Jimmy Coates: Power

At last he reached the tracks and turned. The detour to avoid the rockets had worked in his favour. It had given the train time to reach him. Jimmy slowed to keep pace with it and once again brought the chopper as low as it would go, gliding past the telegraph poles, wires and signals, sheltering alongside the last carriage of the train.

The fleet of NJ7 helicopters circled over the top, then wheeled round to follow, just behind the train. Jimmy could almost feel himself smiling, against his will. Something inside him was revelling in the danger and the furious pace, responding to it with a detached fury of its own.

Jimmy switched his display system back on. The lights didn’t matter now, and he needed to keep track of his pursuers. What he saw surprised him. They were pulling back. When Jimmy looked up, he realised why. Only a few hundred metres ahead, the track went into a tunnel. Jimmy was hurtling directly towards the side of a hill.

Pull up, he pleaded with himself. But his body flicked away his fear. Please, he begged, battling his own instincts. His body wasn’t responding. The ground loomed towards him. Was this part of his programming, he wondered. Perhaps he was destined to destroy himself to avoid capture.

The world seemed to slow down around him. Every clump of mud in the hillside was cast into sharp relief by the floodlights behind. The sharp outline of his own helicopter’s shadow grew rougher and rougher, larger and larger. There was nowhere to go. Above and around him was a net of military firepower controlled by NJ7. Ahead of him was solid earth, with no way through.

Through, Jimmy thought. Of course. At last he realised what his programming was planning. With split-second timing, Jimmy’s hands heaved on the controls. The helicopter slowed momentarily, darted sideways, then charged along the track, directly behind the train.

Jimmy plunged into the tunnel, but the rotors of the chopper were too wide. They snapped off with a powerful crunch and shattered in every direction. Jimmy knew he had no control now. All he could hear was the piercing screech of his runners scraping along the track. In the fountain of sparks, Jimmy saw that the nose of his cabin was pressing against the back of the train.

This was only half the plan. For the rest, he had to move faster than he ever had before. He swung himself out of his seat and around the side of the helicopter. The metal casing was burning hot to the touch, but he wasn’t holding it long enough to care. The friction of the tracks was slowing the chopper, while the train powered ahead. Before a gap could open up between them, Jimmy flung himself forwards, pouring all of his strength into stretching for a safe landing.

The back of the train seemed to jump up and smack him in the face. The impact knocked all the wind from his chest. The tips of his fingers caught a metal rim of some part of the carriage, but he couldn’t even see what he was clinging on to. Somehow he managed to claw his way round to the side of the train for a firmer grip and closed his eyes against the rush of wind and dust in his face.

The train burst out of the tunnel with the body of the chopper bouncing behind it. Jimmy opened his eyes to see that the whole airborne fleet was there waiting for him. Within a second, the sky was lit up with the blast of rockets. Jimmy gasped and clenched every muscle. He couldn’t believe it—NJ7 were actually going to blow up a train full of innocent passengers just to kill him.

But they weren’t. Instead, the rockets slammed into the broken and battered helicopter he’d just left. The rotorless body of the chopper erupted into a huge ball of flame. It tumbled along the track, spitting fire and debris in a huge circle around it.

Jimmy rattled on towards London, untouched.

The Cavendish Hotel on London’s Jermyn Street offered five-star accommodation from a past era. It was one of the city’s oldest remaining independent hotels, but everybody knew it wouldn’t survive for long. Hardly any tourists were allowed into the country these days, and there was no reason for British people to come and stay, even if they could afford it. That left only wealthy foreign businessmen, and most of them had better taste than to stay within the Cavendish’s sprawling corridors, with its peeling paintwork and lights dim enough to hide the stains on the walls.

More importantly to Zafi Sauvage, the service was erratic. For example, the management team didn’t care enough to ask each other about her—the pretty twelve-year-old girl who had recently appeared on the cleaning staff. As long as her uniform was tidy and she appeared busy with something, successive managers each assumed she was on work-experience for somebody else. It was an assumption Zafi nurtured through artful manipulation.

She even had the head concierge believing that she was sixteen, and the daughter of a foreign investor, on an undercover fact-finding mission. It was far-fetched but just about believable. Perhaps more so than the truth. Who would have believed that she was a genetically designed assassin working for the DGSE—the French Secret Service?

Zafi set about polishing the handrail on the main staircase, while she peeked down at the clock in the lobby. It was 4.50 a.m. In ten minutes she knew there would be a shift change and she knew exactly which team would be starting work. Memorising the rota had been one of the first steps in her assimilation on to the staff.

She left the gold of the handrail gleaming and trotted back up to the landing, where a service door took her into the Cavendish’s behind-the-scenes labyrinth. The twisting passages and spiral staircases of the ancient building were the perfect place to vanish.

This was just the first stage of Zafi’s disappearing act. From here, the whole world could become her labyrinth. Travel documents were easy to come by and easy to copy. Entire false identities could be created while inattentive receptionists took coffee breaks. The kitchens were a bountiful source of supplies and, thanks to the many empty bedrooms, she was well rested. The only question was where to go. Could she ever return to France? Her last mission for the DGSE had gone perfectly until the final moments. Instead of killing her targets, she’d helped them escape.

Zafi pattered through the corridors of the hotel, trying to picture the scenes back in Paris. Did her Secret Service bosses know yet that her targets were still alive? Could they possibly suspect that she’d failed on purpose? She was overcome by a rush of desperation. Would she ever get the chance to prove to them that she could be effective?

Her step was so light on the floorboards that there was hardly a creak. She made it to a storeroom of long-forgotten lost property and snatched up her jacket and a shoulder bag she’d packed full of essentials. In the pocket of her uniform she could feel the outline of her mobile phone, heavy on her skin. She knew the DGSE must have been trying to get in touch, but she didn’t dare check her messages.

Zafi slipped out of a fire escape into the back alley behind the hotel. Her timing was perfect. A rubbish truck rumbled into view at the end of the alley. The silhouettes of two burly refuse collectors lumbered towards the back door of the hotel. Zafi skipped past the pile of black plastic sacks and kept to the shadows. She easily slipped past the men without being noticed.

When she reached the truck, she pulled out her phone. It would be so easy to toss it away forever. Her old life would be over—crushed in the back of a rubbish truck. The DGSE would try to track her down, but they’d never find her. She was too good for that. She would let them assume she’d been killed in action by the British.

Her fist squeezed the phone so tightly it almost cracked the plastic casing. But she didn’t throw it. Her arm refused to move. She could feel her breath growing short and her limbs tightening. In seconds the rubbish men would be back and her chance would be gone. What was stopping her?

She glanced at the display on her phone. One new message. Her imagination dreaded what it might say. She’d failed to complete her mission. They could be recalling her to Paris to receive some kind of punishment. Or perhaps they were already laying a trap for her. Had she turned from France’s greatest weapon to an embarrassment, or even an enemy? Zafi gritted her teeth and told herself not to be so dramatic. It was just a mission, she thought. But without a mission, I’m nothing. In the corner of her eye she could see the rubbish collectors coming back, their backs laden with plastic sacks. Zafi pulled in a deep breath. I’m an assassin, she told herself. I can handle it. She delicately tapped the buttons on her phone and read the message.

As usual, it was in the form of an encrypted stream of letters and numbers. Zafi relished the warm hum in her brain, allowing her to read the code as simply as if it was a French nursery rhyme. When she saw what it said, the warmth spread from her head to the rest of her body. They obviously didn’t know what had happened—and they weren’t interested in the details. For now, at least, it looked like they trusted her. Zafi felt a surge of delight. They needed her. Something more pressing had come up and she was to turn her attention to it immediately.

At last Zafi smiled. This would be her chance. Who would care about the past if she completed this new mission? It would be the greatest achievement of any French assassin in history. It was the chance to prove she was still the best. To the DGSE and to herself.

She pulled off her maid’s uniform to reveal a thin black tracksuit underneath. She tossed the uniform into the rubbish truck, slipped the phone back into her pocket and set off at a jog. She headed south, towards Westminster. Her new target wouldn’t be hard to find.

She’d tried to eliminate him a couple of times before, but on each occasion somebody had been there to stop her. She’d tried to shoot him, but Jimmy Coates had got in the way. Then, more recently, she had intended to poison this target with the raw, untreated meat of a Greenland Shark. An NJ7 operative had ambushed her in Iceland and stopped her getting away with the poisonous meat.

This time Zafi knew she would succeed. She had to. For a short time she had let confusion get in the way of her identity. But she was back. And to prove it to everybody, only one man had to die. The five words of the message drummed through her head: “Terminate the British Prime Minister.”

Jimmy couldn’t believe that after an explosion like that on the track the train had continued its journey—and without the slightest delay. It was unusual for a train to be on time even without such a catastrophe on the line. He could only assume that NJ7 wanted to keep the little drama secret—as secret as an aerial fire fight and an explosion could be.

Even so, with every shift in the rhythm of the train’s rocking and every variation in the regular beat of the journey, Jimmy expected the worst. They’ll search the tunnel and the wreckage, he told himself. They’ll know I’m alive and that I’m on this train.

He had found a corner at the end of a carriage where he could sit without being observed. After he’d climbed in through the window he’d found a book that had fallen from one of the baggage racks and now he was leaning against the door to the toilet, pretending to read.

He didn’t even see the words on the page. He couldn’t settle his eyes on one thing for more than half a second. Nothing in his surroundings changed. Nobody came for him. Yet he couldn’t stop his nerves clattering as hard as the train. The cold from the floor crept through his body. He could feel heat spreading from his stomach and knew that his programming was trying to warm him and settle his nerves at the same time, but he fought it.

They’re trying to kill me, he told himself. It’s right to be on edge. The last thing Jimmy wanted to do was relax. He wasn’t ready to. His imagination was still replaying the explosion over and over, and his ears were still ringing from the successive booms. Most of all, he could still feel a rage inside him that was bursting to be let out.

At first he thought he was angry at the people who’d tried to blow him up, but slowly he realised that wasn’t true. The faceless pilots meant nothing to him, even when they aimed their rockets and pulled the trigger. Jimmy’s anger was for their boss. Not just the British Government, but one man. The new Prime Minister. The man who had given the Secret Service greater powers than ever before. The man who had fuelled public fear and hatred of the French to strengthen his own position. The man who had forced Neo-democracy even deeper into the British system and removed any chance that people might have to vote. The man who had once been Jimmy’s father—Ian Coates.

Jimmy had to put his book down and hold his head. He’d never felt such confusion. It was like madness. His hands were shaking violently and he knew now that he had to give in to that inner wash of calm. It dampened all of his emotions, blunting their bite. He concentrated on that inner cloud, cursing himself for resisting his programming. If he was to stay alive, he had to stay focused. And that meant not thinking about his father.

Over the past few weeks Jimmy thought he’d learned when to listen to his programming—he’d even been able to control it at times. But it was changing so fast, and it felt like the human in him was changing too. The lines weren’t so clear any more. Nothing was clear. He closed his eyes and let his lungs slow his breathing, despite the smell of the nearby toilet. He thought back to all the times when this strange force swelling inside him had saved him, trying to forget that without it he wouldn’t have been in trouble in the first place.

But for tonight’s crisis, he blamed himself. Why had he hesitated to escape from that newsroom when he knew the police were so close? He’d been stupid to even think that there might be news of his family there. Why would a local newspaper in the south of England have any interest in reporting the fates of three insignificant Londoners? That’s even if they’d been allowed to without censorship.

The last Jimmy had heard, his mum, sister and best friend had been in the custody of NJ7. Then the French Secret Service had sent an assassin to kill them, to punish Jimmy when a deal had gone bad. He had no idea what had happened to them after that.

For all Jimmy knew he was completely alone in the world. Right now, the power in his blood was the only ally he had. It could remove the pain of loneliness. It could remove his father from his mind completely. It’s on my side, he told himself. It’s me. But at the same he shuddered with terror. If this power inside was him, he was more killer than human.

03 THE WALNUT TREE PROJECT (#ulink_f8212bae-fafe-5a66-b473-a537e24ba72a)

Mitchell Glenthorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his knee twitched under the table. The eyes of everybody in the room seemed to burn into him. He wasn’t used to the scrutiny of the most powerful people in the country.

Around the long, lozenge-shaped table were the dozen men and women who could do almost anything they wanted with Great Britain. Thanks to Neo-democracy, they didn’t need to worry about the opinions of the British people. They could get on with the efficient day-to-day running of the country, much of which was done from here, the Cabinet Room at Number 10 Downing Street.

But however powerful these people were, they were under the control of a single man—Ian Coates, the Prime Minister. He was sitting at the centre of the table, leaning on his elbows with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Directly behind his head was one of Downing Street’s old portraits. Mitchell didn’t know who it was, but he recognised the new flag just above—a Union Jack, with an extra green stripe running down the centre. That green stripe was the emblem of NJ7.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ian Coates announced, “this is Britain’s finest asset.” It took a second for Mitchell to realise they were still talking about him. “A miracle of British science and genetic engineering.” The PM’s voice was low and stern. Mitchell wondered whether he spoke quietly on purpose, so that people had to crane their necks and listen closely for every word. He certainly wasn’t a charismatic speaker. Usually his imposing physical presence was enough— broad shoulders, thick brown hair and a heavy brow. But today Mitchell noticed the dark bags under his eyes and skin so pale it was almost yellow.

“He’s only thirteen years old,” the PM continued, “but Mitchell’s recent heroism has made Britain stronger, and shown us true British success.”

British success? When Mitchell thought back over his missions, all he could remember was the empty ache of failure. He wondered whether that was what the PM meant by “British success”.

“Learn from him.” The Prime Minister tapped his pen on the table and drew in a deep breath. “I invited him to this meeting because he’s an example to everybody.” Mitchell thought he saw a glimmer of emotion in Ian Coates’ bloodshot eyes. It quickly passed. Could the man have been thinking of his son, Mitchell wondered? Nobody was allowed to mention the fact that for eleven years Ian and Jimmy Coates had lived happily as part of the same family.

“Now we need people like Mitchell more than ever,” the PM declared. “We have a new danger.”

Let me out of here, Mitchell screamed silently. He longed for a mission, or at least to get back to his simple, disciplined and anonymous life in the underground bunkers of NJ7. It was almost as if the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains carried poison into his skin.