Agent 21 by Chris Ryan Page B

plenty of people who wanted to get their hands on him, and that they didn’t play by the same rules as ‘ordinary folk’. But what could he tell these people? Gabs and Raf had spent the last six months training him, but he knew next to nothing about anything important . . .
    The door opened. Zak jumped. Two men walked in – one tall, one short, but both dressed the same: black boots, black jeans, black tops, black gloves and black balaclavas. The taller man closed the door behind him just as Zak started to talk. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’
    They ignored him. The short man walked up to the searchlight and flicked a switch at the back. It burst into light, forcing Zak to clamp his eyes shut, and was close enough to give him a little warmth. He tried toopen his eyes slightly, but the light was directed right at him. It hurt to look at it, so he kept them shut.
    He heard a voice behind him. Low, muffled and serious. ‘What’s your name?’
    Zak didn’t know what made him say ‘Harry Gold’ instead of ‘Zak Darke’. Instinct, probably – combined with six months of training. When he spoke, his voice was shaky and he worried that it sounded like he was lying. His inquisitor, however, just carried on with the questions.
    ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘Why are you asking me this?’ He shivered again, despite the warmth of the lamp.
    ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘One-two-five Antrobus Drive, Muswell Hill, London.’
    ‘What were you doing at St Peter’s Crag?’
    ‘Visiting relatives.’
    ‘On a deserted island?’
    Zak clamped his mouth shut.
    Silence. He could hear footsteps around him and one of the men switched the light off. Zak opened his eyes, but he was still dazzled. By the time his vision returned to normal, the men had left the room and closed the door behind them. Zak was left alone with his fear.
    They returned an hour later and switched the light on again. Zak clamped his eyes shut again.
    ‘Nobody called Harry Gold has ever lived at one-two-four Antrobus Drive,’ the man said.
    Zak spotted the trick immediately. ‘It’s one-two-five,’ he said. The information he’d spent so much time learning came easily into his mind.
    His inquisitor didn’t sound at all concerned that his trap had been sprung. ‘There’s no Harry Gold at one-two-five either.’
    ‘Of course there is,’ Zak said. ‘It’s my home. What’s going on?’
    But again there was no response. The men just turned the light off and left the room for a second time.
    Zak was alone for longer this time round. Five hours, maybe six. The shivering grew worse as he became colder and more fearful. He grew tired too, and his head started to nod onto his chest. At that precise moment the door opened and one of the men entered with a bucket of water, which he threw at Zak’s head. It was icy cold, and caused him to catch his breath sharply. By the time he had regained control of his breathing, the man had left again and Zak was wide awake.
    After that he lost track of what was happening. The men came and went. They asked him the same questions over and over.
    ‘Where have you been for the last six months?’
    ‘At home . . .’
    ‘Who is Agent 21?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’
    They asked him again and pretended that he’d given different answers – which he hadn’t. He could tell what they were doing – trying to confuse him to the point where he really did start contradicting himself – but as time went on he found himself increasingly unable to keep track of what he’d said and what he hadn’t. They came in at random intervals. Sometimes it was ten minutes between interrogations, other times it was an hour. And whenever tiredness threatened to overcome him, one of them was always there, bucket of water in hand, ready to wake him up. Before long he became truly desperate for sleep: not being allowed to rest had turned into the cruellest torture imaginable.
    He was hungry too, and thirsty, but at no