Unceremoniously, the cadet smashed a small pane of glass within the door, triggering an audible alarm. Halogen floodlighting burst on from all around the house, bathing the area in artificial light. Ignoring the security features, he reached in through the hole and unlatched the door.
On the large screen further scenes of breaking and entering played out; stately homes; castles; tall office blocks; banks; car showrooms; hotel rooms; art galleries; jewellery shops; book keepers. Nothing was too sacred.
Dominic scrolled over each surveillance image, tapping them larger for a quick scan before moving on to others.
“It’s looking very promising,” said the assistant who’d been counting the time.
“Yes. AND they’ve still got two-and-three-quarter hours to go.”
Dominic, Garret and the other assistant, Melvyn, watched in amazement as the spate of robberies took place before them. How easily the ninety cadets made each theft look. Being invisible, none of them met any resistance.
“Their potential has no boundaries,” whispered Dominic to himself.
By the end of the night, lorry-load after lorry-load of misappropriated goods was driven into a warehouse Dominic had acquired in a discreet, out-of-the-way location in Oban.
Making headlines internationally, newspapers would report the mystery surrounding the hundreds of burglaries that took place simultaneously around Scotland between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and midnight. It was hardly the happiest of New Year beginnings.
Parliaments in both London and Edinburgh were convened, recalled early from their Christmas breaks, to debate the tragedy affecting the Scottish wealthy, and insurers were holding separate meetings to discuss how best to mitigate losses that actually stretched beyond £200 million.
With no one taking responsibility for plundering so many treasures many conclusions were drawn, with that faceless enemy − the terrorists − ultimately taking the blame.
Another such event would take place within the UK soon after, causing widespread panic and in turn, forcing the Prime Minister to declare a state of emergency. In an act of repugnance, the Tory-led government voted to bulk up the police presence by using the army, a sight not seen on mainland Britain since the Second World War, and one which only added to the confusion gripping the nation.
Chapter One
POTUS
Deep in thought, the President of the United States (or POTUS), Avery Harrison, sat behind the Resolute desk. The famous item of furniture had been built from the timbers of the British Arctic Exploration ship Resolute after it was decommissioned, and given as a gift to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 from Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
The President’s glasses hid the anger that simmered behind his flint-like eyes. There was no sadness, just blind, insane fury.
News had just reached him that George Jennings was dead. At first it was thought that the bio-geneticist had died in his sleep but video footage from the hidden ceiling camera, coupled with a statement given by the Navy officer who was on guard duty at the time (and who had been subsequently court marshalled for leaving his post just for a bag of M&Ms) indicated that George’s death was anything but natural.
Playing out on a laptop for an audience comprising of the President, his Chief of Staff, the Director of the CIA Thawn Montgomery, the Deputy Director Milo Calland and General Bill Eastman, CCTV footage of George’s murder, all in graphic high-definition and Dolby stereo sound. They watched, crowding around the President’s desk within the Oval office like a litter of puppies feeding from its mother’s teats; looks of shock, surprise, befuddlement, disappointment and moot incredulity crossing their faces.
“The traitorous-son-bitch!” exclaimed the Chief of Staff. “Goddam-it, sir, why?”
“You were... friends with him, weren’t you Mr President?” Thawn Montgomery asked delicately. “I would never have allowed his re-assignment... I only placed him by your insistence. If only I knew.”
“Brayden had his reservations,” pressed Calland, seeing his opportunity to regain a little favour.
President Harrison knew where the buck stopped and didn’t need reminding, especially from Milo Calland. After the CIA had bungled the capture of Sophie Jennings in Washington, he had personally stepped in and suggested Mitch Youngs assist Brayden Scott with heading the capture crew at Guantanamo Bay. They believed Sophie was going to mount an audacious rescue attempt, and the President had wanted to make sure they were best prepared to thwart and seize her in the middle of the act.
How wrong they were. It turned out to be a wasteful and expensive exercise. Not only had it NOT been the place where Sophie had been heading, but it also resulted in the untimely death of their most valued asset. With Area 51 hit, George Jennings’ research destroyed and the sons of his Project GYGES all believed dead, thoughts of a genetically-enhanced soldier returned.
“Where is he now?” demanded the President tersely, indicating the CIA agent who had gone rogue.
Enthused by the fact that he had at least been right about something, Milo voiced his opinion. “He’s gone to ground, Mr President. Chances are he’s hiding in Cuba.” It was quite daring, for in his last encounter with the Commander in Chief, his resignation had been all but insisted upon, though a lot had changed since then. With the culmination of events over the past twenty-four hours, getting the call demanding his presence at the White House had come as something of a shock. He had already emptied his desk and a box of his personal effects remained in the boot of his car.
THWAPP!! The President slammed his fists against his desk making the three men close by jump. “Damn him! Damn him to hell! What a farrago of cock-ups!” He shook his head in resignation. “We’re a laughing stock the world over; I bet the Russians love this. How can we influence world affairs if we can’t even keep our own in check?”
“Things are not that bad...” placated Director Montgomery, as though trying to reassure a kid with a broken toy.
“What? Have I completely surrounded myself with bloody idiots? Which part of this whole friggin’ mess isn’t bad? One...” he raised a finger on his right hand, “we are attacked on our own soil; two...” he raised a second finger, a reverse peace sign, “Project GYGES − our super soldiers − and millions of dollars’ worth of research is destroyed; three...” he raised his third finger, same hand, “the only person able to replicate that work is dead, and four...” a fourth finger popped up, “Dominic Schilling and Mitch Youngs are lording it up someplace, both likely in cahoots with one another.” The President lowered his hand, seemingly running out of negative points.
“What about Sophie Jennings?” asked Milo, daring to speak again.
“Oh Oh OH, YES... thanks for reminding me. Five!” The hand was back up; all five phalanges splayed ahead of him. “How she and her friend fits into all this I can’t imagine, but they do. And now she’s going to be real pissed at hearing daddy dearest is dead. What a catalogue of f–”
“Sir, if you don’t mind,” General Eastman interrupted. “Perhaps clear heads might prevail?” He was suggesting, without actually saying it, that the President should calm down. No president was immune to the occasional outburst. Even JFK had turned the air blue with expletives over the Cuban missile crisis. “What we need is a strategy to counter these ramifications. No battle is unwinnable; it’s just ensuring the right tactics are employed.”
The President sighed. He closed his eyes and massaged his temple. “You’re right Bill.” A moment later he stood up from his desk and walked to one of the three windows behind him that overlooked the well-tended garden and lush green grasses. “The way I see it,” the President spoke calmly, “we need to bring those responsible to justice; leave no stone unturned. Put all law enforcement on standby; alert the media. It’s vital that Mitch Youngs and Dominic Schilling are brought to heel. Dead... or alive. Doesn’t matter.”
&nb
sp; “And Sophie?” Once again Milo reminded the President of her suspected involvement.
President Harrison turned back from the window. “We need to find Sophie too. Crucially, in one piece. With her father gone, she is all that remains of his research. She could work with us, if she likes... preferably... or, if not, I’m sure our top scientists would love to dissect her; it wouldn’t be too hard to clone her DNA. We could still have our army of super soldiers yet.”
Chapter Two
Sophie
“Dominic,” Ryan said through the mobile phone’s earpiece. “I think Dominic has hijacked the plane.”
Barry gave Sophie a severe look, which the young woman made no attempt to decipher; oblivious, she brushed her hair in silence; one or two tangles engaging most of her focus.
“Are you serious?” Barry asked walking slowly across the hotel room. “I mean, are you sure?”
“There’s no doubt,” Ryan continued. “But, surprisingly, that’s the least of our troubles. Have you turned on the TV yet?”
“I’ve barely woken up Ryan,” said Barry jokingly. “No.”
“Don’t. I’m afraid word has filtered through from Stateside about George.”
“What about George?”
Sophie stopped brushing her hair and turned her attention to Barry. “What’s that about my father?” she whispered moving up to within arm’s length of Barry. Barry raised a hand to shush her. She turned away and crossed to the twenty-one-inch television perched on a side table in the room.
Fitting in with the decor and the 1980s’ furniture, the television was an old CRT one that, unlike modern, ultra-thin LCD flat screens, needed two people to lift it. Sophie switched it on and started flicking through the channels using a remote control that could easily double as a doorstop. A news channel filled the screen and with it an image of Sophie’s father. It was a photograph Sophie was getting used to seeing, the one which Ryan had shared with her when he’d told her that George was a traitor.
“He’s dead, Barry. Someone killed him during the night. It’s apparently all over the news over there. It’s been substantiated I’m afraid. I feel awful. I dread to think how Sophie will take it.”
Sound from the television filled the room. “... top of his field, was found dead today. Video footage identified the geneticist’s murderer as Mitch Youngs, a former US Army Ranger within the 75th regiment and an Iraq war veteran who is rumoured to have worked within the intelligence community, though Federal government have been quick to distance themselves...” An old photograph of Mitch Youngs flashed up on the screen, replacing the one of George.
Sophie recognised the man from the night she and her father had gone to rescue her mother from the warehouse in Norfolk back in July. She’d knocked him unconscious and taken his security pass, using it to access the cell within which her mother had been detained.
“Ryan. I’ll call you back.” Barry disconnected the call and moved to stand behind Sophie. She was statuesque, staring at the TV screen, like time had frozen, her right hand tightly squeezing the hairbrush in a way that threatened to snap it. He wanted to take hold of the young woman and comfort her. Absently he made to reach out to her but pulled back at the last moment, sensing she didn’t need it.
“Is... this... real?” Sophie asked meekly, childlike. For a moment she felt small, perhaps akin to her actual birth age.
Barry sighed. “I’m sorry,” were the only words that he could find to say.
Sophie shook her head slightly. “Don’t!” she hissed. “This is Ryan’s fault. If he hadn’t withheld my father’s whereabouts from me, I could’ve rescued him.” That didn’t seem right. She verbally corrected herself. “I should’ve rescued him.”
Having taken a shower, concluded his ‘returned’ call with Ryan and sourced a simple, American breakfast of bagels and muffins, Barry was keen to be on the move. Checking out of the hotel an hour later was inordinately simple. A regular locale for illicit meet-ups and nefarious goings on, the Puerto Rican manager made it his business to be discrete and unobtrusive in respect of all his customers and their dealings. He accepted return of the room keys from Barry with just an acknowledging smile. Even without the fake IDs, Barry sensed that their stay would have been undetected. Although paying by credit card, he tipped the old guy $100 cash to keep quiet, just the same.
Sophie stepped out into the Miami sunshine, although the pavements were wet from an earlier downpour and glistened under the rays. October is the last month of Miami’s ‘wet season’ with an average of 235mm of rainfall over sixteen days generally expected. The temperature was hovering above 23°C. When Barry appeared with their luggage, Sophie was sitting in the passenger seat of the silver SUV, looking tense. Popping the ‘trunk’, Barry dumped his travel suitcase and Sophie’s sports holdall in before slipping into the car. Sophie’s backpack was already stowed on the backseat. He sat behind the wheel and took a deep breath.
“So...” Before Barry had chance to continue the sentence he noticed the gun resting in Sophie’s hands. He raised an eyebrow. One of the pair of Glocks she’d carried during the Area 51 mission. The other one was buried somewhere within her backpack.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for wanting to find the man who killed my father,” she said. She looked up and held Barry’s gaze. “I’d understand if you don’t want to come with me. Not for this...”
Barry swallowed hard making his Adam’s apple do a little dance in his throat. Sleekly he removed the gun from Sophie’s lap, pulled open the glove compartment ahead of her, and concealed it within. Tenderly he stroked her knee and gave it the littlest of squeezes.
“I know I should be running to the hills... but... I think you might need a friend... crazy I know! I don’t think it’s the right thing to do, but,” he shrugged, “I believe I can help you.”
Sophie visibly relaxed, a slight smile appearing at the edges of her mouth; it looked sad, lacking humour.
“Besides, who else can guarantee me a chance of getting shot at?”
Sophie elbowed him in the ribs. “Much more of that and I’ll shoot you myself!”
The MI6 man laughed nervously as he started the car’s engine. He rubbed his right side where the young woman, though playfully, had bruised him; she didn’t realise her own strength. He put the automatic car into drive and set the SUV forward.
“Any ideas where we start? I’m guessing Guantanamo Bay would be a waste of time.” Absently, Sophie started playing with her shoulder-length blonde hair. Normally it was tied in a tail. For the moment, it hung down loose.
“And a bad idea,” replied Barry. “Other than seeing your father’s body, I don’t think Guantanamo Bay will yield much. Plus MI6 sources indicate that a 5,000 strong force is waiting for you there; they’ve been expecting you. Which is why Mitch Youngs was there in the first place. He was sent, together with another CIA agent, to spring an ambush to capture you.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Why would a CIA agent sent to catch me, kill my father?”
“Ryan said that the man went rogue; he wasn’t following instructions or protocols stipulated by his chain of command. The Americans are equally as clueless to his motives − AND extremely pissed with Mitch’s actions I can tell ya!” Barry’s voice contained a small hint of amusement within it. “It has all but ended their dreams of persevering with their ‘super soldier’ programme.”
“Shame,” muttered Sophie dispassionately.
“The FBI have issued an APB on Mitch Youngs with a warrant for his arrest, but...” he paused, “little information is known as to his whereabouts. Ryan says the President himself wants him to stand trial for treason and is pushing for the death penalty. I’m guessing there’s not been a manhunt like this since the assassination of Lincoln in 1865.”
“All very interesting, but doesn’t answer my question.” Sophie sp
oke brusquely. “Where are we going?”
“Miami International Airport. The Americans seem to think that Mitch Youngs somehow left Guantanamo Bay and returned to mainland America. Ryan disagrees. He says your father’s murderer has managed to pass through the heavily guarded border fence of Guantanamo Bay and is hiding out in Cuba.”
“Cuba? That figures.”
“Truly. A US no-go area. Not only that, Ryan knows where the man will be hiding − God knows how! Some place called San Cristóbal. How’s your Spanish?”
“Bueno!” Good.
“I told Ryan you’d be keen to check it out. We are booked on the next flight to Havana.” Barry was smiling. “We’ll be eating malanga fritters and sipping mojitos at sunset.”
Chapter Three
Katherine
When George had handed her the envelope in the early hours of that morning − within which a hurriedly written note had been scrawled (two hours before Mitch Youngs had paid his bedside visit and ended the geneticist’s life) – she had listened to his verbal instructions with mild amusement.
“When I die, can you see that my daughter − Sophie − gets this,” he had spoken solemnly, speaking with certainty that his demise was imminent. It was almost like he’d had a vision of the future.
“You’ve got quite a few months yet; maybe even years. Miracles do happen,” she’d replied half-heartedly; she was a nurse and it was her job to make him feel comfortable; body and mind. She took the envelope all the same and gave a considered smile in return, which was the best she could give by way of agreement.
How little had she known.
Entering the ward at 6:15 a.m. to carry out George’s vitals, Nurse Katherine didn’t immediately notice anything disturbing as she crossed the room towards the window. She twisted the venetian blinds’ rod, opening a wide ladder of gaps that allowed the first of that day’s sunlight to filter in. Behind her, George didn’t complain. He lay quietly dead in his bed.
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