He took one last look at the castle before moving away from the backpackers he’d befriended. They bade him farewell, but not before enquiring where he was staying. He told them he’d yet to arrange accommodation for himself. They insisted he check in to the nearby backpacker hostel they were staying at and Nine readily agreed. He thought they were a likeable enough bunch and their companionship would help preserve his cover.
The operative immediately checked in to the hostel his new friends had recommended. He secured the last single room available and spent the rest of the day ensconced there pouring over architectural drawings he’d obtained of Saint Michael’s Mount. The drawings included the castle’s intricate layout.
Having studied architecture during his formative years, he was able to visualize every inch of the castle as he translated the plans from paper to his razor-sharp mind.
Never far from his mind was his intended plan of action. Around midnight, he planned to access the castle via most unconventional means.
#
That evening, Isabelle found herself seated in a small, dimly-lit interrogation room at the CIA prison in Andorra.
She had no idea why she’d been moved. She'd lost all track of time and sensed she was fast losing the ability to think rationally. Her mind was in a whirl and everything seemed confused. Mountain Retreat was wreaking havoc with her mental wellbeing and she knew it.
On the positive side, Isabelle's wound was healing nicely and the pain in her back was fast disappearing. Above all, there was no sign of infection. She was relieved at that, yet still uncertain if she’d ever be released. After the violent murder of her parents, part of her felt like there was no longer a reason to live, but her greater self still wanted to survive.
Seventeen entered the room unannounced. Isabelle glared at her. The sight of her parents' killer filled her with loathing – and fear.
The operative wasn't happy about being back at the prison either. Naylor had ordered her to return to Mountain Retreat after Nine's trail had gone cold. Nearing the end of his tether, he'd given Seventeen permission to do whatever it took to persuade Isabelle to talk.
Like Naylor, Seventeen was fast losing patience. She knew Isabelle represented Omega's last hope of tracking Nine and was prepared to resort to torture to extract every last bit of crucial information from her.
Although Omega now had the last of Yamashita's Gold in its possession, Seventeen was aware the agency also had a rogue operative somewhere out there. Nine knew too much. He had to be terminated. Besides, Seventeen reasoned, as Naylor had said, there was a principle at stake.
The operative fixed Isabelle with a stare. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the man who abducted you.”
“I don't know anything about--”
“And if you value your life, you’d better tell the truth,” Seventeen warned. To reinforce her point, she produced a flick-knife which she clicked open and skillfully twirled with her fingers as she stared at her prisoner.
Isabelle grew even more fearful. “I’ve already told you, he never spoke to me!”
“Did he ever show affection or make advances?”
Unable to take her eyes off the knife that now moved so fast it was just a blur between Seventeen's fingers, Isabelle could only shake her head.
“Then why did he give you the necklace if you meant nothing to him?”
Isabelle had no answer for that. She reflexively touched the ruby around her neck. Desperate, she prayed for Nine to rescue her. She sensed he was her only hope.
#
The stars shone brightly in the skies above Cornwall, in England, that same night, but Nine was too busy to observe them. He was preparing for an underwater swim.
Security men were out in force patrolling the Cornish coastline. Behind them, lights shone from within the castle on Saint Michael's Mount. The lights were reflected in the sea which now covered the mudflats sightseers had walked across earlier.
The sea now provided a natural moat between the island and the shore. Even so, the nervous security men were taking no chances. They continued their surveillance of the coast with a conscientiousness that bordered on the extreme. It was obvious they knew the importance of the VIP’s they’d been assigned to protect. If they’d known what was about to take place right under their noses, they’d have been even more nervous.
Nine was hiding among large rocks near the water's edge. Suited up like a frogman, he wore a black wet suit, face mask and flippers. An oxygen tank was strapped to his back. He adjusted his face mask and looked out toward Saint Michael's Mount. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were signs of activity on the island as security men patrolled the grounds around the castle. Their diligence matched that of their counterparts on shore.
As he prepared to enter the water, Nine froze when two security men approached. Stopping nearby to share a cigarette, they conversed quietly in English. Their accents were clearly American. After a few moments, they moved on. When he was satisfied it was safe, Nine crawled silently between the rocks and into the water. Pulling the face mask down over his face and inserting the regulator in his mouth, he disappeared beneath the surface.
Underwater, guided by the castle lights, he swam toward the island. A trained diver, he felt at home underwater, moving quickly and effortlessly.
49
Ten minutes of steady swimming underwater saw Nine reach Saint Michael's Mount. He quickly found what he was looking for: a large underwater pipe. It was exactly where the plans he’d studied indicated it would be. He produced a screwdriver and proceeded to remove a grill that covered the pipe's entrance.
A hundred feet above him, a young security guard looked down from one of the castle’s ramparts and saw air bubbles rise to the sea's surface. He was immediately suspicious. Seconds later, the bubbles stopped. The guard watched for a while longer then walked off. He reasoned the bubbles must have been caused by an emission of air from some underwater pipe. He wasn’t far wrong.
Using a diver’s torch to light his way, Nine was pushing himself swiftly through the pipe. He estimated he was now somewhere under the castle itself. The pipe progressively narrowed until its diameter became too small to accommodate both him and his oxygen tank. He was forced to remove the tank and hold it out in front of him as he entered the narrowest section of the pipe. Nine kicked hard to propel himself along its confines. Progress was slow. A protruding spike forced him to take care he didn’t tear his air hose as he squeezed past it.
Up ahead, a faint glow of light grew brighter. The pipe curved upwards as he traveled further into the bowels of the castle. When his head eventually cleared the surface, he found he was in some kind of soak hole in the floor of a disused basement.
Nine was relieved to see he had the basement to himself. He pushed himself up onto the floor. Quickly removing his face mask and flippers, he unzipped his wetsuit to reveal he wore a slightly crumpled but perfectly dry caterer's uniform beneath it.
He hid his dive gear and oxygen tank inside a trash can then produced a caterer's hat from a pocket and placed it on his head. Opening an airtight plastic bag he’d wrapped around his waist, he pulled out a pair of black shoes and slipped into them. Spectacles and a false goatee beard completed the disguise. That done, he quickly located a door and opened it carefully, checking to see no-one else was around. All was quiet.
Using a succession of stairways, he passed a couple of security men, but was unchallenged. He soon reached the castle's main kitchen where he found a large team of caterers preparing finger food. They were all dressed in matching uniforms identical to Nine's. He silently thanked the local informant he’d paid earlier to advise him which company had secured the catering contract. Procuring a spare uniform from the company after hours had been relatively simple.
When no-one was looking, Nine reached through the open door, grabbed a tray of finger food and hurried off along a corridor. Carrying the tray, he passed several security guards along the way. None spared him a seco
nd glance.
Still unchallenged, he entered a luxurious guest lounge where a large group of VIPs were conversing over drinks. Nine placed the tray on a table then picked up an empty tray and busied himself placing empty plates on it. Again, no-one gave him a second glance.
Mainly men, the VIPs included heads of state and noted business leaders of different nationalities. Nine recognized many of them, although not all by name.
He was relieved to see Andrew Naylor was present. His former boss was talking to fellow Omegan and CIA Deputy Director Marcia Wilson.
Nine remembered Naylor was using his Bilderberg connections to try to become CIA Director. Securing the last of Yamashita’s Gold had no doubt increased his stakes and he figured Wilson would be putting in a good word to her superiors as well. If Naylor was successful in his bid, Nine knew Omega would achieve its long-held goal of completely controlling the CIA.
The operative glanced at the political and corporate figures in attendance. He sensed most, if not all, had no idea the Omega Agency even existed. That fact put Naylor in an exposed position. Nine was here to exploit that vulnerability.
Moving slightly closer to Naylor and Wilson, Nine collected more empty plates. They ceased talking when they sensed his presence close by. Nine took this as his cue to move away. As he did, he glanced at the name tag on Naylor’s suit jacket. Below Naylor's name was the number 44.
Before leaving the guest lounge, Nine placed the tray of empty plates on a table and picked up another tray which had a solitary, as-yet-unclaimed glass of wine on it. He placed a chicken leg on a plate beside it then stepped back out into the corridor and walked briskly to a staircase that would take him to the next floor where he knew, from having memorized the castle plans, he’d find Room 44.
At the foot of the stairway, he was confronted by a uniformed security guard. “Who’s that for?” the guard asked, glancing enviously at the glass of wine and chicken leg on the tray Nine carried. His rural Cornish accent gave away his origins.
“The guest in Room 44.” Nine deliberately didn’t specify which guest. The guard stepped aside and allowed Nine to continue up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, the rogue agent walked along a dimly-lit, sumptuously-carpeted passageway, checking the numbers on each door he passed. He stopped outside Room 44. Glancing around to ensure he wasn’t being observed, he tried the handle to confirm it was locked then used a credit card to trip the latch. The door opened and he entered the room, closing the door behind him. A quick reconnoiter of the room confirmed it was Naylor’s.
Nine turned the light out then made himself comfortable in a bedside chair to await Naylor. While he waited, he allowed himself the luxury of a chicken entrée washed down by a glass of wine. Not one to celebrate prematurely, he was feeling confident.
Once he’d finished his late night treat, he pulled out a Derringer pistol and placed it on the bed next to him. The pistol wasn’t his normal choice of weapon. He’d had to dispense with the Glock he’d used to shoot Kentbridge in the leg before flying to England.
On arrival in England, the fashionable, double-shot Derringer ladies’ pocket pistol was the only weapon he’d been able to source at short notice without attracting undue attention. Nine wasn’t worried what the pistol looked like. He knew its anti-terrorist exploding bullets would leave an exit wound the size of a tennis ball – and he knew Naylor would be aware of that also.
#
Half an hour later, Naylor entered his room and shut the door behind him. Switching the light on, he was shocked to see the intruder sitting only a few feet away in the bedside chair. Nine, still in his caterer's guise, was pointing the Derringer at Naylor’s chest.
“Who are you?” Naylor stammered.
Keeping his pistol trained on his former superior, Nine stood up and professionally patted Naylor down, checking for a weapon. Finding none, he shoved him onto the king-size bed then removed his cap and spectacles to reveal his true identity.
Naylor looked at him in disbelief. “You!” Struggling to keep his composure, the shaken Omega boss sat up and faced Nine. “What the hell do you want?” Naylor scanned the room. He noted the empty wine glass and remains of a chicken leg on the tray beside the bed. “I see you made yourself at home, Nine.”
“I’m not a number. My name is Sebastian. And what I want is to be left alone. Forever.”
“It doesn't work like that.”
“Yes it does. I'm making the rules now.”
“You tried to kill Kentbridge and nearly destroyed our agency. You expect me to just let you walk?”
“That's exactly what you're going to do.”
Naylor’s gaze rested on the fashionable Derringer that Nine was pointing at him. “And what the hell is that?”
Nine lowered the pistol fractionally so it was aimed at Naylor’s groin. “This little doozey is something that’s capable of blowing your balls off.”
The threat wasn’t lost on Naylor. Nine noted with satisfaction that the Omega director’s lazy eye was working overtime.
50
Naylor looked directly into Nine’s eyes and began reciting, “Sebastian George Hannar. Activate MK-Ultra Program. Mercury, Venus --” Anticipating this, Nine quickly jammed the Derringer’s barrel in Naylor’s mouth before the other could exert any mind-control over him. He released the safety with an audible click. “Don’t tempt me, Naylor.”
Wide-eyed, Naylor sat motionless. Nine withdrew the pistol from Naylor's mouth and continued as if nothing had happened. “I know about your orphanage in the Black Forest.” He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal an airtight plastic bag fastened to his chest. Ripping it open, he pulled several documents out and threw them onto the bed. “How would you explain these to the world's media?”
Naylor inspected the documents. They included files and photos Nine had uplifted from the Berlin journalist Naylor had ordered him to execute a year earlier. Among them were graphic photos of orphans who had been subjected to horrific scientific experiments.
Nine continued, “I've left copies of these and other incriminating evidence in sealed envelopes with attorneys in London and Berlin. If anything untoward should happen to me, or Isabelle Alleget, they've been authorized to release these to the media.” With increasing horror, Naylor studied the photos. Nine noted the other’s reaction with satisfaction. “The documents include hard evidence that the agency runs these orphanages. And that it does so with the full blessing of the Bilderberg Group.”
Naylor couldn't tear his eyes away from a photo of a scientist inspecting the body of a naked boy frozen in a large block of ice. Nine pointed to the scientist. “That's Doctor Arnold Schmelling. You'll recognize him, I'm sure. After all, you hired him.”
Pale-faced, Naylor looked up at Nine.
“The media would have a field-day if they learned what you Bilderbergers have been up to,” Nine said, deliberately stating the obvious. “And the Omega Agency will be exposed when Congress and the American public learn you’re using orphans to create future assassins.”
Naylor's face dropped. His lazy eye continued to twitch.
Nine stared hard into the older man’s eyes. “If you want to avoid this scenario, take me out of the system. I no longer exist. And Isabelle Alleget will be released too. Deal?” Defeated, Naylor nodded. “I didn’t hear you,” Nine said.
“Yes, we have a deal.”
“Good. Now order Isabelle's release.”
Nine kept his gun pointed at Naylor who fumbled in his pockets. The Omega head eventually pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.
#
At the same time, in the CIA detention center in Andorra, Isabelle watched in terror as Seventeen attached electrodes to her skin in readiness for shock treatment. No amount of pleading could convince Seventeen she did not know Nine's whereabouts or future plans. Before the blonde operative could complete her preparations, her cell phone rang. It was Naylor. Seventeen left the room to take the call.
As she list
ened to her superior, the operative studied Isabelle through a one-way glass window. She almost cursed aloud when she heard what Naylor had to say. “Are you sure, sir?”
“She's no longer any use to us,” was Naylor’s response. “Release her – unharmed.”
The line went dead. Furious, Seventeen took one last look at Isabelle then left the room.
#
Inside Saint Michael's Mount off the coast of England, Naylor pocketed his cell phone and looked back up at Nine.
“It's done. She’s being freed now.”
Nine reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a mini tape recorder which was recording. He switched it off under Naylor’s nose and returned it to his pocket. Nine then scooped up all the documents and handed them to his former superior. “Keep these copies as a memento.” Naylor absentmindedly took them from Nine and stared at them numbly.
Nine wasn’t done yet. There was also his financial situation. Since his deal with the MSS had turned sour, he didn't have the funds he was counting on to retire. There was an eighty million dollar shortfall. Nine ordered the Omega head to cover the shortfall.
Naylor reluctantly phoned a Chicago accountant on the Omega payroll. He arranged to have eighty million of Omega funds instantly transferred into Nine’s nameless, number-only Swiss bank account in Geneva.
Once he’d confirmed his account was over the hundred million dollar mark, the figure he’d set out to receive from the Chinese, Nine prepared to leave. He hesitated as he suddenly remembered his mother.
Nine held his pistol under Naylor's chin and forcibly tilted the Omega director’s head so that he was looking up at him. The operative stared into Naylor’s eyes. “You know, I should really blow you straight to hell for having ordered my mother’s death.”
Naylor couldn’t maintain eye contact with Nine as he thought of Annette Hannar, the orphan's mother.
Nine could tell by his expression that the rumors were true – Naylor really was responsible for his mother's death. He pocketed his pistol. “But in time your own guilt will crucify you – for eternity.”
The Ninth Orphan Page 24