“Can we have five large cokes please?” George ordered.
“Five?” The barman counted just four people in front of him. His look was baffled.
“Yes… it’s thirsty work driving,” George replied without thought and without further enquiry. It was a warm day after all.
Putting the five pints of Pepsi Coke onto a tray, the barman completed the order with a flourish, dropping a black straw into each.
“Can I get ya anythin’ more?”
“We’ll order food shortly, if okay?”
“That be fine,” he shrugged. “Jus’ come up t’ bar when ya ready with ya table number.” He rung up the drinks order on the cash register in front of him. “That’ll be nine-pounds-fifty for now.”
George paid the behemoth with a crisp ten pound note and told him to keep the change. He then carried the tray to a table that had been setup for eight, located to the furthest part of the room that, until then, had been completely empty. On sitting, he was satisfied that he could talk relatively easily in no danger of being heard or listened to, and pleased with his seated position (facing the entire room with his back to a wall), allowing ample sight of all comings and goings and a vantage point that afforded him a view of the car park through the sheet windows to his left.
Meredith and Stanley were starving and having quickly discovered the menus stashed in a tidy stand to the centre of their table, were perusing a fair selection of cooked meals and tasty snacks.
Settling into his seat, distributing the drinks around the table, George looked at his children and sighed. Now to keep a promise, he thought.
“I guess you want to know what this is all about?” he started, “why we have been running for so long like fugitives or terrorists, and from whom?”
Meredith nodded enthusiastically; Stanley and Charlie just sat and stared. George couldn’t see Sophie preferring not to wear sunglasses indoors, not wishing to draw undue attention. As it was, the big Spaniard kept glancing his way.
George nodded in affirmation. “I promise to give you all your answers, though it’s not going to be easy and might not make much sense to you. But first, we must eat.”
A little over an hour-and-a-half later, refreshed and rested, George and his brood returned to their car. The barman interrupted serving a new patron to bid him with an unfriendly smile, “Fare y’well,” as George and his children hastened past, the car outside no longer a solitary fixture within the car park. A dozen more vehicles had arrived bringing forth some much needed custom to the village pub. It was edging closer to nine o’clock and dusk was almost upon them.
After dinner, George had made a call to the only person left who he could trust; Harriet’s father. He didn’t live too far away in a home he shared with a much younger woman. The man was now in his seventies and hadn’t had contact with his daughter in more than a decade – not since becoming estranged from Harriet’s mother after eloping with Harriet’s best friend, Camilla. The shame and the feud had split the family, and everyone knew that the damage done between father and daughter was irreparable. It was for precisely that reason he’d chosen to leave his children in their grandfather’s care. Simply, his house would be the last place anyone would think to look for George or his family.
Once again the Nexus tablet was switched on and placed on the dashboard, a dot continuing to pulsate; the (!) still flashing; the captive woman’s location remained unchanged. George put his wife’s plight out of mind and started the car’s engine.
During their meal, George had attempted to explain the situation with regards to Sophie, though sketching over her abilities, the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of their regular house moves, and the recent display of violence and murder they’d borne witness to. Meredith, who had known of Sophie’s existence for some time, took it in her stride, though the prospect of more danger as they sought reuniting with their mother daunted her. Stanley and Charlie, being very young, were a little harder to convey the more extreme details of their situation, but George tried, and by the end of the two courses (burger, pizza, lasagne, gammon steak and roast chicken for main and chocolate brownies, sticky toffee pudding or ice cream for dessert), they all understood the severity of the situation and the undeniable risk of danger they all faced.
Buckling his seatbelt, George took the car out of The Pig and Whistle’s car park, counting fourteen ordinary vehicles scattered around, none arousing fear or suspicion. He drove onward. According to the GPS app, Harriet was located just a little over twenty miles away. Harriet’s father, George knew, lived less than five miles to the west.
The time according to the digital clock built into the dash corresponded exactly with his wrist watch:
8:59 p.m.
They’d been at The Pig and Whistle for longer than George had intended, and despite the speed with which they had all eaten and the short time it had taken George to recount the abridged version of events that led to them being on the run AND culminating in Harriet’s capture, and the consequences of it, George couldn’t help worry that he was exposing his family to too great a risk. He should have taken them directly to Theodore’s, got them out of danger.
As the car bobbled over the rough, uneven surface of the pub’s gravelly car park, no one noticed the tall figure of the barman watching them leave from the window alongside their recently vacated table, dirty plates and empty glasses left strewn in their wake. He wondered about the fifth dining place, the fifth dinner and dessert and the fifth set of cutlery. He was certain he’d counted only four of them on arrival, and only four of them at the table. He scratched his head, deep in thought, his mind wandering to what this all could mean, how significant it was. A small queue forming at the bar distracted him from his pondering and thoughts of the stranger and his children were soon forgotten. They were now just empty dinner and dessert plates, waiting to be washed up ready for the next paying customer.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tom Kaplan
They were parked a couple of cars behind the now abandoned Ford KA, which, although Cooper had believed inconspicuous, stood out like an alcoholic at a tea party. From his vantage point, the old man in the back of the black Bentley Mulsanne could see the ambulance and the fleet of police cars crammed into the bottleneck of the cul-de-sac. Tom Kaplan had arrived at the scene to witness the removal of the first of two body bags on a trolley, loaded unceremoniously into the back of an ambulance. From the rear seat of his chauffeur driven car he couldn’t make out who it was, and even had he been closer to the trolley’s unresponsive passenger, his or her identity would have still been unknown, shielded from the public scrutiny inside zippered white bags.
A throng of (shamelessly) curious bystanders had congregated on a corner, as close as one could get to the excitement without crossing the yellow barricade tapes, the words: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS printed repetitively over and over on one side of the tape.
Tom looked at the house at the top of the hill. Willoughby Rising looked like a nice sort of family dwelling, he noted. Cooper had been right in his description.
Overlooking the sea, it was the kind of place he imagined would have captivated his ex-wife in the days when children were an option, before his affair and the ensuing divorce put paid to that. A string of failed relationships later he found himself in his sixties, embroiled in a pent-up loathing for the female species, and all alone. He sighed. Family, and the type of house at the top of the hill was just fool’s gold. That ship had sailed past into choppy waters.
Through binoculars he spied a cauldron of activity; men in white coveralls traipsed around the house, some within the grounds, others going back and forth within the building. SOCO, or Scenes Of Crime Officers, carrying out their procedures for what appeared to them to be a double murder, and detectives dressed like those in British police dramas roaming the streets, speaking to potential witnesses and searching
for clues, their little note books held in one hand, constabulary issued biros in the other.
Tom glanced at his watch. The time was now edging closer to seven o’clock. The sun was descending the western sky, still warm and pleasant.
All Cooper had to do was wait, he grumbled inwardly. He shook his head at the waste of another of his team, and the seemingly impossible task of catching the girl they simply referred to as ‘S’. Just half an hour was all Cooper had to wait and Bravo Team would have been there with extra support. Instead he had to do a Bruce Willis and take matters into his own hands. Unlike the Die Hard action hero, there was no triumphant third act, no Yippee ki-yay! and a barrage of expletives; just cold, hard as stone, death.
On arrival Tom had seen the flashing blue lights and knew instantly what had transpired, especially as radio contact with Cooper had not been re-established since he had warned the young agent against making a move without backup. Prophetic words he now realised. He could’ve been a saint or Nostradamus.
Cooper indeed wouldn’t be getting his promotion or pay rise. Although lady luck did favour the brave and the bold in equal measure, it rarely endorsed stupidity.
The mobile phone started to ring, the opening chords to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played:
Dah, dah, dah-daahhh; dah, dah, dah-daahh…
Tom snatched up the handset from the seat beside him and ended the classical orchestration. “Give me something,” he barked. He was desperate for news of the Jennings family after the day that he’d had. At the end of the phone Bravo Team leader Jack Wyatt audibly cleared his throat. It sounded like a smoker’s hacking cough.
“My sources indicate that there were two bodies found at the scene. One was unidentifiable. A woman, in her late forties, large build, took a bullet to the chest, found across the threshold of the front door. The other body was found upstairs in one of the bedrooms. It was Cooper, ID was found in his wallet. He’d taken two shots, one to the stomach, the other, the head – a dead centre, expertly carried out, precision kill shot. Someone with experience.”
Tom considered the news gravely. Not only had he lost an aspiring agent, he faced yet another setback regarding the capture of the girl. He cursed aloud.
“Do you have any good news?” he demanded.
“Um, no, afraid not sir. Not regarding S or the other occupants of the house. They’re gone without a trace.”
“They can’t be far.”
“Command centre are reporting something interesting that might be useful, mind...”
“Go on…”
“An analyst thinks they’ve located the mother. Apparently a good satellite was passing overhead providing a visual of a vehicle in the area where Harriet was abducted; they managed to follow it to a warehouse on the outskirts of Norwich.”
“Interesting,” Tom interjected.
“Yes,” he continued. “Using traffic cameras they have identified the vehicle used; a silver Audi Q7, the plates are registered to a Martin Hamilton from Inverness, but he’s not our guy. The plates were stolen a week ago from a Nissan Quashqai.”
“Have they checked out this Martin Hamilton fellow properly?”
“No need, Martin Hamilton isn’t who we are after. Traffic cameras gave us a pretty good image of the driver and forward passenger of the Audi. There was someone else in the back of the car, but it was too dark to see, so no ID has been possible. They ran the image of the two faces we do have through their facial recognition software and came out with a couple of names.” The voice at the end of the phone paused. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Wyatt, I don’t take to intrigue or suspense, so quit with the histrionics. Just get on with it and give me the names.”
“Brayden Scott and Mitch Youngs… travelling salesmen on the face of it, working for a large pharmaceutical enterprise based in Fort Worth, Texas, with offshoot branches all over the globe, including here in the UK. Further digging reveals they aren’t exactly what they are supposed to be. Both have US military backgrounds, serving in Iraq and Afghanistan; Mitch also fought in Somalia; both have history in Clandestine Services, and their frequent air miles and irregular travel patterns indicate they work for the American government.”
“What are we dealing with: Homeland security, NSA, CIA, FBI, or something entirely different?”
“Best guess is they are CIA, or an offshoot of the agency.”
“So our American cousins are operating in our backyard, looking, I guess, for our girl.”
“It would seem like it sir, bloody Yanks.”
Tom paused to watch the second body being wheeled out of Willoughby Rising towards a second waiting ambulance. The first had moments earlier driven past with little pomp and no fanfare.
“You say you have the location of where they took the Jennings woman? You’re sure?”
“Yes, a supposedly disused warehouse.”
“Very good Jack, all’s not lost. I’m not a betting man, but George Jennings is quite resourceful. I’d stake my wealth that he will mount a rescue operation. He loves his family more than life itself, so it’s a bit of a no-brainer. Of course, he’d be no match for two hardened war veterans and whoever else they might have there… but the girl…” Tom trailed off, deep in thought, considering the possibilities. Two decorated war veterans, with Special Forces training and years’ of covert operational experience would pose little or no challenge to Sophie, after all Alpha Team had succumbed with the least of pressure, and they were ex-Marine commandos.
“Sir?”
Tom snapped out of his reverie. “Take your team to this warehouse and be on standby. Stake it out. Your orders are to observe and report only. Not like our dead friend Cooper over here. If we play our cards right the Americans will do most of our work for us – all we need do is hold our nerve and, most importantly, put the Moët and Chandon on ice.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Samuel
Samuel Jackson felt like a spare cog in a well-oiled machine, surplus to adding any real value to proceedings, dejected and suddenly unsure of what was going on. Overlooking the command centre from the mezzanine floor balcony, he watched the throng of activity and unmitigated excitement, unaccustomed to being precluded from such high brow proceedings. News had cascaded that an agent in Tom Kaplan’s charge had stormed a hideout thought to be where the Jennings family were residing, ignoring direct orders to wait for backup and ending up dead for his troubles.
Samuel had also kept abreast of developments closer to home, like where Harriet Jennings had been taken, and who her abductors were, but stayed aloof. He was still reeling from Ryan Barber’s betrayal − the pain from this knowledge felt like a stab in the chest with a rusty sabre.
It hadn’t been a complete surprise to learn that the CIA were muscling in, also in search of their quarry; after all, the human technology they’d developed and the by-product they had stumbled upon could change the game of war for any in possession of it. He was in no doubt that there were others − government agencies and terrorists − all seeking the girl borne from project CHAMELEON.
Despite being detached from the core of proceedings, Samuel received regular updates to the status of Kaplan and his team from one of the analysts sitting close to the action; as of yet, nothing noteworthy had come up except the satisfying news that Tom Kaplan had gained no better luck thus far than he had.
Stupid old fool trying to go this alone. Samuel was bitter. He still felt that he had more than a fair chance at apprehending George and his oh-so special daughter… But until Tom had finished playing out his hand, he was powerless. Like Cooper, he was under strict orders to ‘hold fire’ by the corporation’s CEO. Unlike Cooper, he was adhering to the instruction to the letter.
I just need to bide my time…
He felt he had more of a chance at success now that the mole
in the organisation had been flushed out. He still couldn’t believe the turn events had taken. Had he been rash with his decision to have him terminated?
Too late now, he reflected sadly. What was it his mother used to say? Sleep on any big decisions you have to make, and never carry out something in haste − especially in anger − because more often than not you’ll only regret it...
Samuel heard her voice in his head. Nine times out of ten she was right. And now he was starting to wish he’d been more lenient with Ryan.
Ryan… I’m sorry. It had hurt the Director enormously to learn that his most trusted and loyal colleague had betrayed him. He’d also been a close friend, which made the deception all the more unsettling. If you can’t trust your friends, who can you trust?
A short time passed as Samuel continued to watch the fifty or so analysts move about with purpose like worker ants, all oblivious to his spying from above or the depression that was burgeoning his soul. A moment later he pulled himself out of deep thought.
Coming through the entrance was one of the facility’s security officers, a man he immediately recognised from the interrogation room. He was carrying a plastic container, the sort that looked like it contained a cake or some pastries. Tupperware. His mum had collected the stuff. It had been all the rage once.
Samuel’s mood lifted slightly at the man’s arrival, despite his grimy and mussed up appearance. Those hustling around the room closest to the door gave him an apprehensive look and a wide berth, as though sensing danger or seeing a dark aura about him that radiated doom and death.
Another long-time associate who’d shared more than a position at Kaplan Ratcliff Biochemical with him. They’d served in Iraq together during the Desert Storm conflict. He was another ‘trusted’ friend.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 21