The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  Sophie, not wasting any time, jostled through the swell of people, pushing and shoving forcefully her way past, unavoidably knocking one or two people to the ground in her haste. Words of shock and confusion intermingled with the babble of excited voices, all receding behind her as she left them in her wake. As the crowds of people thinned out, Sophie increased her speed, putting distance between herself and the scene of her crime. Security reinforcements ran past, totally oblivious to her, unaware and unable to do anything to stop or thwart her escape.

  Striding by the information desk she started to slow down as she fast approached the exhibition hall’s exit. As she expected, the doors had been closed and the two attendants, ordinarily happy to allow patrons entrance (except those two earlier women), now stood in front of the double doors, barring access. More importantly, their new task was to ensure no one got out.

  “This will be easy. A breeze in fact,” she recalled how blasé she’d been earlier. She shook her head, looking about for an alternative point of exit. Pulling out the floor plan again and placing it on the floor, Sophie scanned the layout of the room and noted the exit points. She counted eleven fire escapes.

  Through the glass doors of the entrance the sight of two black transit vans appeared in the distance, pulling into the grounds of the Royal Hospital Chelsea.

  “That’s not good,” she muttered to herself noticing the approaching vehicles. Having consigned the map to memory, she folded up the floor plan and returned it to a deep pocket. Backing up a bit, she walked by the information desk and turned left at the first corridor. Above the door of the first gallery on Sophie’s left was the unit number C1 and the name of the gallery, Wartski. On the opposite side was C2, Tomasso Brothers Fine Art. Sophie hastened past not caring to look at any other galleries; her attention focused on the fire exit that she knew was at the end of the cul-de-sac situated to the rear of the location marked as ‘13’.

  Behind her a cacophony of shouts and orders filtered through as the front doors were thrown open allowing a small army of men garbed all in black, all holding rifles with handguns strapped at their waists, and all fitted out with night vision eye pieces strapped to their heads. Attached to their body armour was an array of close combative weapons, various knives, smoke grenades and spare ammunition. Without any warnings or reassurance, the dozen or so soldiers burst into the exhibition hall, giving the many guests and exhibition staff a fright, sending patrons sprawling for cover and causing them to scream in alarm and confusion, running in various disorderly directions overshadowing the chaos that Sophie had generated back at the unit opposite to where she’d taken the diamond.

  Sophie turned the corner at the end of the row of galleries and stepped behind the stand marked ‘13’, Ruinart Salon’s stand showcasing handmade champagne boxes, each limited in edition and numbered. Sophie paid the exhibit no notice. Instead she took a moment to collect her thoughts, consider her options. The commotion at the centre of the room was echoing behind her closely followed by the screams and shouts filling the hall. It piqued her curiosity as to who was pursuing her. Without thought she stepped out from behind the stand and looked down the corridor she’d just travelled. Immediately she retracted herself, regretting her inquisitiveness.

  “Quick! I saw something!”

  Sophie made for the exit just a short distance to the back of stand ‘13’, noting from a glance that it was secured from the inside with a push bar, a light box above showing a green stick man running through a white door, the legend emblazoned alongside: FIRE EXIT.

  “We’ve found her!” barked one of the men in black, raising a rifle to take aim, seeing the heat signature silhouette before she disappeared at the end of the row. He was followed by the rest of his team who Sophie could hear running hard after her.

  Sophie surged forward, thrust the opening bar down hard on the exit door, and burst out into the bright afternoon sunshine, startling a couple of women walking around the side of the building, one dropping an ice-cream she had been enjoying, the other eliciting an involuntary scream.

  Parallel with the building ran a road that led to the grounds’ exit gate. A rank of black taxi cabs lay in wait, offering no solution for Sophie. Instead she sprinted past them towards a copse of trees that bordered the hospital grounds, only too aware she had very few seconds before her pursuers had her in their sights.

  The exit door she’d moments earlier cannoned from burst open a second time, spewing out the squad of black attired men, the leader marching to the head of the group issuing orders in a fearsome bellow. The two women who were barely over their initial fright, balked and yelped in fear at the sight of these newcomers; their clothing, their weapons, the way they talked and the way they walked eradiating an air of foreboding, menacing and ominous.

  Sophie leapt to relative safety behind an ancient oak and watched the twelve men in black fan out and begin what they’d started to realise was going to be a fruitless task. Beyond the cover of the trees, Sophie patiently made her way out of the hospital grounds, slowly at first and almost at once coming close to danger. A pair of armed men walked out ahead of her, their backs thankfully turned. She stooped out of sight for a few moments until the way was clear, then with a huge sigh, she slipped through the exit gate and made her way to her father’s pre-arranged meeting point, the sound of emergency vehicles approaching from the distance and a number of people milling about like zombies in a George A. Romero film. The Whisper of Persia, momentarily forgotten, was concealed tightly within a fisted hand.

  She could not deny that the whole experience had been terrifying. She had been anxious before smashing the glass case in gallery A5. She had been equally scared during the actual heist, and further petrified as she made her escape. Those feelings and more were unabated even now as she pulled away from any real risk of capture. But in spite of the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, nauseating fear some other perception infiltrated her consciousness.

  As the first police car whizzed past, Sophie realised what it was she felt. She recognised it from the days of high jinks when tying the bus passenger’s shoe laces together and during other daring escapades whereby she used her invisibility to carry out pranks and mischief.

  It was unmistakeable...?

  Not quite.

  Mesmerising...?

  No.

  Then it came to her. It was, quite simply, exhilarating. Her whole body thrummed from the elation; she almost peed from the excitement. It was almost bordering addictive.

  Should being naughty really make you feel so good? She tried to put it from her mind as she closed in on her father’s meeting place.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Tom Kaplan

  The warehouse was situated within a large industrial estate on the outskirts of Norwich in a place called Wroxham.

  The vast estate covered a very large area and was home to a variety of industries, warehouses and offices. An aerial view of the business park on Google Maps would look like any of a multitude of similar development areas constructed throughout the westernised world.

  Tom’s driver had driven him around the site, home to a multitude of businesses: two large wine merchants, a DHL distribution depot, a car valet and cleaning business, tyre fitters (for large vehicles, trucks and trailers), a book printer, a compact disc manufacturer, a cash and carry food wholesaler, an import/export freight forwarding agent, a bank’s administration centre and a large call centre belonging to an insurance company that ran an annoying advertising campaign on the television – obviously not the one with the delightful meerkat. Tom liked those ones. There were countless other industries and businesses represented operating from unmarked warehouses, their plain white or silver/grey facades bereft of signage or corporate trademarks.

  For twenty-four hours, Tom, his driver and Bravo Team had watched and waited patiently. He recalled how, last night, as the overhead
light faded fast, it became obvious that the Jennings (father or daughter) were not going to be mounting a rescue mission that night. He’d started to doubt the reliability of the intelligence that had pinpointed the warehouse as the location of where the mother had been taken. To think he’d been willing to stake his wealth on this being the place where George would mount an attack. But his contact at the control centre reassured him that the intelligence was good; this was the place where Harriet was being held. This would be where the Jennings would come.

  Eventually.

  He sighed theatrically. He didn’t have the stamina for long haul stakeouts. With little sleep, a stiff neck and a lack of caffeine, his mood was edging from surly to seriously aggravated.

  The silver Audi was parked outside a warehouse round the corner. It was the same car analysts at the control centre had followed from Seabrook Road, spying from overhead satellite surveillance two men carrying the prone form of a woman from the boot of the Audi into the warehouse. Another man had mysteriously appeared from the rear of the vehicle, his identity was not known and the satellite imagery did nothing to enhance it; he’d followed them into the windowless building. Analysts back in the control centre later reported that ‘mystery man’ had departed in a BMW Z4 Roadster − this was forty-five minutes before Bravo Team had pulled up, hot and itchy, twitchy fingers on assault rifle triggers waiting for their orders. They were pumped for action, disappointed from the letdown of Willoughby Rising but excited by the prospect that confronted them.

  A glance at his watch now confirmed the time was nearing 5:00 p.m. He’d barely moved position within the Bentley in twenty-four hours. Despite the luxury of the car, comfort had departed the previous night. He started to wonder whether deep vein thrombosis was a possibility, immediately feeling an ache in the lower part of his legs from constant disuse. A nagging pain in his chest worried him that he was about to have a heart attack. He tried to take his mind off his discomfort, absently considering inane things.

  Once July was over, he surmised, it wouldn’t be long before the days became noticeably shorter. Then the long, gloomy winter.

  He sighed again. His thoughts weren’t helping. How much longer could they wait? A couple of hours? Another day? A week?

  It would be in one of the unmarked buildings that they would find Harriet Jennings and those who had taken her, Kaplan pondered. He reached down to his mobile and phoned Bravo Team’s leader, connecting instantly before the ringtone had sounded.

  “Y’ello,” Wyatt spoke abruptly, still peeved about an earlier conversation they’d had.

  “What’s your status?”

  “Bravo Team are still in place sir, a little ways back; waiting YOUR further instruction.” Wyatt’s response was so sharp you could shave the hairs off a spider’s leg.

  Kaplan reflected on his previous conversations. Two in particular. The one from the evening before had been civil and spirits were high. Action seemed imminent and success was just an order away. His Bentley had still been moving, traversing the industrial estate for its second time having been unable to locate his team anywhere on site. Bravo Team were good. He hadn’t seen any vehicles that stood out or gave indication that a stakeout was taking place – and that was saying something as most of the industrial estate was quiet, its working hoards and visiting customers having retired for the day. Very few cars were parked and most car parks were empty.

  “Where are you?” he’d asked.

  “A little south of the last group of unmarked warehouses − after the cash and carry and PB’s Car Valet. There’s a pink VW Beetle parked out front – no other cars. You can’t miss it. We are parked opposite along the road.”

  The location the Bravo Team leader had indicated was towards the end of the industrial park. Kaplan’s driver took instructions and drove patiently around the site, passing one or two business vehicles spaced a good distance apart; a Royal Mail van on a late collection; a DHL transit, with its instinctive red and yellow insignia, on its way back to the depot.

  Rounding a corner, Tom Kaplan spotted the pink VW Beetle first. Despite the diminishing light it stood out like a clown’s red nose at a funeral service. A moment later and the black Bentley Mulsanne the CEO of Kaplan Ratcliff was seated in parked up behind two white transit vans. They were a safe distance from the location, close enough for surveillance purposes and far enough to avoid detection.

  Comings and goings had been limited with just the one notable exception (since mysterious man had vacated the warehouse); Wyatt had informed Tom Kaplan that a convoy of black transit vans had driven into the car park, pulled up alongside the building and after ten minutes drove off again − not without collecting a passenger. Through a pair of binoculars, Wyatt had identified the passenger as Brayden Scott.

  With two of Harriet’s abductors now gone, debate had raged between Wyatt and Kaplan Ratcliff’s CEO as to how they ought to proceed. Their angry voices volleyed over a mobile phone connection could be heard outside through the thin steel walls of their vehicles. Wyatt had been keen on storming the warehouse and taking Harriet for themselves. “She’d be leverage for us,” he’d argued. “They are ill defended and ill prepared for an attack.”

  “No,” Kaplan had said simply but firmly. “We stick with their plan. They no doubt are keeping her hostage as a trade for the Jennings girl. Once the exchange has taken place we will make our move. No sooner. No later.” Wyatt had been vocal in his disagreement. Kaplan had ended the dispute by disconnecting his mobile. The decision was final. It was a decision he would later regret.

  Returning to the present, Kaplan spoke into his mobile again. “Okay Wyatt, won’t be much longer,” he hoped. “Over and out.”

  On hearing the subdued sound of the radio broadcasting the news, Kaplan asked his driver to turn the volume up. A female newsreader filled the car’s interior:

  “…armed men stormed a London antiques festival, causing a stir in London today. Reports indicate a robbery took place and eyewitness accounts suggest the armed men were part of an active response unit, though it would appear very little was stolen and no one was seen fleeing from the scene. So far the gallery and the police have declined to comment as their investigations continue.” The reporter was replaced by the voice of a young man – an eyewitness – whose testimony sounded fanciful and akin to a Hollywood movie. He sounded excited and spoke with a whiny, nasally voice.

  “…it was scary. One minute I was sitting peacefully minding my own when armed men burst out of the building and started charging forward like they were searching for something or someone. Sure, the door opened before them, but no one came out… It was like they were searching for a ghost or something…”

  The newscaster moved forward to another story, spouting words of death and doom affecting a few or the many… Afghanistan, Syria, Israel, or some such place... Kaplan lost interest, his thoughts still on the first news piece. There was no reason for him to consider this news item but something bugged him. It was what the eyewitness had said:

  …it was like they were searching for a ghost or something…

  He couldn’t help wonder if this news piece was significant or not. Before he could consider it further his mobile phone started to ring again.

  Snatching it up, Kaplan snapped testily. “What?!”

  It was Wyatt in the lead vehicle.

  “I thought you might be interested to learn that there’s been activity at the warehouse.” Earlier frustrations in his voice now gone.

  “Yes?” renewed enthusiasm in Kaplan’s voice. “Go on…”

  “A vehicle has just pulled up. You’ll never guess who climbed out?”

  “Don’t tell me, Elvis Presley?” Kaplan spoke in a heavily sarcastic tone. He had caught sight of the BMW Z4 Roadster sports car moments earlier as it had passed but had given it little thought as he’d listened to the news on the rad
io.

  “Don’t be silly, sir. He’s in Vegas,” he chuckled. “No, someone more recently dead, closer to home.”

  “Wyatt, the suspense is killing me.”

  “Dominic Schilling,” he blurted. “Without any doubt, it was him; looked very much alive and well, though a little worse for wear, sir.”

  Kaplan fell silent for a moment, and then spoke aloud the thought that would be in everybody’s minds. “How is it possible? His body was found burnt to a crisp in his car yesterday afternoon? Hasn’t there been formal identification yet?”

  “My guess is he wanted everyone to think that he was dead, sir.”

  “You’re a genius, Wyatt. We clearly aren’t paying you enough. You should get yourself on Mastermind or something….”

  The sarcasm was lost on Bravo Team’s leader. “D’you think so? I always fancied having a go at Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”

  Kaplan disconnected the call and closed his eyes.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Kaplan’s chauffeur was watching his boss through the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m just tired, Alfie,” he replied. “I need sleep, a hot dinner and a bottle of Domaine Romanée-Conti. I’ll be all right once this is over…”

  If this is ever over, he thought to himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  George

  Feeling her slip away from him filled him with a sense of dread and foreboding. The worst feeling of letting go most parents felt was when chaperoning their offspring to school on their very first day or helping them pack their effects as they embark on a new life moving away from home. How many fathers stood by as their daughter embarked on a criminal activity?

  Not many good ones, he reflected.