The General

  ‘How’d you slip away from the demo so easily?’ James asked. ‘One minute you were walking along beside the inspector, next you’d vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘I looked for you,’ Bradford said. ‘I knew I’d need you out here tonight and I didn’t want you getting nicked.’

  James nodded. ‘That crowd surged out of nowhere. It was a bloody good rumble.’

  ‘Last hurrah for the old SAG,’ Bradford smiled, sounding like he was making a toast. ‘If this meeting comes off, it’s a whole new ball game. I fancy doing a Guy Fawkes …’

  ‘Yeah,’ James laughed. ‘Shame security round the Houses of Parliament is stiffer these days.’

  ‘But the explosives are a lot more powerful,’ Bradford said, before breaking into a laugh and thumping euphorically on the dashboard. ‘Imagine all those fat crooks running down Westminster with the arses burned out of their three-grand suits!’

  James half smiled and looked out of the window at a woman fighting her umbrella in the wind.

  SAG was supposed to be an anarchist group which opposed all forms of organised government and authority, so it was ironic that its notoriety came about through a single charismatic figure.

  Serious anarchists dismissed Bradford as a cartoon character and called SAG his fan club. Bradford dismissed serious anarchists as a bunch of no-hopers who sat around drinking Fairtrade coffee and talking about things rather than doing them.

  James had to study anarchist theory while preparing for his mission and quickly reached the conclusion that it was completely dumb: nobody likes being told what to do, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that there’d be chaos if everyone could do whatever the hell they liked.

  He’d taken six weeks to win Bradford’s trust and now agreed with the serious anarchists on one point: SAG’s existence had little to do with politics and a lot to do with Chris Bradford deciding it would be more interesting to spend his life starting riots and blowing stuff up than to finish his Business and Economics degree and get a job with his dad’s accounting firm.

  They took fifteen minutes driving from central London to a posh hotel called The Retreat. It was the kind of place where wealthy couples spent the weekend, with the wives on beauty treatments and the husbands on the golf course.

  ‘Soft tarts,’ Bradford snarled, as they drove past rows of parked Jaguars and Mercedes. ‘I’d love to send some of the SAG boys in here with cans of paint stripper.’

  ‘I could go for that,’ James smiled, but the juvenile remark reminded him that Bradford was getting out of his depth.

  They drew stares from women whose earrings were worth more than the antique VW, and the doorman wouldn’t have looked at their combats and scruffy boots any more suspiciously if they’d stepped off a flying saucer.

  ‘Are you going inside, sir?’ the doorman asked.

  ‘I assume there’s no dress code for the lobby,’ Bradford replied, practically snatching the handle out of the doorman’s hand.

  Reception had a black and white marble floor, dried flowers and a water feature. James’ green hair was attracting eyeballs and he pulled his hood up over his head as they headed for the lift.

  ‘Could you two be any more bloody conspicuous if you’d tried?’ a man with an Irish accent asked as he rested a hand on Bradford’s back. James clocked the muscular man and saw that he was too young to be Rich Davis.

  ‘Where are your phones?’ he asked.

  ‘Ditched them,’ Bradford said. ‘Just like you asked.’

  ‘And nobody tailed you here?’

  Bradford shook his head. ‘Buses and taxis. The VW’s registered to a dealer.’

  ‘OK,’ the man said.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Bradford said uneasily, as the lift doors opened gently.

  ‘I didn’t tell you my feckin’ name, Mr Bradford, because you don’t need to know it. The only name you need to know is Rich Kline. And I warn you now that he’s pissed off with you.’

  The Irishman pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  ‘He told me room 603,’ Bradford said.

  ‘He’s a cautious man,’ the Irishman replied.

  James studied him as the lift rose. He was clearly a bodyguard. His accent came from the wrong side of Belfast and he had gnarled skin; but his suit was nicely cut and the Omega watch looked real.

  When they stepped out on the fifth the bodyguard walked four paces before taking out a flip phone and dialling. ‘Did you see anyone else come in with them?’

  James couldn’t hear the other half of the conversation, but it seemed Rich had at least one additional set of eyes down in reception. When the first call ended, the bodyguard immediately dialled another number.

  ‘Rich,’ the bodyguard said. ‘I’ve got Bradford here … Right … Right. I’ll tell them.’ After a moment he flipped the phone shut, pulled a plastic key card from his trouser pocket and turned towards Bradford. ‘The boss is eating dinner. He’ll see you up in his room in about forty-five minutes.’

  Bradford bristled. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  The bodyguard raised one sinister eyebrow and aimed his hand towards the lift. ‘Go to the room and wait, or leave. Rich is a serious man and after today’s fiasco you’re lucky he’s willing to see you at all.’

  James understood, but Bradford was irked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? The meeting was all set for seven.’

  The bodyguard took a step closer to Bradford, cracked his knuckles and eyeballed him. ‘Mr Bradford, you’re public enemy number one after today’s shenanigans. You’ve turned up here in a car that sticks out a mile and a schoolboy with a bright green bog-brush for a hairstyle. So Mr Kline wants you to sit in a room and wait it out in case some geriatric busybody saw you on the six o’clock news and decides to give the fuzz a tinkle. Got it?’

  Bradford had a temper and James knew he had to calm him down.

  ‘There’s no law against sitting in a hotel room, boss,’ James said calmly, as he took the entry card from the Irishman. ‘We’ll wait, no worries.’

  ‘OK,’ the bodyguard said. ‘Order up some room service on us if you like. I’ll give you a call when Rich’s ready.’

  James led the way down the corridor towards the room while the Irishman took the fire stairs up to the next floor.

  ‘This is bull,’ Bradford said quietly. ‘It’s either a set-up or a pissing contest so that this Rich can show us who’s boss. Either way, I don’t bloody like it.’

  *

  Dennis King dropped the five boys and two girls near a housing estate on the outskirts of a Midlands town, leaving them a three-kilometre walk to the air traffic control centre. When they got close the boys vaulted a gate and squelched across farmland, while Bethany and Lauren kept to the roadside, heading for the main gate.

  The ATCC was a typically bland government building, three storeys high, made of concrete with plastic framed windows. It could have been a newly built school or hospital but for the satellite dishes on the flat roof and a hundred-metre-tall pylon with three rotating radar sensors and a dome at the top, like a golf ball atop a giant tee.

  Headlights streaked by as the girls walked along a strip of gravel sandwiched between a heavy-duty perimeter fence and a gloomy A-road. The drizzle was cold and they had no way to shield the spray blown up by the back wheels of larger vehicles. When they reached a low tree, Lauren ducked behind it and crouched down.

  ‘So does James suspect?’ Bethany asked, branches rustling as she unzipped a backpack.

  Lauren shrugged. ‘I don’t think he knows Dana’s cheating, but the last time I phoned him he said she was acting weird.’

  ‘If you ask me, they’ve been on a downward slope for a while,’ Bethany nodded. ‘Remember that resuscitation course we all did? They were partners, but they barely spoke to each other all day.’

  ‘I’m not gonna tell him,’ Lauren said, shaking her head. ‘Not four days before Christmas.’

  Bethany gasped. ‘But if he finds out
that you knew he’ll be really angry.’

  ‘I know,’ Lauren said. ‘It’s a risk. But James is in the middle of a mission and he’s only coming back for a few days. If Dana wants to confess and ruin James’ Christmas there’s nothing I can do, but I’m not gonna be the one to do it.’

  ‘But all the boys who were on the bus know. You can ask them to keep quiet, but it’s bound to spread around.’

  ‘I know,’ Lauren sighed. ‘It’s only gonna be speculation though ‘cos I made Kevin delete the photograph.’

  As Lauren said this her phone rang. ‘Yo, Rat.’

  ‘Just telling you that we’re in position, slingshots ready and waiting for your signal,’ Rat said.

  ‘Are the three little pigs behaving themselves?’

  ‘They will if they know what’s good for ‘em,’ he answered. ‘Ronan’s sulking, Kevin’s a bit upset.’

  ‘And Jake?’

  Rat laughed. ‘Jake’s lippy and obnoxious, same as always.’

  Lauren overheard Jake saying, ‘I heard that’ in the background. ‘We’ll be at the front gate in two or three minutes,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you when we get inside.’

  ‘You know what?’ Bethany smiled. ‘I don’t mean to be nasty, but the way James takes girls for granted, getting dumped might actually do him some good.’

  ‘Can we drop this?’ Lauren asked irritably, as she pushed her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. She hated the friction between her brother and best friend. ‘Right now James’ love life is a long way down my list of priorities. Have you got the fake blood?’

  ‘Check,’ Bethany said, as she unscrewed the cap on a metal tub.

  Lauren grabbed a handful of gravel and started rubbing it into her jeans, but she realised this method would take ages so she laid out on the damp roadside and rolled in the dirt. Once her clothes were filthy she peeled off her hair band and mussed her hair.

  ‘Looks good.’ Bethany pulled out a chunky penknife and used it to make holes in Lauren’s top. ‘Hold still or I’ll stab you.’

  ‘I can claim expenses and buy new jeans and a couple of tops in the sales.’ Lauren smiled as she dug her fingers into the nicks made by the knife and turned them into a series of holes.

  ‘You got that sweatshirt in Matalan for three quid,’ Bethany sneered. ‘What are you gonna buy with that?’

  ‘Don’t be a mushroom,’ Lauren grinned. ‘I’m not gonna say it was the three-quid one, am I? I’m gonna claim at least twenty.’

  ‘Nice,’ Bethany smiled, as she looked down at her bum. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I might say I ripped my jeans on something. Remember those Diesels we looked at last time we went shopping in London?’

  8. BLOOD

  Joe Prince was at the start of a twelve-hour shift in the security booth behind the main gate of Britain’s newest air traffic control centre. He was twenty-eight with three young kids and delighted to be back in a job after he’d been laid off when a nearby dairy farm went bust two years earlier.

  It got boring watching the rows of LCD screens, and the high point of the night shift was half a dozen tech staff heading for home in identical company BMWs between 7 and 8 p.m. They were ironing out the glitches before the centre opened in the new year and Joe was jealous because he got minimum wage while they were all on sixty-grand bonuses if it opened under budget and on schedule.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ a voice squealed from a loudspeaker up near the ceiling.

  Joe knew it was the intercom on the pedestrian gate, but nobody ever arrived on foot in these parts and it was the first time he’d heard it used. Joe’s Carp Fishing magazine plummeted off his lap as he rolled his chair forward towards the control console.

  The CCTV at the brand new facility recorded clear colour images and he was appalled by the sight on his main screen. The young teenager who’d pressed the entry buzzer had ripped clothes, blood smeared over her face and she seemed to be crying.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl sobbed again. ‘Is anybody in there? Please help me.’

  The security system gave Joe a range of options, from opening the gate to let someone in, all the way up to a button that would trigger a centre-wide lockdown and security alert. But the girl’s desperation brought out Joe’s more basic instincts and he scrambled out of the booth and ran down towards the main gate.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Joe said sympathetically, as he saw Lauren sobbing through the bars. ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘I was in town,’ Lauren sniffed, as Joe put a magnetic card up to a control pad to open the gate. ‘These men pulled me into their car and .. . Oh god!’

  CHERUB agents are taught to make themselves cry by thinking about sad things, and how to lie without feeling embarrassed. Lauren was a star pupil and Joe was welling up just looking at her.

  ‘You’re safe here, sweetheart,’ Joe gasped. ‘I’ll take you inside. We’ll call the police and your parents and I’ll make a hot drink to warm you up.’

  Lauren limped through the gate as soon as it was open and wrapped her hands around Joe’s chubby waist before he could pull the handle to close it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lauren sobbed. ‘They threw me out in the dirt and . ..’

  ‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ Joe said, rubbing her back. ‘You’re safe now, that’s all that matters.’

  Lauren felt guilty as she felt her way around Joe’s belt until her fingertips touched a canister of pepper spray. The guard seemed like a really nice guy and there was every chance he’d lose his job for letting her inside.

  ‘My shoulder really hurts,’ Lauren moaned, as she carefully slid out the pepper spray before taking a quick step backwards and squeezing the trigger.

  Joe screamed then stumbled backwards, clutching his eyes as Bethany rushed through the open gate. Lauren kicked Joe hard in the kidneys, doubling him over as Bethany ran behind and pulled the penknife out of her pocket.

  ‘Move one muscle without my say-so and I’ll jam this in your back,’ Bethany said ferociously. ‘Walk back to your booth, quickly.’

  There were other guards on the base, so the girls were anxious to get inside before anyone else saw what was going on. Lauren swiped Joe’s pass to close the electronic gate as Bethany marched him back to the booth.

  ‘There’s nothing here worth stealing,’ Joe said nervously. ‘You should leave now before you get in serious trouble.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bethany ordered. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to.’

  Despite Bethany’s knife, Joe fancied his chances against two thirteen-year-old girls and lunged for his control panel as they entered the cramped booth. He kicked the wheeled chair backwards, trying to knock Bethany down before hitting the alarm. But Bethany sidestepped the chair and used a Karate technique, jabbing two fingers hard under Joe’s ribcage.

  He missed the console as his whole body jolted into spasm. Unable to save himself, Joe’s face hit the vinyl floor with a painful thud.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Bethany shouted, as she pressed the blade against the back of Joe’s neck. ‘You think we’re not serious?’

  ‘I don’t know what this is, but there’s nothing in here for you,’ Joe gasped. ‘Take my wallet. There’s about thirty quid in there.’

  ‘One more word,’ Bethany warned, feeling a twinge of conscience as she saw the family picture resting on the desktop. Joe had three daughters spread over his lap. The youngest was a baby and the oldest a gap-toothed six-year-old.

  While Bethany kept Joe in check, Lauren sat astride his thighs and wound thick insulating tape around his ankles. When this was done she told Joe to put his wrists together so that she could bind them.

  Once Lauren was finished, Bethany stood the photo of Joe’s daughters on the floor, right in front of his eyes, which still streamed from the blast of pepper spray.

  ‘Three pretty daughters,’ Bethany said, as she grabbed the walkie-talkie from Joe’s belt. ‘Do you want to see them again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe said. ‘Of course I do.’


  ‘Great,’ Bethany smiled grimly. ‘I want you to speak into your radio. Tell the security team that you’ve spotted something on the cameras out back near the grain silo.’

  ‘Make it sound good or I’ll cut off your ding-dong,’ Lauren added.

  ‘Whatever happened to sugar and spice and all things nice?’ Joe groaned.

  Bethany placed her trainer between Joe’s shoulder blades and shifted her whole weight on to the heel.

  ‘God,’ Joe said, moaning in agony.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from for a man who says the wrong thing,’ Bethany warned, as she leaned forward and held the walkie-talkie in front of Joe’s mouth. ‘Speak.’

  ‘Joe at the entry point here, guys. Sorry to disturb you but I just saw something out back by the grain silo.’

  ‘Probably a sheep,’ came the reply, as laughter rattled in the background. ‘We’re watching a DVD, Joe. And it’s bloody freezing out there.’

  Lauren was shocked by the casual reply. All radio traffic during the security test was being recorded and that line would probably be enough to cost the private security company its contract.

  ‘Lazy buggers,’ Bethany hissed, glowering at Joe as she held the handset in front of his mouth. ‘Tell them it’s a definite intruder.’

  ‘Guys, I’m not messing here,’ Joe said. ‘Someone’s moving around out there. If you don’t check it out I’m gonna have to report you.’

  ‘Whoooo, Joseph, laying down the law,’ the dude on the other end of the radio laughed. ‘OK, big man, if you want to be a hard arse. We’ll go check it out, but you can keep your mitts away from the Cup-A-Soups and Lemsips in my locker from now on.’

  ‘Well done,’ Bethany said, as she took her trainer off Joe’s back and pocketed the radio. ‘Now open wide.’

  Joe reluctantly allowed Bethany to stuff his mouth with a ball of screwed-up tape before winding the roll several times around his head, covering his eyes and mouth but leaving his nostrils free to breathe.

  Lauren pulled out her phone. ‘Rat,’ she said. ‘Security team should be coming your way. And based on what we’ve just heard, you shouldn’t have too much to worry about.’