Sophie blinked a few times, as though waking from an enchantment. She lowered the gun. “Sit.” She was in complete control, but the steel in her voice was still there, uncompromising.
Mitch took up his seat at the kitchen table opposite to where Barry was sitting, unsure where the young man fitted into all this, but guessing he’d been part of a set-up by Marty Heywood.
“Why did you kill my father?” Sophie repeated. “Tell me. I’ll make it quick... I know places where... pressure points... all I need do is gently lay a finger... you’ll slip away as though going to sleep.” She was standing next to Barry to the side of the table, the hand holding the gun now hanging down to the floor.
“Please... it wasn’t my bidding. It was an MI6 operation.”
“MI6?” Barry piped up.
“Yeah. My contact, Sir Marty Heywood... He called me asking if I could assist with a covert operation he was involved... a sort of personal favour to him.”
“And you agreed to do that for him. Why?” Barry sounded incredulous, not buying it.
“We have a deal... a sort of... how you English are fond of saying; you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours arrangement. A hit like this gives me a lot of leverage... Plus, I’m tired of the agency and wanted a way out. This was my retirement party.”
“You say it ‘gives you a lot of leverage’. You mean ‘gave’,” said Sophie. “Past tense...”
“What?” Mitch looked puzzled, almost stupid.
“Haven’t you heard?” Barry chipped in. “Marty’s dead. His body is no doubt feeding some of Nevada’s turkey vulture population as we speak.”
Mitch started to laugh heartily. “You’re so clever, the two of you. He’s not dead. I spoke to him the other hour...”
It was Barry’s turn to laugh, shaking his head at how dumb the American was acting.
“Dead... alive... it’s beside the point. Why would Marty order my father dead?” Sophie spoke above Barry’s laughter.
Mitch looked down towards his hands resting on the dinner table ahead of him. He laced them together. “Naturally, I asked him that same question,” he sounded solemn. “After all, my allegiance is to the United States and we’d gone to great lengths in bringing him in. Doing what he suggested would result in me being labelled a traitor. But Marty was insistent. He said that GYGES had to be terminated... That it was within all our interests, America’s too. I’m guessing the man had his orders.”
Barry had stopped laughing and had turned to look at Sophie. The pair of them shared an unspoken question which Sophie allowed to go unanswered. She walked around the table so that she now stood behind the former CIA agent.
“My father is dead because of you. You need to answer for this.”
Mitch shrugged. “I guess... but I’m answerable only to God. The way I see it, I was just following his will.”
“Then I guess you haven’t too long to wait for your judgement.” Sophie lifted the Heckler and Koch up and pointed it to the back of Mitch’s head.
“Sophie?” Barry’s eyes pleaded for her not to do it.
Without warning, she struck the man forcefully across the back of his skull with the gun, knocking the man hard to one side, his chair slipping from beneath his weight and clattering across the kitchen; the big man slumped to the floor.
“Jeez!” Barry jumped up from the table, moved around Mitch’s unconscious body, and crouched down to check a pulse. “Nicely done... but I wish you’d give me the heads-up next time.”
“Is he dead?” Sophie asked quietly. “Tell me he’s not dead; I’ve not finished with him yet.”
“No,” replied Barry, removing his hand away from a place just above Mitch’s throat. He’d felt the man’s carotid pulse strong beneath his fingertips. “But... I think you’ve done enough. Mitch was just a puppet in all this. Marty had played him. He doesn’t deserve to die... not at our hands at any rate. Come, let’s truss him up. We’ll deliver him to the Americans. He’ll be wishing you HAD killed him by the time they’ve finished with him.”
Chapter Nine
Jennifer
Jennifer Ratcliff had issued a statement to the press that morning, distancing herself from the frenzied reporting circulating the globe at that moment. Dominic Schilling had not, contrary to reports, been appointed as Director of the Intelligence section of the biochemical conglomerate she was CEO of, she had stated. He had merely worked for them in an ‘advisory’ role, a role which had ceased days before his disappearance; that’s what the press release had said.
Jennifer had been met by an angry mob of blood-thirsty reporters upon arriving at the Kaplan Ratcliff command centre, staving off verbal demands for further clarification and ignoring the questions and calls for her to resign.
She clambered through the doors to the building, security personnel swiftly creating a barricade between her and the throng of tabloid journalists. Richard Cullum was within the thick of it, jostling a cameraman to the floor.
“I’ll be in my office,” Jennifer had said, slightly flustered by the ordeal of walking the short distance between her chauffeur-driven car and the door. Taking big strides, she hurried away to a waiting elevator and leapt in. Half a minute later and she was standing within her comfortable office, the pandemonium left behind where they would wait to stalk her when she left.
Within the safety of her private space, she poured herself a drink from a crystal decanter. She hated whisky but needed something to still her nerves. A sip of the dark amber liquid caused a burning sensation in her throat; its effects started to be felt immediately.
Taking the glass with her, she sat behind her desk and reached for the small remote control. With a quick jab to the red standby button, she switched on the large-screen plasma TV on the wall. She took a second sip of whisky, grimacing at its harsh taste.
Sky News was on. As she half-expected, the news was focused on the events to which she herself was tied despite her spurious denials and distancing attempts.
The media was hungry for more information, salivating like half-starved pit bulls; though receiving and reporting only what the American and the British governments had leaked, which in contrast, was far shy of the truth; a British airliner had been hijacked and had gone missing somewhere over the North Atlantic Ocean with a number of passengers missing. The entire specifics of the event were fabricated, with Dominic’s name the only truth to feature in the press. With tensions heightened between the American and British governments, both sides were conjuring elaborate stories to hide the facts about their involvement with what was, a culminating incident. The attack occurring at Area 51, the multiple deaths in combat, and the complete destruction of George Jennings’ underground laboratory never featured within the news at all.
Having agreed to ‘work’ with the Americans in the call made by the President earlier that day, Prime Minister Humphries had contacted President Avery Harrison with the news that a British aircraft had gone missing, with MI6 intel suggesting that Dominic Schilling was involved, and the likely transgressor. All other details, including MI6’s collusion with regards to destroying Project GYGES, were withheld, any subsequent accusations refuted. At no point did the President make any further reference to the attack on Area 51.
With President Harrison already heavily featured in news bulletins across the US regarding the manhunt for former CIA agent Mitch Youngs, a further press conference came as no surprise.
Jennifer listened as the most powerful man took to the podium inside the press briefing room, the White House backdrop emblem prominent on the wall behind him, the Stars and Stripes and presidential flags standing to either side of his prominent frame.
“It is believed that the traitor, Mitch Youngs, was working with the known terrorist, Dominic Schilling, who a day earlier you’ll remember killed several police officers at Dulles International
Airport here in Washington DC.” The President looked down solemnly, pausing for effect. Around the room flash photography splashed light and shadows about the stage until the man looked back up.
“In his attempt to escape American justice, Dominic Schilling boarded a plane that was destined for London, England. During the routine flight, contact between the cabin crew and air control was ceased. Regrettably, it’s my duty to inform you that it’s believed that Dominic has taken control of the plane and with it, all 256 passengers.”
The room erupted into bedlam as reporters and journalists vied to gain the President’s attention.
President Harrison gestured for the room to quieten with a gentle lowering of his hands.
“This is all the information I have at this time,” he said. “Rest assured I am working closely with the British Prime Minister,” he didn’t hide the disdain in his voice, “and together we will look to end this emergency favourably.”
Jennifer switched the television off. The fact that she had issued a press release denying that Dominic had been appointed as the Director of Kaplan Ratcliff Security and Intelligence Division was nothing; not compared to the truth of the matter.
Borne from the same lie cooked up between Ryan Barber at MI6 and herself, the two of them had shared a long conversation the night before. There was a plan, but as could be expected, Dominic had done things his own way.
“What we do for love...” she said softly, swirling the whisky around against the insides of the glass.
The telephone on her desk began to ring, a soft jingle. She picked up the receiver, ending the chiming noise.
“Jennifer?”
“Dominic. I thought I told you not to call me. It’s not safe... you don’t know who might be listening...” Jennifer drained her glass.
“We both know your line is secure.”
“That’s not the point. I did what you asked. Everything else here on in, you’ll need to do for yourself. I can’t get involved.”
“You’re already involved, darlin’,” Dominic said. “Besides, I’m doing it for us.” She could tell he was lying. “Just hear me out... I need something more.”
“More? Dominic... you’ve got a state-of-the-art training facility and a burgeoning army of invisible soldiers... and then there’s the equipment, the vehicles, helicopters, a boat. What more do you possibly need?” Jennifer snapped.
“Sophie’s data implant training programs.”
Jennifer laughed. “You know as well as I do George destroyed them when he sabotaged the research facilities. They were blown up with most of his notes and team.”
“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny... you seem to forget how resourceful George was. The training material... he kept it backed up on an external server. He made it look like it was all destroyed, but someone told me it wasn’t.”
“Who?” Jennifer was curious. As far as she had believed, George had been very thorough with destroying his work.
“A former friend of George’s; Malaxi Bacaunawa. Small Filipino martial arts guy, answers to the name MAXI. Taught Sophie all her tricks and helped facilitate all her other training.”
“Maxi? Never heard of him.”
“Strangely, he said the same of you. He knew your father though; he said he was a despicable excuse of a man who had little or no morals. I said the traits ran in the family,” Dominic laughed, slightly amused by his comment aimed at Jennifer. “Before I jetted off to America with Ryan’s army of misfits, I sought Maxi out. I half-expected to find that he’d returned to Zamboanga City or wherever-the-hell he came from; but no. Seems the multi-ethnic culture hub of the world took his fancy and I easily found him holed up in some illegal kick-boxing facility towards the arse-end of Soho. He gave me a free lesson in ‘Yaw-Yan’ before coming around to my way of thinking. One of the perks of being fat; plenty of cushion for a few kicks and thumps.” Dominic paused for a moment. “The good news, he’s now assisting me with our recently acquired initiates... but for his work to be effective, he needs George’s data implant training programs.”
“Are they important? Can’t we just get some stuff off the internet?”
“When making a chili en nogada, would you just improvise and make it without a recipe?”
Jennifer didn’t reply. She hated analogies almost as much as she disliked Mexican food.
Dominic continued. “No. The data implant training programs are more than just a few pages of instructions; they are complete training solutions that are subliminally transferred without thoughts or interpretations getting in the way. George’s D.I.T.Ps can give over a hundred years’ worth of information and experiences, perhaps even a thousand, in just a fraction of the time, all with just the press of a keyboard button.”
“Okay Dominic, I get it. But, why do you think I’m going to be able to get you these data programs?”
“George hid them on a server within Kaplan Ratcliff, which he was able to connect to via the net.”
“Why can’t you do the same?”
“It’s encrypted, and I don’t have the codes to decipher. The only way to access the information, is to collect it directly from the source.”
“And where did George keep them?”
“Well, that’s the easy part. Maxi told me he kept them saved on the back-up server...”
“The back-up server? That’s...”
“In your office, yes. All you need to do is access the server, and using SEARCH, type in ‘CHAMELEON’, followed by the second command: ‘Redivivus’.”
“Latin?”
“It hardly matters, but, if it truly interests you, it literally means ‘come back to life’. George destroyed everything, including all files relating to Project CHAMELEON. However, he embedded a number of hidden files which he needed to complete Sophie’s training. Maxi assured me that they would present themselves by using those over-ride codes.”
“Ingenious,” exclaimed Jennifer.
“Well... if it works, it will be,” said Dominic optimistically.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
Dominic was blown away by how fast the ‘kids’ were growing. A couple of days earlier they had appeared no older than five-years; now, stepping into the sleeping quarters, they had all radically changed, seemingly overnight. The loose clothing that they had slipped into on arriving was noticeably small now and splitting at the seams. No one was asleep. It was late-morning, close to lunch time. The boys – all identical-looking – sat on beds or milled around looking bored, gathering in small groups about the enormous room. It was certainly the largest dorm room he’d ever seen, housing over a hundred beds (with just ninety of them filled).
Next to Dominic, Malaxi Bacaunawa had crept into the room, all five feet two inches of him. Dressed in black jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, the martial arts trainer stopped intimately close to the overweight man.
A shrill, warbling sound from a whistle that dangled on a thin blue ribbon from Dominic’s neck echoed about the cavernous room, demanding attention. He removed the small silver sports’ whistle from his lips and allowed it to fall back to his chest.
Upon hearing the signal, the boys stood from their beds or hurried back to their dorm places, preparing themselves for inspection. With discipline, they stood to attention, forward facing, backs straight, arms by their sides.
“They are well trained,” observed Maxi, his voice soft but accent-rich. His eyes scanned the assembly. “And so young... how old?”
Dominic shrugged. “Age as from birth...? Or physically? They’ve been breathing approximately a month... but my guess is they have the bodies of six-and-a-half-year-olds. Or maybe seven now... I don’t know. I’m not good with kids’ ages. Yesterday I thought they were around five. I’m struggling to fathom it all.”
“Extraordinary,” said Maxi. “Even Sophie didn’t m
ature this rapidly. They could be fully-grown within a matter of weeks,” he asserted. “George is quite a brilliant man.”
“Was... George is dead,” said Dominic coldly.
“Dead? No... how?” Maxi had the stature of a twelve-year-old girl, and from behind could easily be mistaken for one. But Maxi’s face didn’t belong to a child, small or old. It was furrowed and, having seen many days, his skin was dry like paper and heavily wrinkled; the image that appeared to Dominic belonged to a wise man... but evidently not completely knowledgeable.
“Don’t you watch the news?”
Maxi shook his head. “I don’t watch television. It’s just soaps, reality shows or doom-and-gloom,” he said quietly. “See no evil; hear no evil... speak no evil. Makes for a far happier life.” It wasn’t the first time Dominic had heard that phrase in recent days. Elspeth had said it too.
“I can see the logic,” muttered Dominic disinterested. “Your old pal was killed last night it seems. Whilst he was sleeping.”
“How cowardly,” Maxi whispered sadly.
“Quite.” Dominic turned to the boys patiently standing to attention. Not one moved a muscle or gave the appearance of breathing.
“Initiates...” Dominic addressed the dormitory. “This is Grand Master Malaxi Bacaunawa... you will simply address him as ‘Master’.”
Maxi bowed slightly in acknowledgement.
“As far as you are concerned, he is your God. You will abide by his rules; you’ll talk, eat and sleep when he tells you. Master Bacaunawa will help you develop your... abilities and sensibilities, and hone your skills. There is no one in the world like him. I’m not going to lie, the coming weeks are going to be intense, insane and terribly difficult... but the rewards... oh the rewards... they will be beyond imagining...”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 7