Emily could see from Ryan’s face that there was more; the man, her mentor, her assumed father, had not divulged all regarding Sophie and Clara.
Despite George’s proposal to call back, he hadn’t done thus far. That had been over an hour ago and with every minute that ticked by Ryan felt more apprehensive.
Impatience and persistence had led him to call George’s phone a series of times, but each attempt went immediately to voicemail. The most recent effort had been five minutes before Emily had stood up to go. Ryan had been agitated and although she shared his concern it was getting late and she would be expected in the command centre early the following day. She knew that any sign out of the ordinary or act of dissent could result in a jar appearing in the Director’s office − only instead of a decoy (as Ryan’s was), she feared she wouldn’t be so lucky.
“I will speak to you tomorrow,” she said, following up with a gentle kiss to the side of his cheek, the sort reserved for close family members or performed by Italians and the French.
Or for fathers.
Emily had called for a taxi and the driver had been waiting patiently in the black cab outside the hotel’s main entrance, the engine idling. He’d been waiting for nearly ten minutes and had started the clock early.
“Be careful,” Ryan called after her, receiving an admonishing look for his troubles and genuine attempt at concern.
When the young woman had disappeared inside the taxi, Ryan pressed the redial button on Emily’s phone having persuaded her to lend it to him. The phone rang a couple of times before the call was connected, startling him. He almost dropped the mobile in his excitement.
“Hello?” A young female voice tickled his eardrum. Momentarily he thought he’d dialled the wrong number, finding his tongue tied in knots. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Um… is George there?” Ryan suddenly felt nervous. Pull yourself together Ryan, he berated.
“Who is this?” the question was more insistent in tone, slightly agitated.
“Sophie, is that you? It’s Ryan… I spoke with George earlier.”
“Ryan? You’re the one who’s been calling my father?”
“Can I speak with him?” Ryan persisted.
“Afraid not. Something’s gone wrong. Very wrong. They got him Ryan, the CIA or something; took him whilst we were rescuing my mum. They got those others you warned us about too.”
“Others? What, Tom Kaplan and his love hearts band?” Ryan sounded incredulous. “Oh Jeez.”
“Ryan, I’m tracking my father. Currently he is still on the move; the vehicle is moving fast on the A11 heading for Thetford.”
Ryan went silent, considering Sophie’s words for a moment, assimilating the information.
“Ryan, are you still there?”
“Yes, just thinking. It’s not Thetford they’re taking him,” he finally said. “Sophie, I think they are heading towards one of the US airbases – either Mildenhall or Lakenheath. Both are accessible via the A11.”
“What are you suggesting?” Sophie asked anxiously.
“I believe the CIA are taking your father to a military installation – probably to interrogate him. You’ve proven their safe houses aren’t much cop, so it’s off to a place where five thousand soldiers are in situ itching for some action – can’t get more secure than that.”
“Great.”
“Of course, our cousins from across the pond haven’t had to contend with someone of your… let’s say, ability.”
“I guess they’ll soon get their chance,” Sophie replied nonchalantly.
“Be careful Sophie,” Ryan warned earnestly, the pang of fear in his voice overlooked by the teen. On disconnecting he ordered another drink which he quickly followed with another, hoping to dispel the fear and nerves that had taken him by surprise.
Retiring to bed wasn’t an option despite the barkeep insisting that he finish his drink as the hotel’s bar was now closed. A glance at his watch told Ryan that it was nearing 1:00 a.m., and although he’d been drinking constantly for three hours the alcohol had done little to numb his senses or still his disposition.
Heeding the barkeep’s request, Ryan wandered out of the bar area, passing the reception desk that during the day would be manned by three personnel but at night kept just the one person on hand for any late arrivals or urgent room service calls.
Ryan continued left towards three dormant elevators. His room was located on the third floor – room 305 – so he took the lift for the relatively short ride. Despite the proximity, the lift ascended slowly; the soft muzak filling the elevator car did little to affect his mood. Above the door an electronic display indicated each floor it passed in bright red numerals: 1… 2… 3…
DING!
The doors slid open and Ryan stepped out and drifted quietly to his room. The electronic key card slipped in and out of the lock and the mechanism securing the door clicked audibly in tandem with the lime-green indicator on the door handle. Ryan pushed down on the handle and entered the room.
The door closed behind him and locked with a click as he crossed to the bed that filled the centre of the room. Although a nice hotel, the rooms were very basic, the décor in need of some updating. His room contained very little other than a bed, a chair and small table, tea making facilities, mini bar, and a TV. Despite the late hour and the fact that he’d been awake since before 5:00 a.m. the previous morning, Ryan did not feel the slightest bit tired.
He sat down on the bed and removed the mobile Emily had loaned him. He looked at the screen saver – an image of a small caramel coloured dog, Emily’s Cairn terrier, filling the whole screen, its tongue lolling out as if licking thin air. He hated that dog, yappy little thing – he was more a cat lover. Dogs did as was bidden – cats on the other hand had a mind of their own – you had to earn their loyalty.
It had been more than an hour since he’d spoken to Sophie on the phone. A quick Google search on the phone’s browser had indicated the journey between Norwich and either of the US airbases in Suffolk took a little less than an hour to reach. Ryan had started to wonder at what was transpiring. Surely they had reached the place where the CIA had taken George?
Not being able to sleep, Ryan needed something to calm his nerves. From the mini bar he helped himself to a miniature bottle of vodka, twisted the cap and upended the contents into his mouth, grimacing from the strong neat alcohol. It was the heightened anxiety that made him reach for another miniature a moment later, this time a whisky.
Were he to still have access to Kaplan Ratcliff’s command centre, he would have been roosted behind his desk observing things, manipulating satellite spies in the sky and orchestrating operations that would give him complete visuals on what was going on for a hand in George’s rescue.
Not knowing and not being involved was worse than being blind, thought Ryan, now lying on top of his bed.
The Samsung Galaxy on the bedside table started to ring. Ryan reached for it, noting the caller was anonymous.
He cleared his throat with a stifled cough then accepted the call.
“Hello?” His voice sounded hoarse.
“Ryan… I need help!” Sophie started to cry. She sounded distant. “Dad’s gone,” she sobbed, barely whispering: “and I think...” she trailed off momentarily. “I think... my mum... is dead.”
The former Assistant Intelligence Officer sat up from his bed too fast, his head beginning to spin – a combination of moving too quickly and the effects of alcohol disorientating him.
“What?” his voice sharp and thick with concern.
“Tell me what to do, Ryan,” Sophie whined. “I don’t know what to do…”
Almost at a loss for words Ryan spoke the only sound advice anyone could give in this, or any desperate situation. “Sophie, whatever you do: don’t panic...”
Chapter Forty-Four
Harriet
Harriet had insisted that she was okay to drive despite the searing pain that ripped through her chest, tears running freely from the corners of her eyes, hidden behind the glasses which allowed her to see her daughter. There was a grimace permanently affixed to her lips, making her jaw ache. Sophie had poured iodine onto the wound and pressed wadding against the hole to staunch the blood flow, securing it into place with surgical tape and wrapping a bandage diagonally from her left shoulder to below Harriet’s right armpit. It did little to stop the bleeding; Sophie could tell this straight away by how quick the wadding had darkened crimson. In the absence of a hospital, this was the best she could do. She knew it wasn’t nearly enough.
“You really need to go to a hospital, mum,” Sophie had urged, her look pleading. Harriet had grunted, saying nothing but answering the young woman by starting the Peugeot’s engine and putting it into gear.
Thankful that the roads were empty, Harriet floored the accelerator and they bombed up the A11, the speedometer dial hovering between eighty and ninety mph, speeding past signs and turnings for Wymondham, Attleborough and Thetford with barely a glance, focus constantly on the moving red dot on the tablet computer that Sophie had slipped from the backpack and was now holding.
Despite the speed of the vehicle the three young passengers in the back did not stir. Sophie was thankful that they’d slept through their mother’s whimpers and cries of pain as she’d dressed the gunshot wound. No child should see their mother in such distress − and certainly not the extent of her injuries or the amount of blood.
“How far?” Harriet asked through gritted teeth, overtaking a slow moving fuel tanker.
“About ten miles,” Sophie judged from the map. Having been monitoring the dot since returning to the parked vehicle she had guessed the van carrying George was travelling vastly slower than they were, especially as they’d closed the gap between them almost by half in the thirty-five minutes of driving.
“They are still too far ahead. It would be easier if we could get to them before they arrive at a US airbase.”
“Are you sure we would have a chance against that helicopter? I’m guessing it’s not hauling blanks.”
“I thought you were trained to do anything?” Harriet said, unable to mask her sarcasm. Neither of them dwelled on the fact, but it didn’t seem possible that this had been the longest the pair of them had spent together since Sophie had been born.
“I must have been absent the day they taught light armed combat against military aircraft,” Sophie replied tersely.
The rest of the journey was driven in silence, punctuated by Charlie’s slight snoring and the occasional uttered recoil from when his broken arm became disturbed from a jolt.
For the next twenty minutes they drove along an empty road allowing Harriet to squeeze the 207 to speed closer to one-hundred mph. The road was straight so posed little danger, though Sophie couldn’t mask her unease, a hand gripping the entry and exit assist handle above the door as though it could slow the vehicle down or help in the event of a collision.
At the end of the A11, across the roundabout, Harriet took the third exit, the A1101 turning. Signposted as the Bury Road.
“Dad’s GPS beacon has stopped moving,” Sophie broke the uncomfortable silence. “They’ve taken him to RAF Mildenhall.”
“That figures. It’s closer than Lakenheath. How long?”
Sophie judged less than nine minutes.
Harriet steered her husband’s car right onto Queens Way that became West Row Road, a distance just short of two miles, before taking a sharp right that took them past Wamil Road. Despite it being dark and badly lit, the airbase could be seen ahead, a series of red lights atop guidance beacons marking a path amongst runway lighting for any landing aircraft. A number of large buildings filled the horizon – aircraft hangers, office buildings and other military installations all subdued, deep in camouflaging shadow.
“Turn left ahead,” directed Sophie. “We’re nearly there.”
Harriet drove a little further before bringing the vehicle to a sharp, sudden halt. The way ahead, about one-hundred meters, was blocked by a security barrier that was controlled by armed soldiers sitting within a small guard’s office. She killed the headlights, hoping to evade detection.
“I guess it was naïve to think we could just drive in and get your father,” Harriet said, miserably. “Now what do we do?”
Sophie was staring at the Nexus’ seven-inch screen. Using her fingers, she zoomed in closer to the GPS dot, bringing up the faint layout of the surrounding base, the long airfield that stretched across the centre of the map zooming out of the picture.
“It looks like they are outside and moving on foot.”
“Where are they taking him?”
Zooming out of the map slightly Sophie could see that the course George was moving was northwards, towards the airfield.
Sophie considered the scene, her brain assimilating the facts. It wasn’t difficult – in fact, it was quite obvious. Why else would you go to an airfield?
“They are taking him to an aircraft,” Sophie stated. “We’re out of time.” Sophie unbuckled her seatbelt and clambered out of the car.
“What are you doing? Don’t do anything rash!” appealed Harriet, struggling to get out of the car, going after the young woman, the darkness almost concealing her.
“What do you care?” The two women stared at each other for a moment before Sophie turned to face the entrance to the airbase. “I’m going in to get your husband back. Drive somewhere close by and just wait.”
“Can’t I help?” implored Harriet. She had limped after her daughter and blocked what she thought was Sophie’s path.
“You forget… you’d be seen. I have a better chance of success on my own.” Sophie sidestepped her mother and walked towards the security barrier. The soldiers guarding the entrance could be seen through the glass window of a small brick building that overlooked the road leading in. They were oblivious to her advance – one fixated on a small colour television that was broadcasting an NFL football match (Baltimore Ravens versus San Francisco 49rs – the game would end thirty-four - thirty-one respectively), the other guard deeply engrossed with a book (American Sniper by ex-Navy Seal Chris Kyle − it had been made into a film starring Bradley Cooper).
“Wait!” Harriet was stooping in front of the Peugeot, looking after her daughter who was now two or three meters ahead of her.
Sophie stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I’m still here.”
For a second Harriet didn’t have the voice to say the words she wanted to say. As the old saying went, the cat had got her tongue.
Sophie shrugged and made ready to continue, half-turning away.
“I’m sorry Sophie,” Harriet finally said, halting her.
“For what?”
“For everything… but mostly… for not being your mother.”
Sophie shuffled on her feet, momentarily thrown off course. She walked back to her mother and pulled her into an embrace, wrapping her arms about the older woman’s back and shoulders. She didn’t care about the pain or discomfort she was causing her, or the blood that was staining her invisible clothing. For a long moment they stayed clinched together until Sophie finally pulled away. She sniffed and tried to disguise the fact that a few tears had loosened from her eyes. Harriet used a thumb to dry some away herself.
“We’ll talk when I get back. I promise,” Sophie said before hurrying off towards the security barrier.
“No we won’t,” Harriet whispered to herself a moment later. She closed her eyes and half-staggered, half-limped back to the car.
Chapter Forty-Five
Brayden
RAF Mildenhall had been in the hands of the Americans since 1950, a consequen
ce of the Soviet Union threat and the 1950 invasion of South Korea by Communist forces. Before this time it had played an active and integral part to Britain’s war effort against the Germans in World War II, involved in most of the RAF Bomber Command’s many offensives against Germany. In fact, on the day Britain and France declared war, three days after Germany invaded Poland, three Wellington aircraft from Mildenhall were despatched to bomb the German naval fleet at Wilhelmshaven.
The DHL van turned a sharp right off West Row Road, drove a short distance before turning left onto a road simply known as The Street. Above their heads the Black Hawk helicopter continued its escort, the bright spotlight chasing a circular swath of brightness that illuminated the van’s progress. As the driver took the vehicle closer to the base, the security office and barrier station now in view, two soldiers appeared from within and stood to the right of the driver’s side of the road, hands massaging triggers on M4 assault rifles.
The driver brought the van to a halt and flashed his ID card. Brayden flashed his identification within a gatefold wallet from his side of the vehicle, though the armed guard paid it little notice.
“You’re expected. Private Lawrence is waiting just through there in a Jeep,” the guard indicated a short distance beyond the barrier, through a pair of electric gates and a short way from a visitor’s parking area. “Follow him; he’ll take you to the waiting aircraft on the taxiway.”
“Thank you,” Brayden said, putting away his ID. The security barrier ascended, allowing access to the DHL van. The driver put the vehicle back into motion and entered RAF Mildenhall. The barrier quickly descended as soon as the van was through, then the electric gates slowly opened granting final entrance. The Black Hawk helicopter, having completed its mission, turned off its spotlight and took off towards a different direction, climbing higher into the full dark sky.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 32