The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3)

by Philip J. Gould

  Table of Contents

  Previously by Philip J. Gould

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Whisper of Persia

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First Published in Great Britain in 2016

  Wildboar Publishing, 3 Ashton Close, Ipswich, IP2 9XY

  Copyright © Philip J. Gould 2016

  Philip J. Gould has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author and/or publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 9934167 2 9

  Cover Illustrations and Interior Formatting by Streetlight Graphics

  Author portrait © Hayley Waller

  Previously by Philip J. Gould

  Fiction

  The Girl in the Mirror

  The Sons of Gyges

  Non Fiction

  The Book of Alternative Records (Metro Publishing Ltd)

  Dedicated to Laura Ling

  It’s almost four years since we started this

  journey together, guiding Sophie’s story

  and helping her find her voice.

  Your work, dedication, honesty and motivation

  have been invaluable in achieving this goal.

  Thank you.

  Part One

  Prologue

  Dominic

  Situated on one of the furthest, north-western points of the United Kingdom − Hirta − the largest of the Outer Hebridean islands that make up St. Kilda.

  Dominic Schilling strolled along the pebbled beach, the strong coastal winds buffeting his thick winter coat and ruffling his long black hair, despite it being tied into a tail. He often ran along this stretch of shoreline, a daily routine that had accompanied a gym workout, but at that moment he was taking it more leisurely. Being active in any capacity had helped him recover from the injuries sustained whilst in America and, more significantly, regain his former shape and marine-corps fitness.

  The sea was rough, which wasn’t unusual around the islands; whatever the month or the weather, the waves crashing sounded like the roar of some long dead prehistoric sea monster, guttural and angry.

  Now it was December and bitterly cold. There had been regular flurries of snow, much of which had settled giving the background a Christmas card look, which was apt owing to the fact that festivities had taken place just a week earlier. Today was New Year’s Eve.

  Dominic had visited mainland Scotland during winter before and thought he knew what to expect, but winter on Hirta was something else entirely. Nothing had prepared him for it, especially not his previous, unbidden, visitation to the island, when he had been mercilessly dumped there with not a stitch of clothing to his name.

  Despite his frequent moaning, Elspeth Brown had warned him of the harsh climate though, he couldn’t deny that. Over the telephone, thousands of miles away, moments before forcing Alby Goodall to fly him and his ninety young passengers to an unknown destination, Dominic had listened to the Scotswoman passionately attempt to deter him from seeking refuge on St. Kilda. There was a reason the island was uninhabited and only bore visitors during the spring and summer months. Even she, a hardy Scotswoman, wouldn’t ordinarily have spent time on the island during the winter. If it hadn’t been for Dominic’s insistence (and Jennifer Ratcliff’s money) she would have quite happily returned to the mainland with Dougal and Clarence, where she would stay until April.

  Dominic stopped walking to gaze out across the sea. The roar of the North Atlantic Ocean filled his ears, the bitter wind caused his eyes to continuously water and the sea spray stung his cheeks; tiny pinpricks of ice that seemed to slice through the flesh and chip divots out of bone.

  “We were a wonderin’ where ye might’ve gone a dallyin’. Why yous out ’ere in the dreich?” Elspeth had crept up behind him (as she often was want to do) and enclosed thick, ski-jacket padded arms about Dominic’s waist. They had grown close over the preceding weeks. She clasped her gloved hands together, drawing Dominic near.

  “I needed to get some air,” Dominic said, showing no surprise.

  “T’ere’s plen’y of air in the doors. Let’s not tarry...” Elspeth pulled apart from Dominic, expecting him to follow.

  Dominic turned to face the woman. Her thick ginger hair was contained within a woolly hat that looked like an old person had knitted it for her; it neither looked warm nor flattering. In her almost oversized ski jacket, padded trousers and fleece-lined Dunlop blizzard boots, she was dressed like a tourist at Everest’s base camp. He smiled affectionately. In the two months hiding out on the island, against his better judgement, he’d grown to l
ove her.

  “Give me a couple of minutes,” Dominic said smoothly. “Believe it or not, this inhospitable, cold, icy, biting wind... it helps me think.” His teeth were almost chattering.

  Elspeth shook her head and tutted. “Caw canny...” she shook her head. “I can-nae believe it. Ye must come from the north, I am guessing, aye. You’ll be a girn-ing on the morrow of frost-bite or, or... shing’es!” She spoke in a serious tone which conveyed her meaning even when the Scottish words she used wasn’t clearly understood. Often, Dominic wished he’d brought a translator.

  “The cold doesn’t cause shingles,” Dominic laughed.

  “Nay? May p’rhaps it should...”

  “And you’d like that, I bet,” said Dominic, still smiling. “Anything to stop me leaving.”

  “Ha! Ya leavin’ is not the bother; it’s what you a plannin’ that causes me... fash,” bother. Dominic had adapted to learn a little of the woman’s strange Scottish dialect, though he sometimes wondered if she didn’t just make up some of the things she said.

  “As I’ve mentioned before... It’s just part of the bigger picture, El’,” insisted Dominic. He heard Elspeth move away a few steps, her feet kicking up stones. “The kids need to put their abilities to the test.” He turned to look at the woman earnestly. “I have such great ideas and plans for them...”

  He was referring to the sons of GYGES. The ninety children he’d helped liberate from the research facility deep under Area 51 in Nevada, USA back in October. The fact that he had then abducted them was a moot point, one which he rarely discussed.

  “Aye, plans... Alwa’s yous an your plans... But where be us in t’em plans of you’s? Am I jus’ you’ wee bidie-in?” Live-in partner.

  Dominic trudged after the woman. “It’s for us that I make such plans.”

  “Huh...” Elspeth snorted. It was soft and lacked conviction. She was weak to Dominic’s assertions. He always spoke of doing the things for ‘them’ though she knew, deep down, he did them for himself.

  Without effort, Dominic had caught up with Elspeth. He eased his hands about her waist, halting her progress and drawing her near. “I want us to have our own little kingdom,” he said, “where we want for nothing, have half a dozen bairns and live in peace and prosper...”

  Elspeth shook her head. “Nae, sounds braw an’ all,” she whispered. “But ye’ won’ stop at tha’. No’ enou’ for t’ gallus,” daring “Dom’nic Schillin’. Ye’ won’ stop ‘til you’s takes t’ world...”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Dominic conceded. “With them kids... anything’s possible. Why have a Big Mac when you could just as well have a steak?”

  “Eh?” She didn’t understand the metaphor.

  “Just a saying, love. Come, let’s go back in. It’s getting a ‘wee’ bit cold!”

  No stately home, jeweller, bank vault or priceless artefact was exempt from being targeted; Dominic had quite an extensive list to draw from.

  The first of a spate of burglaries and thefts was to take place that New Year’s Eve night, whilst revellers were out celebrating Hogmanay and preparing to ring out the old year and ring in the new. Nothing was off-limits or deemed too audacious; just a test of sorts for Dominic’s ninety kids. Inspired by the film Gone in 60 Seconds, Dominic tasked his gang of invisible cadets (so-called as they were still in training) to steal 100 million pounds’ worth of cash or valuables in a three-hour period.

  After two months, it was clear to see that George Jennings had improved upon his DNA modification formula. The ninety survivors from George’s research laboratory deep below Area 51 were no longer five-years of age in appearance, but more than three times that. If Dominic had to guess, he’d figure them to be sixteen, or very close to it. They were now roughly Sophie’s age when he’d first encountered her, and being boys, they were bigger and likely stronger, so he had a good idea what they were more than capable of.

  Memories of Sophie distracted him for a moment. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Dominic had seen her last. He shook the memory from his head.

  “At ease.” A thunderclap of boots stomping and the shuffling of bodies instantly followed. “Gentlemen... you have until 9:00 p.m. to prepare for your final challenge,” Dominic started, addressing the ninety young men within the large training hall. His voice echoed. Maxi Bacaunawa, drill sergeants, soldiers and other specialist instructors stood at the fringes of the vast room.

  Standing to attention in rows of ten, all identical and all wearing the Kaplan Ratcliff military uniform, the sixteen-year-olds listened intently like this was their graduation day. They were unable to hide their excited expressions as Dominic, their father, detailed the final test.

  “Your tracking devices have been calibrated so I know that you will all start at exactly the same time, so no unfair advantages; you just need to ensure you are fifteen minutes away from your mark and fully immersed.” Each of them wore a tracker on a chain around their neck, dangling like a dog tag beneath their shirts.

  ‘Immersed’ had become a term Dominic had coined to describe their becoming ‘invisible’.

  “Okay... fall out... and good luck!” Dominic had felt the buzz of excitement from his cadets as they visibly relaxed.

  Now, sitting within the command centre − a purpose built mobile communication and surveillance hub in the shape of a new Mitsubishi Fuso truck fitted out with state-of-the-art computer and monitoring equipment − was Dominic, together with two Kaplan Ratcliff field agents formerly of Ryan’s Area 51 task force.

  The three of them scrutinised a number of video feeds transmitted by the ninety cadets from surveillance cameras attached to headgear or affixed to clothing, their visuals beamed live and appearing within a grid of separate images on a large sixty-inch flat-screen television taking up much of the wall in front of them.

  Two-way communication devices were also fitted to each cadet, filling the ears of Dominic and his two associates with the babble of over-enthusiastic teens itching to go about their tasks. Momentarily, Dominic had to switch off the speaker volume to save his ears, fearing the incoherent jabbering would make them bleed.

  “T-minus two minutes.” One of the two assistants had taken it upon himself to verbalise the countdown; a synchronised digital timer appeared on a computer screen in front of him and half a dozen other VDUs dotted about the command centre.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” exclaimed Dominic in over-the-top maniacal glee, rubbing his hands together. Rolling his finger across a flat touch-sensitive notepad, which looked like just a thin sheet of black glossy plastic the size of a piece of A4 paper, Dominic was able to control the flashing, moveable cursor on the sixty-inch display screen; he was also able to enlarge the visuals of any one of his ninety cadets by simply swiping his index finger and hovering over an image, double-tapping the notepad when wanting a clearer view.

  Two minutes were nearly up.

  “Ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two... one...” The assistant made a gun with his right hand and followed it with a shooting gesture and sound.

  Dominic pressed a button activating his communication device, his earphones crackled and his microphone clicked on. He addressed everyone. “Okay cadets... let’s do this. Remember... three hours... no deviating from your propositions; no window shopping − just get in and get out. Your time has started...” he paused, “... now. Acknowledge.”

  A chorus of affirmations, soon followed by visual confirmation of movement as each of the ninety teenagers started forth with their individual assignments that would, when successfully collected, add up to a lot more than £100 million worth of bounty.

  “D’you think this is a good idea, sir? It’s likely to draw attention...” the second assistant dared to ask, receiving a reproachful look from his colleague sitting close by. He wore a striking spider’s web ta
ttoo on one cheek, which, coupled with his bald head, made him look scarily sinister. Dominic had offered him a position within his clique after the man’s involvement with emancipating the sons of GYGES, commandeering him from Kaplan Ratcliff and taking him under his wing. Knowing the man’s military past and his questionable reputation, Dominic valued the alliance.

  But not the inquisition.

  “One cannot skulk about in the shadows forever, Garret. Even the most secretive of animal comes out from time to time to eat... or to take a crap.”

  “We’re hardly going out for a bite though, are we?” persisted Garret.

  But we’re certainly taking a big, long crap on the establishment...

  “No... You’re right,” Dominic conceded. “You’re absolutely right. It may well be too soon... but, we need to know what they’re capable of.”

  “I guess,” Garret quietly acknowledged.

  “Plus... I have another thing at stake,” Dominic continued, offering affably: “We need the cash injection. Kaplan Ratcliff can’t bankroll our enterprise indefinitely, we’re not a charity; megalomania and world domination doesn’t come cheap!” Dominic started to laugh.

  Garret laughed nervously with him. He couldn’t tell whether the senior man was being serious or not.

  On the sixty-inch flat screen, the first of the ninety cadets could be seen (well, their visual perspectives) scaling a twelve foot high wall, falling deftly to the ground on the other side, and soon charging across a wide expanse of ornamental greenery.

  Dominic double-tapped the pointer over the image.

  In the foreground, and the focus of the cadet’s interest, stood a modern building that, one could tell just from its opulent facade, contained more than a few treasures. The cadet skirted the building and stopped just short of the rear entrance.

  “Here we go,” said Dominic exuberantly.