It was one of the worst moments of James’ life. He was scared, he’d just battered someone whose only motivation was to stop him from vandalising a train and despite a lifelong history of making bad decisions and doing stupid things, this felt like the worst.
But that didn’t mean James was in any mood to surrender and let his whole life go down the toilet. The window with the escape sign had a triangular sticker in the corner. A red dot in the centre had the words strike here encircling it.
James hit hard. The first blow cracked the shatterproof glass and the second turned it into a sheet of tiny pebbles. He stepped back, grabbed the overhead handrail with both hands and swung forwards. His trainers crashed through, knocking out the entire rectangle of glass and sending it hurtling down on to the road directly below.
James leaned through the hole and wasn’t impressed. The single rail was completely enclosed by the body of the train, which meant there was nothing but a fifteen-metre drop on to the six lane highway below. He looked back nervously at the big man, who sat on the floor by the doors, clutching his stomach while inspecting his sunglasses to see if they were broken.
James didn’t fancy his chances, but he imagined the reaction of Lauren and all his mates on campus if he got expelled, and for some reason the prospect of that humiliation seemed worse than the thought of plunging to his death.
It was too high to jump: even if he didn’t break both legs on landing he’d get hit by a car two seconds later. He’d have to climb up on the roof and drop down on to the concrete plinth along which the train ran.
He’d been over sections of the height obstacle on campus that were trickier, but the thing was he had no idea if there was any way down, except at the stations where the cops would be waiting for him.
There was a grab handle designed for maintenance and cleaning crews working on the outside of the train. James took hold, stepped up on to a plastic seat and then on to the window ledge itself.
‘You’re gonna kill yourself!’ the female passenger shouted.
‘Good,’ her boyfriend answered.
James was strong and had no problem twisting around to face the train and then swinging his legs up on to the roof. The train drew its current from the rail below, so there were no overhead cables to trouble him as he bolted across the curved plastic roof towards the rear of the train.
The train had an aerodynamically sloped nose at each end. James leaned over the rear of the roof to check where he was going and saw a girl of about six who was standing on the seats inside looking out. She screamed with fright and a tourist with a video camera swung around and filmed James as he slid down the glass nose and landed unsteadily on the metre-wide concrete plinth where the train met the track.
It was only now that it occurred to James that the double-ended train could run in either direction. There might be a reception party awaiting him in the Reef station, but he now realised they could just as easily run the train back towards the Vancouver, squishing him in the process.
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It didn’t bear thinking about. James set off. The electrified track and running gear for the train were built into the sides of the plinth, so James had a narrow but completely flat concrete path ahead of him, vanishing into the darkness.
Running was dodgy, so James walked quickly before stopping to inspect the Y-shaped pylon twenty metres behind the train. Each end of the fork supported one lane of track, but there was a conspicuous absence of footholds or rungs to climb down and even if he slithered down into the seat of the Y he’d still be too high to jump.
As he walked on, he heard an alarming rumble. At first he thought his train was coming after him, but another had pulled out of the Reef station on the second track. It was accelerating hard and touched fifty miles an hour as it whizzed past in a blur of light. The rush of air forced James to crouch down and grasp the sides of the concrete plinth.
He stood up, increasingly desperate for an encounter with either a pylon fitted with rungs or a point where the track crossed a building and he could jump down on to a rooftop. As the train on the opposite track shrank into the distance its rear lights showed him the way: a tatty billboard advertising a call-girl service was mounted under the tracks less than fifty metres away.
James cast a nervous glance backwards and jogged briskly towards the sign. The train wasn’t moving, but alarmingly there were three police cruisers with flashing blue lights turning from the Strip on to Reef Drive.
The billboard was ten metres high, made from aluminium sheet and held up by three wooden trusses which were bolted to the roof of a fast-food joint directly below. It topped out a few centimetres below the monorail plinth and James rolled over the edge and lowered his foot on to the top of the aluminium.
It had to withstand desert winds, so James knew the structure would hold his weight, but he still got a fright as he clutched the aluminium bar at the top of the billboard. The whole frame flexed and the aluminium sheets boomed under his weight.
The next phase was similar to the pole slide on the height obstacle on campus, except for the added complication of having to negotiate past spotlights mounted atop the billboard. The casings were hot enough to melt skin and swarms of desert moths swirled around them.
It took James half a minute to make it three metres from the monorail track and on to the top of an angled wooden truss. He clutched the side and shuffled down the forty-five degree angle before landing gently on the flat roof of the food joint.
Away from the Strip the streets of Las Vegas are pretty deserted. As far as James could tell nobody had seen him climb down, but the police would take about a second to figure out his escape route once they arrived and shone torch beams up at the monorail track.
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James kept low as he walked across the single-storey roof. When he peered over the guttering, he was pleased to find himself facing a brick wall and a deserted rear parking lot, rather than the glass-windowed restaurant packed with diners he’d have found out front.
He dropped off the roof, his nose filled with the smells of food waste and cooking oil as he jogged around to the front of the restaurant. He was actually at the rear of a cluster of fast-food joints built around a small parking lot off Reef Drive.
Customers sat at outdoor tables in the chilly night air eating burgers and fried chicken, and nobody looked James’ way as he did his best to change his appearance: pulling off his baseball cap and dark sweatshirt to reveal a pale orange polo shirt beneath it.
The driveway at the front of the outdoor food court led on to Reef Drive itself. The Strip casinos were ablaze with light and in front of it were the two monorail tracks and the raised pedestrian walkway. James’ train was now rolling towards the Reef station at walking pace while a pair of police cars was parked directly under the bridge. They’d shut off one side of the road because of the pane of shattered glass.
James walked past a line of tacky souvenir stores, towards the brightly lit Denny’s sign, looking for a break in the traffic. He dashed in front of a tour bus, then vaulted the metal division in the road’s centre before strolling across the other side, which was blocked by the cops.
Much to James’ relief, Kazakov was waiting in the black Ford. James ripped off his backpack and climbed into the front passenger seat.
‘What happened?’ Kazakov gasped. ‘You got something to do with them cops back there?’
‘Drive now, talk later,’ James said firmly. ‘They’ll figure out where I went in a minute or two and seal off this whole block.’
Kazakov pulled out of his parking space. ‘If the cops are on our backs, we’d better leave town.’
‘Yeah,’ James nodded. ‘Airport here might be a bit dodgy. We should drive to Los Angeles. There’s loads of flights to Britain from there.’
Kazakov glanced at James. ‘Drive through the night, get a flight early tomorrow morning. You ring the control room on campus, get them to sort some flights.’
‘Right,’ James nodded. ‘What if they ask why we’re not flying out from Vegas?’
‘Christ knows,’ Kazakov said. ‘Tell them we fancied a road trip.’
‘What about this car? It belongs to Fort Reagan.’
‘General O’Halloran said to leave it at the airport,’ Kazakov smiled. ‘He didn’t say which airport.’
The main Interstate between California and Nevada runs parallel to the western side of the Strip. James had been too overwhelmed to pay attention to where they were going and was surprised to feel the car accelerate. He looked out the window as Kazakov sped up an onramp and pulled on to the eight lanes of Interstate Five.
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It was eleven at night. The road moved freely but the traffic was heavy and James felt a wave of relief as he relaxed into his seat, revelling in the anonymity of their black Ford. The southern end of the Las Vegas Strip was already shrinking into the distance and James realised that they’d got away with … something.
He jolted up in his seat and turned to Kazakov. ‘How much?’ he blurted.
‘Receipt’s in the glove box.’ Kazakov smiled.
James popped the flap and saw a clear plastic wallet with a stack of bills inside. He unravelled the bag and looked at the receipt. The Vancouver, $92,300, please visit again next time you’re in town!
‘Not bad for one night’s work,’ James grinned. ‘Not bad at all.’
Less than ten minutes earlier James had experienced one of the worst moments of his life. He’d taken a massive risk and still felt guilty about the man he’d beaten up in the monorail carriage, but now he was mostly elated as his head was filled with all the things that $30,766 could buy: nice clothes, days out, expensive meals, treats for girlfriends, holidays, a flash motorbike.
‘Tell nobody on campus,’ Kazakov said firmly. ‘Spend it carefully. Don’t be flash.’
‘I know, boss,’ James smiled. ‘I’m not stupid.’
As James spoke a huge 4x4 cut in front of them, forcing Kazakov to squeeze the brake pedal. ‘American idiot!’ he shouted, blasting the horn before turning to glance at James. ‘Make that phone call to campus,’ he ordered. ‘Sort the plane tickets. I can’t stay in this country for another day.’
MORALITY
Десять дней спустя
‘Come in,’ James shouted.
He’d finished afternoon lessons and was lying on his bed trying not to think about a particularly nasty essay he’d been set for his English GCSE.
Lauren came around the door. She looked tired and her hair was wet, like she’d just had a shower.
‘Welcome home,’ James smiled. ‘Good time? How’d the rest of the exercise go?’
Lauren crashed in the swivel chair at her brother’s desk. ‘Not bad,’ she said, kicking the carpet with her socked foot and starting to twirl slowly. ‘The exercise was lame after Kazakov left. They brought in all these extra rules. Both sides were doing everything by the book, and of course the American commander had no idea what cherubs are capable of. By the sixth day Sarge got so bored that we started a mini revolt with the SAS guys and we killed our commander and started a riot.’
‘Rebel,’ James grinned. ‘Somehow I get the impression that they won’t be inviting us back to Fort Reagan any time soon.’
‘They kicked us all out four days early,’ Lauren said. ‘And that was the best bit, because rather than coming back, we all stayed on in Vegas and hung out for a few days. Meryl still has friends out there and she got us tickets for Spamalot and a couple of other shows.’
‘Shame I missed that,’ James said.
Lauren’s eyes were drawn towards a brightly striped shirt hanging on James’ wardrobe. ‘Paul Smith,’ she smiled. ‘That’s gotta be a hundred quid, which is pretty good going for someone who’s supposed to be paying off Jake Parker’s phone.’
‘I got lucky,’ James lied. ‘Me and Kazakov went to this outlet mall. It was only thirty bucks. I think they put the wrong price tag on it.’
‘The day you flew home, Rat tripped on a staircase and did his ankle in,’ Lauren said, continuing to turn her chair from side to side. ‘They thought it might be broken, so they helicoptered him to Vegas to have it properly X-rayed.’
‘Was he OK?’
‘No problemo,’ Lauren smirked. ‘They don’t let newspapers into Fort Reagan and they only have that one TV channel to make it seem more like a developing-world place. So when I ended up in a waiting room I picked up a Las Vegas paper to see what was happening in the world.’
James watched as Lauren pulled a half-page of the Las Vegas Sun out of her pocket and started to read. ‘ A teenager staged a daring escape from a monorail car after being chased out of the Vancouver casino. The boy was believed to be the accomplice of a Russian man running a card-counting scam at the high-stakes area of the Strip’s newest mega-resort.’
Lauren held up the picture of the monorail car with the smashed window. Below it were grainy surveillance photos of the two suspects. James had seen the pictures before when he’d looked up the story on the Internet to see how much the police knew.
‘So what?’ James said, trying not to smile.
‘Aww, come on,’ Lauren said. ‘Credit me with some intelligence. If that’s the best shot they got, you two made a good job of disguising yourselves and not looking up for the security cameras, but I know you. You’ve had that same dopey Nike Air cap since before Mum died.’
James eyed Lauren nervously. ‘You didn’t mention this to anyone else, did you?’
‘And risk you getting kicked out of CHERUB? Of course not. I may think you’re a tosser, but you’re still my brother.’
‘I made a lot of money,’ James smiled. ‘Thirty grand in one day. Once I’m twenty-one I won’t need Kazakov or surveillance equipment, I can do it legally. I’ve ordered a couple of books from Amazon with the most advanced card-counting strategies that give you an even bigger—’
Lauren cut her brother dead and read some more from the article. ‘Louisiana trawler-man, Dan Williams, intervened to prevent the teenager’s escape and was floored by the powerfully-built youth in what police described as a vicious assault. Williams sustained two cracked ribs and was kept in hospital overnight after complaining of chest pains.’
James looked down at his lap. ‘I feel bad about that, obviously. But I warned the guy not to stick his nose in.’
Lauren snorted with contempt. ‘You must be so proud of yourself.’
‘We could go up to London next weekend,’ James said, desperate to win Lauren around. ‘Covent Garden, all the designer clothes shops, my treat.’
‘No thanks,’ Lauren said acidly. ‘It leaves a bitter taste. I thought you’d grown up over the last couple of years but right now I’m back to thinking that I’m gonna end up visiting you in prison some day.’
‘I know it was dumb,’ James admitted. ‘Very dumb, to be honest, but it happened. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t exactly regret it either and you know, the money’s in a shoebox behind my bath surround, if you ever need some help. Fifteen thousand quid, all in twenties.’
‘Maybe you should donate it to charity or something.’
James shook his head resolutely. ‘I risked my CHERUB career and my life to make that money. Besides, what’s thirty thousand bucks to a ten-billion-dollar casino corporation?’
Lauren gulped air and broke into a big yawn. ‘Jetlag,’ she moaned. ‘I’m gonna try staying awake until after dinner, then I’m going straight off to sleep.’
‘I’ll probably see you down there,’ James said. ‘I’ve got this essay to write on sonnets … What the bloody hell are sonnets anyway?’
‘More top marks coming your way then,’ Lauren smirked as she headed for the door. She turned back when the door was half-way open. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing you might be pleased to hear.’
‘What’s that?’ James asked.
‘Day before yesterday,’ Lauren said, rubbing an eye as she stifled another yawn, ‘Bruce and Kerry had a massive ruck at the hotel. It looks like they’ve split up.’
EPILOGUE
After a seven-week trial the leader of the Street Action Group (SAG), CHRIS BRADFORD, and former paramilitary, RICH DAVIS (AKA RICH KLINE), were both convicted of conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism.
Bradford was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. In the light of his previous terrorist convictions Davis was sentenced to life, with a judge’s recommendation that he should not be released for at least thirty-five years.
An independent review concluded that the CHERUB security check team led by LAUREN ADAMS had done valuable work in uncovering slack procedures, bad training and poor design at Britain’s newest air traffic control centre.
The opening of the centre was delayed by three months while the perimeter fencing was replaced with a five-metre-high wall and improved surveillance technology. The private security company was dismissed, although several staff, including JOE PRINCE, were taken on by a new contractor and redeployed to the site after extensive retraining.
Following his unimpressive performance during the training exercise at Fort Reagan, GENERAL NORMAN SHIRLEY was reassigned to duties with a non-combat unit. After three months in his new post the general took early retirement.
Each two-week mission at Fort Reagan costs over $25 million to mount and the tactics used by red team leaders are studied carefully by military planners. Although General Shirley was outraged and GENERAL SEAN O’HALLORAN was highly concerned by the destruction of his aerodrome, the US military strategic planning unit described the unorthodox and highly aggressive tactics employed by YOSYP KAZAKOV as an outstanding example of guerrilla warfare.
Kazakov was offered a highly-paid position as a full-time advisor to the US Military at The Pentagon, Washington DC, but he declined on the grounds that he enjoys his job at CHERUB and couldn’t stand the idea of living in America.
The security office at the Vancouver Hotel and Casino only had the evidence of one receptionist to show for their investigation into possible fraudulent gaming by a Russian suspect. None of their electronic jamming devices or signal-detection equipment had picked up any kind of video transmission.
The casino’s security boss concluded that the Vancouver’s state-of-the-art revenue protection systems could only be defrauded by the kind of high-tech surveillance equipment used by security services such as MI5 or the CIA and that the chances of any such equipment being used by ordinary members of the public was negligible.
The Vancouver hotel did file a complaint about a teenage boy causing $3,200 worth of damage to a video surveillance pod and a window on one of their monorail carriages.
Trawler-man DAN WILLIAMS sued the owners of the Vancouver hotel for damages, claiming that by stopping the monorail car with a criminal suspect on board they had negligently imprisoned him with a dangerous and potentially violent criminal, with no regard for his safety or that of the other passengers.
Williams settled out of court for $373,000. Two fellow passengers, including Williams’ wife, each received payouts of $114,000.
DANA SMITH and MICHAEL HENDRY broke up after four weeks. Michael begged GABRIELLE O’BRIEN to take him back, but she told him to stick it.
JAMES ADAMS has continued to hone his blackjack skills and has told his closest friends that his ambition in life is to ride around America on a Harley-Davidson and make millions by counting cards in casinos. James points out that while using surveillance equipment to cheat casinos is illegal, counting cards in your head is not.
READ ON FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER