The pilot was reading a copy of
USA Today
. She’d made it through the paper itself and now studied a wodge of advertising pull-outs. Home Depot, Wal Mart, Target, Staples.
Black Friday Special – 40-Inch Sony $399, Two-Part Air Con $800, Complete Harry Potter Blu-Ray $29.99
.
‘She looks depressed,’ Ryan said.
Kazakov snorted with contempt. ‘It’s Thanksgiving. She wants to be home in Atlanta, watching NFL with hubby and the rug rats.’
Ryan felt a stab of guilt. What he was about to do was hopefully for the greater good. It might save thousands of lives, but this pilot was about to go through the most horrifying experience of hers.
‘You really have it in for the Americans,’ Ryan noted.
The voice that came back in Ryan’s ear was grudging. ‘You’ve got three brothers, Ryan. How would you feel if the Americans had sold a missile to a bunch of terrorists that killed one of them?’
Before Ryan could answer, he saw the pilot fold the crumpled newspaper and post it beneath her seat. As the woman stood, she tucked her cap under her armpit and grabbed the briefcase standing between her legs.
‘Showtime,’ Ryan mumbled.
He let the woman take a couple of steps before standing up himself. As he swung his pack over one shoulder, Ryan realised the woman was hurrying. Either late for something, or desperate to use the bathroom.
‘Shit,’ Ryan mumbled, knowing it’s much harder to follow someone in a rush.
‘Problem?’ Kazakov asked.
‘I can handle it,’ Ryan said quietly, as he tried to catch up without making it too obvious.
‘Try getting her in the corridor.’
‘I know,’ Ryan whispered irritably. ‘I can’t
think
with you babbling in my earhole.’
Although Manta wouldn’t handle a passenger flight for another six hours, there was still a newsagent and café open and a few other people in the lounge. There was a chance the pilot might freak out, so Ryan didn’t make his move until she’d walked into a deserted corridor, passed a speak-your-weight machine and was turning into the ladies’ toilet.
‘Excuse me,’ Ryan said loudly.
The pilot assumed Ryan was speaking to someone else, until he repeated the call and tapped the back of her blazer. She looked startled as she turned, then a little irritated.
‘Can I help you, son?’ she asked, sounding cocky.
‘I need you to listen carefully,’ Ryan said, keeping his voice flat as he pulled a large touchscreen phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
The woman raised both hands and took a step back. Ryan’s olive complexion meant he could just about pass for a local.
‘
No
money,’ she said frostily as she swiped a finger across her throat. ‘It’s bad enough kids begging on the street. Clear off before I report you to security.’
Ryan switched on the phone and turned the screen to face the pilot.
‘Stay calm, don’t make a sound,’ Ryan said.
The pilot dropped the cap under her arm as she saw the picture on screen. It was her living-room. Her husband knelt in front of the couch, dressed only in pyjama bottoms. A hooded man stood behind, holding a large knife at his throat. On his left stood two small boys, dressed for bed. They looked scared and the older one had wet pyjama legs from pissing himself.
‘What is this?’ the pilot asked, trembling. ‘Is this a joke?’
Ryan kept his voice firm, but felt terrible inside. ‘Tracy, you
need
to keep your voice down. You
need
to listen carefully and do everything I tell you to. If you do
exactly
what I say, your husband and sons will be released unharmed.’
The pilot trembled as her eyes fixed on the photograph. ‘What do you want?’
‘Speak quietly,’ Ryan ordered. ‘Take deep breaths. Walk with me.’
Ryan pocketed the phone and began a slow walk, leading Tracy back towards the passenger lounge.
‘Me and my people came on that big Ilyushin parked out on the tarmac,’ Ryan explained. ‘But we need a plane with flight clearance to get cargo into the USA.’
‘What kind of cargo?’ Tracy asked.
Ryan ignored the question. ‘We’ve got friends behind the scenes at this airport. Right now they’re loading your 737 with our stuff. You’re scheduled to fly to Atlanta in four hours. You’re going to take off on schedule, but once you’re in US airspace, you’ll put out a mayday and do an emergency landing at a small airfield in central Alabama. By the time the authorities realise what’s happened, we’ll have emptied our cargo and vanished. You and your family will be released unharmed.’
‘I want to talk to my husband,’ Tracy said.
‘You can want whatever you like, you’re getting Jack shit.’
‘How do I know that picture isn’t Photoshopped?’
Ryan hated what he was doing, but faked a mean smile as he looked back. ‘You want your boy Christian to lose a thumb?’
‘You’re just a kid yourself,’ Tracy stuttered, as she touched a wet eye. ‘Who are you working for?’
‘They like to call themselves the Islamic Department of Justice,’ Ryan said. ‘But I don’t work for them. Me and my dad are just in this for the money.’
The English weather wasn’t bad for late November. A bit of a sting when the wind blew, but the sky was bright. The four CHERUB agents wore their combat trousers and training boots, but nothing with the CHERUB logo on was allowed off campus, so their T-shirts and hoodies were plain.
‘Where the hell are they?’ Leon Sharma asked, as he lay flat on a bench, six rows up a decaying wooden grandstand.
Ryan’s eleven-year-old brother Leon was the youngest of the quartet. The other three all had a Ryan connection too: Alfie DuBoisson was one of Ryan’s best mates, Fu Ning was a good friend and Grace Vulliamy had been Ryan’s girlfriend. Or maybe still was his girlfriend, depending on who you asked.
‘Why make us get up so early?’ Leon moaned, as he glanced at the clock on his iPhone. ‘I hate waiting around.’
‘Beats lessons,’ Alfie said, as he lobbed a piece of gravel that bounced harmlessly off Leon’s belly.
‘I looked this place up on Wikipedia,’ Ning said, though nobody seemed interested.
Three days past her thirteenth birthday, the broad-shouldered Ning sat near the top of the grandstand, with a view over a long tarmac straight, faded Dunlop and Martini billboards and the steel frame of a much larger grandstand which had buckled in a fire.
‘I can’t get my Facebook,’ Leon said, scowling at a battered BlackBerry. ‘Maybe they forgot about us. There’s not even a mobile phone signal.’
‘Stop complaining,’ Alfie said, his French accent strong as his bulky frame loomed over Leon. ‘You do my head in.’
‘I looked this place up,’ Ning repeated. ‘Wikipedia says there hasn’t been a professional race on this track since 1957. A Bentley went over the banked kerb, burst into flames and killed seven spectators.’
But Grace wasn’t listening and Leon was unnerved by Alfie’s presence.
‘What you gawping at?’ Leon asked.
Rather than reply, Alfie uncupped a hand and flicked a small spider on to Leon’s chest. Leon sprang off the bench, flailing his arms and screaming his head off.
‘You dick,’ Leon screamed, swiping at imaginary spiders as he scrambled over the rows of wooden benches towards the racetrack. ‘Where is it? Get it off me!’
Grace couldn’t resist. ‘I think it’s in your hair!’
‘Jesus,’ Leon shouted, as he frantically flicked his hands through his hair. Then he started unzipping his hoodie and reaching up inside his T-shirt. ‘Is it gone?’ he screamed. ‘Don’t laugh, it’s not bloody funny.’
Grace wore a huge grin. ‘It’s at least
moderately
funny, Leon.’
Alfie was howling. ‘Ryan told me you were scared of spiders, but I never expected that drama.’
‘I can’t help it,’ Leon spat.
Leon had finally convinced himself that he’d brushed the spider off, but he glowered as he stepped up the wooden grandstand towards Alfie. ‘What did I do to you?’ Leon shouted. ‘I’m gonna smash your face in.’
But physical reality stood in Leon’s way. He was an average-sized eleven-year-old, while Alfie was thirteen and held his own playing rugby with lads several years older.
‘Suddenly not so brave,’ Alfie said, smirking and pounding a beefy fist into his palm.
‘This won’t end well,’ Ning shouted wearily. ‘Pack it in before it gets out of hand.’
But while Leon wasn’t stupid enough to throw a punch at someone who’d flatten him, he wanted revenge and Alfie’s backpack lay on a bench two metres away.
‘Yoink!’ Leon said, as he grabbed the strap and started running.
‘You’d better give that back,’ Alfie roared.
Alfie was speedy in a straight line, but he was more battering ram than ballet dancer and Leon’s whippy frame gained ground as he hopped across the wooden benches towards the top of the grandstand.
‘See how you like it,’ Leon shouted, as he flung Alfie’s backpack over the rear of the grandstand into a mass of overgrown bushes.
Alfie got within a couple of benches of Leon, but his boot slid and he bashed himself.
‘I will kill you!’ Alfie shouted, as he rubbed his kneecap. ‘Go get that back.’
But Leon was sprinting across the top of the grandstand, and when he reached the end he turned towards Alfie and gave a succession of two-fingered salutes.
Alfie realised he had little chance of catching Leon and decided to lure him out instead.
‘OK,’ Alfie shouted, as he stepped back towards where Leon had been lying. ‘You throw my backpack away. See what I do to yours.’
When Alfie reached his target, he raised a size 7 boot and stamped down on a Puma backpack. There was a sound like a ruler snapping, and a pop of a yoghurt carton. Then Alfie took a step back and booted the backpack high into the air towards the racetrack.
‘Happy now?’ Alfie shouted, but he couldn’t understand why Leon was still smiling.
‘My bag’s up here,’ Leon said.
As soon as Leon said this, Ning remembered that she’d left her backpack down there. And the one she’d seen cartwheeling through the air looked awfully similar …
‘Alfie!’ Ning shouted, as she stood up.
Few girls, even grown women, would intimidate Alfie, but Ning was a former Chinese boxing champ and when she threw a punch you knew all about it.
‘I thought it was Leon’s,’ Alfie said, holding his palms out meekly as Ning steamed towards him. ‘He tricked me.’
‘You started it with the spider,’ Ning said, as she picked up her backpack and unzipped it. ‘I told you to pack it in.’
Ning looked furious as she stared into the backpack, seeing science textbooks and a calculator smeared in yoghurt.
Ning turned back towards Leon. ‘You wipe that smirk off your face and go look for Alfie’s pack in the bushes,’ she demanded. Then she thrust her pack into Alfie’s belly. ‘I don’t know how you’re gonna clean that out, but you’d better or you’re buying me a new one.’
Ning’s steely glare made it clear that she meant business. Alfie started hunting in his pockets for a pack of tissues and Leon headed behind the grandstand to retrieve Alfie’s pack, but before either made much progress they were distracted by the sound of cars on the track.
‘Finally,’ Leon said.
Grace was now highest up the grandstand and got a glimpse over treetops at two VW Golfs – one silver, one blue – driving in close formation on the far side of the track. Tyres squealed on a tight corner as the engines grew louder.
On the final approach to the straight in front of the grandstand, the silver car in the lead put its rear end out and there was a hairy moment as the other Golf nearly clipped it before overtaking on to the main straight.
When it reached the grandstand in front of the kids, the man driving the blue car hit the brakes and threw the car sideways into a donut, throwing up clouds of choking grey rubber smoke. As it did this, the silver car stopped more sedately and a crash-helmeted driver stepped out.
‘All right, boys and girls,’ the driver said, as he unbuckled the helmet. ‘You’re all here for the Advanced Driving course?’
When the helmet came off, Ning liked what she saw. The instructor was six feet tall, in his early twenties with a solid physique. He had blue-green eyes, and blond hair just long enough for the helmet to have mussed it up.
‘I expect my good buddy Mr Norris will be with us when his ego calms down and the tyre smoke clears,’ the instructor said. ‘But I’ll introduce myself first. I’m Mr Adams, but I’d prefer it if you call me James.’
Until late 2010, the Islamic Department of Justice (IDoJ) was regarded as one of many obscure militant Islamic groups mainly known for posting anti-American and anti-Israeli material on the Internet
.
This changed in October 2011, when IDoJ kidnapped two wealthy American executives attending a conference in Cairo. Sophisticated techniques used during the abduction suggested IDoJ members had received Special Forces-style training.
After a video was released showing the beheading of one kidnappee, the family of the other victim defied US Government wishes and paid a ransom of several million dollars. It is now believed that this money has been used to fund further terrorist activity.
Nothing more was heard from IDoJ until March 2012 when a woman was arrested in Paris while conducting a cyber-attack on the French train-signalling system. She had proven links to IDoJ and further investigation revealed a credible plot that might have resulted in the hijacking and deliberate collision of two high-speed passenger trains.
This threat to a prestigious European target elevated IDoJ to a top priority for global intelligence agencies. However, the suspect arrested in France gave little away under interrogation and the rest of the organisation slipped back under the radar.
The next sign of IDoJ activity was picked up when the group attempted to hire a large cargo aircraft from the Kyrgyzstan-based smuggling outfit known as the Aramov Clan. Fortunately, this organisation has been under the effective control of US intelligence for some months, and we are now presented with a unique opportunity to infiltrate and destroy the IDoJ terror group.