After a starter of warm pigeon breast with a woodland salad of crispy bacon, wild mushrooms and blackberries there followed a choice of roast beef, pork or turkey and a selection of vegetables, with many different types of potato. Before dessert was served, Theo stood up with his champagne glass, a moment earlier refilled by the waiter.
“Okay, okay... listen up − kids at the end, hush please!” Theo waited a moment for silence to descend. “Before I get totally sozzled, allow me to make a quick toast. This year has been a terribly difficult year for us all. With Harriet... and then George,” he shook his head mournfully, “My biggest regret is not being able to bury the hatchet with my Harry.” His voice was close to cracking. He sighed, his eyes welling up; two dams close to bursting. “But light always follows darkness, no matter how black it is. The children are the light, and taking in Meredith, Stanley and Charlie has allowed me − us...” Theo reached for Camilla’s hand, “... to get to know our grandchildren, and to meet our newest grandchild, the wondrous enigma that is Sophie. It hurts to say it... but I wouldn’t change this for the world.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “Hand on heart.” There was a lump in his throat as he pulled his hand away from Camilla and rested it across his chest, “I wish you all good health and a happy, uneventful New Year. Let’s bury the past and enjoy the rest of our lives... bottoms up! Cheers!” Theo raised his glass before taking a long sip.
A chorus of “Cheers,” emanated from around the table. Champagne glasses being raised by the adults; fizzy drinks or squash in plastic cups by the children. One or two cups and glasses were clinked or tapped together.
“Enough said. Let us now eat cake!” Theo sat back down as servings of black forest gateau were distributed by the waitress and champagne glasses were refilled by the waiter. Unseen by any, the waiter gave the waitress a slight nod, as though confirming something. She acknowledged it with a thin smile.
From within Ryan’s jacket pocket his mobile phone began to vibrate. Earlier he’d turned off the ringtone, thinking it would be rude to sound during dinner. Reaching into his pocket he pulled the handset free. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. He glanced at the caller ID; he recognised the number. “I need to take this.” He stood up as his dessert was set at his place.
Emily turned and looked at Ryan briefly but gave the matter little attention.
Standing up, he strode out into the living room and pressed the green acceptance icon, raising the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Have you seen the news?” It was the Chief of SIS, and he sounded grave.
“No, what’s happened?”
“Turn it on.” The Chief didn’t elaborate.
Ryan found the TV remote and pointed it towards the LCD screen above the fireplace. He pressed the red button to activate it. A few moments later he was flicking through the channels until he came to one of the twenty-four hour news channels. A red ‘breaking news’ banner flashed across the bottom of the screen highlighting details of a string of robberies taking place simultaneously across Scotland.
“... so far there’s been reports of at least a dozen burglaries across Scotland tonight, the first of which occurred around nine o’clock...” The outside reporter was replaced on the screen by a studio news presenter. “And what makes these burglaries significant?” he asked, slightly disinterested. The picture changed back to that of the outside reporter. “Well, the nature of the burglaries, and the properties being targeted; mostly stately homes, the occupants all owning valuable assets − including jewellery and works of art. The thefts all appear to have been synchronised to take place at the same time... and indeed, we’re getting further reports of ongoing incidents, including a break-in at a home that belongs to Hollywood actor Ewan McGregor.”
“Okay, Chief. You’ve got my attention... a number of high profile burglaries, hardly a threat to national security. What’s that got to do with us?”
“On the face, nothing. But, it’s what’s not being broadcast that is interesting. Something about ‘invisible burglars’. I only know of one person capable of that feat. A friend of yours, I believe.”
“It’s not her,” said Ryan firmly.
“Are you sure?”
“I know for a fact. Unless she has developed the ability to be in two places at the same time,” he said stuffily. “I’m with her now...” Using the remote, Ryan switched off the television.
“I’ve just got off the phone with the Prime Minister. He wants all our best people on this. I want you to head the team.”
“What about the search for Dominic Schilling?”
“The trail has gone cold... let the Americans worry about him. I’m to attend an emergency COBRA meeting in the morning; see if you can learn anything by then.”
“But sir, it’s New Year’s Eve...”
“Yes...? But only for a couple more hours...” The Chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service ended the call leaving Ryan holding the mobile to his ear for a little longer than necessary.
“Happy New Year,” Ryan whispered solemnly into empty air. He turned to go back to the dining room.
Smash!
The sound of a plate shattering as though from impact halted Ryan’s progress. Half-expecting a babble of excited or dismayed voices, the fact no noise followed seemed strange.
“What’s go–” ing on? He stopped midsentence as he entered the dining room. Around the table bodies lay slumped back, to the side or, in Theo’s case, crashed forward, all within their chairs. The force of Theo’s head colliding with the dessert plate was what had caused the commotion.
Ryan walked to Emily who was closest to the door. “Emily?” With his right hand he felt her neck for a pulse. It was there, and reassuringly strong. He tried shaking her but she was non-responsive. Out cold. Like everyone else around the table, Emily had been drugged. Swiftly, he scanned the area. Sophie was slouching against Camilla who was sitting propped up with her head drooping forward. The children at the other end of the table lay across each other or rested against the table, heads in plates, drinks knocked over.
“... let him know that we’re ahead of schedule.” The waiter was talking to the woman when he stepped into the room and stopped, surprised to see Ryan standing and not unconscious, looking accusingly at him. “You should be...” Before he could finish, Ryan had charged bull-like into him, knocking the waiter into an oak buffet and hutch cabinet. Glassware and display crockery toppled and crashed inside from the impact.
“Hey!” Hearing the tumult, the woman came to the door holding a gun pointing ahead of her. “Get off him, man!”
The waiter, restrained under Ryan’s full weight, grunted as Ryan punched him hard in the face. “Shoot him!” he half-shouted, half-slurred, his mouth swollen and bubbling blood.
“He said no one was to get hurt!” Torment was in the woman’s voice, the gun twitching in her shaking grasp.
“Just do it!” he screamed frantically.
Ryan punched the man again to silence him, oblivious to the weapon pointed at his back. Before he could do the waiter any more harm, the woman pressed the trigger. The silencer softened the sound of the gunshot, but it was loud enough to echo around the house.
The bullet tore into the back of Ryan’s right shoulder, hurling him forward. He spun around, lifting a hand either in useless defence or surrender. “No!” he rasped, seeing the danger and the intense look on the woman’s face.
“Too bad old man,” she said, squeezing the trigger, releasing the gun’s deadly load.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dominic
The warehouse had been purchased through an off-shore investment company that was indirectly linked, though untraceable, to Kaplan Ratcliff. Hidden within an industrial district to the south-east of Oban (a couple of road turnings off Gallanach Road) the huge warehouse was where Dominic stood out
side waiting at the large up-and-over roll-up door which was open like a hungry mouth.
A little deeper in, the Mitsubishi Fuso truck had been parked, equipped throughout with enough state-of-the-art technology to successfully mount a major surveillance operation, or oversee the launch of a space rocket. Inside, Garret and Melvyn continued to monitor the cadets as they finished carrying out their individual missions and began to make their way home. This place served that purpose, the agreed upon drop-off centre.
The mobile phone in Dominic’s hand began to ring, a pre-set jingle that came with the cheap communication device, bought for the occasion and which he intended to dispose of soon after.
“Hello.” He heard a note of Scottish in his voice. Probably from being around Elspeth so much, he mused. It was funny how easy one could adopt a regional accent if you spent long enough exposed to it.
“Dom, um... things haven’t gone all to plan.” Dominic recognised the voice, though the hint of nervousness made the man at the other end sound slightly higher pitched. “Natasha killed one of the guests.”
“Go on...”
The caller began to explain the events leading up to when the man, Ryan Barber, had attacked him. “She had no choice,” he offered for reasoning. “It was him... or me.”
“It was unavoidable then. Apart from that, did you get the job done?” Dominic eagerly asked.
“Sure, what do you take us for? Muppets?”
Do I need to answer that, Dominic thought. “And everyone else... they all right?”
“Exactly as you instructed.”
“Good. Killing Ryan is a bit of an inconvenience I’ll have you know; we had a bit of a thing going on. Aside from that, it’s going to be okay. Carry on as we planned within the set timeframes. Make sure the children are comfortable before you set off. They are important and integral to what we’re doing here. The roads should be quiet, so I expect to see you around lunchtime tomorrow...”
“What about the others?” A note of concern was in the caller’s voice.
“What about them?” Dominic volleyed back irritably.
“They’ve seen our faces!”
Dominic sighed. “So?”
“They’ll be able to I.D us...” He spoke condescendingly.
“Hector, just leave them be. It’s imperative no harm comes to them,” said Dominic. “Especially the women.” Especially one in particular...
“Whatever man.”
Dominic hastily disconnected so as to make a call. There was someone he thought might be interested to learn of the latest developments. He keyed in a number and pressed connect. Almost immediately he heard the ringing tone.
“Hi, this is Jennifer Ratcliff. I’m not available at the moment. You can leave a message or contact my secretary on...”
“It’s Dominic... Why do you never answer your phone, damn it! Call me back as soon as you hear this.” Angrily, he ended the connection and placed the phone deep in his pocket and started pacing back and forth alongside the truck, frequently checking his watch.
The kids will start arriving soon, he thought as time ticked closer to midnight. Every so often whoops of glee could be heard from within the Mitsubishi Fuso as Garret and Melvyn communicated with the cadets as they concluded their missions.
As the first of many nondescript vans rolled into the warehouse, the first of the night’s fireworks began to fizzle and pop in the background, splashing bursts of light and colour in and around Oban’s clear night sky, with the most vibrant taking place in George Street accompanied by explosive booms that could be felt underfoot.
The annual Hogmanay celebrations were in full swing.
Although a couple of miles due south, Dominic could hear and see the pyrotechnics clearly from outside the warehouse. Dominic hurried in after the white transit van, directing the driver to pull in just ahead of the mobile command centre.
A cadet climbed out from the passenger seat and ambled cockily towards Dominic. He wore a badge pinned to his chest, like the type presented on an age specific birthday card; the number ‘15’ was printed upon it. Although somewhat impersonal, the cadets weren’t given names, but instead allocated a number.
“Was it a success, Fifteen?” asked Dominic. Despite growing accustomed to the cold on St. Kilda, he felt a bit chilled inside the warehouse from keeping the roll-up doors open all night. He planted his hands deep into his jacket pocket, fingers of one wrapping around his phone.
“Moderately, yes,” he replied positively. “Two banks, a bookmaker and a small jeweller in Kilmartin. About a quarter-of-a-million quid I reckon,” he said cheerfully.
“Excellent. A great start.” Dominic removed his hands and rubbed them together either gleefully or for warmth. Five minutes later cadet number ‘45’ turned up in a local hire truck (which he’d stolen). When asked what he had managed to collect, the lad reeled off a list with an accumulative value similar to the first arrival’s.
All through the night and early into the following morning, cars, vans, trucks and lorries, pulled into the warehouse loaded with cash, gold, diamonds, jewellery, paintings, designer clothing, bearer bonds, and sundry other items, the combined amount eclipsing £200 million.
By lunchtime New Year’s Day, the plunder had been separated and sorted and all the cadets, now exhausted, were accounted for and seated within a ferry cruising across choppy waters destined for St. Kilda.
Dominic had watched them leave the warehouse in a coach, like they were heading on a daytrip or going on holiday. Seeing them off, he felt immense pride swell within him at what they had all achieved in such a little space of time.
Jennifer Ratcliff finally called him back just as a grey Ford Tourneo pulled into the parking area of the warehouse. Guards wearing concealed weapons advanced on the vehicle whilst Dominic spoke into his phone. Three men in total, taking up positions either side of the van as it came to a standstill.
“Finally,” grunted Dominic.
“I got your message Dom. Sorry, I was at a party until late... and this morning, well, you know how it is with drinking too much gin.”
“Sure.” His alcoholic nemesis was whisky. In the background the driver of the Tourneo opened his door and stepped out, his hands spread out high enough not to alarm the guards. He took a couple of steps towards the rear passenger door and opened it. One of the guards peered inside.
“I gather last night went well. It’s all over the news. The media is having a field day!”
“It mostly went to plan,” agreed Dominic. “It’s just the other part of what we discussed we’ve had a slight hiccup.”
Jennifer went quiet for a moment. “The children?” she asked fearfully.
“No... Ryan,” replied Dominic. “He’s dead.”
Humourlessly, Jennifer started to laugh at the other end of the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophie
“He’s not dead...” Sophie was kneeling next to the MI6 unit leader and could feel his pulse, although weak and the man had lost a considerable amount of blood.
Emily was close by, weeping, completely useless.
Theo and Camilla were still sitting at the dining table, both in a state of disorientation and befuddlement. The twins: Josephine and Henry were both out cold, still in their places along one side of the table; half-eaten desserts just ahead of them beside toppled cups of juice. The seats next to − and opposite − them, were all empty.
Meredith, Stanley and Charlie were missing.
A sideward glance to a clock on the wall informed Sophie that the time was long after midnight. Hands pointed to the three and the six.
3:30 a.m.
Owing to being drugged, they’d missed the ringing in of the New Year, a minor point in the grand scheme of events.
“Where am I?” asked The
o in a daze, slurring slightly. He had lifted his head up from the broken plate in front of him; black forest gateau cream and chocolate sponge had congealed thickly to his left cheek.
“He needs urgent medical treatment,” said Sophie, stating the obvious.
“I’m on it.” Emily forced herself into action. With her mobile in her hand, she keyed in: ‘999’.
“Where are the kids?” Theo was gaining cognisance by the second, alarm compelling him to stand. Unsteadily, he fell back into his seat where he looked defeated.
“What?” Sophie looked up from Ryan. She hadn’t noticed her brothers and sister were gone. When she had come to, the first sight she encountered was Ryan, sprawled awkwardly behind her with his life fluid soaking into the carpet about her feet. Although she and Ryan were not on the best of terms at that moment, she hadn’t wanted him dead. Not yet at any rate.
“Oh God, no...” Emily lowered the mobile whilst she deliberated over the situation. Helplessness bounded towards her, saddled with that other deleterious emotion, fear.
“Which emergency service do you require?” a very alert voice sounded loud through Emily’s mobile earpiece, galvanising her. Emily returned her attention to the call.
“Ambulance,” she said, followed with the nature of the incident and her address.
“Meredith!” Sophie charged past Emily, bounding up the stairs two at a time, beginning what quickly turned into a fruitless search for all that remained of her father’s family.
Sophie had not experienced many New Year’s Days, but this was proving to be the absolute worst start to a year thus far.
Sitting in a waiting area in the Norwich and Norfolk University hospital, Sophie and Emily passed the time by flicking through year-old-magazines and staring at a variety of NHS posters adorning the walls surrounding the room with advice and information on a diverse range of illnesses and ailments; cancer, HIV, pregnancy, herpes, impotence... amongst others; there was a notice for pretty much everything, offering plenty of scope to mull and worry over.
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 21