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“Jimmy!” exclaimed Felix, jumping to his feet. “What happened?”
Jimmy didn’t know where to start. “Ares Hollingdale is holding your parents at the French Embassy,” he blurted.
“And Chris and Saffron are going to bust them out?” Felix beamed, one big ball of energy.
“Something like that,” Jimmy laughed.
Felix grinned one of his unmistakable grins. Eva and Georgie didn’t look quite so happy. “At least someone will be getting out of prison,” Eva grumbled.
“Yeah,” Georgie added, “who’s going to rescue us?”
“What do you mean?” Jimmy asked.
“I mean that we’ve all been stuck in this house for days.” Jimmy’s sister toyed with a stale hunk of baguette. “It’s no wonder we can’t sleep – we don’t do anything all day.”
“At least we don’t have to go to school,” Felix chipped in with a bounce.
“So what?” Eva shrugged. “I’d rather go to school than be stuck in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even have my phone with me.”
Jimmy considered everything for a moment. He never liked it when Eva moaned, especially when Georgie started moaning with her, but she had a point. It did feel like being imprisoned.
“I’d rather be back with my parents,” Eva went on, “and they’re a pain. I bet they aren’t even looking for me.” Jimmy remembered Eva’s parents with a shudder of disgust. They were supporters of the undemocratic British Government.
Suddenly, Felix cut in. “Stop moaning,” he said quickly. “This is the best night ever.” Then his face suddenly changed, scrunched up in thought. “You’re right though. We’ve been stuck in the house long enough. If anybody’s coming for us, they would have come by now. Tomorrow I’ll persuade your mum to let us go out.”
“Whatever you say.” Jimmy shrugged and forced out a yawn. “Let’s convince Mum in the morning. You do the talking. I’ll watch.”
Miss Bennett followed the tunnels of NJ7 not to Downing Street, which was still being rebuilt, but to the deepest part of the complex. There, in a stark bunker, surrounded by three men in SAS uniform and another two in NJ7 suits, Ares Hollingdale was huddled over his desk. Opposite him, leafing through a dog-eared orange folder, was Ian Coates.
“Who’s there?” the Prime Minister panted when he heard his visitor enter. “An assassin! Security!”
The soldiers around him looked confused. They all recognised the Director of NJ7.
“It’s OK, Prime Minister!” shouted Ian Coates. “It’s Miss Bennett.”
“Ah yes, of course. Stand down, men, you’re dismissed. I know this woman.” Hollingdale’s eyes darted around the room as if every second something tapped him on the shoulder unexpectedly.
“Mitchell Glenthorne has been deployed, sir,” Miss Bennett announced once the room had emptied of security attendants.
“Don’t let that thing near me,” Hollingdale muttered. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of.”
“Prime Minister,” Miss Bennett continued, “it’s not too late to call him back.”
Ian Coates jumped to his feet, startled. “Miss Bennett,” he said, “if there’s a way to safeguard our Neo-democracy without hurting Jimmy then please don’t keep it to yourself.”
Miss Bennett flashed him a patronising smile, then continued to address Hollingdale directly. “Now that we have found where Jimmy Coates is hiding, in less than an hour a single UAV could flatten the entire area.”
Ian Coates sunk back into his chair, his face suddenly pale.
“Sending out another assassin is an unnecessary risk,” Miss Bennett went on. “Haven’t we learned anything from the last time we did it? Order the UAV strike.”
“Are you mad, Miss Bennett?” the PM cried. “You’re talking about sending an unmanned plane to bomb French soil!”
“The French would probably retaliate,” Miss Bennett said, her voice devoid of emotion, “but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle.”
Hollingdale’s hands were shaking. He swung round in his chair to face the wall and waved over his shoulder. Ian Coates took that as his cue to stand again, and explain.
“The Prime Minister feels that provoking the French would be far too dangerous.”
“What do you mean?” Miss Bennett asked flatly.
Hollingdale spun back round and pounded his fists on his desk.
“Sauvage!” he screamed, eyes flashing. “Until we know what the French are capable of we must proceed with extreme caution.”
Miss Bennett inspected the faces around her, each one rigid with anxiety. Ian Coates continued his explanation.
“We have reason to believe that when Dr Sauvage fled he passed classified technology to an agency called ZAF-1.”
“ZAF-1?” queried Miss Bennett.
“Possibly the French equivalent of NJ7,” Ian Coates replied. “We don’t know. The details are encrypted in these files.” He threw the folder on to the desk and pulled out a bloodstained orange flash drive in a clear plastic bag.
“And for eleven years nobody has told me about this?” She was furious.
“Nobody knows about this, Miss Bennett,” the PM said. “Even within NJ7. If Dr Higgins knew that we had this flash drive, the only explanation would be that we killed Dr Sauvage. If he finds that out he might be dangerous.”
“You’re completely paranoid!” Miss Bennett shouted. “Dr Higgins isn’t dangerous no matter how many of his friends we kill. He could decrypt those files in minutes.”
Ares Hollingdale twitched almost imperceptibly. Miss Bennett sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “So,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, “the French could possess weapons far more powerful than we thought.”
“Exactly,” Hollingdale snapped. “And they could use them.”
Miss Bennett paced across the room. “But hold on,” she said, “we have no intelligence suggesting they have these weapons.”
“We have this intelligence,” Coates insisted, pointing at the flash drive.
“Call that intelligence?” Miss Bennett mocked. “I’ve had enough of your sort of intelligence, Coates.”
“I don’t like your tone, Miss Bennett,” Coates replied calmly, his eyes piercing Miss Bennett’s.
“Why are you even in this office?” she sneered. “A month ago you were sitting at home with your feet up. Do you think your opinion matters? If you’d raised that boy properly we wouldn’t have this problem. You’re no better than Christopher Viggo.”
Ian Coates looked away. Christopher Viggo’s name sent a pulse of anger across his face.
“Miss Bennett, that’s enough,” Hollingdale barked, “lan’s opinion is of the highest importance to me. His loyalty has been tested and he has proven himself.” He rubbed his hands together, every vein clearly visible. His cuff rode up slightly, revealing a small tattoo of a green stripe on the inside of his left wrist. “We don’t know for sure what the French are capable of,” he continued. “Until we do, we must attack Jimmy Coates, not France.”
CHAPTER FIVE – IT’S RAINING UMBRELLAS (#ulink_50e918a9-5815-57ed-9ff0-c3bb77956005)
MITCHELL’S PREY LOOMED large in his binoculars. It was Jimmy Coates. The circle of vision encompassed him like a tightening noose. At first, Mitchell had been surprised when he discovered who his target was. They had crossed paths before. It seemed so long ago that Mitchell had tried to mug him in London, and ended up showing him where the police station was. But that was a lifetime away. Nothing could surprise him now. Mitchell pushed back the memories of his old existence. Those miserable days were over. This was a fresh start.
His room at the Auberge de I’Aubergine overlooked the main square. From here he could keep an eye on anything that went on. The village held no secrets for him. It wasn’t that Beuvron was so small – it was on the cusp of becoming a town – but Mitchell let no detail escape him.
He thought with pride of the hours he had spent in the grass outside Jimmy’s farmhouse hideaway. His surveillance had even included close observation of the old woman that he now knew was Yannick’s mother. He watched her buy food and clothes for her guests. He listened to her moan about it to the shopkeepers. All the information went towards building a rich picture of Jimmy’s life in hiding.
Mitchell felt a surge of delight as Jimmy took a seat outside the crêper¡e across the square. It was perfect. Jimmy had done the same thing every day for the four days that he and his friends had been allowed out of the farmhouse by Jimmy’s mother. Mitchell had spent the whole night in preparation, banking on Jimmy doing it again today.
Mitchell mouthed the words with him as Jimmy ordered a citron pressé. The blend of fresh lemon juice, water and sugar that you mix yourself had become their favourite drink. Yes, Mitchell thought, your last drink. Such a shame you’ll be dead before it arrives. Then he dropped his binoculars on to his bed and dipped his hand into a long slim pouch of black leather that hung on the bedpost. He drew out three separate sticks of bamboo, each about twenty-five centimetres long.
With the precision of a surgeon, he screwed them together, end to end. He went to the leather pouch once more and brought out a silver ring with a tiny clip attached to it. He clamped it on to the top of his bamboo rod. Finally, he reached up to his own head. With a deft tug, he plucked out two hairs. His hair was, as always, cropped short. It didn’t matter. The strands were a perfect length for his purposes. He dabbed the ends on the tip of his tongue and secured them delicately across the ring.
What emerged in his hands was a specially adapted weapon of his own design. It was probably the most sophisticated peashooter in the world, complete with a target sight and cross-hairs.
Mitchell moved back to the window. He pulled up the glass just a crack and knelt on the floor. From his pocket he produced a handful of tiny pebbles. Afterwards, there would be no bullet on the scene to arouse suspicion. The pebbles would disappear among the everyday debris of the street. It wouldn’t even be a pebble that killed Jimmy Coates.
There was no question of sympathy as Mitchell loaded a stone into his shooter. Far from it. As far as Mitchell was concerned, Jimmy deserved his punishment. So you’re 38 per cent human too, Mitchell thought.
“Well, you’ve had it easy,” he muttered, watching Jimmy leaning back in his chair, comfortable, smiling. “You’re not like me.”
Gently, he raised the bamboo and whispered, “Show time.”
“Deux citrons pressés, s’il vous plâit,” announced Jimmy to the waiter, his French accent perfect.
“Oh, order one for me too,” whispered Felix, licking his lips.
Jimmy raised his eyes to the sky, “Don’t worry, you’ll get one,” he sighed.
“Oh, you think he knows what I want already?” Felix muttered, watching the waiter walk away.
Against his better judgement, Jimmy found himself laughing. “By the way,” he added, “I think you should put sugar in it this time.”
“No way,” Felix replied. “I like the lemon flavour.”
Jimmy had forgotten how much fun it was when Felix was just being Felix. What’s more, it felt fantastic to be outdoors. Jimmy’s mother hadn’t been able to justify keeping everyone in the house much longer. In any case, Yannick’s mother was being driven mad by having kids around. If they hadn’t been allowed out, she would probably have thrown them out.
In the four days since Viggo and Saffron left for London, there hadn’t been any news from them. Jimmy realised it would take time to gather enough intelligence to raid the Embassy without being discovered, but the waiting was still excruciating. Meanwhile, he and Felix had been taking advantage of being allowed out and not having to go to school.
Now they had a chance to enjoy spring in France. It wasn’t all that hot, but there was enough sunshine for the crêperie to have umbrellas up over the outside tables. Except for the logo of some French beer company, they could have been giant blue lily pads. Jimmy and Felix made themselves comfortable in the shade. Jimmy was almost ready to forget his troubles.
But something wasn’t quite right.
“What’s the matter?” Felix asked, noting the concern on Jimmy’s face.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“What’s nothing?”
Jimmy shrugged, but still he couldn’t relax. “It’s my…you know…” he dropped his voice, “…programming. It won’t go away.”
Felix leaned forward. “I thought it would always be there. You have to get used to it. Otherwise you could let it ruin a perfectly beautiful—”
PING!
The noise cut off the end of Felix’s sentence. At that moment, the umbrella that sat in the centre of their table wheeled off its pole.
Felix let out a laugh, half from amusement and half from shock. Jimmy found nothing to be amused about. The umbrella crashed down in front of him. It passed a centimetre from his face. He rocked back in his chair, startled. The spokes of the umbrella dug into the table like darts on a dartboard. The ends were unusually sharp. The umbrella came to rest on its side, the material sticking up from the table between Jimmy and Felix.
Jimmy leaned forward to regain his balance, but he couldn’t. The back leg of his chair snapped clean off and he clattered on to his back. Then—
PING!
The umbrella from the next table careered downwards. Jimmy watched as its points glinted in the sun. They were heading straight for his face. At the last instant, he rolled out of the way. The spokes of the umbrella smashed on the pavement. Before Jimmy could get up—
PING!
Another umbrella. Then: PING! PING! PING! One after another, every umbrella rocked on its pole and wheeled towards him. Jimmy lunged between the spokes. They came like daggers. He snatched up a chair and used its legs to fend them away. At last, he made it under one of the tables.
The noise of crashing metal gave way to the shouts of waiting staff. Jimmy looked around him at the forest of chair and table legs. Then Felix’s face appeared, red but grinning.
“You OK?” he yelled over the hubbub.
“I suppose,” panted Jimmy. “Except that a bunch of street furniture just tried to kill me.”
Felix roared with laughter. Jimmy didn’t feel like joining in.
Mitchell knelt on his bed, forcing his disappointment down. So that plan had failed. Now he had to press on with a new plan straightaway. There was no time to dwell on his mistakes.
He looked around his room. There was barely enough space for a bed and a sink. It was filthy too, but Mitchell wasn’t looking at that. He was examining the charts and maps that he had pasted up all over the walls. His mission surrounded him.
He tore down one of the maps and spread it out on the bed in front of him. He banged his fist on to it then scolded himself for letting his frustration show. Of course his first attempt hadn’t worked. At the back of his mind he had always known that the plan with the umbrellas had been a long shot. Now he had to get serious.
Mitchell scratched at his heel. The itch was a constant reminder that Miss Bennett was watching him. There was nowhere he could go that she wouldn’t find him. He felt towards her almost the way he would towards a very strict teacher. Facing her without having done his homework was out of the question. But there was a difference. Mitchell wanted to complete his assignment. For the first time in his life he felt like he had a real future. He couldn’t wait until his eighteenth birthday. By then his conditioning would have taken over his entire being. And he’d never again be haunted by the face of his brother.
Mitchell drove those thoughts out of his head. They would destroy his concentration – and Miss Bennett’s task demanded total concentration.
He traced his finger along a line on the map. It represented the road that joined the farmhouse and Beuvron. Jimmy and his friends walked along it every day. Here? Mitchell wondered. A traffic accident? He pictured the narrow carriageway, the muddy ditch and the poplars that bordered it. He shook his head. That would be enough to kill a normal human, but Jimmy Coates was faster, stronger, with reactions that would see him through almost anything.
Where then? Mitchell’s finger wandered around the farmhouse in a spiral, searching the fields. It paused over a small collection of buildings. What’s this? Mitchell asked himself. He peered closer. It was some kind of industrial site. The perfect place for an accident, he thought. But I have to get closer to the target. How?
He leapt off the bed and crouched low by the window, watching but invisible. He saw Jimmy in a heated discussion with the manager of the crêperie about the broken umbrellas. Felix was stumbling about trying to help clear up the mess. He wasn’t doing terribly well.
Then two girls arrived. Mitchell knew it was Georgie and Eva. He knew too that they were about his age and that they spent most of their time in the Internet café round the corner. They had obviously heard that something had happened and come to check that Jimmy and Felix were OK.
Mitchell nodded gently, an idea trickling into his head. Yes, he thought. It’s time to make my move.
CHAPTER SIX – SOME BOY (#ulink_4d1661c1-48f3-55fb-b55c-95cdd825d5f6)
JIMMY LAY IN the dark, staring up at the intricate cobwebs that decorated the ceiling. He was replaying over and over the accident at the crêperie. He tried to bring up exact images. That way he could search them for details he hadn’t noticed before. He wanted to be able to zoom in as if his memories were photographs. Unfortunately, he wasn’t doing very well, but something inside him wouldn’t let him sleep until he’d examined every moment.
