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

by Philip J. Gould

  “It’s nothing,” Barry replied, closing his eyes, making the most of Agent Brayden Scott’s absence.

  “I’ll change it in a minute. First, I need to administer some meds. Something for the pain.” She walked around to Barry’s right side and removed a syringe from deep within a pocket. She removed the needle guard and tapped air bubbles free from the liquid in the small glass tube.

  “I doubt it’ll help rid me from all my pain.” The oxygen mask still suppressed his voice, but what Barry implied was still clear.

  “Oh, I don’t know. You might be surprised.” The nurse jabbed the needle of the syringe into a vein in Barry’s arm. “Just a little scratch,” she said, a reassuring smile spreading across her lips. She squeezed the piston plunger, gently administering the drug.

  Instantly, a warm feeling spread from the needle site in his arm, coursing through his veins. At first, it felt pleasant, soothing, but without warning Barry suddenly felt like he was drowning, his lungs feeling bereft of oxygen and his chest feeling heavy, like a compression was steadily building against it. He made a long, desperate gasp as he fought for a deep intake of air. Involuntarily, his free hand shot up to his neck, clawing at an invisible barrier that seemed to be obstructing his airway from the inside.

  “Shh, Mr Abney... it’ll soon be over.”

  An alarm started to blurt from the monitor displaying Barry’s vitals. His heart rate and blood pressure readings were flashing in red, the oscillating lines spiking and falling, spiking and falling, then dropping off altogether into a flat, continuous line.

  Barry, his struggles declining, appeared to relax, his eyes staring skyward, transfixed on a spot on the ceiling.

  “What’s happening?!” Brayden Scott ran into the private room carrying two coffees, black steaming liquid sloshing over the lips of the cups, burning his fingers. Involuntarily, he recoiled.

  “Code blue!” shouted the nurse dramatically, at the same time discretely concealing the syringe back into her pocket. She hurried purposefully around Barry’s bed to the man’s side. “I need a doctor!” she demanded, making pretence of reaching for a crash cart to the side of the room behind her.

  Brayden looked around for somewhere to discard the two cups. A corner wash basin was closest. He dropped them down and ran out into the corridor, coffee draining down the plughole. “SOMEONE GET A DOCTOR IN HERE!!!” he yelled desperately.

  Barely a second had ticked by when a couple of doctors, one dressed in blue scrubs, the other wearing a striped shirt and a regal-looking tie, appeared in the doorway.

  “Step aside!” one of the doctors ordered. Brayden obliged, allowing the doctors to pass unobstructed. They closed the door behind them and started working on the unconscious man lying on the bed.

  Through the narrow window set within the panel of the door, Brayden peered in. Muffled conversation − frantic, but purposeful − could be heard and the doctor in scrubs, seemingly taking charge, told the medical staff to “CLEAR” just as he pressed a pair of defibrillator paddles against Barry’s now-bare chest.

  Thwump!

  The doctor turned to the nurse and gave an instruction to change the setting for another charge of the defibrillator. Receiving acknowledgement, he shouted “CLEAR” for a second time as he administered another dose of electricity directly into the man’s chest.

  Brayden watched the team confer, syringe-inject a couple of drugs, and repeat with the use of defibrillators another three times before the man in charge decided it was no use. He shook his head and glanced at his watch, as though making a deliberate assessment of the time. Wasting little effort, the two doctors who had responded to Brayden’s demand for help, exited the room with barely an acknowledgement.

  The nurse that had been tending Barry when the CIA agent had arrived was still in the room, disconnecting cables and turning off equipment. Seeing Brayden reappear she looked downcast. “I’m sorry... we did all that we could.”

  “Oh Jeez,” exclaimed Brayden, throwing a hand automatically to his head, dismayed and pained at seeing that Barrington Abney, formerly an agent with MI6, was dead. “I told him NOT to have a coronary!” He shook his head dejectedly. “How do I explain this?” he asked himself quietly.

  The nurse stepped up to the agent and laid a hand gently on his arm. “We did our best,” she said.

  Brayden lowered his hands pensively, looking away from Barry’s still staring face, the man’s eyes, though no longer focused, were fixated on a point within the ceiling. He walked away from the nurse and reached into a pocket for his phone, pressing a button intuitively to dial a preset number and raised it to his ear.

  His call was answered with barely enough time to take a breath. He didn’t allow the recipient any time to speak:

  “Mullins... Agent Abney is a dead end,” Brayden announced sardonically. He trudged out of the room, leaving the nurse to continue with her necessary duties. “I guess Milo now gets his wish,” he said with a sigh. “Prepare the field team. We make for London before nightfall.”

  With Brayden Scott gone, the nurse stopped what she was doing for a moment and retrieved her own mobile phone. Nervously, she advanced to the door and peered out. Brayden was a little way along the corridor still speaking to his partner. Satisfied that no one would witness her, the nurse quickly tapped out a text message:

  IT’S DONE.

  And followed up by pressing ‘send’. Five long seconds later and a delivery confirmation flashed up on her phone with a double bleep. The nurse deposited the small handset back into her pocket and left the private room.

  The CIA agent finished his call as the nurse was about to pass, and he stepped towards her, blocking her progress. Initially, she thought the CIA agent suspected something, in the manner with which he was looking at her, almost challenging. His gaze then marginally softened.

  “Makes all those hours spent patching him up seem like a waste now, doesn’t it,” moaned Brayden without sympathy.

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ryan

  Two months had slipped by since news of Barry’s death had been reported. He couldn’t now recall what had come first, details of the young SIS agent’s cardiac arrest, or the arrival of the American agents, all but hijacking his and Emily’s command centre as part of a joint operation granted by Prime Minister Humphries by request (or coercion) of President Harrison, in their pursuit of both Dominic Schilling and Sophie Jennings, wanted for their roles in the terrorist activities on mainland USA back in October.

  Despite the man’s failed attempts at catching Sophie, Brayden was still deemed the CIA’s top agent and selected choice to head the American contingent taking up temporary residence within the Secret Intelligence Agency building alongside the Thames.

  Thoughts of Barrington Abney surfaced, and Ryan couldn’t help but feel sad at how his part in the whole saga had to come to an end. “I’ll raise you a glass,” he said. “Wherever you are.”

  His thoughts dissipated when his mobile began to vibrate on the table within the small hotel room. He snatched it up, seeing that it was Emily calling.

  “Yes... yes... yes. I know, I know. I shan’t be late.” Ryan was referring to the New Year’s Eve dinner date that Emily had badgered him into accepting. It was rare to spend an evening in the company of others not related to work or duty, and rarer still to receive an invitation to a private function. What was most surprising was getting the invite from Sophie in the first place, asking him and Emily to spend New Year’s Eve with her and her family in Norfolk. Until then, neither of them had spoken, Sophie still holding him responsible for her father’s death, even after hearing the evidence vindicating him, and seeing Marty Heywood’s little black book, indicating that the man had worked alone, with his own ambitions. “I’ll be in reception in a tick.” He didn’t wait for Emily to acknowledge him before d
isconnecting, placing the phone down.

  Crossing the room, he checked his appearance in the mirrored door of the large fitted wardrobe that ran to the right, along the length of the short walkway into the room, and straightened his tie. Returning to the small table where his mobile phone was, he gathered it up, along with his wallet and wristwatch, placing them on and around his body as he made to exit the hotel room. Before leaving, he collected a gold-coloured gift bag that could only contain a bottle of wine of some sort, left in a corner near to where he’d stowed his small travel case.

  Ryan believed you should never arrive at a dinner party without a gift offering, it was etiquette. He’d picked up the bottle of Château Musar, a red wine produced in Lebanon, from Waitrose earlier that day.

  Stepping out of the hotel room, Ryan waited a moment in the corridor for the door to slowly close behind him before proceeding, taking the elevator to the reception where Emily had been waiting patiently for over half an hour.

  Ryan had never met Theodore Crossley who was, technically, Sophie’s maternal grandfather, although it turned out, Harriet only carried her surrogately. After Harriet’s death, the old man had happily taken Meredith, Stanley and Charlie into his care, and would have accepted Sophie too had she not grown into womanhood so rapidly.

  Driving the Jaguar XJ onto the driveway of the semi-detached house and parking it alongside the black BMW in front of the mahogany garage door, Ryan stopped the car and keyed off the ignition. He turned to Emily, looking apprehensive.

  “I don’t do social get-togethers,” he said nervously. He was half-hoping that his phone would ring, a caller providing an elaborate excuse to make his apologies and forcing him to drive away. The mobile was in his jacket pocket and made no sounds at all. He was disappointed.

  “Come on,” said Emily cheerfully. “It’ll be fine. Sophie’s offered an olive branch; the least you can do is grab it. We’ll enjoy a nice meal and make some pleasant conversations. Try to be happy. It’s the end of the year; maybe a new year will see things better. The sooner you two are friends again, the sooner we can work out a way to get those kids back.”

  The kids... Ninety children who he’d aided Dominic into hightailing with.

  “Thanks,” groaned Ryan. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remind me about the GYGES kids... not here, not tonight.” She seemed to mention it at least once every day.

  “Sorry,” Emily muttered, embarrassed.

  Since Emily had discovered his involvement with Dominic and Jennifer, and his complicity to their acquisition of the ninety children − plus the arrival of Brayden Scott and his American cohorts in the SIS building alongside the Thames − very little had been heard about them, including their whereabouts. Not wishing his association with Jennifer Ratcliff to be exposed, or to encourage further threat to Emily or Sophie’s family, he’d kept a safe distance from the CEO of Kaplan Ratcliff.

  “Let’s get this over with,” sighed Ryan in resignation, releasing the seatbelt and hooking open the car door. He climbed out, reached into the back seat for the bottle of wine, and then ambled across the garden towards the front door, his stride kicking up loose white stones and leaving deep muddy divots in the decorative driveway covering and crunching underfoot. He rang the doorbell just beneath the house number ‘seventy-three’. A subtle chime ‘dingdonged’ from inside, just heard through the white PVC double-glazed door.

  A figure shuffled into view, their identity obscured by the frosted glass panel in the door, but soon revealed to be the homeowner and host for the evening, Theodore Crossley. Behind Ryan, Emily was removing a bag of gifts she had purchased for Sophie’s family.

  “Evening, Ryan...”

  “Theodore.”

  “Jus’ Theo, me ol’ son... only my dear departed mum and a school headmistress ever called me that...” he laughed, each word dripped cockney.

  “Here,” Ryan offered the wine to Theo.

  “Lovely... Manners maketh the man,” Theo beamed, accepting the wine. “Come... make yourself at home.” Seeing Emily trot up the driveway made the old man’s smile even wider. “My dear Emily... the children have been so looking forward to seeing you. Please, let’s get in from the cold.” Although winter in Britain, the temperature was more autumnal for December and barely below 11°C that New Year’s Eve.

  Emily returned Theo’s smile and accepted a peck to the cheek as she drew closer, Theo momentarily barring the way in, a kiss the price to gain admittance.

  In the corner of the sparsely furnished living room was a six-foot Nordic fir, bejewelled with baubles, fairy lights, tinsel and other festive tree ornaments, including a star at the top; about its base, a sprinkling of needles had been shed around the carpet despite Camilla having vacuumed only an hour earlier.

  A few Christmas decorations hung around the room and upon the mantelpiece were a pair of jolly Santa lights, their fat stomachs gently changing colour from the LED lamps contained within. Between them, a nativity scene, and a couple of red pillar candles that, when lit, released the smell of cinnamon into the air.

  Beneath the mantelpiece, an ornate gas open fire heated the room, flames dancing lazily across coals designed for visual effect rather than necessity. Ryan immediately felt its warmth as he stepped into the room. The absence of noise disconcerted him.

  Above the fire and mantelpiece was the television, turned to standby.

  Interpreting Ryan’s puzzled look, Theo felt the urge to explain. “The children will be with us momentarily. They’ve been banished to their rooms for the duration it took to prepare. Sounds harsh, but believe me... five children underfoot, doesn’t bode well.” He laughed. “Please, take a seat... I’ll summon them shortly.”

  Emily padded in behind Ryan and sat on a cream-coloured leather two-seater. Ryan took a matching armchair placed beside the Christmas tree, opposite to Emily.

  “Can I get you two anything to wet your whistle?”

  Before either Ryan or Emily could answer, Sophie casually stepped into the room and stopped a short way in front of the doorway.

  “Sophie!” Emily squealed in delight, springing to her feet and embracing her friend in a sisterly fashion.

  When Sophie had prised herself from Emily’s grasp, Ryan quietly appraised the young woman. She looked different to how Ryan remembered her, which wasn’t surprising. Wracking his brain, he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Sophie in the ‘flesh’. Their last encounter had been in Los Angeles, twenty-five miles east of Palmdale, within the small hut where they’d shared a late breakfast and watched the Boeing take-off with Dominic and the ninety sons of GYGES. But she had been invisible then, and he realised that in actuality, the last time he ‘saw’ her was before she had left London and headed for America in search of her father.

  It wasn’t surprising she looked different. Sophie had aged by three physical years since their last meeting; she had been a gangly teen, with straggly blonde hair and dressed for comfort in jeans and a plain T-shirt. Now she was a beautiful woman wearing makeup and a Savannah Miller silver sequinned dress. Her golden hair, hanging loose and wavy, was longer than he remembered it, but then he was accustomed to seeing it tied back.

  “Ryan.” There was a slight edge to her voice. She may have offered an olive branch but she certainly hadn’t forgiven Ryan with regards to her father. Even though he hadn’t ordered George’s death, he had withheld the man’s whereabouts to pursue destroying Project GYGES instead, which made him tantamount for blame.

  “Sophie...” Ryan spoke tenderly, his eyes looking doleful. He locked eyes with her and without thought used the flat of his left hand to rub his knee in a comforting motion. He couldn’t help feeling guilty and looked pitiful.

  “EMILY!!” Meredith, Stanley and Charlie charged into the room, exuberant and excited.

  Theo had to step aside to avoid being c
lattered by his grandchildren. “Careful there,” he grumbled.

  The children crowded around the bespectacled woman, Meredith taking the seat next to her and Charlie awkwardly climbing onto her lap.

  “Cor blimey, you kids! Give the lass some air to breathe!” admonished Theo half-heartedly.

  Ryan turned his head away from Sophie who had been holding a stare, turning to Theo. “I think I’ll have that drink now,” he said. “Do you have any Scotch?”

  The dining room was bigger than Ryan expected and surprisingly larger than the lounge, containing the largest table he had ever seen in a private dwelling. With enough seats to host a party of sixteen guests, the adults were placed at one end of the table whilst the children were at the other. Separating the two groups, there were three seats either side of the long table, though the gap wasn’t big enough to set apart the noise levels, with the children talking loudest.

  Theo was at the head of the table with Camilla to his right and Emily on his left. Sophie sat alongside Camilla opposite Ryan, but neither had engaged in any small talk and the mood between the two was palpably strained.

  A woman in a maid’s outfit wheeled in a trolley laden with plates full to the brim of food followed by a young man dressed in a tuxedo carrying a bottle of champagne, a plain white serving cloth draped over an arm.

  Spotting the look of bewilderment shared between Ryan and Emily upon noticing the waiting staff, Theo felt the urge to speak. “I could quite get used to this... opulence,” he said, indicating the man and woman serving food and drinks around the table. “Doesn’t come cheap, mind; that I can tell ya. Alas, just for the occasion of bringing one set of friends together with our blessed family this New Year’s Eve. Plus Camilla is the most atrocious cook... struggles even to cook beans on toast!” His laugh quickly subsided after receiving an unfavourable look from his wife.