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

by Philip J. Gould

  Twisting open the second set of window blinds, Katherine turned back around. “It’s morning George... time to wake u-...” Her eyes fell upon George’s ashen-grey face, halting her sentence.

  His eyes were closed like he was sleeping but she knew that he wasn’t. He was dead, she could easily tell. She’d seen dead people many times before, having served in the military for nine years.

  George’s lips were blue/purple, and, like his face, the colour had drained from his entire body. The embedded medical computer monitor that had been displaying George’s vitals, and usually bleeped and warbled above his head, had been pushed to the side of the bed, deliberately turned off.

  After the initial shock, Katherine hurried to the orange emergency button fixed into the wall above the hospital bed and pressed it, sounding the alarm. A moment later and the Navy officer guarding the door hurriedly entered, soon followed by a stream of medical staff including an on-call doctor and − not long after − Brayden Scott. A quick assessment carried out promptly confirmed what Katherine already knew.

  George Jennings would now be labelled as: deceased. She would have assumed he’d died naturally during the night, but that hypothesis did not explain the monitor being turned off, or the fact that it was turned away from his side.

  Katherine had hastily escaped the madness of the ward unnoticed. Her part in proceedings had played out as far as she was concerned; as had her shift, which ended at 6:30 a.m. Of course, there would be questions undoubtedly; it went without saying. The man had been in her care after all. It turned out that her summons and interrogation came round sooner than she’d expected.

  At her locker, she reached in and retrieved her handbag. It was quite small and only big enough for a purse and a mobile phone, but she’d tried stowing other things in it too, some chewing gum; a couple of hair pins; a tampon. Sticking out of the top was the envelope George had given her. She’d tucked it in with no thought and it was barely contained within. With sadness she plucked it out and studied the envelope. She remembered handing it empty, along with a sheet of paper and a pen, to George just a few hours earlier.

  Written across the centre in George’s handwriting was one word:

  Sophie.

  On the back, top left hand corner, where the flap of the seal began, was a series of numbers:

  19461183121.

  “Oh George,” she whispered. “Where do I start with this errand you’ll have me do?” She closed her locker, tucked the envelope deep into her small bag and made for her base lodgings. Before she had stepped foot out of the cloakroom a voice called out behind her.

  “Nurse Jenkins?” Brayden Scott looked fresh despite very little sleep and dressed to kill in a grey suit bought from Brooks Brothers, he stepped through from the hospital corridor. “What’s the hurry?”

  Katherine turned back and tried to appear innocent. “No hurry. It’s just my shift’s ended is all... I’m beat.” She added a yawn for effect, which she stifled with the back of a hand.

  “I have some questions, nurse–”

  “It’s Katherine,” she interrupted

  “– Katherine,” Brayden corrected himself. “Please... this way.” The Navy officer who had been standing guard outside George’s room, followed close behind Brayden with a similarly uniformed colleague. Together they escorted the nurse back towards the wards, to one of the vacant administrative offices.

  A little over an hour and the ‘questions’ that turned into the anticipated ‘interrogation’ were over, though only ending when Captain Will Hancote had entered the room briefly, whispering in Brayden Scott’s left ear before quickly disappearing again. Although the captain had spoken quietly, Nurse Katherine had exceptional hearing. She’d heard a little of what was said:

  “...video surveillance proves George Jennings was murdered... I’m sorry, but it was your partner...” Brayden had straightened up at that, and the look upon his face hardened.

  “Okay, I’ve no further questions Nurse Jen-, Katherine. You can go now.”

  Katherine gathered up her handbag and quietly left the room. As she closed the office door safely behind her, the sound of a chair was heard crashing against a wall followed by a few choice expletives, some of which she couldn’t say she’d heard before. She quickly escaped down the corridor.

  A few hours later and it was all over the news. She’d been asleep and the events leading up to the end of her shift had the clarity of a vivid dream, until, that was, she switched on the television. A pair of news anchors reported over-eagerly that Mitch Youngs had murdered the world-renowned geneticist George Jennings, suffocating him – it was being claimed – with a pillow. The FBI was leading the hunt for the perpetrator with warnings to the general public that the man was very dangerous and likely armed. Under no circumstances should he be approached; instead, any sightings should be reported immediately to local law enforcement.

  There had been no mention that George had been locked up in Guantanamo Bay without charge, or that he had indeed died within the notorious detention centre.

  Furthermore, details of the incident she had relayed to George regarding the ‘military attack’ that she’d overheard being discussed between Brayden Scott and the now wanted fugitive Mitch Youngs, didn’t get the slightest mention. She started to wonder whether it happened at all, but owing to its nature she suspected that most likely it was being hushed up.

  From within her handbag her mobile phone began to chime. Warbling, tuneless music rang out. Katherine crossed to a side-unit upon which she’d tossed the bag when she’d arrived in her small apartment, the base lodgings she lived in whilst serving at the military hospital at Guantanamo Bay. She grabbed up the bag and unzipped it. Before picking out her phone her hand stumbled upon George’s letter.

  Answering her phone, she carried the envelope with her as she spoke.

  “Hi dad...”

  Her father called her every other day, a trend that she was ordinarily pleased to accommodate as he reminded her of home and she missed the ordinariness of Arizona, where she had spent most of her formative years. Plus he was lonely since her mother had died six months earlier, and she was his only family, but at that precise moment the desire to talk with him was completely overshadowed by the need to act upon George Jennings’ final words. There was something about what he’d said that seemed to carry an undercurrent of urgency.

  When I die, can you see that my daughter − Sophie − gets this?

  She looked at the number on the back of the envelope whilst her father automatically talked into her ear:

  19461183121.

  She didn’t hear a single word her father was saying.

  “Dad... listen,” she interrupted his flow of speech, some of which she knew she’d heard before. “Can I call you back a bit later...? I’m just getting in the shower then going to hit the sack; I’ve had a really long shift... is that okay?”

  Her father rung off and Katherine walked over to her gold MacBook that was placed on the dinner table. It was closed and plugged into a wall socket and the thin layer of dust coating the lid indicated that it had very little use. She opened up the screen and pressed the power-on button to the top right corner of the keyboard.

  The number on the envelope meant nothing to her. The first four digits could’ve indicated a year... but the rest? That was anyone’s guess.

  Lightly, she tapped the envelope into the palm of her left hand and wondered whether the note inside would shed any light.

  Opening the envelope felt wrong, and guilt crept over her like goosebumps. George had sealed it for a reason. It was personal. He had written it to his daughter, for her eyes only.

  “But what use is it if I can’t ever find you?” she reasoned with herself, her conscience urging her to do it.

  The welcome screen on the MacBook appeared and Katherine op
ened up a web browser, revealing the Safari search screen. She’d learnt that sometimes the easiest way to find out something, like a vast majority of people, was to simply search for it on the World Wide Web. Putting the envelope aside on the table (down facing) with the numbers ‘sunny-side up’, she typed in the eleven digit number with little or no expectation and hit the enter key.

  A couple of seconds flashed by and the screen changed to that of a fail screen, advising:

  Your search − 19461183121 − did not match any documents.

  “God-damn!” She knew that would be too simple. “Stupid George... you should have given me more clues!” She returned to the search screen and typed in the number again, this time with a space between each character. The search engine presented her with a list of Sudoku options.

  “Although puzzling, I doubt he intended me to play math games...” she whispered to herself.

  The nurse keyed in the number again, this time punctuating each numeral with a decimal point. The Safari fail screen reappeared.

  “Arrrrrrrghhhh!” Katherine slapped the MacBook closed in frustration.

  Grabbing a can of cola from the fridge and determined not to be beaten, she returned to the computer, reopened it and started keying in the number again, this time using a combination of decimal points and spaces between each numeral.

  After almost an hour of painstaking ‘trial and error’ she typed in:

  194.61.183.121

  and hit enter.

  Katherine almost fell off her chair when the fail screen did not show up. Instead details alongside a website informer appeared. The information indicated the number was an IP address, intriguingly belonging to a website identifying itself as mi6.gov.uk.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she whispered, sweeping the mouse cursor onto the site and hitting enter.

  The homepage of the official UK website for SIS (Secret Intelligence Service) flashed up.

  “What are you getting me into George?”

  Scrolling down the page, she searched for a contact telephone number. A quick flick through the pages and, unsurprisingly, she drew a blank. Although not so ‘secret’ any more, the British Secret Intelligence Service wasn’t in any hurry to make themselves easily accessible. Instead, for terrorist threats, they referred you to law enforcement. If you wanted to contact them directly, you had to send them a request via a website form.

  “Okay...” Katherine opened up the form, typed her name, her email address, a contact telephone number (including dialling code for the States), and a brief description of her enquiry, which read:

  I have a letter for Sophie Jennings from her father. Who do I post it to?

  Leaving it at that she pressed the SEND key and turned off the laptop.

  Crossing to the kitchen that annexed the room, Katherine tossed the empty cola can into the bin and went to the fridge for another. Before she’d pulled the door of the cooler open, the telephone in the lounge area began to ring.

  Leaving the fridge, she casually returned to the lounge and picked up the phone, half-expecting her father to be at the other end, no doubt wondering what was taking her so long to call him back.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully.

  “Katherine Jenkins?” She didn’t recognise the voice at the other end. It was male and British.

  “...Yes...?” her voice had shifted into a slightly defensive tone.

  “Katherine Jenkins with the social security number: five-five-five, twelve, one-eight-nine-nine... currently enlisted to the US Navy’s Medical Corp, stationed at Guantanamo Bay?”

  “Yes...”

  “Never married. The only daughter of Henley and Carol Jenkins − Carol now deceased.”

  “Yes... and you’ve probably got my bra size! Now tell me... who the hell is this?” Katherine was now beginning to get angry.

  “Have you been in contact with George Jennings?”

  “YES... now answer MY question. WHO ARE YOU?!”

  Instead of answering Katherine’s demand, the British voice replied flightily, “Hold please.” Elevator music immediately replaced him before she could further demand an introduction; it played for barely ten seconds and then abruptly cut out. A new voice came onto the line, filling her ear, no less British.

  “Hello Miss Jenkins. My name is Ryan Barber. You have a letter for my granddaughter. Tell me, does anyone else know you have it?”

  “No.” The telephone call didn’t feel possible, the same as all the events occurring since that morning after she’d opened the blinds in George’s room; it all felt surreal. Unconsciously she picked the envelope up again and was looking at the name written across it.

  “Can I ask that you keep it that way?”

  “Sure.” It came across breezy, non-committal. Ryan didn’t notice it.

  “Good. Now, Miss Jenkins. I need for you to complete George Jennings’ request and deliver that letter to Sophie.”

  Katherine started to laugh. “Oh boy,” she said, shaking her head in mock amusement. “Mr Barber... I don’t think that’s going to be possible, or easy at any rate. I’m in Guantanamo Bay. It’s not like I can just get on a plane and fly over to England... even if I wanted to.”

  “That’s not going to be necessary, Miss Jenkins,” it was Ryan’s turn to laugh. “You see, there’s no need. She’s going to be much closer to home. She’s already in Cuba... just a stone’s throw from you. Get yourself to Havana, you’ll find her there.”

  “That’s as it may, but for all intents and purposes, she might as well be on the moon. We’re locked in here; it’s not a holiday camp. Relations between Cuba and the US maybe improving, but it’s still not relaxed here. Marines patrol the borders. No one comes in. No one goes out.”

  “Mitch Youngs did,” said Ryan matter-of-factly. “He found a way, and it wasn’t too difficult, either. Find a Lance Corporal Raul Martinez; he knows all about it. Tell him you know what he did and you want his help. He’ll get the score.”

  “And what did he do?” Katherine asked naively.

  “He helped your patient’s killer flee into Cuba. I doubt you’ll need to make too much of a threat before he helps you too.”

  Chapter Four

  Ryan

  When the parachute had failed, Sir Marty Heywood had asked Ryan to do something for him.

  “There’s some correspondence in my drawer back in the office. Can you see that it gets delivered...?” It was an earnest request, and not extraordinary. Many people − agents and soldiers alike − whose jobs exposed them to danger and life-threatening risks, wrote letters to loved ones in the event of their death or something going wrong.

  As a personal favour, and hiding his intentions, Ryan volunteered to empty Marty Heywood’s desk. The Chief had raised his eyebrows at first, but said nothing regarding the request; it didn’t seem such an onerous task owing to the fact the veteran agent mostly ‘hot-desked’ within the SIS building, flitting from one office work station to another, when he wasn’t working from home. He did have a set of drawers (which were locked) that easily moved about on large caster wheels in the corner of a small office which he shared with three other analysts, and it was these drawers that Marty had referred to whilst plummeting from 13,000 feet to his death.

  A thin piece of brass with Marty’s name engraved was screwed into the side of the drawers for easy identification. Ryan found it, no problem.

  Ryan used a skeleton key and unlocked the small piece of furniture, swiftly pulling open the first of three drawers. Ryan reached within and lifted out Marty’s laptop. An IBM Thinkpad. Standard issue and a couple of years out-of-date. Everyone in the service had one.

  Ryan routed around a bit within the drawer. Apart from a calculator, a stapler, a few pens, an eraser, ruler, paper clips and a letter opener, there was nothing further of inte
rest.

  He went to the second, which felt heavy as he pulled it on its metal runner. Notebooks, filing wallets, loose sheets of paper, Post-it notes and sundry receipts littered the drawer. There was no order or system, Marty had just piled it in thoughtlessly.

  “This is gonna be fun,” Ryan muttered. He rifled through the clutter and stopped at a thin pile of white envelopes held together by an elastic band wrapped about its centre, each sealed and addressed in Marty’s unmistakeable writing. There were five envelopes in total, and on the corner of each were two first class stamps, their value more than enough to cover the postage. Ryan flicked through the envelopes, quickly scanning the addresses. None of the names meant anything to him, but a couple of the addressees shared Marty’s surname. He sighed. There was nothing important there he decided; these were just some letters he’d written to his personal contacts, a final word or a farewell to people who were dear to him. Ryan himself kept a couple in the bottom of his drawer... just in case.

  Putting aside the envelopes, Ryan resumed with sorting the drawer, pulling out a journal and a wad of expenses receipts before a hand fell upon a small black notebook. Half-interested, he flicked through the first couple of pages, barely taking notice. In the briefest of moments, Ryan was able to determine that it was a list of names, alongside which, telephone numbers had been jotted. With what little enthusiasm he had running out, he leafed through the notebook quickly. In mid-scan, Ryan was about to toss it back down when he noticed a familiar name.

  A name that he’d heard recently.

  “What... the... hell?” he whispered.

  Mitch Youngs.

  “This is Marty’s book of contacts.” Ryan said to himself, almost like he was surprised. He mentally rebuked himself. Really, what else could it have been?