by James Morcan
Under normal circumstances, Isabelle would have relished her stay in such an idyllic location. However, circumstances were far from normal and she felt she was going up the wall. While the gated commune was secure and comfortable enough, and her friends were the most hospitable of hosts, Isabelle feared she may never see her husband or son again. She was beside herself with worry.
Thinking of Nine prompted Isabelle to reach for the ruby he’d given her. It hung as a permanent adornment from the silver necklace she wore. Its touch brought her comfort, just as it had Nine.
Isabelle was fearful for the wellbeing of her unborn child, too. The knowledge that people were looking for her so that they could take her baby, as they had Francis, terrified her.
#
As Seventeen queued to pass through Customs at Papeete’s Fa'a'ā International Airport, she made sure she remained behind Fifteen in the queue. And she ensured she kept several other passengers between herself and the operative at all times. Not just because she wanted to minimize the risk of being seen and possibly identified, but because she wanted to observe him without being at all obvious. She was keen to see whether anyone was at the airport to meet him.
Seventeen had established that Fifteen was continuing on to Papeete when he’d remained on board the Air Tahiti Nui flight during its one-hour stopover in Los Angeles. That had been a sobering moment, confirming that she’d be matching her wits against at least two Omega operatives – Fifteen and Twenty Three – in Tahiti. She assumed the latter was still there.
The former orphan-operative didn’t have long to wait to find out. She and the other new arrivals were soon through Customs.
Seventeen emerged into the Arrivals Lounge in time to see Fifteen being greeted with a handshake by Twenty Three. Observing the pair took her back to when she was an active Omega operative. She couldn’t help thinking how times had changed. When she was in the field, all the orphan-operatives – or the elites as Naylor insisted on calling them – nearly always traveled in disguise.
The former operative wondered if standards were slipping at the agency.
#
The following morning, Isabelle didn’t recognize the tanned, red-headed tourist who arrived unannounced at the commune in a rental Jeep. Watching from the kitchen window of her bungalow, she tensed when she heard the visitor ask for her by name.
Isabelle’s first thought was that the woman was an Omega operative. Remaining out of sight, she listened as the visitor spoke to the Thai market gardener who had greeted her.
“Sebastian has sent me to find Isabelle,” the visitor said. “I am Sebastian’s sister, Jennifer Hannar.”
Isabelle thought she was hearing things. The visitor didn’t remotely resemble the operative who had interned her in Andorra after killing her parents. Nor had Nine mentioned he would be recruiting her services. Isabelle studied the woman closely, looking for some sign she was who she claimed to be.
“I have a note for Isabelle from Sebastian,” the visitor said, waving an envelope.
That decided it for Isabelle. Against her better judgment, she walked out onto the verandah. “You are looking for me?” she called out.
The visitor headed straight for her. As she neared, Isabelle thought there was something familiar about the way she moved.
“Hello, Isabelle,” Seventeen said. She held the envelope out. “Sebastian asked me to give this to you.”
Shaking, Isabelle took the envelope from the woman who claimed to be Jennifer Hannar. She opened the envelope and instantly recognized Nine’s handwriting. “It is you!” she said, looking back at Seventeen.
The former operative smiled. “As you can see, my brother sent me to look after you.”
Isabelle read the note quickly. In it, Nine confirmed he’d sent Seventeen to protect her. He also asked her to trust his sister and he reminded her that Seventeen had been under the insidious influence of MK-Ultra mind control when she’d terminated her parents.
Reading the note again, the Frenchwoman felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t believe her husband had recruited the services of the one person on earth she truly hated.
Seventeen thought she could read what was going through her sister-in-law’s mind. She imagined she could feel the vibes of resentment Isabelle was directing her way.
“I’m sorry,” Seventeen said.
“You’re sorry?” Isabelle replied sarcastically in French. “Exactly what are you sorry about? Arriving unannounced or murdering my parents in cold blood?”
Seventeen had no answer and couldn’t even look at Isabelle. She’d warned Nine this would be his wife’s reaction – and so it had turned out.
24
Nine’s arrival in Greenland was a first for him. Of all fifty-three countries he’d visited while an active operative with Omega, he’d never been to the mysterious, scenic land of Erik the Red and the other infamous Viking explorers and plunderers.
However, Nine wasn’t here for the scenery or the history. The former operative was here for the sole purpose of finding his son, or at least confirming that Francis hadn’t been sent to Greenland. He hoped it was the former as he was conscious he needed to find the boy quickly – before Omega’s scientists had their way with him, if they hadn’t already.
Nine had already lost valuable time as he’d flown via a brief stopover in Zurich. From there, he’d driven across the Swiss-German border into the nearby Black Forest to confirm to his own satisfaction that the secret orphanage Omega operated there had in fact been closed down. He’d been confident it was as Naylor had said. Even so, he wanted to see for himself so that he could cross it off his list of possible places Omega could be holding Francis.
The former operative had soon confirmed with his own eyes that the Black Forest medical laboratory no longer existed. A forest ranger he’d had the good fortune to meet recalled that a colleague had personally witnessed the lab’s destruction. The ranger couldn’t remember the exact date, but by all accounts it was soon after Nine had blackmailed Naylor with the incriminating evidence he’d gathered on the orphanage.
Before returning to Switzerland, Nine had checked into an Internet café where he quickly established a new Yahoo account under an assumed name. Using an agreed codename, he’d emailed his attorneys in London and Berlin. They were the same attorneys he’d supplied with the evidence relating to the Black Forest orphanage five years earlier. He had retained them as his European legal representatives, though he’d had no cause to contact them again until now.
Nine had forwarded the two confidential files he’d downloaded at Naylor’s together with new instructions. These included a directive to release the files far and wide, to the media and to appropriate authorities, should anything untoward happen to himself or to Isabelle.
Before leaving the café, he’d considered emailing Isabelle from his new account, but he resisted the temptation. While he was confident he couldn’t be traced, the same couldn’t be said of Isabelle, and he didn’t want to expose her to any more danger than she was already in.
Nine had flown from Zurich to Greenland’s main international airport at Kangerlussuaq via another stopover – this time in Copenhagen. During his short time in the Danish capital, he’d re-established contact with an underworld connection dating back to his Omega days. In return for a tidy bundle of cash, that shady individual had organized the contacts, permits and security passes Nine required for what he was planning to do in Greenland.
For the five-hour flight from Copenhagen to Kangerlussuaq, he’d travelled in the guise of one Johannes Petersson, a Danish photo-journalist ostensibly on assignment for National Geographic Magazine. Blue contact lenses, a rouge-ruddy complexion, a curly, ginger-colored wig and matching false beard rendered him unrecognizable while a fluent understanding of Danish and an ability to speak the language flawlessly helped ensure his adopted persona appeared totally authentic.
The former operative had his Omega upbringing to thank for his fluency in Danish and, indeed, in the
numerous languages and dialects he’d mastered during his exhaustive studies at the Pedemont Orphanage. In the orphanage’s Spartan surroundings and university-like atmosphere, he and his fellow orphans had been raised from birth to be polymaths, or veritable walking encyclopaedias. Their education had been fast-tracked by a learned ability to speed-read and by being exposed to a succession of handpicked tutors who were, without exception, the best in their individual fields of expertise.
Nine’s official reason for visiting Greenland was to photograph and report on the impact on wildlife caused by US Air Force jets operating from Thule Air Base in the far northwest of the country. If the information he’d extracted from Naylor was correct, one of Omega’s underground orphanages was located at Thule. Nine was reasonably confident the information was correct. After all, its accuracy had been confirmed by the confidential files he’d uplifted from Naylor’s residence. Access to the Air Force base had also been organized by his Copenhagen contact.
Nine was in no doubt Omega would be looking out for him at Thule. And probably here at Kangerlussuaq International Airport, too. Naylor would have seen to that. The former operative reflexively glanced around at the baggage handlers and Customs officials as he queued to collect his luggage. No-one seemed to be taking any notice of him.
It was mid-morning by the time he passed safely through Customs, and he had several hours to kill before the scheduled departure of his early afternoon flight to Thule. While anxious to keep moving, Nine was thankful for the spare time as he had some important business to attend to.
A cab ride to the centre of Kangerlussuaq township delivered him to the ramshackle home of one of the contacts his Copenhagen confidant had organized. He asked the cabbie to wait then walked to the front door of the house. There, he was greeted by a heavily tattooed, twentysomething local woman whose features were distinctly Inuit. Her eyes were glazed and the smell of marijuana hung heavy in the air. Nine guessed she was half stoned.
“Who are you?” the woman asked in Greenlandic, the country’s official tongue. Her words were distinctly slurred.
Unfamiliar with Greenlandic, Nine addressed her in Danish, the country’s colonial language. “Is Lars Khader here?”
Switching to hesitant Danish, the woman asked, “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Johannes Petersson. He’s expecting me.”
The woman pointed down the street to a hotel. “He’s at a meeting at the Kangerlussuaq.”
Nine saw the hotel was only a couple of hundred yards away. He turned back to thank the woman, but she’d already retreated inside. The former operative returned to the cab. “To the Kangerlussuaq,” he said as he jumped into the back seat.
The cabbie drove off. As it trundled the short distance to the hotel, Nine observed the passing homes. He was struck by their quaintness. Most were painted in bright colors, not dissimilar to homes he’d seen in townships in Norway. One was bedecked in reindeer antlers, which hung from the chimney, the roof and the balcony, and even adorned the letterbox.
Moments later, as the cab pulled up outside the hotel, Nine noticed a dozen Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked in the establishment’s parking lot. “Tourists?” he asked in Danish, knowing full well who the bikes belonged to.
The cabbie shook his head. “No. Hell’s Angels, would you believe?”
“Hells Angels? I wouldn’t have thought there’s enough open road for them here.”
“There isn’t. These lowlifes are the nearest we have to organized crime. They control the imports of illegal drugs.”
Nine feigned surprise though he’d learned nothing he didn’t already know. His Copenhagen confidant had fully briefed him. Pulling out a wad of dollar bills, he handed some to the cabbie. “I’ll get you to wait for me here, too.”
“Be careful. These bikers don’t take kindly to outsiders.” The cabbie switched off the engine and waited while his fare entered the hotel.
25
Inside, the hotel’s duty manager directed Nine to a small conference room at the rear of the premises where Hells Angels gang members were meeting. Approaching the room, Nine found a young, pimply-faced biker stationed outside the closed door. The gang’s skull logo and death’s head insignia were emblazoned on his leather motorcycle jacket, but that’s where any resemblance of a Hells Angels biker ended. Nine adjudged the youth to be no taller than five foot three and eight stone in his stockings if he was lucky.
When the youth saw Nine approach, he folded his arms across his sunken chest and tried to make himself look taller. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked gruffly in Greenlandic.
Nine simply handed him a fake business card and replied in Danish, “Johannes Petersson to see Lars.”
The youth looked suspiciously from Nine to the card and back to Nine. Without a word, he opened the door behind him and entered the conference room, leaving Nine alone in the passageway. The distinctive odour of marijuana carried to him.
Moments later, the youth returned in the company of Lars Khader, a Dane and self-appointed leader of the Kangerlussuaq Chapter of Hells Angels. Nine knew it was Lars from the photo his Copenhagen connection had shown him.
Lars Khader was as big as the pimply youth was small. At six foot six inches, he towered over his subordinate and was a good five inches taller than Nine. His flaming red hair and beard were even brighter than the former operative’s ginger hair and beard. Nine fleetingly wondered if the biker was a throwback to Erik the Red. Lars studied the business card the youth had given him then looked at suspiciously at the visitor standing before him.
Nine wasn’t sure what to expect. He was taken by surprise when Lars’ weather-beaten face suddenly creased into a huge grin.
The big biker extended his right hand. “I’ve been expecting you,” he announced in Danish. They shook hands. Before Nine could speak, Lars swept one strong arm around him and steered him into the conference room. “We’ll talk in here.”
In the conference room, ten other gang members – most of whom were smoking joints – studied Nine critically as he appeared in their midst. Lars quickly dismissed them, indicating the meeting was over. They departed without debate. It was clear who was boss.
As soon as the pair were alone they sat down, facing each other across a table.
Lars got straight to the point. “I understand you’ve got some cash for me.” It was evident the biker had been well briefed and their mutual Copenhagen connection had assured him Johannes Petersson was prepared to pay well for the specialist services he was able to provide.
“You understand correctly,” Nine said, speaking for the first time. He fished out a thick wad of notes from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table-top in front of Lars. “There’s your down-payment.”
Lars eyed the cash greedily. Scooping the notes up, he counted them then placed them in his jacket pocket.
In the course of the next hour, Nine outlined his travel plans and likely requirements over the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Various contingencies were covered in depth in the event that something went wrong.
While Nine didn’t explain what had brought him to Greenland, or what he hoped to achieve, he still had to tell Lars quite a lot. That made him nervous. It went totally against all his training and his instincts, but he realized he didn’t have any choice. What he planned to do in the next day or so couldn’t be done without outside help.
Nine just hoped the hundred grand Lars had negotiated as his payment would be enough to buy his loyalty and guarantee his silence. While half that amount would go on expenses, including helicopter and speedboat charters and the like, that still left a fifty grand profit for the gang leader.
The former operative watched as Lars reached beneath his jacked and pulled out a pistol. Nine saw at a glance it was a USP semi-automatic weapon of the type favored by German police. He’d asked his Copenhagen contact to organize just such a weapon for him.
“I believe you ordered this,” Lars said, sliding the pistol ac
ross the table top to Nine. “It’s loaded.” From a jacket pocket, he then produced a spare clip and a small box of ammunition, and placed them in front of his client.
“Thanks.” Nine quickly established that the pistol was loaded then pocketed the weapon and scooped up the ammunition. “Any questions before I go?”
“Nope.” Realizing the meeting was over, Lars stood up. “I just wait to hear from you then call in the chopper.” He flashed his trademark grin.
Nine stood and shook hands with his opposite. While he didn’t approve of the murky business Lars was in, he couldn’t help but like the big fella. But can I trust you? Lars tried to disengage from the handshake, but Nine held on, squeezing the other’s hand. The two stood like that for several seconds, staring each other down.
Lars grin faded as he realised his client was testing him. He increased the pressure of his own grip.
Nine pulled the pistol from his pocket with his free hand, released the safety and held the barrel to Lars’ forehead. “You double-cross me and I’ll come looking for you. Do we understand each other?”
Lars could only nod, his eyes transfixed on the weapon.
Now it was Nine’s turn to smile. He pocketed the pistol, released Lars’ hand and slapped him on the back in friendly fashion. “Good man. Be ready for my call.” He winked at the biker and strode from the room.
Behind him, Lars quickly reassessed his original perception of his client. He’d adjudged him to be a hard man. Now he knew he was dealing with hard man who was also a stone cold professional who wouldn’t hesitate to kill. He told himself to tread carefully around the man who called himself Johannes Petersson.
26
From the shade of the veranda of the bungalow they now shared, Isabelle and Seventeen maintained an uneasy silence as they watched Chai and members of his family tend their vegetable plots. It had been like this since Seventeen had arrived in Tahiti and driven to the commune two days earlier.