‘Is that a golf course?’ James gasped, as he tapped the greenest section of the satellite map.
‘Certainly is,’ Kazakov grinned. ‘You won’t find many of those in downtown Baghdad or Mogadishu, but those generals need to get eighteen holes in once in a while.’
James sensed the cynicism in Kazakov’s voice and laughed. ‘You’re not big on the Americans, are you?’
‘Ignorant scum!’ Kazakov spluttered. ‘They trained the Taliban that killed my brother and supplied the missile that shot our chopper down. Me and the co-pilot got out. Sixteen others, including my whole unit, got fried.’
James was confused. ‘I thought the Taliban were the dudes with the beards the Americans are fighting against?’
‘In 2007, they are,’ Kazakov nodded. ‘But in the eighties the CIA trained the Taliban and supplied them with weapons to fight against the Soviet Union. Same with Saddam Hussein: America supplied all the weapons for when he invaded Iran. American technology was also used to produce Saddam’s chemical weapons which he used to gas the Kurds.’
James smiled uneasily. ‘Politicians are a lot like five-year-olds. You know: one day they’re best friends and five minutes later they’re rolling around in the sandpit biting chunks out of each other.’
‘Good analogy,’ Kazakov said. ‘I’ve got my strategy: ten CHERUB agents, thirty Special Forces officers and a hundred sympathisers amongst the civilian population. I’m planning to have those American generals on their knees, begging to surrender, within forty-eight hours.’
James was surprised at Kazakov’s vehemence. ‘It’s just a training exercise, though,’ he pointed out. ‘And the Americans are our allies.’
‘Screw that,’ Kazakov said, as he pounded on his kitchen worktop. ‘I’ll teach those pompous Yanks with their war games and their military academies a thing or two about climbing down in the gutter and fighting a proper street battle.’
James was slightly perturbed by Kazakov’s attitude. It didn’t sound much like the holiday in Vegas followed by an enjoyable training exercise that Lauren had sold him on.
‘So when do we fly out?’ James asked.
‘New Year’s Day,’ Kazakov said. ‘I’ll send all of you an itinerary later in the day.’
‘Well,’ James said, glancing at his watch as he backed up to the door. ‘I’m meeting up with the gang down in the dining-hall for some breakfast. You have a good Christmas; I expect I’ll see you downstairs for Christmas lunch.’
‘Perhaps,’ Kazakov said darkly. ‘But Christmas isn’t really my thing, and there’s still much to plan.’
19. ROYAL
James sat in the front row of a twenty-six seater coach and yawned as they pulled through the gates of the military airbase ten kilometres from campus. He’d been up until half-past two seeing in the new year and felt half dead because he’d drunk a couple of beers and had to get up early to wash and dry a bundle of dirty laundry so that he had enough clothes for a two-week trip.
The hydraulic coach door hissed open and an RAF security officer climbed aboard. ‘Travel documents please.’
Staff members Mac, Meryl and Kazakov along with agents James, Lauren, Rat, Kevin, Jake, Bruce, Andy, Kerry and Gabrielle all held out their passports. Bethany went into a panic until she found hers in an obscure pocket at the side of her backpack.
‘I’ve got export licences for weapons, explosives and drugs too,’ Mac explained, as he held out a stack of paperwork.
‘Haven’t seen you come through here in a while,’ the officer said, as he inspected each sheet before stamping them clumsily, with only a springy foam headrest to rest them on.
‘You neither,’ Mac smiled. ‘I’m semi-retired now.’
‘Ready to roll,’ the guard said, handing the papers back to Mac before stepping up and giving Instructor Pike – who wasn’t travelling on the exercise but had volunteered to drive the coach – instructions on which taxiways to use to reach their plane.
Large groups of CHERUB agents often used RAF planes, which offered an experience way more varied than the predictable rows of seats on a commercial jet. Your ride could turn out to be anything from a tiny unpressurised military transport plane to one of the clapped-out Tristar airliners used to ferry troops to bases in the Middle East.
Service was usually basic, with rock hard seats, boil in the bag army rations and no entertainment. But James was delighted to step out into crisp early afternoon sun and see that their ride bore the distinctive navy and white livery of the Royal Flight, a branch of the RAF which specialised in ferrying around royalty, heads of state and other important guests.
The VIP service extended to white-gloved RAF stewards, who lined up to say good morning as everyone stepped off the coach. RAF crew hurriedly transferred bags and Kazakov’s haul of special equipment from coach to plane as a Typhoon fighter blasted off from the main runway half a kilometre away.
‘Sweet as!’ James gasped, as he reached the top of the steps and peered inside the plane.
It was a luxury variant of an Airbus used by regular airlines, but instead of a hundred and fifty cramped seats there were two-dozen giant leather chairs which reclined into flat beds.
The centre of the plane had a lounge area with red leather chairs and Union Jack carpet that was either cheeky or revolting depending upon your taste. The rear of the plane had a private suite, complete with a mini office, toilet and shower, and a full-width double bed. Jake charged in and bagsied the bed, but was promptly hauled out by the chief steward, who told him sniffily that it was off limits to anyone who didn’t answer to Your Royal Highness or Mr President.
‘Plane looks brand new,’ James noted, as his leather armchair creaked. He was immediately handed a platter of freshly sliced fruit, a hot Union Jack towel and a newspaper that looked like it had been ironed.
‘It is new,’ a stewardess nodded. ‘The aircraft isn’t officially commissioned until the Prince of Wales goes on a tour Down Under later in the month, but we’re doing a few shakedown flights to make sure everything’s working properly.’
‘So we’re getting the full royal treatment?’ James smiled, as he pressed a button to electrically recline his seat.
‘Upright until after takeoff,’ the stewardess warned. ‘Do take a look at the menu. We’ll be serving a light lunch as soon as we’re in level flight.’
Jake tugged at the head steward’s lapel. ‘I demand Beluga caviar and the finest wines available to man!’ he shouted, before clapping his hands and shouting, ‘Chop chop.’
The stewards didn’t look impressed, but James thought it was pretty funny. He looked across the aisle to where Meryl Spencer was sitting and was surprised to see that the plane was already taxiing towards the runway.
‘Beats three hours in the Heathrow departure lounge,’ Meryl said.
*
The flight to Las Vegas would take nine and a half hours. Three hours in, James and the other agents had gravitated to the communal area in the centre of the plane. Meryl was expertly dealing cards and teaching everyone to play blackjack.
‘How come you’re so good at this?’ Lauren asked, as Meryl flicked cards across a polished conference table.
‘Celebrity casino host, Las Vegas, 1998 to er … about three months later in 1998.’
‘What’s a casino host when he’s out shopping?’ Rat asked.
‘All the big casinos compete to lure wealthy players,’ Meryl explained. ‘After I retired from athletics I got offered half a million dollars to spend six months working at one of the big Vegas casinos. You do a bit of wining and dining with the big gamblers, occasionally deal a few hands at the tables, compere casino events, plus photo opportunities with Mr and Mrs Nobody from Arkansas. But most of all, you’re expected to spend a lot of hours walking the casino floors in fishnets and a stupid little dress that was never meant for a fourteen-stone six-foot-two-inch Kenyan sprinter.’
‘Half a million for six months,’ James whistled. ‘I’d wear fishnets for that.’
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‘I thought you wore them anyway,’ Rat grinned.
‘Couldn’t hack the job,’ Meryl explained. ‘Dumbest decision I ever made. Luckily I was so hopeless they paid off my contract just before I quit.’
The kids all laughed as Meryl started a new hand, dealing each player two cards.
‘Hit me,’ Jake said.
Lauren groaned. ‘Jake, the dealer’s showing a six, you have seventeen. You’ll go over twenty-one and bust out.’
‘Hit,’ Jake repeated firmly.
Meryl dealt Jake a four, giving him twenty-one and making it impossible for the dealer to beat him.
‘Blackjack,’ Jake grinned, before poking his tongue out at Lauren. ‘Told you.’
‘But it was still the wrong decision,’ Rat explained. ‘The probability was that you’d get dealt a card higher than a four and then you’d bust.’
‘You’re saying that because Lauren’s your girlfriend,’ Jake sneered.
‘I’m saying it because it’s based upon probability,’ Rat said patiently. ‘You might get lucky once in a while but over the longer term the dealer will kick your butt and you’ll lose all your money.’
‘If you’re so smart, how come I’ve got more pennies than you?’ Jake shouted.
Andy laughed. ‘Because you’re a jammy little git.’
Mac was trying to rest in one of the armchairs closest to the communal area and he sat up sharply. ‘Hey,’ he yelled. ‘Andy, watch your language. The rest of you, do us a favour and keep the noise down.’
‘Sorry Mac,’ Meryl said.
She dealt everyone the cards until they busted or stuck, then revealed her own second card, and drew an extra one.
‘Dealer stands on nineteen,’ Meryl smiled, as she scooped up pennies from everyone except Jake and Bethany before explaining more about the game as she dealt the next round of cards.
‘The interesting thing about blackjack is that the casino’s edge is very small. If you know how to learn the basic strategy you have a much better chance of winning than in almost any other casino game. Pro players use a technique called card counting, which actually skews the odds in favour of the player.’
‘Teach us that then,’ Andy said eagerly.
Mac had given up on trying to rest and sat up. ‘You can practise all you like, but you can’t gamble in Vegas until you’re twenty-one,’ he noted.
‘Even if you could, you can’t just walk into a casino off the street and start card counting,’ Meryl smiled. ‘The principle is quite simple, but you need a good head for maths to master it. Each card two through five that the dealer dishes out scores one; ten through ace scores minus one. The higher the count gets, the more the odds of winning swing away from the casino dealer and into the gambler’s favour.’
‘That doesn’t sound too hard,’ Andy said. ‘You’re supposed to be a maths whiz, James.’
James was intrigued. ‘So all I have to do is try keeping count of the cards dealt out? And there are only fifty-two cards in a deck.’
Meryl smiled. ‘That’d be nice, James, but to make counting difficult the casinos use up to eight decks on each table and a pro blackjack dealer moves a lot faster than I do. If anyone starts winning heavily, they’ll shuffle the cards or replace the decks, meaning you’ll have to start your count again from scratch.
‘Also, if the casino bosses think you’re counting they’ll strip-search you, photograph you and dump your arse on the sidewalk. Then they’ll circulate your photo to every other casino in town and you won’t get near a table unless you put on a disguise or something.’
‘So you’ve got to count all the cards in your head and not show any sign that you’re doing it,’ Lauren smiled. ‘Can your big brain handle that, James?’
‘You never know until you’ve tried,’ James answered. ‘I’d have to learn more about exactly how it all works though. Mac, is the Internet working on your laptop?’
‘For a small fee,’ Mac grinned.
‘I’ll let you swap seats,’ James teased. ‘I’m up front of the plane away from all this racket and you get to look up that posh stewardess’ uniform when she bends over in the galley.’
Mac laughed, but Kerry flicked James’ ear and called him a sexist pig.
‘Sounds like a deal,’ Mac said, as he climbed out of his seat. ‘Just promise not to try accessing my secure e-mails. MI5’s technical department set it up so that it destroys the entire hard drive if you enter the wrong password three times.’
The kids all laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ Mac said, half-jokingly. ‘I’ve already wiped the damned thing twice. You have to send the whole caboodle back to MI5 in London to have the software reinstalled, and the second time I did it some twenty-something boffin had the cheek to write a report to the Intelligence Minister suggesting that I might be a security risk because of my age.’
‘Well, you are getting on a bit,’ Jake pointed out tactlessly.
‘Maybe I am, Jake,’ Mac said, smiling and wagging his finger, ‘but I still have high enough security clearance to hack the report of your next fitness exam, so watch your cheek unless you fancy one of Mr Kazakov’s four-week intensive fitness programmes.’
‘Oh please, Mac,’ Lauren begged. ‘Make Jake suffer and you’ll be my bestest friend for ever!’
‘Get stuffed,’ Jake said. ‘And sorry Mac, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Everyone laughed at Jake’s nervous apology.
‘He’s crapping it now,’ Rat said.
James looked at Meryl. ‘OK, dealer,’ he said. ‘I’m cashing out my pennies to go and learn how to cheat Vegas.’
‘Keep playing,’ Jake moaned. ‘What’s the point quitting? It’s not like any of us can even play for money in a real casino.’
‘This game’s getting old,’ James shrugged. ‘And I’m curious about the maths behind this card-counting thing. For all I know I might have a lucrative future as a casino shark.’
‘You like your maths, don’t you James?’ Lauren smirked, before putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Cough, splutter, major geek, cough!’
Mac headed down the aisle as James settled on to his warm leather armchair and opened up a tiny Dell laptop.
‘OK,’ Meryl said, as she prepared to deal out another round of cards. ‘Gamblers place your bets. Maximum five pennies per hand.’
20. STRIP
The time shift meant they reached Vegas at two in the afternoon. Landing in a large plane with a royal crest and the Union Jack flag on the side got the bevy of limo drivers and casino hosts who hang around McCarren Airport’s private jet terminal seriously excited.
Mer yl put her arm around Mac’s waist as they stepped through US immigration and into the main terminal.
‘Everyone act like you’re stinking rich,’ Meryl smiled. ‘You’ll be amazed where the slightest sniff of money can get you in this town.’
Meryl stopped walking and deliberately looked a little baffled. Within half a second she was approached by a beefy man with a dark tan who looked like he was dressed for golf.
‘Happy New Year and welcome to Las Vegas,’ he beamed, with a chemically bleached smile.
‘We haven’t booked accommodation,’ Meryl explained, ‘but I’m told Caesar’s Palace is nice.’
‘Caesar’s has a great tradition, but I’m Julio Sweet, VIP host at the Reef Casino Resort. I can offer you a limousine to take you right there and a top-floor suite with compliments of the management.’
Meryl smiled graciously and tried to sound surprised. ‘Complimentary?’ she said. ‘Oh that’s very decent of you, but I have all ten of my adopted children and our Russian bodyguard.’
‘We have more than five thousand rooms,’ the bleached smile beamed. ‘I’m sure we’ll fit you in.’
Offering free hotel rooms to people who turned up on flash private jets was a calculated risk for the Reef casino: the costs of a few nights’ accommodation, free limo rides and free food were insignificant compared to the hundreds o
f thousands – or even millions – of dollars that a wealthy person might lose at the hotel’s casino during their stay.
A female host from another casino circled enviously and pounced the instant Julio pulled out his phone to call for a limo.
‘Can I offer you my card?’ she asked. ‘Just call my number any time, day or night, at Casino Taipei and we’ll compliment you a full dining package at any of our restaurants, treatments at the most luxurious spa in Las Vegas and of course any other special services we can arrange for you or the children.’
James whispered in Rat’s ear, ‘Do you reckon they’d set us up with hookers?’
Rat laughed, so Lauren thumped him. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she hissed. ‘James is randy enough without you encouraging him.’
The man from the Reef was scowling at his rival host, while frantically tapping instructions into his PDA and trying to herd Meryl and the rest of the party towards an exit.
‘We’ll have two limousines here for your party within five minutes and a minivan to collect your luggage.’
‘Oh, you’re so kind,’ Meryl smiled, keeping up the pretence that it was all a big surprise.
‘That’s a very beautiful aeroplane you came in on,’ the host said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, does it belong to the British royal family?’
‘Her Majesty is a distant cousin,’ Mac lied, making his Scottish accent sound as posh as possible while struggling to keep a straight face. ‘She regularly uses our skiing lodge in the Swiss Alps, and when we decided to make a last-minute trip she kindly let us use the Royal Flight.’
‘Faaaaantastic,’ Julio Sweet beamed. ‘You’re so lucky to know the Queen. We have billionaires and film stars coming through this terminal to play in Las Vegas, but I don’t believe we’ve ever had royal guests before.’