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

by Philip J. Gould

  “I don’t know. Leave it with me. There must be something here; most likely it’s staring us in the face.”

  “Thanks Emily... and Emily?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget; go home!” Ryan hung-up the phone leaving Emily with her handset pressed against her ear for a moment longer than needed.

  “Okay...” she whispered. “Where to start? Coffee...” She stood up and crossed to the drinks machine at the centre and along one side of the room. She pressed a number of buttons, selecting her drink. It really didn’t matter what she chose; they all tasted equally disgusting.

  The hands on the clock − any clock − always seemed to travel much faster when time was needed, and tremendously slower – or not at all – when it wasn’t. Frequently, since ringing off with Ryan, Emily had looked up at the large Rolex wall clock positioned on the wall next to the room’s exit, placed proudly above a row of smaller clocks, each showing the times and time zones of faraway capitals around the world. Even though it seemed like barely a couple of minutes had passed between each glance she was perturbed to find that big chunks of time had escaped her instead.

  At 9:15 p.m. she had the answer. Two international phone calls; one to Fresno Yosemite International Airport; the other, to the manufacturer and supplier of the lockers used at the airport. Both had confirmed and corroborated her hunch. Still holding the handset after speaking to the Americans, she dialled Ryan’s internal number.

  He picked up on the second ring.

  “I know exactly where George’s locker is,” she said excitedly.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s definitely at Fresno Airport.”

  “I thought we’d already established that?” griped Ryan.

  “No, we guessed it was there. I now know it IS there, AND the locker number. Three-three-one-one.” She started to laugh.

  “How?” asked Ryan.

  “The IP address served two purposes. In addition to the obvious, George meant it for use as a code breaker. The number thought to be the combination to a lock, also had dual functions. When correlating the numbers against the IP address, a new number is formed. The eighth number of the IP address is three. This gives us the first two numbers. There is no third number so we skip to the fourth. The fourth number is a one. As is the fifth. Three-three-one-one.”

  “O-kay...” Ryan wasn’t convinced, and he was tired. It all sounded very confusing, like trying to teach a child algebra.

  “There are four locker areas at Fresno Airport,” Emily continued. “Each has four hundred small-to-large luggage locker facilities. Being proactive, and knowing your scepticism, I gave the airport a call. They confirmed their lockers are numbered by area and box number. I asked them to check whether ‘three-three-one-one’ had been booked out. They checked and said it was. They also confirmed the locker had a long lease, and, with a little gentle persuasion, the name of the lessee.”

  “George Jennings...?”

  “George Jennings. Indeed.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie

  The ‘package’ was more or less what Barry had expected. Two hand guns (not Glocks but Heckler and Koch USPs, favoured by US government security and some UK armed police units); four magazines of ammo (each containing fifteen rounds); ‘his’ and ‘hers’ matching, very conspicuous, bulletproof vests (black) and two combat knives concealed within a pair of ankle sheaths. The embassy official had worn a shirt and tie and looked like a bank manager. He had handed the plain black nylon holdall he had dragged out from the back seat of his car to Barry with barely a word or acknowledgement. They’d met in a parking area at the back of an abandoned service station along a remote part of highway that led towards San Cristóbal, and the embassy man swiftly departed.

  “I thought Mitch was on his own. I’m not expecting much opposition,” said Sophie, picking up one of the guns and examining the feel of it in her hand. She wrinkled her nose as though being presented with a bad smell. “They feel like a cheap children’s toy.” Even had it been loaded the weight would not have increased greatly.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” Barry said wearily. He handed Sophie a couple of magazines for the gun before picking up the open holdall by its twin straps and stowing it in the back of the car.

  “Anyway... I don’t intend wasting a bullet on him. I want it to be more... intimate. I want my face to be the last thing Mitch-bloody-Youngs sees as he slips into death. It’ll be slow... and it will hurt. The very least I can do... for my father.” Sophie inserted one of the magazines into the gun and carried it carefully as she climbed back into the Hyundai, barrel downwards.

  Barry keyed the ignition and set the vehicle in motion again. “Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”

  “Not really,” Sophie replied casually. The gun was resting on her lap. “It’s the same thing I have in mind for Dominic, I’ve just adapted it. Now, his death I HAVE spent a lot of time imagining.”

  “I bet. Of course, it’s conditional on whether we find him,” stated Barry.

  “I’ll find him,” Sophie said with certainty.

  The Sat Nav indicated that there was less than ten minutes travel time to their destination of San Cristóbal. Barry had brought the car to a standstill along a dusty stretch of road, a right turning off the highway. He dialled the number that Ryan had discovered in Marty’s small black notebook. The call connected immediately without ringing. The man had been waiting with his hand nursing the mobile phone.

  “Y’ello!” Mitch Youngs sounded cheerful, like he had just learnt he’d won the lottery and been given a tax refund all within the same hour.

  “Hi... Mitch?” Barry tried disguising his voice with an accent that Sophie next to him did not recognise. He was trying Canadian but sounded a cross between Australian and English-brummy. “I have a... delivery. Marty said for me to call you... when I was near.” Ryan had told Barry that he had masqueraded as Marty Heywood, evidently Mitch’s MI6 confidant, and the likely instigator of George Jennings’ murder.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good, good. D’you have my papers?” Mitch spoke impatiently.

  “Yes... and plane tickets. Where can we meet?”

  “I’m staying at a place called Jamas Aqui, two blocks away from San Cristóbal Cathedral. I’ll give you the postcode.”

  “Jamas Aqui?”

  “Yeah... quite apt. Means ‘Never here’.” Mitch laughed before proceeding with the postcode.

  Updating the Sat Nav, Barry noted and confirmed the travel time. “I’ll see you in twelve minutes,” he said just before ending the conversation. Cruising slightly above the national speed limit, Barry made it in nine.

  Parking in Zocalo Square, the cathedral could be seen prominently in the background.

  “You ready for this?” Barry asked Sophie, stepping from the car and opening up the rear door. Reaching in, he pulled the black holdall towards him. Behind it was Sophie’s backpack. Discretely he secured one of the knives to his ankle, concealing it beneath his jeans’ leg. He took the gun and two of the magazines, quickly heeling one into the weapon, securing it in place with a satisfying click; the other, he stowed away in a pocket.

  “You know, Barry... you don’t need to do this. I don’t need your help. I promise you, it won’t be pretty.”

  “Just because I look like I’ve just left Uni doesn’t mean I’ve not seen action.” He looked at the bulletproof vest, thought about wearing it... then thought better of it. Too conspicuous. San Cristobál Cathedral was a tourist attraction and with the time close to five, there were plenty of people milling about. He didn’t want to stand out, or alert the local authorities to their presence.

  “I’m just saying... it’s my grudge,” said Sophie meekly.

  “Do you want one of these?” Changing the subject, Barry was offeri
ng Sophie one of the vests. “I assume you’re going to vanish shortly... no one would notice.”

  “I went without one in Nevada... and bullets were flying all over the place there. No thanks. Besides, I don’t think Mitch Youngs will be too much of a problem. He wasn’t last time.” She remembered how quick he’d been knocked out cold within the warehouse the night her mother had died.

  “Your funeral...” Barry smirked, tossing the vest back down. “What about the knife?”

  “Don’t need it,” she replied nonchalantly. “I’m only going to need my hands.”

  “But you’re taking the gun?”

  “What can I say? I’m a hypocrite. I like to have a backup option.” She considered what to do with the weapon, glancing about her body pointlessly. The turquoise flower-print dress gave her no options for concealment.

  “Too hot to wear jeans you said, back in Miami. But look–” Barry slipped the Heckler and Koch between the waistband of his denims and his hips, “–fits nicely. And hidden beneath the shirt. See... no sweat... well, a bit of sweat, but... you get what I mean.”

  Sophie scrunched up her eyes and concentrated for the briefest of seconds. Subtly and very swiftly, she disappeared beside him.

  “Or you could do that,” Barry said, deflated. His argument no longer valid.

  “My gun is now out of sight,” Sophie asserted, “without it pressing into my flesh. Cold metal against my skin isn’t exactly a turn-on.”

  “No one loves a bragger.”

  “What? Don’t you love me no more?” Sophie teased, retrieving her backpack from the backseat.

  Barry coughed. “Well... I wouldn’t say that,” he said coyly, closing the rear door of the Hyundai with a gentle slam. “Come, the Sat Nav indicated it is this way.” Not waiting, or able to see whether Sophie was following, Barry crossed Zocalo Square and headed in a north-westerly direction.

  The house, ‘Jamas Aqui’, was old, dilapidated, and a visual carbuncle within the neighbourhood of grand apartments and stately homes that stood around it. Situated at the end of a row, barricaded by undergrowth and the rusted remnants of an old Chevrolet, ‘Jamas Aqui’ looked like it hadn’t been called ‘home’ since Fidel Castro seized power in 1959. Mitch had said it translated as ‘Never here’. Barry could see why as he followed a path through some overgrowth coming to a stop at the front door. Although much of the house was in disrepair, the door was strong and fully-functional, solid oak with iron furnishings that included a rusting door knocker and a round handle.

  “You knock − and act like I’m not here.” Sophie stood to the left of him and spoke quietly, close to Barry’s ear. She had walked the two blocks by his side without a word, contemplating what she was going to do when she finally set eyes on her father’s killer.

  “For a second I forgot you were there,” he replied, lifting up the door knocker and forcefully rapping it against the metal plate beneath it.

  Thrap-thrap-thrap!

  The sound of movement from behind the solid oak door was sudden, expectant, almost like the occupant was waiting on the other side. Three heavy bolts were slipped across − top, middle and bottom − and a key was turned; locking mechanisms noisily retracting as the resident of the house relinquished all security measures.

  The door creaked as Mitch Youngs opened it slowly. Casually dressed in three-quarter-length grey trousers, white button-up collared-shirt and dark blue deck shoes, within which he wore white ankle socks, the fugitive CIA agent looked like he was happily on vacation.

  “Almost on time,” said the American irritably. “You said twelve minutes. It’s very nearly fourteen.” He poked his head out nervously and surveyed the distance. The road behind Barry was deserted and as far as Mitch Youngs could see, there was no one skulking beyond any shadows.

  “There was a bit of traffic and a small gridlock,” Barry lied. He had adopted the Australian/English-brummy accent once again which, unseen, Sophie was cringing at.

  “Really?” Mitch sounded surprised. “In Cuba?”

  “Perhaps a cow strayed onto the road... you know how sacred they are in these parts.”

  Mitch smiled. “Isn’t that the truth?” Barry had read somewhere that cows were so valuable and so scarce in Cuba, that to kill one would result in a custodial sentence far greater than what you would receive for killing a kid. “Come in,” Mitch continued, opening the door wide and stepping aside to allow Barry through.

  Barry crossed over the threshold and, before stepping in, took hold of the door and pushed it open a little further, feigning interest in the entryway. “What a fascinating door,” Barry said, making out that he was genuinely impressed by the texture of the wood, caressing the surface with the flat of one hand as a gap large enough for another to slip into the house was created behind him. “Tell me. Is this solid oak or a hardwood from a South American rainforest?” Barry felt a hand gently tap his upper arm; Sophie confirming that she was in.

  Mitch shrugged. “Who gives a rat’s ass?” Effortlessly he wrested the door from Barry’s grasp and closed it. He twisted the key in the lock and secured two of the bolts, leaving the one in the middle free. “This way. I’ve got a pot of Cuban coffee on the boil; d’you want some?”

  “Sure.” Passing four closed doors, Barry followed Mitch and the rich aroma of coffee along a dingy hallway and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Out of view, Sophie opened the first door onto the corridor and slipped into the room. Inside she set aside her gun, tossed down and unzipped the rucksack and pulled free the jet injector. Most of her possessions she’d left back in Miami in the back of the SUV, choosing just essential items for Cuba and this excursion.

  “I really shouldn’t waste these,” she muttered, remembering that she only brought enough serum to Cuba for two days, and had very few remaining in her supply.

  Pressing a vial of ochre liquid into the injection gun, she raised it to her upper arm and squeezed the trigger, flinching from the sensation. For the best part of a full day’s visibility she needed five vials, though she mostly rationed them, making do with four. For a temporary fix and to counter what she considered her ‘disorder’, she required just two. This would only last a couple of hours − three hours tops.

  Ejecting the empty vial of serum from the jet injector, she replaced it with another. Promptly she injected herself again.

  The effects were instantaneous. Sophie saw her shadow increase across the room, even though the descending sun that streamed in through the filthy windows continued to radiate undiminished. Tossing the jet injector back into her backpack, but leaving the empty glass vials on a side table, she zipped up the bag and carried it out of the room, picking up the gun on the way. Holding it in her right hand, she pointed it ahead of her.

  In the hallway, carefully, quietly, she placed the backpack on the floor and walked towards the kitchen where sounds of cups were tinkling and a kettle was boiling on an old fashioned stove, steam causing it to flute through the fixed whistle in its spout.

  Mitch was talking animatedly about something or some such and Barry was responding with pleasantries and verbal nods. They were like two old buddies getting reacquainted.

  Closing in on the open doorway, Sophie flicked the safety catch that was on the side of the gun from ‘safe’ to ‘fire ready’ and deftly chambered a round using her left hand. Peering through the doorway, she spied Mitch standing over the stove, his back to her. Barry was sitting at a table and, sensing her presence, turned to look her way. He gave her an acknowledging nod as she stepped into the kitchen.

  Sophie crept fully into the room, the gun held at arm’s length, pointing seriously towards Mitch Youngs’ back.

  “I’m guessing you thought you’d got away with killing my father,” said Sophie earnestly, walking to within two feet of the American. Her face was stone-hard, her lips turning i
nto a sneer.

  Mitch whirled round from the stove, his left hand instinctively reaching for the kettle that was boiling, his intent clear in Sophie’s eyes. He wrapped his hand about the kettle’s handle.

  “I wouldn’t,” Sophie said coolly. “I’m betting my nine millimetre bullet will travel faster than you can throw that at me.”

  Mitch relaxed his hand and slowly withdrew from the stainless steel water boiler, gently raising his palms up in surrender. “Sophie...,” he smiled. “I guess if anyone was going to find me... I’d rather it be you.” Mitch spoke in a dejected, half-sighing tone.

  Sophie took a couple of steps forward, closing the gap between them.

  “I somewhat doubt you’ll still be thinking that in a minute.” Sophie was now within striking distance of the man. Observing quietly, Barry sat at the kitchen table just two feet to Sophie’s left.

  “No?” Mitch turned back to the kettle, a hand once again vying for it. “Can I get you some coffee? It’s Cuban.”

  Sophie pressed the barrel of the Heckler and Koch against the American’s neck. “I’m not here for coffee,” she said, foregoing further preamble. Anger was consuming her, bubbling within the pit of her stomach. Images of her father lying in a bed being smothered by this excuse of a man caused a tsunami of emotions raging inside her chest. Her finger began to apply pressure to the trigger. “Why did you kill my father?”

  Mitch turned the stove off and took a quick step away before turning to face Sophie once again; her gun was now levelled towards his head.

  Barry could see the dangerous look in his companion’s eyes. “Sophie... you said you weren’t going to need a gun... remember?” His voice, so calm, snapped her out of her trance.