Jimmy Coates: Target

Mitchell was grabbed on each side by two men. They rushed him to a long black car with leather seats and tinted windows. As his head was pushed down to guide him into the back seat, Mitchell saw a stretcher being wheeled out of the building. On it was a zipped-up, black body bag. On the side of the bag was a thin green stripe.

CHAPTER TWO – BROTHERS

UNO STOVORSKY SIGNALLED to his unit to move out. They obeyed almost silently, retreating to the ring of vehicles a safe distance from the building. Stovorsky remained, eyeball to eyeball with Christopher Viggo.

“Come on,” Saffron said gently to the others, “we should leave them.”

Yannick nodded and shepherded them through the door opposite the kitchen. But Felix and Jimmy were transfixed.

“Jimmy!” snapped his mother. “Come here now! You too, Felix.”

The boys exchanged a glance. They knew they didn’t have a choice, no matter how much they wanted to know what was going on between the two men at the front door. They trudged after the others, into what looked like an unoccupied dormitory. There were four beds in the room, but the sheets were dusty, as if they hadn’t been slept in for years. Eva ran to one and curled up.

“It’s cold in here,” she squeaked, pulling her blanket round her.

“There are another couple of bedrooms upstairs,” Yannick explained, though nobody was paying him much attention. As soon as the door closed behind them, the shouting started. The old wattle-and-daub walls were too thick for Jimmy to make out what was being said, but it was clearly a ferocious argument.

“When I was little we used to have loads of people coming to stay all the time,” Yannick said with a nervous chuckle, as if trying to make sure nobody could hear what was going on in the next room. “For years nobody’s been here but my mother, of course.”

Nobody else in the bedroom said a word; they were all straining their ears to pick up any clues from next door.

“So let’s have the girls down here and the boys upstairs. How about that?” Yannick was making a poor job of sounding cheerful. The only reactions he got were distracted grunts and nods.

Then Jimmy noticed Saffron sitting on the furthest bed, turned towards the window. She was the only person who wasn’t trying to listen to the argument on the other side of the wall.

“What’s going on?” Jimmy whispered. “Who is this guy, Uno Sto…whatever?”

Saffron glanced over to make sure nobody else was paying attention. “He’s a French Secret Service operative,” she explained. “They must have tracked us entering French airspace.”

“I know that,” Jimmy interrupted. “I mean, how come Chris knows him, and what are they arguing about?” Saffron sighed and avoided looking into Jimmy’s eyes.

“When Chris left NJ7 he needed to disappear. He hid in Kazakhstan for a while, but wanted to use what he knew about NJ7 to put a stop to Ares Hollingdale. So he went to the DGSE.” Her eyes scanned the room. Yannick and Jimmy’s mother were doing their best to stop Felix, Georgie and Eva pressing their ears up against the wall.

“And that’s when he met this Uno guy,” Jimmy chipped in, to keep Saffron on track.

“Uno Stovorsky,” Saffron whispered. “Remember his name. He could help us.” Jimmy nodded. “But Chris fell out with the DGSE too.”

“Why? What happened?” Jimmy implored. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Saffron stood up and pulled in a deep breath. “Jimmy, they’re arguing about me.”

Moments later the door opened again and Yannick’s mother entered. “Jimmy,” she grunted in a thick French accent.

He stepped forward, but so did his mother. “They can’t keep me in the dark,” she muttered.

Saffron glided out of the room after them, as elegant as ever, to join the discussion.

“Don’t forget anything, Jimmy,” Felix called out. Jimmy didn’t have to respond. Normally, Felix wouldn’t even have asked – Jimmy would always have filled him in. But the last few days had been far from normal and the information Jimmy would be sharing was bound to be extraordinary.

“So this is your amazing automatic assassin?” Uno Stovorsky’s eyes seemed to pierce Jimmy’s skin. Jimmy opened his mouth to introduce himself, but before he could speak Stovorsky leapt from his chair. Jimmy’s eyes snapped wide open, catching the glint of a knife in Stovorsky’s fist.

Jimmy didn’t have to think. With the minimum of movement, he swayed to one side and caught Stovorsky’s wrist. With the knife point millimetres from his face, he chopped his other hand into the agent’s stomach and threw him over his shoulder. Jimmy snatched the knife before it hit the floor, where Stovorsky lay gasping for air.

“Enough, Jimmy!” shouted Viggo. “He was just testing you.”

“I know,” Jimmy replied. “Why do you think he’s still alive?” Jimmy started at his own words. He hadn’t known what he was going to say. It seemed the urge to kill was still just below the surface. He pushed away the deep sickness in his gut and reminded himself to keep control at every moment.

“Uno,” continued Viggo, “in return for your help, we are prepared to offer you a full display of Jimmy’s abilities and an inventory of the technology Britain is developing for use against France.”

Jimmy shuddered. What did Viggo mean by ‘a full display of Jimmy’s abilities’? He wasn’t a scientific sample! For a second he wanted to protest, but he quickly calmed down. He had learned to trust Christopher Viggo.

Stovorsky was still picking himself up off the floor. His expression was grim. “This information is as useless now as it was when you came to me all those years ago,” he growled. Jimmy watched Viggo’s face betray a hint of helplessness.

“Let me draw you a picture,” Stovorsky went on. “Jimmy was designed in a test tube by scientists at NJ7. Dr Higgins was one of them and he’s still there. Ares Hollingdale was another, before he became Prime Minister. The new weapon was assigned to two agents, Ian and Helen Coates.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Jimmy’s mother, “I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Coates, I didn’t realise it was you.” He bowed his head slightly and took her hand up to his lips.

“How do you know this?” Viggo cut in.

Stovorsky’s demeanour shifted again, back to the animal aggression he directed at his rival. “That’s not all we know. We know Jimmy is not the first. There is another assassin, two years older, but he went missing shortly after his parents were killed. NJ7 thinks they died in a car accident.”

Jimmy felt like each piece of new information was a brick being hurled at him. There was another genetically programmed assassin? Why had nobody told him? He was dumbfounded, though he made a point of trying not to show it. Fortunately, nobody noticed Jimmy’s furrowed brow. Helen Coates and Saffron Walden were sharing a moment of concern. Viggo and Stovorsky were caught up in their own rivalry.

“Do you think I’ve been sitting on my hands since we last met?” Stovorsky jeered.

“But—” Viggo started.

“We have our own sources in England. You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. All I can offer is that we let you live here in France. We can’t protect you, and we certainly can’t help you in your personal campaign against Ares Hollingdale.” Viggo tried to interrupt again, but Stovorsky continued over him. “Hollingdale may be anti-democracy and he may be anti-France, but the DGSE can’t meddle with anyone unless they pose a direct threat to France.”

The reaction was silence. Jimmy’s heart ached. He so wanted to go back to Felix with some good news. But how could they get anywhere near Felix’s parents without the resources of a major international agency? How else could they sneak back into England?

“Don’t look so glum!” boomed Stovorsky suddenly. “I’m letting you stay in the country. I’ll make sure you’re not arrested and, if you stay on the move, the chances are NJ7 won’t find you.” He shook his head and sighed. “Honestly, you English. Don’t you recognise a lucky break? Did you really think I was going to help you overthrow the British Government?” He dusted off the shoulders of his overcoat and strode to the door, muttering under his breath in French.

“That’s not why we need help.” Helen’s voice stopped him. “Jimmy, get Felix in here.” Jimmy flung open the door to the next room. Eva, Georgie and Felix all pretended they hadn’t been trying to eavesdrop. Without a word Felix stepped forward.

“This is Felix Muzbeke,” Jimmy’s mother continued. “The Government is holding his parents illegally. We just want to bring them here to safety.” Felix put on his most winsome expression.

Only now did Stovorsky turn round. He glanced at Felix then quickly turned away.

“Do you have children, Mr Stovorsky?” Jimmy’s mother asked.

Stovorsky held his face in his hands then rubbed his eyes. “What do you need?” he huffed.

Viggo’s response was immediate. “Safe passage back to London so we can find out where they are being held. We need money and equipment. We need all the help we can get.”

Stovorsky groaned and raised his eyes to the ceiling. He waited a long time before speaking, then eventually he muttered, “I’ll see what I can do.” Wearily, he picked up a slat of a broken shutter from the floor. “Promise me this is just about the prisoners. Nothing else.”

“Mr Stovorsky,” Helen Coates said calmly, “you have my word.”

“You’re a very smart lady.” Stovorsky stared at Jimmy’s mother. “You should have kept her, Viggo. And how I wish you had.” His eyes darted to Saffron for just an instant, then away again. “I’ll be in touch,” he called out as he stomped from the farmhouse. “Until then, lie low.”

Mitchell could hear the fizz of surveillance cameras tracking him through the corridors. He was keeping pace with the hands that dragged him roughly from either side. His blindfold itched but he was still cuffed so there was nothing he could do about it. Inside, he was buzzing in a way he never had before. It was a mix of nausea and exhilaration. Every perception was pin sharp, but behind his stomach there was a swirling that threatened to throw him off-balance.

He still had nothing on his feet so the cold of the floor crept up through his body. At last he came to a stop and his blindfold was yanked off. The first things he saw were the yellow teeth of an old man’s smile. Mitchell’s anger dulled instantly.

“Welcome to NJ7,” the old man announced. “I am Dr Higgins.”

Before Mitchell could respond the two men gripping his arms lifted him up and pinned him face down on to the desk in the centre of the room. The smell of the leather worktop swamped Mitchell’s nose. He wriggled and kicked, but only for a second before he felt a sharp stab in his heel. He howled in pain. Then the two men lifted him off the desk and threw him down. Mitchell tried to stand but his right foot was too weak and he fell to the floor.

“What’s going on?” he shouted, his eyes darting around, taking in his surroundings. The walls were bare concrete. On the ceiling were strip lights and a girder loaded with two cameras that seemed to wink at him. All around were burly men in suits. Dr Higgins stood out, with his ageing physique and his white coat. A black cat curled round his ankle.

Then, through a corridor at the back of the room came a wiry figure that Mitchell recognised immediately. “You’re the Prime Minister!” he gasped.

Everyone stood to attention as Ares Hollingdale entered the room. His sallow skin almost glowed. “You’re not running away this time, young man,” he whispered, leering down at Mitchell. “Dr Higgins has placed a satellite tracking device in your foot.”

“What’s going on?” Mitchell yelled again, but then into his head flew the idea that the answer was somehow obvious; it was like a distorted memory he couldn’t bring out.

“Explain the situation to him,” the Prime Minister snapped at Dr Higgins. “Tell Miss Bennett as soon as you’re finished. She’s found the target.” Then he turned back to Mitchell with a glare. “Cause any trouble and we’ll throw you in prison for the rest of your life.”

Mitchell’s mind was frantic. Pain throbbed up from his foot. They can’t put me in prison, he thought, I’m only thirteen. But his ears replayed the sound of his fists landing on his brother’s bloodied skull. With that came the most overwhelming emotion. Was it guilt? He told himself his brother had deserved it, but the next instant he knew that he had gone too far. He had never meant to kill. He had lost control of himself and now he was going to be punished for it.

“Do as we tell you,” the PM continued, “and you could be a hero.” The words meant nothing to Mitchell.

Then came Dr Higgins’s voice. “NJ7 is the most advanced military intelligence agency in existence…”

Mitchell heard him through a daze. With the world twisting around him, he saw the shadow of the Prime Minister leave the room. Dr Higgins’s mouth was moving, but Mitchell picked up only fragments of his speech.

“…you are 38 per cent human…an assassin…you will work for us…” Whatever Dr Higgins said, it barely registered.

Mitchell was crying for his brother.

CHAPTER THREE – SPECIAL DELIVERY

“IT’S BEEN THREE days,” Jimmy muttered almost to himself. “If I don’t get outside soon I’ll go mad.” The kitchen was thick with the smells of cooking and Jimmy ripped into a bunch of parsley with bored vehemence. The bandage was gone from his wrist. The cut was hardly visible now – like a smudged line of biro.

“You know, that happens a lot,” Felix chirped, struggling to hold on to a potato. “People don’t go outside and then they lose their minds, and then they think the rest of the world has been destroyed by aliens or nuclear war or something, and—”

“You’re holding the peeler upside-down,” Jimmy interrupted.

“Oh. Oh yeah. I thought it was a bit dodgy. So what was I saying?”

“The DGSE left three days ago,” Jimmy went on, ignoring Felix’s daydreams. “Don’t you think we should have heard something by now?”

Felix shrugged and stared at his peeler, scrunching his face into a puzzled ball. “How come Yannick’s mother gets to go into the village,” he asked eventually, “but the rest of us have to stay indoors?”

“Well, somebody has to bring us food, and all the clothes and stuff.”

“But won’t she get spotted by imaginary intelligence?”

“It’s ‘imagery intelligence’,” Jimmy corrected. “From satellites. But she’s always going into the village. It would look more suspicious if she didn’t go.”

“So I suppose bringing back nine times the amount of groceries, buying every item of clothing from some grimy charity shop and being picked up in the truck by her son – that’s not suspicious at all.” Felix raised his eyebrows so high it looked like they might fly off his head at any moment.

“You’ve got a point,” admitted Jimmy. “It’s risky, but it’s necessary, isn’t it?”

Felix shrugged again. “S’pose,” he mumbled. Then he tried juggling with three of the potatoes. He didn’t have much success.

Jimmy turned his attention back to the cooking. His wrist flicked the knife through a carrot with the skill of a chef but the enthusiasm of an eleven-year-old boy. The heavy metal pans huffed and bubbled with delicious-smelling stews.

“And why have I done all the cooking?” Jimmy groaned.

“If you didn’t want to cook,” Felix replied, “you should never have helped out that first night we were here. Then we would never have found out that it’s one of your, you know, skills.”

Before Jimmy could respond, Georgie bounced in.

“When’s dinner?” she asked, poking around the various ingredients that lay on the work surfaces.

“When it’s ready!” snapped Jimmy. He dropped the knife and flung the slices of carrot into a simmering pot. “Where’s Yannick?”

“Outside. Let him have a break.”

“Oh, ‘let him have a break’,” Jimmy mocked. “Looks like I’m the one who’ll spend my life cooking now.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

Jimmy tried to hold back his anger. “Sorry, Georgie,” he said. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s just that…” he paused mid-sentence to baste a chicken. “I hate this. How come I can cook?”

“It’s your programming,” Georgie answered as gently as she could.

“That’s what I told him,” Felix chipped in.

“But it’s a stupid skill,” Jimmy grumbled. “It’s like whatever dumb idea Dr Higgins had eleven years ago is inside me.” He felt himself becoming more and more worked up, and he couldn’t hold it back. “They don’t know where I am,” he yelled, “and they don’t know what I’m doing, but NJ7 is still controlling me.”

Helen slipped into the kitchen with concern on her face. “What’s all the noise about?” she asked, picking up a potato from the floor.

“Jimmy doesn’t want to cook,” Felix announced.

“That’s OK,” Helen said immediately. “I’ll help and—”

“No!” Jimmy screamed, “I don’t want to be able to cook and I don’t want to be able to kill.”

Jimmy’s mother looked across at Georgie, then back at her son. There was one thing they had to discuss, so she forced herself to bring it up. “Look,” she began, “I know this must be confusing for you both. About me and your father, I mean.”

Jimmy glanced at his sister then dropped his eyes to the floor. Felix shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Er,” he stuttered, “I have to, er, go finish my…” He edged towards the door, “…you know, on that…string.”

Once Felix had gone, Jimmy found the atmosphere even more stifling.

“Whatever happens,” his mother continued, “none of this is your fault – either of you. Don’t blame yourselves.”

Jimmy let the words bounce off him. He knew what his answer was, but he refused to let himself say it. Then his sister said it for him.

“I don’t blame myself,” she mumbled. “I blame you and Dad.”

Jimmy didn’t know where to look. His sister’s words had stoked the anger inside him. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly, then saw that his mother’s were too.

“OK,” sighed Helen, “that’s fine. But we both still love you just as much. And I know you still love your father.”

“How can you still love someone,” Jimmy flashed back, “when you know what they’re doing is wrong?” He immediately regretted his words, but couldn’t take it back now. His mother said nothing. She had no answer. For a few seconds she stared at Jimmy and Georgie, then she backed out of the kitchen. As she did, the seething liquid in one of the pots bubbled over.

Helen walked straight into Christopher Viggo, who caught her delicately by the shoulders and looked into her face.

“What’s going on?” he whispered. Helen made sure the door was shut behind her so that her children couldn’t see.

“It’s nothing,” she quivered. “Forget it.”

“Listen,” Viggo rasped, “the kids are just restless. They need to get out of the house – let off some steam.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

Viggo looked deep into Helen’s eyes and let out a sigh. “Yannick says the village up the road is pretty small. The risk of NJ7 picking it out is minimal. He says there’s a lake nearby and stables…” He softly lifted Helen’s chin. “Let them have some fun. It could be days before we hear from Stovorsky.”

“You think I’m being overprotective,” Helen whispered, “but they’re my children.” She held his gaze for a moment then pulled away and hurried upstairs.

Viggo was about to follow, but there was a pounding on the front door. Jimmy had heard it too and rushed out of the kitchen followed by billows of steam. He looked to Viggo for guidance and the ex-agent shook his head as if to say, “Don’t worry”. At that instant, Felix came tearing down the stairs.

“Who’s at the d—” he started. Viggo grabbed him and put a hand across his mouth. He was too late. Whoever was outside had heard them and hammered again.

“Coming!” Viggo called out, then stuttered the same thing in French: “On arrive?’

Jimmy pointed at the shadow in the crack under the door. There was clearly only one person there, but what if there were others further from the door? They couldn’t look out of the windows as Yannick had boarded them up after the DGSE had smashed them.

Jimmy ran upstairs and approached a window that overlooked the front of the building. Crouching low, he scanned the horizon. He could just discern the rooftops of the village up the road, but nothing out of the ordinary. His heart was pumping and he was almost relieved that at last he had something to occupy him.

He opened the window as quietly as he could and squeezed out, trampling the carnations in the window box. The wind tousled his hair; what a great feeling it was to be outside again. From here he could only just make out the person waiting at the front door – the overhang restricted his view. Jimmy quickly moved up the side of the building, clinging to the timber, each finger hard as rock.

It was a matter of habit now to call up his programming when he needed it. When the swirl from his belly engulfed his brain then saturated every muscle, it was a kind of comfort. Too much of a comfort in fact. He had to keep a part of his human self active. He knew how easy it would be for him to slip into the evil ways his body craved. He knew also that the programming would grow more powerful every day until he was eighteen. It was designed to completely swamp the human in him by then. That was a terrifying thought.

Jimmy reached the roof and stalked along until he was directly above the front door. Then he jumped. The wind rushed into his face. His eyes watered, his stomach lurched, then…

BAM!

Jimmy landed right on top of the figure, flattening him. Jimmy held him down, but couldn’t see anything. His face was full of flowers. The man under him was terrified, cursing in French. The front door swung open. Viggo was ready for action.

But there wasn’t any – just a flower delivery man, quaking with fear. Jimmy brushed the man down while they were still on the ground, then rolled to one side, spat out a flurry of petals and made a mental note to land with his mouth closed in future. Viggo seized the mangled bunch of flowers and flicked a tip into the dust. Jimmy muttered an apology and skulked back indoors where Felix was laughing hysterically.

“That was so funny,” he howled. “Did you see the look on his face?”

“What’s going on?” It was Saffron, her eyes wide and expectant as if she too were ready for a fight. But then she saw the flowers in Viggo’s arms and her expression melted.

“Oh, Chris,” she gasped, “for me? They’re so…squashed.”

“They’re not for you,” he huffed. “I mean, they’re not for anyone.”

“If they’re for Helen, just tell me now.”

“No, they’re—” Before he could finish, Felix jumped in and grabbed the card.

“The flowers are just a discreet way for Stovorsky to send us a message,” explained Viggo. “Now what does he say?”

Felix’s face was scrunched up in confusion. “It’s gibberish,” he said. “Just letters and numbers: ‘Pp18N.2300’.”

“He’s going to help,” Viggo beamed. “We have to meet him in Paris.”

St James’s Park, in the very heart of London, was as serene as ever. The thick bushes kept out most of the traffic noise, but there was the sound of two runners pounding along a path. Mitchell easily kept pace with the huge man at his side. His body was exhilarated by the crisp air, while Paduk breathed it in with heavy panting. This was the only part of Mitchell’s training that took place outside the murky tunnels of NJ7 HQ: a daily run.

Mitchell asked no questions and made no objections. In fact, he had thrown himself into the training with more dedication than he had shown for anything in his life. It seemed to suit him. Yet still he could sense the unease of the people training him. He didn’t know it, but the same team had trained Jimmy Coates. This was the same routine Jimmy had followed. This was the same run.

Paduk slowed to a walk and took a swig from his water bottle. Mitchell did likewise, though he didn’t need to. Then they stopped completely. Paduk was staring through the foliage. At first Mitchell thought the man was simply catching his breath, but then he followed Paduk’s eyes beyond the limits of the park. Buckingham Palace shone out, a majestic pearl.