Survival (12 page)

The quicker Jimmy was off the streets, the better, so
he kept up his speed. The last thing Marla had said to
him was lodged in his mind:
Find
Coca-Cola
. It didn’t
take long before he realised she hadn’t meant he
should buy himself a drink. He snaked his way through
the labyrinth, sticking to the darkest corners, until he
saw the Coca-Cola billboard. It was torn at two of the
edges and the red was faded, but nevertheless it
glowed under a line of spotlights – probably the
brightest thing in the whole town that night.

Jimmy climbed off his bike and stared up at the
swirling white letters. He’d seen the logo in New York
and France, so he was beginning to get used to it, but
it would always look foreign to him. There were no
Coke logos left in Britain.

The billboard covered up the whole side of the building
– three storeys – but next to it was an old blue door.
You will be safe
, Marla had told him. Jimmy felt his gut
churning. Was it natural nerves or his programming
telling him to be wary?

It didn’t matter. He didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t
stay on the streets. Any minute, Stovorsky or somebody
working for him could come round the corner or spot
him on satellite imagery. If this was where Marla and her
friends were based, this was where Jimmy had to go.

He hid the bike under an empty market stall and
approached the door, checking over his shoulders and
scanning the buildings for surveillance cameras.
There didn’t seem to be any. Marla and her friends
had chosen this spot well.

Jimmy reached up to knock on the door, but before he
could touch it, it swung open. He found himself staring up
at a huge man with a machine gun and a wide, round
face, like a black moon. Three round pearls shone from
his mouth – his only teeth. At first Jimmy felt a jolt of
anxiety. But he quickly put himself at ease – the machine
gun was safely stowed over the man’s shoulder and he
moved back to welcome Jimmy inside. As he stepped in,
Jimmy noticed the click of the guard’s false leg.

Slowly Jimmy shuffled sideways, keeping his back
close to the wall in case of an ambush. Then a door on
the other side of the room opened. Light flooded in,
dazzling him for a second. When his eyes adjusted he
saw the silhouette of a tall, muscly man in the doorway.

“I never thought I’d get the chance to meet you, Jimmy.”

The northern English accent set off sparks in
Jimmy’s head. It felt like the ringing of a thousand
alarms. Jimmy peered closer to make out the man’s
features. A ball of curly red hair filled the top quarter of
the doorway and cast the man’s pale, freckled skin into
shadow. His beard was also red and bushy, like an
upside-down reflection of the hair on his head.

But Jimmy’s eyes continued downwards – to the thin
black tie round the man’s neck; to the lapels of his black
suit; to the green stripe.
NJ7
, Jimmy thought in horror.
The people who had created Mitchell and Jimmy. The
people who undid their mistakes with murder.

At once, Jimmy dropped to the floor and kicked his
leg out to the side. He hooked his foot round the guard’s
false leg and jerked it towards him. He moved so fast
nobody else had time to draw breath, let alone react.
The guard fell with a clatter, landing on his gun. Jimmy
grabbed the end of the metal leg, then rolled forwards,
twisting into a double somersault.

The metal pole unscrewed from the guard’s knee as
Jimmy rotated. Jimmy landed on his feet, the false leg
swinging in his hands. He knocked out the guard in his
backswing then stepped into the redhead, pushing him
up against the doorframe. He shoved the pole up under
the man’s chin.

“Where did you get that suit?” Jimmy could feel his
fists throbbing as they gripped the metal pole.

“It’s just a suit, Jimmy,” the man told him softly. Was he
smiling? Didn’t he realise Jimmy could do anything he
wanted with him before he even had time to know what was
happening? “I’m Josh Browder. I used to work for NJ7.”

Jimmy’s blood seemed to fizz at the mention of those
initials. His eyes flashed with anger and he dug the pole
into the man’s neck a little harder. Still the red, bearded
smile didn’t fade.

“I said
used to
, Jimmy,” Browder whispered. “Not
any more. Relax.”

Jimmy could feel so much heat and tension inside his
head that he wanted to use the metal rod to tunnel into
his own skull and release it all.

“Jimmy!” came a cry from behind Browder, inside the
brightly lit room. It was Marla. “Stop wasting time. I told
you about Browder.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jimmy barked.

“I said I knew a man you should meet.”

Jimmy tried to think back. Was it possible that all
this time Marla had been working for NJ7? No. It made
no sense.

Jimmy slowly lowered the false leg, then tossed it
behind him, where it landed on its owner.

“Sorry about your friend,” Jimmy mumbled.

“Don’t worry about him,” shrugged Browder. “Let’s hope
you knocked some sense into him. Come and sit down.”

He guided Jimmy into the inner room and closed the
door. It was a much smaller room and furnished like an
old-fashioned study, but a very messy one. One wall was
covered in books and magazines, another in old
computers and communication equipment, all strung
together with a muddle of wires in every different
colour. In the middle of the room was a small round
table with half a dozen chairs squashed around it. Marla
was already sitting, and there was somebody else as
well – a young boy. Jimmy thought he couldn’t have been
older than about nine.

“What is this?” Jimmy asked.

Browder sat at the table and pulled out a chair for
Jimmy. “Put the kettle on,” he ordered, to nobody in
particular. “Let’s have some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea!” Jimmy roared. He slammed
his fist on the table. “I have to get a message to
Stovorsky. I have to tell him that if he wants his actinium
he has to help me, not shoot me.”

Browder stared at him. “You’ve got your father’s
temper,” he murmured.

Jimmy went cold. Of course – if this man used to work
for NJ7 he had probably known Jimmy’s parents. But did
Browder mean the man Jimmy had always thought was
his father – who was now Prime Minister of Britain? Or
did he know who Jimmy’s biological father was?

Forget that
, Jimmy told himself.
Focus
. But putting
those thoughts out of his head was harder than he
expected. And by the time he did it, he found himself
sitting at the table, arms folded, while Browder
offered more explanation.

“I work for the Capita,” announced Browder proudly. It
meant nothing to Jimmy. “Heard of the Mafia?” Jimmy
nodded. “Heard of the black market?” Again Jimmy
nodded. “Well,” Browder went on, “when Britain became a
Neo-democratic State and cut off more and more of the
legitimate trade with other countries, the black market
exploded. Demand went through the roof for all of those
things you weren’t allowed to buy any more: European
designer clothes, American DVDs…” He paused and jerked
his thumb over his shoulder with half a smile. “…Coke.”

“You smuggle Coke?” Jimmy asked, confused.

“No,” Browder replied. “Let me explain. None of the old
black market organisations could cope with the new
demand. At first it was chaos, but eventually a few of them
joined forces. You know, like, merged. Became more
organised. More hi-tech. More like a proper business.”

“And it’s called the Capita?”

Browder nodded.

“And you left NJ7 to work for them?” Jimmy went on.

“You’re smarter than you look, Jimmy,” Browder
grinned. “No offence,” he added quickly. “A lot of people
tried to quit NJ7 at the same time. Most of them got
killed, either then or since, and the ones that survived
had to make a living. Years working for the Secret Service
had left me with certain… skills. So I put them to use.”

“That’s all this is?” Jimmy waved his arm round at
the room. “A way of making money?”

“For me – yes. I can’t deny it. We can’t all be like
Christopher Viggo, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stared. Every word seemed to reveal an extra
piece of Jimmy’s past.

“Yes, I knew Chris too,” Browder explained. “Not very
well, but well enough to see that he was stuck with
some stupid ideas about making the world a better
place. I suppose he’d call them ideals.”

“While you just wanted to make money, right?”

“Well, you can’t eat ideals.”

“So what about Marla?” Jimmy asked, feeling his
anger rising again. “What about her friends? You
charge them money for helping them?”

“Hmm. Maybe you aren’t so smart after all.”

Jimmy was about to lash out, but Browder grinned
and winked. The glint in his eye disarmed Jimmy for
the moment.

“It’s a simple business arrangement,” Browder
continued. “I’m here to provide certain training
and, um, hardware to these people, which they buy using
a few grams of uranium smuggled out of the mine by
workers on the inside. And of course, as the middleman,
the person organising the whole arrangement, I take
a certain percentage.”

“Which you take back to these people – the Capita?”

“Mostly.” Browder’s beard creased into a grin again.
“What’s a few grams between friends?”

“He is a good man,” Marla cut in.

“Don’t be silly, Marla,” Browder protested. “I’m a
man making a profit.” He was suddenly serious again.
“I’m part of a business. A massive, efficient,
multinational business that, well, happens to be illegal.”

Jimmy couldn’t help scowling. Didn’t the man care
that hundreds of people had just been killed in the attack
on Mutam-ul-it? Browder must have read his thoughts.

“Look at it this way,” the burly redhead explained.

“At least you’ll always know where you stand with me
– wherever there’s money to be made, that’s my side.”
He shrugged and grinned. “It’s straightforward and
it’s honest.”

Against his will, Jimmy could feel himself slowly
beginning to like this man, despite his lack of morals.
There was something so warm about his smile – he
looked like a ginger version of Father Christmas.

“You’d sell me your own grandmother,” Jimmy
muttered. “Wouldn’t you?”

“The poor woman’s dead,” Browder snapped back,
before beaming his biggest smile yet. “Which means I
can offer you a great price.” He leaned back and let out
an expansive sigh. “Can I put the kettle on now?”

Jimmy couldn’t help giving a dry chuckle.
“Whatever,” he said. “But I’m not paying for my tea.”

Browder waved his hand at the young boy, who
scurried back into the other room. Through the door,
Jimmy caught a glimpse of the tall, one-legged guard
sitting up on the stone floor, rubbing his head.

“Now, Jimmy,” said Browder, leaning forwards
and furrowing his brow, “I think it’s your turn to explain
a few things.”

Jimmy’s words tumbled out in a rush, as if they’d
been queuing up to escape. “I need to get back to
Britain to stop them going to war with France.”

“You have the power to do that?” Browder raised one
eyebrow. The bristling of the red hairs looked like a fox
dancing on his forehead.

“It’s a long story. I need to sort out a… misunderstanding.”

The detonation of Neptune’s Shadow oil rig crashed
through his mind once more. For a second it was all he
could see. Then it merged with the thunder of Mutam-ul-it
crashing to destruction.

“War is never a misunderstanding,” Browder said.

“What?” Jimmy glared at Browder, who just shook his
head and waved for Jimmy to continue. “Um,” he faltered.
“Well, if I turn up alive in Britain again, NJ7 will…”

“People you cared about are still there, right?”
Jimmy nodded. “And you convinced Stovorsky to use
one of his agents to get them to safety by threatening
to destroy Mutam-ul-it.”

“How did you know?”

Browder jumped up from the table and set about the
wall of the computers. “Marla left your radio with the
boy,” he explained while he clicked through several
screens on one of the monitors. “He’s very thorough.
He spent every second scanning for a signal.”

Suddenly a fuzzy white noise filled the room. Jimmy
turned to face the speakers, half-knowing what he was
about to hear. Then came the voices – crackly and
distant, but instantly recognisable.

“
We’re in a safehouse
.”

Felix’s voice brought a hot lump to Jimmy’s throat.

“
We’re doing fine
.” It was his sister. “
The French
rule
.” She spoke softly, but cheerfully. The words burned
Jimmy’s ears. His eyes stung.

“
We owe them
.”

Georgie’s voice again. Jimmy’s throat went more dry
than when he’d been dying of thirst in the desert.

“When did…” The rest of his question was lost in a
succession of sharp coughs. He steadied himself on the
table and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “What
are they…?” His voice still didn’t come out properly. It
seemed to jump in his chest then die in his mouth.

“Does it sound genuine?” Marla asked gently. “Is it
really their voices, I mean?”

All Jimmy could do was nod quickly. In his gut his
programming swirled, constantly suspicious. Jimmy
grimaced and crushed his doubts as simple paranoia.

“They sound… nice,” Marla added. “Like friends.”

Jimmy held his head in his hands. He wanted to collapse
on the floor and curl into a ball. His head was reeling. A
sudden click stabbed his consciousness. It was just the
door opening. That young boy, his eyes wide and staring,
shuffled into the room, carrying a tray of tea. He bit his
bottom lip in concentration and the light bounced off the
liquid in the mugs, shimmering in his features. Jimmy
couldn’t work out if he looked like an angel or a demon.

“It doesn’t sound right,” Jimmy panted at last.

“Why?” asked Browder.

“What are they trying to tell me?”

“That they’re safe,” replied Browder, matter-of-factly.
“And that the DGSE helped them.”

“But…” Jimmy thought for a second. “They must
have tried to put in a coded message, or instructions,
or something. Something that would tell me
where
they were, or…”

“It’s possible they did, but the French spotted it and
cut it out,” Browder suggested.

“And why is there nothing from Mum?” Jimmy felt
his chest tighten and his breath squeeze into a ball.
“What if she…”

“You can’t assume anything, Jimmy.” Browder rested
his hand gently on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“This means it worked,” said Marla. “Do you see?
You made them do what you wanted. It is amazing. You
are controlling them.”

Jimmy forced himself to breathe deeply and sit
upright. He closed his eyes for a second to try and sort
his thoughts into some kind of order. There was so
much chasing through his head. His programming
seemed to be spinning his brain at 1000 rpm, while he
desperately tried to understand what it was making him
feel. Fear? Suspicion? Relief? He knew very well what
his human self was trying to express: panic.

“They did what I wanted,” he said under his breath.
“But I still destroyed their mine. I never expected them
to…” He stopped himself, overcome by a surge of anger.
“I need to get a message to Stovorsky!” he choked.

“Calm down,” Browder said firmly. “You’re with us
now. You don’t need Stovorsky.”

“But I need to get back to Britain,” Jimmy insisted.
“I’ll make them take me. I’ll force them, just like I did
with the mine.”

“I’m not sure they’ll be so keen to help you this time,
Jimmy,” Browder chuckled. “You can’t destroy their
mine twice, can you?”

Jimmy drew himself upright, sitting with his back
absolutely straight, and spoke in a quiet, flat tone.
“Actinium,” he declared. “I’ve buried a case of it in the
desert. All that they had in fact. They’ll help me or they’ll
never get their precious actinium.”

“Ah,” Browder exclaimed. “Now we get to it.” He sat
down and reached for two cups of tea, placing one right
next to Jimmy’s hand. “If you have the actinium, Jimmy,”
said Browder softly, “maybe you don’t need the DGSE.”

Jimmy glanced at him quizzically.

“You see, the mine workers were never able to
smuggle out any actinium. And Marla was just trying
to work out a way to bring it out safely when you
turned up.” He leaned forwards and dropped his voice
to a whisper. “There are plenty of people in the world
who can smuggle you back into Britain in return for a
case full of actinium.”

Jimmy stared into his tea. A clump of powdered milk
that hadn’t dissolved swirled to the surface.

“Drink your tea and we can talk business,” Browder
continued. “That’s my speciality.”

“Your speciality is tea?” Jimmy quipped, bringing the
steaming mug up to his lips. He took a long slurp.

“No,” replied Browder, completely straight-faced.
“Business.”

Suddenly Jimmy saw the room swirl around him.
His stomach lurched with disgust and terror. He
swayed to the side, half falling from his chair. Then his
senses were bombarded with everything at once: his
tea cascading into his lap, burning his thighs; Marla
screaming; the click of a metal leg on stone; a bag
thrust roughly over his head.

And one crushing realisation:
That wasn’t powdered milk
.