‘Most of it’s in this one,’ Lauren said, pointing out a wheeled Delsey case with a broken strap. ‘The weird thing is the boxes look new, but the stuff inside them is ancient.’
Mac’s gloved fingers rustled as he picked out a small box that had been opened by Lauren. Inside was a dusty contraption, with a battered-looking circuit board which had a tiny electric pump attached to it. The outer casing had been daubed with thick yellow paint and a red hologram sticker with the initials FCX on it.
‘Wow,’ Mac said, breaking into a relieved smile.
Jake curled up his nose as he peered inside the bag. ‘Looks like a load of junk to me.’
‘FCX,’ Mac said, sounding increasingly excited as he opened a couple more cardboard boxes.
‘It’s painted on all of them,’ Lauren nodded. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means I’m guilty of the same crime as the kids in Fahim’s class who called him a towel head and a suicide bomber,’ Mac said.
Lauren was baffled. ‘Eh?’
‘Someone gives you an Arab name like Hassam Bin Hassam and tells you that they’re linked to the destruction of an airliner. What does it make you think they’ve done?’
‘Terrorism, obviously,’ Lauren said.
‘And that’s why we’ve been pissing into the wind for the past two weeks,’ Mac said, pounding a jubilant fist into his palm. ‘If Fahim’s family had been Dave and Bert Spratt from Bognor Regis, would we have thought that they were terrorists? No. All the evidence about Hassam and Asif was that they were traders, not terrorists. Tax evaders and rule breakers, but no links to terrorism apart from an Arab surname.’
‘Mac,’ Lauren said firmly, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re ranting on and on and I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. What does this random junk have to do with the plane blowing up?’
‘FCX stands for Flight Certification Expired,’ Mac explained. ‘The Anglo-Irish airliner that crashed over the Atlantic was twenty-one years old. It was no spring chicken, but airliners cost tens of millions of pounds and they’re built to last a good thirty years.
‘However, many components inside a plane have a significantly shorter lifespan. They might only be certified for three years, five years, ten years or whatever. When aircraft are brought in for scheduled maintenance, the components are replaced. As the pieces are removed they’re sprayed and given an FCX sticker so that they can’t accidentally be reinstalled. They’re then supposed to be taken away and destroyed, but this lot clearly haven’t been.’
Jake finished the story. ‘So Hassam and Asif buy the parts from someone inside the maintenance hanger, or from a local scrap yard. Then they clean off the paint and the stickers, give them a spruce-up and they end up doing another ten-year stint inside another aircraft on the opposite side of the world.’
‘Got it,’ Mac said. ‘Although this haul only indicates that Hassam and Asif were using their container business to move the illegal parts. They could just be part of a much larger smuggling operation.’
Lauren nodded. ‘That would explain why we couldn’t find any evidence in the accounts.’
‘That’s right,’ Mac said, realising that he hadn’t thought of this. ‘It would just show up as a container of goods being shipped on behalf of one of BHDM’s customers and if it was a routine shipment there’d be no particular reason for Hassam and Asif to have discussed it – which is why a week of surveillance picked nothing up.’
‘So you reckon ancient parts like these were fitted to the plane that crashed when it was overhauled?’ Jake said. ‘And these bits of junk are actually worth enough money to make all this worthwhile?’
‘I’d guess they’re worth a few hundred pounds each,’ Mac said. ‘Maybe even thousands to the right buyer once they’ve had a clean and the serial number’s been doctored. Aerospace companies sell their planes for less than it costs to build them, but once a plane is delivered they’re guaranteed thirty years of revenue selling spare parts. You can’t just set yourself up making widgets for a four-hundred-seat jet in some back alley. Airlines have to buy components from the original manufacturer and they can set prices sky high.’
‘So who’s behind it?’ Rat asked. ‘I mean, is it the airlines wanting cheaper parts, or the owner of the maintenance hangar?’
Mac shrugged. ‘It’s too early to say. This is a breakthrough but it’s only the first step in a major investigation.’
Rat looked at the rows of boxes in the bag, then pointed up at the sky. ‘So how many planes are up there right now, relying on bits of scrap metal to keep flying?’
36. SENSATION
AIRPORT GRIDLOCK!
• CHAOS WORSENS AS HALF-TERM FAMILIES MAROONED
• 185 PLANES NOW GROUNDED WORLDWIDE; MORE EXPECTED
• AIRLINES CRIPPLED, 35 HEATHROW FLIGHTS CANCELLED TODAY
• SIX MONTHS BEFORE ALL JETS ARE CLEARED TO FLY
Airports worldwide are facing a second day of chaos as America’s Federal Aviation Administration grounded another sixty-five airliners suspected of being fitted with dangerously worn-out parts.
In a further shocking revelation, arrests made in Dubai and India over the weekend have led investigators to believe that British-based brothers Hassam and Asif Bin Hassam were just a small part of a global network trading in uncertified and fake aircraft components.
At Heathrow more than five thousand passengers faced cancelled flights this morning. Airlines have warned that the huge number of grounded aircraft means it could be months before all of them are inspected and suspect parts replaced.
Long-distance rail routes across Europe are fully booked, while an estimated five thousand Brits are stranded in the United States and other long-haul destinations. Some face waits of up to a week for a flight home.
While some airlines with younger aircraft fleets are unaffected, most major airlines have cancelled some flights. Anglo-Irish has been worst affected. Its entire fleet underwent maintenance and cabin upgrades at the DNM works near Madras over the last two years and only one of its eighteen jets remains in service – a plane leased to replace the airliner that crashed over the Atlantic on 9 September.
Anglo-Irish shares plunged by more than seventy per cent on the London Stock Exchange and were suspended within ten minutes of trade opening. Industry experts say that Anglo-Irish is unlikely to survive the massive disruption to its services. The airline’s collapse would result in the loss of over eight hundred jobs. Other airline shares also fell steeply.
While authorities in the EU, North America and most of Asia have grounded suspect planes with immediate effect, controversy surrounds more sluggish action in developing nations and the former Soviet Union, where it is thought that dozens of potentially dangerous airliners are still flying.
London News – Tuesday 9 October 2007
Lauren, Bethany and Rat all had just-washed hair and red faces as they headed outside after an exhausting combat session in the dojo. There was a twenty-minute break before third period and they were heading for a mid-morning snack in the dining-room, but Lauren darted off the path as she spotted a white-coated man heading into the medical unit.
‘What’s up with you?’ Bethany shouted.
‘I’ll only be a sec,’ Lauren said. ‘Get me a hot chocolate and an almond croissant while you’re in the queue.’
‘What did your last slave die of?’ Rat yelled, but Lauren ignored him and kept running.
After cutting across a muddy lawn, she passed through a pair of automatic doors and entered the oppressive heat of the medical unit. She’d caught up with the slender doctor who supervised the medical examinations of every CHERUB recruit.
‘ ’Scuse me, doc,’ Lauren yelled.
‘Yes,’ the doctor snapped, with a German accent. He clearly didn’t appreciate being called doc.
‘Sorry, I mean Dr Kessler. Sir, I think you’re doing a physical on Fahim Bin Hassam this morning and I wondered if he was doing OK?’
‘Look behind you,’ Kessler said, frowning so hard his eyebrows practically switched sides.
Lauren turned and saw a line of muddy trainer prints on the immaculate white floor.
‘Oh god, I’m really sorry. Is there a mop or something?’
‘Nurse Halstead will do it. Just take those filthy things off your feet before you make another step.’
Lauren removed her trainers, revealing novelty socks with eyeballs on top and a grubby yellow bit around the toes that was meant to resemble a duck’s beak.
Kessler cracked a smile. ‘Very fetching.’
Lauren flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’ve been away and I’m behind with my laundry. It was these or a pair of bright yellow football socks I picked up in Australia.’
‘I heard about your latest mission,’ Kessler said, his voice becoming friendlier. ‘My wife is marooned in Hamburg thanks to your investigation.’
‘Sorry,’ Lauren said. ‘Better safe than sorry though, isn’t it?’
‘Two extra days without my wife is a blessing,’ Kessler grinned. ‘Her miserable face saps my will to live.’
Lauren laughed. ‘So am I allowed to know how Fahim’s doing?’
‘I have a sprain from the training course that needs attention, but if you go through the third door on the right you’ll find the observation room and you’ll be able to see for yourself. He’s unfit, but I’ve seen worse.’
‘Thanks,’ Lauren said.
‘And remember you mustn’t speak to—’
‘Can’t talk to orange,’ Lauren nodded.
The rule that you can’t talk to guests wearing an orange shirt on campus was strictly enforced, although it seemed pointless under the present circumstances.
Third on the right took Lauren into a space two metres wide and four long, with broad rubber strips hanging across the doorway at the far end. The wall contained a slit of one-way glass and Lauren crept up to it and shielded her eyes to block out reflections.
She’d never been in this viewing area before, but the two identical stations in the fitness testing area triggered grim memories. All new recruits go through a gruelling medical exam and fitness assessment when they’re first recruited. Once they’re accepted, cherubs have a six-monthly check-up, plus an extra one after any mission lasting more than six weeks.
While a few push-ups and a short run could determine Fahim’s current fitness level, CHERUB needed to know not how fit Fahim was, but how fit he had the potential to become. X-rays determined bone density, ultrasound had been used to examine the composition of his muscles, then urine and blood samples were taken.
After monitoring equipment had been attached to Fahim’s body, the fitness test proper began. Eighteen tests measured everything from muscle strength and body fat, to how fast Fahim could run and how long he could hold his breath. These tests pushed young bodies to the limit, and while Lauren herself had never thrown up during a test the smell of puke and disinfectant always hung in the air.
Lauren watched as Fahim took one of the easiest tests. He was walking briskly on one of the two treadmills, with an oxygen mask over his face and electrode patches stuck to his chest. Nurse Beckett kept one eye on him as his blood sample spun in a centrifuge. Beckett’s role administering fitness exams had earned her the nickname Miss Sickbucket, but she was actually a gentle-mannered lady with permed grey hair.
Fahim wore a mask and his breath passed down a fat tube, similar to a vacuum-cleaner pipe. A machine measured the oxygen level in the air and compared it with the amount of oxygen he breathed into the pipe. The less oxygen Fahim exhaled, the more efficient his lungs were and the greater his chances of passing basic training.
Lauren had only intended to ask Dr Kessler how Fahim was doing and run back to catch up with Bethany and Rat, but she became engrossed as Fahim wobbled and perspired through a test that didn’t even involve breaking into a run. It didn’t look good.
When Nurse Beckett stopped the treadmill, Fahim ripped off the mask and wiped his sweaty face on his orange CHERUB T-shirt. Lauren could tell that he’d already been through most of the recruitment tests. A bloodshot eye suggested a painful encounter with an experienced opponent in the dojo, there was chicken blood on his shorts, and he had a seriously grazed knee, most likely from mistiming the zip-wire jump at the end of the height obstacle.
‘Hello Lauren,’ Nurse Beckett said, as she pushed her way through the rubber strips and looked at her clipboard. ‘You’re not due for a test, are you? I’ve only got one orange shirt scheduled for this morning.’
‘Not until December,’ Lauren said, shuddering at the thought. ‘I came to see how Fahim was doing. Dr Kessler was busy, so he told me to take a look for myself.’
Nurse Beckett stepped out of the doorway and showed Lauren the clipboard with the assessment data from all of Fahim’s tests. The document ran to a dozen A4 sides, each with boxes on which the person making the assessment had stuck coloured dots.
‘Just like traffic lights,’ Beckett explained. ‘Green for a pass, amber for borderline, red for a failure.’
‘Oh,’ Lauren gasped, as she saw that more than a quarter of the dots were red. ‘Is it even worth carrying on?’
The nurse nodded. ‘It’s nowhere near as bad as it looks. Nobody ever gets all amber and green. His academic scores are up to snuff and he has good Arabic and some Urdu. Both are very desirable skills for a cherub in the present political climate.’
‘So how many more red dots can Fahim get away with?’
‘You’re only disqualified if you get a double red dot.’
‘How would he get that?’
The nurse paused for a second, thinking of a way to explain. ‘You can see here that I gave Fahim a red because of poor endurance, but his potential fitness is good so he’ll get amber in most other categories. There’s no fixed pass/fail score. Zara Asker will make the ultimate decision as to whether his score is high enough to be accepted. I’d only give him a double red if I discovered something like a heart problem, or a postural or skeletal defect that would lead to serious difficulty during basic training.’
‘And so far he hasn’t got any?’ Lauren asked.
Nurse Beckett shook her head and smiled. ‘We don’t torture you kids for the fun of it, you know. If someone gets a double red, that’s the end of the recruitment process.’
Lauren crossed her fingers on both hands and held them in the air. ‘I’d better get going or I won’t get anything to eat before my next lesson. I’m not allowed to talk to Fahim while he’s wearing the orange shirt, so can you tell him that I wished him luck?’
‘Of course,’ Beckett smiled. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure, so I’m sure it will cheer him up.’
As the nurse headed back between the rubber strips, Lauren thought of something. ‘Just a sec,’ she yelped.
‘What?’
‘You know you said that if Fahim doesn’t fail anything the ultimate judgement comes down to Zara? Do you reckon it might help his case if I tried to corner her and put in a good word?’
The nurse looked uncertain. ‘You’re a black shirt, so I guess your opinion counts for something. I certainly couldn’t see it doing any harm.’
‘Right,’ Lauren said, as she picked her muddy trainers off the floor. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
‘Love the socks by the way,’ Nurse Beckett said, as she disappeared back into the examination room.
37. PAINT
James and Kerry still faced their punishments for the unnecessarily violent assault on Danny. By Tuesday James had run his fifty laps and done six out of twenty hours’ decorating duty. Kerry’s punishment of three hundred laps and a hundred hours’ decorating was more daunting and would eat up all of her spare time for five or six weeks.
The junior block was a converted Victorian school that had been CHERUB’s headquarters until the main building was constructed in the early 1970s. James and Kerry had both been over the campus height obstacle enough times for the three-storey scaffold to present
no problems.
All the building’s rotting sash windows had recently been replaced with double-glazed plastic units. These didn’t need painting, but knocking out and replacing the windows had left a mess inside and out. The bare plaster outside had to be sanded, sealed and painted, while the area around the windows on the inside needed new lining paper and fresh paint.
The new interior paint wouldn’t match older faded paint, so Zara had decided that it was the ideal opportunity to redecorate the entire building. Rather than the security risk of bringing decorators on to campus, the work was being done by cherubs on punishment duty under supervision of the three-man building maintenance team. Older kids like James and Kerry worked outside and did trickier indoor tasks like wallpapering. Younger miscreants were given emulsion paint and rollers to do the more straightforward painting indoors.
When lessons turned out in the afternoon, more than a dozen kids who were on punishment donned blue overalls and put in two or three hours before they washed up and went for a late dinner.
‘Missed a bit,’ James said to Kerry, as he walked along the scaffold two floors up. She sat on the edge of a wooden board, trainers dangling as she painted a window ledge.
‘Do I give a damn?’ Kerry growled. ‘Two months of this crap, just for busting up a head case … Why aren’t you working anyway? Every time I look you’re wandering up and down while everyone else is grafting.’
James pointed inside. ‘I did some papering, then one of the red shirts knocked her roller tray off the ladder. Fortunately it landed on a plastic sheet, but she got all upset and I had to help her clean up.’
‘The red shirts are a waste of space,’ Kerry tutted. ‘We spend more time cleaning up their messes than they do useful work.’
‘Must admit I kind of like it up here,’ James said, as he grabbed a metal pole above his head and swung from side to side. ‘Painting’s really mellow. It’s just you and the brush and at the end of the job you feel like you’ve achieved something.’
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