People's Republic

by Robert Muchamore

  When he reached the double doors of the chairwoman’s office Ryan took a deep breath and realised that his arms were shaking. It might be trouble, or it might be the proper mission he’d been craving since he’d finished basic training eight months earlier.

  ‘A-ha, the man of the hour!’ Zara said, getting off her sofa.

  The office had a high ceiling, with a large angular desk and filing cabinets at one end, and leather sofas in front of a fireplace at the other. Ryan appreciated the chill of the air-con as he stepped in.

  Zara stood up and introduced Ryan to a stunning-looking woman in her early twenties. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever met Amy Collins?’

  Ryan was awed as Amy shook his hand. She had blonde shoulder-length hair, a perfect face, perky tits and a heavenly, tanned bod with a thong showing above the waistband of cut-off denim shorts.

  ‘Hi,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Cute earring,’ Amy said. ‘I’ve read your file and it’s good to finally meet you.’

  ‘Hi,’ Ryan repeated, as his brain turned to mush. He jolted when Zara put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Ryan, you look so nervous,’ Zara said. ‘We don’t bite, I promise.’

  Ryan was mortified that his state of mind was so obvious.

  ‘Amy is a former CHERUB agent,’ Zara explained. ‘She retired back in 2005 and she’s recently taken a job in Dallas working for TFU – a new international taskforce, which is being led by Dr Denise Huggan.’

  The caped woman stood up, but even in high-heeled boots she only reached Ryan’s eyebrows.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dr Huggan,’ Ryan said politely as he shook a gnarly hand, covered with antique silver rings.

  ‘You gotta call me Dr D,’ she replied, with her shrill New York accent. ‘That’s the only handle I answer to.’

  ‘Take a seat, Ryan,’ Zara said, as Dr D let out a loud false laugh. ‘Amy and Dr D have full security clearance, so you can talk freely about your training or experience as a CHERUB agent.’

  As Ryan sat on a leather sofa next to Amy, he glanced at the files and documents spread across the coffee table. In particular he noticed one of the distinctive red folders in which CHERUB agents receive mission briefing documents.

  ‘So am I finally getting a proper mission?’ he blurted.

  Zara laughed. ‘Yes, finally. You’ve been a little bit anxious about that, haven’t you?’

  Ryan felt embarrassed as Amy and Dr D joined the laughter.

  ‘I know exactly how Ryan feels,’ Amy said sympathetically. ‘You finish basic training and you think you’re hot shit, but then you’ve got to go out in the world and do it for real.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ryan said. ‘And some of the guys I did basic training with have already done big missions, while I’ve been twiddling my thumbs on campus for eight months wondering if the mission control staff have forgotten I exist.’

  ‘I waited eight months for my first big mission,’ Amy said, smiling at the coincidence.

  ‘Trouble is you never have the right agents,’ Zara explained. ‘For instance, I’ve had a very talented agent who speaks Urdu and Pashto sitting on campus for over a year. He’s just gone on a mission, and within a week I’ve had to turn down another operation for which he’d have been ideal.’

  ‘I do understand,’ Ryan said. ‘I’m not having a moan or anything.’

  ‘I know you’re not,’ Zara said warmly. She paused for a mouthful of coffee, then changed the subject. ‘Dr D is the head of a new international taskforce known as TFU, which stands for Transnational Facilitator Unit. The unit is relatively small, but it’s being funded by the United States government, and supported by additional agents and resources from friendly countries, including the UK.’

  Amy noticed Ryan’s pained expression. ‘Any idea what a transnational facilitator is?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  Dr D made a screechy laugh. ‘Nobody does!’ she said. ‘Including half my bosses in Washington. Basically, you have terrorists who want to blow stuff up. You have organised criminals like the Italian Mafia or the Japanese Yakuza, but at the top of the tree you have transnational facilitators. They’re wealthy, well-organised and they run illicit transportation and smuggling networks that enable global crime to function.’

  ‘Sort of like FedEx for bad guys?’ Ryan said.

  ‘That’s a good way of putting it,’ Amy said. ‘A transnational facilitator might be one or two well-connected individuals, or a larger body with its own transport networks and powerful political connections. The thing all facilitators have in common is the ability to put together criminal operations in different parts of the world.

  ‘They might link a drug producer in South America together with a street gang in the Philippines, or sell fake pharmaceuticals produced in India to a corrupt health official managing a disease outbreak in Africa.’

  Dr D took over from Amy. ‘The problem for law enforcement and intelligence agencies is that transnational facilitators almost always operate from poor and corrupt countries that don’t have the resources or legal system to deal with them.

  ‘They generate billions but are virtually untouchable. TFU is the first taskforce to target this top tier of organised crime.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Ryan said, as he looked at Amy. ‘So you work for TFU as well?’

  Amy nodded. ‘I lived in Australia until six months ago, but now I’m based at TFU headquarters in Dallas. We’re a small team with limited resources, but Dr D has recruited excellent people from all over the world and we’ve already had some success.’

  ‘And now we have a lead on the biggest facilitator of them all,’ Dr D said dramatically.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘The group is most commonly known as the Aramov Clan,’ Dr D explained. ‘They’re based in Kyrgyzstan, in Central Asia. The core of their operation is a fleet of seventy transport planes. They carry some legitimate cargo, but the real money is in trafficking: drugs, weapons, high-value counterfeits and illegal immigrants.’

  ‘With so many planes, why can’t you stop them?’ Ryan asked. ‘Send a few drones to Ker … Kergee … I mean Kyrg-ist-whatever-it’s-called and blow up their aircraft.’

  Dr D laughed. ‘If only. The Aramov Clan has powerful political connections. Everyone knows what they get up to, but Kyrgyzstan lies in the politically sensitive buffer zone between China and Russia.

  ‘Irena Aramov has been paying off Russian and Chinese politicians, military and bureaucrats for two decades. If America or Europe took action against the Aramov Clan in Kyrgyzstan it would cause a huge political stink with the Russians and Chinese.’

  Ryan didn’t even know where to find Kyrgyzstan on a map, but he’d understood enough of what Dr D and Amy had explained to make another observation.

  ‘So the only way to bring down the Aramov network is to infiltrate and destroy from within?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dr D said brightly. ‘You know, Ryan, I feel so positive about your aura. I sense we’re going to work really well together.’

  Ryan noticed Amy and Zara exchanging an awkward glance. Dr D was clearly an oddball.

  ‘So what’s my role?’ Ryan asked.

  Amy leaned forward and turned towards Ryan before explaining. ‘Three weeks back, CIA monitoring stations in Afghanistan picked up an encrypted telephone conversation between the Aramov Clan’s main office in Kyrgyzstan and a woman named Gillian Kitsell, who lives in Santa Cruz, California. It’s unusual for criminals to communicate internationally by encrypted telephone.’

  Ryan knew why and jumped in to show that he did. ‘Because the coded signal is suspicious in itself. The conversation must either have been really urgent, or a mistake.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Amy said.

  ‘What was said?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Oh, you wish, Ryan!’ Amy laughed. ‘The Aramov Clan uses a sophisticated encryption algorithm. It’s unbreakable, unless you happen to have eight months’ exclusive access to a hundred-million
dollar supercomputer. However, the FBI have begun surveillance on Gillian Kitsell’s home and workplace. We now believe she’s actually Galenka Aramov. She’s the estranged daughter of clan head Irena.’

  Ryan mulled this over. ‘An estranged daughter may know nothing about the family business.’

  ‘Possible,’ Amy agreed. ‘But Gillian Kitsell owns and runs a Silicon Valley-based company that specialises in advanced data protection and encryption systems. So even if Kitsell knows nothing about day-to-day clan operations, she almost certainly has technical knowledge that would enable us to start decoding Aramov Clan e-mails and voice communications.’

  ‘This has to be done in baby steps,’ Dr D explained. ‘If the clan gets the slightest hint that Gillian Kitsell is under investigation, they’ll change codes and methods of operation within hours. Gillian has a twelve-year-old son named Ethan and your job is to become his new best friend.’

  ‘Does Ethan know who his mother is?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Dr D said. ‘But they live in an eight-million-dollar beach-front house and they don’t employ any domestic staff.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Rich people don’t clean their own bathrooms unless there’s something to hide.’

  ‘Amy and a TFU agent called Ted Brasker will work alongside you,’ Dr D said. ‘Ted will be your father, Amy your half-sister.’

  ‘That’s if you’re up for the mission,’ Amy said.

  ‘Of course I am,’ Ryan said happily. ‘When do we fly out?’

  3. NING

  Six weeks later, Dandong, China

  Fu Ning hated a lot of things about her life, but she liked pulling her pillow up over her head and snuggling up to the wall when her alarm went off. She imagined having a feeding tube in her arm and another tube up her bum. Then she’d stay in bed forever: never have to study, never get moaned at for slacking, never have to put up with her step-parents rowing with each other.

  But if Ning couldn’t stay cosy forever, she’d settle for a ten-minute snooze instead of the compulsory six a.m. shower.

  ‘Wakey wakey, sun is shining,’ her room-mate Daiyu screeched cheerfully as she entered.

  Daiyu was stick thin and at eleven the same age as Ning. She wore a pink Hello Kitty robe and had dripping-wet hair. Her other room-mate Xifeng was right behind, and gently threw her vinyl toiletries bag at Ning.

  ‘Do you want the old battleaxe in here, yelling and criticising our mess?’

  ‘Bog off,’ Ning said, as she pulled her covers tighter.

  ‘Can we get through one day without you causing trouble?’ Xifeng asked, before grabbing a hairbrush from the metal locker beside her narrow bed. ‘Miss Xu will make you sorry.’

  ‘Sod Miss Xu,’ Ning shouted. ‘I need sleep.’

  Xifeng and Daiyu sat on the edge of their beds, virtual mirror images as they combed damp hair and pulled on school uniform.

  ‘I memorised European capitals and population last night,’ Daiyu said, as she pulled a thick white sock up to her knee. ‘Can you test me?’

  Xifeng was a brainbox and enjoyed catching her best friend out. ‘France,’ she said.

  ‘Paris,’ Daiyu replied. ‘Population two point two million.’

  ‘Oslo?’

  ‘Oslo, Oslo,’ Daiyu said, drumming a finger against a dimple in her cheek. ‘Don’t say! I know this … Oslo: Norway, population six hundred and seventy thousand.’

  ‘No, stupid!’ Xifeng said happily. ‘Four hundred and eighty thousand. Moldova?’

  Eleven-year-olds in China have to remember thousands of facts for their middle school exams: European capitals, Chinese provinces, birthdates of revolutionary leaders, chemical compositions. A high grade gets you into an elite middle school, opening the path to a top high school and leading universities.

  Daiyu knew Moldova and smiled. ‘Capital is Chisinau, population six hundred and seventy thousand. One for you, Bosnia and Herzegovina?’

  Xifeng answered instantly. ‘So easy! Sarajevo, five hundred thousand.’ Then she leaned across and jabbed Ning in the back. ‘Ning, Miss Xu will rip into you.’

  ‘Damn that lice-ridden frump,’ Ning said, her voice muffled by duvet and pillows. ‘Why be so scared of a little old lady?’

  Xifeng was getting cross. ‘If Miss Xu comes in here she’ll be on at all of us. Get out of bed, now.’

  Ning rolled away from the wall and shielded her eyes from the first light. ‘Two more minutes,’ she groaned.

  ‘I’m not taking the blame any more,’ Daiyu said, as she stood decisively. She strode towards the doorway, leaned into a long corridor and yelled above the sound of girls running back and forth between the shower and their bedrooms. ‘Miss Xu. Fu Ning won’t get out of bed again.’

  A shocked Ning sprang from beneath her covers. A line had been crossed: they’d never gotten along, but snitching was a new low.

  ‘What did I ever do to you?’ Ning shouted.

  Ning was big for her age. She wasn’t fat, but probably weighed as much as her two waiflike room-mates combined. Daiyu was intimidated and ran to the corridor, but Xifeng stood her ground, placing her hands on her hips.

  ‘We’re tired of you,’ Xifeng shouted. ‘You play headphones too loud when we try to study. You get us into trouble when you eat in the room and make mess.’

  Ning rose up from her bed, a full head taller than Xifeng. Ning’s face was pretty, but broad shoulders and muscular arms gave her a masculine quality, of which she was self-conscious.

  Xifeng feared a punch in the mouth, but was determined to speak. ‘Mr Fang says we have collective responsibility. A class can be no stronger than its weakest member.’

  Ning groaned with frustration. ‘Don’t repeat stupid school slogans,’ she yelled. ‘You think you’re smart because you can memorise lists, but have you ever tried thinking for yourself? Who cares about clogging your head with facts, just so you can get into another school where you’ll have to work even harder? Class pride, school pride, national pride. It’s all a big bucket of crap.’

  Xifeng couldn’t have looked more shocked if you’d chopped her nose off. ‘Society works when people conform to rules. Without rules there is anarchy.’

  Ning laughed as she got right in Xifeng’s face, punched a revolutionary fist in the air and screamed, ‘Go anarchy, baby!’

  Xifeng was trembling. ‘I think you’re mentally defective. You bring shame on our class and our school.’

  ‘I fart on our school,’ Ning said.

  ‘Fu Ning,’ a crackly voice shrieked. ‘Causing trouble again, no surprise!’

  Miss Xu was old, but robust enough to keep up with the girls who lodged in her cramming school. She grabbed the back of Ning’s nightshirt and pulled so hard that a button popped from around the neck. Towel-wrapped girls hopped out of the way as she yanked Ning down a puddled corridor to her office.

  The tiny space was also Miss Xu’s home. It had an old lady smell. There was an elevated metal bed frame, with space beneath for a desk. She shoved Ning back against the window and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

  ‘Disgrace, disgrace!’ Miss Xu roared. ‘Why not shower like every other girl?’

  Ning didn’t answer, she just stared at her bare feet.

  ‘You have gifts and opportunities. You were adopted by an excellent family, but act like the lowest ragamuffin. You got accepted into national school because of your strength, but you’re kicked out for the worst behaviour. Fu Ning, look at me when I speak to you.’

  Miss Xu put her hand under Ning’s chin and forced her head upwards.

  ‘Tell me why your father pays for you to live in these rooms?’

  ‘Study,’ Ning said reluctantly.

  ‘If you don’t get into a good middle school, you’re throwing your life away at eleven years old. Do you crave failure, Fu Ning?’

  ‘You don’t need school for anything I want to do,’ Ning said defiantly.

  Miss Xu drew a sharp breath. ‘Really? And what is this job requiring
no status or qualification?’

  ‘If rock star doesn’t work out, I’ll become a terrorist,’ Ning said.

  Miss Xu raised her hand, threatening another slap. ‘Maybe I should call your father and see what he says to his little rock star?’

  Most Chinese girls would weep and beg rather than face the wrath of their father. Ning’s stepdad was stricter than most, but she wouldn’t give Miss Xu any satisfaction by showing fear.

  ‘If I’m really bad, I expect my dad will send me away to live in a rotten little room, where I’m not allowed to go out, play sport, or watch TV and all I can do is cram for my exams before and after school every day and all weekend. But wait, he already did that, didn’t he?’

  Miss Xu could take no more of Ning’s lip and swung her hand. But Ning had spent four years studying boxing at Dandong’s National Academy of Sport.

  Ning ducked swiftly beneath the hand. Miss Xu was so surprised that she overbalanced, while Ning thrust upwards, jamming two fingers hard under Miss Xu’s ribs and sending her into spasm.

  ‘Ker-pow!’ Ning shouted, as Miss Xu stumbled backwards, clutching her sides.

  The elderly woman was too stunned to react as Ning reached under the bunk and swept an arm across Miss Xu’s desk. A pen pot, papers, telephone and spider plant all crashed to the floor. Ning opened the office door, making the girls who’d been nosing outside spring backwards.

  ‘Mean old cow,’ Ning shouted. ‘No wonder nobody ever married you.’

  Back in her room, Ning found Daiyu cowering on her bed with her knees tucked into her chest. ‘Are you mad?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘None of this would have happened if you’d left me alone in bed,’ Ning said. ‘But don’t worry, I doubt you’ll have to put up with me any more.’

  Ning pulled her nightshirt over her head and dressed quickly in a T-shirt with the logo of her favourite Korean rock band, ripped black jeans, scuffed black snow boots and a leather jacket. Xifeng stood watching in the doorway.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Ning shrugged. ‘Anywhere but here.’