Читать книгу Jimmy Coates: Power - Joe Craig - Страница 8

Mitchell Glenthorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his knee twitched under the table. The eyes of everybody in the room seemed to burn into him. He wasn’t used to the scrutiny of the most powerful people in the country.

Around the long, lozenge-shaped table were the dozen men and women who could do almost anything they wanted with Great Britain. Thanks to Neo-democracy, they didn’t need to worry about the opinions of the British people. They could get on with the efficient day-to-day running of the country, much of which was done from here, the Cabinet Room at Number 10 Downing Street.

But however powerful these people were, they were under the control of a single man—Ian Coates, the Prime Minister. He was sitting at the centre of the table, leaning on his elbows with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Directly behind his head was one of Downing Street’s old portraits. Mitchell didn’t know who it was, but he recognised the new flag just above—a Union Jack, with an extra green stripe running down the centre. That green stripe was the emblem of NJ7.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ian Coates announced, “this is Britain’s finest asset.” It took a second for Mitchell to realise they were still talking about him. “A miracle of British science and genetic engineering.” The PM’s voice was low and stern. Mitchell wondered whether he spoke quietly on purpose, so that people had to crane their necks and listen closely for every word. He certainly wasn’t a charismatic speaker. Usually his imposing physical presence was enough— broad shoulders, thick brown hair and a heavy brow. But today Mitchell noticed the dark bags under his eyes and skin so pale it was almost yellow.

“He’s only thirteen years old,” the PM continued, “but Mitchell’s recent heroism has made Britain stronger, and shown us true British success.”

British success? When Mitchell thought back over his missions, all he could remember was the empty ache of failure. He wondered whether that was what the PM meant by “British success”.

“Learn from him.” The Prime Minister tapped his pen on the table and drew in a deep breath. “I invited him to this meeting because he’s an example to everybody.” Mitchell thought he saw a glimmer of emotion in Ian Coates’ bloodshot eyes. It quickly passed. Could the man have been thinking of his son, Mitchell wondered? Nobody was allowed to mention the fact that for eleven years Ian and Jimmy Coates had lived happily as part of the same family.

“Now we need people like Mitchell more than ever,” the PM declared. “We have a new danger.”

Let me out of here, Mitchell screamed silently. He longed for a mission, or at least to get back to his simple, disciplined and anonymous life in the underground bunkers of NJ7. It was almost as if the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains carried poison into his skin.

At last the Prime Minister took his eyes off Mitchell. “I’ve asked William Lee to brief you all,” he announced, with a dismissive wave towards the man on Mitchell’s right.

“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Slowly, the man stood up —and up and up. He was by far the tallest man anybody in the room had ever seen. Mitchell had started to get used to it over the last few days, but clearly several members of the Cabinet were overwhelmed. William Lee towered above them, his shadow running the entire length of the tabletop. Mitchell would have described the man’s face as Indian, but he knew that didn’t quite capture the unique character of his features: long, thin nose; eyes like black olives.

“Jimmy Coates is alive,” Lee began. “He’s in Britain and he’s spreading misinformation about the Government. Miss Bennett, the file.” He turned and looked down at the person on Mitchell’s left: the Head of NJ7, the most frightening and beautiful woman Mitchell had ever known. He was barely able to gather the courage to turn and look at her now.

She nodded to Lee with a delicate smile and tossed a manila folder into the centre of the table. Its contents spilled across the lacquer— printouts of web pages, stills of Jimmy’s video message, photos of the break-in at the newspaper office in Hailsham, along with reams of other documents and reports.

Mitchell’s eyes remained on Miss Bennett. Apart from Mitchell, she was the youngest person in the room. Mitchell guessed she must have been in her late thirties, but with such glowing skin and bright red lipstick she often seemed younger. She looked as she always did—her back straight, her mouth in a knowing half-smile, her chestnut hair pulled back tightly and held in place by a green clip. Yet Mitchell was suspicious. She wouldn’t normally have co-operated so readily with William Lee. Mitchell wondered whether at that very moment her assistants were delving into Lee’s past in another effort to undermine his position.

Technically, William Lee was nothing more than Director of Special Security for the Prime Minister, but he had quickly won Coates’ trust and established himself at the heart of the Government. When he spoke, he had all the authority of a world leader.

“Lies spread fast,” he said. “We’re following protocol, which means Miss Bennett has an NJ7 team working with the Corporation as we speak, to shut down any websites that carry his messages and limit the damage. But these lies seem to be spreading more quickly than any we’ve encountered from any opposition before. We traced the initial breach of information security to the office of a local newspaper in Hailsham. The editor and staff are in custody. They’re sharing what they know.”

Mitchell couldn’t help shuddering. He didn’t need to see the pictures in the manila folder. He knew what Lee meant by “sharing what they know”. He’d seen the stale bloodstains on the floors of NJ7 interview rooms.

Suddenly Lee was interrupted by a heavy sigh from Miss Bennett. Everybody looked to her.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, in a way that made it obvious she wasn’t sorry at all. “But shouldn’t you tell everybody exactly what this boy’s saying that’s so dangerous?”

Lee responded calmly. “Fine. He’s saying that the Government’s reasons for going to war with France are based on a lie. He claims we weren’t attacked by the French.”

“And were we?” Miss Bennett’s smile broadened, but her eyes glinted like blades.

“Were we what?”

“Were we attacked by the French? Or were we wrong?”

“Wrong?” Lee snapped. “The evidence was presented, discussed and agreed upon. You were there, and you agreed with the Prime Minister’s decision.”

“I agreed on the basis of the evidence,” Miss Bennett replied. “If it turns out that evidence was misleading, and we have new evidence…”

“The decision to attack France has already been taken,” Lee interrupted, “and now we must follow through.”

Mitchell tried to shrink into his chair. He was stuck in the middle of the argument. Even though he was secretly delighted that Miss Bennett knew exactly how to infuriate William Lee, he hated having the eyes of the room aimed in his direction again. In desperation he looked to the Prime Minister, hoping he’d put a stop to the discussion. But Coates was staring into the middle distance, his head swaying slightly from side to side. Was he OK, Mitchell wondered?”

“Tell me,” Miss Bennett was saying, “have you considered why Jimmy Coates’s message is spreading more quickly than anti-Government messages have in the past?”

Lee wasn’t phased by the question. “I’m sure your team at the Information Division knows much more than I could about which messages people choose to disperse over the Internet.” He let out an awkward chuckle. “It seems to me that people will forward any old rubbish. They send all their friends personality quizzes, ridiculous jokes and pictures of monkeys dressed as penguins.”

“I haven’t seen that picture,” Miss Bennett cut in. “I think I’d like to. Mitchell, make sure I see the penguin-monkey that Mr Lee knows so much about. I don’t want to be left behind.” Mitchell squirmed. “And find out about ‘jokes’ as well. I might like them.”

“Miss Bennett!” William Lee couldn’t help raising his voice now, and looked around the room for support. Mitchell knew that only the Prime Minister would have dared tell Miss Bennett to be quiet and right now he looked far away, concentrating on something else.

“No need to shout,” purred Miss Bennett. “All I’m saying is that it looks like people are responding to the boy’s message. Maybe they believe him, and maybe they want to believe him.”

Mitchell was amazed. He’d seen Miss Bennett argue with William Lee before, but never in front of so many other people.

“A message doesn’t spread itself, does it?” she went on. “It takes members of the public to—”

“Members of the public?” roared Ian Coates, suddenly bursting into life as if he’d just woken up from a nightmare. Everybody was startled. “Since when did we take the advice of strangers in the street on how to run the country?”

Mitchell watched the faces of Miss Bennett and William Lee. They were both dumbfounded by Ian Coates’ outburst. But as the PM went on, Mitchell noticed a change in his voice. It was thin and frail, like the voice of a man thirty years older.

“Members of the public?!” Coates repeated, even more indignant. “The system of Neo-democracy protects the British people from the ignorance of the general population.” His eyes bulged with rage and his temples were throbbing. Mitchell found he couldn’t look away from the beads of sweat glistening in the furrows on the man’s forehead. “The vital decisions are taken by experts,” Coates was saying. “By us. Nobody in Britain should live with the responsibility that they might have to make decisions of national importance. The consequences of such decisions are immense.”

Around the table, the Cabinet members were either staring into their laps or shooting each other glances of concern at the Prime Minister’s outburst. But nobody dared interrupt him.

“It is more vital than ever,” he went on, “that the country is fully behind this Government. The war with France is a vital part of that process. It’s the perfect way to unite everybody in Britain. And we’ll be united behind Neo-democracy.” He fixed his glare on William Lee. “That’s why we’ve come up with the Walnut Tree Project.” With another curt wave, he indicated that Lee should continue the briefing.

“Quite simply,” Lee explained, still rattled by the PM’s rant, “we have planned a new French attack. Not a strike on an oil rig or military target, but an attack on the British people themselves. This will be the best reminder to everybody in the country that we have a common enemy.”

“You’re going to attack British citizens yourself and then blame the French?” Miss Bennett wasn’t aghast, as Mitchell expected her to be. She sounded like she was calmly clarifying the details.

“We’ll try to minimise casualties, of course,” Lee replied. “But for the attack to look genuine, some members of society may have to be sacrificed.”

“Expendable ones,” Coates explained. “Criminals the courts haven’t convicted yet, homeless people, the unemployable…”

“I’ve chosen the most suitable site I could find on such short notice,” said William Lee. He picked up a large roll of paper from the floor and unfurled it on the table. It was a map of London. “In order to have the most impact, I realised that it had to be somewhere in London. And then I thought—why not use this to solve our other little problem?”

Everybody looked puzzled. Mitchell already suspected what Lee had in mind before he explained, “Jimmy Coates escaped our aerial task force. The strike on his helicopter was a success, but it turns out Jimmy wasn’t in it.”

Sounds like a British success, Mitchell thought to himself.

“Our investigative team now believes he could only have slipped away on the train. The train reached London twenty minutes ago, making it too late to seal Waterloo Station. But if we stage the attack carefully, in the vicinity of Waterloo, and we clear the area of police and ordinary security services, we might be able to tempt Jimmy Coates out of hiding to try to stop the explosion. We’ll make sure he doesn’t succeed, of course. At the very least, we may be able to pick up his trail. With any luck we’ll blow him up along with the building.”

Finally, Lee leaned forward, his shadow extending over the map of London like night falling across the city. He extended an elegant index finger and tapped a small lane called Walnut Tree Walk in Lambeth. All he said was, “A tower block.”

Everybody craned forward to get a look at the exact spot. The people at the far end of the table had to stand up to see and a general murmur broke out. Mitchell waited for someone to make an objection, but from the fear on their faces it was obvious nobody was going to. He wondered whether he should protest himself, but when he took a breath to speak it seemed to freeze his throat. He looked again at the map. The lines swirled around with the confusion in his head. He didn’t understand the politics of it, but he understood that the Government was going to blow up its own people just so they could blame the French.

“It’s for the greater good,” Lee whispered, resting a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. Mitchell quickly nodded and made his face go blank. It wasn’t his job to react to Government decisions. He was lucky to even be at this meeting.

“Prime Minister.”

A firm voice broke through the hubbub. It was Miss Bennett. Her icy tone forced everybody back into their seats and commanded their attention. “Clearly you won’t be dissuaded from this ridiculous plot, and I can see the logic in it, but I must urge you not to rush into this. A disaster like this will certainly pull the country together and distract people from Internet rumours, but it does seem a little…clumsy.”

“Clumsy?” barked Coates.

“Yes. Like sending a torpedo to kill a mosquito.”

“It would do the job,” mumbled William Lee.

“It would also do the job to give an NJ7 team a little more time to shut down or reframe the necessary websites and spread counter-information. Meanwhile we’ll continue to hunt Jimmy Coates. We know he’s in London. There isn’t a square millimetre of the city that’s not covered by cameras or real-time satellite imaging—or both. We’ll find him and kill him by the end of the day.”

“A day is too long,” Coates rasped. “The operation is already under way.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Miss Bennett shrugged. “So my objections are over-ruled?” The Prime Minister nodded. With a flourish, Miss Bennett unclipped her hair and let it tumble about her shoulders. She tapped her hairclip on the table and with a broad smile announced, “You’re a fool.”

There was general shock around the table, but Ian Coates looked close to smiling too.

“We’re blowing up a tower block,” he insisted quietly. Then he pounded his fist on the table and roared, “We’re blowing up the tower block on Walnut Tree Walk! If anybody has any problem with that they can leave the room now!”

Mitchell looked up and down the table. Nobody made eye contact. The only noise was the soft shuffle of people shifting in their seats. Mitchell knew that if anybody left the room now they would never make it to the street. Miss Bennett was simply watching calmly. The Prime Minister broke the silence.

“We all agree that Neo-democratic principles are vital to the strength of this country, don’t we?” There was a reserved murmur of agreement from his Cabinet. “And that it is our duty to protect Neo-democracy whenever it is threatened.” Again, people nodded and muttered, slightly louder this time.

“Then the British public has nothing to fear from the people in this room. We’re protecting them.” Coates’ voice rose steadily and started to quiver. “The danger comes from beyond Britain’s boundaries. If people don’t know that then it’s our duty to show them.” He pushed himself to his feet and supported himself on the table. “Their fear will protect the system, and it’s the system which is protecting them. If they question the system then they’re not afraid enough!” Mitchell watched, astounded, as the Prime Minister swayed more violently, then staggered backwards, knocking his chair to the floor. “Don’t they realise there’s a foreign country only thirty-six kilometres away across the English Channel, and that it’s full of French people?!” The PM was staggering about now, blinking frantically and unable to balance himself. Every member of the Cabinet, except Miss Bennett and William Lee, rushed to try and support him. Like a feverish bear, he swiped them away.

“There are horrors on our doorstep!” he wailed, his words slurring into each other. “If people are sleeping so soundly at night that they can spread the cankerous filth of an ignorant, traitorous boy…” He rocked to one side and threw his arm out towards the mantelpiece to catch himself, but missed and sent a huge vase crashing to the floor.

Suddenly, people were rushing everywhere to the sounds of screams and desperate shouts for help. Mitchell was transfixed. He felt like he was watching everything in slow motion: the Prime Minister’s eyes rolled back in his head. His arms shuddered and his upper body twisted like a snowflake in the wind. Finally, his legs seemed to melt away from under him. He swivelled and collapsed forwards on to the table, smashing his forehead into the wood. His outstretched fingertips were centimetres from Miss Bennett’s hairclip.