But Kevin needed to hurry downstairs to catch up with Rat and the other lads. He briefly considered pocketing the condom to examine in his room later, but he’d never stolen anything in his life and had no intention of starting.
James’ bedroom door slammed as Kevin dropped the condom back into the box. It made him jump and his thumb caught the edge of the cardboard and sent the box tumbling off the narrow shelf. Half a dozen shiny foil packets poured into the sink, while the remainder spilled across the floor.
Two people had entered the bedroom and now stood on the other side of the wall, less than three paces away. Kevin recognised the deep tone of sixteen-year-old Michael Hendry.
‘Where’d James say your tracksuit was?’
‘Under the bed,’ James’ girlfriend Dana replied.
As they spoke, Kevin moved quietly but quickly on his knees, throwing spilled condoms back into their box. His face burned red at the prospect of being discovered, because while he could act innocent and say that he’d knocked them on the floor while washing his hands it was the kind of story that might lead to all kinds of wild rumours and mickey-taking.
‘Here we go,’ Dana said, ripping her tracksuit top from under James’ bed as Kevin scooped the last of the condoms out of the sink.
Kevin looked in the mirror when he’d finished. His cheeks were flushed and he thought he looked guilty about something.
‘Where are you going now?’ Dana asked.
‘Shoulder still aches from the dojo yesterday,’ Michael replied. ‘I might go over to the pool. Half an hour in the hot tub might ease it off.’
Dana’s voice became gentler. ‘Maybe if you took your shirt off I could kiss it better,’ she teased.
Kevin was shocked. He wanted to leave, but now felt that he’d been in the bathroom too long and had heard too much to reveal his presence.
‘You sick puppy!’ Michael said, before breaking into a deep laugh. ‘You want to make out here, in your man’s bedroom?’
‘Screw James Adams,’ Dana said. ‘You think he’s never cheated on me? He’s probably bouncing around on top of some scabies-infested anarchist as I speak.’
‘You’re harsh,’ Michael laughed. ‘I can’t help feeling bad for my Gabrielle though. She ain’t done nothing but good things for me.’
‘Yeah,’ Dana said. ‘But we’re sixteen. If we can’t have some fun at our age …’
Kevin heard a couple of grunts followed by a creak of bedsprings. His heart thumped as he crept up to the bathroom door and peeked. Michael was kicking off his trainers, while Dana sat on James’ bed peeling her black CHERUB T-shirt over her head.
‘You’re bloody sexy!’ Michael said, pulling his CHERUB shirt over his head and giving Kevin an eyeful of some nasty looking acne on his back.
As the shock wore off Kevin started to see the funny side and realised that he had a great story to tell his mates. The only trouble was, nobody would believe him. He patted the front pocket of his combat trousers and was pleased to feel the bulge of his camera phone.
Kevin cycled through the menus making absolutely sure that the flash and the little shutter noise the phone made were switched off before crouching down low and poking the phone around the edge of the door frame.
Michael and Dana now sprawled over James’ bed, snogging, topless and apparently about to go much further. Kevin nervously snapped two pictures and checked the end result on the screen. They were grainy shots, but clear enough to see who they were and what was going on.
As Kevin slid the phone back into his pocket it started to ring. He gasped as he saw Rat’s name on the display and realised Rat was calling to ask where he’d got to.
‘Is that your phone?’ Dana asked, as she pulled away from Michael.
‘Sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom. It can’t be James’, it would have gone flat by now if he’d left it on.’
Michael headed towards the bathroom as Kevin backed up desperately towards the toilet. He pressed the flush with one hand while answering his phone with the other.
‘Hey, Rat,’ Kevin said, trying to sound casual as Michael came through the doorway.
‘What the hell, kid?’ Michael boomed.
Michael’s bare torso was bulked out with huge muscles, but Kevin had made it through CHERUB basic training so it wasn’t enough to faze him. He gave Michael a with you in a second wave and carried on talking into the phone.
‘… Sorry Rat. I changed my shoes, but I had to take a crap as well. I’ll meet you down by the back entrance in two minutes.’
Kevin pocketed the phone before explaining to Michael, ‘Plumber’s across the hall fitting me a new toilet.’
‘Right,’ Michael said uneasily. He was clearly worried that Kevin had heard something he shouldn’t have.
The eleven-year-old struggled to keep a straight face. ‘So what are you doing in James’ room?’
‘Oh … Yeah … Just, changing my shirt, you know? James said I could borrow one of his.’
‘Cool,’ Kevin said.
‘You should lock the door next time,’ Michael said.
Kevin shrugged. ‘James is on his mission so I didn’t expect company.’
He wanted Michael to think he’d been on the toilet the whole time, so he went to the sink and quickly rewashed his hands.
‘Anyway, I’ve gotta get downstairs for some slingshot practice with the boys.’
Kevin breezed out of the bathroom, drying wet hands on his trousers and casually saying ‘Hey’ to Dana as he walked back to the hallway. She’d pulled her T-shirt back on but her bra strap dangled out where she’d hurriedly stuffed it under James’ duvet.
6. JONES
Mission Controller John Jones sat on a ripped sofa with his socked feet on a coffee table and his reading glasses on a chain around his neck. The TV was on and the news cut to a live shot of the Strand, strewn with broken glass and strands of do not enter tape.
‘James, they’re showing it now,’ he shouted.
James jogged through from the flat’s tiny kitchen, with a meal tray holding a plate of microwave macaroni and a can of Coke Zero. John budged up so that James could sit next to him.
‘Trashed!’ James said excitedly, before hissing as hot cheese sauce burned the roof of his mouth. ‘There must have been another wrecking spree after I legged it. There’s broken glass all the way down to Waterloo Bridge.’
John nodded. ‘They did a load of shops in Covent Garden as they ran off. Sixty arrested, couple of cops got a kicking and one burned by a petrol bomb, but it doesn’t look like anyone was badly hurt.’
‘Good,’ James said. ‘Wouldn’t have felt happy about not passing the information on to the cops if someone had got done in. So how is the BBC playing it?’
‘Hysterical, like you’d expect,’ John smiled. ‘The chief constable of the Met was in the studio a minute ago, getting a grilling about intelligence and why there weren’t more cops there from the start. I saw a quick flash of you in the holding pen by the tube station, but your hood was up so you won’t be recognised.’
‘I didn’t think it would get so big,’ James said. ‘A couple of hundred maybe, but it was easily double that.’
‘Bradford’s played the police for suckers,’ John sighed.
‘And he did everything by the book,’ James said. ‘Got permission for the march, stayed in the assembly area until the police told them to move out and vanished in a puff of smoke the second the trouble started. They’ll have a job pinning anything on him.’
‘Chris Bradford is a sharp cookie,’ John said, holding his back as he stood up to grab a bunch of folders from the lower shelf of the coffee table. ‘The last thing we want is someone like that getting his hands on a bundle of plastic explosive and a few hand guns …’
‘Maybe after this he’ll put the terrorist thing off,’ James suggested. ‘It was born out of frustration at the lack of media coverage SAG’ve been getting lately, but they’re gonna be the centre of attention again after the r
iot.’
John shook his head. ‘From now on the cops are gonna have three hundred officers on the street every time Bradford takes his dog for a walk. That’s where he’s so clever. The media are bound to force the cops into a knee-jerk reaction and they’ll do all they can to make sure there are no more riots. Meantime, Bradford’s running a completely different play.’
James had been starving, and bolting down the plastic dish of macaroni hadn’t done much to help. ‘I might have a couple of those cream doughnuts from the fridge.’
John nodded. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea. But I’ve been speaking with MI5 and first we need to go through the final plan for tonight’s meeting.’
James nodded and placed his tray on the carpet as John pulled a black and white mugshot out of the folder.
‘This is our man,’ John explained. ‘Or at least, the MI5 sound lab got a ninety-six per cent probability of a voice match on the person who phoned Chris Bradford’s mobile last night.’
‘Is he the kind of character we were expecting?’
‘More or less,’ John nodded. ‘This picture’s twenty years old. His name is Richard Davis, usually known as Rich. He’s former IRA. Convicted on three counts of terrorism and murder, but he only served twelve years before being released under the Good Friday peace agreement. Most interestingly, he’s thought to have organised the IRA’s supply of Soviet weapons during the cold war.’
James’ eyes opened wider. ‘I never knew the Soviets supplied the IRA.’
‘Oh yes,’ John nodded. ‘A lot of people think the communists only supplied left-wing groups, but they’d supply anyone who could help to undermine western governments. At times the Soviets supplied so many guns that the IRA had major problems hiding them all.
‘A few years back they found a dozen Soviet-era grenade launchers and twenty crates of AK-47 rifles buried on the site of a new housing development near Dublin. It was all useless – rusted up – but we suspect that quite a lot of Russian gear in serviceable condition is still around.’
‘Bradford doesn’t have a lot of men though,’ James said. ‘And he’s into the whole anarchist thing of riots and bombs for their own sake, so I don’t think they’re gonna set up an organised, military-style group. I reckon he’ll be looking for something spectacular instead, like an RPG launcher or plastic explosives.’
‘You could be right,’ John said warily. ‘Some of the people Davis would have negotiated with years back now run the Russian armaments industry and for all we know he’s still in touch. He might be offloading old IRA kit, but he might also have the ability to bring newly manufactured stuff out of Russia or the Ukraine.’
‘So what’s my strategy for the meeting?’ James asked.
‘Bradford knows you can fight and wants you there as a bodyguard, but do whatever you can to stay out of trouble. Bradford is new to this game. He might have a brain but he’s out of his league with these people. We’re going to let this thing play out until we can learn some more about this Davis character. Take a couple of tracking devices. If you get a chance, try planting them somewhere that will enable us to trace his movements. Once MI5 know Davis’ car registration, or his real address, they’ll be able to start proper surveillance on him.’
‘So we’re not planning to make any move on Bradford or Davis tonight?’
‘If we did, what would we have?’ John asked. ‘Two guys in a room talking. If we’re lucky we’d get them on a conspiracy charge and they’d be out in two years. We need to find out more about Davis and we don’t want to arrest anyone until we can catch them red-handed with a roomful of guns and a bunch of surveillance tapes and voice recordings to back up our story. That way we’ll be able to bang them up for a good long time.’
‘Could take months,’ James smiled. ‘And I’m not sure how long I can live with this dodgy hairstyle.’
John smiled back. ‘Well, we set up the excuse about your going home to your auntie, so at least you’ll be on campus for Christmas.’
‘What about you?’ James asked.
John looked a touch wounded. ‘My daughter spends Christmas with my ex and her new bloke, so I’ll probably head back to campus too. If we’re not working on the twenty-seventh I’ll take her out to the sales and let her spend my money.’
‘Sounds good,’ James laughed, before glancing at his watch. ‘Six-fifteen. I’d better start sorting my equipment out for this meeting.’
‘Yeah,’ John said, stifling a yawn as he put the TV into standby. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on and then I’ll give my liaison at MI5 a quick call. Davis will make you ditch your mobiles before he tells you his location, so make sure you use the boots with the tracking device inside. I’ll be driving about half a kilometre behind you.’
*
Senior Mission Controller Dennis King sat at the wheel of a shabby minibus, rattling down an A-road at sixty miles an hour. His young assistant Maureen Evans was next to him, while seven cherubs sat in the back singing along to the over the top version of Jingle Bells playing on the radio.
Rat and Lauren sat together, hamming it up, playing air guitars and stamping their feet. Andy and Bethany sang at high pitch and Ronan was in the back row, droning half-heartedly with his fat cheek pressed against the window.
Jake and Kevin were the only ones not joining in. Jake was a popular kid with loads of mates. Kevin was slightly younger and eager to impress Jake and become part of his cool group.
‘I swear this is good,’ Kevin whispered as he slid his phone out of his jacket. ‘But don’t let Lauren see.’
Jake squinted at the blurry picture on the rectangular screen. The top half of the picture showed a Harley-Davidson motorbike.
‘I know that poster,’ Jake said, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘It’s James Adams’ room. So what? I’ve seen James and Dana make out a million times.’
Kevin smirked. ‘If that’s James, he’s got one hell of a sun tan.’
Jake looked again and realised it was a black person. ‘Holy crap!’ Jake giggled. ‘So that’s why you took so long to come down for slingshot practice.’
Jake snatched Kevin’s phone and started pressing numbers. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Picture messaging,’ Jake explained. ‘I want a copy on my phone.’
‘You can’t spread that around,’ Kevin said nervously. ‘Michael Hendry will know I took it. Have you seen the size of that guy’s muscles? He’ll pluck me like a chicken!’
‘I only want it on my phone,’ Jake said reassuringly, as Jingle Bells ended and Dennis King told them not to start singing the next song because it was getting on his nerves. ‘I won’t send it to anyone else.’
Kevin wasn’t convinced, but Jake gave him a look that seemed to say Are you a cool guy or not?
‘Just be careful,’ Kevin warned, as Ronan’s head loomed between them.
‘What are you girls whispering about?’ he asked.
Ronan was hard to get on with. One day he’d be knocking on your bedroom door giving you free stuff and desperately wanting to be your best mate. The next he’d shove you down the stairs or stick your bag under the showers in the changing rooms to try getting a cheap laugh. He was as bright as any other kid on campus but the basic rules of friendship eluded him.
‘Mind your business, Ronan,’ Jake said. ‘You’re such an idiot.’
‘Sticks and stones …’ Ronan sneered. He tried acting like he wasn’t interested, before snatching Kevin’s phone as Jake passed it back.
‘Give us,’ Kevin shouted, grabbing at Ronan’s arm.
‘Ronan,’ Jake moaned, before putting on a serious voice and speaking like a newsreader. ‘In today’s headlines, a campus poll has shown that ninety-six per cent of CHERUB agents said that they’d prefer a bout of violent explosive diarrhoea to a minibus ride with Ronan “The Dickhead” Walsh.’
Kevin undid his seatbelt and jumped up. He wrapped his arms around Ronan’s waist and started driving him towards the back of the van.
‘Gimmmmmmme my
bloody phone,’ Kevin shouted.
‘Cut that out,’ Maureen shouted angrily from up front. ‘You two sit your arses down or I’ll be dishing out punishment laps.’
Ronan was stocky and gave Kevin a shove that sent him sprawling down the aisle between the seats. He took a quick glance at the picture on Kevin’s phone, before hurling it through the air towards Lauren.
‘Here, Little Miss Black Shirt,’ Ronan snorted. ‘I’ve got a great Christmas present for your brother. Maybe you can print it out and frame it for him.’
Lauren disliked Ronan and didn’t want to give him any satisfaction, but her jaw dropped as she picked Kevin’s phone off the carpet and saw what was on the screen.
7. BOOZE
‘You sure nobody followed?’ Chris Bradford asked, as James clambered into the front passenger seat of a Volkswagen Sirocco and slammed the door. The two-seat sports car was heading for its twentieth birthday, with 150,000 miles on the clock and a vague smell of mould. It was a quarter to seven, bitter cold and drizzle in the air.
‘I got two buses and a black cab hailed in the street,’ James lied. ‘Nobody’s following me.’
‘Good lad,’ Bradford nodded. ‘We’ve got some good men, but you’re the only one I’d want covering my back and at your age I can be sure you’re not an undercover cop.’
James nodded as the engine clattered. Cogs ground nastily as Bradford put the car in gear and pulled out from the kerb.
‘Who’s this box of bolts belong to?’
‘Lady friend,’ Bradford explained.
He flipped on the windscreen wipers, but only the one on the driver’s side worked. A dilapidated car like this was an open invite to get pulled by the police, but James couldn’t warn Bradford without sounding suspiciously knowledgeable.
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