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

by Philip J. Gould

  “Sure,” said Barry.

  Sophie and Barry pulled up a stool each and sat opposite, and to either side of the nurse, around the table.

  “Maria... Maria! Can we get three more of these? Thanks darlin’.” Katherine spoke loudly across the bar drawing a little too much attention towards their table.

  “Our contact in London says you knew my father. How so?”

  Katherine smiled warmly. “You have beautiful blue eyes,” she said calmly to Sophie. “I can see George in them.” Noticing impatience creep into Sophie’s demeanour, Katherine thought to answer her. “I... tended him. I was his nurse.”

  “His nurse?” Sophie was puzzled. “My father was... why? What happened?”

  “Your father was receiving treatment... for cancer. It had gone undetected for quite some time I believe. A brain tumour. The size of my fist. It was terminal. He didn’t have much time.” Katherine balled her hand up to illustrate. “I don’t know what he’d done to deserve being incarcerated in GITMO, but he didn’t deserve the hand God dealt him.”

  Maria carried a tray of drinks over and placed margaritas in front of them. “Buena salud!” Good health.

  “Muchas gracias,” replied Sophie. Maria walked away, taking the tray with her.

  “It was a terrible shock to find him... dead this morning. But to die... like that,” she shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’m used to tending battle-wounds. Not cancer and definitely not murder! It’s a terrible thing.”

  “Do you know exactly what happened?” asked Barry, “to cause George’s death?”

  “The man who did it... such a coward. CCTV security footage caught the whole thing on camera. That CIA weasel used a pillow to smother George whilst he was asleep. Had he not been weak from the chemo or half-asleep... he might’ve been able to fight him off, but... he had no chance. His death was quick and relatively painless. At first I thought he was asleep, when I came into his room; he looked so peaceful.” Tears leaked out and the American pulled out a napkin from beneath her margarita and used it to dab her eyes.

  “Thank you Katherine... for helping my father.” Sophie laid a hand on the nurse’s and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Katherine braved a smile, grateful for the young woman’s comfort. She reached for her margarita and took a deep pull. “It was my job,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. It was aimed towards no one but herself. “Still... it’s nice to get off the ‘island’ and see Cuba properly. It wouldn’t have been possible without your friend in London; illegal for us Americans.” Katherine tried to smile. “It’s like stepping back in time... the place so unsullied by capitalism. Even GITMO has a KFC.”

  “I can understand you wanting to have a day out; pass on your respects even, but meeting with us... Seems terribly bold... or stupid,” said Barry. He sipped at his drink. It tasted strong and he winced a little.

  “It wasn’t my idea, believe me,” she said. “No... You can thank your dear father, Sophie. He made me promise that I give you this.” Katherine reached for a small neon-pink handbag, unclasped it and reached within. A moment later she gently handed Sophie the envelope she had smuggled out of the hospital.

  “What’s this?” asked Sophie timidly. She recognised the handwriting across the centre as her father’s. The envelope bore her name. On the back of it was a number she didn’t recognise.

  “A web address,” Katherine answered Sophie’s puzzled look. “All very cryptic. It was how I found your contact in London.

  “During the night your father asked for a piece of paper and an envelope and wrote you something. He said it was important that you get it... after his death. Only AFTER his death, he said. He called it his will.”

  Using her right index finger, Sophie tore it open.

  “It was like George had a premonition... or something. Like he knew he was going to die... well, we’re all going to die, but you know what I mean. Soon.”

  With a pincer grip, Sophie pulled free the slip of paper inside. It was folded in four. She opened it out.

  Across the centre in George’s familiar scrawl was the word ‘FAT’ and a series of numbers:

  8-8-0-5-1

  “What IS this?” Sophie demanded.

  Katherine shrugged, sticking her hands up in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I only saw the outside of the envelope,” she replied. “Why? What is it?”

  “A joke. That’s what it is. My father’s will? Huh...!” Sophie turned the sheet so that both Barry and Katherine could see it. “He may as well have written it in Chinese.”

  “What? Don’t you speak Chinese?” asked Barry in jest.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh.” From her tone Barry figured that she could. “It’s a code,” said Barry knowingly. “I’m guessing your father didn’t want, whatever it is, to get into the wrong hands.”

  “I don’t have time for childish games. This... excursion... serves only to delay Mitch Youngs’ death.” Sophie finished her margarita − more than half of the glass − and grimaced from the alcoholic bite. She stood up, eager to go. She offered her hand towards Katherine, intending to shake the nurse’s. “Thank you for helping my father.”

  “What about food? We need to eat.” Barry had stood up to block Sophie’s exit. The rumble in Sophie’s stomach agreed.

  Sophie sat back down, regretting that she’d finished off her drink so swiftly. The alcohol had mildly affected her head.

  “Besides, that letter is probably significant,” said Barry. He handed Sophie a menu that had been propped up on a stand. “Your father is reaching out in his final hour; it must mean something. At least entertain that idea.”

  “And finding my father’s killer isn’t important? I’m running out of my serum. I want to find peace... I need solace... before it’s all gone; before I’m... gone.” She was implying her visibility.

  “We’ve got time,” replied Barry. “Time enough to eat at any rate, I’m starving. Besides, you won’t be ‘gone’; just invisible.”

  An hour later they had left Katherine at the cocktail table and were driving away from La Fontana Grill, Bar and Lounge, Sophie having eaten beef steak, mash potatoes and grilled vegetables and Barry picking half-heartedly at the Caribbean lobster which he thought he’d try but didn’t like owing to the fact that it looked like it had just entered the restaurant via the front door and perched itself on his plate; its lifeless eyes seeming to follow him with every bite.

  “Ryan said Emily will take a look at that code for us, whilst we check out San Cristóbal where Mitch is thought to be hiding out.” Barry had spoken to Ryan moments earlier, the time difference between Havana and London meant that it was around 8:00 p.m. in the UK; as usual Ryan was in his office. “He’s arranged us a package to pick up along the way.” Package was Ryan-speak for field agent hardware; mainly weapons and ammo. Possibly a Kevlar vest, if they were lucky.

  “Do we have an address?” Sophie asked, half-interested.

  “I have a mobile number to call when we enter town. Ryan says he’s expecting a contact of Marty Heywood’s to deliver papers, travel documents, cash, etc. He thinks he’s getting a new life.”

  “He will be disappointed. How far?”

  The Sat Nav built into the dash of the rental car indicated a travel time of one hour, ten minutes. “Someone from the embassy will meet us en route in half an hour.”

  Chapter Six

  POTUS

  “What?”

  Deputy Director of the CIA, Milo Calland was back in the Oval office for the second time that day, standing like a chastened child in front of his headmaster; his hands were interlocked behind his back. The President was sitting behind his famous desk looking every bit the most powerful man in the world, which he was, though he also looked tired, and old. The look on his face was
grave, his forehead furrowed.

  “Dominic Schilling was definitely involved in the attack on Area 51, sir. Surveillance images from cameras within the research facility confirm it. As well as Sophie Jennings, we think that he was working with the Brit Special Forces; MI6 maybe... but we’re not sure. We have no evidence. It could’ve just been a Kaplan Ratcliff operation, though they’re denying it. He’d been promoted to Director of their intelligence section a short time ago, so it stands to reason. Plus the GYGES research had first been developed by them.”

  “Have you spoken with the Brits?” President Harrison was leaning forward.

  “Not yet, sir... no.”

  The President pressed a button on his desktop telephone. His secretary came through the speaker:

  “Mr President?”

  “Hilary, can you connect me with the British Prime Minister. Tell him that I need to speak with him urgently.”

  “Right you are, sir.” The line went dead for a moment.

  “Let’s see what David has to say about this. Milo, do sit down. You’re making me feel twitchy.”

  The telephone on the Resolute desk began to ring. President Harrison stabbed the flashing white button and Hilary’s voice resounded.

  “Mr President, the British Prime Minister’s now on line...”

  “Thank you Hilary.” A crackle of interference was followed by the transferral of the long-distance call. “Ah, Prime Minister Humphries, glad you could speak with me...”

  “Great Britain is always at your service, Mr President,” said David Humphries saccharine-sweet. “What do I owe for this humble pleasure?” he continued. It made President Harrison and Milo Calland squirm.

  “It’s not a pleasure call, David. You may − or may not − have heard; my country came under attack a little less than forty-eight hours ago. We have reasons to believe that a British National, among others, was involved in the attack. It’s been suggested that Special Intelligence Services may have been complicit. I want you to assure me that THAT isn’t the case.”

  The line went silent whilst Prime Minister Humphries digested the President’s assertion.

  “Mr President... I am unaware of any attacks made on US soil. Can you elaborate?”

  President Harrison exhaled noisily. “Not at this time, no. It’s a delicate matter. What of our intel? Are you Brits up to something?”

  “Emphatically I can assure you that SIS would never engage in a military engagement without my prior consent. You say someone British was involved? What’s the proof? How can you be so positive?”

  “We have surveillance imagery of one of our assailants that has been identified, and verified. A man we’ve named as Dominic Schilling. We believe he is responsible for the attack on one of our military installations, an attack that resulted in more than a hundred American deaths. I owe it to those Americans’ families and the American people. It’s my constitutional duty to find him − and any others − responsible, and bring them to justice.”

  Prime Minister Humphries went quiet again. Unseen by the President over the airwaves, his British counterpart was giving instructions to his assistant to call an urgent COBRA meeting, to include the Chief of SIS.

  “Prime Minister Humphries? You still there?”

  “Yes, Mr President,” he replied sharply.

  “So, if your Government gave no instructions, and SIS had no involvement, I gather you’ll have no qualms in assisting us in finding Dominic Schilling, and supporting us with his extradition?”

  “You have my word that Britain remains a loyal and trusted ally to the United States of America, and that we will lend our resources to assist you with your endeavours.”

  “I’m glad we’re reading from the same psalm sheet, David. Any country who tries to hide a mastermind of such atrocities would be met with severe consequences. Look at Afghanistan and Bin Laden. The Taliban were our friends until nine-eleven...”

  “Threats are not necessary. As I said, whatever you need Mr President...” Prime Minister Humphries severed the connection and the phone went silent. President Harrison expected the leader of Britain’s Government was probably cursing him at those exact moments.

  “Thanks David,” President Harrison said cheerfully, knowing that the Prime Minister was gone.

  “That went well,” suggested Milo.

  “D’you think? I don’t know. I don’t trust him. I think he knows something.”

  “It’s possible, I guess...”

  “Do me a favour Milo; put together a team bound for Britain. Get Brayden Scott out of Guantanamo Bay to lead. When you’re ready I’ll inform the Prime Minister that your guys are on their way. He said that I could have whatever I needed; I want his Secret Intelligence Service to link in with the CIA. Whilst searching for Dominic Schilling on the surface, they could see what their MI6 is up to from underneath.”

  “Okay. What about the search for Sophie Jennings? Is that on hold?”

  President Avery Harrison raised an eyebrow. “On hold? I said no such thing! Operation Shakespeare and the search for Sophie Jennings goes hand-in-hand with the hunt for Dominic. It looks like together they attacked our base in Nevada, so it stands to reason that they’ll still be intertwined, in some bizarre capacity. I don’t know what the story is, but he still killed her mother. She won’t forget that. Where we find one, the other won’t be far behind.”

  Chapter Seven

  Emily

  The room within which Emily worked was open-plan and half the size of the control room at Kaplan Ratcliff. Her short-lived time as Deputy Intelligence Director at the biochemical giant was a memory that had the texture of a long-forgotten dream. Around her, the office was almost empty of personnel; there were three MI6 analysts still working from the ten deployed into Ryan’s unit.

  It was getting late. The time was 8:15 p.m.

  Emily yawned. It had been a long day and she was feeling the effects of almost zero hours sleep since the motel room she had shared with Sophie a little less than sixty hours earlier. That had been after Washington, but before the attack on the American airbase at Area 51. Since then Dominic had hijacked a plane, taking with him the ninety children that they had liberated, all but disappearing from the face of the earth. Putting that into the shade, Sophie’s father had also been killed, murdered during his sleep.

  She wondered whether things might’ve worked out differently had she listened to Sophie in the first place and insisted on rescuing her father, instead of working under Ryan’s fixated plan of destroying George’s Project GYGES?

  “We’ll never know,” she muttered under her breath.

  Ryan walked into the room through electronic sliding doors and fast approached her desk. “You should go home,” he said. “You look good to drop.”

  “I will,” said Emily, combing a hand through her dyed dark-auburn hair. It was the same colour she had picked up in Washington when she had disguised her appearance to avoid detection from law enforcement and those who were intent on capturing her. “Once I’ve located Alby Goodall and his plane.” Alby was the pilot of the missing Boeing Globemaster III that Dominic had hijacked.

  “Get someone else to do it,” Ryan said, “you need to sleep and freshen up.”

  Emily removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. “Okay,” she replied, caving in. She replaced the spectacles. “You’re right. Though, be warned, I’ll likely sleep for a week...”

  “Good. Before you go... would you mind taking a look at this code?” Ryan handed the young woman a slip of paper upon which he’d scribbled: FAT 8-8-0-5-1.

  “Always something, huh? What is it?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Barry just relayed it to me over the phone... says that George left it for Sophie and insisted on her getting it in the event of his death.”

  “Oh.”

 
“Might be important... doubt it though. But, seeing we screwed up in Sophie’s eyes with regards to her father, think we need to give her something... you know, to keep her on side.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Of course... if you’re too exhausted... go home... get some rest, and tackle it in the morning.”

  Emily smiled falteringly. “No, that’s fine. This should be a piece of cake. I can quickly write an algorithm to assist. You know... you should go home yourself and get some rest too.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to smile. “I appreciate the concern... but there’s plenty of time to rest... when I’m dead.” He turned away and headed for the room’s exit.

  Which will be soon if you don’t slow down, Emily thought, watching the man who’d been like a father to her disappear through the sliding doors.

  Seven minutes was all it took for Emily’s algorithm to produce the report that would help decipher the unintelligible message left by George. Twenty minutes later and she had concluded, out of the list of sixty-eight possible interpretations, it belonged in all likelihood to an airport code.

  “FAT is the IATA code for Fresno Yosemite International Airport, California. The number sequence is, I think, a combination for a luggage locker.” Emily was speaking to Ryan on an internal phone line.

  “That’s all well and good... but there are probably hundreds of lockers. How do we locate it?”

  “George must’ve left other clues with his letter,” asserted Emily.

  “Barry said there was nothing else... except...” Ryan dithered. He wasn’t sure.

  “What?” Emily pressed anxiously.

  “There were numbers on the envelope. The nurse used them to contact me. She was quite clever really. George had put our SIS IP address on the back,” he proceeded to read them out slowly. “1-9-4, 6-1-1, 8-3, 1-2-1. I’m not sure that it helps any.”