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

by Philip J. Gould

  “It’s from the kidnapper,” said Ryan, stating the obvious. “On the other side there’s a message. It’s addressed to Sophie.”

  Emily turned the photograph over.

  Sophie... if you want to see them again, call me.

  A mobile number had been scribbled out beneath it.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?” demanded Sophie, snatching back the photograph from Emily and waving it towards Ryan accusingly.

  “Yea, Ryan...” Emily jumped in. “Can’t you see we’re beside ourselves with worry?”

  “This could be life or death!” continued Sophie. “They’re my family, haven’t you betrayed me enough already, or does someone else I care about need to die first?!”

  “Relax, both of you... they’re fine.”

  “How do you know?!” demanded Sophie angrily, then again, more insistent: “How do you know?!”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve yet to call that number. They’ll be perfectly safe until you know what they want. My advice: don’t call them. Not until, that is, you’re ready to deal with the consequences of their demands.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Brayden

  Special Agent Mullins found Brayden back in his room at the London Marriott Hotel County Hall. Lying on his bed, he had a wet towel draped across his face providing scant relief, like the paracetamol tablets he’d downed together with a swig of Russian Standard vodka a short time earlier. Sophie firing Mullins’ gun next to his head had given him a splitting migraine that pained him almost as intensely as the ringing that continued to scream within his left eardrum.

  “So, what now?” Mullins sat, and then stretched out on the bed next to Brayden, resting her head on the pillow. Through the window she could see the Houses of Parliament with Big Ben foremost across the Thames, a few boats bobbing about on its dull-grey surface.

  Through the towel Brayden made a noise that sounded like, “I don’t know,” but she might have imagined it.

  “She’ll still be made to account for her crimes.” Mullins was still dwelling on Sophie Jennings, and the affidavit which precluded her from prosecution for any past transgressions.

  Brayden dragged the towel free from his head and tossed it to the floor where it landed with a heavy thud. “What crimes?” He winced from the sound of his own voice which seemed to boom within his head. Speaking a little quieter, he said: “She was acting under orders. She’s a fellow intelligence agent. Let’s admit it; we would’ve done the same thing...”

  “But Brayden, innocent people were killed... American people!”

  “People die within our line of work all the time... you know that. Fact. It’s the nature of the beast. No, we’re to let it go... for now. The President wants us to focus on Dominic instead. If, as Emily suggested, he has some of the GYGES super soldiers, we need to locate them and take them back home. That’s our latest priority.”

  “What about Sophie?” Mullins wasn’t willing to give up quite as easily as Brayden, but then, she hadn’t had a gun fired close to the side of her head.

  “Maybe she’ll give herself up to us... when this is all over,” he said optimistically. “Willingly, of course...”

  “Okay, so back to my original question. What now?”

  Brayden closed his eyes for a moment; his pounding head was making it difficult to think. In the end he didn’t bother. “I’m going to try and sleep this headache off. Why don’t you do what you suggested at breakfast. Take some down time and do some of the sights. Maybe get in a show? It’s New Year’s Day... we shouldn’t be working... not today.”

  “Seriously?” Mullins’ mood seemed to brighten. “It would be good to take a break. Are you sure?”

  “Knock yourself out. Take the rest of the day off. We’ll get back together in the morning; hopefully I’ll feel better. If anything urgent comes up, I’ll call.”

  Stepping back into the SIS building the following morning feeling refreshed and completely recovered from his headache and deafness, Brayden found himself accompanying both Sophie and Emily along the many corridors towards their shared office. Walking in silence, the atmosphere was thorny and restrained. At the door, Brayden gestured the MI6 agents to go forward. “After you.”

  Emily smiled. Swiping her cardkey, the door glided open. Sophie rolled her eyes and followed the older woman in.

  Agent Mullins was already there within the room. So too were Mac, dressed more suitably for an analyst in a shirt and tie combo, and a full contingent of analysts and agents milling around, including Jez and Belle, and a mix of MI6, FBI and CIA.

  “Sophie... about yesterday,” Brayden started, halting the woman’s progress with a hand grab. He looked uncomfortable and awkward.

  Sophie stopped just inside the doorway, Emily walking away ahead. She turned her head, an uneasy look upon her face. “Yes?”

  “We got off to a crappy start. Can we put it in the past? Start fresh?”

  Sophie’s face drained of seriousness. She replied with a warm smile, exposing the full whites of her teeth. “Sure.”

  “Oh, and... just so you know there’s no hard feelings... here. I’ve brought you something.” Brayden had carried a black bag with him − like a rubbish sack − through the building. Both Sophie and Emily had noticed it but hadn’t wished to impose by asking what was in it. Now Sophie was going to find out. He gently dropped it at her feet.

  “It’s not your dirty laundry, is it?” accepting the bag from Brayden. She tested its weight, noting that it didn’t feel very heavy which added conviction to her guess.

  “No, I have room service taking care of that,” replied Brayden soberly.

  Sophie pulled the bag open and reached in. “Is it...?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Yep. It was recovered from the United Airlines plane you escaped from back in Fresno...”

  Sophie pulled free her backpack and unzipped it smoothly. Inside were a few items of clothing and something familiar which immediately grabbed her attention.

  “Flopsy!” she exclaimed, pulling the stuffed toy kangaroo free, acting like a kid − which, in reality, she was. After all, she was only celebrating her fourth birth year come April sixteenth.

  “I thought you might like having them returned.”

  “You betcha! I thought I’d lost them forever!” Sophie raised the fluffy kangaroo to her face and rubbed it against her cheek. Feeling it, so soft, brought back memories of her father. He had gifted it to her after a day trip when he’d taken his wife and other children to London Zoo, a small consolation for being uninvited, but cherished nonetheless. “My father bought it for me,” she said. “You don’t know how much this means. It has sentimental value. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” replied Brayden, grinning. All was forgiven it seemed. In that moment, it was hard to imagine Sophie being anything more than just an innocent, beautiful, young lady. Then a dark thought surfaced and he recalled how she had fought her way out of the terminal building, laying out seasoned field agents and evading capture from the best of them. He left Sophie holding her backpack and the toy, shaking his head, slightly bemused and joined up with Special Agent Mullins.

  “Where’ve you been?” asked his partner. She’d looked for him at breakfast, and even knocked at his door shortly after, but found the CIA agent had risen early and had left the hotel building.

  “Oh, went for a run, and then had to fetch something, is all.” Peering over his shoulder, he saw Sophie pretend-walking the toy kangaroo on Emily’s desk towards the bespectacled woman, like it were a Christmas gift. Both women were laughing, hardly a care in the world it seemed.

  “This is a photograph of Sophie’s sister and two brothers: Meredith, Stanley and Charlie.”

  It was an hour later and Emily was standing at the head of the table in the conference room
holding up the large black and white photograph. Around her were half a dozen senior analysts, as well as Brayden, Christina Mullins and Sophie, all sitting around on either side of the table giving her their full attention.

  “They were kidnapped from their grandfather’s home on New Year’s Eve, and haven’t been seen since. It was around the same time Ryan was shot. Yesterday, this photograph was delivered to Ryan’s ward at the hospital. On the back...” Emily turned it over, “... this is written.”

  Sophie... if you want to see them again, call me.

  Brayden raised his hand.

  “Yes.”

  “Might be stating the obvious, but shouldn’t Sophie just call the number?” Brayden looked about the table for endorsement. One or two nodded, which was good enough to motivate him further. “I mean, shouldn’t we find out what they want?”

  Emily half-nodded. “Sure. Maybe. Ryan was of the opinion that, by withholding contact, we’ll have more time to prepare for dealing with whatever the demands are. It’s not like they’ve given us an ultimatum or a specific timeframe.”

  “Yet,” stated Agent Mullins weightily.

  “Yet,” Emily agreed. “So, whilst we decide when to call the number, we need to group our minds together and find out what we can about the burglaries in Scotland, where the perps’ base of operations is, what’s happened to the stolen property, and how this latest development,” Emily flapped the photograph in front of her, “fits in. It would be great if we can find out what they plan next and pre-empt their next strike, catch them in the act.”

  Brayden’s hand shot up again.

  “Yes?” uttered Emily, a little abruptly.

  “I don’t get it. Sure, I understand the need to find out the answers to all those questions, but delaying contact with the kidnappers... that’s high-risk strategy. I mean, you’re putting lives at stake. Don’t you think they will think something is off by not contacting them? They’ve got three hostages... at the moment. Plenty of flesh to bargain with.”

  Emily gave Brayden a withering look.

  Brayden held up the flat of a hand in an apologetic manner. “It’s what I would do, is all. Plus, it’s something from the ‘Idiot’s Guide to Kidnapping’ manual,” he said, jokingly.

  Some titters, sniggers and laughter erupted around the table.

  Sophie glanced at Brayden and then across to Emily, reading their body language, their expressions and demeanour. Emily’s was tense, her face challenging, almost stubborn. Brayden’s was relaxed, confident. The twinkle in his eye indicated to her that he enjoyed sparring verbally, almost as much as he enjoyed physical conflict. Sophie returned her eyes to Brayden who caught and held them with his own.

  “All I am saying...” Brayden said, seeming to speak directly to Sophie, “... is, hasn’t Sophie lost enough family members... and friends, already?”

  Emily, still standing, folded her arms across her chest, her cheeks slightly flushed and her form indicative of a woman scorned. “Agent Scott... I’d like to remind you that you are a guest, and that, whilst Ryan Barber is... on leave, I AM in charge.”

  A couple of the agents fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats.

  Brayden raised his hands up in mock-surrender. “Apologies, Ma’am. No disrespect intended. But...” he turned again to Sophie, sitting opposite him, allowing his argument to go on unspoken.

  “He’s got a point,” Sophie intervened, hoping to diffuse the situation. Immediately, Emily shot her a look of disapproval. “Who’s to know what’s being done to my brothers and sister whilst we sit here and argue what we do next. They are children. They are scared. I don’t think we can afford to sit back and gamble with their lives on a theory that Ryan put forward from his hospital bed. I don’t want to sound callous, but the man isn’t in the best shape at the moment... plus, he’s made some questionable decisions in the past,” like going after the sons of GYGES instead of my father, she considered saying, but thought better of it. “I think this should be my decision.”

  Emily’s demeanour softened. “Okay,” she encouraged.

  “I’ve decided that I will do what the note says. I want... no, need... to know what they want.”

  Brayden looked smugly towards Emily who sat down, dispirited, in surrender.

  “Well... if there’s nothing else,” said Brayden, making movements to stand. “I think we should all crack on and get with it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sophie

  “You don’t have to do this... not right now. Ryan’s idea–”

  “Ryan has had a lot of ideas these past few months... not all of them have ended well. Not for me at least. This time, we do this my way.” Sophie interrupted Emily abruptly and icily. She was holding the black and white photo of her siblings in one hand and a phone handset in the other.

  The two of them had stayed behind in the conference room, Brayden reluctantly leaving when it was clear his attendance wasn’t wanted.

  Emily looked downcast, slightly hurt by the venom in the young woman’s voice. “Okay. Go ahead; I won’t stand in your way. But you do it with our help. You’re not going rogue.” She gently placed a hand over Sophie’s and guided her into replacing the telephone receiver back into its cradle. “Make the call outside.” Emily indicated the operation room beyond the tough, soundproofed glass wall that separated it from the private meeting area. “The phone in here is secure. We would do better to use an open line and employ StingRay to help try and trace the mobile number.” StingRay was an IMSI (International Mobile Subscriber Identity) catcher, or more simply, an eavesdropping device that helped locate the whereabouts of a mobile phone whilst in use, and, sometimes, when not. Widely used by American law-enforcement to track and trace criminals, it was less common owing to budgetary constraints within the UK. However, MI6 used it regularly for covert intelligence gathering, and London’s Metropolitan Police were rumoured to use such technology, although nothing official had ever been proven and, when questioned, the Police Commissioner refused to comment.

  “Whatever. Let’s go do this.”

  A section at the back of the operation area was cleared leaving a large round table, upon which only a telephone with a multitude of wires attached to it was placed.

  Around the table sat Sophie, Emily, Brayden, Mullins and Mac, giving the appearance of an ill-fitting group at a séance − the only thing missing was their holding hands and a dimly lit setting. Sophie was clutching the black and white photograph, like she was a spiritualist about to attempt communication with the dead and using it as a conduit to the afterlife, focusing and mentally trying to compose herself. She looked about nervously, and had emptied a cup of water with barely a gasp a moment earlier. Despite this, she felt like she had cotton-mouth and her throat was bone-dry. She coughed to try and clear it.

  “Okay, we’re all set. We’re ready when you are,” prompted Mac, contorted awkwardly over the back of his seat to a desk behind him where he stretched to reach a keyboard. A large flat LCD computer screen faced him upon which the StingRay compatible software glared out. He quickly keyed in some orders before twisting himself back to face his colleagues gathered in front of him.

  Sophie stood a little to extend her reach for the telephone, set at the centre of the table. She pulled the wired object closer to herself until within range and plucked up the handset attached with a black coiled wire as she sat back down. Quickly, she punched in the mobile number that was scribbled on the reverse of the photograph, just south of its author’s written demand.

  Sophie lifted the phone receiver to her ear, hearing the ringing tone almost immediately. It trilled for a long time before being replaced by a woman’s voice:

  “We was a wonderin’ whether yous was gonna call?” She spoke in a calm, casual manner. Sophie identified the woman as having a thick, Scottish accent, the lilt and pitch sm
ooth and attractive, unlike some of the harsh, regional dialects heard north of the border.

  “Who are you?”

  The woman laughed teasingly at the other end. “I’m jus’ a wee smout... jus’ goin’ between.” She used the word smout, meaning ‘unimportant’ person.

  “You have my brothers and sister... in the photo. You left a message for me to call. What do you want?”

  The woman ignored the question. “I s’ppose yous are try’n to track me wher’aboots... dinnae bother. I’ll save yous the fasht...” trouble.

  Mac, who was carefully watching the LCD screen over his shoulder, shot up an arm, drawing attention to himself. “Found them!” he exclaimed with a fist pump. The location of the person at the end of the phone flashed up in front of him.

  “Aye, we’re here in Edinburgh... Waverley Station, to be preceese, gilravaging a bargain bucket of southern fried choukie.”

  “Waverley Mall Shopping Centre, next to the rail station,” relayed Mac from the computer monitor. “Appears to be from within the food hall.”

  “What about the children? I need to know that they are safe,” Sophie demanded.

  “Aye, yous do. They willnae be hairmed, as’long as yous stay out of our bus’ness, that’s a promise. And then there’s the small matter of a di’mond yous owe.”

  “Diamond?

  “The Whisper of Persia... yous not forgotten it already?”

  Sophie fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. She had her suspicions, and now the Scottish voice confirmed it. It was Dominic Schilling all along; him, seemingly, with his diamond obsession.