AWOL 1 Agent Without Licence Page 3

  ‘What about security? Didn’t anyone try to stop them?’

  ‘Nobody noticed.’

  Bex thought she heard a voice in the distance saying, ‘Or cared!’ For a moment she thought it was someone near her, but she realised that it came from her earpiece: another boy’s voice. Kieron had friends. Or a friend.

  She took a deep breath. She felt a flutter of panic in her chest that she couldn’t seem to get rid of, like a butterfly that she’d accidentally swallowed.

  She was about to say something, although she wasn’t entirely sure what it was going to be, when the kid said: ‘So, should I call the police or something?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. That wasn’t a good idea. SIS-TERR should be handling this, not the police.

  She had to think. She looked around, seeing the tourists and the hawkers of maps and gifts but not really focusing on anything; letting it all blur together while her thoughts raced. The problem was that it would take time to get through to SIS-TERR and brief them on what had happened, and then even more time for them to arrange to have her transferred to another agent handler – probably one she’d never even met before – and get the mission back on track. And by then there probably wouldn’t be a mission any more.

  She felt sick. She and Bradley were independents, working under top-secret contract to the Secret Intelligence Service. Up until now they’d successfully handled every mission that had been thrown their way, but if they screwed this one up then the chances were they’d never get a contract again.

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t a game?’ Kieron asked suddenly.

  ‘This is definitely not a game.’ She thought she detected something strange in his tone of voice, despite the thousands of miles that lay between them. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because a little box has come up in the top of the picture. It says “Security Alert – Threat Detected”.’

  Somebody had turned that ice-cold shower back on again. ‘Where? Tell me!’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is getting too weird. Really, it is. I’ll just hand the stuff in to the Information Point here at the mall, assuming there’s anybody there, and we’ll call it a day, OK? You can pick your friend’s stuff up there.’

  Her gaze flickered across the open space, resting on faces for a moment before checking out body postures, looking for something she recognised or something that screamed threat! but nothing stood out. ‘No, wait. Kieron – it was Kieron, wasn’t it? – just tell me: is there a thin yellow line leading from the corner of the box and pointing at something?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s pointing at some bloke.’

  ‘Describe him for me.’

  ‘Medium height, Indian by the look of him, standing with his back to the arch and staring kind of past your left shoulder. He’s got a camera in his hand. One of those old-fashioned ones, with the chunky lenses. Not a smartphone or a tablet. When he moves, the box moves with him.’

  His description was spot-on. She quickly isolated the man she thought he had described. ‘Thin moustache? Sideburns? Blue shirt?’

  ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Who is he? Why is this thing labelling him as a threat?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘OK, listen to me. This is important. Raise your right hand and touch the air where the threat box has appeared.’

  A pause, then: ‘Oh wow! This thing has gesture recognition built in, as well as facial recognition? What kind of processor is running the code?’

  ‘Focus. Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Another box appeared. This one says: “Shakeer Saryadhi – minor agent – Indian Counter-Terrorism Centre”, and underneath it says: “Possible surveillance threat”.’

  Unlikely to be a threat to my mission, she thought, relaxing slightly. The Gateway of India was a prominent landmark in Mumbai. It would be more than likely that India’s top counter-terrorism organisation was maintaining ‘eyes-on’ the location: Lashkar-e-Taiba, a terrorist group based in Pakistan, was still active, and relations between India and Pakistan were still highly unstable. If this was a surveillance operation then it wasn’t directed against her. The Indian Counter-Terrorism Centre hadn’t been told that she was there.

  ‘Hey,’ Kieron’s voice said, ‘this thing is like Wikipedia! I can click on words and it’ll give me more detail.’ He paused, then: ‘You’re in Mumbai? In India?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So this thing is communicating via satellite? With no lag? Sweet.’

  He sounded intelligent. ‘Kieron, be quiet for a minute. I need to think.’

  She thought she heard him having a muffled conversation with the boy who’d spoken earlier, but the majority of her mind crunched through facts, assumptions, speculations, predictions, options and courses of action. OK: fact one – her controller, Bradley, had been taken captive by bad guys of some kind. This of course was based on assumption one – that this Kieron was on the level and telling her the truth about what he’d seen. Fact one also led to speculation one – that Bradley’s kidnapping was connected in some way to their joint mission, otherwise why take him there and then, in a shopping mall? That then provided her with prediction one – whoever had taken Bradley would be coming back for his glasses and his earpiece when they discovered that he hadn’t got them on him. The tech – known as Augmented Reality Computer Capability, or ARCC – was new and secret, based on Google Glass, Oculus Rift and the HTC Vive but way in advance of those commercial applications, but rumours got around fast in the intelligence and terrorist communities. These particular bad guys would know that he had some way of communicating with her, and would want to get their hands on it. ‘Kieron,’ she said urgently, ‘you need to get away from wherever you are! The people who took … my friend … might come back looking for the tech kit you’ve got!’

  ‘Already done,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sam suggested we relocate to somewhere a bit more secluded. I’m walking and talking at the same time.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Sam – that must be his friend.

  The heat of the sun, soaked up by the stone bench on which she sat, made her legs itch. She put her can down and shifted to a more comfortable position. While she thought, she let her gaze wander across the various sights and sounds of the bay area she was in: the tourists, the locals, the boats and the spectacular architecture. Her gaze caught on a man standing off to one side: black hair and neatly trimmed black beard. He wore a three-piece pinstriped suit, which seemed odd considering the temperature. Maybe he was a businessman, there for a meeting. He turned and met her gaze, somehow aware that he was being watched. Bex smiled at him, and looked away.

  Speculation two – the bad guys would keep Bradley alive while they worked on getting his communications link, and using it to trace her. Not a fact, of course, just a speculation, but she had to believe they would keep him alive otherwise she would be pitched into despair.

  Two options – continue with the mission if possible, without Bradley but making sure she got Kieron out of harm’s way and stopped the kit falling into enemy hands, or pause the mission and notify SIS-TERR of events.

  Fact two – her mission in Mumbai, guided supposedly by her handler Bradley back in Newcastle, was time-critical. Hence prediction two – if she paused to seek help from SIS-TERR then things would rapidly go pear-shaped, and they might lose their contract, and all further work.

  It was pretty clear what she had to do. She couldn’t go on by herself, without a handler, and she couldn’t involve this kid, Kieron. She had to notify SIS-TERR and let them make the call on scrubbing the mission.

  She was just about to tell Kieron to walk away and leave the kit at the information desk as he had suggested when he came back on line.

  ‘I forgot to say – I wrote down the licence plate of the van that took your friend away.’

  That would be something to give Control. ‘Good work,’ she said. ‘If you raise your right hand, can you see a blue button appear in your field of view?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I know it’s not there, but make out like you’re pressing it.’

  ‘An empty box appeared. Oh, and a virtual keyboard beneath it.’

  ‘Either type the licence plate into the virtual keyboard, or just say “verbal input on”, then say the licence plate out loud. The microphone’s pretty sensitive. It’ll pick up a whisper.’

  ‘OK.’ A pause, while Bex held her breath. ‘Right – I typed it in. There’s a little icon like a brain that probably means it’s thinking. What is this – like an eighth-generation chip or something?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now.’

  Bex heard the other voice in the background again, then Kieron said, ‘Sam wants to know how the chip keeps itself cool? Oh, hang on, the brain icon has vanished, and there’s a box that says: “Mitsubishi Delica Stargazer, registered owner Three Cornered Square Communications Ltd”. Does that help?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said bleakly. A leaden lump sat in her stomach. It hadn’t been there a few seconds before. Unfortunately, she knew the name ‘Three Cornered Square Communications’. It was a shadow company, owned and run by SIS-TERR. It was one of the ways they could register vehicles and properties and pay wages without anyone being able to trace it back to them. Except that Bex had seen that same company listed on top-secret accountancy spreadsheets.

  Bradley had been taken by SIS-TERR. Or by someone working for SIS-TERR. But that didn’t make any sense.

  Maybe the bad guys were trying to make it look like Bradley had been taken by his own employers in order to destabilise Bex, put her off her stroke. Or perhaps there was a traitor, a double agent, supposedly working for SIS-TERR but actually working for the terrorists, or for an inimical nation. There were a whole lo
ad of assumptions and speculations right there, but she didn’t want to think about them right now. The only thing she knew was that, right now, reporting back to SIS-TERR wasn’t really an option.

  But she had no resources, nothing to fall back on.

  Despair rooted her to the spot and infiltrated its tentacles through her mind, stopping her from thinking properly.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the boy back in Newcastle asked. His voice had an undertone of concern.

  ‘Bex,’ she said automatically. ‘Short for Rebecca.’

  ‘And you’re what? A secret agent, on an actual mission in India?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And this guy Bradley, who has been kidnapped, is looking after you – feeding you information, analysing stuff and identifying threats while you pretend to be a tourist?’

  ‘That’s pretty much it.’

  ‘And now he’s gone, you’re on your own and you don’t know who to trust?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘You’ve got a pretty analytical brain, Kieron.’

  ‘I read a lot. Oh, and I’m teaching myself programming, which is all about breaking a problem down to a series of steps and solving each step, one at a time.’

  Bex had started to feel strangely protective of this kid. He’d fallen into something much bigger than he was used to, and she felt as if she had to shield him from any dangers that might arise.

  ‘Have you changed location, Kieron? Where did you go?’

  ‘We walked up two levels in the mall to the ice-cream shake place.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got a “Super Salted Caramel” and Sam’s got a “Very Berry Explosion”.’

  Bex felt a sudden and unexpected sob welling up in her chest. It was all so normal, so ordinary. Bradley would do that when he was talking to her – tell her what he was eating, or give her a running commentary on what the people around him were doing. He would also randomly tell her that there was a cafe nearby that sold the best lassi, or whatever local drink was appropriate, or that some famous person had stood exactly where she was standing: details gleaned from the computer processor in his glasses. Yes, it kept her grounded, kept her from getting sucked into the detail and the tension of the mission, whatever it was, but that was his character. That was what he did. Or had done.

  ‘How old are you, Kieron?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Old enough,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘What colour is your hair?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m telling you all kinds of things that I shouldn’t, and I realised that I don’t have a mental picture of you. Tall or short? Sporty or academic?’

  After a pause he spoke again, sounding suddenly tense. ‘I’m nearly six feet tall, I’ve got black hair, and my skin looks like I’ve got a tan. I haven’t – my dad’s from Mauritius – but that’s the only thing about me that looks Mauritian. Everything else I get from my mum. I identify as a greeb, but looking at me you’d say I’m an emo or a goth.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Goths are attracted to the darker side of things, but they’re not necessarily depressed or suicidal. They dress mainly in black, or purple if they’re girls. Emos are really sensitive and depressive – they overreact to anything that happens, and they deal with it by self-harming or locking themselves in their room, curling up into a ball and listening to really loud music. Greebs reject any fashions or trends, and that’s the difference between us, emos and goths. Being emo or goth is a fashion.’ He paused. ‘And the natural enemy of the greeb, the emo and the goth is the chav. They’re the ones wearing tracksuit bottoms tucked into their socks, new white trainers and baseball caps, and have plenty of bling around their necks and on their fingers and wrists.’

  ‘Sounds very tribal,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Kieron said in a quieter voice, ‘but actually that’s not important right now. I’ve just seen one of those two blond guys again. We’re sitting in the window of the ice-cream shake place on the second floor of the mall, and we’re looking down into the food area. We can see our table, and the table your friend was sitting at. The bloke who’s come back is looking around as if he’s dropped something.’ A pause, then, ‘Now he’s going across to the nearest rubbish bin. He’s opened up the flap and he’s looking inside. He probably thinks that one of the cleaners cleared the table and threw all the rubbish away.’

  ‘Don’t let him know you’re watching him,’ Bex said decisively.

  ‘We won’t. We’re two levels up, and there’s a window between him and us. There are four other people sitting in the window and looking out. He can’t tell that there’s anything special about us.’

  ‘He would have noticed you,’ Bex pointed out. ‘He would have been trained to spot everything around him.’

  ‘Not us,’ Kieron said. His voice sounded angry and frustrated. ‘Nobody sees kids like us. We’re invisible, except to chavs and old people.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘He’s talking to one of the cleaners. He looks like he’s getting annoyed. OK, the cleaner’s turned away now and he’s trying to walk off. The guy has grabbed the cleaner’s shoulder, and he’s pulling him back. OK, he’s holding his hands up in an apology, and he’s taking a wallet from his jacket pocket. It looks like he’s offering the cleaner money, but the cleaner is backing away and shaking his head.’

  Bex could visualise what was going on as if she was actually there. Kieron was a good talker.

  ‘You know how you got the information on the guy you saw here in Mumbai?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Try doing the same with the man you’re looking at. Raise your hand until your forefinger is over his face and pretend that you’re tapping a key on a keyboard, but twice.’

  ‘OK, I’m – wow! So I can get information on things I’m seeing as well as things you’re seeing!’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘His face is outlined with a yellow border, and that brain symbol has appeared again. Right, the bloke has walked out of sight, but there’s a text box that’s just appeared in mid-air. This one is blue, not yellow like last time.’

  ‘What does it say?

  ‘“Searching for known terrorists”. Oh, it’s changed to “Searching for known terrorist associates”. That one’s gone now, and it says: “Searching for known criminals”. Ah, it’s found something. It’s saying: “Identified as Kyle Renner. British citizen; aged twenty-three. Convictions for grievous bodily harm and for assault. Linked to right-wing group Blood and Soil.” There’s a reference number and a whole series of links as well. Whoa, this guy is seriously dangerous.’ He paused, then said, ‘This thing isn’t just accessing the Internet, is it? This isn’t just Wikipedia. It’s checking government stuff as well – classified databases.’

  Bex didn’t want to make the tech sound too attractive in case Kieron ran off with it, never to be seen again, so she kept quiet. She wished that she could access the information that he could, right now, so she could check him out. The problem was that field agents weren’t allowed to do that, only their handlers. Partly it was so they had access to information when they were undercover and couldn’t wave their arms about without attracting suspicion. Partly also it was so that secret information didn’t fall into the hands of the bad guys. Agent in the field; handler in a safe place. That was the rule.

  ‘Let’s say it accesses a whole load of data that isn’t generally available.’

  ‘I know – I just pulled up all the blueprints for the mall, just by waving my hands around and miming clicking on things. Alarms as well – where the alarm boxes are, where the cables are routed and information on the codes that will turn them off. This thing is incredible. Oh, hang on, I’ve got the employment records of the employees now.’ He suddenly sounded more muffled, as if he was talking to his friend – Sam. ‘That security guard was apparently dishonourably discharged from the Army for stealing a handgun and some live ammunition. And he’s on medication for stress – something called propranolol.’

  Bex heard Sam say something like: ‘Get wrecked! That’s a beta-blocker. He wouldn’t have admitted that to his employers!’