Survival (16 page)

“Sometimes,” he explained, still not smiling, “all you need
to do to get what you want is to make the highest bid.”

Jimmy’s whole body was throbbing with fury. Stovorsky’s
face seemed to distort into a grotesque monster. Jimmy
clutched at his temples. What was happening to him?

He nodded towards Stovorsky’s gun. “Are you just
playing with that?” he asked under his breath, his
French coming to him as naturally as his anger. “Or
are you going to shoot me?”

“Do I have reason to shoot you?” replied Stovorsky,
also in French.

“You seemed to think you did in the desert.”

“I only shot at your bike, Jimmy. Never at you. I’m not
a killer and I know you’re not either.”

How could Stovorsky so casually announce what
Jimmy was or wasn’t?
You don’t know what I might do
,
Jimmy wanted to scream. That urge came with a flood
of terror. He realised that he himself didn’t know what he
might do either. The horrors of being led into this trap
now felt like nothing compared to the torture in his mind.

“I’m here to make a deal with you,” Stovorsky explained.
“Just like Browder made a deal with me to bring you here.”

“Business,” Jimmy scoffed. “Right?”

“Right.”

For a second Jimmy thought he saw a hint of pity in
Stovorsky’s eyes, but that made no sense to him.

“The trouble is,” Stovorsky went on, with a sigh,
“I made a deal with you before and you broke it straight
away.” Jimmy stared straight at Stovorsky, not flinching
in his glare. “So I’m going to make this very simple.”

“You want the actinium?” Jimmy was doing
everything he could to appear calm and not give away
any sign that inside he was almost falling apart.

“That’s the first thing.”

“What’s the second?”

“That you never go back to Britain.”

“What?” The shock felt like a blast of cold water to
Jimmy. “But you know I have to go back. I have to show
the Government I’m still alive. And the British people.” The
words poured out of him, his thoughts finally beginning to
fall into order. “This is the only way to prevent a war!”

Stovorsky let out a derisive laugh. “The war’s
started!” he shouted. “Get over it, Jimmy. If NJ7 found
out now that you’re still alive, only one thing would
change: they’d know Zafi was still alive as well.”

Jimmy didn’t understand. What did Zafi have to do
with this? He waited for the explanation, but Stovorsky
just stared at him and waited.

Go back
, Jimmy told himself.
Think. The oil rig
…

He could almost feel the flames on his body. He
would never forget it. The smell of the oil and his own
flesh burning. The explosion rocked his head again. He
had to close his eyes and force his mind under control.
No
, he told himself.
What about after that?

Then it came: that flood of guilt he’d felt when he first
realised the British were going to blame the French for the
explosion. They’d seen a child at the rig and assumed it
was Zafi.
Of course!
Jimmy couldn’t believe he’d been so
stupid. NJ7 thought Zafi had been killed. So now she was
carrying out operations in England without surveillance
and without suspicion. For the French, it was the perfect
cover. And Jimmy turning up alive in the UK would blow it.

“So you were never going to let me go back to
Britain?” Jimmy asked, already knowing the answer.

Stovorsky narrowed his eyes. “If we’re at war,” he said,
“I need Zafi in Britain and I need NJ7 thinking she’s dead.”

“And what’s your end of the bargain?” Jimmy asked,
drawing himself upright, trying to fool his own body into
being confident again.

“In return for your two things,” Stovorsky announced, “I
give you two things. The first is a place to live. We’ll let you
stay here in France, or I can arrange a helicopter to escort
you anywhere in the world – except the UK, of course.”

“I don’t need an escort,” Jimmy interrupted.

“It’s part of the deal.”

“Then you don’t get the actinium.”

Stovorsky clenched his jaw, but kept his frustration in
check. He thought for a moment. “OK,” he said at last.
“Then instead of an escort, I’ll give you the helicopter.
Satisfied? I assume you’ll work out how to fly it. You give
me the actinium and fly anywhere except Britain.”

“The actinium is buried in the desert,” Jimmy
explained quickly. “In a lead suitcase. As soon as I have
the chopper, you can have the exact location.”

“Good.” Stovorsky nodded and seemed to relax a
little. Jimmy didn’t want him to relax too much.

“What’s the second thing?” he asked.

“Oh yes, the second thing.” For the first time,
Stovorsky’s eyes dropped from Jimmy’s. He cradled the
gun in his lap and fixed his gaze on that.

“The second thing,” he said softly, “is a list of
specialist doctors who can help you.”

“Doctors?”

Jimmy had no idea what the man was talking about.
Help him with what? Then Stovorsky lifted his eyes,
but not to Jimmy’s face – to his hands. Jimmy looked
down, following Stovorsky’s line of sight. What he was
looking at, Jimmy didn’t believe. Instead, once again
he saw that flock of vultures crowding around him and
he felt the pain of their talons on his skin.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Stovorsky whispered.

“But… but…” Jimmy stuttered. He finally forced away
the images in his mind to focus on his fingers – and the
blue tinge around the base of his nails.

“You were the only one who stood any chance,” said
Stovorsky. “We didn’t know for sure you’d be affected.
We hoped you wouldn’t be of course. And then you…”

He didn’t have time to finish. The ice in Jimmy’s
gut erupted into thick, black flame. It rose in his chest
and detonated.

Jimmy sprang forwards. The DGSE agent behind
reached out to stop him, but Jimmy kicked both his feet
into the man’s stomach with the force of a charging
rhino. Then he flicked his heel up into the man’s head.
It connected with the pressure point just between his
eye and his eyebrow, sending such shockwaves through
the man’s brain that he instantly blacked out and
slumped against the back door of the van.

But now Jimmy was stuck in a press-up position and
Stovorsky lifted his gun, while the other agent planted
his huge hands on the top of Jimmy’s back and held him
down. Jimmy didn’t know what his own body was doing.
His muscles fizzed with the combination of his
programming and his rage. His body was a primed and
finely tuned combat instrument.

Jimmy punched his left hand into Stovorsky’s wrist. It
knocked the gun off target, forcing Stovorsky’s finger
against the trigger. The blast shook Jimmy’s brain and
set his ears ringing. The bullet, however, lodged in the
other DGSE agent’s shoulder.

Blood sprayed everywhere. Jimmy rolled to the side
and slammed his knee into the man’s chest, then
caught Stovorsky’s wrist and gave one sharp twist. The
bone snapped with a loud, deep crack and the gun
dropped to the floor.

Stovorsky didn’t make a sound. Jimmy looked into his
face – bright white and contorted in horror and shock.
But Jimmy hadn’t finished with him. He pounced on the
man, pinning his chest to the floor under his knee and
gripping his throat.

Jimmy felt like his mind was coated in tar. He
watched his limbs moving, but couldn’t feel where they
went. Every action was a slow, blurred composite of
light flashes and blocks of colour. He could hear
Stovorsky gasping for air, but didn’t know what it meant.
He saw Stovorsky’s cheeks grow even paler, his lips fade
to purple. He even stared at the red marks on the
man’s throat where the tips of his fingers dug in, but all
he saw were the blue crowns growing up his own nails,
like ten tiny sunrises painted in negative.

“Jimmy…” Stovorsky tried to gasp, but only the
faintest noise emerged.

Jimmy!
screamed a voice inside his own head.
Somewhere, deep down, he was battling for a moment
of control. His own name echoed around his head a
thousand times, in the voices of every person he knew.
Each time, it blended with the sounds of violence – the
oil rig exploding, mixed with his mother’s voice; the
British destroyer powering into the mine complex,
mixed with the terrified cry of his sister. Finally he heard
his name once more, but this time it cut through all the
other chaos in his mind. It sounded cruel and stern, but
at the same time it was unmistakably pleading. It was
the voice of his father.

With a sudden snap, Jimmy twisted his shoulders.
He jerked as if his muscles didn’t want to obey him, but
with just enough power to dislodge his grip on
Stovorsky’s neck. Then he threw himself backwards,
hitting the side of the van with a sharp slap.

Stovorsky doubled up in a wild fit of coughing,
gasping for air. He rolled on to his front, clutching at the
floor of the van for support, then collapsed again,
blinking fast.

Jimmy couldn’t bear to watch. He shrunk into the
corner of the van, hugging his knees. There was
nowhere for him to look. In every corner was another
slumped body, semi-conscious or just struggling to
come round. Even on the ceiling was a thick spatter of
blood, some of it dripping off into pools on the floor.

Jimmy wheezed and retched. The danger inside him
hadn’t faded. He clutched at himself, clawing his chest
and throat, desperate for some way to control this
force inside him. He felt his lips crumpling and
scrunched up his face. He wanted to cry, but his eyes
refused to well up.

At last Stovorsky was strong enough to sit up against
the side of the van. He leaned at an acute angle and
stared at Jimmy. He forced out his words with venom,
having to catch his breath again between each one.

“Do… we… have… a… deal?” he panted.

Jimmy closed his eyes and let out a huge wail from
the very base of his gut.

“UUURGH!”

All his strength seemed to die with the noise of his
scream. He opened his eyes, still breathing hard, and
forced his voice out, as loud as his body could manage.

“Yes. We have a deal.”

Jimmy could hardly believe how quickly things could
change. Less than an hour ago, he and Stovorsky had
been trying to kill each other in the back of a van. Now
Stovorsky was helping him into the pilot’s seat of an old
Fennec AS550 helicopter at Sauvage Military Airbase,
60 kilometres northeast of Paris.

“I’m trusting you, Jimmy,” Stovorsky shouted over the
wind that howled across the tarmac.

The sun had gone down fully by now, but the airfield
was brightly lit. A ring of stadium floodlights reached out
of the earth like huge claws, and there was line upon line
of ground lights, criss-crossing the landing field.

“I have your chopper,” Jimmy replied, adjusting his
helmet. “So you have my word. I won’t go to Britain.”

“If you head in that direction we’ll have to shoot you
down. We can’t risk our asset.”

Jimmy nodded. In his head was the steady thud of
the memory of what Stovorsky had told him back at the
detention centre in the Pyrenees:
Lies work. Lies kill
.

“Write this down,” Jimmy ordered.

Stovorsky reached awkwardly for the inside pocket of
his suit, lifting his right arm out of the way and adjusting
his sling. Jimmy noticed him wince a little as he pulled
out a mobile phone.

“Write it down?” he repeated bitterly. “I’m right-
handed.” He flipped open the phone. “Speak into this
instead.” He mashed a few keys and held up the
handset. “I’ve got a hazardous materials response unit
waiting in the Sahara.”

“Hello?” Jimmy shouted into the phone. A response
crackled back, so Jimmy continued. “The actinium is
buried in a lead-lined suitcase, exactly 13,765 metres
due east of the eastern corner of the perimeter fence
of the Mutam-ul-it mine compound.” He glanced up at
Stovorsky. “OK?” he asked.

Stovorsky shrugged and pulled the phone away,
studying the screen. “We’ll see.”

Jimmy turned to the controls of the helicopter. The on-board
computer was ready. The multi-function display was
spread across two LCD screens. Everything seemed to
be fine. Jimmy still felt a rush of wonder at the fact that
he understood all of this. Every digit, chart and dial threw
up meaning, but always on the edge of Jimmy’s
consciousness, like a memory he didn’t know he had.

He glanced sideways at Stovorsky. The man was
still focused on the screen of his phone and he’d
turned slightly so Jimmy could see it too. It was a live
satellite feed from the hazmat team, on board their
helicopter in the Sahara. The image was jerky, but
Jimmy could at least make out that they were all in
total insulation suits. It gave their bodies a weird, alien
shape. For a second Jimmy seethed with frustration –
if only he’d worn one of those himself.

Now his eyes jumped back to the helicopter’s
controls – straight to the push-button ignition. The
button that would start his escape from France. The
button that would start his journey home.

“What about the list of doctors?” Jimmy shouted,
still staring at the controls. His fingers were trembling,
impatient to get moving.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stovorsky replied, not taking
his eyes from the screen. The hazmat team had just
landed. The blades of their chopper were creating a
mini sandstorm.

Jimmy gulped. He knew he’d never get to see that list
of doctors.
It’s OK
, he told himself, trying to stay calm.

“I’ll flash it to your on-board system when you’re in
the air,” Stovorsky went on, totally engrossed in what
was going on in the desert, 1500 km away. “As soon
as the radar boys have determined your route.”

Anybody can find a doctor
, Jimmy reassured himself.
They’re not wizards
.

He glanced at Stovorsky’s screen. Three men were
operating hand-held sand-diggers, with a spinning wheel
that scooped out litres of sand with every revolution.
In seconds they were half a metre down.
Time to go
,
Jimmy thought.

He plunged his thumb on to the ignition button.
Stovorsky whipped round to watch him, his eyes wide
with surprise. Jimmy was dumbfounded too – because
nothing had happened. No engine roar, no whip of the
rotors. The helicopter remained motionless.

Jimmy prodded the button again. Still nothing. He
felt panic swirling in his lungs. Was he not doing this
right? He searched for guidance, trying to draw up his
programming from deep inside – but it was already
there, telling him to try the ignition, then telling him this
chopper was never going to leave the ground.

“Why won’t this start?” Jimmy demanded.

Stovorsky held up his hand. He was staring at his
phone display again. Jimmy saw the men pull the
suitcase from the sand.

“I need a chopper that works!” Jimmy yelled.

The desert sand blew off the suitcase in the gusts
from the hazmat helicopter. One of the team turned to
the camera and gave a thumbs up.

“Come on!” Jimmy cried. He slapped his hands
against the control panel. Still Stovorsky ignored him.
Jimmy felt his programming throbbing up his neck,
whipping round his skull like a tornado. He looked all
around him. There was nowhere to run. The helicopter
was perfectly placed – right in the middle of an empty
acre of asphalt. The terminal building was 500 metres
away. The same distance in the other direction was the
control tower.
Snipers
, Jimmy heard in his head.

He knew instantly he would never make it if he ran.
When he looked harder he made out the shadows of
DGSE agents posted at every possible escape route. He
was trapped. He punched his thumb into the ignition
button again and again, harder and harder. Eventually
the plastic covering cracked and fell off, so Jimmy
punched the control panel instead.

“Let me go!” he shouted.

Stovorsky moved closer to him, still watching the
screen, but looming over Jimmy. There was excitement
all over his face. This was the most animated Jimmy
had ever seen him. The glow from the phone’s screen
lit up his teeth as he bit his bottom lip in anticipation.

On the screen, the hazmat team hauled the suitcase
to the surface. They dumped it on its back. Its weight
lodged it in the sand. Two of them crouched over it,
while the others stood back, some of them holding
Geiger counters or other pieces of kit. Jimmy had no
choice but to watch. He’d lost. Stovorsky had fooled him
with a trick as simple as a dummy helicopter.

The hazmat agent opened the suitcase. He paused for
a second. Whoever was holding the camera-phone hurried
towards him. The other agent spun the suitcase round.

It was empty.