rest of her body. They obviously didn’t know what had happened—and they weren’t interested in the details. For now, at least, it looked like they trusted her. Zafi felt a surge of delight. They needed her. Something more pressing had come up and she was to turn her attention to it immediately.
At last Zafi smiled. This would be her chance. Who would care about the past if she completed this new mission? It would be the greatest achievement of any French assassin in history. It was the chance to prove she was still the best. To the DGSE and to herself.
She pulled off her maid’s uniform to reveal a thin black tracksuit underneath. She tossed the uniform into the rubbish truck, slipped the phone back into her pocket and set off at a jog. She headed south, towards Westminster. Her new target wouldn’t be hard to find.
She’d tried to eliminate him a couple of times before, but on each occasion somebody had been there to stop her. She’d tried to shoot him, but Jimmy Coates had got in the way. Then, more recently, she had intended to poison this target with the raw, untreated meat of a Greenland Shark. An NJ7 operative had ambushed her in Iceland and stopped her getting away with the poisonous meat.
This time Zafi knew she would succeed. She had to. For a short time she had let confusion get in the way of her identity. But she was back. And to prove it to everybody, only one man had to die. The five words of the message drummed through her head: “Terminate the British Prime Minister.”
Jimmy couldn’t believe that after an explosion like that on the track the train had continued its journey—and without the slightest delay. It was unusual for a train to be on time even without such a catastrophe on the line. He could only assume that NJ7 wanted to keep the little drama secret—as secret as an aerial fire fight and an explosion could be.
Even so, with every shift in the rhythm of the train’s rocking and every variation in the regular beat of the journey, Jimmy expected the worst. They’ll search the tunnel and the wreckage, he told himself. They’ll know I’m alive and that I’m on this train.
He had found a corner at the end of a carriage where he could sit without being observed. After he’d climbed in through the window he’d found a book that had fallen from one of the baggage racks and now he was leaning against the door to the toilet, pretending to read.
He didn’t even see the words on the page. He couldn’t settle his eyes on one thing for more than half a second. Nothing in his surroundings changed. Nobody came for him. Yet he couldn’t stop his nerves clattering as hard as the train. The cold from the floor crept through his body. He could feel heat spreading from his stomach and knew that his programming was trying to warm him and settle his nerves at the same time, but he fought it.
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
