his elbows on his knees, Archie hung his head to speak discreetly into his comms kit. ‘IC, this is Agent Yankee,’ he murmured. ‘Skywalker’s first opponent may be Tension. Suspect verbally threatened to take Skywalker down and seemed aware of potential SWAT-team presence. I recommend immediate interception and interrogation.’
‘Copy that, Yankee,’ Highwater replied.
For a moment Archie heard nothing. He imagined Highwater relaying his suspicions to her boss, who would probably dismiss them out of hand. Meanwhile the boy had nearly reached the changing rooms, where Toby Winchester was preparing for his first match.
Then Archie heard the voice of Hugh Figo on the common channel. ‘Units Four and Seven, intercept Pravin Malik. I say again, intercept Pravin Malik.’
Through the corner of his eye Archie watched as four men immediately surrounded the boy. Two grabbed him roughly from behind, a third pressed something into his belly, while the fourth snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Then he was swiftly led out of sight.
‘Suspect has been detained,’ Figo announced.
‘Nice work, Yankee,’ said Gemma on the dedicated STINKBOMB channel. Archie glanced at her and she gave him a furtive thumbs-up signal.
‘And the fox is in the bear trap,’ Barney added.
‘Zip it, Zulu,’ snapped Highwater.
Archie exhaled a long breath. He wondered if the operation really was over. Something told him things had gone too smoothly. If Evelyn Tension really was such a master of disguise would she have threatened Toby Winchester as openly as Pravin Malik had? Unless her brazen behaviour had in fact been a double bluff . . . The idea that he had just been chatting with a highly dangerous killer made his arms and legs feel like jelly but he felt a sense of immense relief and pride that he may have just averted a deadly attack.
Suddenly a hand gripped him firmly by the shoulder. Archie spun round to see Ivan’s flat face grinning at him.
‘There you are, Hook,’ Ivan leered. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Except here, obviously,’ Archie offered lamely. ‘What’s up?’
‘Well, you know I told you there was about as much chance of you winning the lottery as boxing today?’
Archie nodded guardedly.
‘Well, I’d buy myself a ticket if I was you, son. Looks like it’s your lucky day!’
As Ivan escorted Archie to the changing rooms he explained that three boxers in his weight division had come down with food poisoning since having kippers for breakfast at a local hotel.
‘Get warmed up,’ Ivan instructed sternly. ‘You’re on in eight minutes.’
His mind spinning, Archie wandered into the boys’ locker room. At the far end Toby Winchester was warming up, thumping combinations of punches into a pair of pads being held up by his trainer, who Archie assumed was also his personal bodyguard.
Archie pulled on his boxing gloves and tightened the Velcro wrist-straps with his teeth. Karate was his specialist combat sport but he had taken various other self-defence classes. He had sparred in a boxing ring a couple of times and he tried to remember what he’d been taught.
Keep your guard up and your chin down! he remembered his instructor barking at him. You’re not in the dojo now!
In karate the fighters hold their hands at waist level and Archie reminded himself that a boxer’s gloves should always protect his head. He threw a couple of left jabs followed by a straight right cross but everything felt awkward. The looser stance of karate felt so much more natural to him. He tried another couple of combinations.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’ someone snorted.
Archie looked to the end of the room where Toby Winchester had taken a break from his warm-up to watch him. He was tall and lean, his blond hair was shaved down to a number three and one of his eyebrows was raised in an expression of utter disdain.
‘
I’m sorry?’ Archie enquired. ‘Were you talking to me?’
‘I mean this has to be a joke, right?’ Toby continued, his voice deep and sneering. ‘This guy couldn’t punch his way through a page of the Daily Telegraph.’
Archie realised Toby Winchester wasn’t talking to him after all – just about him.
‘I mean,’ Winchester continued, ‘kids like him shouldn’t be allowed to compete at my level. It just makes a mockery of the whole event.’
‘I was only a reserve but some people dropped out,’ Archie offered pleasantly. ‘I didn’t quite make the original cut.’
‘Well that’s no surprise!’ Winchester brayed, looking at his trainer. ‘They’d be better off scrapping the bout rather than fielding a no-hoper though. This guy’s seriously going to get his block knocked off. I mean it’s not fair on their opponents, if you ask me. Whoever fights this kid could end up doing him some serious harm – and I mean see-ree-us! Nobody wants to be responsible for some other loser’s safety.’
Some of us don’t have a choice, Archie thought.
Archie threw a few more combinations of punches, trying to ignore the puerile sniggers from the other side of the changing room. He was beginning to relax into the unfamiliar stance when one of the games officials came to tell him it was time to get into the ring. Removing his glasses and slipping them into his rucksack, Archie followed the official into the public arena.
‘All units from Yankee,’ he whispered – the tiny transceiver in his ear relaying his words to the other agents. ‘Skywalker is in the changing rooms. Monitor entrance closely.’
‘Skywalker’s trainer is Special Forces,’ Highwater replied. ‘He’s safe and sound.’
‘Good for him,’ Archie mumbled as he walked nervously past the martial-arts mats. He swallowed and climbed through the ropes and on to the springy canvas of the boxing ring.