When James reached the double doors, he looked at his running watch and pressed the stop button before flipping through the settings: time 22 minutes 17 seconds, distance 5.03 kilometres, heart rate 139 beats per minute. It was only half a minute outside his personal best and he’d set that when the ground was hard.
As he leaned against the wall and pulled off his soggy trainers, James spotted his mates, Kyle and Shak, running across the field behind him. He thought about waiting, but his T-shirt was wringing with sweat and he didn’t want to get cold.
The back hallway on the ground floor smelled of the muggy air that wafted out of the laundry. The lift always took ages and James felt sprightly, so he jogged towards the staircase.
‘Mr Adams,’ a man called sternly.
James’ heart sank as he turned around and saw his geography teacher Mr Norwood. Norwood was an ex-cherub in his mid-thirties. Like many CHERUB staff that didn’t have families, he lived in an apartment on the fourth floor of the main building. He approached James holding a plastic laundry basket filled with folded shirts and jeans.
‘Been for a run I see.’ Mr Norwood smiled, as he glared at the muddy trainers hooked over James’ middle fingers.
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Norwood tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘And yet, I seem to recall you telling me that you were still recovering. You said you’d been told to take things easy for a while and not overtire yourself with homework.’
James tried to sound sincere. ‘It’s true, sir. I nearly died.’
Kyle and Shakeel staggered through the doors. ‘You came out of nowhere, James,’ Kyle grinned as he slapped James on the back.
Mr Norwood looked at Kyle. ‘So, you’d say James is in good health now?’
Kyle and Shak both nodded.
‘He’s got strong legs,’ Kyle explained. ‘He’s not fast, but he blasted past us when we were coming up the last hill.’
James’ friends kept on walking and James turned to follow them. ‘Nice talking, Mr N,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’d better take a shower before I stink the joint up.’
‘Goodbye, James,’ Mr Norwood said. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday morning, with the homework on rainforest ecosystems.’
‘I still get headaches, sir.’
Mr Norwood shrugged. ‘I’ll give you a choice, James. Either bring your homework, or an excuse note written by your handler.’
James realised he’d been rumbled. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said miserably.
‘And James, I don’t appreciate you trying to con me.’
James walked towards the staircase and found Shak and Kyle cracking up on the first landing.
‘Busted,’ Shak grinned.
‘Shut your face,’ James tutted. ‘I don’t care anyway. It’s only some piddling question-and-answer sheet and Kerry’s in my class, so I’ll copy off her.’
‘Cool,’ Shak nodded, as the three boys started up towards their rooms on the sixth floor. ‘I’ve got Norwood in another set, can I copy Kerry’s off you?’
When he reached his room on the sixth floor, James noticed that his answering machine was flashing at him. He tapped the play button and listened to the messages as he stripped off for a shower.
‘You have two new messages, first message left today at nine seventeen a.m.’
James recognised Ewart’s voice. ‘Hi James. Listen, I know it’s Saturday, but I got another call from MI5. They’d like you to come down to London to answer some more questions. If it’s OK, I’ll try setting it all up for Thursday.’
James threw his T-shirt down and groaned to himself. ‘What’s the point of more questions, you penis? I’ve been down there and gone through everything twice already.’
James could refuse to cooperate with the investigation if he wanted, but it wouldn’t look good on his record. On the upside, a Thursday in London would mean he’d get away without handing in his GCSE History coursework for a few more days.
‘Second new message left today at eleven thirty-seven a.m.’
‘James, it’s Meryl,’ the voice barked angrily. ‘I want your sorry little hide down here in the second-floor conference room as soon as you’ve finished your run and taken a shower. And don’t bother putting your good clothes on.’
‘No more messages. To listen again, press one, to repeat messages press two …’
James shut off the answering machine and shook his head as he hooked his muddy shorts over his big toe and flicked them up in the air, narrowly missing his dirty clothes basket. As he headed for the shower he racked his brains trying to work out why Meryl sounded so angry.
Mr Norwood couldn’t have complained in the time it took him to walk up the stairs, and Meryl’s message had been left more than an hour earlier anyway. Whatever he’d done, the request to put on old clothes was a bad sign. It could only mean oven cleaning, ditch digging or some other thoroughly unpleasant way of spending your Saturday afternoon.
*
Two floors up, Lauren Adams had just finished Saturday morning lessons and was in a much better mood. She had a wheeled suitcase and a mass of clothes spread over her bed, and System Of A Down blasting from her mini hi-fi.
She jumped out of her skin when a man’s voice sounded in her ear. ‘Sorry,’ he shouted. ‘But I knocked three times.’
It was John Jones, a dome-headed mission controller who’d worked with Lauren and James on several previous missions. He wore a smart brown suit and shoes, with a waistcoat that made him look like a country gent.
Lauren rushed across the room and switched off her music. ‘Sorry, John. You frightened the life out of me.’
‘Give me Elvis Presley any day,’ John smiled. ‘Where are you off to? I was hoping you’d be able to help out on a mission.’
‘Oh,’ Lauren said. ‘Well, I’m only away for one night, with a few friends. Some fancy spa-hotel type deal.’
‘Very swish,’ John said. ‘I’d like to have someone in place as soon as possible, but it can wait for a day or so. I need a young agent who speaks decent Russian and is capable of working solo. To be honest, you’re the only candidate I feel I can totally rely on.’
‘Right.’ Lauren was slightly embarrassed by the compliment. ‘I haven’t got any other missions lined up. Do you want me to come to your office on Monday morning or something?’
‘No,’ John said, as he pulled some stapled sheets of A4 from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got a photocopy of the briefing here. The mission isn’t hugely complicated, but I have a young daughter myself and it’s an issue I’m particularly passionate about.’
‘So what are we talking about?’ Lauren asked.
‘Human trafficking.’
*
**CLASSIFIED MISSION BRIEFING FOR
LAUREN ADAMS**
THIS DOCUMENT IS PROTECTED WITH A RADIO
FREQUENCY IDENTIFICATION TAG. ANY ATTEMPT
TO REMOVE IT FROM THE MISSION
PREPARATION BUILDING WILL SET OFF AN
ALARM
DO NOT PHOTOCOPY OR MAKE NOTES
HUMAN TRAFFICKING & SLAVERY
Talk of slavery often brings forth images of Africans being shipped to colonies in the Americas during the nineteenth century. Few people realise that it is still a problem in both rich and poor countries. In 2004 a United Nations report stated that slavery was the world’s third largest source of criminal income after drugs and the illegal weapons trade. Furthermore, the growth in slavery has been so rapid that it could become the biggest earner within twenty years.
MODERN SLAVERY
Modern slavery takes many forms. The common feature is that poor people – usually children or young adults – are kidnapped or tricked into travelling to a wealthier part of the world, where they are held captive and forced to work against their will.
In poor countries, it has long been common for youngsters to be captured and taken far away to work in sweatshops, to fight as soldiers, or to work in the sex industry. Some poor parents willingly sign their children
over to people who promise to offer them a better life in another part of the world, while others hand their children over to crime syndicates and are too terrified ever to contact the police. Most disturbingly, many child slaves are street children or orphans who are sold into slavery by the police officers and care workers who are paid to protect them.
In rich countries, such as the UK and the United States, the vast majority of slaves are teenage girls who are forced to work within the sex industry. Girls as young as twelve are smuggled into the UK, beaten, terrorised and often injected with heroin or other narcotic drugs to make them docile, before being forced to have sex for money.
The problem is vast. It is estimated that there are more than 25,000 forced sex workers in the UK (500,000 within the European Union) and that over 90% of these are girls under the age of twenty. A few of these girls have been smuggled from Asia and Africa, but the majority are from Russia and the poorer parts of Eastern Europe.
THE CHERUB MISSION
In early September a high-speed passenger ferry collided with a small motor launch during a storm in the English Channel. Despite the launch being severely damaged, the captain refused all offers of help and tried to escape.
Appalling weather meant that search and rescue resources were stretched to the limit. The authorities were unable to pursue the boat, but several hours later a customs officer on a routine patrol spotted the launch tied to a small jetty, two kilometres from the seaside town of Worthing.
At first, the boat appeared to have been abandoned, but further inspection revealed that a twelve-year-old girl was trapped at the end of the jetty. Two customs officers braved high seas washing over the jetty to bring her back to shore.
The officers suspected that the girl was being trafficked to work in the sex industry and a search team sent on to the boat when the storm subsided revealed clothes and personal items belonging to as many as ten teen and pre-teen girls.
Since September, the young girl rescued from the pier has been staying at a children’s home near Brighton. She has been questioned by police and social workers, but has adamantly refused to admit anything, except that her first name is Anna.
Police have been unable to trace any sign of the people who were running the smuggling operation, or of the other girls who escaped from the damaged boat. Although all human trafficking investigations are given a high priority, the police are particularly concerned in this instance because it is thought that up to half of the girls on the boat were aged thirteen or under and are likely to have been trafficked to paedophile gangs.
All attempts to question Anna have so far proved fruitless. However, police psychologists are hopeful that she may open up to a trusted friend.
Although Anna’s English is improving, it is thought that a girl aged 11–13 with a decent command of Russian will have the best chance of winning Anna’s confidence and unearthing information about both Anna herself and the criminal gang that smuggled her into Britain.
Arrangements will be made for a CHERUB agent to move into the Brighton children’s home and share a room with Anna. The aim is to make friends and get as much information as possible about her background and the people who smuggled her to the UK.
NOTE: THE CHERUB ETHICS COMMITTEE APPROVED THIS MISSION BRIEFING, ON CONDITION THAT ALL AGENTS UNDERSTAND THE FOLLOWING:
This mission has been classified LOW RISK. The agent is reminded of her right to refuse to undertake this mission and to withdraw from it at any time.
This mission is likely to last one month or less. Its primary goal is to gather information from the victim of a crime. The danger to the agent should be minimal.
*
‘My god,’ Lauren said, after she’d read the briefing. ‘Those poor girls. Of course I’ll do the mission, I had no idea it was such a big problem. I always thought prostitutes had sex because they made loads of money. I didn’t realise that they were forced into it.’
‘Sadly an awful lot of them are,’ John said. ‘It’s starting to get more publicity these days, but people still don’t care much about the women. I mean, you open up your Sunday paper and hear that some footballer slept with a prostitute and a lot of men just laugh and say good on yer, son. They don’t understand that many of these women are being drugged and terrorised.’
Lauren nodded. ‘I bet that’s exactly what James and his stupid mates would say. Speaking of which, I’ve gotta run downstairs. Can I give you a call on my mobile and we’ll sort this out later?’
‘Fair enough,’ John said, as Lauren scrambled towards the door. ‘I’ll be in my office for a few more hours and my mobile will be on all night – don’t you want your suitcase?’
‘Not right now,’ Lauren said, as she sprinted off down the corridor.
15. JUMPED
James was in a foul mood as he approached the conference room on the second floor. He still couldn’t think of anything he’d done that would explain why his handler, Meryl Spencer, had sounded so annoyed on the phone.
He’d only ever been to the conference room once before, to watch an extremely boring video on the safe use of stab-proof vests. He pushed the door open and was baffled to find that the windowless room was pitch black.
‘Meryl?’ James asked curiously.
Suddenly, all the light tubes started flickering and a great shout came up from under the conference table.
‘Surprise!’
After a brief jolt, James spun around and saw close to a dozen of his friends clambering from beneath the long table. A PowerPoint graphic appeared on the screen at the end of the room. It had a picture of a birthday cake with a fifteen at the bottom. Beneath it was written, P.S. Sorry it’s a bit late.
Kerry stepped up and gave him a kiss. ‘Happy birthday, James.’
Meryl emerged from behind the door, where she’d activated the light switches. ‘So, you got my message then?’
James turned and pointed at her with his mouth hanging open. ‘You …’ he spluttered.
‘I bet you were crapping yourself on the way down here,’ Bruce grinned.
‘I was,’ James nodded. ‘I was doing my head in trying to work out what I was in trouble for.’
Meryl gave James a quick kiss as Lauren burst into the room.
‘Aaaarghhh,’ she moaned, as she placed her hands on top of her head. ‘I can’t believe I missed it. What did he look like?’
‘It was good,’ Kerry’s best mate Gabrielle giggled. ‘He was totally stunned.’
‘Does he know what we’re doing yet?’ Lauren asked.
‘You mean this isn’t it?’ James said.
‘Oh no,’ Meryl smiled. ‘You’ve had a pretty rough time of it lately, what with getting beaten up, being suspended from missions and having Ewart and half of MI5 giving you the third degree. So Zara suggested that we use up some of CHERUB’s abundant supply of hotel points and take you on a magical mystery tour.’
‘Sweet, where are we off to?’
‘It wouldn’t be a magical mystery if we told you,’ Kerry said, as she glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve packed a bag for you and we’d better get on the road if we’re gonna make it on time.’
*
Luckily, the twins Callum and Connor were the only good mates of James’ who were away on a mission. Lauren, Rat, Kyle, Bruce, Kerry, Gabrielle, Shak, Mo and Gabrielle’s new boyfriend Michael all piled into the mini-bus with their overnight bags. Somehow Lauren had also managed to get Bethany invited, despite the fact that James hated her guts.
Kyle had made a compilation CD of James’ favourite music and they had it turned up loud as Meryl blasted down the motorway at over a hundred miles an hour, knowing she’d never get a speeding ticket in a vehicle registered to CHERUB.
‘Hood him,’ Meryl said, when she turned off the motorway.
Shak produced a woollen balaclava. Kerry and Lauren held James in his seat while it was pulled over his head, with the eye and mouth holes at the back.
‘It itches like hell,’ James complained, bu
t Kerry just jabbed him in the ribs and told him to stop being a baby.
It was already starting to turn dark when they pulled up in a gravel car park. James couldn’t see, but could hear two-stroke engines buzzing in the distance and hoped it was something to do with motorbikes. The sounds got louder as they led him across the car park and through a gate, before ceremoniously removing the hood. He was slightly disappointed when he looked out over a floodlit track covered with small, four-wheeled dune buggies. But he didn’t want to seem ungrateful and broke into an appreciative smile.
‘Cool,’ he grinned, watching a buggy lift off the ground as it sped over a massive hump and ploughed through a muddy puddle.
This explained why Meryl had asked him to wear old clothes. Maybe it wasn’t motorbikes, but it still looked like a lot of fun.
They headed towards a shelter with a corrugated metal roof and some benches underneath. Meryl approached a weedy teenager with a clipboard; but he was surrounded by drunk blokes who all wore identical T-shirts saying KEVIN JONES STAG WEEKEND 2006.
‘You can’t go out there in that state,’ the teenager was explaining, as five drunken men stared him down.
‘Then we want our money back.’
‘I can’t do that,’ the teen spluttered. ‘It’s in the terms and conditions, but anyone with half a brain cell could have worked out that you can’t turn up drunk at a place like this.’
‘You’re going the right way about getting a slap,’ the largest of the drunks said.
The five men looked like rugby players, and even the smallest one was twice the width of the teenager.
Meryl interrupted. ‘Party of twelve, booked in the name of Spencer.’
‘Tickle my titties,’ one of the drunks spluttered, as he pointed at Meryl. ‘I know you, you’re that Kenyan bird who won the hundred metres in the Olympics. Me sister had a poster of you in her bedroom. How about a kiss?’
Meryl scowled. ‘How about a punch in the face?’
As the man who’d asked for a kiss lunged towards Meryl, the largest of the five drunks shook his head and opened his enormous mouth. ‘She’s too muscly to shag, looks more like a geezer to me.’