by James Morcan
A now white-faced Cassidy closed and locked the door.
“Okay,” Naylor said, “you know what to do.”
“Are you sure about this, sir?”
Naylor didn’t respond. He just directed a steely glare at his subordinate.
Cassidy had his answer. “Yes, sir.”
Naylor and Henderson watched as Cassidy walked over to the laptop and accessed the Internet. After entering a password, ten red dots appeared on screen. They were overlaid on a map of the world. Both directors were aware each dot represented a surviving Omega orphan-operative whose whereabouts was immediately obvious. At a glance, they could see the operatives were currently spread over three continents and, in one case, in Tahiti.
For Naylor, the ten red dots symbolized Omega’s failure. It wasn’t that long ago there were twenty-one dots on screen every time he’d looked at it and twenty-three dots before that when Nine and Seventeen had been active operatives. Turning to Cassidy, he asked, “Can you reach them all in one hit?”
“No sir. It has to be one at a time.”
“Okay, let’s get on with it.” To Naylor the dots didn’t represent human beings. They represented money. Big money. Giving them life through the Pedemont Project’s ground-breaking artificial insemination program and then raising them as future operatives in the orphanage, had cost Omega many millions of dollars. However, every single orphan had returned many millions more and helped Omega achieve its dream of establishing a New World Order.
Cassidy was shaking as he prepared to carry out Naylor’s orders. After making several adjustments to the equipment on the desktop, he manoeuvred the laptop’s cursor until it rested on one of the red dots on the screen.
“Who is that?” Henderson asked. The dot he was looking at was one of two that appeared to be joined. Their location showed they were in, or above, the Pacific Ocean, just north of Tahiti.
“That’s Operative Number Six,” Cassidy said.
“Where’s he now?”
“She. Six and Twenty One are flying to Papeete,” Naylor said. “I pulled them out of Nellis Air Force Base to go help Nineteen find the Frenchwoman and her baby in Tahiti.” In his mind’s eye, Naylor could picture the red-headed Six. She and her identical twin sister Five were the only twins to result from Omega’s Pedemont Project. Like her sister, Six was a first class operative.
Cassidy looked around at Naylor as if hoping for a reprieve. There was none. Resigned to carrying out his orders, the IT manager clicked on the red dot that represented Six.
87
The dot immediately disappeared, leaving only nine dots visible.
“One down, eight to go,” Naylor said dispassionately.
“That quick?” Henderson asked.
“That quick.” Looking at Cassidy, Naylor said, “Explain it to him, Doug.”
Cassidy almost looked relieved that he had an excuse to delay completing his macabre assignment. “Yes, sir.” Turning to Henderson he said, “This equipment enables us to send a signal to a computer-controlled laser machine we’ve installed on top of the old hydro dam above us. In turn, it transmits a strong electrical signal to the microchip embedded in the forearm of the target – in this case Number Six – overloading the microchip’s capabilities and precipitating a fatal electric shock. Death is immediate.”
“Sounds unbelievable,” an incredulous Henderson said.
“Until recently it would have been,” admitted Cassidy. “A year ago we gained access to equipment our Military have been using for the past four years. They developed it to interfere with the communication systems of foreign satellites.”
“Incredible.”
Naylor was becoming impatient. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Yes sir.” Cassidy moved the cursor to the next dot on screen.
#
The Business Class cabin in the Air Tahiti Nui Airbus A340 that Six and Twenty One were traveling in from Los Angeles to Papeete was in an uproar. Six had just returned to her seat as the Airbus began its descent to Papeete’s Fa'a'ā International Airport when she collapsed.
In the seat next to Six, Twenty One checked his fellow operative’s pulse. He barely had time to register surprise at being unable to find a pulse when he suddenly clutched his heart and slumped down in his seat.
A Tahitian hostess who had observed both incidents hurried to assist the two passengers. Finding them both dead, she began screaming, spreading alarm amongst the other passengers.
#
In a private medical clinic in downtown Las Vegas, Ten waited his turn to see the duty surgeon. He’d debated whether to do what Nine had confided he’d once done and remove the microchip from his forearm himself. Never one for the sight of blood – especially not if it was his – he’d opted to have the microchip surgically removed by a professional.
Ten was gambling that his Omega masters wouldn’t be looking for him yet. It was a gamble he was about to lose.
There was only one patient in front of him when his heart received the fatal shock. Ten was dead before his face hit the carpet. He would never know that at the Air Force base down the road, Numero Uno, the big Native-American operative, was about to meet the same fate.
#
Over the next few minutes, similar events took place in other parts of the world.
In South Africa, Omega operatives Sixteen and Twenty died while on a mission in Cape Town; in Switzerland, Five died on a mission in the Swiss Alps; in Italy, Eleven died whilst between assignments in Rome; and in the Canary Islands, Two died in her sleep.
#
In Tahiti, Nineteen had been observing the settlement that was home to Isabelle and Seventeen for the past couple of hours. After dealing with Chai, he’d driven to within half a mile of Pomareville and covered the remaining distance on foot so as not to alert anyone of his presence.
Nineteen knew he’d come to the right place: within an hour of arriving he’d spotted Isabelle. She’d ventured outside her dwelling with her new born baby and was still there now, sitting in the shade of a tree.
The operative was observing from the cover of the rainforest, which encroached on the settlement from all sides. He’d brought a hunting rifle with him. His plan was to terminate Seventeen, and Isabelle, too, if necessary, and then abduct the baby. Once back at his safe house in Papeete, he would await Naylor’s instructions on how to transfer the baby to Omega’s medical lab at Nellis Air Force Base. That was the plan anyway.
Nineteen tensed as he sighted Seventeen. She emerged from the dwelling and walked over to join Isabelle in the shade.
It was an easy shot for Nineteen. He estimated the distance to be no more than a hundred yards. Even so, he was nervous about taking the shot. He knew the rifle’s recoil was going to give his wounded shoulder hell.
Just before Nineteen could take the shot, Atea and the other two midwives who had helped deliver Isabelle’s baby converged on the two women to admire little Annette. They ended up in Nineteen’s line of fire. Cursing, he lowered his rifle and waited for another opportunity.
The opportunity never came. As was the case with his fellow orphans, he never knew what hit him. Death was instantaneous.
#
Nineteen was the last of Omega’s active orphan-operatives to die that day. Of the original twenty-three Pedemont orphans, only Nine and Seventeen remained. And they were on borrowed time if Naylor was going to have his way.
The Omega boss left Henderson talking to the IT manager and returned to his office. On his way in, his PA advised him she’d retrieved his cell phone from his car as requested and had left it on his desk.
In his office, pulsing light from his cell phone signalled that he’d received at least one call in his absence. Retrieving the phone, Naylor found there were in fact five messages. Four were from journalists requesting interviews. He deleted those then accessed the remaining message. It was from Nineteen.
The now-deceased operative advised Naylor that he’d just discovered where Isabelle was hiding o
ut and said he was on his way to deal with the situation. He also confirmed that Seventeen was with the Frenchwoman. Before ending the call, he named the settlement that was now home to the two women and he specified its location.
Cursing, Naylor deleted the message. He wondered whether Nineteen had gotten to Seventeen before he’d been terminated.
88
“Why do I have to dress as a girl, papa?” Francis asked. He was trying to understand why his father was dressing him up in girls’ clothes.
“Because we have to make sure the bad people don’t recognize you,” a patient Nine explained as he fitted a wig of long black hair to his son’s head.
“But I don’t want to be a dumb girl!” Francis complained.
Nine ruffled the wig. “Then be a bright girl then,” he chuckled as he draped a sari around the boy.
Francis couldn’t see the funny side. He just wanted to be reunited with his mom and wasn’t in the mood for fancy dress.
Nine could sympathize. He’d just about had it with disguises for one lifetime and he, too, couldn’t wait to be reunited with Isabelle. One last time, he’d told himself.
The former operative had decided to adopt the guise of a Sikh businessman holidaying with his Sikh daughter. He was aware if Omega was still looking for him, they’d expect him to be traveling with his son.
When he was satisfied with Francis’ disguise, he set about establishing his own. Within ten minutes he looked every inch a Sikh complete with turban and sari plus a fake bushy moustache. He and Francis then stood in front of a full-length wall mirror, studying their new guises. The late afternoon sun was reflected in the mirror, dazzling them, so Nine pulled a curtain across.
Francis laughed hilariously when he saw himself for the first time.
Nine then grabbed Francis and steered him downstairs to the garage. The pair had an appointment to keep on the outskirts of Las Vegas and Nine didn’t want to be late.
#
Dusk was approaching when Nine stopped his rental van outside a stately home in an especially luxurious part of town. He and Francis had an appointment with the homeowner. The appointment had been made on Nine’s behalf by mobster Al Ricca for the princely sum of fifty grand.
After being admitted through a security gate, Nine led Francis up a concrete path to the house’s front door. They were still in their Sikh disguises. As they walked, Nine asked, “Now remind me who you are?”
“Daya,” Francis answered without hesitation. Nine had been drilling the boy on his girlie cover for the past hour.
“And what does that mean in English?”
“Kindness.”
“And where are we from?”
“Um…the Punjab.”
“Yes, but without the um next time.”
“Sorry papa.”
“And remember, only speak if spoken to.”
“Yes papa.”
Nine rang the front doorbell. The door was answered by a nondescript, middle-aged man whose accent betrayed him as a New Yorker. He introduced himself as Hymie and, without waiting for his visitors to introduce themselves, led them down a hallway to the back of the house.
Hymie was the Chicago Outfit’s go-to man for false passports in Nevada. He’d been doing that all his working life and was one of the best around. What set him apart from the vast majority of his peers was he’d never been to jail – a big advantage for the likes of Ricca who used his services frequently. That meant Hymie could pretty much name his price. For a few hours work – as this job would be – he’d quoted twenty grand. Ricca had been happy with that, adding his usual exorbitant percentage on top. So everyone was content.
Fifteen minutes was all it took for Hymie to shoot the necessary passport photos and glean the personal details required from Nine.
“How long before they’re ready?” Nine asked.
“Three hours tops,” Hymie said. “Where shall I deliver them?”
“You won’t. I’ll collect them at nine tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I hope so,” Nine said, sending a steely look that told Hymie he’d be very unhappy if he wasn’t here at that time.
89
That night, back in the apartment, Nine cradled a sleeping Francis in his arms on a sofa as he watched TV. Surfing the channels, he paused every now and then as something caught his attention. The Omega Agency story, as the media had named it, was still dominating the news.
Nine had an early night planned as he and Francis had a big day coming up. After collecting their new passports first thing in the morning, they would be flying to Los Angeles on a private air charter flight Nine had organized. From there, they would depart America for good.
The former operative was about to retire to bed when an ABC news item caught his eye.
A male presenter announced that a series of unexplained deaths of American citizens had caught medical experts by surprise and had led to speculation the incidents were somehow linked to the Omega Agency story. “In one incident, two apparently healthy adults – a man and a woman – dropped dead within a minute of each other on a flight to Tahiti today.”
Passport photos of the pair filled the screen. Although he hadn’t seen them in over eight years, Nine recognized them immediately as fellow orphans Twenty One and Six.
The presenter continued, “Then, in near-identical circumstances, two men dropped dead in Nevada – one in Las Vegas and the other at Nellis Air Force Base just outside Las Vegas.” Photos of Ten and One appeared on screen. “It was the Air Force base fatality that prompted speculation the deaths could in some way be connected to the Omega Agency story that has been dominating world headlines since it broke this morning.”
Nine couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His fellow orphans were dropping like flies. The news that Ten was among them hit him came as a cruel blow. He was saddened to learn his old friend hadn’t survived or ever experienced freedom.
The presenter continued in the same vein as photos of six other Omega operatives appeared on screen. Nine recognized them all instantly.
When the news item finished, Nine switched off the set and digested what he’d just learnt. The former operative sensed Naylor was behind the unexplained deaths. He has to be. There was no other explanation. If he had to bet, he thought all Omega’s orphan-operatives would have met the same fate. He just hoped Seventeen wasn’t among them.
Putting himself in Naylor’s shoes, he figured the Omega boss would have realized his orphan-operatives knew too much. He couldn’t risk them talking, so he had them killed. But how? Logic told him it had something to do with the microchip embedded in each. That could explain why I’m still alive. And hopefully Seventeen, too. Regardless, he was aware Omega had access to the latest equipment, drugs and medicine, and killing its own operatives at long distance wouldn’t have been too difficult.
Nine flirted with the idea that he was now off the hook. For a moment he was tempted to surround himself with media and front up to the police, or the appropriate authorities, and put Francis and himself in their hands. After all, his name had been mentioned in just about every news story that had aired in America that day. Omega wouldn’t dare touch me, or Francis, if I handed myself in.
Then common sense prevailed. He knew there were no guarantees where Omega was concerned. Their tentacles were far-reaching. Thinking on it further, he deduced that Omega would want him out of the picture at all costs. They don’t want me testifying against them. The same goes for Seventeen. His thoughts went out to his sister.
#
That night, while Nine and Francis slept, two thirtysomething Ukrainians were boarding a late Air New Zealand flight that would take them from Los Angeles to Papeete. Ivan Pasternak and Yuriy Borkovsky were low-level soldiers with the Ukrainian Mafia. They’d been sent to America to provide the muscle for a drug deal when they received an order to drop everything and fly to Tahiti. The order had come from Andrew Naylor’s Berlin contact via their capo in Kiev.
&n
bsp; Their mission was to kill Seventeen then to wait for Nine to show up and kill him, too.
Neither they nor their capo knew who their client was.
#
Next morning, a Sikh gentleman and a young girl sat patiently waiting for their flight in the Departure Lounge at LAX. Their newly acquired passports said the gentleman was Doctor Kuljit Panesar and the girl was his daughter, Daya.
After collecting their passports in Las Vegas, Nine and Francis had flown to Los Angeles by private air charter without incident and in plenty of time to connect with their international flight.
The irony of traveling as a doctor in his condition wasn’t lost on Nine. His health wasn’t getting any better and he knew he should be under a doctor’s care at that very moment. He popped two heart pills to alleviate the chest pains that were now a permanent part of his life.
As the pair waited, Nine did something he’d been putting off doing for weeks: he phoned Isabelle. The former operative was aware the call could be delayed no longer. He’d been putting it off because he knew there was a chance Omega’s sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment would intercept any such attempt to contact Isabelle, or Seventeen for that matter. For the same reason, he’d avoided emailing them or contacting them by any other means.
The call couldn’t be delayed because Nine had to activate the next part of his plan to reunite his family. He was gambling that Omega would be in such disarray it wouldn’t pick up one quick phone call. The recorded voice of a Verizon Wireless employee advised that the number was currently in an area that did not have cell phone coverage.
Disappointed, Nine then speed-dialled Seventeen’s number. C’mon sis. Answer. He got the same result.
“Who are you calling, papa?” Francis asked.
“Just a friend,” Nine lied. Frustrated, the former operative pocketed his phone. He realized there could be several reasons why he couldn’t get through and hoped the non-responses didn’t mean that Isabelle and Seventeen had struck trouble.
Anxious to get a message to the women, Nine led Francis to an Internet kiosk. There, he quickly set up a free email account under an assumed name and sent a cryptic email to temporary email addresses he’d set up previously – one for Isabelle prior to his departure from Tahiti and one for Seventeen prior to her departure from Chicago.