CHERUB: Shadow Wave (23 page)

‘Do you think?’ Bruce said, as his eyes lit up. ‘I suppose I could bunk a day’s lessons. I mean, what’s a hundred punishment laps between friends?’

‘Exactly,’ James agreed. ‘So go shower off that stink, grab some brekky and I’ll see you downstairs by the pool cars in about half an hour.’

The Royal Suite at London’s Heathrow airport was a separate mini terminal with two aircraft gates, a customs post and a luxurious lounge where white-coated waiters served drinks at your seat. Lauren Adams and twelve-year-old Kevin Sumner had flown down from campus by helicopter and now sat in huge leather armchairs overlooking planes landing on the south runway.

Lauren wore a striped dress, lemon cardigan and white pumps that she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. Kevin wore chinos, striped Ralph Lauren shirt and had a cable knit sweater tied around his waist. The idea was for them to look like the well-heeled children of the smartly dressed man sitting alongside them.

David Secombe was balding and slightly overweight, while his chunky, diamond-encrusted watch looked like it cost more than a family car. Secombe had a reputation as a man with connections at the highest levels in British government. When defence contracts worth billions were being negotiated, Secombe was the man who could get your weapons for the right price and secure the export licences needed to get them out of the UK without awkward questions being asked.

Tan Abdullah didn’t know that this was a sham. David Secombe was really an officer of the secret intelligence service. His identity was false and his company a front for the British government. This served a dual purpose: giving customers a sense that they were getting a special deal from a well connected insider, while the British government could pass blame along to Secombe’s company when things went wrong.

If a human rights group ever started asking questions about why Britain was selling leg cuffs to South American dictators, or anti-personnel mines to African guerrillas, a vigorous government investigation would unveil an immaculately constructed chain of paperwork showing that Secombe’s company had provided false information. Secombe would vanish into thin air, the politicians would keep their jobs and the intelligence service would set up a new front company to pull the same ruse all over again.

Secombe’s standard background story was that he had three kids, and a wife who’d passed away. The dead wife was a perfect salesman’s pitch, because it won you sympathy but also meant you could hang around in seedy bars with clients and not look like a total sleazeball.

Knowledge about CHERUB is kept on a need-to-know basis even at the highest levels of government and the intelligence services. Secombe had panicked when Tan Abdullah appeared keen to bring his family to London and meet his non-existent children, but strings had been pulled and Zara Asker had agreed to provide as many kids as Secombe needed if it helped to secure a five-billion defence contract and the twelve thousand British jobs that went with it.

Lauren looked around as pointed heels click-clacked across the marble. Their owner sat down next to her. Her name-at least as far as Lauren and Kevin knew - was Melissa. The twenty-eight-year-old intelligence officer was stick thin and would play the role of their stepmother during Tan’s visit.

‘Looks like our birdy,’ Kevin said, pointing through the glass as a long-range executive jet thudded down, sending up plumes of tyre smoke. ‘Not exactly the smoothest landing I’ve ever seen.’

The twenty-four-seater had to wait for a Qantas A380 to take off before it was allowed to cut back across the runway and taxi up to the Royal Suite’s second gate. As the plane closed in, Kevin read
Abdullah Construction & Leisure
painted on the fuselage, with the words repeated below in Arabic script.

David Secombe left his armchair as the aircraft steps swung down towards the tarmac. ‘Let’s move, family,’ he ordered.

Down on the tarmac, Tan Abdullah formally shook hands with the deputy British defence minister, an RAF helicopter pilot and the Malaysian ambassador. His face lit up when he saw the big man standing behind them.

‘Secombe, you old goose!’ Tan roared cheerfully.

Tan Abdullah was tiny and his feet lifted off the ground as David Secombe hoisted him into a tight hug. Standing directly behind, Lauren and Kevin leaned over to see kids following their father and stepmother down the aircraft steps.

Lauren hated her summer dress and cardigan more than ever as she eyed Tan’s fourteen-year-old daughter Suzie. She was a chubby Asian Goth, wearing battered Converse, striped tights with ladders all the way up and a furry purple sweater that engulfed her torso and went down to her knees. Lauren was annoyed because being dressed like a little princess would make it more difficult for her to get along with Suzie than the jeans and sweatshirts she’d have worn normally.

Kevin had less to worry about. Tan Jr, known as TJ, was eleven years old and had apparently come dressed to shoot a rap video. He wore Nikes, baggy tracksuit bottoms, a Phoenix Suns basketball vest and the inevitable backwards baseball cap.

‘You must be Kevin!’ TJ shouted enthusiastically over the whirring jet engines. ‘Wassup, dog?’

His bad English and with a Malaysian accent made the homeboy act sound hilarious, but Kevin kept a straight face and gave TJ a high five.

David Secombe was chatting to Tan and Melissa was complimenting Tan’s model wife June Ling on her leopard-print dress. As the others paired off as planned, Lauren smiled at Suzie.

‘Hello, I’m Lauren.’

Suzie looked down her nose and made a big choking noise like she was trying to hack a dead sparrow out of her windpipe. ‘Do English girls still dress like
that?’
she sneered.

‘Only when their idiot dads buy something that they think will look nice,’ Lauren said. She meant it to sound sarcastic, but English wasn’t Suzie’s first language so she didn’t pick that up and just thought that Lauren was a daddy’s girl and even wetter than the summer dress and cardigan had led her to believe.

Suzie raised a middle finger, painted with chipped purple nail varnish. ‘If my daddy ever told me what to wear, I’d tell him to go screw himself.’

Lauren was saved from further embarrassment because the Royal Suite’s manager was trying to herd everyone inside.

‘Would any of our guests like to eat, or use our shower facilities before continuing their onward journeys?’

As huge trunks filled with luggage were unloaded from the jet, the RAF pilot led David, Tan and the other politicians towards a waiting helicopter, which would take them to a missile demonstration at a defence contractor’s factory in the Midlands.

The women and kids headed upstairs into the Royal Suite.

Tan Abdullah yelled back at his wife. ‘Try not to spend
all
my money in Harrods!
Forbes
magazine says I’m down to my last four-point-seven billion.’

*

The spare phone in James’ pocket bleeped and the onscreen map showed that Lauren was heading east on the M4 towards London. He was passing through the main door of a central London church, which was being used as the assembly point for a planned demonstration by Guilt Trips activists.

An olive-skinned toddler belted out from between the pews and raced towards Kyle.

‘Superman!’ he shouted, proudly holding an action figure up for Kyle to see.

‘Very cool,’ Kyle said, as he picked the boy up. Then he looked back at James and Bruce. ‘This is little Aizat,’ he explained. The boy turned shy and burrowed under Kyle’s arm.

Helena Bayliss walked briskly down from the altar. She wore a smart business suit and looked confident as she kissed Kyle on the cheek.

‘These are my good mates, James and Bruce,’ Kyle explained. ‘What’s the turn-out looking like?’

‘Great, especially for a weekday,’ Helena said. ‘I’ve tried to round up as many people as possible. Tan Abdullah’s unpopular with the anti-defence industry mob and June Ling is notorious for wearing and modelling fur, so we’ve got a bunch of animal rights activists coming along to give her some stick too.’

Kyle smiled. ‘Three protests for the price of one. I had no idea there was an animal rights angle on this.’

‘We need a lot of bodies if we’re going to make an impact,’ Helena said. ‘And you can always rely on the animal rights mob to make plenty of noise.’

‘I’ve got information from my source,’ Kyle said. ‘Tan’s jet touched down on time. Looks like the shopping party is on the way to London.’

Helena smiled. ‘Ahh, your mysterious source. How often can we expect location updates?’

‘As often as we need them,’ Kyle said, as Spiderman’s head went into his ear. ‘Aizat, don’t be silly.’

‘The TV people are off in a side room. Would your friends excuse us while I introduce you?’

But Kyle shook his head. ‘They can come with us, I trust them completely.’

Helena looked uncertain. ‘No offence to your friends, Kyle, but the more people who know about our plans, the greater the risks of a leak.’

‘These are my guys,’ Kyle said firmly. ‘Have I ever let you down?’

‘Well, if you’re completely sure,’ Helena said, as a little stress came into her voice. ‘But you’re the one who told me to always keep the numbers as small as possible.’

‘I’ll play later,’ Kyle said, as he put a grumpy looking Aizat down on the church tiles.

Kyle, James and Bruce followed Helena past a group of activists using staple guns to nail campaign posters to wooden posts. They ducked through a low door below a staircase that led up towards the rows of organ pipes and walked down an uneven-floored passageway into a large vestry. The sunlight coming through a circle of stained glass projected spectacular colours on to the rough stone walls.

Three people stood around a metal-legged table. All in their twenties or thirties, they examined a small video camera like a surgical team around an operating table.

‘Problem?’ Helena asked.

‘Clip’s broken on the battery pack,’ a tall Frenchman with curly hair explained. ‘Insulating tape should fix it. It’s no biggie.’

‘It’s only the small camera that we use for side angles,’ a woman added.

Beyond the table sat an elderly man. He wore a padded storm vest with rows of small pockets, and looked over the top of half-rimmed glasses at
The Times
crossword. James instantly recognised the face from hundreds of news reports but didn’t know his name.

‘I’m sure you boys know Hugh Verhoeven,’ Helena said brightly.

Kyle looked starstruck as he shook Hugh’s hand. ‘We’re really grateful that you’re able to cover our story, Mr Verhoeven,’ he said. ‘I remember watching your reports from Kosovo when I was about eight or nine. They were really moving.’

The elderly reporter smiled warmly. ‘Call me Hugh,’ he said. ‘Helena has told me how helpful you’ve been with the Guilt Trips campaign. You’re a very impressive young man, by the sound of things.’

As Kyle smiled at the compliment, Helena introduced Bruce. James shook Verhoeven’s hand and wanted to say something intelligent like Kyle.

‘I watched that video of you getting shot on YouTube. It’s had over a million hits.’

Verhoeven raised one eyebrow and reared up in his chair. ‘I’m glad you found it entertaining,’ he barked. ‘Would you like me to unbutton my shirt and show you the exit wound?’

James realised he’d pissed Verhoeven off. Helena and Kyle both glowered at him.

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ James said, and then saved himself by thinking up a question that was intelligent. ‘Kyle said you were semi-retired. Why the sudden interest in Tan Abdullah?’

‘He’s my great white whale,’ Verhoeven roared enthusiastically. ‘A couple of years ago, I had the slimy bugger bang to rights. The Malaysian government cut a deal with the French to buy a batch of Mirage fighter aircraft on the cheap. I did an investigation and uncovered a whole web of corruption. Kickbacks, bribes and at the heart of it all was Tan Abdullah, greasing the palms of a dozen people, taking a huge commission on the deal and getting himself promoted to Defence Minister into the bargain.’

‘So what happened?’ Kyle asked.

‘My story died a sudden and unnatural death,’ Verhoeven said. ‘I woke up with a bad headache and a ransacked hotel room. My Malaysian researcher and camerawoman both disappeared, along with all our tapes and interview notes. People stopped picking up the phone when I called and a couple of days later my Malaysian press accreditation was withdrawn. I had to jump on the fast ferry to Thailand before they deported me.’

Kyle smiled. ‘But we’ll set that right today.’

‘Oh yes,’ Verhoeven said as he pounded his fist into his palm. ‘Today’s the day we make Abdullah pay!’

Three black S-Class Mercedes with diplomatic plates roared down a bus lane, heading towards the posh end of London’s Oxford Street. TJ and Kevin had acres of room in the back, while up front sat Lauren and a statuesque driver/bodyguard from the Malaysian embassy.

TJ had showered before they’d left the Royal Suite. His highlighted black hair was still wet and he’d put on a retro-style Adidas tracksuit for Britain’s colder climate. Kevin thought TJ was OK, but he acted younger than eleven.

In particular, TJ carried a cloth bag filled with dried lentils. He dropped one into a plastic straw, put the straw in his mouth and then shot it at the back of Lauren’s neck.

By the fifth time this happened Lauren was getting mad. ‘Stop it you dick.’

TJ and Kevin both laughed at the furious expression on Lauren’s face.

‘What you looking at?’ TJ grinned, looking over his shoulder as he buried the straw in his tracksuit pocket. ‘Did something hit you? I don’t know
where
it came from. Some of it hit me as well.’

Kevin was trying to stay neutral, but couldn’t help smirking when he saw TJ’s look of mock innocence. He seemed to relish Kevin’s approval and dropped another lentil into the straw.

Lauren was frustrated. If one of the younger lads on campus shot her with a lentil she’d have made him sorry, but she couldn’t go around thumping the Malaysian guests.

TJ passed the straw across to Kevin. ‘Wanna take a shot? Try getting it in her ear, then she’ll really go nuts.’