Black Op Page 4

  ‘OK, kids,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve brought you here for some extra training that no one needs to know about. But, before that, I think you have some questions for me. Please ask anything you like.’

  There was a silence in the stadium as the five children looked at Jim. Where should they start?

  Lily went first. ‘We’ve been briefed in full about the mission,’ she said tentatively. ‘By Julia, but –

  ‘But who exactly are you and what do you have to do with us?’ Hatty cut in.

  Lily put a hand to her forehead. Sometimes her friend’s direct questions embarrassed her.

  Jim cleared his throat quietly, then spoke. ‘Can I handle Hatty’s question first please, Lily? I think it’ll help.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lily smiled.

  ‘In brief,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m Jim Sells. I used to play football for England, West Ham and some other clubs. I was a defender. Now I coach defending across the world.’

  ‘And you played in Russia?’ Hatty said.

  ‘During my career I played for Spartak Moscow, yes.’

  ‘And that’s got something to do with why you’re here with us?’ Hatty pressed.

  ‘I hope Julia told you about that,’ Jim said, smiling. ‘As a result of playing in Russia, I was recruited by the UK government to spy on the Russians.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’ Kester asked. ‘Going from football to this.’

  ‘Yes, I was scared,’ Jim said. ‘But like you, I believe in my country. I don’t have any children or a wife, so I don’t have greater responsibilities – and I’m not a religious man. And, well, it felt exciting to be honest.’

  Hatty understood that. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Hatty. Now Lily?’

  ‘When are we going on our first mission?’ Lily asked. ‘And how?’

  ‘Good question,’ Jim replied, dropping his voice. ‘Tonight. We’ll drop you into Ukraine once the target – the possible terrorists – is stationary.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Adnan said too loudly, his voice echoing off the stadium sides.

  ‘Yes,’ Jim said, soft-voiced.

  ‘How will we get there?’ Kester asked. ‘It’s a long way, isn’t it? Or have they moved closer?’

  ‘It’s still a fair distance,’ Jim said. ‘But not by helicopter.’

  Lily glanced at Lesh who she knew would already be grinning. He loved helicopters. He had a huge smile on his face.

  ‘We’ve had some briefing notes,’ Kester said. ‘Maps, and so on. But they’re vague. Do we know all we need to know?’

  ‘No,’ Jim replied. ‘But, once the target has stopped tonight and we’ve assessed the terrain, we’ll give you diagrams, pictures. But really that’s why we need you in there. To find out all you can about the terrain, the men and their capabilities. You know pretty much everything I can tell you until tonight. So shall we do some training? I mean football training.’

  The training began with a surprise. Jim fitted them all with an earpiece: the kind they might use on a mission. Then he told them what he wanted them to do.

  ‘I want you to spread out across the width of the pitch, like a defence would in football. Then I want you to run as one, mid-pace, keeping a straight line. All five of you. Every few seconds I will speak to one of you through your earpiece, telling you to change direction. Your job is to watch each other and respond so you stay in perfect line. OK?’

  The first five minutes were a debacle. When one of them turned to run the other way, one, or even all of the others, would carry on the way they were going. It looked terrible, but that made them focus and, as a result, they stopped making so many mistakes and became more aware of each other. Twenty minutes in, they had it sorted, working better as a unit, barely missing a turn, all of them grinning.

  And, because it was going so well, Lily let her mind go, like she did when she was running on the fells at home, no longer controlling her emotions or keeping a grip on her thoughts.

  Her first thought was that this football training was like preparing for a mission. Trying something again and again, making mistakes, overcoming them and improving. Whatever they did, it worked like this: making a shelter in a South American rainforest, following suspects on the streets of London, target shooting practice.

  Lily frowned suddenly. Memories came back to her: of the day that they were recruited, of the day their parents had been murdered.

  All the Squad members’ parents were spies and, because they all knew each other, the kids had grown up going camping together to a place in the Lake District twice a year. Tents. Boats. Fishing. Outdoor stuff. As the children got older, they started challenging the adults to competitions. Who could catch the most fish. Giant treasure hunts across mountain tops. Then, on the day it all changed, raft building.

  The challenge that day was to build a raft big enough to get all their team across the lake to an ice-cream shop on the other side of the water. Kids versus adults.

  Both teams had started building their rafts, using material from the woods that ran to the edge of the water by the campsite. But when the kids’ raft was ready they saw that the adults weren’t even half done. They’d been messing about, maybe even losing on purpose. So, with the adults still on the beach, the children were already halfway across the lake.

  Lily had been the first to see it.

  The sound of gunfire reached them across the smooth surface of Lake Ullswater at the same time as she said, ‘There’s something happening on the beach …’ That was all she had been able to say. Then the six children – aged eleven then – had seen a group of ten masked men emerging from the woods at the side of the water, all bearing machine guns, all firing, pieces of wood and stones flying around, their parents falling.

  The government did everything they could do look after the six orphaned eleven-year-olds. They assigned them an adult, who was a senior spy herself, to look after all their needs as they tried to rebuild their lives without parents.

  But it became clear to the children that there could be no rebuilding.

  They could never go back. There was nothing to go back for.

  They would have to go forwards.

  They approached the senior spy looking after them – a woman called Julia – with an idea. Rather than be mollycoddled as damaged children, protected from everything, they could become protectors themselves, using their status as children to go to places and find out things that adult spies never could.

  At first, Julia had dismissed the idea, but the next day she came back to them and agreed to it.

  And there was a good reason.

  The entire network of British spies across the world had been compromised. No British spies were secret any more. The attack on their parents had been a result of that security breach. It was an emergency that needed a radical solution.

  Six children became part of that solution: no one would expect spies to be under sixteen.

  Lily heard voices calling her and she realized that she had stopped running, stopped training and was standing in the middle of the pitch, staring at the grass in a trance. She looked up to see five boys coming towards them across the pitch.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked Hatty.

  ‘Wisła’s youth team. Under-elevens apparently,’ Hatty explained.

  ‘And why are they here?’

  ‘They’re going to attack,’ Jim said. ‘And you are going to defend.’

  Jim had arranged for five Wisła youth team members to come and play attack-and-defence against the Squad. But they weren’t thirteen-year-olds like the Squad: they were all aged ten.

  Jim set up a defence with Lily and Lesh in the middle, Hatty on the left and Adnan on the right. Kester was in goal.

  ‘Why am I in goal?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you used to be a keeper,’ Jim said.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I know a lot
,’ said Jim.

  The game began. Badly. It took the under-elevens no time to find out the Squad’s weakness. After the Polish boys got their third goal, Lesh heard them talking. Up to this point he had loved playing against a Polish team. It was nice to hear them shouting in his first language. But not any more.

  ‘Are these really England players? They’re a joke.’

  ‘They’re older than us too. They’re rubbish.’

  Adnan was next to Lesh and Lily as Kester was picking the ball out of the net. ‘What are they saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Lesh replied glumly.

  ‘Go on,’ Adnan insisted. ‘I bet they’re proud to be playing the mighty England, aren’t they?’

  ‘It’s something like that, Adnan,’ said Lily.

  By the time the Wisła players had reached nine goals, Adnan was losing it. He knew he was the weak link and that the others had actually done quite well, even Kester, who had made a couple of good saves.

  As soon as Jim blew his whistle to give the players a rest, Adnan went over to him.

  ‘Drop me,’ he said. ‘I’m rubbish.’

  Jim smiled. ‘Adnan. I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Adnan protested.

  ‘Why do you think?’

  Lesh leaned forward. He knew the answer. ‘Because Adnan is an expert river-rafter and scuba-diver. Because we were practising both activities in England, meaning there’s a good chance we’ll be doing them out here. That’s why we need him. And if he’s part of the mission, that means he needs to be part of the team too.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jim said.

  The game restarted. There was a cool breeze blowing across the pitch now and Adnan felt it keenly, upset that he was letting everyone down.

  When a boy a foot shorter took the ball around him for the twelfth time, then passed it back to a teammate, Adnan felt at fault. He saw the Wisła player lining up a shot. And he couldn’t control himself. If he wasn’t going to stop them with his feet, he’d have to do something else. He was determined to prevent another goal, whatever it took. So, as the shot came in, he leaped off the floor and caught the ball in his hand. It was an amazing catch. The way he’d reached out. His agility. His reflexes. All down to his martial arts training – and completely illegal.

  There was a moment of silence before the young Polish players began to complain.

  ‘Penalty!’ They even shouted it in English. And it was a penalty.

  Adnan watched the boy whose shot had been handled pick up the ball and put it on the spot.

  Kester rubbed his gloves together and crouched. He was determined to stop this one. The score was 9–0 and double figures would be embarrassing. Then he heard a voice coming from behind the goal.

  ‘Kester. Swap with Adnan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want Adnan in goal now. You go right back.’

  Kester knew to do exactly what Jim asked without looking upset. He had to make it look like it was normal, so he handed the goalkeeping gloves to Adnan.

  ‘Go in goal,’ Kester muttered.

  ‘I’ve never played in goal in my life,’ Adnan argued.

  Kester shrugged.

  Jim had made it over to them by now. ‘That was a fine catch, Adnan. Your reflexes are great. That’s down to your martial arts skills I expect.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with martial arts?’

  ‘When the ball comes at you, pretend it’s an arm attacking you. You’ve got superb reflexes. You’re tall. You’re athletic. You move like a cat. You’re a natural keeper.’

  Adnan shrugged, then pulled the gloves on and stood a couple of metres in front of the goal, waiting for the penalty to be taken. The player at the penalty spot put his hands out, complaining.

  ‘You need to be on the goal line,’ Lily told Adnan in a soft voice.

  Adnan walked backwards. Then, remembering what Kester had done, he crouched and eyed the ball.

  The penalty taker smiled and stepped up to hit a shot hard and low which skimmed the grass towards the bottom right corner. The perfect penalty.

  But Adnan was in the air diving, his arm outstretched, his fingertips reaching as the ball was about to speed over the line, pushing it round the post.

  The perfect penalty – but an even more perfect save.

  Adnan heard Jim’s huge hands clapping first. Then his teammates shouting and cheering. They’d found a role for Adnan.

  Fight

  The youth tournament organizers had arranged for a place in the hotel where the young players could relax away from the public eye: it had a drinks machine, sofas, a table football game and a pool table.

  The Russian players were sitting at one end of the room, an adult talking to them in a quiet voice, occasional laughter breaking out.

  The England players were standing round the drinks machine and the pool table. None of the Squad felt like being there. They wanted to be in bed. In two hours they were heading off to Ukraine for their first mission, but Jim had insisted that they mix with the other players, to make friends and try to fit in.

  Kester was talking to one of the original team, Johnny, who was reading a book.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asked, having already spotted it was Stormbreaker, a favourite book of his.

  ‘Alex Rider,’ Johnny replied. ‘It’s a spy story. I love books like this.’

  Kester smiled, then, to cover his reaction, said, ‘They’re by Anthony Horowitz, aren’t they? I love them too.’

  ‘Do you?’ Johnny said enthusiastically. ‘What else do you like?’

  ‘The Young Bond series,’ Kester said. ‘H.I.V. E. Lots of series like those.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you just love to be a spy?’ Johnny said, an excited look on his face.

  Kester felt like saying, ‘No, it’s really irritating. You never get any sleep,’ but he thought better of it and nodded, mirroring Johnny’s enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I would.’

  Immediately he felt a hand on his shoulder and was worried that Jim had overheard him talking about spies.

  ‘What about table football?’ The voice was Rio’s. ‘Do you like that too?’

  Kester turned and smiled. ‘I love table football,’ he said, knowing Rio was challenging him to a game.

  ‘But are you any good?’ Rio asked.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Kester replied. ‘Sometimes I win. Sometimes I lose.’

  ‘That’s where you and me are different then.’ Rio stared hard at Kester. ‘I play to win.’

  There was a silence. Kester wondered if he was supposed to feel scared at this point. ‘Shall we?’ he said at last. Rio grinned.

  As Kester walked over to the table, he could sense a change in the room: conversations tailing off, the sound of drinks cans being put down. He was trying to work out what was the best thing to do: win and face more animosity from Rio, or let him win and hope that they could become friends if Rio felt he had put one over on Kester.

  Kester’s mum and dad would have said win, win at all costs, win every point in every game. But Kester had never been like that. He could lose a battle if it meant they would win the war. He thought that if they’d been alive, his parents might have understood that now.

  Kester decided that would be his strategy. Lads like Rio needed to feel that they were the best, then they relaxed. So he pretended he was rubbish at table football. He spun the players and clattered the ball in random directions. He could see it was working because Rio was grinning even more now and everyone had gathered round to see how truly great he was at table football.

  Now that they were watching, Kester let Rio score.

  0–1.

  Georgia and Finn clapped wildly, but Kester noticed they were the only ones who did. So were the others in the team not so keen on Rio?

  Rio was oblivious to that as he plucked the ball from the hole and kiss
ed it, smirking at Kester. That was the point when something snapped in Kester’s mind. He knew he should stay in control and calm, that this was only a stupid game with a stupid boy, but he hated bad winners more than he hated bad losers. Why should he let Rio win? So Kester decided he would win. He wasn’t going to do it in an openly aggressive way, but he was going to win all the same.

  The ball was on the table again, Rio hitting it hard, smashing it at Kester’s goal over and over. No control. Just force. And quickly Rio scored a second one, rattling it in before Kester had a chance to gain control.

  0–2.

  Georgia and Finn clapped excitedly again and Rio grabbed the ball and kissed it. Again.

  Kester could feel a rage coming on now. Everyone thought he was a calm and easy-going boy, that he never got flustered. But he did: he was just very good at hiding it. He knew he had to stop feeling angry and start taking control, so he breathed deeply to slow his heart rate down.

  The ball clattered back into play. Now that Kester had calmed himself, he could feel his touch was just right. This was better. He used a defender to angle the ball to his midfield. Then a midfielder to angle it to a striker. Then he tapped it to the side with one striker and slammed the ball in with another.

  Easy.

  1–2.

  Kester didn’t look at Rio’s face. He didn’t kiss the ball or smirk when he scored his second, third, fourth and fifth goals. All he did was focus, control the ball, move it around, shoot and score. No showing off. No posturing.

  5–2.

  When Kester got his sixth goal, he glanced up at Rio for the first time. He could tell immediately what was going to happen: Rio’s fist was going to come across the table.

  And he was right. Kester drew back to shift his balance, leaving the fist flailing to his left and Rio sprawling over the table. Kester heard screaming from the other England players, Hatty and Lily’s voices, shouts from the Russians. Shouts that sounded like encouragement, like they were enjoying seeing the England players fight each other.

  Kester stared at Rio and – keeping his voice calm as his attacker brushed himself down – asked, ‘Do you want to finish the game?’