Kazakov found himself thinking about his thirty-four-year-old son. He’d not seen Olek in decades, not even a photo. But he’d always hoped to travel back to the Ukraine and track him down when he retired.
The interrogator can’t have been older than twenty and pinched Kazakov’s cheek.
‘Did you send out a message? Who did you speak to?’
Kazakov could see his body, but it no longer belonged to him. His heart and lungs struggled on automatic, but his consciousness had retreated into his brain and he knew there would soon be nothing at all.
‘I told you,’ Elbaz shouted, as he gave the interrogator a shove. ‘I’m blowing this joint. It doesn’t matter if he communicated. We can’t be sure, so we’ll act as if he did. We’re five men down, but we can still get eight trucks out on the road. So go join your partner.’
Kazakov was impressed by Elbaz. Combat had taught him that the best field commanders aren’t always the cleverest or strongest. They’re men like Elbaz who cut out background noise and keep functioning when plans go tits up.
‘Two minutes,’ Elbaz shouted, as he stood by the patio doors. Then he grabbed someone. ‘Get upstairs, go room to room making sure it’s empty.’
Two of the ten vans wouldn’t be leaving because their crews were dead or injured. Six had already left the ranch and two remained outside, making final preparations for departure.
‘Get that explosive in!’ Elbaz shouted. ‘Take all you need, then pull over and finish wiring up somewhere along the way.’
Kazakov watched as Elbaz stood at the kitchen counter, pushing a small radio detonator into one of the pizza-box-sized explosive wedges.
‘Some secrets in that head of yours, eh?’ Elbaz said, giving Kazakov a half-smile. ‘If it’s any consolation, your boy Ryan seems to have given us the slip.’
Ryan being safe made Kazakov want to smile, but now his vision was changing. It was like he was viewing everything through a pair of long black tubes.
‘All clear, boss,’ the guy Elbaz had sent upstairs said, before turning to look at Kazakov. ‘Is he dead?’
‘If he’s not he will be when this place blows,’ Elbaz said, before breaking into a shout. ‘Two minutes, people! I’m detonating as soon as my car’s a couple of hundred metres clear. And if you’re not in front of me, that’s your tough shit.’
The two blocks of Chinese explosive Elbaz wired up in the kitchen were enough to vaporise the ranch house, but the real taste of the IDoJ threat came from a secondary blast in one of the explosive-packed trucks that hadn’t made it off site.
Elbaz was driving out of the ranch gates and was shocked by the ferocity, while the mini-van filled with specialists who’d made bombs and rigged the remote control systems, directly behind him, had its back window blown in.
Five miles east, ground trembled and orange light flashed through a glass door as Ryan stood barefoot. He was in the lobby of a rural sheriff’s department office that was little more than a prefabricated hut, with a brick jailhouse for half a dozen inmates alongside.
The sergeant behind the desk looked like the cartoon character Elmer Fudd, but was obviously smarter than the pair who’d arrested Ryan. He’d quickly worked out that an olive-skinned kid with a foreign accent, turning up in an $80,000 Cadillac with a machine gun and blood-spattered trainers, amounted to more than just some crazy lad who’d swallowed a few pills and taken the family car for a joyride.
The sergeant looked across at McVitie, the female officer who’d been at the arrest scene. ‘The vacant farm this kid just described sounds a lot like Oak Ranch,’ the sergeant said. ‘Wouldn’t you say that’s roughly where that explosion came from?’
‘You want me to drive up there and check it out?’ the woman asked.
The sergeant shook his head contemptuously. ‘Christ, McVitie. This is not some call about a man slapping his wife. You can’t send a patrol car up to check it out. We’ve got no idea what’s up there.’
As the sergeant said this, two phones behind the desk started ringing, followed by the mobile of the big cop who’d dosed Ryan with pepper spray. Sensing that these three local cops were out of their depth, Ryan tried to assert himself.
‘There’s a contact on my phone called Dallas,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s part of an intelligence unit that’s after the terrorists. They’re blowing up shopping malls, using vans painted in shop liveries. You need to get everyone out looking for them.’
‘Where’s his phone?’ the sergeant asked, and then to Ryan, ‘And why would you have this number?’
‘I’ve been helping them,’ Ryan said. ‘I’m begging you to ring it. If I’m lying you can put me in a cell and pepper spray me all you like.’
As McVitie retrieved Ryan’s iPhone from an evidence bag, a switchboard operator was running into the room. ‘Sergeant, call on the red line: Homeland Security Protocol. A Dr Denise Huggan wants to speak with whoever’s in charge.’
Ryan gasped with relief. He hadn’t had a chance to leave a message when he’d connected to Dr D’s voicemail, but she’d clearly triangulated his phone signal and tracked him down to the police station.
The sergeant spoke to Dr D briefly before passing the handset to Ryan.
‘Kazakov was shot bad,’ Ryan blurted. ‘I doubt he made it. It sounds like Elbaz just blew the IDoJ base, but there’s ten vans packed with explosives.’
‘Heading where?’ Dr D asked.
‘Shopping malls,’ Ryan said. ‘Kazakov said something about tomorrow being this amazingly busy shopping day.’
‘Black Friday,’ Dr D confirmed. ‘We’ll get everyone on it. Local cops, state police, FBI. How are you doing?’
‘Haven’t slept since I left Kyrgyzstan,’ Ryan said. ‘So pretty exhausted, but no injuries.’
‘Well that’s something, at least,’ Dr D said. ‘We’ve got helicopters on standby. I’m in Montgomery, a hundred miles from you. I’ll get a local FBI agent to you for a full debriefing, and tell that sergeant to start looking for those trucks.’
After their early wake-up, James and Bruce took the four advanced driving students out to the track for some practice driving in dark and rain. But tracks can’t prepare drivers for buses, cyclists, pedestrians and all the other real-life hazards, so for the second part of the morning James and Bruce led their students on to real roads in a pair of BMW saloons. Each had heavily shaded windows to hide the underage drivers.
The task was to drive quickly but safely, on A-roads and motorways, and finally to navigate a busy town centre and multistorey car park. Alfie drove the first stretch in James’ car, with Ning set to pilot the return journey. After a ten-minute wait for Bruce, Leon and Grace in the other car, they headed into a pedestrianised shopping area and found Café Rouge for lunch.
James had picked up a couple of texts from his girlfriend Kerry back in California, but he hadn’t been able to look while he was concentrating on Alfie’s erratic driving style. He remembered to check them after he’d ordered a mayonnaise-free steak sandwich from the waiter.
Seen this weird terror thing? Dead scary!!!
James was mystified, but the restaurant had a good Wi-Fi connection and he managed to stream TV news on his phone. Bruce and the four trainees leaned in to watch the little screen in the middle of the table.
The on-screen bar said Thanksgiving Terror and there was a grainy, distant shot of a huge explosion, followed by a cut to live footage of a smouldering ranch house. As the newsreader spoke to a terrorism pundit, the scrolling news bar spelled out the facts:
College football game called off after plane explodes on inaugural day of Alabama stadium • Cargo pilot’s family held hostage, then rescued in dramatic FBI raid • Explosion at ranch house • FBI hunting for ten explosive-packed trucks • Public told to stay away from shopping malls in Texas, Florida and six other southern states.
James was shocked, but also relieved because Kerry and his American uni mates lived in northern California, over a thousand miles from where everything
was kicking off. As he sent Kerry a one-word reply saying WOW!, the presenter on his phone cut to a newsflash.
‘News agencies are now reporting that a large explosion has occurred on a highway near the town of Jackson, Louisiana. Police there identified a truck fitting the description of one of the wanted vehicles. After a brief chase, suspects ran from the vehicle on foot but were apparently able to detonate the vehicle remotely. There are reports of damage to a footbridge and injuries from flying glass, but so far no information on fatalities … If this information is correct, it means that two trucks have been located, with eight still unaccounted for.’
‘Heavy, shit,’ Leon said.
Grace seemed less interested. ‘There’s a Hollister across the street,’ she said eagerly. ‘Any chance we could pop in before we get back in the cars?’
James scoffed. ‘I’ve done enough clothes shopping with Kerry and my sister, Lauren. I’ve seen too many “quick pop-ins” that turn into hour-long sessions where you have to try on twenty-six garments and then walk out without buying anything.’
Ning smiled. ‘That’s a highly sexist generalisation. Although in Grace’s case you’re spot on.’
Grace scowled at Ning. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Mine,’ Ning growled back.
Alfie made a purring sound. ‘Me-ow, girls!’
The waiter came over with their drinks and their attention drifted away from the news broadcast until Leon’s phone started ringing. Campus Calling flashed up, and the voice on the other end belonged to CHERUB’s chief handler Meryl Spencer.
‘I wanted to check if you’d heard about Alabama?’ Meryl asked.
‘Watched it on James’ phone a few minutes ago,’ Leon said. ‘Why are you calling me about this?’
‘Agents aren’t supposed to gossip about their missions, but I know they often do and I didn’t want you worrying about Ryan.’
‘Ryan’s in Alabama?’ Leon gasped. ‘I thought he was in Keer … Kyar-git-stan or however you’re supposed to pronounce it.’
Everyone around the table tuned in when Leon mentioned Alabama. James whispered to Ning, ‘Is Ryan his older brother?’ and Ning nodded.
‘Well it’s nothing to worry about,’ Meryl told Leon. ‘Your brother’s been through an ordeal but he’s OK. Now I need you to put James or Bruce on.’
Leon handed the phone over and James spoke cheerfully. ‘Hey, Meryl!’
‘I need you and the kids back on campus by four,’ Meryl said. ‘Zara’s getting everyone together in the main hall. All lessons and training are cancelled and there’s going to be an announcement.’
Everyone had been called to the main hall a few times when James had been an agent. Usually it was an opportunity for the chairman to read the riot act about some behaviour problem. But that had always been first thing, or after dinner. He’d never known everyone to get called back to campus in the middle of the day.
‘Is it old chairman Mac?’ James asked. ‘I heard he’s been sick.’
‘James, if I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you,’ Meryl said. ‘But it’s definitely not Mac. The last I heard he was spending Christmas skiing with Fahim and some young drama teacher he met at a parents’ evening.’
15. DALLAS
Two staff manned the CCTV booth in the security building and a senior controller stayed on duty in mission control, but everyone else on CHERUB campus had crammed into the assembly hall, from tiny red shirts sitting cross-legged on the floor near the stage, to kitchen staff, teachers and gardeners clumped at the rear.
The only other time James Adams had seen this many people in the hall was for present opening on Christmas morning. A ripple of anticipation crossed the space as Chairwoman Zara Asker rose three steps on to the stage. She wore a flower-print dress with a black cardigan over her arms.
There was silence as Zara tapped the microphone to make sure it was on. ‘CHERUB is a family,’ she began solemnly. ‘Sometimes we forget the risks that young agents and staff have to take and now I must make the kind of announcement that every CHERUB chairman hopes they never have to.
‘Many of you will have seen the news about terrorist activity in Alabama over the past few hours. I can confirm that one CHERUB agent and one member of staff have been involved in trying to foil the IDoJ terror plot. Both were at the Oak Ranch shortly before it exploded. The agent escaped and is now resting in Dallas, unharmed. Tragically, Instructor Yosyp Kazakov was shot during this escape and he died, either from his wound or during the explosion shortly afterwards.’
Zara paused as shock filtered through the gathering.
‘Yosyp Kazakov was fifty-three years old. Born to a military family in the Ukraine. His brother died while fighting alongside him during the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, and we know that Mr Kazakov has an adult son with whom he’d lost contact.
‘During the 1980s, Kazakov was selected for Soviet Special Forces work. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Kazakov joined NATO as a defence analyst, and helped to train Special Forces in the United Kingdom, the US and many other countries.
‘He joined CHERUB as a training instructor in 2007, but while most of you will remember him in this role, Kazakov’s background and experience also made him useful in undercover work, including the mission on which he had been deployed for the past seven months.
‘All lessons and training have been cancelled for the rest of the day. Details of a full memorial service will be announced shortly. In the meantime, carers and other staff are on hand if you want to talk about what has happened or just need—’
Zara stopped talking and made a slight sob.
‘A shoulder to cry on,’ she said, as she dabbed her eyes and backed away from the microphone.
Zara’s tears had set off quite a few staff and cherubs and once it was clear that she couldn’t carry on, Head Training Instructor Mr Pike stepped up to the microphone.
‘Kazakov was a man’s man,’ Pike said firmly. ‘Some of your memories of being trained by him might not be happy ones.’
A few restrained laughs went through the audience.
‘But Kazakov wasn’t cruel. He cared about the people he trained. I remember him in the instructors’ hut, worrying about how he was going to get a kid past their fear of heights. I remember Yosyp spending a whole evening with a trainee who was struggling with her language assignments, even though he needed to be up at three a.m. to set up the following day’s training programme. Kazakov worked you hard, but he worked himself harder, and you’re all better CHERUB agents because of him.’
A well-muscled black-shirt girl standing near James shouted out the CHERUB training chant. ‘This is tough, but CHERUB is tougher.’
She got a couple of weird looks, but then a bunch of her friends repeated the chant.
‘This is tough but CHERUB is tougher.’
By the third chant, half the room was in on the act. The chant became official when Mr Pike said it through the microphone and the next time it became a roar.
‘This is tough but CHERUB is tougher.’
Burly black shirts, tiny red shirts, carers, mission controllers, chefs, tech-support, right the way up to Zara Asker, who was now at the rear of the stage with husband Ewart’s arm around her back.
‘This is tough but CHERUB is tougher.’
People had tears down their faces, but they were stamping their boots and making the training chant louder than they’d ever made it before.
Fu Ning remembered Kazakov’s proud expression when she’d pulled on her grey shirt at the end of basic training, Bruce Norris welled up as he remembered Kazakov getting him out of bed to test the mettle of a new CHERUB recruit in the dojo, while James Adams fondly remembered working with Kazakov on his first ever casino scam.
‘This is tough but CHERUB is tougher,’ they shouted.
They were all sad, but the strength of the CHERUB family made hairs stand up on four hundred necks.
Ryan had struggled to stay awake while a young FBI special a
gent debriefed him on every minuscule detail of who and what he’d seen at Oak Ranch. He’d finally crashed out aboard a small business jet taking him to Dallas and remembered nothing that happened after take-off when he woke in an attic room with a Nirvana Nevermind poster on the angled wall over the bed and twenty pairs of girls’ shoes lined up by the window.
He smelled grungy, and when Ryan opened an eye the camouflage backpack he’d brought from Kyrgyzstan was on the floor by the bed, plus his stained T-shirt and crusty jeans. The only things missing were his blood-spattered Converse, which he’d last seen getting dropped into an evidence bag at the sheriff station.
Ryan suspected he’d been carried upstairs to bed. He had dirt packed under his nails and blood matted in the hairs around his left wrist. Two red fingertip-shaped smudges from where …
He sat up in shock: Kazakov’s blood. Dead man’s blood.
The kick of grief made Ryan feel like his chest was in a vice. Kazakov had only been his pretend father, but they’d worked undercover together in Kyrgyzstan for the past seven months. They’d argued like you’d expect any adult and teenager living in cramped quarters to argue, but they’d also become friends.
Ryan also felt survivor’s guilt. Maybe Kazakov would be alive if he’d made it to the getaway car quicker. Or if he’d killed the guard instead of wasting time tying him up. Or if he’d dragged the guard deeper into the bushes so that he’d been harder to find …
Ryan sat on the side of the bed, head between his knees, catching a vague whiff of his own armpits and feet. He’d felt this same deep hurt when his mother died. It would pass, but knowing that didn’t make the moment any less desperate.
Close to tears and with no idea who he’d find downstairs, Ryan pulled his dirty jeans on and peeked out on to the landing.
‘Hello?’
There was no answer, but he could hear a TV, so he headed down four flights clad in shaggy beige carpet. There was something comforting about finding himself in someone’s home, even one clearly run by a man, with photos of college football teams along the stairs, a dartboard by the front door and lumps of motorbike engine spread over the dining table.