It was dimly lit up here. His bedroom ceiling had down-lighters, the backs of which glowed faintly in this gloomy attic space. Zak looked over towards the ceiling of the neighbouring room. This room’s down-lighters were switched off.

  It meant the room was unoccupied. He hoped.

  Zak crept across the rafters, careful not to tread on the panels. A foot through the plaster would be a tricky one to explain . . . When he thought he was above the room next door, he carefully moved one of the panels – just a few centimetres – and peered down.

  The room was dark. And empty.

  He lowered himself down and managed to swing onto the bed, which broke his fall. He quickly moved to the door, opened it a little and checked the corridor was empty. He saw the security camera, firmly directed towards his own room. But nothing else, so he slipped out in the opposite direction and carefully started to creep towards the stairs that overlooked the atrium. The sound of the songbirds in their cage reached his ears as he crouched low behind the banisters of the hallway that looked over the atrium. Zak breathlessly peered round the top of the staircase. He saw Calaca’s figure. The bony man was staring into the birdcage. Zak crept back along the banister again and stopped when he was just above Calaca and the birdcage, his back pressed to it.

  He listened.

  Calaca had been waiting in the atrium for a full fifteen minutes by the time Martinez turned up. He was wearing a thick velvet dressing gown and was flanked by two guards and two body doubles. All three versions of Martinez smoked fat cigars, and even Calaca didn’t know which was the real Martinez until the entourage held back, leaving the two men to speak in hushed tones by the cage full of songbirds.

  ‘Well?’ asked Martinez.

  ‘Where is the boy?’ Calaca countered.

  ‘In bed. Fast asleep, I should think. It’s been a long day.’

  Calaca nodded. ‘Maybe you were right,’ he said. ‘His story stands up. He seems to be who he says he is.’

  Martinez took a deep drag on his cigar, surrounding himself in a cloud of smoke. ‘You did well to be suspicious,’ he said. ‘I thank you for it.’

  Calaca inclined his head.

  ‘But if Harry Gold is not Agent 21,’ Martinez continued, ‘then you must look to your own security personnel.’

  Calaca bristled. ‘I trust them all,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you trust them,’ said Martinez. ‘That is why they are such a risk. If I were to plant somebody in this household, I would start with them. They have the run of the house, and they carry firearms.’ Martinez gave Calaca a meaningful stare. ‘You are my head of security, Adan,’ he said. ‘I trust you. But I want to know you are capable of investigating your own people. Otherwise I will be forced to find another head of security who can. Am I understood?’

  Calaca’s one eye twitched. ‘Yes, Señor Martinez,’ he said, his voice emotionless. ‘You are understood.’

  ‘Then do what is necessary.’ Martinez puffed once more on his cigar and peered towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘A beautiful night!’ he announced to nobody in particular. ‘Sleep well, Adan.’ He turned and left the atrium. Seconds later, Calaca followed.

  * * *

  Zak remained pressed against the banister wall. He’d heard enough of their conversation to realize he’d had a lucky escape. Somehow they knew about Agent 21, but they’d decided it wasn’t him.

  He waited for silence in the atrium below him, then prepared to return to his room. But just as he was pushing himself to his feet, he heard a sound that he’d been dreading.

  Footsteps.

  They were coming back along the corridor that led to his room. For a moment he froze. If anyone found him here, he’d never be able to explain it; but his only escape route was down the stairs into the atrium. And so, moving as quickly and as silently as possible, he headed for the top of the staircase. The atrium looked empty, so he rushed down, looking for a place to hide. There was nowhere in the atrium itself – it was all too open – and he stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, paralysed with indecision. But then he heard the sound of people talking up on the landing, and he knew he had to move. He sprinted across the atrium and into a narrow corridor that led to a flight of steps into the basement. It wasn’t ideal – he didn’t know where these steps ended up and he could be fixing himself into a corner – but he was there now and was running out of options . . .

  The staircase was dark. It led down to a long corridor. On the right-hand side there was a steel door with a numeric keypad on the outside. Opposite the door was a sight that made him feel slightly sick. It was a cell, not unlike the one he’d been in that morning, with sturdy iron bars and big lock on the door. It was empty, but Zak didn’t even want to think what happened to anybody who ended up in there.

  This, Zak thought to himself, would be a very bad place to be caught.

  He gave it two minutes, no longer, before tiptoeing back up the stairs. He took a deep breath, then looked out into the atrium.

  It was empty.

  All he could do now was move across the open space to the stairs and hope he didn’t bump into anyone. Best not to run, because if anybody did see him, it would look suspicious. If he was walking, maybe he could talk himself out of the situation.

  It took an age to reach the staircase, and another age to climb it. Zak could hear his heart pumping in his ears and he was breathing like he’d just run a mile. He turned left at the top of the stairs and walked along the corridor until it turned a corner round to the left.

  And then he stopped.

  There was a guard standing five metres away – a young man, no more than twenty years old, wearing a khaki uniform with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Zak stared at him.

  The guard stared back.

  He had something in his hands, but Zak was too scared to clock what it was. His mind started turning over as he tried to work out an excuse for not being in his room.

  The guard looked over his shoulder. Then back at Zak. ‘Please,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘Do not tell Señor Ramirez you saw me here.’ To Zak’s astonishment, the guard looked terrified.

  ‘Where should you be?’ Zak asked, trying to sound full of authority.

  ‘Outside. Guarding the perimeter with the other guards.’ He looked guiltily down at the objects in his hand, and Zak saw what they were. Photographs.

  Zak drew himself up to his full height and looked stern. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  ‘Gonzalez, señor.’

  ‘And what are you looking at, Gonzalez?’

  ‘Pictures of my family, señor. I miss them when I am here. The other guards, they laugh at me . . .’

  Zak felt a twist of sympathy for this young guard, but didn’t show it. Gonzalez was clearly feeling so guilty about his own actions that he hadn’t thought to be suspicious of Zak wandering around the house. That meant Zak had the upper hand, and he needed to use it.

  ‘You’d better go,’ he instructed. ‘Now.’

  The guard nodded quickly. ‘Thank you, señor.’ His face filled with gratitude and he hurried away.

  Once Gonzalez was gone, Zak hurried back to the room next to his, his veins pumping from his close shave. He jumped on the bed and pulled himself up into ceiling again.

  One minute later he was back in his own room, sweating and dizzy with fear. That, he decided, was the last time he went for a midnight wander in this place, no matter what.

  19

  A SUGGESTION

  It might have been the most comfortable bed in the world, but Zak slept badly. He nodded off towards sunrise, but was woken again by the dawn chorus, and by his worries. His mission here seemed impossible. Nobody had even mentioned the word drugs and Martinez, for all his jovial nature, was surely too smart to do anything that would incriminate himself in front of Zak. And as for distinguishing him from his body doubles, it was impossible. They weren’t just alike; they were identical.

  There was no way he was going to sleep again, so he got dressed and left his room. The camera was still directed at his door, but at least there was nothing suspicious about him getting up early.

  It was pleasant down by the pool. Martinez’s butlers had cleared away all the food from last night and there was a fresh breeze blowing. On the lawn beyond the water, a flock of birds that Zak didn’t recognize were pecking for worms. One of them was perched on the headdress of a La Catrina statue, but despite those grisly effigies, it was peaceful here. You could almost forget that you were surrounded by observation posts manned by heavily armed militia.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Zak sat in silence for a while, trying to enjoy the stillness. But he’d only been down for ten minutes when he heard footsteps behind him.

  ‘You are an early riser, like me, Harry?’ It was Martinez.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Zak said.

  Martinez came and sat next to him. His eyes were serious; the playfulness he had shown last night was gone.

  ‘You are still worried about the police, perhaps? You shouldn’t be. The police are mine to control. Maybe it is something else. The first time you take a man’s life is always the most difficult, you know. After that it becomes easier.’

  Zak looked at him sharply, but Martinez was staring out across the grounds.

  ‘You understand what it is that I do, Harry?’

  Zak felt his pulse racing. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’ve got an idea . . .’

  ‘You are a clever lad. A very clever lad. And tell me, what is it, this idea of yours?’

  Zak licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. ‘I think it’s something to do with drugs,’ he said.

  Martinez smiled. ‘And do you think I am a bad man, Harry?’

  It was all Zak could do to keep his voice level. ‘I’m just glad you got me away from the police,’ he said.

  ‘Many people think I am a bad man. But then, they are not as intelligent as you. I come from a poor village, you know. My parents had barely enough money to clothe or feed my two brothers and me. In Mexico, if you are born poor, you stay poor – unless you can find a way of beating that poverty. Do you understand me, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, señor,’ Zak said politely. But in the back of his head he remembered something Michael had told him before he left. Martinez can charm the birds out of the trees, Zak. Don’t let yourself be taken in by him.

  ‘The economy of Mexico depends on the drugs trade, Harry. Without me, it would collapse. The men who import the coca leaves from Colombia – what do you think would become of them if I did not pay them for their labour? You think there are so many jobs in Mexico that they would find work again? And the poor people in villages like the one where I grew up, you think the government looks after them?’

  Zak shook his head.

  ‘No.’ Martinez’s eyes were alight. ‘It is up to me to give back to these communities. It is I who builds their churches and their schools. It is I who provides money for their sick.’

  And it’s you, thought Zak, who kills their families. The picture of the hanged bodies Michael had shown him burned in his mind.

  ‘People say terrible things about me, Harry. But they do not understand the truth. They do not understand what a man has to do to get on in this world. Do you see what I am saying?’

  Zak nodded.

  ‘You are a good lad,’ Martinez continued. ‘Cruz could do with somebody like you around. Raul bullies him. He thinks I do not see this, but I see more than he knows.’ He tapped his forehead with two fingers.

  ‘Why do you let Raul do it?’ Zak asked.

  ‘Because I hope it will teach Cruz to be more of a man. To stand up for himself.’

  ‘If someone’s being bullied,’ Zak said, ‘it’s difficult for them to do anything.’

  Martinez threw his arms into the air. ‘Then what am I to do?’ he demanded. ‘Sit idly by while he becomes an ineffectual nobody?’

  ‘You could just try letting him be himself.’ Zak didn’t quite know if it was him talking, or Harry. ‘He might surprise you.’

  ‘Surprise me? Pff . . .’ Martinez stood up and made a sweeping gesture with one arm. ‘I have worked hard all my life to build this empire. How can I leave it to Cruz when he has no interest in business? No interest in making something of his life. All he wishes to do is keep his nose in a book. What did books ever teach anybody? Raul, at least, has hunger. He may not be the cleverest boy I’ve ever met, but he wants to succeed. Maybe the brains will come later, hey?’ He looked out again over his land.

  Martinez sounded to Zak like he was trying to persuade himself of something, and Zak thought he spotted an opportunity. While Martinez’s back was turned, he pulled his phone from his pocket and switched on the voice recorder, before hiding it again.

  ‘What happens to the coca leaves,’ he asked, ‘once they are picked?’

  Martinez turned to look at him, and for a moment there was suspicion in his eyes. He seemed to master it, but he chose his words carefully. ‘Some people say there are facilities. Processing centres. The coca leaves are harvested two or three times a year, imported from Columbia, then taken to laboratories in the Mexican jungle where they are turned from raw material into crude cocaine.’

  ‘It must be a complicated process,’ Zak observed.

  ‘It is,’ Martinez replied. ‘The men who know how to do it are paid well for their efforts. Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’

  Zak looked away. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Just something Cruz said to me.’

  ‘What has the boy been saying?’

  Zak sighed, pretending that he was reluctant to betray Cruz’s confidence. ‘He told me he wants to be a scientist,’ he said.

  ‘What money is there to be made in science, of all things?’ Martinez demanded.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. What goes on in these laboratories – that sounds like science to me.’

  A pause. Martinez blinked at Zak, who could tell he had the drug lord’s attention.

  ‘I mean, it’s just a thought, but maybe if you showed Cruz what goes on in these places, it might interest him.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Zak shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ He couldn’t quite believe what he was suggesting. Most boys his age went to football matches with their dads. Here he was trying to persuade Martinez to take his son to a cocaine processing facility. Talk about messed up . . .

  ‘Stand up, Harry Gold,’ said Martinez.

  Zak stood.

  Martinez stepped towards him and Zak couldn’t shake the feeling that the drug lord was examining him, searching his face for any sign of a trap. But then, without any warning, he embraced Zak just as he had the previous day.

  ‘I knew you would be a good influence on my son,’ he said. ‘I could tell the moment I saw you. You will come with us. Together we will turn my son into a Martinez worthy of the name!’

  He released Zak and turned towards the house.

  ‘Wake Cruz!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice, so loud that the flock of birds on the lawn rose up into the air. ‘And bring me Adan! Arrange a helicopter. We are going to take a trip. Now! Harry, come with me!’

  Impulsive, Michael had said of Martinez. He wasn’t wrong.

  On the drug lord’s command, guards were suddenly scurrying around the house. Martinez himself jogged towards the atrium. Zak switched off his voice recorder and ran after him.

  Two minutes later, Zak was back in his room. His pulse was racing – this was all happening quicker than he’d expected, and he needed to think clearly. He pulled out his phone and pressed an onscreen button. The phone displayed a game and played a jaunty little tune. But after ten seconds it changed: a blank screen with space for a six-digit PIN. Zak entered his code; a moment later a small icon indicated he was connected to Michael’s satellite network. He started to upload the voice recorder file. A graphic indicated the status of the upload: 10%, 20%, 50% . . .

  While the file was uploading, Zak laid the phone on his bed, opened the cupboard and quickly rifled through the clothes that were hanging there. He soon found what he wanted – a pale blue short-sleeved shirt. Not the sort of thing he’d normally wear, but it had one advantage: a breast pocket on the left-hand side. He estimated the pocket’s depth: about ten centimetres. Perfect for what he had in mind . . .

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Zak called. He ran to the phone.

  60% . . . 70% . . .

  ‘Zak, it’s Cruz? Do you know what’s happening?’

  80% . . . 90% . . . He quickly changed shirts.

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  100%.

  Zak disconnected from the satellite network just as a sound he recognized filled the air outside. A shadow crossed over his bedroom window and a chopper started descending onto the lawn outside.

  Zak hurried to open the door. Cruz was there. ‘Sorry,’ said Zak. ‘Just using the bathroom.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Cruz. ‘My dad’s summoned us – you and me.’ He looked over Zak’s shoulder. ‘What’s the helicopter here for? Is something wrong?’ There was a slightly panicked expression in his eyes.

  Zak did his best to look relaxed. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I think your dad wants us to go on a little trip, that’s all.’

  ‘A trip? What sort of trip? Where to?’

  Zak smiled. ‘I’ll let him explain that,’ he said. ‘I think he’s got something to show you.’ He closed the door behind him. ‘Come on. We’d better go.’

  20

  THE LAB

  ‘Señor, this is not safe.’

  Calaca stood with his boss in the atrium, sweat pouring from his skin. He could smell his own body odour. ‘You never visit the labs. You never visit anywhere that is anything to do with the business, and for a good reason. If anyone sees you there . . .’