‘Godspeed, Mr Drone,’ James said, as he strolled to a wall behind the TV and switched the gym lights on. ‘We’ve got two planes booked for tomorrow,’ he yelled. ‘Folks going to Turkey for mission mayhem need to be on the tarmac at 0600 ready to load planes and equipment. Take-off is scheduled for 0700. The RAF plane taking the rest of you back to the UK is due at eleven. Chef and the training instructors will need help packing up, so the four remaining Currents need to eat breakfast and have bags packed and asses down by the pool by 0900.’

‘Once James is out of here I’m in charge,’ Capstick added. ‘And I haven’t handed out a punishment lap in almost a month, so you’d better not muck me around.’

34. BLACK

It had always been an off-the-books black mission, but up to this point James had been comforted by familiar surroundings: the hostel, old friends, CHERUB agents, training instructors. Now it felt real, strapped into an unmarked thirty-five-year-old Antonov freighter, complete with red-faced Slav pilot and patched-up bullet holes.

They were making a second pass at a dirt landing strip, five kilometres from the southern Turkish town of Viransehir. The first run had been abandoned after the front landing gear failed to drop, and seeing the co-pilot opening a floor plate and winding it down with a manual crank didn’t inspire confidence.

Lauren had never had a problem flying, but she grasped Bruce’s hand and grimaced as the deafening jet touched down, blasting great trails of grey dust over surrounding fields.

‘I’ll never complain about Ryanair again,’ Kyle joked, as rusted landing wheels squealed to a halt.

After a flight that was windowless, unpressurised and unheated, James, Ryan, Lauren, Tovah, Kyle and Bruce threw off grotty blankets and undid safety harnesses as a rear cargo ramp lowered to the dirt. First sight was a pair of Turkish customs officers jumping out of a Toyota pick-up, while an airport maintenance truck ploughed through the jet dust.

‘They hate Israelis,’ Tovah told James.

‘I don’t speak Turkish,’ James said, as he unzipped a document pouch and pulled a dozen-sheet cargo manifest.

‘Me neither,’ Tovah said.

The two officers strolled up the cargo ramp, stubbly beards and guns on hips. False passports were inspected and stamped. James passed a pre-agreed seven thousand euros with the manifest and earned a broad smile.

‘Automobile parts,’ the officer said in broken English, smiling at his colleague as he stamped and initialled each page of the manifest.

‘Get your gear out of here fast,’ the officer said. ‘Use the side gate.’

Five microlight planes, along with weapons, micro-drones, body armour and everything else needed for the commando-style raid, had been packed into cardboard crates marked with Audi and Citroen logos, before getting vacuum sealed in thick plastic.