Joe Craig - Jimmy Coates - Power

She even had the head concierge believing that she was sixteen, and the daughter of a foreign investor, on an undercover fact-finding mission. It was far-fetched but just about believable. Perhaps more so than the truth. Who would have believed that she was a genetically designed assassin working for the DGSE—the French Secret Service?

Zafi set about polishing the handrail on the main staircase, while she peeked down at the clock in the lobby. It was 4.50 a.m. In ten minutes she knew there would be a shift change and she knew exactly which team would be starting work. Memorising the rota had been one of the first steps in her assimilation on to the staff.

She left the gold of the handrail gleaming and trotted back up to the landing, where a service door took her into the Cavendish’s behind-the-scenes labyrinth. The twisting passages and spiral staircases of the ancient building were the perfect place to vanish.

This was just the first stage of Zafi’s disappearing act. From here, the whole world could become her labyrinth. Travel documents were easy to come by and easy to copy. Entire false identities could be created while inattentive receptionists took coffee breaks. The kitchens were a bountiful source of supplies and, thanks to the many empty bedrooms, she was well rested. The only question was where to go. Could she ever return to France? Her last mission for the DGSE had gone perfectly until the final moments. Instead of killing her targets, she’d helped them escape.

Zafi pattered through the corridors of the hotel, trying to picture the scenes back in Paris. Did her Secret Service bosses know yet that her targets were still alive? Could they possibly suspect that she’d failed on purpose? She was overcome by a rush of desperation. Would she ever get the chance to prove to them that she could be effective?

Her step was so light on the floorboards that there was hardly a creak. She made it to a storeroom of long-forgotten lost property and snatched up her jacket and a shoulder bag she’d packed full of essentials. In the pocket of her uniform she could feel the outline of her mobile phone, heavy on her skin. She knew the DGSE must have been trying to get in touch, but she didn’t dare check her messages.

Zafi slipped out of a fire escape into the back alley behind the hotel. Her timing was perfect. A rubbish truck rumbled into view at the end of the alley. The silhouettes of two burly refuse collectors lumbered towards the back door of the hotel. Zafi skipped past the pile of black plastic sacks and kept to the shadows. She easily slipped past the men without being noticed.

When she reached the truck, she pulled out her phone. It would be so easy to toss it away forever. Her old life would be over—crushed in the back of a rubbish truck. The DGSE would try to track her down, but they’d never find her. She was too good for that. She would let them assume she’d been killed in action by the British.

Her fist squeezed the phone so tightly it almost cracked the plastic casing. But she didn’t throw it. Her arm refused to move. She could feel her breath growing short and her limbs tightening. In seconds the rubbish men would be back and her chance would be gone. What was stopping her?

She glanced at the display on her phone. One new message. Her imagination dreaded what it might say. She’d failed to complete her mission. They could be recalling her to Paris to receive some kind of punishment. Or perhaps they were already laying a trap for her. Had she turned from France’s greatest weapon to an embarrassment, or even an enemy? Zafi gritted her teeth and told herself not to be so dramatic. It was just a mission , she thought. But without a mission , I’m nothing. In the corner of her eye she could see the rubbish collectors coming back, their backs laden with plastic sacks. Zafi pulled in a deep breath. I’m an assassin , she told herself. I can handle it. She delicately tapped the buttons on her phone and read the message.

As usual, it was in the form of an encrypted stream of letters and numbers. Zafi relished the warm hum in her brain, allowing her to read the code as simply as if it was a French nursery rhyme. When she saw what it said, the warmth spread from her head to the 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.