Joe Craig - Jimmy Coates - Target

“Prime Minister,” Miss Bennett continued, “it’s not too late to call him back.”

Ian Coates jumped to his feet, startled. “Miss Bennett,” he said, “if there’s a way to safeguard our Neo-democracy without hurting Jimmy then please don’t keep it to yourself.”

Miss Bennett flashed him a patronising smile, then continued to address Hollingdale directly. “Now that we have found where Jimmy Coates is hiding, in less than an hour a single UAV could flatten the entire area.”

Ian Coates sunk back into his chair, his face suddenly pale.

“Sending out another assassin is an unnecessary risk,” Miss Bennett went on. “Haven’t we learned anything from the last time we did it? Order the UAV strike.”

“Are you mad, Miss Bennett?” the PM cried. “You’re talking about sending an unmanned plane to bomb French soil!”

“The French would probably retaliate,” Miss Bennett said, her voice devoid of emotion, “but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Hollingdale’s hands were shaking. He swung round in his chair to face the wall and waved over his shoulder. Ian Coates took that as his cue to stand again, and explain.

“The Prime Minister feels that provoking the French would be far too dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Bennett asked flatly.

Hollingdale spun back round and pounded his fists on his desk.

“Sauvage!” he screamed, eyes flashing. “Until we know what the French are capable of we must proceed with extreme caution.”

Miss Bennett inspected the faces around her, each one rigid with anxiety. Ian Coates continued his explanation.

“We have reason to believe that when Dr Sauvage fled he passed classified technology to an agency called ZAF-1.”

“ZAF-1?” queried Miss Bennett.

“Possibly the French equivalent of NJ7,” Ian Coates replied. “We don’t know. The details are encrypted in these files.” He threw the folder on to the desk and pulled out a bloodstained orange flash drive in a clear plastic bag.

“And for eleven years nobody has told me about this?” She was furious.

“Nobody knows about this, Miss Bennett,” the PM said. “Even within NJ7. If Dr Higgins knew that we had this flash drive, the only explanation would be that we killed Dr Sauvage. If he finds that out he might be dangerous.”

“You’re completely paranoid!” Miss Bennett shouted. “Dr Higgins isn’t dangerous no matter how many of his friends we kill. He could decrypt those files in minutes.”

Ares Hollingdale twitched almost imperceptibly. Miss Bennett sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “So,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, “the French could possess weapons far more powerful than we thought.”

“Exactly,” Hollingdale snapped. “And they could use them.”

Miss Bennett paced across the room. “But hold on,” she said, “we have no intelligence suggesting they have these weapons.”

“We have this intelligence,” Coates insisted, pointing at the flash drive.

“Call that intelligence?” Miss Bennett mocked. “I’ve had enough of your sort of intelligence, Coates.”

“I don’t like your tone, Miss Bennett,” Coates replied calmly, his eyes piercing Miss Bennett’s.

“Why are you even in this office?” she sneered. “A month ago you were sitting at home with your feet up. Do you think your opinion matters? If you’d raised that boy properly we wouldn’t have this problem. You’re no better than Christopher Viggo.”

Ian Coates looked away. Christopher Viggo’s name sent a pulse of anger across his face.

“Miss Bennett, that’s enough,” Hollingdale barked, “lan’s opinion is of the highest importance to me. His loyalty has been tested and he has proven himself.” He rubbed his hands together, every vein clearly visible. His cuff rode up slightly, revealing a small tattoo of a green stripe on the inside of his left wrist. “We don’t know for sure what the French are capable of,” he continued. “Until we do, we must attack Jimmy Coates, not France.”

MITCHELL’S PREY LOOMED large in his binoculars. It was Jimmy Coates. The circle of vision encompassed him like a tightening noose. At first, Mitchell had been surprised when he discovered who his target was. They had crossed paths before. It seemed so long ago that Mitchell had tried to mug him in London, and ended up showing him where the police station was. But that was a lifetime away. Nothing could surprise him now. Mitchell pushed back the memories of his old existence. Those miserable days were over. This was a fresh start.

His room at the Auberge de I’Aubergine overlooked the main square. From here he could keep an eye on anything that went on. The village held no secrets for him. It wasn’t that Beuvron was so small – it was on the cusp of becoming a town – but Mitchell let no detail escape him.

He thought with pride of the hours he had spent in the grass outside Jimmy’s farmhouse hideaway. His surveillance had even included close observation of the old woman that he now knew was Yannick’s mother. He watched her buy food and clothes for her guests. He listened to her moan about it to the shopkeepers. All the information went towards building a rich picture of Jimmy’s life in hiding.

Mitchell felt a surge of delight as Jimmy took a seat outside the crêper¡e across the square. It was perfect. Jimmy had done the same thing every day for the four days that he and his friends had been allowed out of the farmhouse by Jimmy’s mother. Mitchell had spent the whole night in preparation, banking on Jimmy doing it again today.

Mitchell mouthed the words with him as Jimmy ordered a citron pressé. The blend of fresh lemon juice, water and sugar that you mix yourself had become their favourite drink. Yes, Mitchell thought, your last drink. Such a shame you’ll be dead before it arrives. Then he dropped his binoculars on to his bed and dipped his hand into a long slim pouch of black leather that hung on the bedpost. He drew out three separate sticks of bamboo, each about twenty-five centimetres long.

With the precision of a surgeon, he screwed them together, end to end. He went to the leather pouch once more and brought out a silver ring with a tiny clip attached to it. He clamped it on to the top of his bamboo rod. Finally, he reached up to his own head. With a deft tug, he plucked out two hairs. His hair was, as always, cropped short. It didn’t matter. The strands were a perfect length for his purposes. He dabbed the ends on the tip of his tongue and secured them delicately across the ring.

What emerged in his hands was a specially adapted weapon of his own design. It was probably the most sophisticated peashooter in the world, complete with a target sight and cross-hairs.

Mitchell moved back to the window. He pulled up the glass just a crack and knelt on the floor. From his pocket he produced a handful of tiny pebbles. Afterwards, there would be no bullet on the scene to arouse suspicion. The pebbles would disappear among the everyday debris of the street. It wouldn’t even be a pebble that killed Jimmy Coates.

There was no question of sympathy as Mitchell loaded a stone into his shooter. Far from it. As far as Mitchell was concerned, Jimmy deserved his punishment. So you’re 38 per cent human too, Mitchell thought.

“Well, you’ve had it easy,” he muttered, watching Jimmy leaning back in his chair, comfortable, smiling. “You’re not like me.”

Gently, he raised the bamboo and whispered, “Show time.”

“Deux citrons pressés, s’il vous plâit,” announced Jimmy to the waiter, his French accent perfect.

“Oh, order one for me too,” whispered Felix, licking his lips.