Jimmy Coates: Revenge

“This isn’t an ordinary cat though,” Stanton explained, placing the animal carefully on the floor. He pulled his chair up behind his desk and tapped a few keys on his computer. His eyes were still on the screen as he spoke. “When Dr Higgins and his team were designing the organically programmed assassins, they needed a prototype.”

“A prototype?” Eva gasped, slowly pulling herself back together.

“To test the technology,” Stanton replied, still focused on the computer. “So they built a cat.”

Eva couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She stared at the creature at her feet. It curled round her ankles and peered up at her, purring.

“This cat is… an organic assassin?” She could hardly contain a laugh. It was as if she’d slipped into a weird dream.

“No,” tutted Stanton. “The cat’s not an assassin. They couldn’t programme that sort of intention into a cat. Miles is just tougher, stronger and faster – plus he’s survived to be about three times the age of any cat that ever lived.”

“A cat with twenty-seven lives,” Eva mumbled, reaching down to stroke it.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing.” She felt its warmth on her hand. “Poor thing.”

“Useful thing, you mean,” Stanton insisted. “Thanks to Miles I can test out my theory about Jimmy Coates.” Then he reached forward and set up what looked like a grey plastic stick on a little stand – an aerial. There was a broad smile on his face as he tapped one final key. He leaned back, a glint in his eye, and whispered, “Watch this.”

Eva didn’t know what he was talking about at first. Stroking the cat was the most relaxing thing she’d done in all the time she’d been at NJ7. She was quite happy to lose herself in that feeling, but suddenly the cat pulled away and hissed. Eva jumped and drew her hand back sharply. For a second, she was terrified that the cat was going to attack her. But it didn’t.

Instead, the creature lurched sideways as if an invisible train had hit it – then slammed against the concrete wall. Eva let out a yelp of disgust. The cat slid down to the floor. But that wasn’t the end of it. Eva could only watch as Miles shook off the pain, crawled a few metres, then hurled itself against the wall once more. This time it crashed head first and a smear of cat blood followed it to the floor.

“Stop that!” Eva screamed. “He’s gone mad! He’s going to kill himself!”

“Ha! Don’t worry,” Stanton laughed. “He’s tough. It would take hours of this to kill him.”

“Stop it!” Eva cried again, her hands over her face. “Stop it now!” Her whole body was trembling at the horror of it. She staggered forwards to grab hold of the cat, but it hissed at her with murder in its eyes, then dived at the concrete again.

“Enough!” Eva yelled, her words barely audible through her tears.

At last, Stanton tapped the space bar. “Looks like Miles was receiving my signal all right,” he chuckled.

Eva felt she never wanted to open her eyes again, but she couldn’t stop herself watching the cat. Its self-destructive passion had gone. It was reeling about as if it was drunk, and licked its paws to start slicking back its fur. Then it limped out of the room.

“You’re going to do that to Jimmy?” Eva panted. The blood on the wall burned into her eyes. It was the only colour in a room full of grey.

“No, no,” Stanton replied. “He might be a kid, but he’s smarter than that cat. Jimmy will destroy himself in a much more sophisticated way. I’m designing the signal now.”

Terror seized Eva’s body. She had guessed what Ark Stanton was going to say next.

“And Eva,” he declared, “I couldn’t do it without you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN – KILL ZAF-1

Viggo walked into a scene of stunned silence. He smiled his small smile, nodded his head to Helen and ruffled Jimmy’s hair as he walked past. He went straight through the hall and into the living room without anybody stopping him. His stubble seemed a little coarser than when he had left them and there was a cut healing along the right side of his imposing jawbone. It looked a couple of days old to Jimmy.

“So, like, what?” Felix blurted out. “Did I miss something? Are we not speaking to him any more?”

“I think we’re just pleased to see him,” said Felix’s mum glancing at Helen Coates, who sighed wearily.

“I suppose I better put the kettle on,” she said.

“Great,” chirped Felix. “Any biscuits in those bags, Jimmy?”

Unfortunately, as soon as Helen flicked the kettle on, the lights went out.

“See what you did, Chris?” she called out, trying to make a joke of it. “You turn up and there’s a power cut.”

“Looks like the whole block,” added Felix’s mum, pressing her nose up against the window.

It was a few minutes before they found candles and some matches. Eventually they crowded round Viggo in the living room.

“You know what?” he announced. “I actually missed all you ugly mugs.”

“I bet you thought we couldn’t survive without you,” Jimmy chuckled.

Viggo broke into a broad smile. “Without me,” he said, “I thought you wouldn’t even be able to wipe your—”

“That’ll do, Chris,” Jimmy’s mum cut in, placing a hand on his shoulder. Felix tried hard to stifle his laughter, and Jimmy felt his tension dissolve. But there was still a dark question on his mind. It was Georgie who asked it first:

“How’s Saffron?”

Viggo’s mood suddenly changed. He sucked some air in through his teeth.

“She’s going to be OK,” he said. Everybody sighed with relief. “I found someone who could help and she’s being looked after. I think she’s safe.”

“And she’s recovering?”

“It was touch and go when I left, but more touch than go.”

“Wait, which one’s good?” Felix chipped in. “Touch or go?”

“What I mean is,” Viggo explained, “she seemed to be getting better. But slowly – her recovery will take time. And unless Jimmy has developed the power of a Delorean, time is what we don’t have.”

“What’s a Delorean?” Jimmy asked, his face screwed up. Georgie and Felix were pulling the same expression. Felix’s dad let out a deep, explosive laugh.

“It’s from an old movie,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Shouldn’t you have stayed with Saffron?” asked Felix’s mum.

“I wish I could,” Viggo replied. “But she’s safer without me there – apart from Jimmy, I’m NJ7’s most wanted. As soon as I can, I’ll go back for her or get her to join us. But for now, we’ve got a great opportunity to escape. And we have to take it quickly. It looks like the only reason NJ7 haven’t found us already is because something threw them off the scent.”

“That was Zafi,” Jimmy said firmly.

“Zafi?” spluttered Viggo. “Who or what is Zafi?”

“ZAF-1,” Jimmy replied, feeling the words stick slightly. He’d never said this out loud before. “She’s the French version of me.”

“Bloomin’ brilliant,” muttered Viggo, rubbing the back of his neck. “This gets better and better, doesn’t it? Well, you don’t have to worry about what this Zafi person told you. I’ve got some new contacts of my own. It’s a huge chance for us. They’re going to help us get out.”

“Out of the country?” asked Georgie.

“That’s right – out of the country and into hiding.”

“We’re running out of money,” Helen interjected. “And I can’t exactly withdraw cash from my account. You realise that, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry.” Viggo dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “It’s all taken care of.” Helen raised an eyebrow.

“Where are we going?” Jimmy and Felix asked at almost exactly the same time,

Viggo couldn’t help smiling now – and smiling properly, with his teeth glinting. He stood up, stretched, then took Jimmy by the shoulders and announced, “New York City!”

Jimmy, Felix and Georgie were overjoyed. The boys jumped up and down, punching the air, nearly knocking over some of the candles. Georgie let out a tiny scream and slapped her hand over her mouth.

Jimmy had heard so much about the USA. It was the place where all the great products came from – the best games, the best clothes, the best music. But most of it was only available in the UK if it was imported illegally. Ares Hollingdale had gradually made it harder and harder for foreign companies to sell their products in Britain. He’d hated anything that wasn’t British. Even American TV shows were heavily censored – sometimes the jokes didn’t even make any sense, although Jimmy realised that might not have been to do with the censoring. In any case, that had been the only way for him to learn about the USA. He had never imagined that he would have the chance to go there.

Jimmy’s mother was more subdued. She moved closer to Viggo and asked under her breath, “Who are these new contacts, Chris?”

“I’ll explain later.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a second before Viggo finally looked away. “Everything’s arranged. There’s a van outside – the one I came here in. In the morning we’re all driving to Heathrow. These guys will get us through customs and everything.”

“Must be pretty powerful contacts,” muttered Helen. Only Jimmy noticed her unease. Everybody else was celebrating. An extra cheer went up when the lights suddenly came back on. In the split-second before anybody had adjusted, Jimmy caught sight of Viggo’s face. Why wouldn’t he explain who these contacts were, Jimmy wondered. He could feel his insides shifting like quicksand. There was something wrong here. What bargaining had Viggo conducted to set up such an easy escape? And what sacrifices was Jimmy going to have to make in order to fulfil that man’s side of the deal?

“We’ll leave early,” Viggo proclaimed. “Everyone should try to get a few hours’ sleep.”

It was only on his way up to bed that a new worry hit Jimmy. America was where Ian Coates was. The Prime Minister of Great Britain, the man Jimmy now referred to, in his head, as his “ex-father”, was in Washington to meet the President and the US Senate.

Am I cursed? Jimmy thought. Do I have to follow that man wherever he goes? At least his ex-father would be in a different city. There was some comfort in that. Nevertheless, Jimmy went to sleep with one fear – that if the two of them ever met again, Jimmy didn’t know what his instincts would make him do.

“Miss Bennett, I don’t get it.” Mitchell was hunched forward at his desk in one of the briefing rooms at NJ7. He was alone in there with the director of the agency. The surroundings were as bare as they could be – slabs of concrete for walls, with a few exposed wires snaking their way around. This briefing room, like all the others, also had a few desks and an overhead projector attached to a laptop. Mitchell noticed that the logo on the back of the laptop didn’t belong to any huge American corporation. It was a simple green stripe.

“Why aren’t you sending somebody else instead?” he went on. “I’d understand that. But there’s nobody going after Jimmy Coates at all.”

Miss Bennett was busy at the laptop, but after a few seconds she looked up at Mitchell.

“Oh, you’d understand it, would you?” she said sarcastically. “If I sent somebody else to kill Jimmy Coates? After you were in a position to kill him twice and failed? That’s so understanding of you.”

Mitchell hadn’t been to school in a while now, but that feeling of being the least significant person in the world flooded back. He bowed his head and stared at his desk.

“Oh, cheer up, Glenthorne,” Miss Bennett insisted. “You’re still the best thirteen-year-old, genetically programmed assassin we’ve got.” She laughed, and after a couple of seconds Mitchell did too. He buzzed with the excitement of being back in the briefing room. It could only mean a new mission. And if it wasn’t Jimmy Coates, Mitchell had no idea what it could be.

The overhead projector flashed to life. Emblazoned across it in massive letters was ZAF-1.

“ZAF-1,” announced Miss Bennett.

“Yeah,” Mitchell muttered, “I can read.”

Miss Bennett glared at him. He shrunk into his chair. Clearly, sarcasm was a one-way street.

“Dr Higgins’ papers seem to suggest that for over a decade, the DGSE, the French Secret Service, have had access to the assassin technology that built you.”

Mitchell tensed up. Suddenly, he was paying closer attention. Miss Bennett went on, her voice sounding just like a teacher explaining part of some textbook.

“At first we thought ZAF-1 referred to a second French intelligence agency. Now we’ve realised, of course, that there’s hardly enough intelligence in the whole of France for one agency – let alone two.”

Mitchell chuckled.

“Our current theory,” Miss Bennett went on, “is that ‘ZAF-1’ refers to a French assassin. The oldest he could be is about twelve, and if he were any younger than nine he would be almost completely ineffective.” She pressed a button on the laptop to flick to the next screen. Nothing happened.

“Oh, blast,” she exclaimed. “I hate PowerPoint.”

“I’ll show you,” sighed Mitchell, pushing himself up. His chair leg screeched on the floor, but not as loud as Miss Bennett yelled at him now.

“I don’t need showing, thank you!” She slammed the lid of the laptop shut. “The rest is simple. Find the French assassin. Kill him before he kills you.”

“What do you mean, ‘before he kills me’?”

“What do you think I mean? If the French could steal the assassin technology, they could also know about you. Pretty soon we’re going to be at war with France. We know that and they know that. So, just like us, the first person they will want to eliminate is their enemy’s most powerful assassin.”

Pride rushed through Mitchell. Miss Bennett wasn’t being sarcastic about his abilities any more. He sat at his desk with his chest upright and broad. “Where do I start looking?”

He had never expected to be sent on a mission where so little was known about his target – what he looked like, where he was or even whether he definitely existed. But somehow, all of that doubt added to the feeling of responsibility. It certainly added to the excitement. Mitchell could feel the tips of his fingers tingling.

“Paris,” Miss Bennett explained. “I have a support network spread out across France right now and several agents in the process of infiltrating the DGSE as moles. They should have information for you in a few days. Start your own investigations in Paris and I’ll arrange for you to meet with one of these agents as soon as they have something for you. Good luck. Britain is depending on you.”

Mitchell’s face stretched into the biggest smile of his life. The trials of the last week were behind him now. The boy in him had set aside his confusion. He was an assassin again – time to find his target.

CHAPTER EIGHT – I DREAMED

Heathrow airport was full of armed police. It always was. Jimmy knew that. But he still couldn’t force down the feeling that every one of them was staring at him. CCTV cameras peered into every corner of the terminal building.

Suddenly, there was a bang. Jimmy jumped. He sniffed for the smell of cordite and swivelled round, expecting the black nose of a machine gun to be pointed straight at him.

“Calm down,” Felix hissed. “It was just that guy dropping his suitcase.”

Jimmy said nothing. He marched on through the terminal. There weren’t many people about – it was before the midmorning rush, and in any case, not that many people travelled in and out of Britain these days. The light glared off the lino floor. The sounds of people getting on with their business mixed with the squeaking of their shoes and the ticking of the terminal clock.

In Jimmy, every muscle was ripped tight. He and Felix had been paired off together, while the others spread out around the terminal. Each group was to check in at a different desk and at a different time, though every now and again Jimmy caught a glimpse of one of them through the crowd.

“I should be tense,” Felix carried on. “Not you. They could bring me down by sneezing too hard.”

But I’m the one they’re after, Jimmy thought. He checked the back pocket of his jeans again. The corners of the fake documents dug into him. Another false identity. Another new life he’d destroy as soon as it was finished with. He’d examined them in the van on the drive to the airport. He’d looked as hard as he could without getting car sick, and they seemed good – too good in fact. The more pieces of this operation Jimmy saw, the more he was worried about who these new contacts of Viggo’s might be. Still, he had no choice now but to go along with the plan and remember his false details: Sam O’Shaughnessy, from Acton.

Suddenly, he let out a yelp of pain and pressed his fingers to the point where his right ear joined his skull.

“What is it?” gasped Felix.

Jimmy’s head felt like someone was firing lightning bolts at him. And it wasn’t the first time it had happened that morning. Felix quickly realised what was wrong.

“Again?” he asked. They stopped and Jimmy bent double, holding his head. “It’s like Harry Potter and that stupid scar, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” moaned Jimmy sarcastically. “It’s exactly like that.” That was the fourth time in the day already. Each attack hit in the same spot on Jimmy’s head and with the same pain – a precise and piercing stab that lasted thirty seconds or so, then dissipated to nothing. He took a deep breath and pulled himself upright.

“You OK?” Felix asked. Jimmy nodded and squeezed out a smile.

“So what’s wrong with your head?” Felix said as they reached the queue for check-in. Jimmy didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t like anything he’d experienced before. His only explanation was that it must have something to do with his programming developing.

He liked to think that he was more comfortable with his programming now – that he knew roughly what it was capable of and almost how to control it. But really he had to admit he had no idea. It was like an alien growing inside him. More than that – the alien was him, and it was more him than the human part.

“Dunno,” he shrugged, trying to sound casual about it. The truth was, the pain wasn’t the only new phenomenon Jimmy had woken up with. There was something else. Something much more worrying to him. He had tried to bring it up a couple of times – with Felix and with the others too – but each time he had stopped himself because it sounded so insignificant. The last thing he wanted was more attention on the tiniest detail of his development.

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