by James Morcan
“Immediately!” Naylor snapped. “Our man in Papeete needs their assistance and it’s urgent. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good. Their orders and flight tickets will be awaiting them when they check in at McCarran,” he said referring to Las Vegas’ main international airport.
“Yessir.”
Naylor ended the call then speed-dialed his PA, a renowned heavy sleeper. Resigned to having to wait for her to wake, he fumed over the latest news from Papeete. Eight’s murder confirmed to his way of thinking that Seventeen wasn’t working alone. He didn’t believe the former operative could cause so much mayhem on her own. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced Nine had returned to Tahiti. To his mind, that justified pulling operatives out of Nevada and sending them to Papeete.
“Hello, this is Susan,” the PA finally answered.
Naylor instructed her to immediately book Business Class seats for operatives Six and Twenty One on the first available flight to Papeete. Hanging up, he lay back and ruminated on recent events.
Since Nine had accosted him in his home, Omega’s twenty-one remaining elite orphan-operatives had been reduced by over half to just ten. Naylor still couldn’t quite get his head around that. For the best part of two decades, the agency’s elites had proven time and again they were without peer in the murky world of espionage as they heaped success upon success in high stakes missions around the world. How two washed up former operatives could cause so much mayhem was a mystery to him – more so given one had a known heart condition and the other was until recently a verifiable nutcase.
If there was one thing Naylor was sure of, it was that his beloved agency was starting to unravel. He knew it and his fellow directors knew it. All were unhappy and there had been whispers that at least two of them were considering resigning from the board, no doubt to distance themselves from Omega.
The fear remained also that Nine had been wired when he’d broken into Naylor’s home. Regardless of that, the Omega boss thought there was little doubt Nine would have downloaded the confidential files he’d accessed on his computer or, worse still, emailed them to a third party. Either way, he knew there was a very real possibility that Nine would release damaging information into the public domain – information that could sink Omega, or at the very least make life exceedingly uncomfortable for its directors.
Naylor clung to the hope that the rogue operative wouldn’t risk doing that as long as Francis remained in Omega’s custody.
#
Isabelle smiled joyfully as Atea handed her newborn baby to her. She couldn’t believe that just three hours after going into labor, she’d given birth to a healthy, beautiful girl. Compared to Francis’ traumatic birth, which had nearly cost her, her life, this birth had been very straightforward.
Sitting up in bed, Isabelle kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I name you Annette Nicia Hannar,” she whispered lovingly. The Frenchwoman knew Nine would approve. Their daughter had been named after Nine’s mother, Annette, and after Isabelle’s birthmother, Nicia.
Overcome by emotion, Isabelle began crying. Atea and her midwife helpers cried, too. Theirs were tears of joy while Isabelle’s were tears of joy and sadness – sadness that her husband and son couldn’t be here to enjoy the moment.
#
Seventeen just wanted to sleep. It had already gone midnight. Since terminating Eight, she had checked out of her old hotel and into a new one under a new guise. The suntanned Belgian anthropologist had evolved into a pale-skinned, freckled, red-headed New Zealand tourist. Strategic use of makeup and fake freckles had helped conceal her black eye and other bruises, and dark red lipstick had helped hide her split lip.
The former operative had spent the past two hours tending her cuts and bruises, and trying to improve on her new disguise. She was making hard work of it. The nonstop events of recent days had caught up with her. After so long removed from the world of espionage, she felt out of condition and craved sleep. However, sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now.
Seventeen was mindful that, if he hadn’t already, Naylor would be sending more personnel to Papeete soon. She knew there was a good chance Nineteen was still alone and so there wouldn’t be a better time to terminate him than right now, before the inevitable reinforcements arrived.
76
For a minute or two, Nine couldn’t work out where he was when he woke. Nor could he make sense of the tubes and cords that connected him to machines and drips beside his bed.
The former operative wasn’t aware he’d suffered another heart attack in his hotel room ninety minutes earlier, or that quick thinking by the hotel receptionist and the prompt, expert attention of medics had saved his life.
It wasn’t until a uniformed African-American nurse entered his room that he worked out he was in a hospital. “Where am I?” he asked weakly.
“You are in the cardio ward of Spring Valley Hospital, sir.”
Now it was coming back to Nine. “Did I have a heart attack?”
“You’ve had an episode of some kind. The doctor will be with you shortly.” The nurse hurried off – presumably to fetch the doctor.
Nine glanced at his left wrist only to see his watch had been removed. He hadn’t a clue what the time was or how long he’d been here. Tiredness and an inability to focus on anything for more than a few seconds told him he’d been heavily sedated.
Another few moments passed before he remembered the reason he’d come to Las Vegas. “Francis!” He tried to sit up, but didn’t have the strength, so he tried again.
The nurse chose that moment to return. She was accompanied by the duty doctor, a distinguished looking man of about sixty. The nurse hurried to restrain Nine. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” she asked. She forced him gently back down onto the pillow. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
Nine didn’t argue. He was in no state to resist.
The patient noticed the doctor was now studying his chart at the foot of the bed. “What’s the verdict, doc?”
The doctor continued reading. “One moment,” he answered without looking up.
Turning to the nurse, Nine asked, “What time is it?”
The nurse consulted her watch. “It’s eleven thirty. Why, you got a date?”
Before Nine could respond, the doctor walked around the bed, grabbed Nine’s wrist and stood motionless as he assessed his pulse.
“You’ve had a heart attack, Mister…” he consulted the chart he was still holding, “Carrera.”
Only then did Nine remember he was still in the guise of New Yorker Miguel Carrera. “How serious?”
“Serious enough to recommend surgery in the next forty-eight hours.” Before Nine could object, the doctor added, “Until then it’s complete bed rest for you.” He emphasized the word complete to stress the importance of what he’d just said.
Nine nodded even though his immediate plans didn’t remotely fit with the doctor’s. The doctor excused himself, advising that a nurse would check in on him every half hour or so. He then departed with the nurse.
As soon as the former operative was alone, he took stock of his situation. Whichever way he looked at it, he knew it didn’t look good. He’d hoped to be on his way to Nellis Air Force Base by now and into the medical lab by midnight.
Commonsense told him he should at least rest up in hospital for a day or two to recover from his latest heart attack. He knew he’d be no use to Francis dead. Then flashes came to him of the disfigured children he’d seen in Omega’s orphanages overseas. That decided him. I have to get Francis tonight. He was aware that every day’s delay – every hour’s delay – exposed his son to more risk.
To mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do, he quietly recited his daily affirmation.
I am a free man and a polymath.
Whatever I set my mind to, I always achieve.
The limitations that apply to the rest of humanity,
Do not apply to me.
Nine reminded himself to recite his affirmation daily. He’d been neglecting to do that of late.
Finally, he sat up. Removing the tubes and cords from his body, he gingerly climbed out of bed and walked slowly to a wardrobe on the far side of the room. Opening its door, he was relieved to see his clothes, shoes, watch and wallet had been stored there.
Changing quickly back into his own clothes, the former operative then stepped out into the ward. He could hear two nurses talking softly in a room nearby, so he walked toward the exit at the opposite end of the ward.
Nine was heading for the nearest elevator when he noticed a sign above a door. It read: Pharmaceutical Dispensary. No unauthorized entry. A quick look around confirmed no-one else was present. Nine opened the door and entered the dispensary to find he had it to himself for the moment. He eventually found what he was looking for – heart pills that matched the medical name of the pills his specialist had prescribed in Papeete. Nine pocketed two small containers of the pills and quickly left, aware he could well be walking to his own death.
#
Two hours after discharging himself from hospital, Nine was poised to enter the medical lab at Nellis Air Force Base. He was still feeling weak, but a hundred per cent better compared to how he felt earlier. The sedatives he’d been given had worn off and he was mentally sharp at least.
The former operative had dispensed with his latest guise. He was content to be himself for the moment as he wanted to be instantly recognizable to Francis.
Nine had made good use of the past two hours. From the hospital, he’d returned to his room at the Paris Las Vegas and retrieved his gear, including his smart phone and the all-important architectural plans of Omega’s underground lab at the Air Force base. Then he’d loaded his gear into a rental van he’d hired and had driven to a disused warehouse that backed up against the base’s rear perimeter fence.
Studying the warehouse, Nine estimated it was less than twenty feet from the fence. The rusted lock on the building’s backdoor proved no match for him and he quickly gained access. Then, by the light of his pen torch, he descended a flight of stairs to the basement.
The entrance to the disused service tunnel he was looking for was exactly where mobster Al Ricca said it would be – six feet from the rear wall. It was concealed beneath a dozen planks that had been laid across an opening in the basement’s concrete floor.
Nine removed the planks one at a time, and slowly so as not to overdo it. He was very aware he needed to pace himself. Even so, the effort took its toll and he had to sit down for a minute to regain his breath.
Slightly re-energized, he stood up and descended the dozen or so steps that led to the tunnel entrance. Guided by the architectural plans and drawings he’d obtained from Ricca, he began walking along the tunnel. After half a dozen steps, he noticed a red stripe painted on the tunnel ceiling. He guessed it marked the location of the base’s perimeter fence above.
As he’d done before breaking into Omega’s orphanage in the DRC, and in Greenland before that, he made a conscious effort to quell the excitement he could feel building in his gut. That was no easy task. This mission felt different somehow. He really believed Francis was here.
77
The fire Seventeen started in Hotel Tiare Tahiti’s unoccupied basement was safely contained in a trash can she had strategically placed below an air conditioning vent. However, the night-shift staff didn’t know that when smoke billowed from a vent in the establishment’s ground floor reception area. They immediately sounded the fire alarm.
Moments later, loudspeaker announcements on all five floors of the hotel advised guests to vacate their rooms and assemble on the pavement outside the front entrance as per hotel regulations. The announcements were in French, English, Japanese and Chinese.
Seventeen waited for the first twenty or so sleepy hotel guests to assemble outside before joining them. Observing their faces as she looked for Nineteen, she noted half them hadn’t changed and were still in their nightwear.
The former operative had had to resort to such measures as she hadn’t a clue which room Nineteen occupied. She figured this was one way to force her fellow orphan to show himself. Then she planned to terminate him.
Twenty minutes later, Seventeen still hadn’t sighted her target among the hundred and eighty odd guests and staff who had assembled outside. When a senior fireman emerged from the hotel and advised the guests they were free to return to their rooms, Seventeen hovered near the entrance, looking for some sign of Nineteen.
The former operative would have been perturbed if she’d realized Nineteen had suspected the fire could be a ruse and had remained in his room on the hotel’s fourth floor. When the fire alarm had sounded, he’d stepped out onto his unlit balcony and looked down at the street below. While he hadn’t seen anyone he recognized, the mixed-race operative did see Seventeen’s Honda Avis rental car parked in front of the hotel. He remembered seeing it earlier when he and Eight had hailed a cab. It had been in a different parking space then.
Now, from the darkness of his balcony, Nineteen kept the car under observation. He knew to look out for Seventeen as Naylor had advised him and the others that he suspected it was the blue-eyed, blonde operative who was hunting down her fellow orphans.
Nineteen didn’t have long to wait. After the last of the guests had returned inside, a tall, redheaded woman approached the Honda. Nineteen didn’t recognize her as she climbed into the driver’s seat, but he estimated she was about Seventeen’s height and age.
As the Honda drove off, Nineteen noted its registration number.
In the car, Seventeen was going through a checklist in her mind as she drove back to her hotel. She knew there could be any number of reasons why she hadn’t seen Nineteen at Hotel Tiare Tahiti. He could have chosen to ignore the fire alarm, or perhaps he checked into another hotel after Eight’s murder, or his search for Isabelle has taken him out of town. Or he could have been disguised as someone else and I didn’t recognize him! It was the last possibility that worried her the most. She reflexively checked her rear vision mirror.
#
Fifteen minutes after setting off along the tunnel leading into Nellis Air Force Base, Nine had lost count of the number of twists and turns he’d taken. It was a maze of pipes and tunnels. The former operative had also lost all sense of direction and if it wasn’t for the detailed plans he consulted every minute or two, he feared he could become permanently lost.
Nine was aware the base was supposedly connected to, or even part of, the fabled Area 51. Like most other Americans, he’d heard the rumors surrounding Area 51 – such as its anti-gravity machines and other suppressed technologies and inventions. He had no idea whether there was any truth in the rumors. Whether the US Government secretly worked in collaboration with extraterrestrial civilizations was of no concern to him anyway. All he cared about was finding his son.
Finally, he saw lights ahead. Nine doused his pen torch and hurried toward them.
The last tunnel he’d entered delivered him to the rear of a storeroom. Shelving along three of its walls was lined with jars. Closer inspection revealed the jars were filled with human fetuses. Viewing windows in the far wall opened out into a laboratory and that was where the lights were coming from.
Nine walked quietly over to the window and saw two white-coated lab technicians cleaning medical equipment, emptying test-tubes and performing other night-shift duties. Bypassing the lab, Nine walked down a long corridor leading to still more labs. Along the way he came to a familiar sign. It was identical to the signs he’d seen at Omega’s other labs, and it read: Children’s Sleeping Quarters. Authorized personnel only.
Following the arrow, he opened the first door he came to and saw it accommodated a dozen or so sleeping children. They slept in bunks that were two high. Nine was just tall enough to view the children sleeping in the top bunks.
Using his pen torch, he checked each child and quickly ascertained Francis was not amon
g them. Even so, the faces were disturbingly familiar. He’d seen children almost identical to these in Omega’s other secret labs. Many of them featured the same range of deformities and signs of medical experimentation.
The next two dormitory-style rooms revealed more children for the same result. Then in the next dormitory, Nine was in for a shock.
This dorm was occupied by a dozen teenage boys. Checking the first boy – a Polynesian – the former operative noticed a photo pinned to the wall just above the boy’s head. It was a photo of Thirteen, one of the operatives he’d encountered in the lab in the DRC. Thirteen looked about eighteen years old in the photo.
Shining his torch on the sleeping teenager’s face, Nine felt as though Thirteen had been reincarnated. The boy was the spitting image of the now deceased operative.
On the wall beside the next boy was a photo of Fourteen, the Nordic-looking operative Nine had shot in the lab at Thule Air Base. The boy asleep next to the photo was a Fourteen-lookalike. So, Omega’s cloning of us original orphans continues! Nine knew he was witnessing the handiwork of Naylor, Doc Andrews and others inside Omega.
As Nine came to the next bunk, the teenager woke. The boy sat up with a start and looked straight at him. Nine thought he was looking in a mirror. It’s me! The teen’s startling green eyes stared into the blinding torchlight as if trying to make sense of it. A shock of long, dark hair framed a pale face. Nine felt as though he’d gone back in time.
Sure enough, on the wall next to the boy, was a photo of Nine. He remembered when and where it was taken, and who took it. His mentor Tommy Kentbridge had taken it at the orphanage on Nine’s sixteenth birthday.
“Who are you?” the sleepy teenager asked.
“I’m no-one of interest,” Nine said. He pulled out a photo of Francis and showed it to his teenage lookalike. “Have you seen this boy?” He made sure his face remained in shadow so as not to alarm the teen.
The teenager nodded and pointed to a door. “You could try the next dorm.”
“Thanks.” Nine walked to the door, leaving the puzzled teen to go back to sleep.