The room was dark

There was the musty smell associated with mould and damp wafting around the room, too thick to be dispelled by the slowly whirling ceiling fan. Shadows flitted around the room, caused by the one single source of light in the room –a tall taper candle. The candle, despite how small it was compared to the darkness in the room, shone brightly and unwaveringly, casting a warm glow. It was a strange sensation, feeling the cold spikes of the darkness warring with the soft, gentle blanket of the candle. There was a small statue of Buddha inside a simple, but beautiful, wooden shrine. The Buddha was made from pure gold, but these days nobody but a veteran and certified jeweler or businessman could tell the difference. The look of absolute serenity and peace on the statue's face was absolutely enrapturing; it was hard to believe that there could be such a being in existence, totally untouched by the treachery and violence of the modern world. Perhaps that was why Buddhists had their humble abodes in nature and away from civilization.

James closed his eyes and took three deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. All his life –ever since he was three, that is– he had laboured to achieve that moment of peace and serenity as depicted by the statues of Buddha. A measure of peace entered his body as he finished taking his deep breaths, as he finished clearing his prana.

He was garbed in traditional samurai clothes –the kimono shirt and trousers, all under a soft robe. He was sitting in the lotus position, something he had always been able to do naturally.

"You have done well," a voice said from the darkness. Despite himself, James couldn't help but tense, and a small, startled gasp escaped his lips; he hadn't heard anyone enter, and very few people could surprise James like that.

"I did what was expected of me," he said, still facing the statue of Buddha.

"So I heard." There was a trace of amusement in the voice. "Your plan worked perfectly." This time there was something like disbelief and haughtiness in the tone of voice.

"As I said it would," James said, not rising to the challenge.

There was a moment of silence, then: "When will stage two of the operation begin?" the voice asked.

"When the moment is ripe," James answered. Even through his closed eyes, James could see the bright light of the candle; he found this more fascinating than the conversation he was forced to have.

Venom entered the voice from the shadows. "Don't jerk around with us, kid," it said. "We have no time for games. We came to you because you could get the job done. We don't handle disappointment very well."

The threat was barely veiled, and James found contempt welling in his heart, which he forced down and expelled by taking more deep breaths. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and stared straight into those half open, serene eyes of Buddha. Instead of losing himself in those eyes, he focused on what the voice had said; We. James had known all along that there had to be some support behind this operation. This contact wasn't smart enough to be the head of something so delicate; he was too rash, too impatient and altogether too thuggish. But James had detected fear and hatred beneath the venom in the voice. After a few more seconds of deliberating, the probability that made the most sense was that the people behind this operation were more powerful than he had first anticipated. The voice was that of a hardened operative. That much was clear to James, even though they had never met face to face. And such a hardened person could not display such fear involuntarily unless he faced harsh retribution.

"These things cannot be rushed, as you well know. Infiltrations are risky operations. If we rush this, we will be detected and swiftly dispatched. If we linger, we will be detected and swiftly dispatched. And yet there is no such thing as a perfect infiltration; we have to do this as carefully as possible. This is not a playground we are planning to take over; it a secure, British Intelligence compound, and every person currently on that campus is an obstacle that has to be overcome. We must tread carefully; Careful is the watchword. You should know all this. You were a field operative at one time, yes?"

James felt a tingle of satisfaction as the voice gasped; he had hit a nerve. The voice hadn't expected him to know anything at all about such operations, let alone about himself.

After a few second, the voice said; "Nevertheless, you are not giving me a specific time frame. Things have to be planned accordingly."

"Very well," James said. "This operation is on hold for the next three and a half months."

"Three and a half months!" the voice exploded. "That is unacceptable! We have many–"

"Quiet," James hissed. After a moment, he continued. "The one thing that an infiltration operation demands is that the exfiltration be smooth and invisible. I have to think of myself; will I survive another day in this country if CCTV cameras and the people on campus all see me brazenly carry out our goal? No. I have to blend in; the head of campus already has an eye on me, for reasons I have yet to find out. There is a three months training course I have to partake in if I am to be eligible for missions, as every child there is eager for. Blending in, man! I must not behave like a foreign object. Anyway, this is a long operation. You must have anticipated setbacks, and this is one setback that cannot be helped."

The response was long in coming, but finally, the voice said; "You said there is a three month course you must undertake, and yet you ask for us to cease operations for three and a half months."

"Of course. I have to actually undertake missions and mingle with the other children. As I said, I have to blend in."

"You are well trained." There was something akin to respect in the voice.

An hour later, James emerged from the basement of the dojo.

The conversation had left him rattled. Did he really want to do this? It would be breaking the law in so many contexts, and this time, it wouldn't be the police, but British Intelligence he would be dealing with. A mistake and he could kiss freedom goodbye … and his life.

He picked up a whistling sound, a sound only produced by a blade flying through the air, and a moment later he saw movement in the corner of his eye. He leaned back and watched a small knife fly through where his head had been a moment before. He continued with the motion –leaning back –and, using his hands to pivot whilst he was upside down, he performed a backward spin, now standing up facing the direction the knife had come from. He was now facing his assailant.

For the next twenty minutes, his assailant and he waved a dance between themselves; it was a dance of attack and defence. His assailant, all clad in black attire and wearing a balaclava, was a vision of the perfect martial artist –a mixture of skill, speed, strength and untamed rage. But James was not without his own attributes –he was quick, agile and stronger than he appeared. But despite all this, the assailant was clearly holding back.

James was finally defeated when the assailant tripped James, and while James rolled away from a blow he thought would blow, the assailant reached to the wall a foot away and plucked the knife he had thrown at the beginning of the fight. When James came back to his feet, he found seven inches of sharp, shining metal millimetres from his throat. He gulped.

For a minute, the room was still and both fighters didn't move, but finally James took a step back and bowed low. The assailant gave a sharp nod and sheathed his knife inside his clothes, away from view. The assailant bowed also.

The assailant removed his balaclava. Underneath, he didn't anything special. He was nondescript; with a face you saw once and immediately forgot. He was Oriental, but unlike normal Orientals, he was tall and muscular; he looked middle-aged, he had jet black hair, deep brown eyes, and a grave face.

The man didn't talk as he turned and walked toward the door. James followed without a word. They went into the corridor and up the stairs to the top floor. In the last room on the right, they stripped and sidled down into the depression on the floor that was full of steaming, hot water. James sighed, feeling the water wash over him with its soothing touch.

They sat there, floating in a surreal world of mist and sound, until finally James broke the silence.

"Sifu," he said.

"James," the man said. They sat in silence for another minute before James spoke again.

"I just had a meeting with my contact."

"I see." James gave his teacher a sidelong glance. It was at moments like these that his Sifu's lost its calm expression and gained a stony, impassive expression.

"I have no choice," James said with emotion. "I have to –" CRACK!

James hadn't seen the slap coming, and that made it all the more painful because he wasn't prepared for it. James did not flinch or retaliate or try to say anything at all; this was his Sifu, he knew best.

"Do not lie to me, James," the teacher said to the student. After a moment the Sifu added in a more normal tone, "Perhaps the next three months will serve to calm you down. This is not only about getting your mother back. This is about your duty, James. What will happen to Lauren if you are caught and arrested or if you die? She will be devastated. Do not think only of yourself. You say that you are doing this for Lauren, but is that the truth, James? Are you doing this for your sister or are you doing this for your own ends? Your own hunger will one day be your downfall if you continue like this. Perhaps CHERUB can serve to hammer some sense and responsibility into you." With that, the Sifu stood, wrapped himself in a towel and left.

James was flabbergasted. Sifu had been there when the kidnapping note had been delivered and the kidnappers had demanded James' cooperation. Sifu said that he did not want to be involved in James' mission, but if James wanted to go ahead and bargain with these shadowy men for his mother's freedom, then so be it. It was no secret that there was no love lost between James and his mother; it was Lauren's reaction that had convinced James to go along with the kidnappers' demand. At that very moment Lauren didn't even know what was going on, James had told her their mother was on holiday in some resort in middle Europe.

But as slid down onto the bottom of the hot pool to sooth the red welt across his cheek, he had to think again. No, he wasn't doing this for Lauren, and certainly not for his mother. Then why was he doing this? The answer popped into his head instantly; his father. No matter how much he tried to forget that man, his mind always came back to that matter, and with it cold, burning rage.

James opened his mouth in a soundless scream, letting all the air out from his lungs. How he hated his father. He would find him, and make him suffer. He would get his revenge.