Target (9 page)

At last, Estafette turned. He pulled an apple from his pocket and began peeling it with his knife casually – too casually. Jimmy couldn’t watch. The policeman was pointing at him. Estafette threw his head back, laughing. The long curl of his apple peel bounced around, like a spring waiting to uncoil.

In the corner of his eye, Jimmy could make out a second policeman inside the patrol car. He was reaching for something. What if he was checking the computer or radioing for more information? Or was that the silhouette of a police rifle?

Jimmy felt the blood pumping through his body. He was aware of something revolving round his head. His programming was preparing. But for what? Then he realised that he was calculating how best to kill every last person on the forecourt.
Keep control,
he told himself, closing his eyes to regain his composure. The other half of his brain kept turning:
take out one with the knife, two with a wheel kick to the head, three and four with the rifle—STOP!
he shouted inside his head.

Jimmy desperately held his legs in check. If he moved it would mean a dozen men would end up dead. He pleaded with his programming:
Don’t risk it.

At last, Estafette turned and made his way back to the truck. The policeman was still watching. “They asked about you,” Estafette whispered, hauling himself up into the driver’s seat. “I told them you were my son.”

Jimmy nodded his approval. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, then quickly added, “Dad.”

Estafette grinned another black grin and pulled out of the service station. “You did well,” he remarked quietly. Jimmy nodded again, playing innocent. Estafette could have no idea that Jimmy was moved to say the same thing.

“You know,” Estafette went on, a note of annoyance in his voice, “I do actually have to deliver that meat. They’ll notice if it’s been nibbled.”

“Tell them it was rats,” Jimmy replied without hesitation.

“Rats? That stuff’s hanging half a metre off the floor.”

“Flying rats.”

“Flying rats?” Estafette couldn’t help but laugh. At last, his frosty demeanour was melting.

“OK then – bats,” joked Jimmy.

“Bats?” cried Estafette. “In a refrigerated truck?”

“Erm, arctic bats?”

At that, they both burst out hysterically. Estafette roared, “Arctic bats it is, Michael Vargas. Arctic bats.”

The truck chundered on up the motorway, nearing London all the time. A few cars back, two policemen, eager for promotion, debated whether to turn on their siren.

A
FLASH OF
blue in the wing mirror alerted Jimmy. He felt it like a twist in his stomach.

“Get this thing moving.” His voice was stern, businesslike.

“What?” Estafette looked in the mirror and saw it too. “It might be nothing to do with us.”

“No,” Jimmy countered. “They’re after me.”

Estafette glanced across. The wail of the siren was loud now, filling the truck. Jimmy leaned forward so he could see in the mirror exactly what was behind them. He picked out one police car in the forest of other headlights. Then, out of nowhere, another appeared.

“Get moving now!” Jimmy shouted. “Before they set up a road block.”

“We’re getting into London now,” Estafette protested. “It might be a routine check. Maybe I should pull over.”

Jimmy considered it. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was something totally innocent. Jimmy studied the
wing mirror as if it was a famous work of art. It was a constellation of headlights. He wound down the window and stuck his head out. The wind blasted into him. That’s when he saw it. He didn’t know how it had got on to the motorway because they hadn’t passed an exit. But it was there – a long, black car, with no maker’s mark and no number plate, but next to the front grill was a green stripe.

“It’s them,” Jimmy gasped.

“Who?”

“You don’t want to know. But if they see me, they’ll kill me.”

Estafette checked to see if Jimmy was being serious. When he saw the boy’s expression, he slammed down the accelerator and veered into the outside lane. The truck swallowed up the road ahead.

“Keep driving,” Jimmy shouted over the whirr of the road. “Is there a way into the trailer from here?”

“The only way in is through the doors at the back.”

“That won’t do.” Jimmy’s mind was storming on as fast as the truck. “Listen, I have to get out of here.” He reached down to the floor and grabbed the old street atlas at his feet. “As long as they see me leave the truck you should be OK. They’ll send all their resources after me.”

Jimmy rapidly flicked through the A-Z. Then he ripped out one of the pages and stuffed it in his pocket.

“You’re going to jump out?” Estafette shouted. “That’s crazy.”

“Thanks for everything,” cried Jimmy, undoing his seat belt and pulling himself up towards the window. Then he added, “I need to borrow some of your meat.”

Jimmy looked round one last time and was astonished to see a fat smile creasing Estafette’s beard. “That’s OK,” the man leered. “Arctic bats – remember?”

“Yeah,” replied Jimmy. “Arctic bats.”

With an unexpected smile, he pulled himself out of the window. The wind rushed into him, almost blasting his eyes out of their sockets. In one swift action, he twisted round and dropped between the cabin and the trailer, balanced on the metal tread that joined the two. There was a little shelter here, but a huge amount of noise. It was nothing though to the noise inside Jimmy’s head. That’s where his programming was issuing millions of instructions every second, awakening every muscle.

Jimmy knelt down. The tarmac flew by beneath him. The wheels threw grit into his face, forcing him to squint. Mustering all his strength, he took hold of the metal tread and lowered himself down. Always holding himself just above the road, Jimmy manoeuvred himself until he was horizontal, underneath the truck.

Grime accumulated in his mouth. Every arm’s length of his upside-down crawl he spat out a black globule. He tried to shut out the noise, the strain on his forearms, the flash of the police lights reflected on the asphalt. He gripped the undercarriage, feeling for where there was
a slight drop in temperature. That’s where the insulation was at its thinnest.

With one last look up and down, checking his position in the centre of the trailer, he hooked his legs into the metalwork to spread some of the weight. Then he drove his hand upwards, slamming into the floor of the trailer. The second time, the metal dented. Jimmy gave another punch, then one more. That did it. His fist burst right into the compartment where he had been hiding only hours before.

The trailer floor couldn’t keep him out. He ripped through the metal, widening the hole until it was just big enough for him to haul himself through. One sharp shove opened the hatch of the hiding place. Refrigerated air rushed into Jimmy’s face. Even with the smell, it came as welcome relief from the cauldron below.

Jimmy wriggled through the hole in the floor, holding his breath. At last, he flopped down beneath the hanging hams. This was just the beginning. Without a moment to catch his breath, Jimmy jumped up and kicked open the trailer door. Immediately, he dodged to the side, minimising the target if his pursuers decided to shoot.

There they were – a trail of cars was following them now and they were close. Jimmy picked them out – three police cars and two from NJ7. He didn’t waste a second. He reached up to the ceiling and carefully unhooked a whole leg of ham. It was more than half Jimmy’s size and surprisingly heavy. Jimmy wrapped
his arms round it and flung it out of the door, right into the path of a police car.

The car swerved wildly to avoid the lump of meat that rolled along the road. Behind it, other cars honked and dodged. Jimmy wasn’t even watching. He had gone straight for the next ham. Unhooking that one too he stumbled to the edge of the trailer and dropped it to the road. Like bouncing bombs, the hams kept coming, making it impossible to follow the truck except at a distance.

When enough of a gap had opened up, Jimmy threw one last ham. It punched into the headlights of the car behind, smashing it to splinters, and wedged itself between the car and the road.
Hmm,
thought Jimmy,
ham sandwich.

He pulled himself out of the trailer door and up on to the roof. He lay there, flat on his stomach. The motorway had reached London now. Every few hundred metres there was another road bridge crossing the carriageway.

Jimmy glanced behind. Only the NJ7 cars were still in pursuit. A little cold meat wasn’t enough to stop them. They were gaining ground. Ever so slowly, rocking as the truck thundered onwards, Jimmy pushed himself on to his hands and knees. The next bridge zoomed towards him. Then, at the crucial moment, Jimmy sprang upwards.

The side of the bridge smacked into him. The impact
juddered through his body. It knocked the wind from his chest, but he didn’t fall. His fingers locked on to the top of the bridge. He heaved himself up. He landed on his feet just in time to see the NJ7 cars screech over to the side of the road. Jimmy stood absolutely still for a second, traffic careering past in front of him on the bridge. He waited for an NJ7 agent to step out of his car and look up at Jimmy. Estafette had already driven out of view without anyone following him.

He’s going to have some explaining to do,
Jimmy thought. Then he pelted into the night, heading for the heart of the city. He was in the country he called home, but what was out there waiting for him?

Miss Bennett slammed down the phone. “It’s confirmed,” she hissed. She stood up from her desk and turned to face the window. The shutters were closed though – it was the middle of the night. Despite that, Miss Bennett was still in her suit and Paduk was standing to attention in his uniform.

Did they never go to bed? Mitchell wondered. He was in his pyjamas, having been dragged out of bed to face this inquisition. He stared at the back of her head, mesmerised by her thin green hairclip. It seemed like several minutes before Miss Bennett finally spun round.

“I need to know exactly what happened when you
thought
Jimmy Coates was killed.”

“What do you mean?” Mitchell’s voice betrayed his panic. He looked desperately from Miss Bennett to Paduk and back.

Then Miss Bennett confirmed it: “He’s alive and he’s back in Britain.”

“But that’s impossible,” Mitchell protested, “I told you: I pushed him down. I held him in the shredder. He could never have survived.”

Miss Bennett held up a hand to stop him. Mitchell’s mouth remained open. Inside, his stomach seemed to be swirling. It was his programming, distraught at the news. Then Miss Bennett glanced at Paduk. “Bring her in,” she muttered.

Paduk marched to the door and nodded his head to Eva, who had been waiting in the hallway. She yawned then smiled sheepishly at Mitchell because her borrowed pyjamas were slightly too large. He didn’t smile back. Had he even noticed her coming in?

“What’s going on?” Eva asked.

Miss Bennett answered without ceremony: “You witnessed the accident in France, Eva. Tell me what happened.”

Eva hesitated, searching the other faces in the room for clues as to what disaster had hit Britain. She had accommodation at the French Embassy now and at night it seemed quiet. But when she’d been woken up tonight and pulled from her bed by an agent, the corridors had been in a flurry of activity.

“The machine…” she began, hesitantly, “…the machine was on…”

“Think back,” Miss Bennett suggested softly. “Try to think of any details you may have forgotten when you told us the first time.”

It was the last thing Eva wanted to do. The horror of Jimmy’s death still dogged her. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blood splashing up from the shredder. When she tried to sleep she heard the crash of the machinery. She longed for the security of home. To be with her family again…

No,
Eva told herself.
I must stay here. This is important.

“I saw Mitchell reaching for Jimmy,” she continued. “He was reaching down into the machine, but…”

Then Paduk interrupted, his voice even deeper than usual. “Is there any way Jimmy could have survived?” he asked.

Eva felt suddenly cold, as if there was no blood in her body at all. She thought if she spoke, her lips might disintegrate. Before she could try, Miss Bennett cut in.

“What a ridiculous question, Paduk. We know there’s no way he could have survived and yet we know he
did
survive.”

Eva jolted back to life. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She felt her cheeks flush. Jimmy was still alive. A wave of joy exploded from her insides, but just as quickly, she threw her hands to her face and faked a crying fit.

“Oh no!” she wailed. They’ll come to get me again…” The tears were real – all Eva did was act despair instead of the elation she really felt.

“Oh, look what you’ve done.” Miss Bennett shook her head at Paduk. “That’s enough, you two. Go back to bed.”

She dismissed Eva and Mitchell with a flick of the wrist. Eva didn’t hesitate. She scurried out, hiding her face and sobbing. Mitchell followed, his whole body tensed up. There was no chance of him getting to sleep tonight.

“Why didn’t you tell the girl the truth?” Paduk asked when the two children were gone. “Why pretend it was an accident?”

“She’s just started here, Paduk,” Miss Bennett replied. “She doesn’t need to be confronted with the most…unfortunate aspects of our work. When she’s more comfortable, we can educate her bit by bit.”

“So you’re planning on keeping her here?” Paduk was astonished. “Do you know what sort of security risk—”

Miss Bennett cut him off. “If we can train child assassins,” she snapped, “I don’t see why we can’t take on a bright young girl and teach her to be a first-class administrator.”

“But the assassins are guaranteed by their genetics,” Paduk protested.

“Yes and we all saw how well that worked, didn’t we?” Miss Bennett sneered. “I prefer to rely on simple
judgement of character, Paduk, and Eva’s just the sort of character this organisation needs. You saw her reaction just now. She was genuinely shocked. That’s patriotism, Paduk, and it comes with a good upbringing.” Miss Bennett let herself fall into her chair, yawned and lowered her voice. “She’ll go far. I can even see her replacing me in twenty years. Don’t you worry about Eva, Paduk – I’ll vouch for her.”

Jimmy reached Kensington before dawn. By now the sun was threatening to come up and Jimmy was exhausted. His hands were shaking. The wind cut into his skin and his lungs sent a bitter taste into his mouth. He pushed himself to keep running. The dressings on his leg were sodden with sweat. While his programming had once again shut off any pain, it was now seeping through his mental barrier. He had to stop.

Reluctantly, he threw himself into a doorway and slumped forward, his hands on his knees. One last time he consulted the map he had torn from the book in the truck. He was close now, but the rest of the way he had to walk.

The safehouse was perfectly located, no more than a few hundred metres from the French Embassy in South Kensington. This area of London had once been full of smart boutiques, but now that only British designers were allowed to trade, it had become as rundown as everywhere else in the city.

Jimmy rounded the last corner and surveyed the rundown blocks of flats. It seemed as if a million windows stared down at him. What if another police patrol spotted him and alerted Secret Services?

He pushed through his fear and marched the last few strides of his journey with only one thing on his mind – fierce determination to complete the tasks facing him. It might mean walking for miles on an empty stomach in the freezing cold, but nothing was going to stop him. His head throbbed with the pressure. He had to find Viggo and Saffron, and rescue Felix’s parents from wherever they were imprisoned. But first, he would wait for his mother and Stovorsky to make contact.

Jimmy looked the building up and down. It was just the same as every other in the street – a shabby Georgian town house that had been converted into flats many years ago. Jimmy trotted up the front steps, glancing over his shoulder. By the side of the front door was a silver panel. There were no buzzers though, just a number keypad. He’d been expecting that. He tapped in the entry code to the building: 311 #279. He and his mother had both memorised it from the scrap of paper that had long since been destroyed.

The door let out a faint click. Jimmy pushed it gingerly and stepped in. The environment he found himself in was quite old-fashioned. The floor was covered in what looked like original tiles; many of them were cracked. There was a hallway leading down one side of a rickety staircase,