Survival

by Joe Craig

  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.”

  23 VOICES LIKE FRIENDS

  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.

  24 MESSAGE FROM THE SEWER

  Stovorsky’s laptop whirred on the table in the centre of the room, while he stood at the window, staring out. His two support units had turned up only minutes after he’d lost Jimmy in the streets of Tlon. He’d sent them away almost immediately, but only after borrowing enough equipment to set up a temporary operations base in the top flat of a derelict block.

  The only thing he hadn’t been able to requisition was an air-conditioning unit. Instead all of his equipment was gradually heating up the room. Opening the window only seemed to add to the furnace.

  “I thought nights in the desert were cold,” he grumbled to himself.

  He knew he had the option of changing out of his suit, but this was work. And while he was at work he would be dressed appropriately. It helped him to separate his personal opinions from his professional duties. He was serving his country. He should never forget that and it helped to have a length of polyester knotted around his neck. His raincoat was on the back of the door and his suit jacket was draped over a chair.

  He looked down to the alleyway and watched his driver in the dim pool of a streetlight, making the necessary repairs to the PVP. Then his laptop ‘pinged’. With a sigh, he went over to it and brought up a small video window, in which the head and shoulders of a man were waiting for him.

  The image wasn’t perfectly clear and the movements were jerky, but the man was instantly recognisable. His face was almost perfectly round, his mouth emphasised by a neat blonde moustache.

  “Clear channel?” he said sharply.

  Stovorsky picked up a small black rectangle from the table and roughly slotted it into the USB drive. �
��Clear,” he announced wearily. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve met with Helen Coates,” said the other man, speaking quickly and evenly. “Standing as a charity representative, I made contact and determined that her appeal for help on behalf of her friends, the Muzbekes, was genuine. If we do decide to help her, her gratitude could be useful in the long run.”

  “I know all this,” Stovorsky groaned. “It was in your report. Emails do reach Africa, you know.”

  “But there’s been a development.”

  “Well?” Stovorsky slumped back and roughly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  “I’ve been contacted by Christopher Viggo.”

  Stovorsky stopped what he was doing and leaned over the keyboard.

  “He wants a meeting,” the moustache man went on.

  “Did he say where?”

  “King’s Cross. At an old ice house on Wharfdale Road.”

  Both men sat silently for a few seconds. Only the hum of the laptop filled the room.

  “We could set up the meeting,” the moustache man suggested eventually, “then trade the information with NJ7. Miss Bennett would be very grateful to us. It might even prevent further British attacks on French assets. It could—”

  “Wait!” Stovorsky snapped, “I’m thinking!” He slowly dragged both hands over his scalp, smoothing down the thin wisps of hair, soaked in sweat.

  “No,” he announced at last. “Nothing would give me more pleasure than to dump that man into severe trouble, but Viggo’s not stupid. He knew this request would come back to me. He’s testing us. He wants to see whether we’ll support him when he tries to overthrow the British Government.”

  “And will we?”

  “How do I know?” Stovorsky barked. “The point is we can’t betray Viggo. Not yet. He’ll know it’s a possibility and he’ll protect himself against it somehow. It wouldn’t work. We’d gain nothing from NJ7 and Viggo would never come to us again.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “A powerful man is asking for our help.”

  “He’s not powerful,” scoffed the moustache man.