“I think...I'm...dying,” Isabelle gasped in French.
“You're just hyperventilating.” Nine rummaged around in the glove box, searching for a paper bag. There was none, but he did find a large, folded envelope. It contained car ownership papers. Nine emptied the envelope and handed it to Isabelle. “Breathe into it.”
Isabelle placed the open end of the envelope over her nose and mouth, and began breathing into it. She now realized she probably was hyperventilating and was aware that inhaling carbon dioxide was the standard method of combating that condition.
“Slow your breathing,” Nine warned her.
The Porsche leaned alarmingly as Nine turned hard right at an intersection. Another glance in the rear vision mirror confirmed he had shaken the police cars, but the ever-present chopper’s searchlight reminded him he was not free yet.
He peered at the fuel gauge on the dashboard. It indicated the tank was near-empty. “Damn!” he cursed. There was also a strong smell of petrol fumes. He guessed, correctly, the fuel tank had been ruptured – probably by a bullet. We need to ditch the Porsche.
Nine scanned road signs as they flashed past. One referred to a tunnel two kilometers ahead. A new plan occurred to him as the tunnel drew closer. His plan depended on at least one other vehicle being in the tunnel. Unfortunately, at this time of night, he knew there was a good chance they’d find they’d have the tunnel to themselves.
The chopper’s spotlight remained on the Porsche. Its pilot watched as the car entered the tunnel, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.
Behind the wheel of the Porsche, Nine was relieved to see three vehicles coming toward them in the tunnel. He glanced at Isabelle who still breathed into the envelope.
She reflexively looked over her shoulder. In the tunnel's confines, smoke obscured any rear view. Removing the envelope from her face, she looked accusingly at Nine. “What now?” she asked.
He ignored her and studied the first oncoming vehicle which was now less than a hundred yards away. Isabelle resumed breathing into the envelope.
As the distance between the two vehicles rapidly narrowed, Nine reached for his handbrake. “Hold on.” He braked and jerked the handbrake violently.
The Porsche spun one eighty degrees before stopping in front of the other car, a Volvo, forcing it to stop hurriedly. The two vehicles following the Volvo braked to avoid a pile-up. The Porsche was now facing back the way it had come.
Nine got out and ran to the Volvo. As he ran, he called back to Isabelle. “C'mon!”
Still in shock, and not thinking clearly, Isabelle obeyed without question. Nine reached the Volvo, pulled open the driver's door and pointed his pistol at the driver, a middle-aged businessman. He grabbed the trembling businessman by his tie, pulled him out of the car and led him back to the Porsche whose engine was still running. “Get in!” he commanded in French. The shaken businessman jumped in behind the Porsche's steering wheel. Nine held his pistol to the businessman's head. “Drive for all you're worth.”
Nine fired his Glock pistol at the tunnel’s roof. The shot reverberated in the confined space and the businessman accelerated away in the still-smoking Porsche as fast as he could. Nine jumped in behind the Volvo's steering wheel and flung open the passenger door for Isabelle. She considered running from him, but his steely look indicated he was in no mood to be messed with. She reluctantly climbed in. “Stay down,” Nine ordered.
Isabelle ducked out of sight. Nine executed a U-turn and drove toward the tunnel's northern exit. As the exit neared, he turned off the Volvo's headlights. Behind them, the drivers of the two stationery vehicles sat frozen in their seats, trying to make sense of what they’d just witnessed.
In the chopper above the hillside, the pilot spotted the now smoking Porsche re-emerge at speed from the tunnel's southern entrance. The distance between the helicopter and Porsche shrank rapidly as the craft dropped close to ground level. The Porsche continued speeding south, its driver unaware he was now safe.
#
Dawn was breaking as a nondescript van reached the outskirts of Paris. It traveled well within the speed limit. Behind the wheel, looking haggard and unshaven, was Nine. An exhausted Isabelle slept next to him.
After hijacking the Volvo, the fugitive agent had realized the authorities would discover the vehicle switch as soon as they apprehended the driver of the stolen Porsche; within minutes of emerging from the tunnel, Nine had ditched the Volvo, hiding it in a disused, roadside barn, and stolen the van.
Now, as he drove toward a suburban train station, he spotted the top of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He nudged Isabelle as he turned into the station's car park.
“I've got to get rid of this van,” Nine muttered. Isabelle blinked in the daylight as she awoke and studied her new surroundings. Nine squeezed the van into a parking space between two cars and nosed hard up against a concrete wall. Climbing out, he looked back at Isabelle and fixed her with a stare. “Stay there.”
Checking no-one else was around, he produced a Swiss Army knife and unscrewed the van's rear number plate. Isabelle looked back at him, trying to determine what he was up to. Nine walked along a row of cars and quickly removed the front plate of a Citroen. He returned to the van and replaced its missing plate with the Citroen's plate. That should throw the bloodhounds off the scent for a while, he thought.
Nine suddenly remembered his Russian guise had passed its used-by date. And he was conscious he looked unshaven and disheveled. He was also very aware that, as the daughter of a recently retired, high profile politician, Isabelle could easily be recognized. Resisting the urge to take their chances looking as they did, he jumped back into the van.
Not even glancing at Isabelle, he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the small black kit still strapped to his chest. Unzipping it, he withdrew a false moustache which he promptly glued to his upper lip. Then, using hair gel, he combed his hair back in the style of an Italian playboy, albeit a slightly unkempt one. He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. Nine knew he needed to do something about his clothing, but that could wait.
Isabelle stared at him in disbelief. The transformation was startling and had taken less than two minutes. Nine turned his attention to her. He grabbed a discarded scarf he’d spotted earlier on the van’s rear seat and proceeded to tie it around Isabelle’s head, gypsy-style. It concealed most of her hair. As a final touch, he made her don a pair of sunglasses. She remained too shell-shocked to offer more than token resistance.
Satisfied their new guises would do the trick for the moment at least, Nine pulled Isabelle from the van and marched her toward the train station entrance.
18
Inside the already busy station, Nine kept a tight grip on Isabelle as he led her through crowds of early morning commuters. Glancing left and right, he scanned the commuters and their luggage.
Within seconds, he spied a man’s trench coat that had been thrown carelessly over a suitcase. The coat’s owner was engrossed reading the morning paper and had his back to the case. Without breaking stride, Nine scooped up the coat as he and Isabelle walked past. Only Isabelle noticed.
Once out of sight of the coat’s owner, Nine quickly donned the stolen coat. He prayed no-one would recognize Isabelle. So far, her make-do disguise seemed to be holding up. He also hoped she wouldn’t be difficult. If she chose this moment to draw attention to herself, he knew he could do little about it. Nine was gambling on the fact she was still in shock and wouldn’t be thinking clearly. He was right. Isabelle was just going through the motions. She was too tired and scared to even contemplate escape.
Nine pulled his hostage aboard a train that was preparing to depart from the station. As the train moved out, he led Isabelle down the aisle of a crowded carriage. Through a carriage window, they saw the man whose coat Nine had taken. He was running up and down the platform trying to find his stolen property.
The rogue operative escorted Isabelle to an adjoining carriage. He was looking for a bathroom. As th
ey pushed their way through, he imagined people were looking at them. We need better disguises, he reminded himself.
Two carriages later, he found what he was looking for. He opened the bathroom door and pulled Isabelle inside, locking the door behind him. Without wasting any time, he removed his coat and shirt then unzipped the black make-up kit on his chest. He studied himself briefly in the wall mirror then went to work.
Isabelle watched as her abductor expertly used the make-up to change his appearance yet again – this time to that of an older, slightly wrinkled man. She noted his left forearm was bandaged and wondered what was under the dressing. Isabelle wasn’t to know it covered the wound that was left as a result of the surgery Nine had performed on himself. Fortunately for Nine, the wound was healing nicely.
She also noticed the ruby that hung from the silver necklace he wore. Isabelle recalled he'd worn the same item of jewelry when disguised as an African.
After shaving, Nine ran silver hair tint through his hair to produce a realistic graying effect then gave himself an old-fashioned, center part. As a final touch, he donned a pair of bifocals.
The Frenchwoman continued to be amazed by Nine’s shapeshifting abilities. This latest transformation had taken less than five minutes. She shook her head, still trying to come to terms with her predicament. “Please. Just let me go,” she pleaded.
Ignoring her, the now clean-shaven Nine removed the scarf Isabelle was wearing and forcibly turned her face toward him. He began applying make-up to her face. She tried to resist, but stopped when Nine threatened her. He forcefully applied more make-up.
Before her very eyes, she was transformed into an older woman complete with gray streaks in her hair and age spots on her skin. As expertly as any hairdresser, Nine rolled her long hair up into a bun. To complete the transformation, he transferred the bifocals from his face to hers. As an afterthought, he produced a set of false dentures from his black kit and squeezed them into his mouth, giving him a buck-toothed appearance.
When he was satisfied they were both unrecognizable, he escorted Isabelle out of the bathroom. He gently but firmly steered her to a window seat and sat down next to her. None of the other passengers gave the old-fashioned, middle-aged couple a second glance.
Nine quickly scanned his fellow passengers. In less than two seconds he established they comprised several elderly folk, a couple of backpackers, and young mothers and their children whose number included a handicapped girl. He breathed easy for the first time in many hours.
Turning to Isabelle, he surreptitiously pulled back the front of his trench coat, giving her a brief glimpse of the pistol he carried in his belt. The message wasn’t lost on his hostage. Nine closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a catnap, holding Isabelle’s hand tight to ensure she made no sudden moves.
As she sat there, Isabelle tried to reconcile the elderly-looking American now sleeping beside her with the African and Russian who had terrorized her in her apartment on consecutive nights. The now familiar feelings of panic began to rise up inside her.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she managed to calm down enough to focus on her dilemma. She had no idea why this cold-blooded man was keeping her captive. Maybe it was for sex, although if he had wanted to rape her he’d had ample opportunity to do so.
Could it be something to do with my father? Was it an act of revenge for one of the many policies her father had initiated in the French parliament during his political career, she wondered. Or maybe it was just a straightforward kidnapping and her abductor would be demanding a ransom for her release. It was all speculation because, in truth, she had no idea why this was happening to her.
Isabelle glanced once more at the man asleep beside her. Even disguised as a harmless, middle-aged traveler, he still had the aura of a dangerous individual. She wondered how many people he had killed.
Clearly, he was above the law. That much she knew. And he was never the same person twice, so it would be near impossible to capture him let alone convict him. What’s his interest in me? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Why did he come back to my apartment? And why bother dragging me along when his life is in danger? I’ll only be slowing him down.
The confused Frenchwoman looked around at her fellow passengers and debated whether to alert them to her predicament. All she had to do was call out for help. Then she remembered her abductor was armed. She sensed he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who tried to apprehend him and she didn’t want that on her conscience. The other passengers were ordinary people who were minding their own business.
Isabelle transferred her gaze to the passing scenery outside the train.
19
After an uneventful train journey, Nine and Isabelle disembarked at a Paris Metro station. Outside the station, they had to push their way through a group of New Zealand tourists who were queuing to board a coach. Their driver was loading their suitcases and travel bags into the coach’s exterior luggage locker.
Without slowing, Nine casually picked up a suitcase as smoothly as he had the trench coat earlier. His action was so subtle, even Isabelle didn’t immediately notice. By the time any of the tourists noticed, the thief had disappeared around the corner.
After a brief stroll, the pair entered a modest hotel in the city’s Latin Quarter. Again, no-one gave the middle-aged couple a second glance.
In the lobby, before approaching a chubby hotel manager who was engrossed in paperwork, Nine stopped and whispered in Isabelle’s ear. “Remember, we are Germans, here on holiday.” Isabelle nodded wearily. “Any funny business and you’ll be signing his death warrant,” Nine said, nodding toward the hotel manager. When he was sure his hostage understood, he approached the reception counter. “Hallo. Could we have a double room please?” He spoke English in an utterly convincing German accent.
The manager nodded, looking at Isabelle. “Have you traveled far today?”
“Ya,” Nine jumped in. “From Stuttgart.”
Nine casually put his arm around Isabelle. Surprised, she glanced at her abductor. Even though he was smiling, his eyes remained as cold as ever. Isabelle immediately realized his physical affection was all part of the façade. Nine was obviously in character and simply indicating to the manager that they were indeed a couple.
The manager checked in his new guests and gave Nine a room key. “Do you need help with your suitcase?”
“Nein, thank you,” Nine responded.
The manager watched, bored, as his latest guests slowly walked to the elevator. Like a loving husband, Nine kept one arm around Isabelle.
Once they were in their room and Nine had locked the door, Isabelle literally collapsed onto the bed, exhausted.
Nine busied himself checking the contents of the borrowed suitcase. He’d chosen well: the case obviously belonged to a man as it contained items of male clothing. A woolen cardigan caught his eye. He slipped into it. It was a little baggy, but passable.
The orphan glanced at Isabelle. She’d fallen asleep.
#
That evening, still in their hotel room, Nine sat on a chair staring at Isabelle. She remained fast asleep on the double bed. He was no longer in disguise.
Sounds of the city drifted in through an open window. The howl of an ambulance siren woke Isabelle. She saw Nine looking down at her. Having never seen him completely out of disguise before, she didn’t recognize him at first. Her sleepy state didn’t help.
Only when she noticed the ruby attached to his silver necklace did she connect the stranger watching her with the Russian who had abducted her or with the African who had assaulted her. She looked at Nine with an expression bordering on pity. “The other American called you Sebastian. Is that your name?”
“Haven't got one. Just a number.”
Exasperated, Isabelle swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up. “I’m leaving. These are your problems.” She started walking toward the door.
Nine blocked her path. “You'll stay with me u
ntil I say you can go.” Snippets of the articles he’d speed-read on Isabelle’s father flashed through his mind. The name Fabrice Alleget followed by a location in the Pyrénées jumped out from his photographic memory. He looked back into her eyes and added, “I know who your parents are and where they live.” Isabelle digested the menace behind Nine's words. She felt close to tears. “From now on, you do exactly as I say,” Nine continued. “For your sake, don't provoke me.”
Isabelle was frightened by his thinly veiled threat against her parents and incensed by how manipulative he could be. “You bastard,” she swore. “You're a monster!”
Nine was strangely affected by her words. Past acquaintances had expressed their hatred of him and it had been like water off a duck’s back, but for some reason Isabelle’s words cut him. “I know you can’t understand this, but I’m trying to help you. Anyone else in my position would’ve just…” He chose not to finish his sentence.
“Help me? Oh, well thank you very much!” Isabelle exclaimed sarcastically. “Thank you for hitting me.” She pointed to her eye where he’d slapped her. “And thank you for nearly killing us both in the Porsche!” She raised her voice. “Merci! Merci! Merci!”
She was beginning to shout so loudly Nine became worried she might alert other guests or hotel staff. He clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. “Listen, woman. You took my photograph, and you saw…” Nine’s voice trailed away again as he stopped short of reminding her she saw his airline ticket. Still angry, he tried to make Isabelle understand without giving anything away. “You’ve seen things you shouldn’t have. That's why we're in this mess.” He slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
Isabelle failed to remotely comprehend why she was being held captive. She could feel her heart pounding. The frightened young woman tried to think clearly for a second. Her dark eyes darted back to Nine a moment later and she looked at him shrewdly. “My father is closely associated with the heads of this country’s secret service.” She spoke authoritatively in French this time. “You can be sure they are after you now.”
The Ninth Orphan Page 9