to stop him. “And if you do try to kill someone on their birthday, they should be allowed to keep all your presents when it’s your birthday. And your cards. No wait, you can keep your cards. Nobody wants cards anyway. So just the presents.”
“You’re a nutcase,” Georgie mumbled—but a smile had crept on to her face. Felix was bursting with energy again and bouncing on the spot.
He turned to Colonel Keays. “Can we send Jimmy a card?” he asked suddenly. “It can be secret. Nobody has to know about it but us. And Jimmy, obviously. And you can give it to him. You can, can’t you?”
Colonel Keays was taken aback. “Jimmy’s deep in hiding,” he mumbled. “A team of agents is making sure nobody knows who he is. He’s officially dead.”
“But he can still have a birthday, can’t he?”
Keays shook his head in wonder and let out a deep chuckle. “Jimmy’s lucky to have a friend like you,” he announced, “and a sister who loves him as much as you do, Georgie.” He paused to think for a second, then went on, “I don’t think we should start sending cards to people who are meant to be dead. It’s not good to have anything identifiable lying around that might give the game away to NJ7. But how about you write Jimmy a message? Don’t sign though. Don’t even write his name on it. I’ll make sure Jimmy gets it.”
He pulled out a notepad and a pencil from his inside pocket.
“Wicked,” Felix beamed. “I’m going to write him the funniest birthday message ever.”
“Wait,” said Georgie, “I’ll give you a hand.” She moved towards Felix, but her eyes were studying Colonel Keays. “Let’s write it together.” She took the pencil and a sheet of paper from Keays. “Colonel Keays,” she said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you help us escape from Britain in the first place, if you were just going to send us back?”
“I’m sending you back now that it’s safe,” Keays explained, his expression completely blank.
“You mean, now that we don’t have Jimmy—and you do?”
Keays didn’t move. His eyes locked on to Georgie’s. “Write your message,” he said, pushing the paper into Georgie’s hand. “And have a good flight home.”
Georgie and Felix huddled over the sheet of paper in a corner of the room.
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Helen. “I know they seem…ungrateful, but your help means a lot to us.”
Keays nodded silently. Then Georgie spun round, waving the paper above her head.
“OK, we’re done. Do you want to add something, Mum?” She thrust the paper into her mother’s hand. Helen examined it as if she’d never seen a page of writing before. Her whole body seemed to freeze. Georgie held out the pencil, but noticed that her mum’s lips were trembling.
“It’s OK,” said Georgie, “I’ll put ‘love from Mum’ or something at the bottom.” She pulled the pencil back towards her. Helen Coates turned away, wiping her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” said Keays. “Your son did the right thing. It’s better this way. For everyone. Jimmy is going to be fine. You have my promise.”
“Where is he now?” Helen whispered.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Where is he?” Helen insisted. “I need to know where my son is.”
“At this moment, Jimmy is absolutely fine.” Keays took the note from Georgie, folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket. “I absolutely guarantee it. Jimmy is happy and Jimmy is safe.”
Jimmy’s legs hit the water and his whole body pitched forwards. Huge waves lifted him up, then sucked him down again. With incredible force he was pulled under the surface. His breathing was so fast he was afraid his heart might stop. But he wasn’t panicking. He unclipped his parachute and kicked out with his legs, desperately trying to stop his whole body going numb. He could feel the cold scratching at his bones.
His programming surged through him, controlling his muscles. It would never let him give in to the cold or the water. He was at least two metres under the surface now. Salt water stung his eyes, but Jimmy kept them open. At last another of his amazing capabilities was kicking in: his in-built night-vision enhanced the light. The underwater world took on a rich, blue haze. Jimmy would have been lost without it. Now he was able to fight towards the surface.
The ocean churned with such force that Jimmy felt like he was a sock in a washing machine. He wanted to thrash his limbs. He wanted to panic, but his body wouldn’t let him. Instead, his arms and legs moved calmly, with a maximum of precision and efficiency. His assassin’s programming guided him back to the surface within thirty seconds.
His arms wrapped themselves over one of the largest fragments of the plane’s fuselage. The air trapped underneath it supported Jimmy’s weight. He flopped his chest on to it, clutching it as the waves threw him around like a shuttlecock.
Jimmy’s lower half still dangled in the water and he kept his legs moving in a vain fight against the cold. Every few seconds he wiped his eyes. Through the spray, he could see the carpet of flaming debris spread out across the water. Beyond that was a vast empty space, stretching out between him and the horizon. It was overwhelming. But only for a second—then a wave as strong as a wall jumped up to block his view.
There were thoughts racing through his head that sounded like an overheard conversation at the end of a crackling phone line. Hardly understanding it, he was reading the current. He hauled himself completely on to the makeshift raft, steadying himself on his hands and knees.
Gradually, he reached for more fragments of debris, building up a little shelter around him. Then he heaved on the parachute that was swelling in the waves. It took all his strength to gather it in, but eventually he dumped an armful of soaking black silk on to the metal in front of him. Still the wind and the waves buffeted Jimmy around. He had to grip the piece of the plane’s fuselage with his knees, while he went about ripping up the parachute.
Every few seconds, a part of him wanted to give up. His limbs were straining just to keep him from falling off his raft back into the water. But something inside him kept him going. Maybe it was programming or maybe it was his human hunger to stay alive. Eventually, he managed to tie half of his parachute across his raft, fastened on each side to a fragment of the aeroplane. He had a sail.
In a few minutes, the sea would consume almost every scrap of what remained of the plane. There’d be hardly any evidence that they’d ever gone down there. But what about the people on board? Was Jimmy the only survivor?
“Hello!?” he shouted. His voice was lost against the crash of the waves and the wind. “Anyone there!?” he screamed, pouring out every last crumb of energy. Tears mixed with the spray of the ocean. He clenched his fists and pounded his metal raft, cursing the forces inside him.
Maybe if his genetics hadn’t taken over from his common sense, the agents would have had a chance. But the assassin in Jimmy hadn’t wanted to be seen by NJ7. Jimmy’s programming had overcome his human protests. It had saved him, but at the others’ expense. It was driven by the most selfish instinct of an assassin: self-protection at all costs.
He could feel it inside him now. It purred while his human self longed to scream at the wind. I killed them, he thought. How could they possibly have survived the fall from a plane without an open parachute? They were trying to save me and I killed them. How could he have let his programming do it? The second his human instinct had given in, he had condemned two agents.
I won’t give in again,