“What’s going on?” she asked anxiously, pulling away from him. “I need to know. I need answers.”
“Spies like us always do,” he chuckled. “Em, it’s a long story,” he replied. “Have you eaten?”
“Not since breakfast.” She returned to her car, removing the Gucci Hobo handbag, closing the window and then locking the Vauxhall with a quick thumb press to the electronic key.
“Then we shall talk over supper.” Ryan took the hand of the woman who replaced him as Assistant Intelligence Officer and led her towards the hotel in which he had a room booked for the night.
Walking through the reception area and crossing to the bar aroused strange looks − some suspicious, others jealous − but no one approached or challenged them.
In the bar Ryan ordered drinks and toasted sandwiches and they settled down in a quiet corner away from prying eyes or loose ears. The bar was practically empty with just one lonely businessman sitting a good distance away on the other side of the room working on a laptop and the barman busying himself behind the bar refilling shelves with stock. Soft music played through speakers built into the ceiling, instrumental versions of classic pop songs from the eighties.
“Well?” Emily had taken a sip from her drink – a large wine spritzer – and was impatient to learn the truth.
Ryan had a pint of John Smiths bitter, from which he took a deep mouthful. “Where to begin,” he started, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose you want to know why I’ve been warning George Jennings.”
“Amongst other things.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But to appreciate my position, I think you should understand how it all began.”
Emily was puzzled. “All what began?”
“CHAMELEON, and what any of this has to do with me.”
“Okay,” she was confused but willing to just ride it out. She took another sip from her glass.
“But first, tell me. Is George and his family all right?”
Emily shrugged. “Tom Kaplan has been running things, but so far they have eluded him. Of course, that’s likely to change soon enough.” Emily recounted the events from when Ryan had left off, describing in great detail the twists and turns that had befell the corporation and the trials and misfortunes that had affected the Jennings family. It took her less than five minutes to update the older man, during which he had taken mouthful after mouthful of John Smiths, practically finishing it. Just a white frothy residue lay at the bottom of the glass. After she finished her account Ryan took a moment to consider the grave situation. He found it hard to think so ordered a second drink with a wave of his hand. It sometimes helped to clear his head.
“We have no time to waste,” Ryan said after taking another deep pull from the new pint the barman had just placed in front of him. “Do you have your phone?”
“Of course,” Emily replied with a snort.
“Can I borrow it?”
“Where’s yours?”
“Mine? One was confiscated,” she knew this, it was on her desk back in the operation centre. She’d been tasked with unlocking its secrets. “The other... ran out of battery.”
Emily reached into her Gucci Hobo bag and retrieved her Samsung Galaxy. She handed the phone to Ryan who quickly dialled a number remembered from the day before. The speaker volume was quite loud and despite the hand piece being pressed against Ryan’s ear Emily could hear the ringing tone almost as clear as if it were held against the side of her face.
“Hello?” The voice was tinny and electronic. Ryan also recognised it as George Jennings, who he’d last spoken to the day before.
“Hello George.”
For a moment George was quiet except for his breathing, deep, fast – as though he’d been running; then he spoke. “Ryan?” he asked incredulously.
“Listen George, things have moved up a notch since we last spoke. I don’t have time to explain but when we meet we will have a long chat.”
“Ryan, I can’t talk,” Ryan heard through the earpiece. “I’ll call you after…”
“After? After what? Where are you George? Are you all right?”
“I’ve located my wife. I’m about to get her back.”
“Wait! George, tell me you’re not at the warehouse?” he sounded desperate. “Agents are staking it out, waiting. They’ve anticipated your steps. Tom Kaplan knows you are going to go there.”
“Ryan, it’s too late. I’m already inside.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tom Kaplan
It was now 9:32 p.m. and night was fast approaching. It was fairly dull now and one or two street lamps were on around the industrial estate, but many were turned off – a council initiative to save money. Everywhere was doing it, Kaplan pondered. Some councils even turned off the street lighting at midnight, a move that angered residents − especially those who travelled to and from home after dark at such a late (or early) hour. One of the lamps stood on the corner of the road ahead. Even without it he was just able to make out the Audi Q7 parked where it had been since before he and Bravo Team had arrived. There were half a dozen other cars parked in close proximity – none were George’s familiar blue Peugeot 207.
An hour passed without incident. Kaplan had resorted to answering emails on his Blackberry. The eight men sitting patiently in the two white vans ahead did nothing but wait, committed and professional.
The glamorous life of a field agent – 85% of the time was spent sitting and waiting around, 10% was training and just 5% was out in the great wide world actually doing something. To the workshy it offered a dream vocation.
Jack Wyatt in the front of the lead transit, night vision binoculars pressed against his eyes, had a clear view of the warehouse. Having been on site for over twenty-four hours now he had seen every vehicle – coming and going – and was earlier excited as he’d reported that one of their own agents had appeared at the doorstep.
Dominic Schilling. Wyatt smiled. With the great Dominic Schilling’s defection came opportunities. He couldn’t mask the feeling of anticipation that his thoughts of grandeur produced.
Other than Schilling and Brayden Scott, there had been little other activity in all the hours keeping watch, and because of the design of the building (it contained no windows and just one entrance door and an ‘up and over’ garage door) there was no way to observe the enterprise that occurred within.
Since Schilling earlier that evening, no other vehicles had been seen coming or going; no other people entering or leaving – it was going to be a long, long night. The radio was on, the volume low. Nothing but mindless drivel was prattled by the DJ, replaced occasionally with a tune from a singer or a manufactured band, normally the latest fad created by Simon Cowell and his X Factor. Had the stakeout taken place a month later Wyatt mused, there’d probably have been football commentary on.
Wyatt was wishing he’d ordered takeout food to take his mind off the boredom. It wasn’t too late. A pizza, he thought. Or maybe Chinese. To tell the truth he wasn’t fussy with what he ate. Having dined on rat and cockroaches whilst stranded on a mission once, he ate anything without complaint or reason. It’s surprising what one would eat when there was little choice or even less option and you were starving hungry. Some, he knew, had been known to resort to cannibalism – Wyatt had been fortunate never to have considered this tribulation.
As 10:00 p.m. passed, Tom Kaplan was beginning to have some doubts as to whether George was ever going to show up. It was rare, but he had been wrong before when it came to predicting the movements of others. He couldn’t claim to being psychic but he’d had more than his fair share of luck over the years.
He stifled a yawn. It had been a long day and he wasn’t getting any younger. At sixty-six years, though in good health, his face was beginning to show the strain of heading a multinational company – especially one that, fro
m time to time, carried out nefarious activities in the pursuit of success. He was not afraid to make the decisions that would keep weaker willed men awake at night.
“I’m so tired, Alfie,” the CEO said loud enough for his driver to hear, breaking the uncomfortable silence that ordinarily blanketed them. The driver had been half-asleep, his eyes closed as he’d fancied himself somewhere else – imagined pictures danced within his mind, of exotic locations and holidays never to be enjoyed. He snapped his eyes open.
“Do you want me to take you home, sir?” the driver asked hopefully in a soft Scottish accent, knowing too well that the answer would be no.
Kaplan snorted a “humpf,” in reply and returned to his emails – mostly to delete them. Somehow he’d been bombed with thousands of unsolicited spam messages.
Half an hour further passed and the belief that nothing was going to happen was in all their heads, the thought having infected them all like a virulent disease, so absorbing that it had started to siphon off their attention.
In the lead transit van the radio prattle had given way to incessant techno dance music. Wyatt wanted to turn it off but one or two of the lads in the back of the van were head banging to it, if that was at all possible.
It was due to the inertia tied in with hunger and sheer boredom that they all failed to see the silhouette of a figure approach the warehouse from the furthest side, steeped in darkness and careful in his advance; they missed completely the drama of the man they’d been staking the warehouse out for, promptly disappearing into the hidden unknown that was beyond the now open single entrance door.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
George
The Jennings troupe were travelling once again in abstract silence since being reunited back at Grandpa Theo’s house. One hour earlier, George and a now visible Sophie had said nothing of the day’s turn of events, traumatic, exhilarating or otherwise; both wearing the long faces of train wreck survivors, and their grim expressions had spoken volumes as they’d appeared at the front door and crossed the threshold.
“Dad!” Stanley had charged into his father’s arms as though he were greeting a man who’d just returned from a six-month tour of duty in Afghanistan. Meredith and Charlie were in the background watching television.
“Any news on Harry?” Theo dared to ask, noting the pained look upon the man’s face.
He shook his head. “I’ll get her back. By the time the day’s over, she’ll be here. With us. That I promise.”
George had spoken those words forty-five minutes earlier. Without explanation he’d told Theo that his family wasn’t safe with him any longer, that their hideout had been compromised.
“How do you know?” Harry’s father had asked, imploringly. He had only just gotten to know his grandkids and was loath to see them disappear from his life so suddenly.
“By the fact that there’s a silver van parked across the road. They’ve had you under surveillance.”
Theo crossed to the window and peered out. He could just make out a silver van parked on the other side of the road. A look of horror stretched across his face.
“Don’t worry, they can’t do us any harm. Not now,” George almost smiled. “They won’t be doing surveillance work for the rest of our lives.”
“George? What have you done?”
“Only what was necessary to save your daughter.”
“Who are you people?”
The conversation had then turned casual and Theo had filled George in on what the kids had been up to during George and Sophie’s absence. It was the only way they were able to distract themselves from the terrible reality. Once conversation had run dry, George took his cue and announced it was time to leave.
“You will see your grandkids again, and your daughter. I promise.” Theo nodded, appreciating the sentiment. Deep down he knew that he couldn’t trust the man who’d married his daughter. George didn’t know it, but his promise would only be partially realised.
Once again, squashed back within the Peugeot, George had driven his family away from what had initially been perceived as ‘safety’ and took them towards what was most likely to be the most dangerous place of all for them. Talk about jumping out of the pan into the fire.
No one had commented on the silver van parked across from Theo’s house. Meredith had heard her father mention something about it to her Grandad but hadn’t heard the full conversation. Only George and Sophie knew that the two occupants of the van lay in a tangled heap in the back with their throats cut. George had been quick and brutal, using the folding knife that Sophie had earlier that day employed with great success to smash the glass display case and steal the Whisper of Persia. Although it was a different side to which Sophie was accustomed to, she hadn’t questioned her father regarding this. Extreme measures were sometimes needed in extreme circumstances.
A glance at the Nexus continued to pulse Harriet’s location. After an hour of driving, George had stopped the car in a location half a mile from where the GPS signal was being transmitted, parking up on what appeared to be a disused lane that led to a dead end or an acre of desolate farmland – it was hard to tell owing to the full dark. Although it was a clear night and the sky looked more crowded with stars than normal, it seemed very Cimmerian and little by the way of natural light was pouring down from the heavens to unmask the territory.
“Listen kids, I need you to remain here whilst we go and get your mum.”
“Don’t go!” whined Charlie. He hadn’t gotten over the abandoned feeling from yesterday.
“It’s safer here. Meredith will look after you.” Charlie glanced down to his broken arm recalling that Meredith had been ‘looking after him’ at the time he fell from the crab-apple tree. “We’ll be back before you know it Charlie,” he tried to soothe; then to them all, “Keep down low and try and get some sleep. It’s likely to be a long night.” He turned to Sophie in the passenger seat: “Are you ready?” George removed the tablet from the dashboard.
“You made me ready, remember? Are you?” she countered.
“No,” he replied, honestly.
Climbing out of the car, closing the doors behind them and moving to the rear of the Peugeot, George opened the boot and reached into the holdall nestled between a first aid kit and a Thermos cool bag. Standing beside him Sophie watched in silence. It was darker than she’d ever known it and the small bulb built into the side of the car’s boot afforded little illumination.
Using his hands he found what he was looking for. Military style night vision goggles with integrated heat sensor (which he strapped to his face) to replace the smaller, leisure glasses that were apt to fall off; two handguns (one Beretta, the other a Smith and Wesson); a large torch (which he flashed on and off); and a hunting knife (like Crocodile Dundee’s) in scabbard, which he clipped to his belt. All of this, plus three smoke grenades, he placed into a small canvas backpack already half-full with useful items (including a bottle of water, a small first aid pack and some tools he almost never left home without).
“Can I help you with anything?” Sophie asked sarcastically, having raised an eyebrow on seeing the various items going into George’s bag.
“Here. Take these.” George handed Sophie a smoke grenade, three glow sticks and, as an afterthought, the syringe of Profonol which he’d appropriated back at Willoughby Rising. “You never know when these things might come in handy.”
Slamming a full magazine clip into the Beretta and then chambering a round, George took comfort from the feel of the cold metal object in his hands.
“You look like you’ve done this before...” Sophie’s quizzical look was lost beneath the gloom of the night.
Ignoring her, he said: “Now I’m ready.”
“I guess I’d better change,” Sophie muttered.
“A change is as good as a rest, they say.”
With Sophie invisible, father and daughter walked the half mile in silence. Using the Nexus George had been able to pinpoint a path that would take them directly to the warehouse via a back route that required an amble through a field of wheat and across a narrow stream. Despite getting wet feet, it outstripped the chance of being noticed had they advanced towards the warehouse using the busier, neon lit A and B roads.
It took them less than twelve minutes to arrive on the outskirts of their destination, the gap between Harriet’s signal on the Nexus’ application and them almost gone. Ahead, an industrial estate cluttered with warehouses and office blocks of varying sizes stretched to either side. Taking the indirect approach had one negative. The warehouse was obstructed by a twelve-foot-high barbed perimeter fence that stretched for as far as the pair could see.
“Here, hold this.” George handed the torch to Sophie. The item disappeared in her grasp but the beam of light continued its milky-white swath ahead of her – appearing to any witnesses as though a small ball of light was hovering alongside the man, like some kind of David Copperfield trick.
Having anticipated a fence would at some point block their progress, George pulled the small tan backpack off his shoulder and reached in blindly. Sophie aimed the torch at her father’s hands, illuminating the item as it emerged from the bag.
Wire cutters.
“Ta-dah!” George exclaimed playfully, showing the useful tool off.
Through the night vision goggles George could see the dumbfounded look upon Sophie’s face, almost seeing a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. She mouthed the word: Really?
The Girl in the Mirror Page 28