“What the...” It hadn’t taken him long to realise who had planted it and for a while he had just sat, bewildered and feeling utterly miserable and betrayed. Although he was aware of the events unfolding across the pond in Fresno, his thoughts were momentarily elsewhere, and after an hour of deliberation he’d summoned Emily.
That meeting hadn’t gone at all well and had been left unfinished, interrupted by a call which Emily had deemed too important to ignore.
Ryan reached across his desk to the small listening device that he had tossed down in front of Emily, a physical accusation against her treachery. He studied it for a moment between his thumb and index finger before dropping it into a long-abandoned mug of coffee, a small ripple left upon the dark liquid’s surface.
Sweeping up the handset of his phone, he punched in a phone number and waited for his call to be answered.
“Yes...”
“Jennifer... it’s Ryan.”
“Well, well.... I thought we were done talking... you changed your tune.”
“We’ve been compromised; it turns out my office was bugged. I told you it was too dangerous to call me.”
“What happened?”
“My assistant, Emily. She suspected something...”
“Emily Porter?” Jennifer recalled demoting the woman from Assistant Intelligence Officer when she’d taken over as CEO at Kaplan Ratcliff after Tom Kaplan had died. She remembered the bespectacled woman had taken it spectacularly badly.
“She’s found out... about us... about everything. Damn it! I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it from her. It’s just a matter of time before Sophie learns of it.” Ryan suddenly burst into laughter that quickly subsided. “Then, we will have a problem! As it is, she believes I was responsible for her father’s death.” Ryan exhaled a long breath, emptying his lungs.
“And weren’t you?” She had heard the same thing. Dominic had suggested it.
“Of course not!” he sounded exasperated and slightly aggrieved.
Moving on, not interested the slightest in his protestations. “Does anybody else know?”
“No,” he hesitated, “I don’t think so.”
Jennifer went silent for a brief moment. “Listen Ryan, this changes nothing. You of all people knew that you wouldn’t be able to keep this totally under wraps. But you did say, when you agreed to us setting things in motion, that you could control it. As long as the Americans continue to believe their sons of GYGES are dead... things will be okay.
“You admitted you couldn’t take responsibility for them, not with all the heat, which is why you agreed for us to take them in the first place. It made sense. How d’you think MI6 would look if word got out that you were involved with their liberation? It would likely turn into an ugly, diplomatic mess!”
“Which is WHY I didn’t want you calling me in the first place! Jeez!” Ryan wasn’t happy with how things were freefalling. He was starting to feel how Marty Heywood must’ve felt just before he’d hit the ground. “I told you, my involvement, until the time is right, ended with my agreement with Dominic’s plan. Don’t forget, it’s in both our interests that MI6 remain in the dark regarding all this. For the long-term future.”
“And MI6 will. Relax. Is Emily going to be a problem? Because, if she is, I don’t care how close or who she is to you... we CAN do something about her.” There was a hint of menace in Jennifer’s voice. It was the same hint of intimidation she’d concluded their earlier telephone conversation with. That time she hadn’t allowed him the opportunity to retort. This time was different.
“You’ll do nothing regarding Emily, d’you hear? I’ll take care of her, she isn’t a problem,” stressed Ryan. “She isn’t a problem,” he insisted.
“That’s good then, I’ll leave her in your capable hands... but what about Sophie?”
“She’s still in America; I will speak with her... when I can.”
“You do that. In the meantime, you should know that we have some leverage... in case things get a little challenging. We really can do without her getting in the way.”
“Leverage? What d’you mean? What leverage?!” Slightly perturbed, Ryan needed to know what she meant.
“Oh, you know... the usual. Threats and blackmail.”
“None of that stuff would work on her... she’s lost both her parents, she’s programmed to withstand that sort of thing. Besides, there’s nothing left she cares about...” said Ryan emphatically and a little smug.
“No? What about Meredith and her brothers? Have you forgotten about them? Call yourself an Intelligence Analyst... you sometimes don’t come across as very bright.”
Ryan couldn’t help balk at Jennifer’s condescending manner. His back stiffened as he leant forward in his chair, almost as though he was speaking to her directly across the desk.
“Meredith and her brothers? She barely knows them,” said Ryan tersely.
“Sophie was with them the day her mother died in July.” Jennifer replied, challengingly. “She saved them at Willoughby Rising when Cooper disregarded Tom Kaplan’s orders and stormed the house after her. She was also with them the day she decided to head to America, leaving them with you to see them safely into their grandfather’s care. Yes, I know a lot about Sophie Jennings, so don’t tell me she doesn’t care for them!”
Accepting defeat, Ryan slumped back into his chair. “What are you going to do?” he meekly asked.
“Oh nothing... for now. But if need be, if our hand is forced, her mother’s fate awaits her siblings. Goodbye Ryan.”
Ryan found Emily in the small meeting room at the rear of the operations centre. The vertical blinds were drawn all along the glass partition wall, shielding her from distractions or outside intrusion. Her back was to Ryan as he stepped in. He closed the door behind him.
“Emily?” Ryan spoke softly, coaxingly. It was how he once spoke to Clara when she too was upset.
“Go away Ryan.” Emily was crying. Immediately after her call with Sophie, full understanding of Ryan’s deceit flooded her senses and engulfed her emotions. “I don’t want to talk to you. Not at the moment.”
“Emily... please... it’s not what you think.”
Emily turned to face her mentor, her father-figure, looking forlorn and crushed. He looked tired and withered, like an old man. She shook her head from side to side. “Not right now,” she implored. She had removed her glasses and her eyes were red. Moisture glistened on her cheeks. She daubed at one with a crumpled handkerchief.
“Dominic provided us with options, and Jennifer Ratcliff helped implement them,” Ryan started, oblivious to Emily’s refusal to hear him out. “MI6 couldn’t be seen to be complicit with the attack on American soil, or the destruction of George’s work,” he continued, “and taking those kids, that put us in a difficult spot. We couldn’t take them; we SHOULDN’T have taken them! I said as much, but Sophie wouldn’t listen. Dominic came up with the ideal solution, and Jennifer Ratcliff came on-board with the idea at his behest.
“He would take custody of them and be the scapegoat, the figurehead for blame, thus shielding us from involvement. It was perfect as Dominic was already a figure of interest to the US authorities, and it was the only way to get them out of America without causing a diplomatic crap-fest.”
She didn’t want to, but Emily listened. Gradually, her whole demeanour softened, like a weight or burden had been lifted. “Why... didn’t you tell me?” she asked in a tiny, deflated voice. “Don’t we have trust between us?”
Ryan sat down in a chair opposite the young woman. “Emily, it wasn’t that. Of course we have trust, please believe me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to get hurt; I was protecting you. This knowledge is dangerous. I just didn’t want you, or anyone else to be involved.”
Emily blew her nose noisily, straightening
herself up. She ran a hand through her dyed hair; the hair band that had kept it neat had fallen loose and was in her hand. “Okay, Ryan. If what you say is true, where are the kids now? Where’s Dominic?”
Ryan made to speak, and stopped. He made a face that Emily could tell meant that he didn’t know. The man’s eyes glazed over as he considered his answer.
“You haven’t the slightest clue, have you?” She started to laugh humourlessly.
“Jennifer and I have an understanding, an agreement. They will look after and finish the boys’ training, and when the time is right, they’ll be made exclusively available to us for clandestine operations. Where she is keeping them never came up, and I didn’t want to know to be honest.”
“You genuinely believe your agreement − her word − is worth something?”
“I’ve known Jennifer Ratcliff a long time,” Ryan answered timidly, hoping it was justification enough.
“And you believe everything you are told in the spy business? I thought you knew better!” Emily spoke harshly.
Her words and tone stung him. “What other choice did I have?” he pleaded. “Sophie refused to carry out my orders. The sons of GYGES were to be eliminated, you know that; along with George’s work. Her conscience failed the mission, and as a result forced us to improvise. I did what was best for all concerned.”
“Right. And having George Jennings killed, was that what was best for ‘all concerned’?” Seizing the moment, Emily decided it was time to bring Sophie’s shared suspicion out into the open.
“Now you listen! I had absolutely nothing to do with George’s death. NOTHING! You can believe me, or not. But I’m telling you, Marty was working independently, for whatever his reasons. I told him, under no uncertain terms, that Sophie’s father wasn’t to be harmed. I don’t know what he was playing at, contraire to what he may have said, or implied.” Ryan was shaking with anger, his cheeks were flushed and a vein stood out on his forehead.
Emily knew Ryan like no other and saw that he was telling the truth. Lightly, she stepped over to the man and laid a hand on his arm, smoothly caressing it. “Okay, Ryan,” she whispered. “I believe you. But it’s not me you’re going to need to convince.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophie
The Chinese man had been the most helpful person she had encountered in all her time in the States; the Alpha Omicron Pi sorority girls who had given her a lift into Washington came a close second.
Imparting a little bit about himself, Sophie had learnt that he had lost his eyesight one evening eleven years ago when he had worked in a small convenience store. He had been all that stood in the way of a masked robber and the cash register. Despite making no protest and giving the thief what he had demanded − a till full of dollar bills − the thug had clobbered him hard on the back of his head, fracturing his skull and causing a bleed in the occipital lobe part of his brain. When he awoke from a coma three months later he discovered he could no longer see.
“The wors’ par’ is, I lose job... and dignity as well. No one wants a blind Chinaman serving in shop. No way to feed family... family now gone,” he spoke sadly, which made Sophie feel pity for him.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. She felt the need to say something.
“Why?” he asked. “I’m fine... you, much worse! Police hunt you and you lost. Plus you English. Terrible shame. I’m just blind.” He started to laugh. “You much worse,” he repeated.
“How can you know all that?”
“I hear,” he said. “And smell. Plus your accent...”
Sophie didn’t pursue the matter, accepting his explanation. “Can you help me?” she asked. “I need to get out of Fresno, and back to England.”
“Sure,” he said exuberantly, it came out as sshhurrre, slow and elaborate.
Half an hour later and she was winding her way through the Santa Fe Passenger Depot on Tulare Street, just across from Fresno City Hall. Invisibly she hurdled a barrier of turnstiles that ordinarily required a ticket to navigate through, and hurried towards the platform area where the train she needed was expected to depart from. The Amtrak station had two train lines, but only one was used for passenger services; the side platform, south of the station where the train was due, was packed with passengers.
The San Joaquin train rolled into the station almost immediately as Sophie jostled through the waiting travellers, startling and eliciting yelps and agitated comments, all oblivious to her actual physical presence.
To get to Las Vegas, the Chinese man had explained she would need to get off the train at Bakersfield and use a throughway connection bus that would then take her to Las Vegas Municipal Airport, but only after a good number of stoppages beforehand. Sophie had thanked him with an embrace, leaving him outside the station’s entrance to make his own way back to wherever he had been going. She started to feel bad that she hadn’t asked for his name.
The journey time − with transfers, waiting around and travelling − amounted to a little less than ten hours, and included an overnight commute.
It was still dark when she stepped from the bus the following morning. To avoid alerting anyone to her presence she allowed the other travellers to leave first. It wasn’t enough; somebody did notice her.
The driver, studying his reflection in the rear-view mirror, noticed the young blonde-haired woman walk towards him through the aisle between the two columns of seats. She was pretty, he thought, and it dawned on him as she approached; he couldn’t remember her boarding his coach, and with so few passengers and her cute appearance, there was no way he would’ve forgotten her.
He decided to ask to see her ticket.
“Ah, Miss....” he started to turn around. “Can I see your...” his question evaporated as he saw that the girl was no longer there. “Damn, I must be going mad...” he muttered to himself. He put it down to it having been a long night and the fact that he was tired. “I need to get m’self some coffee,” he said, closing the doors of the bus and setting the vehicle back in motion.
Sophie was relieved to leave America three hours later, slipping unseen and unchallenged through security, helping herself to an assortment of food stuff from a breakfast bar (she was literally starving having not eaten since the flight from Miami) and passing through the boarding gate onto the 7:30 a.m. Virgin Atlantic flight destined for London Gatwick. All seats in economy and premium economy class were full, but Sophie took one of the nine empty seats in upper class, a seat towards the front of the cabin, closest to the cockpit, and least obtrusive. Not reclining the seat to avoid drawing attention to her presence, she curled up in the spacious chair and went to sleep for much of the eleven hour transatlantic flight. It felt like the best sleep she’d ever had.
The window of the ground floor apartment in Grampian House was boarded up and graffiti had been sprayed across it without any artistic talent, a series of crude images and harsh lettering in blacks, blues and luminous pinks and yellows. Sophie mentally sighed at the ghastly sight. It looked entirely how she felt; neglected and miserable.
In contrast to California, London was dreary, wet and depressing and Sophie was sodden through, still wearing the jeans and T-shirt she’d donned before her flight from Miami to Fresno, her hair matted dark and hanging shaggily to the sides of her face. Had she not been invisible, her image would have brought about comments and gained her unwanted consideration.
The last time Sophie had walked the path that led to the dark-blue entrance door allowing access to her former home, the world had been an entirely different place. It was hard to believe it had been only three months since she was last here. So much had changed in her life, including her. Mentally and, more especially, physically. No longer sixteen in appearance she was fully developed and had the stature and world-weariness of a more mature person.
A discrete piece of mortar between a bri
ck and the windowsill gained Sophie’s attention. Despite being unseen and the earliness of the day (it was still dark), she checked all around her before she stepped through the small shrub just below the window and reached down carefully, fingers probing purposefully for the mortar she knew concealed the keys to the entrance and apartment doors, hidden there by her father. Plucking the keys out, she replaced the mortar and walked back to the short path leading up to the doorway. She climbed the two small steps.
Inserting the key she half-expected to find that the lock had been changed. But no, luck for once was on her side, and the door swung open easily and invitingly. Across the threshold, a little further past her father’s apartment door, were some stairs that led to the neighbours’ apartments above. There were three in total, but she knew none of them. They, like her father, had kept to themselves.
Sophie took a deep breath and walked blindly into the hallway, relieved to get out of the rain. She closed the door behind her and approached the once familiar front door.
A memory leapt to mind from when she was last here in the apartment. She could almost hear the sounds that went with it, close like the fabric of her wet clothing.
They had been standing right here where I am, when my world took a downward turn...
Sophie could hear the sound of the lock being picked by the intruders who had entered the building, who had been intent on killing or capturing her. She had been within the living room of the apartment when they had come, having let herself out of the panic room shortly after her father had left.
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 16