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  As the Mercedes pulled away from the side of the road, the identity of the driver hidden behind a partition, Valerie pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Soon the back seat was filled with acrid smoke. Trying not to cough, Luiz looked out of the window and saw that they were heading north out of the city. A police checkpoint was looming up in the middle of the road ahead of them, manned by burly officers dressed in black with M16 rifles hanging threateningly from their sides. Such checkpoints were a regular sight in Rio, but as one of the policemen waved at the car to halt, this time Luiz had to restrain himself from banging on the windows and screaming for help. Whatever trouble he was in, Ana was in deeper, and if Trojan could help her Luiz needed to be strong. Holding his breath, he heard the driver of the Mercedes roll down his window and murmur something at the policeman, who immediately waved the car through the roadblock.

  They continued north along the coastline in the direction of Santos Dumont Airport, the sky darkening as the sun dipped behind the mountains. The road grew quieter, more desolate. Eventually the Mercedes drew to a halt in front of a large warehouse in the middle of an industrial complex that was cordoned off from the public by high iron railings. A lone, plain-clothed man stood guard by the gate, beside a battered sign that read TROJAN INDUSTRIES LTD.

  At first glance, everything looked shabby and run-down, but then Luiz noticed the high-tech security cameras on top of the gates, swivelling from side to side to maintain a constant vigil over the surrounding area. As the Mercedes approached, the gates opened automatically, and when Valerie wound down the window and flashed an identification card at the guard, Luiz saw that the man was armed. There was more going on here than met the eye.

  The warehouse itself was isolated in the centre of a vast wasteland, a castle in a flat kingdom of concrete. The kind of place where no one would hear you scream, Luiz thought glumly to himself. The car drove round the side of the building, stopping by a reinforced-steel door. Valerie got out of the back seat and pressed her palm against a pad built into the wall. There was a beep, then the steel door opened. Pausing in the doorway to beckon at Luiz, Valerie entered the building. Warily, the boy followed her inside.

  Luiz found himself in a giant, gloomy space illuminated by powerful spotlights that hung down from the ceiling. To his left was a makeshift office, where workstations with blinking computer screens were separated by low partitions. The technology looked sophisticated, out of place in such a decrepit building. At the far side of the building, beyond a thick glass screen, Luiz saw a row of narrow passageways side by side. At first, ridiculously, he thought they were bowling alleys. It was only when he spotted the human-shaped targets at the end that he realized he was looking at a firing range.

  ‘What is this place?’ breathed Luiz.

  ‘Trojan HQ,’ Valerie replied. ‘Until you go into the favela, this will be your home. You’ll sleep here, eat here and train here.’

  ‘Train? How long am I going to be here?’

  ‘We’re working on arranging a contact for you in the Comando Negro. You can’t just stroll up into the favela. It could take a week, could take a couple of hours. When the call comes, you’re going in. Here.’

  She passed him a water bottle and pressed two small white tablets into his hand. Luiz looked at them dubiously.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Cyanide tablets. In case you get caught by the enemy.’ Seeing the shocked look on his face, Valerie rolled her eyes. ‘They’re aspirin, Luiz. I’m guessing you’ve got a headache?’

  ‘Oh,’ Luiz said, feeling foolish. He took a swig from the water bottle and gulped the tablets back.

  ‘The living quarters are upstairs,’ said Valerie. ‘I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.’

  Trailing along in Valerie’s wake, Luiz felt suddenly weary. Only a few hours ago he had been sitting at home waiting for his sister’s birthday party. Now Ana was in jail and he was stuck with this strange, icy woman in the middle of nowhere. If he hadn’t been numb with shock, it would have felt like a nightmare.

  Valerie walked up a staircase, her heels clicking on the metal steps, and along a raised walkway. She led Luiz past a series of numbered doors with small, circular windows set into them. As far as Luiz could tell, there was no one else up here.

  At Room 5, they stopped. Valerie pushed the door open, revealing a small room with a bed, a basin and mirror, and a wardrobe. Luiz sat down on the bed, his muscles heavy. He failed to stifle a jaw-breaking yawn.

  ‘Why do I feel so tired?’ he muttered.

  Valerie shrugged. ‘Those tablets weren’t aspirin. They were sleeping pills.’

  ‘You drugged me?’ Luiz said drowsily, struggling to focus. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve got a lot to get through tomorrow. You’re going to need your wits about you. Enough questions for now. Sleep.’

  The last thing Luiz saw – before he was knocked unconscious for the second time in a matter of hours – was Valerie’s face staring grimly down at him.

  If Luiz needed time to come to terms with what had happened to him, it soon became clear that Trojan wasn’t going to give it to him. There wasn’t even time to blink. The next day he was abruptly shaken awake by Valerie, who waited outside while Luiz groggily came to, then washed in the basin and pulled on the clothes he found folded up in the wardrobe. Although he guessed that it was early morning, he couldn’t be sure. There were no clocks on the walls, no windows, no way of telling whether it was night or day. The warehouse seemed to run on its own time.

  After a quick breakfast of fruit and coffee in a deserted canteen, he was led by Valerie to the makeshift office, which was now occupied by a group of people working at their computers. A tall white man perched casually on the edge of a table, humming tunelessly to himself. He smiled as Luiz approached.

  ‘Luiz, meet Richard Madison,’ said Valerie. ‘He’s head of Technical Support at Trojan and he’ll be responsible for your training. Madison’s ex-SIS, the British intelligence agency, and has hunted for Al-Qaeda members in the mountains of Pakistan.’ She leaned in closely. ‘So, if I were you, I’d listen to him.’

  Nodding briefly at Madison, Valerie turned on her heel and walked away. Luiz watched her go.

  ‘She’s friendly,’ he said sourly.

  A grin broke out on Madison’s face – the first smile Luiz had seen for what felt like an age. ‘Don’t take it personally, lad,’ he said, in English. ‘Valerie’s like that with everyone. Not a lot of call for jokes in Mossad.’

  Luiz gave him a blank look.

  ‘Israeli secret service,’ the British man explained. ‘And, believe me, what those guys lack in humour, they make up for in expertise.’

  Luiz remembered the gun holster he had seen Valerie wearing the previous evening. He glanced around the bustling office. ‘Did everyone here used to be in the military?’

  Madison nodded. ‘Trojan wouldn’t stand much of a chance otherwise. Over the years Darius has built up enough contacts to put a team together.’

  ‘And was he…?’

  ‘Ex-Delta Force – American special forces. There are very few front lines where that man hasn’t seen action. He’s been to places that make my tours look like Disneyland.’

  Thinking back to their meeting in his office, Luiz remembered Jordan’s powerful build, the clipped authority of his movements. Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising after all.

  Madison looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So I’m guessing you’ve had a bloody strange few hours.’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the way it’s got to be. If the Brazilian government find out what we’re doing here, the shit’s going to hit the fan and no mistake. We’ve got to stay under the radar – get in and get out, like a commando raid. We haven’t really got the time to explain things over a cup of tea.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Luiz said. ‘If the government doesn’t know about you, what are you doing here?’

  Madison frowned. ‘Ha
ve you ever heard of the term “black op”?’

  Luiz shook his head.

  ‘It describes military operations that are too risky – or too shady – for governments to back openly. They may know something’s going on, but they’ll deny it if you ask them. As it happens, several senior officials in Interpol know about us, but we’re on a kind of probation. This is our first mission, and you’re our first recruit, Luiz. If there’s a cock-up here, you’ll also be our last.’

  Madison was interrupted by his bleeper chirping into life. He consulted the electronic readout.

  ‘I have to call someone. Hang on a second.’

  The Brit hurried away, leaving Luiz standing on his own in the office. None of the computer operatives had given him a second glance. Bored, Luiz looked about the warehouse, his eyes catching sight of a side door resting invitingly ajar. Glancing around to check that nobody was watching him, he crept over to the door and slipped outside.

  After the claustrophobia of Trojan’s warehouse, it was a relief to be standing in the sunshine again. As Luiz took deep gulps of fresh air, his eyes alighted upon a classic red Corvette parked nearby, its bodywork gleaming in the sunlight. Staring at the car’s smooth contours, Luiz felt a familiar, irresistible urge.

  If Trojan wanted a secret agent, they’d get one.

  He ran across to the car and, finding one of the doors open, slipped into the driver’s seat. Reaching down beneath the dashboard, Luiz teased out the wiring. Although he hadn’t admitted it to Darius Jordan, he had stolen his first car back in Santa Marta and had quickly grown to love speeding around in other people’s flash machines. Having promised Ana to go straight, several years had elapsed since Luiz had last hotwired a car and he felt a surge of elation when the engine burst into life. He revved the engine, feeling the steering wheel tremble with anticipation beneath his grasp.

  In his rear-view mirror, Luiz saw Richard Madison appear in the warehouse doorway. Instinctively, he stamped down on the accelerator. The Corvette screamed away across the concrete, the force of the acceleration pinning Luiz back against the seat. He laughed, exhilarated by the awesome speed of the machine. As the perimeter fence hurtled towards him, he waited until the last second and then spun the steering wheel, veering back towards open ground.

  For five minutes Madison looked on, arms folded, as Luiz threw the Corvette into a series of wide, skidding rings, smoke billowing from its screaming tyres. The Brit waited patiently until Luiz had brought the car to a screeching halt, then strolled over and tapped on the window. Luiz had the distinct feeling that Madison was trying to hide a grin.

  He pressed the window button down.

  ‘If you’ve buggered up my car, sonny,’ Madison said, ‘I’ll wring your bloody neck.’

  Luiz gave him a beaming smile. ‘It’s safe with me,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Jordan tell you? I like cars.’

  5. Sure Shot

  The next couple of days passed by in a blur for Luiz. He was thrown into a series of intensive lessons that made school look like easy street. There was a lot to go over before he could return to the favela and Trojan Industries were nothing if not thorough. Luiz was allowed breaks only to eat and sleep. Thankfully, no one tried to give him any more ‘aspirin’. They didn’t need to – Luiz was so shattered he fell asleep immediately.

  However, life under the tutelage of the easy-going Richard Madison wasn’t all bad. To Luiz’s immense relief, Valerie had faded into the background, allowing the former SIS man to supervise his training. Occasionally, sitting at a computer screen, Luiz would feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he’d turn round to find the Israeli woman watching him. She never said a word, though.

  To his surprise, most of Luiz’s time was taken up with language lessons. One of Trojan’s operatives, a young Brazilian guy called Ricardo, was teaching him favela slang. Four years in the suburbs had changed Luiz’s vocabulary and softened his accent. If he walked into Santa Marta talking like a rich kid, there was no way the Comando Negro were going to accept him as a gang member. It didn’t take long for Luiz to remember the language and his old accent soon began to return.

  As his voice changed, so did his appearance. Luiz’s curly black hair was shaved off, leaving him with a skinhead. Temporary tattoos were pressed on to his arms, leaving them banded with ornate circular patterns that to his eyes looked indistinguishable from the real thing. Luiz spent time staring at himself in the mirror, getting used to his new look and trying to adopt the surly, assertive body language of the gang members.

  One afternoon Richard Madison beckoned Luiz away from his workstation and led him towards the firing range on the other side of the warehouse.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Darius,’ the Brit began, ‘and apparently we don’t need to worry about you getting involved in any hand-to-hand fighting. I hear you’ve been trained in capoeira.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ Luiz said cautiously.

  ‘That’s good to hear. You’ve got enough on your plate right now without having to learn how to fight too. However, there is one thing that I do need to show you.’

  Madison stopped by the transparent plastic door at the end of the firing range and pressed his palm against the reader. The door clicked open and he stepped inside. In the walkway beyond, a small arsenal of pistols and semi-automatic rifles had been laid out along a table. As Luiz looked over the array of weaponry, the metal gleaming slickly in the light, the dangerous reality of what he was doing suddenly hit home.

  ‘You’re going to give me a gun?’

  ‘Not if we can possibly avoid it,’ Madison replied. ‘But the Comando Negro are going to be armed and it’s better that you know what you’re doing. Less chance of you hurting yourself, or anyone else. I’m guessing you’ve never fired a gun before.’

  Luiz shook his head.

  ‘Well, here’s your chance.’ He selected a small black pistol and handed it to Luiz, who was surprised at how heavy it felt in his hand.

  ‘This is a Glock 26,’ Madison said. ‘It’s Austrian-made, reliable and accurate. The 26s are standard issue for policemen here in Rio.’

  Instructing Luiz to put on a pair of ballistic ear defenders and safety goggles, the Brit led him over to the range. At the other end of the alleyway, the outline of a man had been drawn on a white target. Madison crisply showed Luiz how to load a magazine into the Glock and then pointed at the target.

  ‘Do your worst,’ he said.

  Taking a deep breath, Luiz aimed at the target and squeezed the trigger. Unprepared for the recoil of the gun, he stumbled backwards, shockwaves running up his right arm. The sound of the gunshot echoed around the firing range.

  ‘Wow!’ shouted Luiz, peering at the target. ‘Did I hit anything?’

  Madison gave him a sideways glance. ‘You were closer to hitting me than the bad guy, but never mind. Try it again. Keep your right arm straight this time and your left arm slightly bent. And you want to shoot side-on, with your left foot pointing towards the target. Fire face-on and you’ll present more of a target to anyone that wants to shoot back.’

  Bracing himself, Luiz fired again. This time he managed to maintain his stance and saw to his satisfaction that he had clipped the edge of the white target.

  ‘Better?’ he said.

  Madison nodded, a flicker of amusement on his face.

  As time passed, Luiz had to admit that there was something darkly exhilarating about shooting a gun. The first time he hit a clean shot in the centre of the target’s head, he felt a small surge of triumph. After an hour, his arms were aching and his ears were ringing, but he was regularly hitting the target. Seemingly satisfied by his progress, Madison called a halt to the session.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said approvingly.

  Luiz grinned. ‘More fun than I thought it would be.’

  ‘It might be fun in here, Luiz,’ Madison said seriously, ‘but when you get on the outside it’s a whole different ball game.’ He took the Glock from Luiz’s hands and pu
t it back on the table. ‘Like I said, let’s pray you never have to use one for real.’

  For Luiz, the firearms lesson was the most vivid moment of a surreal few days. In a way, it was good that he was busy learning so much. He didn’t want time to sit down and think what was happening to him. Here in the warehouse everything made a strange sort of sense. His one contact with the outside world was his mobile phone, which, to his surprise, Trojan had allowed him to keep. Luiz had received several texts from Gui, checking to see if he was OK. It turned out that Trojan had concocted a story that Luiz and Ana had been called away on a family emergency and would be missing from school for a couple of weeks. It had taken all of Luiz’s self-control not to phone his best friend back and tell him the truth. But he knew that if word got out, then Ana would have to stay in custody. Anyway, Gui would probably just think he was bullshitting. Luiz couldn’t quite believe what was going on himself.

  Worse than that was the phone call he had received from his foster parents. When his mum asked him about Ana, he said that she had lost her phone and that she was out shopping. As hard as he tried to sound cheerful, Luiz hated lying to them. Once he had put the phone down, he made an effort to put them out of his mind. Thinking about them only upset him and, for Ana’s sake, he couldn’t fall apart now.

  ‘So you want to join the Comando Negro, kid?’ the boy sneered. ‘Sure, no problem. Only one little thing. We don’t take spies.’

  ‘But I’m telling you, I’m not a spy!’ Luiz shouted.

  He was lying spread-eagled on a patch of wasteland, his arms and legs pinned to the ground by a pack of boys dressed in black. They were laughing and taunting him as he tried to struggle free.