Jimmy Coates: Target. Joe Craig

FIVE – IT’S RAINING UMBRELLAS

      MITCHELL’S PREY LOOMED large in his binoculars. It was Jimmy Coates. The circle of vision encompassed him like a tightening noose. At first, Mitchell had been surprised when he discovered who his target was. They had crossed paths before. It seemed so long ago that Mitchell had tried to mug him in London, and ended up showing him where the police station was. But that was a lifetime away. Nothing could surprise him now. Mitchell pushed back the memories of his old existence. Those miserable days were over. This was a fresh start.

      His room at the Auberge de I’Aubergine overlooked the main square. From here he could keep an eye on anything that went on. The village held no secrets for him. It wasn’t that Beuvron was so small – it was on the cusp of becoming a town – but Mitchell let no detail escape him.

      He thought with pride of the hours he had spent in the grass outside Jimmy’s farmhouse hideaway. His surveillance had even included close observation of the old woman that he now knew was Yannick’s mother. He watched her buy food and clothes for her guests. He listened to her moan about it to the shopkeepers. All the information went towards building a rich picture of Jimmy’s life in hiding.

      Mitchell felt a surge of delight as Jimmy took a seat outside the crêper¡e across the square. It was perfect. Jimmy had done the same thing every day for the four days that he and his friends had been allowed out of the farmhouse by Jimmy’s mother. Mitchell had spent the whole night in preparation, banking on Jimmy doing it again today.

      Mitchell mouthed the words with him as Jimmy ordered a citron pressé. The blend of fresh lemon juice, water and sugar that you mix yourself had become their favourite drink. Yes, Mitchell thought, your last drink. Such a shame you’ll be dead before it arrives. Then he dropped his binoculars on to his bed and dipped his hand into a long slim pouch of black leather that hung on the bedpost. He drew out three separate sticks of bamboo, each about twenty-five centimetres long.

      With the precision of a surgeon, he screwed them together, end to end. He went to the leather pouch once more and brought out a silver ring with a tiny clip attached to it. He clamped it on to the top of his bamboo rod. Finally, he reached up to his own head. With a deft tug, he plucked out two hairs. His hair was, as always, cropped short. It didn’t matter. The strands were a perfect length for his purposes. He dabbed the ends on the tip of his tongue and secured them delicately across the ring.

      What emerged in his hands was a specially adapted weapon of his own design. It was probably the most sophisticated peashooter in the world, complete with a target sight and cross-hairs.

      Mitchell moved back to the window. He pulled up the glass just a crack and knelt on the floor. From his pocket he produced a handful of tiny pebbles. Afterwards, there would be no bullet on the scene to arouse suspicion. The pebbles would disappear among the everyday debris of the street. It wouldn’t even be a pebble that killed Jimmy Coates.

      There was no question of sympathy as Mitchell loaded a stone into his shooter. Far from it. As far as Mitchell was concerned, Jimmy deserved his punishment. So you’re 38 per cent human too, Mitchell thought.

      “Well, you’ve had it easy,” he muttered, watching Jimmy leaning back in his chair, comfortable, smiling. “You’re not like me.”

      Gently, he raised the bamboo and whispered, “Show time.”

      

      “Deux citrons pressés, s’il vous plâit,” announced Jimmy to the waiter, his French accent perfect.

      “Oh, order one for me too,” whispered Felix, licking his lips.

      Jimmy raised his eyes to the sky, “Don’t worry, you’ll get one,” he sighed.

      “Oh, you think he knows what I want already?” Felix muttered, watching the waiter walk away.

      Against his better judgement, Jimmy found himself laughing. “By the way,” he added, “I think you should put sugar in it this time.”

      “No way,” Felix replied. “I like the lemon flavour.”

      Jimmy had forgotten how much fun it was when Felix was just being Felix. What’s more, it felt fantastic to be outdoors. Jimmy’s mother hadn’t been able to justify keeping everyone in the house much longer. In any case, Yannick’s mother was being driven mad by having kids around. If they hadn’t been allowed out, she would probably have thrown them out.

      In the four days since Viggo and Saffron left for London, there hadn’t been any news from them. Jimmy realised it would take time to gather enough intelligence to raid the Embassy without being discovered, but the waiting was still excruciating. Meanwhile, he and Felix had been taking advantage of being allowed out and not having to go to school.

      Now they had a chance to enjoy spring in France. It wasn’t all that hot, but there was enough sunshine for the crêperie to have umbrellas up over the outside tables. Except for the logo of some French beer company, they could have been giant blue lily pads. Jimmy and Felix made themselves comfortable in the shade. Jimmy was almost ready to forget his troubles.

      But something wasn’t quite right.

      “What’s the matter?” Felix asked, noting the concern on Jimmy’s face.

      “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

      “What’s nothing?”

      Jimmy shrugged, but still he couldn’t relax. “It’s my…you know…” he dropped his voice, “…programming. It won’t go away.”

      Felix leaned forward. “I thought it would always be there. You have to get used to it. Otherwise you could let it ruin a perfectly beautiful—”

      PING!

      The noise cut off the end of Felix’s sentence. At that moment, the umbrella that sat in the centre of their table wheeled off its pole.

      Felix let out a laugh, half from amusement and half from shock. Jimmy found nothing to be amused about. The umbrella crashed down in front of him. It passed a centimetre from his face. He rocked back in his chair, startled. The spokes of the umbrella dug into the table like darts on a dartboard. The ends were unusually sharp. The umbrella came to rest on its side, the material sticking up from the table between Jimmy and Felix.

      Jimmy leaned forward to regain his balance, but he couldn’t. The back leg of his chair snapped clean off and he clattered on to his back. Then—

      PING!

      The umbrella from the next table careered downwards. Jimmy watched as its points glinted in the sun. They were heading straight for his face. At the last instant, he rolled out of the way. The spokes of the umbrella smashed on the pavement. Before Jimmy could get up—

      PING!

      Another umbrella. Then: PING! PING! PING! One after another, every umbrella rocked on its pole and wheeled towards him. Jimmy lunged between the spokes. They came like daggers. He snatched up a chair and used its legs to fend them away. At last, he made it under one of the tables.

      The noise of crashing metal gave way to the shouts of waiting staff. Jimmy looked around him at the forest of chair and table legs. Then Felix’s face appeared, red but grinning.

      “You OK?” he yelled over the hubbub.

      “I suppose,” panted Jimmy. “Except that a bunch of street furniture just tried to kill me.”

      Felix roared with laughter. Jimmy didn’t feel like joining in.

      

      Mitchell knelt on his bed, forcing his disappointment down. So that plan had failed. Now he had to press on with a new plan straightaway. There was no time to dwell on his mistakes.

      He looked around his room. There was barely enough space for a bed and a sink. It was filthy too, but Mitchell wasn’t looking at that. He was examining the charts and maps that he had pasted up all over the walls. His mission surrounded him.

      He