“When did they occur? What time frame?”
“Occur? They haven’t stopped!”
Brayden returned to the surveillance room just as Sophie’s meeting with Dominic neared its end.
“Are you in?” Dominic sounded exuberant. He was holding all the cards, and everyone knew it.
Emily and Mullins watched Sophie snatch a thin book up from the table, looking very disgruntled and like she wanted to scrunch it up and punch it into his face.
“A pleasure doing business with you,” Dominic’s voice followed, losing resonance as Sophie walked away.
“What did I miss?” Brayden stood alongside his fellow American. She had taken his seat when he’d left to make the phone call.
“Oh, just about everything,” replied Mullins, slightly miffed. “I hope that call was important.”
“I think so,” retorted Brayden, nonplussed. “Mac… with something interesting. Fill me in and I’ll update you.”
“Oh, it’s like that... I show you mine and you’ll show me yours...”
Before Brayden had a chance to respond with something witty, the radio emitted Sophie’s voice again:
“Assuming you heard all of that... what now?”
“I’ve got this,” said Emily, her phone pressed against her ear. She was ringing Sophie.
Brayden perched himself on the edge of a table.
On one of the screens, a camera had picked out the young woman stepping out from Waverley Mall Shopping Centre back into the street. Her free hand (the other holding a brochure) making a mobile phone appear.
“Sophie, we heard everything. We’ll send someone to collect you and we’ll discuss the situation when you return.”
“Okay.” Sophie’s voice echoed through the speaker of the handheld communication device, slightly out of synch with the mobile. She didn’t sound happy, which was understandable. The corresponding image on the screen corroborated her mood.
“Cross the road back to where we dropped you off, and then make your way down Princes Street in the direction of the Scott Memorial...”
“That ugly statue that looks like it belongs in a horror movie?”
“Yes, that’s the one; it’s meant to be gothic. The next road you come to is Hanover Street; take it and cross over. Liam and the field agents are stationed a little way up. He’ll be looking out for you. We’ll talk more when you arrive.”
Emily disconnected the call and returned the mobile phone to her jacket pocket. She took in a deep breath and let out an explosive sigh.
“So... what did that whack-job want with Sophie?” Brayden was intrigued to know.
Emily laughed humourlessly. “A diamond.” It sounded lame coming from her lips. She shook her head in disbelief. “This is all over a bloody trinket.”
Brayden turned towards Mullins. “Seriously?”
“Yep,” confirmed the FBI Agent. “Dominic wants her to steal the Whisper of Persia... a diamond apparently on exhibition here in Edinburgh at the Queen’s Gallery.”
“Doesn’t seem to make sense...”
“He’s offering Meredith − Sophie’s sister − in a trade. The diamond… for the girl,” said Mullins. “He’s keeping her brothers as collateral, to ensure his onward escape. He’s not stupid.”
“It can’t be just about stealing a diamond,” Brayden thought aloud. “He could have used his boys to do it; they’re more than capable... except...” Something occurred to him. His face started to glow with enthusiasm. “... his boys are busy doing something else.”
“Brayden, you’re babbling,” admonished Mullins blithely.
“No, no I’m not. Maybe this isn’t just about stealing a diamond,” suggested Brayden. Absently he raked a hand through his hair.
“No?” quizzed Emily.
“Maybe it’s a diversion, a means just to get Sophie out of the way.”
“Why?” Emily wasn’t convinced. “Out of the way of what?”
Brayden took a deep breath. “Mac called to give me some updates, one of which related to those boys you’ve called the sons of GYGES. They’re in play again, this time in–”
“London...” finished Emily, “...in our own backyard. Sophie is likely the only person capable of matching those kids for their abilities. According to the data we recovered, their DNA is almost identical to Sophie’s.”
“Stands to reason why he’d want her gone.”
“What shall we do?” asked Mullins, joining the discussion.
“I wish Ryan was here. He’d have some suggestions,” said Emily blankly.
“We don’t need ‘daddy’, so let’s not lose focus,” stated Brayden seriously. “I don’t see that we have much choice but to play out Dominic’s plan. Sophie isn’t going to want to do anything that will jeopardise the safety of her sister... OR her brothers. We need to think about getting that diamond.”
“And we have less than four hours to do it,” stated Mullins.
Brayden raised an eyebrow.
“Yep,” Mullins continued, “we’re on the clock. The whack job wants to do the exchange around 6:00 p.m.”
“I guess we need to fathom how best to steal the diamond without causing too much upheaval,” stated Brayden, adding: “Or upsetting the Queen.”
“I’ll speak with the Chief... see what he suggests. He’s probably speaking with the Prime Minister, who’s keeping Her Majesty up to speed on events.” Emily hoped the head of MI6 could offer her some enlightenment.
“You do that,” said Brayden with a hint of disapproval.
Chapter Forty-Two
Garret
The stakes were no higher than they had been set on New Year’s Eve and the target, no less formidable. Tasked with overseeing the plan in Dominic’s absence, Garret watched the initiates as they set off to carry out the man’s request. He was dressed for warmth, trussed up in a thick brown winter coat, the hood crumpled down behind his neck, and a black beanie hat protecting his bald head from the elements. Despite wearing gloves, his hands were frozen, so he stuffed them deep within the coat’s pockets.
Like before, all ninety of the boys had been left to plan their own jobs, the only caveat being: their jobs were to begin at exactly 1:00 p.m., and they had a three hour window to complete them.
Some of the initiates had made an alliance with others, plotting grander schemes that allowed much greater opportunities of plunder and wealth, but with sizeable risk. Most kept to themselves and aimed for smaller, higher value pickings.
A convoy of trucks and vans – mostly on hire – rolled out of the large warehouse under the steady gaze of Garret and Melvyn, two of the three Kaplan Ratcliff field agents that had survived the helicopter attack in Nevada back in October. They stood by the up-and-over warehouse door, as Dominic had done early New Year’s Day. Melvyn was holding a clipboard and a pen. On a sheet of paper, he ticked off each initiate, identified only by their allocated number. None had been given a name, and as they were all identical, their number was the only way to separate them. As well as wearing an identification number pinned to their jackets, the corresponding number was also tattooed to their upper arm.
As the last truck rolled by, Garret gave the driver and the two initiates seated alongside him (which Melvyn ticked off as Seventy-One and Thirteen) a little wave. When the convoy disappeared around a turning and the smell of diesel had subsided a little, the man with the spiderweb tattoo on one cheek pressed a large green push-button on a cable that dangled from the wall. Instantly the up-and-over door began to clink and clank as it trundled without hurry down, the small motor powering it whirring as it rumbled with life.
“How much do you think they’ll get this time?” asked Melvyn, making conversation. He stepped under the lowering door before the gap closed up and left him out in the cold.
&nb
sp; “I dunno, a bit more I guess. London’s richer.”
“Shall we have a bet?”
Garret shrugged. “I guess it might make it a bit more interesting.” It was going to be a long afternoon and they needed something to while away the time.
“Fifty quid that it’s double.”
“Fifty quid? Hardly seems worth it. Make it five hundred if you’re so certain.” A moment later, Garret laughed to see the younger man squirm as he weighed up the pros and cons.
“That’s a day’s wages,” complained Melvyn, dejected. “I’ve got a kid on the way.”
“Don’t sweat it homeboy. Tell you what. How about I give you five hundred if you win... but if I win, you get a tattoo like this.” Garret pointed to the web on his left cheek. “I got the stamp when I lost a bet ten years ago...”
“You got that from a bet? That figures. I did wonder why you’d had it done; thought it made you look a bit of a dick.” Melvyn started to grin.
“Well... if you lose the bet, I’ll be in good company.”
Slightly over three hours later, Garret and Melvyn were behind the wall of LCD screens in the back of the mobile command centre. The Mitsubishi Fuso truck was equipped with high-tech surveillance devices and tracking software, and just like three days before, the two men watched in anticipation at what was about to happen.
“Okay cadets... are you in your starting positions?” Garret spoke into the adjustable microphone that poked out to the side of his headset. No longer wearing his beanie hat, his bald head shone beneath the overhead lighting that glowed brightly in the ceiling of the vehicle.
“Copy.” A chorus of affirmatives filled his ear as ninety kids confirmed that they were all in locations that were measured approximately fifteen minutes away from their targets. Like before, the initiates wore a tracker device on a dog tag pendant hanging from their necks.
“Okay... just leaves me to wish you all good luck! Be ready on my command,” said Garret.
“T-minus two minutes.” Melvyn tapped a few keys on the QWERTY keyboard in front of him. A digital timer appeared in the corner of the half a dozen VDUs placed around the walls of the command centre, the numerals counting down the minutes, seconds and milliseconds on every one.
“D’you want a coffee before we get started?” asked Melvyn affably, removing his headset for a moment.
“No, thanks,” Garret replied. “The stuff goes straight through me... I’ll need to go for a pee within a few minutes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to miss this.”
“Suit yourself.” Melvyn stood and scampered out of the truck. A little walk around the side of the vehicle, a dozen metres across the warehouse, he then came to the small office. Pulling open the door and stepping in, he trotted to the fully stocked drinks’ machine and punched in a sequence of numbers that would produce a hot beverage in the style and preference of his choice. A paper cup was dispensed, followed by thirty seconds of squelching, sloshing, spitting noises that was soon replaced by a farting sound as Melvyn’s coffee dribbled out.
As he stepped back into the truck, Garret threw him a reproachful look. “Cutting it fine... just thirty seconds...”
“What’s your problem...? I didn’t miss a thing.” Melvyn sat down and pushed the headset back on.
Garret pressed the on button of his mic. “Okay cadets, on my word.”
The digital timer flashed through the numbers and the two minutes were now nearly over.
Melvyn pressed a button on a flexible stem microphone that he’d dragged over from the back of the desk and which extended from a round weighted base. He spoke into its black foam covered head: “Okay, we have ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two... one...” As before, he made a gun with his right hand and followed it with a shooting sound, like a starting pistol.
Taking the place of Dominic, Garret addressed his audience of ninety teenage boys. “Okay cadets... this is it. Go! Remember... three hours...” a momentary pause, “... acknowledge.”
Unlike New Year’s Eve, the ninety boys were deployed during the day. Without the distraction or divertissement of a host of end of year and Hogmanay celebrations, some would say that the enterprise was foolish and reckless. If they had not been invisible, many of them would have agreed.
Fully ‘immersed’ the initiates entered shops, banks, museums, stately homes, car showrooms and jewellers and started taking things unchallenged, filling backpacks, holdalls, shopping trolleys and suitcases with as much as they could carry; like Sophie, every inanimate item they touched, disappeared. It wasn’t until an hour later that the most daring heist took place.
It was a little after quarter-past two.
By now, law enforcement and the British government were aware that the nation’s capital was under attack, and countermeasures were being deployed.
Garret watched the imposing building on Threadneedle Street appear on the sixty-inch flat screen from eight different viewpoints, cameras attached to the side of the ocular headgear that helped the initiates to see each other – like everyone else, they were invisible to each other.
“Isn’t that?”
“You betcha,” replied Garret, cavalier.
Since 1694, The Bank of England had presided over the country’s finances, issuing the nation’s currency in circulation, and was the fifteenth largest custodian of gold reserves in the world. Stored within eight vaults over two floors beneath the bank, there were more than 4,600 tonnes of gold stacked high within metal warehouse shelves valued at around £1,200 billion.
“Is it even possible?” asked Melvyn, awestruck. “It’s supposed to be like Fort Knox.”
The eight initiates entered the building by the only entrance. There were no other doors on ground level and no windows, giving it the dramatic appearance of almost impregnable security.
“We’ll soon see,” replied Garret, his eyes glued to the large screen. Running into the bank unchallenged, they entered the front hall where staff, security personnel and a few suited visitors stood around, some talking, others on mobiles. To the edges were a number of columns that gave the appearance of an old Greek temple, holding up the ceiling; in front of them were some large bronze uplighters, engraved with lions and eagles, symbolic to the past relationship between the British Pound and the American Dollar. Ahead, archways led deeper into the hall, security barriers barring access without clearance.
“It’s this way to the vaults,” one of the boys said. Garret identified him as number Thirty-Seven. The boy wandered away from his companions towards a security guard. With ease, he seized the man’s key card; the pass still attached to its elasticised belt buckle fob disappeared within his hands. He returned to the other seven boys. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”
“You lead... we’ll follow.”
Each of the boys hurdled over the security barriers, ran a little deeper in and stopped just short of a scale model of the bank’s building enclosed within a glass case atop a solid square table.
“You sure you know where it is?” asked another boy.
“We take a lift.”
“More in point, do you actually know what you’re doing?” One of the boys sounded unsure.
To the left of the initiates, through another archway, they could see a cantilever staircase that led up and downwards. If they’d ventured towards it, they would have seen at its bottom was an old Roman mosaic, colourful and complete.
The lifts were to their right, along a short wide corridor.
“Trust me.” Number Thirty-Seven with the security guard’s key card, spoke confidently. “It’s this way.”
Garrett and Melvyn were watching mesmerised as the lift appeared, its doors gliding open accompanied by a long, loud, ear-piercing:
beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!
“What the–” Melvyn jumped back in alarm, his attention no longer fixated on number Thirty-Seven’s video feed or any of his seven buddies.
“It’s a distress signal.” Garret turned exigently in his swivel chair to check a computer screen behind him. The initiates appeared on a live, ever-altering list, which included their coordinates, their heartbeat, blood pressure and other vital signs. The numbers were all green, except one.
Number Twenty-Six.
His entire data line was flashing red. “Let’s get a visual on number Twenty-Six,” Garret requested of Melvyn, deactivating the discordant bleep sound, restoring tranquillity to the truck.
Melvyn tapped a couple of keys and the corresponding video feed flashed up, replacing the eight others that continued to broadcast the Bank of England robbery, no longer of current interest.
Garret activated the mic button and spoke into his headset. “Twenty-Six, what’s your status?”
“I’m hit!” he screamed back over the airwaves. The image on the flat screen was nothing but a whitewashed wall with some red marks. A bloody handprint glistened upon it, and a long smear of crimson trailed for a short way. Garret knew that the blood belonged to the boy.
“What happened?”
Twenty-Six made some guttural noises followed by a gurgling sound over the truck’s speakers. “They were waiting for me. They knew I was invisible... they were prepared. They shot me, Garret... I’m dying.”
“You’ll be okay Twenty-Six, stay with me. I’ll get you help.” Garret turned off his microphone and turned to Melvyn. “Who do we have in the area?”
“I’ll check.” Melvyn turned to the monitor behind them and typed in a command. “Thirteen is close by, as is Eighty-Four.”
“Send them both.”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 31