They’re trying to kill me, he told himself. It’s right to be on edge. The last thing Jimmy wanted to do was relax. He wasn’t ready to. His imagination was still replaying the explosion over and over, and his ears were still ringing from the successive booms. Most of all, he could still feel a rage inside him that was bursting to be let out.
At first he thought he was angry at the people who’d tried to blow him up, but slowly he realised that wasn’t true. The faceless pilots meant nothing to him, even when they aimed their rockets and pulled the trigger. Jimmy’s anger was for their boss. Not just the British Government, but one man. The new Prime Minister. The man who had given the Secret Service greater powers than ever before. The man who had fuelled public fear and hatred of the French to strengthen his own position. The man who had forced Neo-democracy even deeper into the British system and removed any chance that people might have to vote. The man who had once been Jimmy’s father—Ian Coates.
Jimmy had to put his book down and hold his head. He’d never felt such confusion. It was like madness. His hands were shaking violently and he knew now that he had to give in to that inner wash of calm. It dampened all of his emotions, blunting their bite. He concentrated on that inner cloud, cursing himself for resisting his programming. If he was to stay alive, he had to stay focused. And that meant not thinking about his father.
Over the past few weeks Jimmy thought he’d learned when to listen to his programming—he’d even been able to control it at times. But it was changing so fast, and it felt like the human in him was changing too. The lines weren’t so clear any more. Nothing was clear. He closed his eyes and let his lungs slow his breathing, despite the smell of the nearby toilet. He thought back to all the times when this strange force swelling inside him had saved him, trying to forget that without it he wouldn’t have been in trouble in the first place.
But for tonight’s crisis, he blamed himself. Why had he hesitated to escape from that newsroom when he knew the police were so close? He’d been stupid to even think that there might be news of his family there. Why would a local newspaper in the south of England have any interest in reporting the fates of three insignificant Londoners? That’s even if they’d been allowed to without censorship.
The last Jimmy had heard, his mum, sister and best friend had been in the custody of NJ7. Then the French Secret Service had sent an assassin to kill them, to punish Jimmy when a deal had gone bad. He had no idea what had happened to them after that.
For all Jimmy knew he was completely alone in the world. Right now, the power in his blood was the only ally he had. It could remove the pain of loneliness. It could remove his father from his mind completely. It’s on my side, he told himself. It’s me. But at the same he shuddered with terror. If this power inside was him, he was more killer than human.
Mitchell Glenthorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his knee twitched under the table. The eyes of everybody in the room seemed to burn into him. He wasn’t used to the scrutiny of the most powerful people in the country.
Around the long, lozenge-shaped table were the dozen men and women who could do almost anything they wanted with Great Britain. Thanks to Neo-democracy, they didn’t need to worry about the opinions of the British people. They could get on with the efficient day-to-day running of the country, much of which was done from here, the Cabinet Room at Number 10 Downing Street.
But however powerful these people were, they were under the control of a single man—Ian Coates, the Prime Minister. He was sitting at the centre of the table, leaning on his elbows with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Directly behind his head was one of Downing Street’s old portraits. Mitchell didn’t know who it was, but he recognised the new flag just above—a Union Jack, with an extra green stripe running down the centre. That green stripe was the emblem of NJ7.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ian Coates announced, “this is Britain’s finest asset.” It took a second for Mitchell to realise they were still talking about him. “A miracle of British science and genetic engineering.” The PM’s voice was low and stern. Mitchell wondered whether he spoke quietly on purpose, so that people had to crane their necks and listen closely for every word. He certainly wasn’t a charismatic speaker. Usually his imposing physical presence was enough— broad shoulders, thick brown hair and a heavy brow. But today Mitchell noticed the dark bags under his eyes and skin so pale it was almost yellow.
“He’s only thirteen years old,” the PM continued, “but Mitchell’s recent heroism has made Britain stronger, and shown us true British success.”
British success? When Mitchell thought back over his missions, all he could remember was the empty ache of failure. He wondered whether that was what the PM meant by “British success”.
“Learn from him.” The Prime Minister tapped his pen on the table and drew in a deep breath. “I invited him to this meeting because he’s an example to everybody.” Mitchell thought he saw a glimmer of emotion in Ian Coates’ bloodshot eyes. It quickly passed. Could the man have been thinking of his son, Mitchell wondered? Nobody was allowed to mention the fact that for eleven years Ian and Jimmy Coates had lived happily as part of the same family.
“Now we need people like Mitchell more than ever,” the PM declared. “We have a new danger.”
Let me out of here, Mitchell screamed silently. He longed for a mission, or at least to get back to his simple, disciplined and anonymous life in the underground bunkers of NJ7. It was almost as if the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains carried poison into his skin.
At last the Prime Minister took his eyes off Mitchell. “I’ve asked William Lee to brief you all,” he announced, with a dismissive wave towards the man on Mitchell’s right.
“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Slowly, the man stood up —and up and up. He was by far the tallest man anybody in the room had ever seen. Mitchell had started to get used to it over the last few days, but clearly several members of the Cabinet were overwhelmed. William Lee towered above them, his shadow running the entire length of the tabletop. Mitchell would have described the man’s face as Indian, but he knew that didn’t quite capture the unique character of his features: long, thin nose; eyes like black olives.
“Jimmy Coates is alive,” Lee began. “He’s in Britain and he’s spreading misinformation about the Government. Miss Bennett, the file.” He turned and looked down at the person on Mitchell’s left: the Head of NJ7, the most frightening and beautiful woman Mitchell had ever known. He was barely able to gather the courage to turn and look at her now.
She nodded to Lee with a delicate smile and tossed a manila folder into the centre of the table. Its contents spilled across the lacquer— printouts of web pages, stills of Jimmy’s video message, photos of the break-in at the newspaper office in Hailsham, along with reams of other documents and reports.
Mitchell’s eyes remained on Miss Bennett. Apart from Mitchell, she was the youngest person in the room. Mitchell guessed she must have been in her late thirties, but with such glowing skin and bright red lipstick she often seemed younger. She looked as she always did—her back straight, her mouth in a knowing half-smile, her chestnut hair pulled back tightly and held in place by a green clip. Yet Mitchell was suspicious. She wouldn’t normally have co-operated so readily with William Lee. Mitchell wondered whether at that very moment her assistants were delving into Lee’s past in another effort to undermine his position.
Technically, William Lee was nothing more than Director of Special Security for the Prime Minister, but he had quickly won Coates’ trust