CHERUB: The General Read online

  Dana’s voice firmed up. ‘Let’s not pretend we had something we didn’t. I’m a weirdo who you only went out with because I’ve got big tits. You’re a good looking guy who knows it and can’t say no to anything in a skirt.’

  James was bitter about what had happened and part of him wanted to end things with a screaming row where they threw stuff at each other; but his ankle and back hurt, plus he didn’t have the energy.

  ‘Take whatever,’ he said, pointing casually towards the bathroom. ‘Most of your stuff’s in there.’

  Lauren could see James was stressed and while Dana picked up her junk in the bathroom – plus a few bits of clothing and the copy of Lord of the Rings James had never got around to finishing – she stood beside James with a hand resting loyally on his towelling-covered shoulder.

  ‘Have a nice life,’ James said half sarcastically, as Dana lifted her hand and headed out, holding the box which was now filled with her own stuff.

  ‘You too,’ Dana said, closing the door behind her.

  ‘It’s just a shame it all had to happen right before Christmas,’ Lauren said.

  ‘My arse it is,’ James smiled. ‘First thing tomorrow I’m off to the shops and I’m getting a thirty-six ninety-nine refund on her Christmas present.’

  17. PRESENTS

  It was Christmas day, 6.58 in the morning and Meryl Spencer stood outside the assembly hall in the main building being crushed to death by hysterical red shirts.

  ‘Everybody stand back,’ Meryl roared. ‘If there’s any more pushing and shoving you can all go back to bed until eight o’clock.’

  Several kids groaned, but you could see that all the red shirts knew it was an idle threat. Most of them had got up in a hurry and had made the frosty journey from their rooms in the junior block dressed in odd combinations of carpet slippers and pyjamas, covered with outdoor jackets and the occasional woolly hat.

  Despite not taking the time to get dressed, most red shirts had been up for an hour or more and one pair were even caught trying to break through the fire doors outside the assembly hall at 4 a.m.

  ‘They make me feel old,’ Kyle smiled. ‘Ten years ago I would have been down there waiting for my prezzies too. Every minute seemed to last an hour.’

  James stood next to him, along with a bunch of other teens who probably could have settled for a couple of hours’ lie-in and opening their presents over a late breakfast; but they’d all got out of bed to see the little kids going crazy. Kids of ten and eleven like Kevin Sumner and Jake Parker were in between: young enough to be excited, but trying to act cool and not let it show.

  ‘BAAAACK!’ Meryl screamed, as one of the junior-block carers grabbed a near hysterical boy out of the crowd.

  ‘Don’t you dare hit her,’ the carer said, as she grabbed the boy’s wrist. ‘Now you can hold my hand and I’ll let you in last.’

  A cheer erupted as Chairwoman Zara Asker and a bunch of other staff arrived. A plastic clock on the wall above Meryl’s head ticked over to 6.59 and everyone started counting the seconds.

  ‘Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven …’

  ‘AAAAARGGGGHHH!’ a red-shirt girl called Coral shouted. ‘I can’t stand it. I’m so excited!’

  Kevin’s seven-year-old sister Megan grabbed his arm and used him as a battering ram to get to the front of the crowd.

  ‘For god’s sake, Megs,’ Kevin moaned, feeling horribly self-conscious as he was surrounded by smaller kids. ‘Does a few seconds really make that much difference?’

  ‘Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen …’

  On ten, Meryl turned around and placed a key in the large double doorway. She turned it on three and pushed the doors open on the stroke of zero. Meryl had won an Olympic sprint medal, but couldn’t ever recall moving as fast as the seventy red shirts storming the assembly hall.

  The red shirts’ gift piles were arranged in rows in the centre of the wooden floor and organised alphabetically by surname. While six- to nine-year-olds ploughed into their gifts, ignoring stockings and little parcels and going for the biggest presents at the bottom of the pile, some of the youngest red shirts who hadn’t quite mastered the alphabet were helped out by a couple of bleary-eyed carers who’d been up since four, setting out all the piles of presents.

  By the time James and co. got into the hall the centre of the room looked like a piranha feeding frenzy, with red shirts taking the place of the fish and chunks of flesh replaced by flying tufts of wrapping paper.

  Amidst the rustling and the odd jingle from an electronic toy came shouts of Oh wow I got the light sabre/racing car/Barbie or whatever and the distressed howls of one small lad who’d been accidentally kicked in the face by the eight-year-old girl attacking the pile of gifts next to him.

  James and the other qualified agents had stacks arranged on tables running along the edge of the room. Their presents were smaller than the little kids’ toys, but every kid on campus got exactly the same amount spent on them. The only differences were in the number of presents received from friends.

  As an A for Adams, James had the second pile of gifts, with Lauren’s haul next to him.

  ‘Looks like we’ve all got new laptops for our rooms,’ Lauren smiled, as James opened a tall cylindrical present from Meryl that looked uncannily like a bottle of booze, but turned out to be a fancy chrome toilet brush and packet of disinfectant cubes.

  ‘Haaaah!’ Lauren laughed. ‘It looks like she saw the state of your old toilet bowl!’

  ‘That wasn’t filth,’ James grinned. ‘That was my skid-mark hall of fame.’

  Most red shirts had now opened their main presents and had started popping the indoor fireworks in their stockings while cramming down squares of Dairy Milk. James pulled a stripy package of Paul Smith aftershave off the top of his stocking before burrowing down and pulling out an indoor firework shaped like a champagne bottle.

  Lauren was opening a pair of animal-friendly New Balance running shoes as James popped it next to her ear.

  ‘Git,’ Lauren yelled, digging James in the ribs as yellow streamers floated down on to her head. ‘You damn nigh blew up my eardrum.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ James said, as he pulled his sister into a hug. ‘Who needs a girlfriend when I’ve got a sister like you?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Lauren giggled. ‘But if you start getting frisky there’s gonna be trouble.’

  ‘James, my man!’ Bruce shouted, as he punched the air wearing a huge chrome knuckleduster with an obscenely vicious array of spikes, barbs and blades. ‘Best present ever, mate. You could kill people in so many different ways with this!’

  ‘I thought of you as soon as I saw the dodgy eBay auction,’ James smiled, as he pulled more little gifts out of his felt stocking, including fancy silk boxers and a bag of gourmet jellybeans.

  Unlike the little kids who were in it for the goodies, present opening was more of a social occasion for older kids like James. He was content to savour his presents and wandered over to see how Kerry was going.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ James said.

  ‘You too,’ Kerry replied, before giving him a hug.

  She hadn’t showered because it was early. The back of her neck smelled like fresh Kerry sweat and the tang made him insanely jealous of Bruce.

  ‘Poor Kyle,’ Kerry said, as he wandered by. ‘All grown up and no official presents!’

  James had started a trend by hugging Lauren and Kerry and everyone else was soon doing it. He even hugged people like Bethany who he didn’t like.

  James still hadn’t opened all of his loot, but he spotted Mac helping some of the younger red shirts load their haul of presents into giant bin liners so that they could carry them back to their rooms and play.

  ‘Mac,’ James smiled. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you the last couple of days.’

  ‘Really,’ Mac smiled back, crouching down and scooping pieces from a six-year-old’s K’nex set back into their box. ‘Fahim and I have been staying with my son down in
London. I came back to campus to catch up with some paperwork last night and I thought I’d stay overnight and see the chaos.’

  ‘How’s Fahim doing?’ James asked.

  ‘Good,’ Mac nodded. ‘He’s the same age as my youngest grandkids and they really seem to hit it off.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Been married a loooooong time,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s never going to be the same without her, but it’s harder on my son. He lost a mother, a wife and two children.’

  Mac’s eyes were glazing over, but the little red-shirt boy stared impatiently with hands on hips. ‘My K’nex!’ he demanded.

  ‘Sorry, mate!’ Mac smiled, as he began scooping up the last of the pieces. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to carry that whole bag back to your room in one go?’

  ‘For sure,’ the boy nodded. ‘I’ll put it on one of the electric buggies.’

  ‘So,’ James said, as the red shirt dragged his presents towards the back of the hall. ‘I wanted to ask if there were any spots left on this training exercise in America.’

  ‘Oh that,’ Mac said. ‘It does look like fun, but why are you asking me?’

  ‘Lauren said you were in charge.’

  ‘I dealt with some of the sign-ups,’ Mac nodded. ‘But only because I know most of the agents better than Mr Kazakov. He was the one who got the invitation to do red teaming.’

  ‘Red what?’ James asked.

  Mac tutted. ‘Lauren’s supposed to be going on this exercise but she either hasn’t read her briefing yet, or hasn’t bothered telling you. The Americans run war games at various centres around the world. Fort Reagan is the newest. It’s specifically designed to train soldiers in dealing with modern, open-ended urban combat situations like the wars in Iraq or Somalia.

  ‘Kazakov has donkey’s years’ experience fighting with the Russians in Afghanistan, then with training NATO special forces and advising on tactical operations in the Balkans and Baghdad. The Yanks invited him to lead the team in one of their most sophisticated war games ever and they still use cold war language. So the bad guys are always known as the reds, and running the red team is called …’

  ‘Red teaming,’ James nodded. ‘I get it. So I need to speak to Kazakov?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mac said. ‘I think you’re in luck, because he was looking for more experienced agents like you, but Zara was reluctant to release too many in case they were needed for missions.’

  James looked around the room. ‘I haven’t seen Kazakov this morning.’

  Mac burst out laughing. ‘The man has a heart of granite! Could you see our Mr Kazakov getting up early to go all gooey-eyed over the red shirts opening their presents?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ James smiled.

  ‘He got back when basic training ended last week,’ Mac said. ‘If you’re interested in the exercise, I’d suggest you pay him a visit upstairs in the staff quarters ASAP.’

  18. KAZAKOV

  James had been at CHERUB for over four years, but it was only the second time he’d ventured into the staff quarters on the fifth floor of the main building. The corridor needed a lick of paint and the carpet was tired, but the mostly young and single staff who lived here had got competitive with their Christmas decorations. The space outside each room was festooned with tinsel, flashing lights, ceiling decorations and tacky plastic snowmen.

  The exception was room eighteen at the far end of the hallway, where the walls were bare and music from Swan Lake boomed through the closed doorway.

  ‘Mr Kazakov,’ James shouted, as he banged on the door. ‘Are you in there?’

  James realised Mr Kazakov had to be in his room, unless he was in the habit of going out while leaving his CDs playing at full blast. He tried the door handle and peered into an airy space, with white walls, balcony doors and a trendy wooden floor.

  ‘Mr Kazakov,’ James shouted again, as he stepped into a lobby area. ‘Sir?’

  The staff quarters were bigger than the kids’ rooms on the floors above, with a separate bedroom and living space complete with its own compact kitchen.

  James leaned into Kazakov’s main room and saw him sprawled out over a recliner chair. A pair of expensive floor-standing loudspeakers blasted out Tchaikovsky’s most famous ballet, while Kazakov conducted the non-existent orchestra with a Berol marker pen.

  ‘Hello,’ James shouted, edging towards Kazakov before gently tapping him on the shoulder.

  Kazakov looked around, startled, before pulling up his legs, doing a spectacular head over heels roll and somehow grabbing James around the neck. Before James could react, Kazakov swept his legs away and pinned him to the floor with the tip of a Soviet army dagger poised between his eyeballs. Its handle was gnarled and the blade had worn away after two decades of regular sharpening.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ James gasped. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘I’ve killed three Afghans and stabbed a big-breasted Serbian mugger with this knife,’ Kazakov growled, as Swan Lake reached a booming climax. ‘I don’t like people sneaking up on me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ James shouted nervously. ‘I knocked, I shouted, but your music’s so bloody loud.’

  Kazakov rolled off James and tucked the knife back into a leather sheath on his belt as he stood up. The burly Ukrainian straightened his combat trousers and vest before grabbing the remote and turning off his music.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Adams,’ Kazakov laughed. ‘You should train more for speed. You have the reflexes of an old lady.’

  James grunted as he used the kitchen worktop to lever himself up. Kazakov was at least the tenth CHERUB instructor to comment on his slow reflexes, but even a special programme of speed training devised by Miss Takada hadn’t done much to help.

  ‘My brother was slow,’ Kazakov said, as he pointed towards a shelf of photographs. ‘It got him killed.’

  James looked at Kazakov in black and white. He wore Russian Army uniform and stood beside an identically dressed and similar-looking soldier. Neither could be more than twenty years old.

  ‘Helicopter got hit by the Taliban as we were taking off,’ Kazakov explained. ‘I bailed; my brother left it another half second and got burned up by the exploding fuel.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ James said awkwardly as his eyes were drawn to the next picture. It had been retouched in bright colours, as was the fashion in the old Soviet Union, and showed a slightly older Kazakov in a dress uniform with a line of medals, a stick-thin wife in a tutu and ballet shoes and a boy aged three or four in a slightly odd-looking sailor suit.

  ‘Was that your wife?’ James gasped. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’

  Kazakov furrowed his brow, before reaching up and slamming the frame face down so that James couldn’t see it.

  ‘Marriage is a difficult thing for a soldier,’ Kazakov said bitterly. ‘She remarried, my parents are dead, my brother is dead. My son is twenty-four and alive as far as I know. But I wouldn’t know where he is, or even what he looks like.’

  Kazakov simmered silently as James scrambled for something appropriate to say.

  ‘You’re a good man, James,’ Kazakov said. ‘You can come to America if you like.’

  James smiled. ‘What makes you think that’s what I was gonna ask?’

  ‘A young man is much like a cat,’ Kazakov smiled ruefully. ‘He wants food, sex and fun. The food in the canteen downstairs is better than I have here, I very much hope you didn’t come to my room looking for sex, and the only fun I have to offer is a place on my red team. So am I right?’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ James laughed.

  ‘With the blond hair and blue eyes you really do remind me of my brother,’ Kazakov said fondly. ‘Do you want to see where we’re going?’

  James actually wanted to get back to his friends, but he was stung by the accusation of selfishness and knew it would do no harm to keep on the training instructor’s good side.

  ‘Here you see the compound,’ Kazakov said, leading James towards a kit
chen worktop covered with scribbles, Post-its and random scraps of paper. The biggest was a collage of satellite photos which comprised a dozen inkjet prints stuck together with Sellotape.

  James was astonished by what he saw. He’d been impressed by the SAS training compound a few kilometres from campus, but it would have been the size of a postcard on Kazakov’s metre-long map of Fort Reagan.

  ‘A quarter million acres of Nevada desert,’ Kazakov explained grandly.

  James studied the outlines of dozens of apartment blocks, more than a thousand houses, shopping areas and town squares, and the whole shebang fringed with golden desert. Some areas were set out in broad avenues like an American suburb, while others had tight pedestrian alleyways and Middle-Eastern style homes built around courtyards, or lines of shacks to represent the accommodation in a third-world shanty town.

  In the far corner of Fort Reagan was a military barracks with dozens of tents and permanent buildings, a full-sized air strip and a vast car park filled with the green outlines of everything from Hummers up to Abrams battle tanks.

  James saw construction equipment and lots of newly planted trees. ‘It all looks brand new,’ he noted.

  Kazakov nodded. ‘Opened last year. It cost six point three billion dollars to build. It’s the second biggest military training facility in the world, designed to give American soldiers a taste of what they can expect in urban warfare.

  ‘Each exercise uses up to two thousand troops and ten thousand civilians – mostly college students and the unemployed, bussed in and paid eighty bucks a day. An exercise lasts between ten days and three weeks and costs upwards of a hundred million dollars to stage.’

  ‘And we’ll be playing the bad guys?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Kazakov smiled. ‘They’ve already run a few exercises using teams of American officers and Special Forces to play out the role of insurgents. But what they really need is people from outside of the American military who can challenge their standard battle tactics during an exercise. The British are sending some troops to train at Fort Reagan with the Americans for the first time and when the question of a red-team commander came up, they threw my name into the ring.’