CHERUB: The General (6 page)

‘I didn’t think it would get so big,’ James said. ‘A couple of hundred maybe, but it was easily double that.’

‘Bradford’s played the police for suckers,’ John sighed.

‘And he did everything by the book,’ James said. ‘Got permission for the march, stayed in the assembly area until the police told them to move out and vanished in a puff of smoke the second the trouble started. They’ll have a job pinning anything on him.’

‘Chris Bradford is a sharp cookie,’ John said, holding his back as he stood up to grab a bunch of folders from the lower shelf of the coffee table. ‘The last thing we want is someone like that getting his hands on a bundle of plastic explosive and a few hand guns …’

‘Maybe after this he’ll put the terrorist thing off,’ James suggested. ‘It was born out of frustration at the lack of media coverage SAG’ve been getting lately, but they’re gonna be the centre of attention again after the riot.’

John shook his head. ‘From now on the cops are gonna have three hundred officers on the street every time Bradford takes his dog for a walk. That’s where he’s so clever. The media are bound to force the cops into a knee-jerk reaction and they’ll do all they can to make sure there are no more riots. Meantime, Bradford’s running a completely different play.’

James had been starving, and bolting down the plastic dish of macaroni hadn’t done much to help. ‘I might have a couple of those cream doughnuts from the fridge.’

John nodded. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea. But I’ve been speaking with MI5 and first we need to go through the final plan for tonight’s meeting.’

James nodded and placed his tray on the carpet as John pulled a black and white mugshot out of the folder.

‘This is our man,’ John explained. ‘Or at least, the MI5 sound lab got a ninety-six per cent probability of a voice match on the person who phoned Chris Bradford’s mobile last night.’

‘Is he the kind of character we were expecting?’

‘More or less,’ John nodded. ‘This picture’s twenty years old. His name is Richard Davis, usually known as Rich. He’s former IRA. Convicted on three counts of terrorism and murder, but he only served twelve years before being released under the Good Friday peace agreement. Most interestingly, he’s thought to have organised the IRA’s supply of Soviet weapons during the cold war.’

James’ eyes opened wider. ‘I never knew the Soviets supplied the IRA.’

‘Oh yes,’ John nodded. ‘A lot of people think the communists only supplied left-wing groups, but they’d supply anyone who could help to undermine western governments. At times the Soviets supplied so many guns that the IRA had major problems hiding them all.

‘A few years back they found a dozen Soviet-era grenade launchers and twenty crates of AK-47 rifles buried on the site of a new housing development near Dublin. It was all useless – rusted up – but we suspect that quite a lot of Russian gear in serviceable condition is still around.’

‘Bradford doesn’t have a lot of men though,’ James said. ‘And he’s into the whole anarchist thing of riots and bombs for their own sake, so I don’t think they’re gonna set up an organised, military-style group. I reckon he’ll be looking for something spectacular instead, like an RPG launcher or plastic explosives.’

‘You could be right,’ John said warily. ‘Some of the people Davis would have negotiated with years back now run the Russian armaments industry and for all we know he’s still in touch. He might be offloading old IRA kit, but he might also have the ability to bring newly manufactured stuff out of Russia or the Ukraine.’

‘So what’s my strategy for the meeting?’ James asked.

‘Bradford knows you can fight and wants you there as a bodyguard, but do whatever you can to stay out of trouble. Bradford is new to this game. He might have a brain but he’s out of his league with these people. We’re going to let this thing play out until we can learn some more about this Davis character. Take a couple of tracking devices. If you get a chance, try planting them somewhere that will enable us to trace his movements. Once MI5 know Davis’ car registration, or his real address, they’ll be able to start proper surveillance on him.’

‘So we’re not planning to make any move on Bradford or Davis tonight?’

‘If we did, what would we have?’ John asked. ‘Two guys in a room talking. If we’re lucky we’d get them on a conspiracy charge and they’d be out in two years. We need to find out more about Davis and we don’t want to arrest anyone until we can catch them red-handed with a roomful of guns and a bunch of surveillance tapes and voice recordings to back up our story. That way we’ll be able to bang them up for a good long time.’

‘Could take months,’ James smiled. ‘And I’m not sure how long I can live with this dodgy hairstyle.’

John smiled back. ‘Well, we set up the excuse about your going home to your auntie, so at least you’ll be on campus for Christmas.’

‘What about you?’ James asked.

John looked a touch wounded. ‘My daughter spends Christmas with my ex and her new bloke, so I’ll probably head back to campus too. If we’re not working on the twenty-seventh I’ll take her out to the sales and let her spend my money.’

‘Sounds good,’ James laughed, before glancing at his watch. ‘Six-fifteen. I’d better start sorting my equipment out for this meeting.’

‘Yeah,’ John said, stifling a yawn as he put the TV into standby. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on and then I’ll give my liaison at MI5 a quick call. Davis will make you ditch your mobiles before he tells you his location, so make sure you use the boots with the tracking device inside. I’ll be driving about half a kilometre behind you.’

*

Senior Mission Controller Dennis King sat at the wheel of a shabby minibus, rattling down an A-road at sixty miles an hour. His young assistant Maureen Evans was next to him, while seven cherubs sat in the back singing along to the over the top version of
Jingle Bells
playing on the radio.

Rat and Lauren sat together, hamming it up, playing air guitars and stamping their feet. Andy and Bethany sang at high pitch and Ronan was in the back row, droning half-heartedly with his fat cheek pressed against the window.

Jake and Kevin were the only ones not joining in. Jake was a popular kid with loads of mates. Kevin was slightly younger and eager to impress Jake and become part of his cool group.

‘I swear this is good,’ Kevin whispered as he slid his phone out of his jacket. ‘But don’t let Lauren see.’

Jake squinted at the blurry picture on the rectangular screen. The top half of the picture showed a Harley-Davidson motorbike.

‘I know that poster,’ Jake said, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘It’s James Adams’ room. So what? I’ve seen James and Dana make out a million times.’

Kevin smirked. ‘If that’s James, he’s got one
hell
of a sun tan.’

Jake looked again and realised it was a black person. ‘Holy crap!’ Jake giggled. ‘So
that’s
why you took so long to come down for slingshot practice.’

Jake snatched Kevin’s phone and started pressing numbers. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Picture messaging,’ Jake explained. ‘I want a copy on my phone.’

‘You
can’t
spread that around,’ Kevin said nervously. ‘Michael Hendry will know I took it. Have you seen the size of that guy’s muscles? He’ll pluck me like a chicken!’

‘I only want it on my phone,’ Jake said reassuringly, as
Jingle Bells
ended and Dennis King told them not to start singing the next song because it was getting on his nerves. ‘I won’t send it to anyone else.’

Kevin wasn’t convinced, but Jake gave him a look that seemed to say
Are you a cool guy or not?

‘Just be careful,’ Kevin warned, as Ronan’s head loomed between them.

‘What are you girls whispering about?’ he asked.

Ronan was hard to get on with. One day he’d be knocking on your bedroom door giving you free stuff and desperately wanting to be your best mate. The next he’d shove you down the stairs or stick your bag under the showers in the changing rooms to try getting a cheap laugh. He was as bright as any other kid on campus but the basic rules of friendship eluded him.

‘Mind your business, Ronan,’ Jake said. ‘You’re such an idiot.’

‘Sticks and stones …’ Ronan sneered. He tried acting like he wasn’t interested, before snatching Kevin’s phone as Jake passed it back.

‘Give us,’ Kevin shouted, grabbing at Ronan’s arm.

‘Ronan,’ Jake moaned, before putting on a serious voice and speaking like a newsreader. ‘In today’s headlines, a campus poll has shown that ninety-six per cent of CHERUB agents said that they’d prefer a bout of violent explosive diarrhoea to a minibus ride with Ronan “The Dickhead” Walsh.’

Kevin undid his seatbelt and jumped up. He wrapped his arms around Ronan’s waist and started driving him towards the back of the van.

‘Gimmmmmmme my bloody phone,’ Kevin shouted.

‘Cut that out,’ Maureen shouted angrily from up front. ‘You two sit your arses down or I’ll be dishing out punishment laps.’

Ronan was stocky and gave Kevin a shove that sent him sprawling down the aisle between the seats. He took a quick glance at the picture on Kevin’s phone, before hurling it through the air towards Lauren.

‘Here, Little Miss Black Shirt,’ Ronan snorted. ‘I’ve got a great Christmas present for your brother. Maybe you can print it out and frame it for him.’

Lauren disliked Ronan and didn’t want to give him any satisfaction, but her jaw dropped as she picked Kevin’s phone off the carpet and saw what was on the screen.

‘You sure nobody followed?’ Chris Bradford asked, as James clambered into the front passenger seat of a Volkswagen Sirocco and slammed the door. The two-seat sports car was heading for its twentieth birthday, with 150,000 miles on the clock and a vague smell of mould. It was a quarter to seven, bitter cold and drizzle in the air.

‘I got two buses and a black cab hailed in the street,’ James lied. ‘Nobody’s following me.’

‘Good lad,’ Bradford nodded. ‘We’ve got some good men, but you’re the only one I’d want covering my back and at your age I can be sure you’re not an undercover cop.’

James nodded as the engine clattered. Cogs ground nastily as Bradford put the car in gear and pulled out from the kerb.

‘Who’s this box of bolts belong to?’

‘Lady friend,’ Bradford explained.

He flipped on the windscreen wipers, but only the one on the driver’s side worked. A dilapidated car like this was an open invite to get pulled by the police, but James couldn’t warn Bradford without sounding suspiciously knowledgeable.

‘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.