“British?” the guard enquired on hearing her voice a moment before receiving Sophie’s burgundy passport.
“Yes...” Sophie tried an endearing smile which faltered on seeing the CCTV screen on the security guard’s desk. Sophie’s image was staring out from it, the frame frozen for biometric analysis.
The guard checked the passport and ticket and smiled. “Where in England are you from?” He was studying the passport.
“London... originally,” Sophie heard herself say nervously. For a terrible moment she feared her passport stated her birth place as somewhere else. She couldn’t remember. Her heart was thumping hard in her chest and suddenly she felt nauseous.
The guard handed Sophie her passport and tickets back. “Have a safe flight to Fresno Mrs Mason,” he said with a warm smile.
Chapter Thirteen
Brayden
It was a tired cliché and originally a hit song for Dinah Washington back in 1959, but ‘what a difference a day makes’ were the words that came to Brayden as he returned his mobile phone to his trouser pocket. He’d just disconnected the call from Deputy Director Calland at Langley and was pacing the room, unsure as to whether to be angry or elated. Milo Calland had given him the ‘great news’ that he had been selected to head a joint CIA/FBI detail headed to London on orders from the White House. Moments before calling him, Milo had returned from his meeting with the President and he wanted to brief him as swiftly as he could.
“I don’t want to go back to England... it’s cold and always raining,” he asserted. “I have allergies, and... and... it’s full of the English! I can’t go; I won’t go!” He winced at how petulant he had sounded as he feebly protested.
“I have my orders Agent... as do you.” Milo stated and terminated the call, ending further argument. Brayden was in an office Captain Will Hancote had temporarily commandeered upon arrival at Guantanamo Bay. His ship, the USS Princeton, was docked in the bay with most of his crew on board, though some were on land checking out the recreational facilities GITMO offered, such as McDonalds. The Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser was easily seen from the second floor window and a number of naval seamen were busy at work out on deck.
Hancote was sitting behind the desk. “You look a little agitated,” he said. Before Milo Calland’s call the two of them had been making small talk. It was late in the day and neither had better things to do except wait for further commands and share a bottle of whisky that Hancote had found buried beneath a pile of papers in the bottom drawer.
“Is it that obvious?” Brayden snapped.
Hancote raised his hand in mock-surrender and reached for his glass. He sipped the liquid neat, and winced at the fiery taste. An uneasy silence descended upon the room. Brayden walked to the window behind Hancote’s desk and stared out towards the ocean. Although it was nearing 7:00 p.m. it was still light enough to see, although the sun had recently set.
The telephone on the desk began to ring its electronic warble. Subtle and quiet, the previous occupant of the office clearly hated the intrusion of sudden, abrupt noises. The captain scooped up the receiver, answering it by just saying his surname. “Hancote...”
It was switchboard located elsewhere within the compound. “Captain… I have Lance Corporal Raul Martinez on the line for you... he says it’s urgent.”
“He asked for me specifically?” grunted Hancote. In his free hand he roiled the small amount of whisky left in the glass.
“Well no, sir... but he said he had someone in custody I thought you might be interested in. Someone by the name of Mitch Youngs?”
Without any hesitation Hancote asked her to patch him through. A couple of sharp crackles on the line filled his ear before a Hispanic voice sounded.
“Lance Corporal Martinez... tell me, is it true you have that sorry sack of faecal matter in your keeping?”
Brayden peered back round to where the captain was sitting, his interest stirred.
“It’s the damnedest thing. A civilian car pulls up outside the north perimeter fence and this white dude with a strange accent climbs out. ‘Tell whoever’s in charge I have a gift for you’, he says to us. I’m with Pillegi, and we both are wonderin’ what’s he on about? Then he goes to the back of his car and drags out this sweaty bald guy who’s a little banged up − a real sight for sore eyes.”
“Is this a long story?” asked Hancote seriously.
Ignoring the comment, Martinez continued, “The dude brings him up to the fence. ‘Courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,’ he says. It’s only the son-bitch who kills that guy here this mornin’. I recognises him from the bulletin my NCO briefed earlier.” Actually, he recognised him from when he’d let Mitch slip past the border fence, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
It was Brayden’s belief that for every pound of bad luck there came a pound of good luck, akin to Newton’s third law: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. A bit of ‘ying’ and ‘yang’ or ‘rough’ with ‘smooth’. Learning that Mitch Youngs had been apprehended and in their custody certainly enhanced his mood, so much so that he had all but forgotten his pending trip to London, adopting a definite skip in his step as he left Hancote to his office and his whisky.
Hitching a lift from a Private in a Jeep, Brayden speedily arrived at the building where Mitch was being transported, but had as yet to arrive. Known as Penny Lane, it had recently been prepared for George Jennings’ stay before his collapse forced alternative arrangements; it was good and ready for a new inmate.
Now George was dead and the man responsible was going to spend time imprisoned in his place. A further example of ‘ying’ and ‘yang’ thought Brayden.
A short convoy of vehicles kicked up a dust cloud which followed them close behind. It was now almost dark and headlamps from the procession glowed brightly, illuminating their progress as they drew near.
The first vehicle to arrive was a Humvee. It stopped a short distance from where Brayden was standing. Four military policemen climbed out as another Jeep escorting at the rear and a white van transporting the prisoner travelling in the middle came to a halt.
One of the MPs opened the side-panel door, sliding it aside with a grunt. He climbed up into the van to retrieve its only occupant, slouched in a heap against a corner at the back, his hands cuffed and his feet shackled. He dragged him to his feet and shoved him out into the waiting arms of a second MP. The other two stood close by with their hands resting menacingly on holstered side arms.
Brayden stepped forward from the shadows and approached the prisoner being jostled forward.
“Hello Mitch,” said Brayden. “I never thought I’d ever say this... but, I’m actually happy to see you. Really I am.” Brayden smiled, seemingly exposing all of his teeth; they glowed in dusk’s dimness.
“I bet,” muttered Mitch beneath his breath. The chains clasped around his ankles jangled as he shuffled past, an MP guiding him into the building where armed guards stood by the door.
“Check him into his ‘hotel’. Make sure he has enough ‘pillows’,” Brayden chuckled. He retrieved his mobile and was pressing it up to his ear. “I’ll let the President know the good news,” he said cheerily, loud enough for Mitch to hear as he disappeared into the detention facility.
He pressed a hot-key on his phone and waited.
“Calland...”
“Milo... It’s Brayden...”
“You calling to berate me some more on my decision to send you to London?”
“I’m past that, no sir; we’ve got him!” Brayden walked towards one of the vehicles that had escorted Mitch’s van.
“What?”
“We have Mitch Youngs. He’s locked up and being tucked up in bed for the night...” Brayden gave a short account of what had happened.
“Do we know who the Good Samaritan was?” asked th
e Deputy Director.
“British Intelligence I’m guessing, from the description given; we didn’t get a chance to question him further,” said Brayden. “What do you want done with Youngs?”
Calland gave the question a moment’s thought. “I know how much you love the guy; let him experience the delights of Guantanamo for a few days. Have him questioned; don’t be soft on him, tell base interrogators. After, we’ll have him transferred to Langley. He’ll be tried and charged for treason; his sentence will be the death penalty. The President will motion for it to be swift...”
“Do you want me to oversee all this?”
“Nice try Brayden... I know you’d love to hold his hand through to the end; no, London still beckons for you I’m afraid. I’ve expedited your mission... it’s imperative we locate and apprehend Dominic Schilling. I’ve chartered a flight to take you to Utah where you’ll meet your detail.”
Brayden sighed. “Detail? Okay... when?”
“Tomorrow. Your new partner will be waiting for you at Hill Air Base. She will brief you on the rest.”
“Partner? She? I thought I was heading this detail on my own.” Brayden made no effort to hide the torment or disappointment from his tone.
“Agent Mullins is very accomplished. You’ll like her.”
“Is she attractive?”
Calland ignored the comment. “She’s also a junior pro-wrestler,” he said, as though it mattered. “I’ll speak to you again when you are in London in a day or two. Don’t forget to take an umbrella!” The Deputy Director terminated the call. Brayden kept the phone pressed to his ear for a little longer as he deliberated over what had just been said.
Early the following morning, Captain Hancote was shaking him by the hand as the Sikorsky Seahawk helicopter landed on an expanse of bare land just behind the main detention building. A side door opened outwards and a Navy officer stepped out.
“I’ve arranged transport to Puerto Rico. From there, Calland has chartered a plane for Utah. Good luck Agent Scott...”
Brayden took his hand back, nodded and turned away. The rotor blades of the helicopter buffeted him as he jogged towards the aircraft, ruffling his hair and lifting up the flaps of his suit jacket. Climbing into the helicopter, he was handed a set of earphones. No sooner were the doors of the Seahawk closed, the helicopter hurriedly took off, jostling Brayden from side to side in his seat.
Everything went pretty much according to plan. The Naval aircraft landed on a helipad within Muñiz Air Force base at San Juan, Puerto Rico shortly before 7:30 a.m. Less than 400 yards away was a runway upon which a Gulfstream G650 business jet aeroplane waited take-off. The twin-engines of the aircraft were powering-up and preparing for flight even before the Seahawk had appeared on the horizon. Brayden’s transfer between aircraft was swift in a jog, and within five minutes he was airborne again with a drink (warm diet coke) in one hand and a sandwich (ham and pickle) in the other.
The flight time to Utah was just shy of five hours. It had been a long, exhausting day. An hour into the flight, Brayden reclined his seat and closed his eyes to get some sleep having slept very little over the past forty-eight hours and thinking that when he awoke he would be at his destination.
Sometime later, whilst flying above Mount Elbert in Colorado, the highest summit of the Rocky Mountains, the captain piloting the Gulfstream received fresh instructions, together with a new set of co-ordinates by order of the Deputy Director of the CIA. The jet aeroplane continued towards Utah, but instead of descending to land, it carried on further, flying past into Nevada and beyond, towards California.
At 1:15 p.m. the jet aeroplane that Milo Calland had chartered landed smoothly on the secondary runway at Fresno Yosemite International Airport, taxiing its length to come to a halt outside the passenger terminal, a modern building built in 2010 and currently handling close to one-and-a-half million passengers every year.
Brayden stirred within his reclined seat, a bit of dribble escaping the side of his mouth. As the Gulfstream started to power down, a flight assistant unbuckled her seatbelt and crossed to where the CIA agent was sleeping. Tall, dark-haired and wearing a lot of make-up, she gently shook his arm to rouse him.
“We’ve landed Agent Scott,” she said softly. Her voice was without accent.
“Hmmm?” Brayden had been enjoying his sleep. Initially he was disorientated and a little groggy, as though hungover. Feeling the moisture on his chin, he back-handed it away. “Where am I?” he asked sleepily just as cognisance began to seep through. “Are we in Utah already?” A glance through the window confirmed it was after noon and a number of aircraft were taking-off or landing around him.
“No sir,” said the flight attendant casually. Her name was Carol, Brayden had asked for it when she’d served him refreshments shortly into their flight; she’d given it freely with a smile.
It wasn’t all she would have given, he mused. He knew the type.
“Fresno,” Carol said in an off-hand manner, seeing the puzzled look cross the agent’s face.
“Fresno?” Brayden sat upright, slightly perturbed. “What the hell?!”
“Calm down Agent Scott... new orders came in from the Deputy Director whilst you were sleeping. He’s instructed you call him right away.”
Brayden checked his watch, confirming it was after noon. The time was actually 1:20 p.m. “It better be good,” he said, disgruntled, although not entirely dissatisfied with the delay in going to London.
“I hope so,” replied Carol, a hint of annoyance in her voice that she did nothing to explain. “He’s expecting your call.” Carol left Brayden fumbling to retrieve his phone from his pocket. He squeezed it out between the folds of the bunched-up material of his trouser leg and speed-dialled his superior.
Milo Calland answered almost immediately. “Y’ello?”
“It’s Brayden,” he said. “I’m in Fresno... what-the-hell’s this about?”
“We had a change of plan... it’s a bit of a diversion but it’s something that should appeal to your ego.”
“Go on...”
“Operation Shakespeare is still ongoing, and we’ve had some good intel. The FBI believes they’ve found our girl.”
Brayden’s interest went up a degree. “Sophie? You sure?” He was out of his chair and reaching for his jacket which the flight assistant had stowed in an overhead holdall.
“Biometric scanning at Miami Airport alerted us; she was clearing security to board a flight to Fresno, California. The image was flagged on the FBI’s facial recognition tracker; they’ve had algorithms searching all security and surveillance cameras through the whole of North America since the Dulles Airport incident. Further analysis here at Langley gave a 97% match. It’s her, we’re certain of it. She’s travelling under the guise of Mrs Sophie Mason and has a travelling companion, Mr Barry Mason. We can assume his is an alias also.”
“What do you want me to do?” Brayden spoke with a tinge of excitement in his voice.
“Her inbound flight from Miami is due to land in approximately one hour. We are co-ordinating a joint operation with the FBI in apprehending her − AND her accomplice − and have been communicating with the pilot of their plane. This should be a slam-dunk operation. Nothing can go wrong...”
“Those famous last words,” said Brayden, knowing too well that nothing was ever quite that easy. “Okay, where do I go?” He was standing impatiently at the exit waiting for the flight attendant to allow him to disembark.
Carol twisted a lever on the exit door which dropped out and doubled as a set of steps, and stood aside allowing Brayden to pass. As he walked by he blew a kiss using his free hand. She just smiled brightly.
“Agent Mullins will meet you there and tell you the rest; she got an earlier flight from Utah,” Calland said. “She’s your new partner.”
At the bo
ttom of the steps leading out of the Gulfstream jet aircraft, a woman in her late twenties stood waiting; long brown hair with caramel streaks, and tied in a tail. She wore a small amount of makeup, but hardly enough to notice. Mirrored sunglasses were perched over the bridge of her nose giving her face a casual-look, but the attire she wore looked very official, businesslike. White blouse, black skirt and matching blazer; she looked like typical FBI or law-enforcement. The bulge to the right of her waist gave the telltale sign that she had a weapon holstered at her hip.
“Thanks... I see her.” Brayden disconnected the call and re-pocketed his mobile as he ascended the short staircase.
Chapter Fourteen
Ryan
Emily Porter burst into Ryan’s office shortly after 8:00 a.m. eager to share the latest development. A cursory glance was enough to confirm that the man seated behind the desk had not − as she had done − gone home the night before, which she established simply by his unkempt appearance and lack in change of clothing.
Without prompting Emily sat down and provided the reason for her sudden appearance. “It’s Alby Goodall... we’ve found him!”
“Thank God! Where? Is he...?” Alive. He was relieved and afraid to ask, both at the same time.
“He was found tied up and gagged at the back of a pub, next to a pharmacy in Brampton, nine miles east of Carlisle. He was unconscious and badly beaten, but other than that his prognosis is good. Emergency services have taken him to Carlisle’s A&E. The local constabulary are currently investigating and his wife and family have been informed.”
“Good, good. I’m glad he’s going to be okay. What of Dominic... any news?”
Emily shook her head. “We’ve not located the plane, either. Our leads are cold. We’re working on the assumption that Dominic had Alby dumped far from his whereabouts, probably in an attempt to thwart our manhunt. We’re indirectly working with the local police.... but, so far,” she shrugged, “no witnesses, and no surveillance footage. A camera at the rear of the pub had been vandalised and the one within the pharmacy next door didn’t capture anything. Dominic’s disappearance is too perfect to be opportunistic; it was meticulously planned and orchestrated. He needed to have had help.” Emily looked agitated. Something bothered her but she couldn’t pinpoint it. “Ryan, I think he played us for a load of old fools.”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 9