Target (15 page)

T
HE CLOSER
J
IMMY
came to the French Embassy, the more people bustled through the streets around him. He kept his head low. Any of them might recognise him. The Green Stripe had eyes everywhere. Suddenly his heart jolted into a quicker tempo. At the end of the street, glaring back, were two men whose brawn strained the seams of their black suits.

The two NJ7 agents hurtled towards him. Jimmy forced himself to a stop and tore back in the direction he had come. He wove a path through the side streets, dodging pedestrians, bouncing at every angle. He hoped the agents couldn’t follow him through the crowd.

But they didn’t need to. As Jimmy rounded the corner he felt another pang of panic. No more than a metre away were two more NJ7 agents. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He hopped on his toes, dashing off the pavement into the line of traffic. A bumper brushed his thigh. There
was a furious blast of car horns. Drivers yelled at him out of their windows.

Jimmy made it to the other side of the road with an earful of insults and his nose full of traffic fumes. The agents were there a few seconds later. Even as he ran, his thoughts tormented him. He pictured his mother, Viggo and Saffron trapped in the basement of the French Embassy, waiting for him. Jimmy was so close to them now, but every time he turned to take the most direct route, NJ7 was there.

How much time had he wasted? How long had he been paralysed by his shock? He gritted his teeth and cursed his frailty. If only the machine in him had been strong enough to compensate for his human weakness.

He had to confront Miss Bennett. Jimmy dreaded the prospect of breaking the prisoners out by force. He held on to the shred of hope that maybe Miss Bennett would see things differently now that Jimmy’s father was Prime Minister. Somehow he had to find a way to convince her to release the prisoners.

Jimmy didn’t realise his father was still at the Embassy too.

Ian Coates and Miss Bennett exited the lift in the basement. Security was waiting, and two agents escorted them across the vast space to where Viggo, Stovorsky, Saffron and Helen Coates were still
incarcerated. The workers manning the digger paused and stood to attention. Even a cleaner, bent over her mop, wiped her wrinkled brow and turned to face the Prime Minister. Ian Coates cast an uneasy eye over all these observers.

“Bring me a palm top,” he muttered to Miss Bennett, “and patch through a live feed of our satellite imagery on the farm.”

“Yes,” she replied and snapped her fingers at a nearby agent.

“And also,” Ian Coates added, “get the French Ambassador down here.” Miss Bennett nodded efficiently as Ian Coates turned towards the cell. Even before he was completely through the security barrier, a voice caught him by surprise.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Ian,” said Helen softly. Her expression was unforgiving.

Ian held himself opposite her, on the other side of the bars, searching the face of his wife as if he hadn’t seen it for decades.

Viggo staggered to the front of the cell. “Prime Minister,” he began, “on behalf of the people of Britain, I beg you: call for an election. Let people stand against you and let the population vote for who they want to run the country.”

Ian Coates raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take his eyes off his wife, who stared back. Viggo carried on. “Then open up our borders again. Let British businesses
import foreign goods and let foreign businesses trade in this country.” Viggo reeled off his speech as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times. Despite the ordeal of imprisonment and interrogation, he spoke more lucidly now than he ever had.

At last, Ian Coates spat out a response. “Any more demands, Viggo?”

Before Viggo could say anything, Helen’s anger bubbled over. “Let us go, Ian!” she shouted. “What do you want from us?”

“I want Jimmy,” Ian replied instantly. “He is a threat to the security of Great Britain. He will either work for me or he will be neutralised.”

“You mean killed,” whispered Helen, tears gathering in her eyes.

“I will do anything to protect this country.”

“I thought Hollingdale was bad, but you’re a monster.” Helen pulled away from the bars and put her hand over her mouth.

Ian Coates’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly before he continued. “Paduk tells me that despite his persuasion, you still haven’t revealed the location of your safehouse.”

“There is no safehouse,” Viggo hissed, but he couldn’t help shuddering at the memory of everything he had been through under Paduk’s supervision.

Ian Coates snorted a brief laugh. “Don’t mess me about,” he said. “Where is it?” He cast his eyes across
the faces of each of the prisoners. They stared back, hateful. None of them moved.

“Fine,” Coates scoffed. “Viggo, you can choose which of these three Paduk interviews next.” Viggo seemed to bristle for a moment. “And then,” Coates continued, “you can choose who is executed first.”

Viggo didn’t flinch. He looked first at his fellow prisoners, who stared back, each one looking just as determined, standing strong. Viggo answered the Prime Minister with disdain: “Do your worst. None of us will ever tell you.”

Ian Coates nodded briskly. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He held out his hand to Miss Bennett, who rushed forwards to hand him the palm-top computer. He held it up to the bars so the prisoners could see. The screen was only just bigger than his hand.

“Have a look at this,” he ordered.

The picture wasn’t crystal clear, but it was obviously an aerial view of the farmhouse. The image wasn’t still though – this was live video footage taken from one of the NJ7 satellites that kept watch on Western Europe. There was no sound to go with the images – only an ominous silence.

“What are you going to do?” gasped Helen. “That’s where our daughter is. You know that, don’t you?” Ian flicked his eyes across to Miss Bennett. They both remained silent.

“Stop whatever this is,” Helen implored again. “What are you doing?”

Stovorsky was standing now and so was Saffron. They both moved towards the screen, drawn in by the flickering image. “Sir,” Stovorsky declared, “if you are about to attack French soil, you make a grave mistake.”

“There’ll be nothing to worry about if you tell me where Jimmy Coates is hiding.”

Viggo couldn’t disguise his shock. “You knew where we were in France?” he huffed.

“Of course,” Ian replied. “We could have wiped you out in an instant.”

“Why didn’t you?” Viggo protested.

“You’re only alive because Hollingdale was a paranoid old man. He was too scared of the French to bomb your little farmhouse.” His mouth twisted into a half-smile. “But Hollingdale is dead,” he whispered. “And I’m not a paranoid old man.”

Silence gripped the prisoners, until Helen Coates forced out her horror. “There are four people in that farmhouse, Ian,” she rasped. “Two of them are children. One of them is our daughter.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes were blank. “It’s your choice,” he declared.

“Wilson Street.” It was Viggo.

“Chris, stop!” cried Jimmy’s mother. “Let’s think about this.”

“There’s nothing to think about,” he replied. “54 Wilson Street. Top floor.”

Ian Coates immediately gave a strong nod to Miss
Bennett. She in turn cast her eye across the room and nodded at an agent who was clearly waiting for her signal. Now he muttered something into a mobile phone.

“What are you doing?” panted Jimmy’s mother. There was no response.

“You’ve betrayed me again, Viggo,” sneered Stovorsky.

“No he hasn’t, Uno,” Saffron insisted. “He’s saved lives – and saved France from an attack.”

Stovorsky countered immediately. “What about the lives of every French field agent who needs that safehouse?” he asked. “You never think about the long-term, do you? Maybe that’s why you chose the wrong man.” Saffron said nothing, but moved across the cell and took Viggo’s hand.

Meanwhile, Jimmy’s father half turned towards Miss Bennett. Behind her, the dapper figure of the Ambassador was hopping from foot to foot.

“Ambassador,” Ian called out, “I’m afraid I must apologise. What I am about to do is not an attack on your country, but a defence of my own.”

The Ambassador looked about him. He was surrounded by hordes of NJ7 agents, who all towered over him. He was visibly shaking. “N-n-o,” he stuttered, “Do not worry – I give you my blessing in whatever you are about to do.” Ian Coates held up the palm top once more.

“What are you doing?” shouted Jimmy’s mother. “Are you mad? You have the information you want! STOP!”
Before the word was out of her mouth, a shadow fell across the image of the farmhouse. Less than a second later the screen flashed white. “NO!”

The picture crystallised again. Where the farmhouse had been, there was a raging fire. Flames poured out of the rubble in a tumult of black smoke.

“What have you done?” shrieked Helen, falling to her knees in tears. Everyone else was silent. Ian Coates didn’t look at his wife, who was crumpled on the floor.

At last, Viggo spoke, his voice so thin it was barely audible. “But I told you the truth.”

Ian Coates stepped forward until they were face to face. “We’ll see about that,” he snarled through his teeth, “As soon as a team of agents has located Jimmy we’ll know for sure. If they don’t find him, Miss Bennett will come back in fifteen minutes to execute one of you. She will return every fifteen minutes after that until you are all dead.” With that he marched across the floor back to the lift.

“Get him out of here,” he snapped, shoving a finger towards the French Ambassador.

Miss Bennett led a procession of NJ7 agents. They followed the Prime Minister back to the lobby. The prisoners were left in shock with only their guards.

Stovorsky was clutching the bars, quivering. “He has gone too far,” he murmured.

“There’s nothing we can do,” snapped Viggo, rushing to Helen. Saffron was already comforting her, but both were crying.

Stovorsky remained staring out of the cell across the basement. Viggo looked over his shoulder, curious as to what Stovorsky was doing. Then, on the other side of the hall, he noticed the cleaner, that shrivelled old lady, shuffling towards them.

“What are you doing?” Viggo asked.

“Coates has attacked France,” Stovorsky replied. “I don’t care what the Ambassador says – such an assault on French soil is an act of war.”

The cleaner reached the cell’s security barrier, sweeping the floor as she went. The guards inspected her pass and waved her through the perspex doors as they slid open. She approached the cell. Stovorsky dropped to his knees. He reached out between the bars and with his finger he wrote something in the dust. Viggo strained his neck to see what it was. The letters were clear, but he had no idea what it meant: ZAF-1.

Even before he had finished forming the last letter, the cleaner brushed the floor clean. Then she gave an almost indiscernible nod.

“What’s—” started Viggo, but Stovorsky spun round and cut him off with a finger to his lips. The sound of Helen’s sobbing hadn’t abated. Viggo watched a sly smile creep on to Stovorsky’s face.

“I
DON’T UNDERSTAND
,” Felix called out to Georgie, who was sitting up on her bed. “I’m sure I’m doing just what Jimmy did, but when I do it I don’t get disguised at all. I just get mucky.”

Georgie stifled a laugh. She didn’t want to encourage him any more. But then Felix popped his head round the door and she saw what a mess he’d made. She burst out laughing. He had fragments of soap drooping off all corners of his head, some was even sticking out of his ears. His hair was knotted with some weird sticky substance he’d obviously concocted himself and his chin dribbled rivulets of black water.

“Great disguise, Felix,” she grinned. Felix laughed too and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Do you think it worked?” Felix asked, “His disguise, I mean. And do you think he’s OK?”

“Yeah.” Georgie shrugged. “Of course he’s OK. He’s Jimmy.” She wished she could say it with more confidence. “He’ll be back any minute.”

“Then we’ll know what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Georgie agreed. Then she added, “I wish there was at least a TV here or something, for while we’re waiting.” They sighed, both with the same anxiety. There was nothing to distract them from their concerns for Jimmy. Just then, there was a tap on the door. They looked at each other, startled.

Silently, Felix mouthed, “Jimmy?” Georgie shook her head. Then a voice followed the tapping.

“Quick, let me in.” It was a man’s voice, deep and commanding, but not one they knew. “My name’s Roebuck. I’m a friend of Christopher Viggo’s. He sent me for you. It isn’t safe here any more.”

Felix and Georgie kept their eyes firmly on each other, searching for what they should do.

“It’s OK,” the voice outside continued, “I know you’re in there. And you’re right to pretend you’re not, but you have to believe me. NJ7 are on their way right now. Can you hear the helicopters?”

They strained their ears. Georgie gently pushed herself off the bed. She couldn’t believe it. The noise was faint, but it was there. A bass whirr, as if the sea was rumbling towards them.

“OK,” Georgie replied at last. “If you know Chris, what’s my name?”

“That’s Georgie, isn’t it?” came the response from outside. “Is Felix in there with you?” Felix snatched in a breath and stepped towards the door.

“You’re running out of time,” the man outside insisted.

Felix and Georgie were studying each other’s expressions, neither one of them knowing what to do. “It’s a trick,” whispered Felix.

“But what if it isn’t?” Georgie replied. There was another long silence. Only the drone of the helicopter in the distance filled the room. In their imaginations it was magnified a thousand times. At last, Georgie marched right up to the door and unlocked it.

She was greeted by a tall man, with close-cropped blond hair. His jeans were muddy but looked expensive, and the same was true of his overcoat.

“Georgie, Felix, great to meet you,” he whispered. “I’m Roebuck. I’m sorry there’s no time to meet you properly. We have to get out of here. Where’s Jimmy?”

“He’s—” Georgie stopped herself. Her natural suspicion still pulsated within her. “He’s out.”

Roebuck frowned for a second. “That’s OK,” he said carefully. “He’ll work it out for himself when he hears the choppers.”

He didn’t even wait for a response. He dashed down the stairs. Felix and Georgie followed, mesmerised by his forceful movements. At the bottom of the stairs he held the front door open for them and waved them past.

“But what about…” started Felix, looking quizzically towards Georgie. He didn’t have time to finish his
question. Roebuck bustled them both towards a traditional London black cab that was parked directly outside the building.

They piled into the back and Roebuck slammed the door shut. Felix and Georgie slumped into the black leather seats. It was an old-fashioned London taxi with space for three across the back, plus two flip-down seats opposite. A perspex screen separated the passengers from the driver. They were on their own for a matter of seconds while Roebuck walked round to the driver’s seat.

“What do you think?” Georgie asked quietly.

“I don’t know. What about Jimmy…”

By then, Roebuck was back with them. He started up the taxi and they pulled away with a jolt. Perhaps it was tiredness, but neither Georgie nor Felix noticed the discreet green stripe on the driver’s taxi licence.

Jimmy raced on. Sweat clogged his T-shirt. His pulse boomed in his ears, mixing with the steps of the agents so close behind him. The Embassy was only a block away.
I’m nearly there,
thought Jimmy. At the next corner there were more agents, then more. Jimmy changed direction again. They closed round him like a net. There were dozens of them. Wherever he looked, Jimmy saw more black suits, more thin ties fluttering in the wind.

Suddenly, with dread in his heart, Jimmy threw himself forward on to the pavement. The concrete smacked his hands. As soon as he landed, he rolled off the kerb into the line of traffic, just catching a gap between two cars. The sky and the pavement flashed into his eyes one after the other, mixed with the red faces of men in black suits, and their green stripes.

At the centre of the road he spluttered exhaust fumes out of his lungs. His eyes focused. There was the French Embassy. Then shadows plunged across his face. A ring of black suits converged on Jimmy’s body.

“Don’t shoot!” Jimmy shouted. He was surprised by how calm his voice sounded. Inside he was jelly. The agents pounced on him. Jimmy felt huge hands tearing at him. Who knows how many? He didn’t resist.

“Take me to Miss Bennett!” Jimmy ordered. “She wants me alive!” he improvised. With ease the agents flipped him on to his front. Then he felt someone grab his wrists and the cold touch of handcuffs. Jimmy kept a deliberate check on his programming, making sure at every moment that it wasn’t about to do anything drastic. For the time being, Jimmy’s insides remained all too human. He wondered whether the agents had noticed that he was shaking.

His cheek was pressed into the muck of the road. He tasted mud on his tongue as he gasped for breath. Then he realised that he wasn’t gasping for breath. His lips were smearing across the surface of the road. It
was disgusting. Then through the dust came the cold touch of metal. The key to the lift. Just as instructed, Eva had stuck it down, bang in the centre of the road, precisely in front of the Embassy doors.

Jimmy clasped his teeth round it, pulling it into his mouth. Just in time, he closed his lips. One of the agents yanked Jimmy’s head up by the hair and forced it into a black cloth bag. Even night-vision wasn’t going to help him – he couldn’t see through the material. The agents patted him down roughly. Then he heard the click of a pistol. He let himself go completely limp, giving himself up to NJ7. One agent had him on each side. One more pressed a pistol against the back of Jimmy’s head. Like this, they escorted him into the Embassy.

“Where are we going?” Georgie called out from the back seat of the taxi. There was no answer.

“Did he hear me?” she asked Felix. Felix shrugged. “Where are we going?” she shouted, louder. Still there was no response.

“I don’t like this,” muttered Felix, jabbing her in the ribs. “Now we’re out of the safehouse, we’ll be OK on our own.”

“Mr Roebuck,” Georgie shouted, “thank you for coming to help us at the safehouse, but we’ve decided we’ll be OK on our own now. You can let us out of the cab.”

Still the only response was the chundering of the engine as London’s streets rushed past them outside the window. Georgie was suddenly at the edge of her seat. “Hey!” she cried out to the driver, “Stop the cab!” She hammered on the perspex at the back of the driver’s head. “Stop!”

The driver didn’t respond. He didn’t even look round. Felix rattled at the door. It was locked. “Let us out!” he yelled. He lay on his back and kicked at the window. It was solid.

The taxi gathered speed, heading out of Central London, putting more and more distance between its passengers and Jimmy. Felix and Georgie stared at each other; they were trapped.

Jimmy felt like he was entering the lion’s den. Even the smell of the air was hostile – a mix of cleaning fluid and the oil the guards used on their guns. Jimmy held himself still, trying not to show his alarm. He was unarmed, his hands were cuffed behind his back and now he couldn’t see. He was completely helpless.

He walked unsteadily, dragged along by the agents. He thanked his luck that they had only searched him after placing the bag on his head. He used his tongue to push the key right down between his bottom teeth and his cheek.

As they walked, he paid careful attention to the texture of the floor beneath his feet and the sounds that his footsteps made – first the marble of the lobby, then sometimes carpet, then wooden floorboards. He counted the steps they mounted – if anything went wrong he would need to know the quickest way out.

After a few minutes he was pulled to a stop, and the bag was whipped off his head. Jimmy squinted at the light that blasted in through the tall windows. He worked out that this was a third floor office that overlooked the front of the building. It was probably directly above the main entrance. Miss Bennett sat opposite him, behind a grand wooden desk.

“Jimmy,” she said, making his name sound like a taunt. “Give me one good reason why these men haven’t killed you already.”

Jimmy set his jaw and consciously made it look like he was talking normally. “Shouldn’t you be in a classroom somewhere, setting extra homework?” The words sprang out from the anger that swamped him as soon as he saw the face of his old school teacher. He couldn’t help himself. Once he had trusted her. She had spent years building a world of deceit around him.

“Don’t mess me about, Jimmy Coates,” Miss Bennett snarled, her expression deadly serious. “You’re going to do as I say.”

Jimmy held himself tall and looked her in the eye. They key cut into his gums, but so far he was managing
to sound normal. “Release my friends and my mother,” he demanded.

Miss Bennett leaned back in her chair. “You say the cutest things,” she purred. “You really think that’s possible, don’t you?” Jimmy’s face fell. “The group of prisoners currently held in the basement represents a major threat to the welfare of this nation.” She smiled a full, luscious smile with her scarlet-red lips. “Think about it, Jimmy. We sent you to kill Christopher Viggo and you failed. We now have him locked up. We can kill him at any time without anybody finding out, and without any awkward questions being asked.”

Jimmy’s mind was swimming with the horror of the situation, as Miss Bennett’s soft voice mesmerised him. “But the reason we kept them alive, Jimmy, is—”

“Me,” he gasped.

Jimmy couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it coming. When Viggo and Saffron had gone after Felix’s parents, they had walked right into a trap. The Muzbekes had been bait to lead Jimmy back to NJ7. That should have been a warning. The same thing was happening now that Stovorsky, Viggo, Saffron and Jimmy’s mother had all been captured.

“Will you release them in exchange for me?” Jimmy asked, desperate to find his way back to a position of strength. Miss Bennett let out a peal of laughter.

“You!” she scoffed. “As far as I can see, we already have
you.”

“But I thought—”

“You know, Ares Hollingdale was obsessed by you. He was a paranoid old man. A political visionary, yes, but he was slowly losing his mind.”

Everything within Jimmy was suddenly empty. He had nothing left to negotiate with. The only thing NJ7 wanted was him and here he was, as vulnerable as a newborn baby. They could do with him whatever they wanted. So why hadn’t they killed him? As the last bit of energy drained out of his body, he worked it out. It had been Hollingdale who had wanted Jimmy dead. But there was a new man in charge now – his father. Did that mean he was safe?

The glimmer of hope was enough to keep Jimmy standing there, putting up a show of resistance to Miss Bennett. She was examining him silently. Though she had been undercover at the time, she had always been a good teacher. She knew when to let a student work something out for himself and could tell when he had. Now she was smiling at Jimmy in a way that made him want to run screaming from the building.

Before he could do anything, a side door opened and in walked the only reason that Jimmy was still alive. His heart and head both washed clean of any emotion, Jimmy coughed, “Hi, Dad.”

Out in the suburbs, the taxi pulled off the main road into what could almost have been a country lane. It crawled
along until it was out of sight of the passing traffic then stopped completely.

Georgie looked across at Felix, whose eyes twinkled. He gave a discreet thumbs up, and a second later, bent double, coughing his lungs out.

“Quick!” Georgie cried. “I think he’s going to be sick.” Felix fell to the floor of the cab, clutching his stomach and running through an astounding series of disgusting noises.

“Stop that!” shouted Roebuck from the driver’s seat, “Pull yourself together.”

“There’s no air in here!” Georgie shouted back, “I think he’s having a panic attack. Are you OK, Felix?” She bent down, pretending to check on the boy writhing at her feet. “Urgh! that’s gross,” Georgie howled. “There’s some disgusting yellow stuff dribbling out his mouth.”

“Oh no,” the driver exclaimed, hauling himself out of the taxi, “Don’t you puke in this cab.” He opened the passenger door next to Georgie, but, just in case, he reached into his overcoat and pulled out a gun.

“Oh, so you’re a friend of Chris’s, are you?” Georgie mocked. Her anger was doubled by her feelings of foolishness for ever trusting this man. She hopped out of the cab. Felix crawled across and leaned his head over the side.

Roebuck stood over him, watching carefully as he dribbled and spat through yet more foul grunts. “You
stay right there,” the man said to Georgie. “If you run, I’ll shoot you and your friend.” Then, in the split second that his face was turned to Georgie, Felix pushed himself up from the floor. The back of his head slammed into Roebuck – right between his legs.