Brigands M. C. (13 page)

‘What I
must
stress is that no CHERUB agent is ever forced to do anything against their will. You can quit a training exercise, quit a mission or even leave campus and decide to lead a normal life if that’s what you choose.’

Lauren was reassured by this. Dante was delighted that he’d be able to live alongside Holly again, and although it would be nine years into the future he liked the idea that one day she’d have the opportunity to become a highly trained spy too.

‘So you both want to take the next step and go for the ability tests and medical?’ Zara asked.

‘I guess,’ Lauren said.

Dante’s mouth was crammed with food, but he nodded eagerly.

*

After giving the new recruits half an hour for their food to settle Zara took them to the campus medical centre where they stripped down to their underwear. A grey-haired German doctor named Kessler gave them a full body x-ray, a dental x-ray and then took blood samples.

Doctor Kessler assured them that the muscle biopsy wouldn’t hurt that much and called them both whiners as a spring-loaded tube punched through their skin and sucked out a tiny lump of their thigh muscles.

‘The tissue will be examined under a microscope,’ Kessler explained. ‘Your training will be tailored to your body composition. We’ll know what your bodies are capable of. So we won’t push you too hard, but also we’ll know if you’re slacking off.’

Kessler led them into a space equipped with a pair of treadmills and a variety of high-tech gadgets designed to test vision, reflexes and co-ordination.

Dante and Lauren began an unofficial competition. They were evenly matched: Dante the stronger, while Lauren better at technical tasks such as being asked to balance on one leg while holding a glass brimming with water and to shoot as many mini footballs as possible through a basketball hoop in one minute.

The final test was the most gruelling: thirty minutes on a treadmill while strapped to a heart monitor and with oxygen masks over their faces. The machine was programmed to alter speed and climb depending upon their level of exhaustion. Kessler told them to push through the pain barrier and only to press the emergency stop button if they thought they were going to pass out.

Lauren felt huge relief when the treadmill motor ground to a halt. She clutched her sides, fighting a stitch, with sweat pouring down her face and dark patches on her orange shirt. Dante looked far worse and staggered towards the wall before retching turkey and bacon into a bucket hastily provided by a nurse.

They got twenty minutes to recover while a dentist prodded and scraped. Lauren’s teeth were perfect but Dante would have to come back for a filling and the possible extraction of a crooked rear tooth.

After the dentist they were led out to a waiting room, where Zara had been resting her swollen ankles on a coffee table the whole time.

‘Two more or less perfect specimens,’ Dr Kessler said when he emerged twenty minutes later. ‘Dante might benefit from contact lenses for reading. Lauren is slightly overweight and her fitness level is poor, but we have ten months to work on that before her basic training starts.’

Zara found an empty classroom in the main building for the academic test. The ninety-minute paper covered maths, general knowledge, spelling, IQ puzzles and a final section that asked you to write a short essay on what you thought would be your main strengths and weaknesses as a CHERUB agent. The questions were tough, and the fact that they were both stressed and exhausted after the physical tests didn’t make things easier.

Zara left Dante and Lauren in the dining-room while she marked the papers. It was just after three and the red-shirt cherubs, who were all aged ten or under, had finished lessons for the day. Some had after-school activities, but about thirty were hanging around in the dining-room eating buttered toast and chocolate bars.

Dante felt out of place because all the red-shirt kids seemed to know each other. They were chatting and teasing one another, and leaning over each other’s shoulders, borrowing rubbers and copying from homework sheets. None of them could speak to Dante or Lauren because they wore orange T-shirts, and the idea of settling into another new home and trying to make friends with another new bunch of kids filled Dante with dread.

‘How do you think you did on the test?’ Lauren asked quietly, as she stared down at the table.

‘Not bad,’ Dante shrugged. ‘That stupid essay … I hate it when you have to say what’s good and bad about yourself.’

‘I know,’ Lauren nodded, but before she finished speaking a mound of balled-up toast crusts whizzed in front of her eyes. They hit the table spinning and ricocheted upwards, breaking up and pelting Dante.

A group of six- to eight-year-olds a few tables across started laughing, and Dante and Lauren could tell who was responsible from his body language. It was Jake Parker, the kid they’d seen waiting outside the chairman’s office earlier in the day.

Dante shot out of his seat and roared, ‘Hey, midget, you want me to come over there and stick your head through the wall?’

Jake swaggered between the tables towards Dante. ‘You might be bigger than me,’ Jake grinned. ‘But I’m a black belt in Judo and Karate, so I’d
suggest
you watch your mouth.’

One of Jake’s friends came up behind and tugged him back towards the table. ‘Jake, you’re talking to orange. You’ll get punishment laps!’

Jake realised that his friend was right and started backing up.

‘Pussy,’ Dante taunted, and he gave Jake the finger.

This was more than Jake could handle. He reared forward, swung at the hips and launched an explosive kick. Tables and chairs ground against the floor as Dante dodged out of the way, but Jake kept coming, dropping into a fighting stance with his hand ready to launch an explosive Karate chop. Dante was a full head taller, but Jake’s moves were lightning fast and Dante suspected he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

But before Jake made contact an older girl with dark hair grabbed him around the waist. She hitched him up by the elasticised waistband of his tracksuit bottoms and threw him across a table top.

Dante sensed the opportunity and threw a punch as Jake straddled the table. But he only hit air because Lauren was dragging him the other way.

‘No trouble,’ Lauren said anxiously as she hauled Dante back to their table. ‘Come on. Sit down.’

As a wall of red T-shirts formed between Dante and Jake, one of the chefs yelled from behind the counter: ‘You lot, pack it in!’

Jake yelped as the girl who’d thrown him over the table called him a moron and deadened his arm with a brutal punch.

As suddenly as the fracas started, everyone hurried back to their seats because Zara had entered the dining-room. Something had happened, but all she saw were twenty young faces with
what, me?
expressions.

Jake groaned as the older girl threw him back towards where he’d been sitting.

‘Bethany,’ Zara said firmly. ‘What have I told you about fighting with your brother?’

‘It’s nothing,’ the girl said. ‘We were just messing around, weren’t we?’

Jake clutched his arm and scowled, but he confirmed his sister’s story with a nod.

As Dante sat down he noticed that Zara was holding a pair of red CHERUB T-shirts sealed in polythene bags.

‘Since you’ve got so much energy, Bethany,’ Zara said, ‘I’d like you to take our two new recruits Lauren and Dante across to the junior block. Find them some beds and help them to settle in. They’ll need clothes, towels and I expect they’ll want a shower after all they’ve been through today.’

As Zara handed over the red T-shirts, Bethany reached across and tapped Lauren on the shoulder.

‘Welcome to CHERUB,’ Bethany said. ‘There’s an empty bed in my room if you’d like to bunk in with me.’

In the background, a couple of boys came across to say hello. Dante and Lauren said a quick goodbye to Zara before Bethany led them out into the hallway.

‘All us red shirts live in the junior block,’ Bethany explained as they walked. ‘It’s pretty cool. We’ve got our own classrooms, and a big home-cinema room where we watch movies and if you like animals there’s a pet lounge with guinea pigs and mice, frogs and stuff.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened with your brother,’ Dante said. ‘It was only bread. I should have ignored it.’

‘It’s best not to get into too many fights until you’ve got a few months’ combat training under your belt,’ Bethany warned. ‘But you don’t have to apologise to me. Jake’s a
total
dickhead.’

May 2008

Sealclubber was the wrong side of forty, with a white beard, a gallery of tattoos and a taste for huge silver rings. The head of the London Brigands looked out of place in the basement of a Starbucks near King’s Cross station.

‘Coffee here costs more than a pint,’ Sealclubber complained, glancing at the elderly Seiko on his wrist as a twenty-year-old Asian man sat down opposite. ‘Twenty minutes I’ve sat here. This better be worth it.’

Dressed in trainers and a muscle tee, the Asian plopped a raspberry mocha Frappuccino on the table top and dropped a backpack to the floor between his legs.

‘Northern line sucks,’ he shrugged. ‘Hopefully I was worth the wait.’

The surrounding tables were covered with crumbs and empty mugs, but the lunchtime rush was over and the nearest person was a suit and tie using his laptop in a booth five metres away.

Sealclubber took a square note that the Asian man fed across the table and read it to himself:
70 AK47 assault rifles, 12 cases of 24x Swiss Army issue grenades, 40 generic .357 revolvers, 20 H&K machine pistols, 18,000 rounds M43 type ammunition, 5000 rounds .357 ammunition. Price £632,000 for delivery to specified UK location
.

‘You starting World War Three?’ Sealclubber asked quietly, as he leaned further across the table. ‘Because this is a lot of shit, you know? My compadres down in Devon, their business is mostly villains: drug dealers and nightclub bouncers who like a piece of metal by their sides.
Ten
guns is a big order for them.’

The Asian man looked disappointed. ‘Can you supply this or not? I can have the ten per cent deposit delivered to your clubhouse as soon as you need it.’

Sealclubber was torn: he wanted to say yes on the spot and grab the commission, but he had no idea who the Asian man was and in the criminal world the more money someone has the worse an idea it is to mess them about.

‘I’ve got to talk with my people,’ Sealclubber said. ‘You don’t need to worry. Don’t start looking for alternative suppliers or anything like that, but I’m a businessman and I’m not gonna make you promises I can’t keep.’

‘We’re offering you a lot of money,’ the Asian man said. ‘You can buy these guns in the USA a tenth of this price.’

Sealclubber flexed his fingers and his silver rings dazzled the Asian as he smiled. ‘You can buy most of this shit in any gun shop in the USA,’ he laughed. ‘Go to some African shithole and you can pick AK47s off street vendors for less than I paid for my coffee. But in case you haven’t noticed, this little island has the tightest gun controls in the world and you can’t smuggle a hundred guns and twenty-three thousand rounds of ammunition on a P&O ferry under your jumper.’

The Asian paused, as if he was wavering over the deal. The day was a scorcher and he downed a third of his Frappuccino in three long sucks on the straw. ‘I respect the fact that you don’t want to make rash promises. When can you let us know?’

‘This business is all face to face,’ Sealclubber explained. ‘It’s too risky picking up a cellphone and talking about this. But I’ll set up a meeting and get back to you. You’ll know within three days, five at the outside.’

‘OK,’ the Asian said, as he stood up to leave.

‘Just one thing,’ Sealclubber said. ‘This better not be for some terrorist shit.’

‘It’s Birmingham street shit,’ the Asian laughed. ‘A lot of money in my community. A lot of drugs and protection rackets. There’s a war in the offing and when it starts I’m gonna be right there selling guns and ammo to whichever son of a bitch wants to buy them.’

‘You sound like my kind of guy,’ Sealclubber grinned. ‘Sell the guns to all them Pakis, then sit back and let the bullets fly.’

The Asian looked narked.

‘No offence,’ Sealclubber said awkwardly. ‘It’s what we call brown people in my neck of the woods.’

‘None taken,’ the Asian lied. ‘Call me what you like, just get me the guns.’

Sealclubber wished he either had a calculator or had paid enough attention in school maths class to work out what his fifteen per cent cut of £632,000 would be, but he was sure it was a lot of money.

The Asian sucked his Frappuccino dry and dumped it in a bin as he walked back out into the bright sunlight. He lucked out and dived into a black cab waiting at the lights.

‘Hornsey Road swimming pool,’ he told the driver.

There was a bit of traffic and the ride in the unairconditioned taxi lasted twenty sticky minutes.

‘Could do with a dip myself on a hot day like this,’ the cabbie said, as he pulled up outside the pool and wrote a receipt. But once the cab was out of sight the Asian crossed the street and walked into Hornsey police station, directly opposite.