After five hours of waiting, a male doctor wearing a blue tunic and matching trousers, stepped in; a stethoscope was draped around his shoulder and his NHS ID card was pinned to a pocket. He wore a serious expression on his ageless face, and his virtually-bald head gave him the appearance of a very tall baby. Beneath the bright fluorescents, his scalp shone greasily from the glare.
“Miss Porter?”
“Yes,” replied Emily, shuffling expectantly forward on her seat.
“Would you like to come this way...?”
Before Emily had risen, Sophie was on her feet. The doctor gave her a look of disapproval and was about to speak.
“It’s okay... Ryan Barber is her grandfather,” Emily approved.
The doctor’s demeanour softened. “Very well, please follow me.” The doctor led the two young women down a short corridor, up a double flight of stairs and into a corridor, off which doors to a number of private wards idly watched as they passed. After stepping past the sixth, the doctor opened the seventh and entered without hesitation. “Close the door behind you,” he said as Emily and Sophie followed him in. A light-blue curtain screened most the room from sight but did nothing to hide the telltale sounds of an occupant on life-support or the surgical smells that assailed their nostrils.
“Is Ryan going to be okay?” asked Emily timidly, momentarily returned to childhood where she was a shy and very nervous girl.
“Your father sustained two gunshot wounds and had lost a lot of blood,” Ryan wasn’t her father, but Emily didn’t correct him. The doctor continued: “One bullet hit him in the back − just to the centre, beneath his neck − the other was to the chest, where a small amount of damage was sustained to his heart. We managed to remove both bullets and carried out an emergency surgery, and I’m pleased to say that his condition is stable. He will, however, require more operations to repair the damage to his heart, which we’ve scheduled for later today.”
“Oh.” Emily felt weak in the knees and desperately wanted to sit down.
“We have kept him on life-support and heavily sedated,” the doctor went on, “but come on in, you may briefly see him...” The doctor pulled open the curtain like a magician unveiling a magic trick, to reveal Ryan lying propped up in a bed, a tube protruding from his mouth, hooked up to a ventilator machine that made sucking and wheezing sounds, placed next to him beneath an electronic monitor that displayed the man’s vitals.
Ryan’s skin was sallow and his face looked gaunt and old, like he had aged more than a hundred years since Emily had last seen him. Where his hair was always tidy and glossy black, it was now unkempt, thinning slightly and showing signs of silvery-grey.
Sophie followed Emily, walking round behind the doctor to stand over on the opposite side of the bed. Seeing the breathing device attached to Ryan’s face, and the man’s change of appearance made Emily gasp aloud. She threw a hand to her mouth, afraid of what noise or words might next escape through her lips.
Finding courage, Emily twisted her neck to face the doctor. “When will he be... better?” asked Emily, deeply disturbed by the sight of her mentor.
“We can only hope. In time, if the operation goes well, he should make a full recovery. It might not look it, but your father was lucky. Had the bullet entered his chest a fraction to the left, we wouldn’t be here now having this conversation.”
“Can you give us a date for when we can take him out of here?” asked Sophie unaffected by Ryan’s incapacity and affliction. “Assuming the operation later today goes okay.”
“Who can say... Miss?”
“Jennings,” replied Sophie.
“Miss Jennings... Everyone recovers at different rates. Healing from the incision made to his sternum alone is going to take six-to-eight weeks. Also, there will be an element of rehabilitation. And it’s not just the physical wounds to overcome, there’s the psychological ones too. Your grandfather isn’t going to be back to full strength for several months... or years even.”
What the doctor said didn’t sink in. “And what about his work?” Sophie pressed. “He has an important job.”
The doctor held back his feelings of frustration and impatience. Calmly, he replied: “In time, he’ll be able to go back to work. But for now, we really need to concentrate on him pulling through the operation this afternoon... and for him to get better first.” The doctor smiled revealing a full set of gleaming white teeth, which annoyed Sophie immensely. “Now, if you will forgive me. I have other patients to visit... you can have five minutes with him, then you must leave.” He waited a little longer than necessary before turning to leave.
“I hate admitting it, but we need you Ryan,” whispered Sophie, leaning over to within an inch of the man’s inert face.
Emily thought for a second that the younger woman was going to gently kiss him.
As if in response his closed eyelids flickered. Encouraged, Sophie added: “I need you to help me find my family. They’re only children, and they’re likely very scared.”
“Come on. We’re wasting time here. We’ll come back later... maybe, after his next operation, he’ll be awake by then.”
Sophie straightened up slowly. “You’re right,” she said. “But what now? What do we do? I’m not going to abandon Meredith, Stanley and Charlie... like we abandoned my father.”
Emily looked down guiltily. Not a day had gone by where she hadn’t wished she could have gone back to the motel room, last October. She could easily have ignored Ryan and insisted on pursuing the search for George Jennings instead of going after Project GYGES. She couldn’t help thinking that had they rejected his mission, Sophie’s father would likely have still been alive.
“We’re not making the same mistake twice,” asserted Emily. “But we can’t do this alone; and we can’t rely on Ryan.” Leaving Ryan’s room and the noise of the ventilator machine, wheezing and clattering with every forced lungful of air, and the bleeps of the ECG machine, they walked purposefully down surgically-clean corridors and brightly-lit aisles, until they came to the hospital’s exit.
“Where are we going?” asked Sophie hurrying behind Emily to keep up. Emily appeared determined.
“Back to London,” said Emily breathily. “85 Albert Embankment to be precise.”
“Your work?”
“Our help,” Emily corrected. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brayden
Less keen than a vegetarian at an all you can eat sausage contest, Brayden Scott arrived in London. It was on a cold, wet November morning after a seven hour flight from Washington that had been twice delayed, that the CIA agent stepped foot into Heathrow’s arrival terminal in a foul mood. The first problem had been due to a mechanical fault, which was then followed a little later by a ‘terrorist threat’ within Dulles International Airport, an occurrence that seemed to happen at least once a week.
Now, after two soggy months in England and with very little to show for missing Thanks Giving, Christmas and New Year’s Eve with his wife Jordana, his personal morale and motivation had ebbed to an all-time low.
Joining him for breakfast at the London Marriott Hotel County Hall, Christina Mullins, who was dressed casually in black jogging bottoms and a hooded sweatshirt that bore the FBI insignia across the back, had served herself breakfast from the buffet tables, and was holding a glass of grapefruit juice in one hand and her plate in the other as she arrived.
“Mornin’” Christina greeted cheerfully. She sat down opposite the six-foot-two-inch man, placed her breakfast ahead of her and helped herself to the pot of coffee. “Happy New Year,” she said as an afterthought.
“Is it?” Brayden asked miserably. He was feeling especially homesick that morning, tired also. To ‘see in’ the New Year with his wife, he’d had to stay awake until 5:00 a.m. due to the time differ
ence, speaking to her via the hotel room phone and wishing her all the platitudes as the countdown had concluded back in Washington. Unable to sleep, an hour later he’d visited the fitness centre where he was the sole occupant, and did forty minutes’ worth of cardio before doing a few laps in the swimming pool.
Around the spacious dining area were a lot of guests eating or picking at food, some looking worse for wear after a long night celebrating the New Year, whilst others appeared surprisingly spritely.
“Did you see the fireworks?” Christina asked, attempting light conversation.
“Couldn’t avoid them from my room, really,” moaned Brayden. Most people would have been impressed with his accommodation overlooking the Thames, especially with the spectacular views of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament just over the other side of the river. He had been perfectly placed to watch the annual fireworks display, foregoing the need to purchase a ticket; but instead of watching them avidly like most hotel guests had, he’d closed the curtains tight and watched cable television instead.
“Mmm, mm. We moan about British food, but I honestly haven’t tasted bacon anywhere better than here,” Christina trumpeted, cramming a forkful of meat into her mouth.
Brayden shrugged, not bothered.
“Lighten up, Brayden. People back home would give a kidney to be doing this. And we’re here for free! We should make the most of it. Take some downtime and do some of the sights. Maybe get in a show.”
Not hearing anything Christina had said, Brayden leaned forward and looked the FBI agent in the eyes. “You know, I think us being here is a complete waste of time. We’re never going to find Dominic... or that girl. Let’s face it; we’re no nearer now than we were back in Washington.”
“There have been a few leads,” said Christina between mouthfuls.
“Mostly dead-ends,” replied Brayden coldly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if MI6 are giving us a run-around. DAMN!” he slammed his hands hard against the table startling some breakfast-goers close by. Christina’s breakfast jumped up a couple of millimetres from the impact. “We were so close to nabbing her,” he complained. Christina had heard it before. “I wish I’d put a bullet into her head when I’d had the chance.”
You never had the chance, mused Christina as she continued to enjoy her breakfast.
Brayden stood up. “I’ll catch you sometime later; I need to get some fresh air,” he said, adding as he left: “I think it’s time we see sense and prepare ourselves to go home.”
The London Eye was just a bit further along from the hotel. To get to it you passed a number of other tourist ‘attractions’, including a Sea Life centre and The London Dungeon, and some street performers who, Brayden reflected, seemed to ‘entertain’ in spots every dozen yards from a visitor attraction. Already by 12:00 p.m. a large throng of tourists were gathered about the Eye’s entrance base, many queuing to access it or to collect tickets from the nearby ticket kiosk.
Brayden couldn’t be bothered with the big wheel; they had them back home, some a lot bigger. Instead he hurried past with his hand buried deep in his jacket pocket, his shoulders hunched, and headed away along The Queen’s Walk towards Jubilee Gardens, a public park created in 1977 to mark the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II.
Within the park Brayden found a bench and sat down to ponder the situation. Despite the masses of people passing through the park, he found it peaceful there, almost cathartic, and barely noticed anyone.
Putting an end to the tranquillity, Brayden’s mobile phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Sighing, he pulled it free and answered.
“Yea, Brayden...”
“Are you sitting comfortably?” Although Christina Mullins was calling from the nearby hotel, the phone reception was awful and Brayden could barely hear her.
“What’s up Agent Mullins? It’s only been ten minutes, are you missing your babysitter? Or couldn’t you get tickets to a show?” He didn’t hide his agitation and spoke loudly, startling a young couple holding hands as they passed by.
Ignoring the comment, Mullins continued. “I think we may have a break in our hunt for Dominic Schilling.”
Brayden had heard this line before. “If you think you can change my mind about us going home by using that ruse, you can forget it.”
“Have you been watching the news? Those burglaries? Up in Scotland?”
Brayden recalled seeing something whilst willing away the time, flicking through the channels late last night; this had been a little before seeing in the American New Year over the phone with his wife. “What about them?” He did nothing to mask the lack of interest in his voice.
“It’s not common knowledge, but I’m hearing some peculiarities about those burglaries from our sources,” said Mullins cryptically. Her sources usually meant a contact within the joint CIA/FBI operation unit. Possibly Mac, the computer-geek-looking guy they’d grown close to these past two months.
“Go on.”
“Some eyewitness accounts make little or no sense...”
“Mullins YOU’RE currently making little or no sense. Get to the point.”
“They’re saying that all the items just disappeared or vanished in thin air. As though taken by a–”
“Ghost,” finished Brayden. “Our girl?”
“I don’t know. Possibly... but I doubt she could be responsible for all of the thefts; there were more than a couple of hundred incidents last night, right across Scotland. Same M.O. She’s talented, but I don’t even think she could pull off something that audacious.”
“Quite. Have you spoken to Emily yet?”
“I’ve tried, but she had no comment. She’s busy dealing with a major incident involving Ryan. Apparently he was shot last night...”
“Jeez. Happy New Year Ryan,” Brayden muttered sarcastically. “I think we need to head over to centre command and see what the hell is going on.”
“Am I to take it your plans to go home are now moot?” asked Mullins playfully.
“No... Just on hold,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the hotel’s foyer in ten minutes. That should give you enough time to make yourself presentable.”
“Sod off, Brayden! A girl needs at least an hour to do that!”
Chapter Thirty
Emily
Three hours was all it took for Emily and Sophie to arrive within the small operations room − or what Brayden Scott referred to as centre command − which Ryan ordinarily managed.
Despite working there, entering the MI6 building overlooking London’s River Thames wasn’t a casual affair. Security in one of the world’s foremost intelligence agencies was intense, as one might expect. Passing through a variety of checkpoints, including a basic swipe-card operated door, its activation box affixed to the wall just to one side of the entrance; this was then followed by fingerprint analysis, a retinal scan and a body check from a butch woman in an official uniform (black trousers, white shirt and a gold badge like a sheriff’s star pinned to her breast), a detection wand in her hand which she ran up and down each of their bodies, clearly savouring the task. Clearing security, the guard looked immensely disappointed, waving them on with a grunt.
“That was easy,” stated Sophie, having never been to the SIS building before. “I thought it would be like Fort Knox.”
“Ryan had your details uploaded into the system before you disappeared to America months ago.”
“Including my retinal images?” she asked doubtfully.
“There are ways,” said Emily cryptically, making no attempt to enlighten her. “Here, I almost forgot.” Emily reached into her handbag. “Your ID. You should wear it at all times.”
Sophie accepted the plastic card. It was contained within a cardholder on a lanyard. She studied it for a moment, holding it by the cord. “Cool! Sophie C. Jennings, Intelligence Officer,” she said. �
�Intelligence Officer!” she repeated, giggling. “Does that come with a salary?” Not waiting for a response, another question immediately leapt to mind: “What’s the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Clara,” replied Emily. “Ryan found it on your original birth certificate in George’s locker at Kaplan Ratcliff... after the ‘accident’.” She made inverted commas with both of her index fingers. “It was at the same time he found the photograph and learned the truth about your father’s CIA background. It’s when he discovered Clara to be your biological mother.”
“Huh... how about that,” Sophie said softly. “I didn’t know I had a middle name,” she said whimsically.
Entering Ryan’s command room for the first time came as a bit of a shock to Sophie; it was not what she had expected, and looked more like a call centre than a hub for secret intelligence operations.
The room was stuffy, the overhead heaters pumping out hot air unnecessarily. Mac was the only analyst on duty, practically living on site twenty-four-seven. Dressed in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, he couldn’t have looked less like a SIS officer had he tried.
“Emily!” gasped Mac. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else in...” his cheeks flushed red under the two women’s appraising looks. “It’s New Year’s Day...” as though asserting this explained his presence.
“I guess that’s why it’s so hot in here,” said Sophie with disdain.
“Have you not heard about Ryan?” asked Emily, crossing the room to a small electronic panel built into the wall. She punched a button a few times, adjusting the setting of the air conditioning. “Go put some clothes on... this isn’t Miami.”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 22