Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
Leaving Barry behind was not the hardest thing she had ever done; stepping away from her mother’s dead body, crumpled and bloody by the side of a road was much worse. But, she had to admit, Barry came a close second.
Hardly a day passed without her thinking about her birth mother. She feared the image of her lifeless, blood-stained corpse would haunt her for the whole of her life (which for Sophie could be a very long time). Already her sleep was tormented by visions of Harriet, often visiting with accusations of blame, feeding from the guilt that Sophie felt. On the positive side she considered, at least she rarely dreamt of her father ‘rescuing’ her from the burning laboratory; his posting of the gun into the bin by the bus stop had been blanked from memory until Ryan had revealed her father to be a traitor. Then she’d remembered all the heinous details all too clearly. She blinked back the memories to focus on the task at hand.
As she stepped out from the shadow of the last hangar, separated over a short distance from any other building by a strip of land where planes and vehicles sat parked, the sound of sirens continued to scream from a short distance away. A quick look to her left, she picked out the Boeing − now stationary − which she had leapt from, and the retinue of emergency vehicles that had been despatched to deal with the event and more significantly, to greet her. Half a dozen were now speeding up the landing strip towards her; official government-issue black vehicles leading the way. Despite the cover invisibility afforded her, Sophie felt exposed like a nudist at a Bar Mitzvah as she started jogging towards the terminal building five hundred metres ahead of her.
Seconds later and the cavalcade of law-enforcement vehicles sped past, the sirens no longer warbling but their flashing light-bars maintaining their urgency. Taking a swift sideward glance as she ran, she caught sight of the man in the passenger seat in the leading black Sedan. He was looking out, scanning the vast range, seemingly as though he believed he possessed the ability to see her. And for a heartbeat, the man’s eyes met hers and Sophie was almost convinced he could.
There was no way for her to know that this man had played a significant part in her life, or his involvement in the events that led to the deaths of both her parents; an eye-blink later he was gone. Yet, in all their close dealings, this was the first time Sophie had clocked eyes on him.
From the comparatively short distance, she could see that the agent had tidy, blond hair − slightly darker than hers − styled with a side parting, and blue eyes. Completing his look, he had the firm ‘all-American’ jaw-line, the type that wouldn’t appear out of place on a Levi jeans model. Sophie continued to run towards the terminal building, her strides getting bigger as she closed in, thoughts of Barry creeping into mind as it became obvious that the Sedan, the two SUVs and the black and white police cars, were heading his way.
There was no time. She would dwell on him later.
Sophie skirted the control tower building and sprinted past the airport’s fire station, acknowledging an empty space from where one of the fire trucks had driven out to the Boeing 737 as a precaution, though the fire-fighters remained seated within the vehicle. Seconds later and she was a handful of yards from the exterior of the passenger terminal, its long glass-panelled wall stretching between two buildings; the first structure to Sophie’s right, was where ticketing, security and baggage claim were stationed; the other to Sophie’s left, was where boarding gates nine through to fifteen were located.
Within the length of the corridor joining the two were boarding gates one through to eight, though only gates six and eight were accessible via Sophie’s side; she easily identified them by the large numerals printed in black on a white background above the doors.
Sophie turned to run towards gate number six. An aircraft was parked nearby and airport personnel were busy loading and refuelling or doing safety checks, none the wiser to her presence.
Half-heartedly she tried opening the door. As expected it was locked from the inside. Quickly, she assessed the perimeter for possible ways to access the building, eyes darting to-and-fro, looking for any opportunity of ingress.
“I know,” she said, an idea forming. She ran off towards an engineer dressed in a dark-blue, grease-stained coverall. He was leaning into the back of a white van, stretching in to retrieve or replace a toolbox. “Excuse me,” she said.
Hearing her voice the engineer turned sharply, only to find nobody there.
Must be hearing things, he thought, and was about to return to what he was doing when, from nowhere, Sophie struck him. Taking him totally unaware, he felt the hard blow connect to the side of his neck.
Sophie deftly caught him as he collapsed unconscious, and hurriedly dragged him into the back of his van.
“Sorry,” she whispered, checking his carotid pulse as she gently laid him down.
From the toolbox she removed a large retractable spanner. It was black with grease and rusty with age and felt heavy in her grip. She tested it with an arcing swing. “This’ll do.”
Stepping out of the van, she pushed the door and secured it closed after her.
Quickly assessing the best way into the terminal, Sophie found herself wandering towards the main building where baggage claim was situated, and the disquieting knowledge that it was also where border security could be found.
As she had expected − and came prepared for − the emergency exit doors had no physical way of opening from the outside. Built within the glass facade of the long corridor-stretch of the terminal, joining the main departure terminal building, the double-doors were steel-framed with glass panels at the top and bottom, and secured firmly from the inside. Sophie could see the easy-to-operate opening bar from where she was standing, tantalising and teasingly close, and could read the basic ‘push here’ instruction printed on the bar, even though it was upside-down.
Furtively, as though expecting someone might be watching her, Sophie swung the spanner forcefully against the top pane of the nearest door, smashing the glass noisily, sending large shards to rain down on the other side. Without stopping, she struck the jagged, barbed spikes of glass that remained in the door with the spanner, using a circular, anti-clockwise motion. In a moment, the frame was clear from any sharp protuberances.
Still holding the spanner, Sophie reached through the gap to the push-down bar, and applied some pressure. The door swung open outwards and she stepped aside to allow a gap, before walking through, glass crunching underfoot.
Within the terminal corridor, puzzled onlookers stood about gazing at the smashed window and the open emergency door; others continued walking showing no interest, though mindful of the broken glass. No one was alarmed as nobody could see Sophie.
Leaving the spanner, she walked deeper into the building, heading away towards a door marked Authorised Personnel Only, secured by an electronic key card reader. Almost dismissing it out of hand, she made to progress towards the terminal’s security clearance section, ignoring the airport’s ‘No Entry’ signs. Just as she stepped forward, the door marked Authorised Personnel Only opened out and two airport staff entered the corridor.
Hastily, she charged across to the slowly closing door, stretching herself to keep it open so that she could slip through the shortening gap.
The corridor beyond was short and narrow and allowed permitted staff to bypass security. The door at the other end exited into the ‘Welcome Hall’ of the terminal building, the glass roof allowing shimmering natural light to fill the room. A large public reception with shops, fast-food outlets, ticket-booths, waiting areas and baggage check-in desks awaited her.
The airport was busy with passengers milling about; men, women, children − old and young − bustled from one place to another, anxious or excited, pulling suitcases on wheels or pushing trolleys laden with piles of luggage and handbags. Armed policemen walked around in pairs nu
rsing automatic weapons on shoulder straps. She counted eight of them around the big, brightly-lit foyer. She couldn’t be sure, but she expected that there were likely plainly clothed officers on patrol, discretely operating amongst the swarms of travellers.
Sophie crossed to a signboard upon which an internal map of the airport was displayed. Expeditiously, she scanned the map for the locker areas. A key indicated there were four of them... all situated on the second floor, a mezzanine area that could be seen from where she stood, overlooking the hall from the back and both sides, like a spectator stand in a concert hall.
Hurriedly, she charged through the crowd of people to an escalator, bumping one or two and knocking someone clear off their feet.
“Hey!” a large woman yelled from the floor, not seeing who, or where, the person who’d barged her was.
“Watch-it!” another exclaimed in surprise.
At the top of the escalator, a restaurant area met Sophie. Not being seen, a number of patrons jostled and knocked into her back, grunting and cursing from the hidden obstacle. Oblivious and barely moved, she read the directional signs hanging from the ceiling. None pointed to the locker areas.
“They won’t be hard to find...” she muttered, moving away from the escalator and the multitude of franchise-based eateries.
The first locker area she came to was identified as: ‘Two (1-400)’, placed in the corner of the raised level. Sophie guessed, if she followed the floor round, the locker’s area numbered ‘one’ would likely be found.
Instead, she turned back and entered the dining area full of Americans eating and drinking fast-food purchases. At the end of the concourse was a less-densely populated area that led to locker area advertised as: ‘Three (1-400)’.
“Bingo,” said Sophie quietly in triumph to herself. However, the elation was short-lived as the whoop and jangle of the airport’s emergency alarm began to sound through the ceiling speakers, accompanied by an announcement over the PA by a member of Fresno Yosemite’s security team:
“For reasons of security and passenger safety, a state of emergency has been invoked. The airport is in complete lockdown, and we ask that you all remain calm and stay where you are until further notice. On behalf of Fresno Yosemite International Airport, we thank you for your assistance at this time...”
Sophie sighed, exclaiming “Great!” under her breath. “What is it with alarms?!” With a little more urgency, she ran to the locker area and began searching for her father’s depository, numbered three-three-one-one (or simply 311, as the first digit related to the area and not the locker itself).
Metallic-grey in colour with electronic combination keypads, the lockers came in two sizes; small − just large enough for a backpack; and big − allowing enough space for a suitcase (upright) or a golf trolley. They appeared in rows from left to right, in numbered order.
There were four aisles with one hundred lockers to an aisle (fifty on one side, fifty on the other). Sophie quickly ascertained that her father’s deposit box was situated within the fourth and last aisle in the locker section, and it didn’t take her too long to locate it. Situated at shoulder height, George had hired one of the smaller of the two types of storage closets.
“Three-one-one...” she said, running a finger over the number that was engraved and highlighted in white within a blue background that surrounded the combination lock. Her father’s final communication with her had been scrawled on a piece of paper which the nurse, Katherine, had given to her the day before. At first, totally meaningless, but Emily had done her thing and concluded that it was a combination code.
A code for this, her father’s locker.
“Here goes nothing...” She jabbed an invisible index-finger at the keypad, punching in digits. Corresponding numbers flashed up on the small LCD screen above the combination keypad, like digits on a calculator: 8-8-0-5-1.
A slight, muffled ‘click’ came from behind the metal door, releasing it to glide smoothly open an inch. Anxiously, Sophie took the edge of the square door and opened it out fully. Peering in she could see the item her father had left her.
An aluminium attaché briefcase, secured by two latches either side of a small black handle fitted into its side, had been placed towards the back of the locker. Sophie reached in and slipped it out far enough to be able to inspect it, noticing the latches were locked with a further combination mechanism, these ones mechanical and comprising of four numbered dials.
“Okay dad... I’m guessing you want me to open this thing... so this should be simple.” Sophie eased the four dials on each latch to read one-six-zero-four. The day and month of her birth date, the same sequence of numbers she remembered George had used to secure the floor safe back at their old apartment in Chelsea. Guessing correctly, when she pressed the small release buttons the latches popped up. Silently, nervously, she lifted it open, unsure of what to expect.
There were just two objects inside the briefcase.
The first item was a gun, which − she checked − was fully loaded; she slipped it into the waistband of her jeans.
The second item was an A4 manila envelope that contained something that appeared bulky. The package bulged at the centre. Sophie lifted it out and upended it, pouring the contents gently out into the palm of her hands.
A thumb drive lightly slipped out first, about two-and-a-half-inches in length and approximately a centimetre thick. She quickly concealed it within a pocket. Tilting the envelope further, the item causing the package to distend most fell out more heavily and she carefully caught it; a glass vial of blue liquid, slightly larger than the ones she was accustomed to (and which she had left behind on the aeroplane) disappeared within her grasp. On closer inspection she would think the liquid looked a lot like mouthwash. A folded piece of paper had been wrapped around the small bottle, held in place with a red elastic band.
Sophie pulled free the piece of paper and unfolded it, laying it on the shelf of the small closet so as to see it. There were only a few words scrawled across it, but she recognised the handwriting.
Her father’s: A remedy to your predicament... drink me!
It brought to mind Alice in Wonderland and the small potion bottle which Alice drank to make her shrink to fit through the small door.
She scrunched up the paper and slipped it, together with the glass bottle, into the other pocket of her denim leggings. Just before discarding what felt like an empty envelope, she noticed something else within it. Poking her fingers into the manila pouch she teased the glossy piece of paper out. It was upside down but she couldn’t fail to recognise one of the faces in the photograph.
The man that was George Jennings. Her father.
Sophie turned the picture the right way up and studied the faces captured within it.
George Jennings was smiling and looked happy. He had his arm around the shoulders of someone else, a woman who appeared familiar. She was pretty and younger than her father, and looked very comfortable within his enclosed arm. It wasn’t her mother, and the photo didn’t look too old. On the reverse was scribbled what appeared to be an address:
Norská 561/10, 101 00 Praha, Czech Republic.
Although curious, Sophie had no time to give it further heed, the intensifying wail of the alarms accentuating her plight. “Later,” she whispered, folding the photo into quarters and placing it into the pocket where the thumb drive was stored. From the corner of an eye she saw purposeful movement; she couldn’t see who it was, but dark figures shuffled about across the other side of the mezzanine floor. Dextrously, she swept up the gun (a Glock 19, which pleased her) and retraced her steps back towards the dining hall.
Almost taking her invisibility for granted, Sophie stopped herself at the end of the locker area as she spied a man dressed completely in black and brandishing a machine gun. Purposefully, he walked around a corner. With him facin
g away from her she could read his unit’s identifier printed across his back in large white capital letters: S W A T.
Special Weapons And Tactics.
“Shit,” she uttered in frustration. She doubted he was going to be alone. Peering around the final locker, Sophie took a longer look at the specialist law enforcement officer, groaning inwardly on seeing the ocular apparatus strapped to his face just below his armoured helmet.
Infrared/thermal goggles.
I guess that confirms they’re not here looking for somebody else... she mused. Taking comfort from the gun in her right hand, she assessed the situation, her eyes darting from one place to another, devising an escape route and a proposed course of action. From where she was standing she could see from the over-hang down into the airport’s reception hall, more than a dozen SWAT officers had joined the armed policemen patrolling; together they fanned out and were shepherding people away from the doors.
Through the glass entrance windows, splashes of red and blue from black and white police cruisers oscillated across the threshold; Sophie could see that the doors were closed − likely locked − and guarded by police officers on the outside.
No one else was getting in and it would appear, no one was going to be getting out.
“Shit, shit, shit!” As though nursing a headache, she pressed her left hand against her temple and closed her eyes. She was trying to think but the noise from the continuous braying of the alarm was hindering her. Com’on damn-it! Think!
At the top of the escalator another SWAT officer appeared, he began to walk towards her locker area. The situation was getting less stable by the second and she knew time was running out for her. If she was to survive this, she was going to have to take a risk and move, and move very soon.
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 12