by Joe Craig
“Ha! Don’t worry,” chuckled Colonel Keays. “It’s one of ours. You’ll find nothing but CIA choppers in the air round here today. Even the birds are scared of us.”
Jimmy trusted what the man was saying, but still couldn’t bring himself to step into the open until the helicopter was gone. He watched it pass across the crack of sky between the skyscrapers. Unfamiliar judgements throbbed in his head: Looks like a Bell 450 armed reconnaissance helicopter, he thought. Definitely US army.
“Nobody from NJ7 is anywhere near here,” Keays added, reading Jimmy’s expression. “I made sure of that.”
“Come on,” urged Viggo. “Let’s keep going. You’re the one who insisted on being at this press conference.” He looked as nervous as Jimmy.
The three of them marched down 6th Avenue, hunching their shoulders against the furious wind. The power of Jimmy’s obsession had drawn him here. Something inside was forcing him to follow this overpowering sensation of doom. It could lead to Jimmy preventing the murder of the President or it could lead to nothing at all. Either way, he had to find out – the torment of the images in his head made it that way.
They crossed 51st Street, then 52nd. Apart from them, the place was deserted, despite it being the middle of the day. These few blocks in midtown Manhattan had been ringed by a security cordon for hours.
“Don’t people want to come and cheer the President when he arrives?” Jimmy asked, kicking at an empty can. The clatter echoed against the buildings.
“Sure they do,” Keays replied. “That’s what we have a team of actors for.”
“Actors?” Jimmy thought he’d misheard because of the wind.
“Yeah – they cheer when I tell them to cheer, and they cheer right.”
“What do you mean they cheer right?”
“You know, they cheer so it looks good on Fox News. Normal people don’t do it right.”
Jimmy was about to question him further, but Viggo cut him off.
“You won’t understand how they do things here, Jimmy,” he said. “This is a real democracy.”
“And soon,” Keays added, “you and your friends will be able to enjoy it. Preparations are under way. We’ll relocate you and you’ll be able to live almost as if you were American.” He looked very pleased with himself, then he quickly added, “You could never be completely American, of course. That’s not the way things work in a free country.”
Jimmy didn’t fully understand what Keays was saying. He tried to feel happy about the chance to escape to a new life, but inside him his thoughts weren’t connecting with his emotions. It felt wrong. He didn’t want to be American or even nearly American. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he didn’t even want to go into hiding. What sort of life was it to pretend to be someone else and live every day in fear of being discovered?
Jimmy wanted to be himself, but it was becoming harder and harder to work out who that was. Suddenly, he stopped dead. It was as if his legs had been frozen. He stared up at the street sign.
“This is it,” he gasped.
“What?” asked Viggo, but he didn’t need an answer. He followed Jimmy’s stare and knew instantly what was wrong.
It was the same as any street sign in Manhattan. They all have the same design: white lettering on a green background. But to Jimmy, this sign was more chilling than having a gun in his face. They were standing on the corner of 53rd Street. Above them, on the sign, was a white 53 surrounded by green. It could have been a precise copy of one of the pictures Jimmy had drawn over and over in his notebook. Even the way the light reflected off it seemed familiar to him. It was already inside his head.
“Let’s go,” Viggo ordered.
They turned together into 53rd Street. One feeling gripped Jimmy’s muscles: determination to find the assassin who was here to kill the President. He was convinced now more than ever that there would be one hiding somewhere in the Museum of Modern Art. He had to stop them.
53rd Street was lined with CIA agents. Jimmy thought to himself how similar they looked to the men and women of NJ7 – the lean physiques, close-cropped hair and black suits. Only the green stripes were missing. To Jimmy, it was just one more way that Britain and America were more alike than he would have guessed: the dirty streets, the cameras tracking every move, the Security Services controlling what was seen on TV. He tried to remind himself that instead of the Green Stripe, the Americans had freedom.
Jimmy flashed his pass at the team on the door. Keays and Viggo followed him in.
“Where now, Jimmy?” Keays whispered. “Where is your sixth sense leading now?”
Jimmy ignored the man’s mocking tone. Why did he seem to be enjoying this so much?
The lobby of the Museum of Modern Art was a large white hallway leading to a reception desk and a staircase up to the main part of the museum. Jimmy wandered towards the stairs, looking around him all the time, searching for anything that would give him a clue about where to go.
“I don’t recognise any of this,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then he noticed a line of CIA agents all eyeing him suspiciously. Jimmy shuddered at the thought that any one of them might be connected to NJ7 somehow.
“It’s all right boys,” Keays reassured them. “Show them your pass, Jimmy.”
Jimmy did, breathing deeply. It felt good to know that Colonel Keays was protecting him.
“Sir,” replied one of the agents, a huge man in a black suit, “the press are ready to take their seats and the President will be arriving in four minutes. We need you in position to greet him and your guests need to clear the lobby.” He nodded his head respectfully, then walked away. When he turned, Jimmy noticed a wire coil coming out of the back of his jacket and into an earpiece. All of the agents had them, along with radio sets clipped to their belts. Almost immediately, Keays was handing a set to Jimmy.
“Take this,” he ordered. “The second you see anything I should know about – send out a general alert. You just push this button.” He showed Jimmy and gave a set to Viggo too. “Go upstairs and look at where the President and the Prime Minister will be speaking. Then stay in one of the service stairwells so the Prime Minister doesn’t see you. He’ll have his personal security team with him – you don’t want them seeing you here either.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Jimmy. He clasped the radio handset. It was much smaller and lighter than he had expected – only just bigger than his palm in fact. After a few seconds, he was aware of a voice in the back of his mind. Icom F-Series, it said. Looks like an upgrade. He turned the handset over and saw the maker’s logo on the back: Icom. He would never be able to escape that relentless voice in his head. Right now, he wished it would just shut up. He made his way up the main stairs with Viggo.
“Looks like this is it,” Viggo said in an undertone. “Anything you recognise?”
At the top of the stairs was a much larger hall. The ceiling was way above them, and the bright white walls made it look like they’d got lost inside a massive fridge. CIA dogs were leading agents between the rows of chairs on a final sweep for explosives. On the far side of the hall were two lecterns, each with a single microphone. This is where the two heads of state would announce what they’d been talking about all day at the United Nations. There were two huge flags as well – a Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes. But Jimmy looked straight past them.
His eyes went directly to the wall behind the lecterns. It was covered by a long abstract painting that sent panic into Jimmy’s heart. The pace of his breathing tripled. Even his programming couldn’t put him at ease – the assassin in him was as excited as the boy was terrified. The painting was a dull beige canvas covered in bold splashes of red and yellow. Every one of them could have been plucked from inside Jimmy’s head.
“It will happen here,” Jimmy announced, his voice struggling to get out.
Viggo was too shocked to say anything. They both hit the alert buttons on their radio sets. Within seconds, Colonel Keays was back wit
h them.
“What is it?” he asked. “The President is about to arrive.”
Journalists and photographers filed past to take their seats. Jimmy had to ignore them. He pointed to the painting.
“What does it mean?” asked Keays.
“There’s an assassin in the building. The President is the target. I’m sure of it.”
The Colonel’s face didn’t flicker, but his eyes were pinched at the edges. He wasn’t laughing now.
“Find him,” he ordered. “I’ll send you back-up.”
He spun round without waiting for an answer and barked orders into his radio set as he jogged down the stairs. The applause and the cheering had already started. President Grogan was close. Would Ian Coates be far behind?
“Where do we start?” Viggo asked.
Jimmy looked around the hall, moving through it, scanning for anything familiar. It was an amazing building – sleek and modern. This central hall went right up the middle for the entire height, with balconies overlooking it from every floor. Everything was white except the flags and the painting.
By now, Viggo was surrounded by six CIA agents, all poised for action, awaiting instructions. They looked to Jimmy, but Jimmy had nothing to tell them. All he knew about the Museum was from a thirty-second glance at the blueprints and the images that had been pounding in his head.
That’s when he realised – he didn’t have to search the building. The images were giving him precise instructions. He closed his eyes and searched his mind instead. He didn’t have to look very hard to recall the images one by one. 53 and the coloured splashes had already appeared in real life. There were three left: rainbow stripes, black K and the President’s face.
“K,” Jimmy blurted out.
“What?” said Viggo.
“Where’s there a K? A black K on a white background.”
Viggo shrugged and looked around him, but the CIA team was already running towards an adjoining hallway. Jimmy followed, his limbs buzzing with anticipation.
There, by the base of the escalators, was a service door. It, like the walls, was pristine white, but in its centre a sign stood out: STAIR K. The writing was big and black, with the K larger than any of the other letters.
Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He clattered through the door, a line of Secret Service agents behind him, with Viggo rushing after them.
Jimmy found himself at the bottom of a narrow stairwell. The neat design of the rest of the place was gone. This was a service area – not meant to be seen by the public. It was still white though, and when Jimmy looked up he could see the silver banister glinting at him from the very top, ten floors up.
Jimmy dashed up the stairs. The hammering of the agents’ boots nearly drowned out the cheering that was coming from the lobby. The target has arrived, thought Jimmy.
The next floor up he barely paused. There was nothing out of the ordinary there – just a door out into the gallery and more stairs. So Jimmy kept running. With each flight of stairs, he felt his confidence rising. Was it his programming drawing him closer to the assassin or was it Jimmy – the real Jimmy – boosted by the company of half a dozen agents? They were following him, trusting him, relying on him.
But then Jimmy had to stop. There were no more stairs. He’d reached the top floor sooner than he’d expected, and though he was barely out of breath, he felt that lurch of doubt again. There was nothing here.
“Rainbow stripes,” he announced quickly. “That’s the next thing. Where are they?”
There was nothing to see. The walls were as white here as they were everywhere else.
“Where are they?” he yelled.
“Jimmy, calm down,” Viggo panted, resting with his hands on his knees. “There’s nothing here. You must have made a mistake.”
“No!” snapped Jimmy. But one of the agents was already murmuring into his radio.
“There’s nothing up here,” he was saying. “You can let the President into the main hall. Proceed as planned.”
Jimmy spun round, desperate for the next clue. Nothing was going to stop him. There was no time to wait around and no chance of him giving in. Inside, his programming was crying out, hungry to move on. But where was there to go?
“What’s up there?” Jimmy asked, frantic. He was pointing above his head, to the light embedded in the ceiling panels.
“I take it you’re not asking whether there’s a heaven,” Viggo replied, raising an eyebrow. “But otherwise, you’re just pointing to the ceiling.”
“There’s nothing up there,” one of the CIA agents cut in. “You can unscrew the light fitting to access the wiring, but it’s nowhere near big enough for a person to fit through.”
Jimmy looked around at the agents. They all had broad shoulders and muscles that looked like bridges across their chests – even the women. But recently, Jimmy had come to know that sometimes the deadliest packages are also the smallest.
“What about a child?” he snarled.
CHAPTER NINETEEN – RATS IN THE ATTIC
Jimmy slipped his radio into his pocket and climbed on to Viggo’s shoulders. Balancing on his knees, he reached up to the light fitting. The light beamed into his face. It was so strong he had to look away, but he felt round its edges.
“Ah!” he cried, pulling his hands away. “It’s hot.”
“Of course it’s hot, you idiot. What did you expect?” Viggo’s voice came out strained. Jimmy was obviously heavier than he’d expected.
Jimmy took a deep breath and went back to the task. He was just going to have to shut out the pain. He summoned his programming from within. It quickly swirled round his head, and now when Jimmy reached for the edges of the light fitting, the burning was reduced to a tingling. With one tug, the fitting came loose and Jimmy unscrewed it until the light was dangling from its wire. That left a hole about fifteen centimetres across – not anywhere near big enough for Jimmy to fit through.
He slipped his hand into the hole and reached for the edges of the ceiling panel. His fingers brushed over a screw at the corner.
“How about going a little slower up there?” Viggo called out sarcastically.
Jimmy responded by digging his heel into Viggo’s chin. Gradually, one by one, Jimmy was able to undo the screws that held the panel in place. Then he carefully lifted the whole thing off its resting place. The square hole was still only about thirty centimetres by thirty centimetres, but just as Jimmy had expected, it was now possible for a child to crawl into the ceiling.
Jimmy hauled himself up. It was a tight squeeze. He went head first. He had to wriggle and push to get his shoulders through, but he made it.
“Looks like you’re on your own, mate,” said Viggo, his face red from holding Jimmy up for so long. “When you’ve realised there’s nothing up there, I’ll be waiting here.”
Jimmy nodded, refusing to let Viggo’s doubt get to him.
“And if you do find anything,” added one of the agents nervously, “use your radio.”
Jimmy didn’t even wait to nod again. With only enough room to lie flat on his belly, he shuffled away.
It was much darker up here. The air was dusty and hot. He was closed in on either side by metal struts that created a narrow path, barely wide enough for him to crawl through. He moved himself steadily onwards with his elbows, not even knowing which direction he was going in. Yet the more he thought about it, the more certain he became.
There was no evidence to back up his premonition, but it made absolute sense to him that somewhere up here there was an NJ7 assassin waiting for the chance to kill the President. And it had to be Mitchell. Who else from NJ7 could fit through these small spaces?
Jimmy wiped his face with the back of his hand. The dust was getting up his nose. He tried to see what was waiting for him up ahead, and his night-vision helped to enhance the shapes, but there were too many obstacles in the way – metal struts, wires, pipes and all kinds of debris. It was like a maze that nobody was ever meant to wander into.
&n
bsp; Jimmy kept going, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and his muscles started throbbing from his awkward position. Then something in the dust caught his attention.
If nobody had ever crawled around up here, how come there was an area where the dust had been wiped away? It looked like a trail. Jimmy pushed more strength into his arms, picking up his pace, but remaining silent. The noise and lights of the Museum seemed like a different world from this. There was only silence up here. Once he thought he could hear Viggo shouting to him, but it was impossible to make anything out clearly.
Jimmy followed the trail, a smile breaking out across his face. Mitchell had thrown him into an industrial shredder and nearly strangled him on top of a taxi. Both times Jimmy had been taken by surprise. Your turn now, Jimmy thought. The idea of getting his own back sent a gleam to his eyes. They flashed in the shadows.
Then, up ahead, he saw the silhouette of a figure. Definitely a child, Jimmy said to himself with delight. The figure was outlined against a grate of some kind. It threw strips of bright light onto his back. Jimmy realised that Mitchell was looking out over the main hall, watching the press conference – waiting to kill.
Jimmy felt a warm surge of confidence. He had been right to trust in his programming. It had led him to the assassin and he was going to save the President’s life. For a second, he thought about using the radio to send out an alert. But he immediately realised that would be the worst thing he could do. The noise would tell Mitchell he’d been discovered and he’d shoot straight away. There wouldn’t be time for the agents on the floor of the hall to pull the President to safety.
Jimmy inched closer. But as he did, he saw that the silhouette wasn’t Mitchell at all. Jimmy gasped. He couldn’t help it. As soon as the sound escaped his lips, the assassin in him regretted that momentary lapse of control. The figure turned to look at him. It was Zafi.
She didn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a second. Her speed took Jimmy by surprise. She rolled to the side, grabbed one of the metal struts and swung herself round it, launching both feet at Jimmy’s head. They landed with an awesome crunch in his jaw. Jimmy’s head rocked back with the impact, jarring his neck.
