Sophie wiped her moist eyes with the back of a hand.
“Apparently, Ryan unearthed this shortly after the lab was blown up. He found it in George’s locker… amongst other things.”
“It could’ve been photoshopped.”
“That’s what I said. Ryan just laughed at me. I could see in his eyes that what I had suggested was ludicrous and not the case,” he paused, taking a minute. “No, your father – my friend – has been living a double life. Unfortunately, all that we know of him is a lie.”
“Why would he do such a thing? He loved us and protected us.”
“I don’t doubt that he cared for his family, for your mother, your brothers and sister… for you. As for his motives, I can only guess that he meant to steal the research from Kaplan Ratcliff, destroy what we had and kill whoever was capable of replicating what we had achieved. Only, he failed in his attempt at killing me. Not that I came away totally unscathed.” Thomas made a fist and knock knocked the top of his outer left leg. A hollow wooden sound followed each tap, three in all. “Prosthetic. Still, better that than being dead, yes?”
Sophie nodded, going quiet. For a couple of minutes the only sound was a pair of wood warblers, unseen within a copse of trees, their alternating, high-pitched trill increasing in tempo that lasted for a couple of seconds (pit-pit-pitpitpitpt-t-t-ttt), then changed to a series of piping notes that descended in their timbre (piϋϋ-piϋϋ-piϋϋ).
“I guess I see why Ryan would say we had to choose whether or not to go after him,” Sophie broke the silence. “It’s a tough call, but even though he may have done some terrible things, I still love him. He’s still my dad.”
“True,” said Thomas. “You can choose your friends, but not your family. But he’s also responsible for the death of your biological mother, who loved you dearly. Whether we go after him as a friend or foe, he should be held accountable, at least for that.”
Thomas stood up to leave, taking a couple of tentative steps. He stopped; his back to Sophie. He was facing in the direction of the front of the house. He balled his fists. “I’m sorry Sophie… I don’t think I can forgive him for what he did to Clara. I’ll leave you now to play with your… trinket.” Thomas walked back to the house not giving the diamond a second thought and closed the door behind him.
“I guess… I will have to find you on my own,” she spoke low, to herself, hardly audible at all. The diamond she tossed from one hand to another, back and forth, back and forth, a souvenir from a different time. She couldn’t deny the adrenalin and the adventure of the heist had been very exhilarating. It didn’t seem possible that it had been only yesterday − it felt like longer. She lifted the jewel up to the sky and looked through the cut stone, at the prism of light bouncing within. She wished she felt more than the gut-wrenching sadness at the loss of her surrogate mother and now, seemingly, her father.
Maybe sensing her distress the wood warblers ceased their song, allowing an eerie silence to settle around her. There wasn’t even a whisper of a breeze to rustle the leaves or tickle the blue spires of the monkshood plants, strangely grown in abundance around the borders of the garden despite their toxicity, their beautiful hooded blossoms belying the potential hazard to any who were to accidentally ingest any parts of them.
Sophie paid them little notice, instead making the most of the peace and solitude to consider all she had been through during the previous forty-eight hours, all that she’d discovered during this time, and finally all that she hoped and now intended to do.
She could never foretell when the dream would come. Sometimes it haunted her every night for a fortnight, plaguing her like a remembered reality of an event long ago gone but too harrowing to ever forget; then her nights would go uninterrupted for long periods conjuring the illusion that she’d grown out of it, that she could sleep normally without fear and not knowing what − and if − the hidden message portent.
It had been many months since her mind last teleported her back to the events that had occurred that October ... as always it started off in her room; she’d be carrying Flopsy and the deep, resonant klaxon of the emergency alarms screaming warnings from the corridor beyond the locked door, the smell of smoke, at first slight, growing thick in the air. The tableau would play out the scene in vivid high definition detail. Although playing in full within her mind, when waking she’d only remember the final scene from this particular part of the drama:
“We’re leaving?” Sophie was inside her father’s car and sobbing. She could hear her sobs and, like all the times before, she was scared. More than that, she was petrified. She’d never left the confines of the now-burning building before. This was the first time she’d set foot outside, and she was equally new to sitting inside a motor vehicle.
Her father didn’t reply. Instead George closed the car’s door and jogged a short distance out of the car park onto the main road that serviced the biochemical research centre and other industrialised buildings peppered along the route. Across the road was a bus shelter, and more specifically to George, a black waste bin standing sentinel alongside it, cemented into the pavement, its opening like a large, wide letterbox. No one was standing at the shelter as George approached the bin.
Sophie observed her father take a quick look from side to side and then a nervous backwards glance, ensuring no one was watching, momentarily catching her eye before darting away, now refocused on the task at hand; he pulled a small, weighty object from beneath the dirty white lab coat he wore and hastily posted it into the bin.
From inside the car, Sophie had watched, her eyes fixating on the object that her father was disposing.
The shock of seeing the item stifled her whimpering. For a moment her brain could not (would not?) decipher what her eyes were seeing, blotting out the item like a carefully placed pixellation − like that used to censor nudity in pictures appearing in family-friendly publications or the faces of the innocent in video replays of crimes being broadcast to mainstream television.
This was the point when Sophie’s innate defence mechanism − or call it her subconscious − kicked in, slapping her invisibly awake. But this time things were different.
Ordinarily the dream would dissipate at this point and she would find herself back in bed, sitting upright, coated in sweat and almost sick from fear, the sudden adrenalin rush causing her heart to beat so fast it hurt her chest, threatening to split her in two.
Unlike before, the picture show continued; furthermore, the pixellation blotting her view of the item her father was just about to dispose of shifted, allowing her to see the item for what it was...
The knowledge her brain had shielded her from was not just what the item was her father had disposed of; it was shielding her from the truth that only a few hours earlier Ryan had announced it in such a way, all that was missing was the ‘Dun, Dun, Duuuun’ drama sound bite.
It was a handgun.
As the weapon dropped out of sight, George Jennings turned away from the bin and jogged hurriedly back to the car, a look of relief on his face followed up with an easy smile.
Sophie awoke at that precise moment, not with a start or abruptly like all the times before, but gradually, serenely, peacefully, her heart beating normally, her breathing was shallow and no sweat dripped from her brow or matted her hair. Re-closing her eyes she could still see her father smiling in her mind.
“It was always a handgun,” she whispered to herself. “I was afraid of the truth. It wasn’t the dream that I was so afraid of; it was knowing what my father had done that so terrified me, which I didn’t want to accept...” Even without the photograph she knew Ryan had been telling the truth. She sighed mournfully, shaking her head, succumbing to the dark realisation.
Whatever his reason, her father was a spy and a murderer.
But, no matter what, he was still her father.
Sophie la
y back down on the bed, closed her eyes and started to think.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ryan
With over five hours of driving and just an hour’s break (the pizza dinner back in the cottage outside Bude, just a memory), Ryan found himself sitting in the bar area once again within the hotel in Harlow, the same seat he’d kept warm the previous night and early hours of the morning, a pint of John Smiths and a whiskey chaser placed in front of him, a plate with the remnants of a mixed grill meat platter placed to the side of it (the fried tomato, half a dozen anaemic chips, the fat from a gammon steak and the bone off a pork chop, all swimming in a millimetre of grease) and Emily’s mobile phone barely in between, momentarily forgotten.
Emily had been waiting for him when he’d arrived, concern on her face. “Where have you been?”
Ryan had called her two hours earlier saying they needed to talk: urgently. Emily had left the command centre immediately without explanation or hesitation around three o’clock and had been sitting in the hotel’s reception area for over an hour. During the wait she’d managed to read two magazines, a newspaper and a couple of brochures, all laid out for hospitality and waiting patrons.
Not allowing time to go to his room to freshen up, Ryan smiled reassuringly and kissed Emily on the cheek. Without speaking he gestured for the woman to join him in the bar area. Despite Ryan’s assertion that they meet urgently, the topic that Emily most wanted to discuss did not take place until after the former Assistant Intelligence Officer had eaten his meal and downed a full pint of John Smiths. Instead conversation had centred on the comings and goings of Kaplan Ratcliff’s Director, and the information gleaned from within the corporation’s security division.
“Our information is sketchy at best,” Emily had started. “After the events of last night leading to the death of Tom Kaplan, Jennifer Ratcliff ordered an immediate enquiry as to what went wrong. She’s suspended all operations associated with CHAMELEON and the Jennings family for the time being. Despite this, news has been filtering through all day from our spy network and field operatives… and I’ve been a little resourceful.” Emily paused to reflect on that day’s events. “A woman matching Harriet Jennings’ description was found dead outside the Mildenhall airbase, though it’s not being treated as suspicious...”
“And so the cover-up begins...” Ryan interrupted. “I’m guessing the Americans are responsible for that.” He flagged for the barman to bring him another pint of beer.
Emily continued: “Two bodies were found in a van parked outside of a house in Norfolk, both had their throats cut and found laid out in the back, both were professionally hit, both American and both claimed by the US embassy for processing…”
“And ditto my last comment...”
“Quite,” said Emily. “And, this is amusing; a number of tabloid newspapers are reporting that ‘the invisible man’ stole a diamond worth millions from an art and antiques exhibition yesterday − caused quite a stir, though alcohol is being largely blamed... and heat stroke.”
“Who’d ever believe in such a thing as the ‘invisible man’,” Ryan chortled. He took another mouthful of John Smiths.
“The secret is safe for now,” concluded Emily.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, I’ve been demoted – something to do with recruitment procedures and union interference, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da. Jennifer restored me to my former role without batting an eyelid or an apology. I tended my resignation forthwith and escorted off the premises swiftly after.”
“And now we are in this alone...” said Ryan, deep in regret.
“What’s going on Ryan? I take it you’re still in contact with Little Miss Sunshine?”
“I’m sorry to hear about you losing my old job,” started Ryan. “Maybe parting from Kaplan Ratcliff is for the best...”
“Quit stalling. You called me out here to discuss something urgent. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. Now talk.”
Ryan reached for the whiskey chaser and downed it whole, wincing from the taste and the after burn.
“Well, things have gone a little awry,” he said, proceeding to tell Emily everything, and more, of what he knew. He detailed George’s capture in full, his whereabouts now unknown (though likely America); he spoke of Harriet’s roadside death, as outlined by Sophie (a note of sadness in his voice); he mentioned the arranged meeting in Devon with Sophie, the Jennings children and Thomas Mundahl (no, he’s not dead!); and revealed George Jennings’ true identity – that all his actions, the sabotage of the laboratory, the deaths of all those people, including Ryan’s daughter, were designed to steal research for the Americans, cover up his nefarious deeds and limit the chance of replicating his work.
“You see Emily, George is CIA. I guess the Americans knew about the type of research we were developing long before he turned up and at the turn of the century saw to it to recruit an up-and-coming biochemical geneticist who would carry on with his research and studies whilst his true vocation lay dormant, waiting for his calling – like a terrorist cell. Who’s to blame the Americans for wanting the CHAMELEON research and an invisible soldier of their own? What I don’t understand is why George didn’t just disappear to America after sabotaging the laboratory? Instead he goes on the run – from us, and seemingly from them as well... for a while, at least.”
“Perhaps his conscience couldn’t allow it,” suggested Emily, sweeping a hand through her hair. “He probably considered the technology too great a weapon for any one country to possess, so did what he thought best. Destroy the research... only he couldn’t complete it fully – that would have required him to kill his daughter Sophie too.”
Ryan shook his head. “Something doesn’t add up though.”
“What’s that?”
“The CIA aided by Dominic Schilling intercepted Harriet and her son on the Seabrook Road. Only George and I knew she would be there precisely at that time.”
“Someone informed them?” Emily looked puzzled.
Ryan smiled, nodding, “Not someone. George did.”
“But why? Why the cloak-and-dagger?”
Ryan shrugged. “Probably an attempt to retain his false identity, for the sake of his family. In fact, it still is intact. Only I knew the truth. I discovered this photograph,” Ryan handed Emily the same photo Thomas had earlier shown Sophie. “I found it in George’s locker after the explosion.” Emily studied the young uniformed man in the picture. “I decided to keep the information to myself. Thought it might be useful one day and help get me closer to him.”
“Why?” Emily handed the photo back.
“So I could pay him back for Clara, of course. Pay him back with interest,” he replied, his tone hard. “Now the son of a bitch has gone.” Ryan scrunched up the photograph into a ball and dropped it onto the plate amongst the leftovers, to float on the puddle of grease.
Emily reached out to her father figure and took his hand. Through her eyes she conveyed she knew his pain, understood his anger and the desire for vengeance. She held onto him for a couple of minutes before letting go.
“What do we do now?” she asked softly.
“Honestly?” Ryan shrugged. “Sophie wants to go after him, to get him back. Part of me wants to go too… but my motives are different. I don’t think I can trust myself. I’d rather see him lying face down in a ditch somewhere.”
“In that case, maybe I should go with her instead. I’m due a vacation and I now have all the time in the world.”
“Maybe,” Ryan considered, bouncing the idea around his head. “Maybe, but first there’s something I need you to do.”
Epilogue
George
Deep below the scorched ground within a large, desolate area of desert eighty-three miles north-northwest of Las Vegas, in an area of America listed as Area 51, a large laboratory the size o
f two Wembley football stadiums was spread out with various machines, scientific apparatus and what appeared to be hundreds of large translucent polyethylene bags filled with liquid, suspended in racks of five hanging hammock-like atop of one and other with just a couple of inches gap between each. Tubes and wires were connected to each bag, an electronic console flashing and flickering data was situated alongside every bag, affixed to the rack. There were ten rows, each containing five racks.
Many personnel milled around the facility, dressed in sealed biochemical hazmat suits, some holding clipboards, others wheeling trolleys containing equipment or chemicals.
The one entrance into the laboratory was heavily fortified with three sets of security doors, each manned by two armed guards, all similarly attired. Despite being indoors with the absence of sunlight or bright light they wore matching aviator sunglasses.
At the first security door, having travelled for two minutes within the elevator (at a speed of two mph) down to the laboratory, George swiped his security card and placed his right eye level with the scanner screen, a small ten-inch monitor to the left of the steel door. A moment later a green line of light slowly coasted across the screen and took a retinal image which it then cross-examined against images stored within the security database. Face recognition images flashed upon the screen flickering at fifty per second. A moment later the small screen flashed up a picture of George Jennings, with the word: MATCH in bright neon green. The door glided open to allow George admittance.
The second and third security doors required vocal recognition and finger and breath analysis, together with further swipes of George’s security pass. No chances were being taken.
At each security door the guards stood on either side of George as he underwent clearance, poised to seize at the slightest sign of rejection, hands gently wrapped around the butts of their holstered weapons, at the ready.
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