by Lance Morcan
Directly above the redheaded woman, an unobtrusive security camera caught Nine’s attention. Secured to the top of a lamp-post, the camera swiveled from side to side, its silent arc covering the full width of the gardens.
A hundred yards beyond the lamp-post was stately Kensington Palace where Diana, Princess of Wales, had lived until her untimely death and where other members of Britain’s Royal Family had resided over the centuries. Nine studied the magnificent building for a few moments. Unlike most – Brits included – he could name all the members of Royalty who had ever lived there. This was another result of the comprehensive and all-inclusive education he’d received at Chicago’s Pedemont Orphanage.
Beyond the palace, next to Round Pound, Nine noticed two policemen on foot-patrol in nearby Hyde Park. He returned his attention to his immediate surroundings. His gaze rested on a middle-aged but fit-looking Chinese man leaning against a tree. The man checked his watch periodically and was clearly waiting for someone.
Nine sensed this was the agent he was here to meet. After scrutinizing his surroundings once more, he slowly approached.
The Chinese man took little notice of the elderly Hasid who shuffled toward him. Only when Nine addressed him did the Chinese man become fully alert.
“I’d rather be in the Mediterranean this time of year,” Nine said in fluent Mandarin.
Surprise flashed over the man’s normally inscrutable face as he studied the Hasid more carefully. He quickly recovered his composure. “The grass is always greener in winter,” he responded in equally fluent Mandarin.
Nine was satisfied. The response to his conversation-opener had been exactly as he’d stipulated when arranging the trade, which, when completed, would be worth a hundred million dollars to him. Nine knew the treasure he’d discovered was valued at about two hundred and fifty billion dollars. However, he'd been aware from the outset he was just one man and could never be sure of siphoning such a large hoard out of the Philippines without getting caught.
Besides, Nine had only confirmed where the treasure was buried. It would take the resources of a large organization to purchase the land and excavate the find.
As there was no American organization he could be sure hadn’t been infiltrated to some extent by Omega, he’d decided China was the country to trade with. The Chinese had agreed to pay him the hundred million figure. Nine reminded himself with that kind of money he’d be free of Omega’s tentacles forever. There was no need to get greedy.
“Do you have the Yamashita information?” the Chinese man asked.
Nine indicated he did then paused as the two policemen he’d seen earlier walked by.
As soon as the policemen were out of earshot, the Chinese man nodded toward a hotel overlooking the gardens. Still speaking Mandarin, he said, “My room is up there.” A sign read: Royal Garden Hotel. “We can complete the trade in private,” the man added.
Nine grew suspicious. Relocating wasn’t part of the arrangement. He observed his surroundings again as he considered the other's proposal. His pulse suddenly quickened when he saw that the security camera on top of the nearby lamp-post no longer swiveled from side to side – it appeared to be solely trained on him now.
He grew evermore suspicious when he noticed the redheaded woman he’d seen earlier was staring directly at him. Still on her cell phone, she quickly averted her gaze.
Nine inwardly froze as he realized these people weren’t who they seemed.
4
Nine wondered which Western organization had sabotaged the Chinese operation and planted its own agents undercover. He didn’t have time to figure it out. In less than a second, Nine turned, dropped the Chinese man with a karate blow to the neck then sprinted for the nearest exit. Gone was his earlier shuffle. He now moved like an athlete.
The redheaded woman pocketed her cell phone, stood up and pointed at the fleeing Hasid. “Stop that man!” she screamed.
Hearing the woman, the two policemen who had just walked by ran to intercept Nine. As they were closer to the exit, they both beat him to it. There, they drew their batons and advanced on him. They were surprised when the supposedly old Hasid kept running toward them. Ninja-like, Nine leapt in the air and knocked out the first policeman with a roundhouse kick to the head. He followed this with a power punch to the now unconscious man’s chin to be doubly sure he wouldn’t pose any further problem.
The other policeman, a particularly beefy individual, looked on in disbelief. He’d never seen anyone move like that before. He raised his baton to strike the offender. Before he could bring it down, Nine glided gracefully to his left and effortlessly swept the man’s feet out from under him. The martial art Nine was using was Teleiotes, a secret fighting style Kentbridge had taught him at the orphanage.
Before the policeman could recover, Nine employed a sleeper hold, rendering him unconscious. The operative then quickly surveyed his surroundings before sprinting through the gates. Behind him, the young lovers he’d passed earlier looked horrified at the sudden display of violence by the seemingly elderly Jewish man.
In Kensington High Street, Nine slowed to a walk and merged in with other pedestrians. He approached a stationary black taxi, casually opened its rear passenger door and climbed in, apparently unworried by the distant howl of police sirens.
Deep down, he was concerned, but his Omega training never allowed him to show fear. Emotions, facial expressions, body language. All had to be kept in check. “Be like the eye of the cyclone and remain calm amidst chaos,” he heard Kentbridge say.
An aching in his arm reminded Nine of the surgery he’d performed on himself before fleeing the Philippines. He’d almost forgotten about it since arriving in London. The exertions of a few minutes earlier had aggravated it. He hoped the stitches hadn’t torn.
The taxi headed down Gloucester Road toward the River Thames and soon reached the upmarket neighborhood of South Kensington. As the taxi pulled into the residential street of Cranley Gardens, two police cars followed from the adjoining Old Brompton Road, their sirens howling and lights flashing.
Inside the taxi, the driver, a portly Welshman, looked in his rear-vision mirror. “Wonder who they're chasing?” he asked.
Nine ignored the driver whose strong Welsh accent was barely intelligible. The operative was solely focused on a towering Armenian church directly ahead. Saint Yeghiche Church couldn’t be missed. It was something of a local landmark. Nine had noticed it on a previous assignment in London.
As it drew steadily closer, his hawk-like vision spotted a sign hanging above the church’s entrance. It read: Closed for Maintenance. “Stop here,” he instructed the driver in a heavy Israeli accent.
The driver stopped directly outside the old building. His customer paid him then climbed out of the taxi and walked as fast as he dared toward the church’s entrance. The driver watched him until he disappeared inside before turning his attention back to his rear vision mirror as the pursuing police cars pulled up behind his taxi. Two or three policemen jumped out of each car and sprinted into the church.
Inside Saint Yeghiche Church, a senior officer led his men up a narrow, spiral staircase leading to the building’s upper floors. They were slowed by a group of maintenance workers who were descending at the same time.
As they climbed higher, the policemen were greeted by a cheerful-looking Cockney laborer. Wearing dusty overalls and a hard hat, the laborer smiled as he walked down the stairs toward them. “Sorry Guv'ner, the church is closed.”
“We're not here to pray!” the senior officer snapped. Neither he, nor the other policemen with him realized this was the man they were looking for.
Now in the convincing guise of a laborer, Nine’s appearance and persona were the polar opposite of the Hasid he’d been posing as a minute earlier. In similar fashion to how trained dancers project using body language, his posture and demeanor were in keeping with macho workers often found on building sites. He now walked with a swagger and wore a cheeky grin on his dust-cov
ered face.
“We're after a Jewish man,” the senior officer continued. “Have you seen --”
“Too right I 'ave, mate,” Nine interjected in a strong Cockney accent that would have fooled the patrons of any East End pub. “Passed 'im on the way down. The geezer said he's a lawyer or somethin'.”
Nine grinned at the policemen as they pushed past him in pursuit of their quarry.
Upstairs, in the church’s dusty attic, they discovered a semi-naked maintenance worker lying bound and gagged. Next to him was a discarded black coat. It was the same Hasidic clothing Nine had worn earlier. A young policeman picked up the black long-coat. Beneath it, he found a wig, a fake beard, contact lenses, and a shtreimel.
Realizing they'd been outfoxed, the senior officer ran back down the stairs. His subordinates followed, leaving the unfortunate maintenance worker where he was.
Outside, Nine strode out of the church’s main entrance just as another black taxi pulled up across the road to drop off its fare. Dodging traffic, he crossed the road and jumped into the taxi before its driver had time to take off.
The driver, a West Indian, turned around and smiled at his customer. “Where would you like to go?” he asked in a melodious Caribbean accent.
“Thought I'd meet the missus at the Blind Beggar in the East End,” Nine said, maintaining his Cockney accent. “Ya know the one?”
The driver nodded. “Yeah, I know it.” He accelerated away.
In the back seat, Nine removed his hard hat and looked over his shoulder in time to see the policemen emerge from the church. They spread out in all directions as they continued the hunt for their elusive, chameleon-like quarry.
Nine looked straight ahead as the taxi turned into Old Brompton Road and headed east. He fiddled with the ruby on his necklace while trying to make sense of the last few frenetic minutes. He knew the Chinese hadn’t ambushed him. There was too much at stake for that. Somehow, another outfit had gotten wind of the trade. He didn’t know whether it was the CIA, MI6, Mossad or the Omega Agency, but just hoped it wasn’t the latter.
5
The emerald green eyes that stared back were full of strength and determination. They were also tinged with sadness – for a life their owner had never experienced.
Studying his reflection in the safety of his hotel room, Nine noticed the mirror had flecks of mold on it as well as fingerprints from other guests.
Lamenting his foiled transaction with the Chinese in Kensington Gardens earlier that morning, he still didn’t know which agency had interfered. It had been a serious setback for his plans. He knew there’d be another opportunity to trade with the Chinese, however.
After he’d given the police the slip at Saint Yeghiche Church, he’d gone to the East End. Then, once satisfied he’d shaken his pursuers, he had checked into this inconspicuous hotel and immediately set about establishing a new identity for himself.
Nine knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the Omega Agency would already know he was in London. He was only too aware Omega had people planted on the inside of all Western intelligence agencies. It was a no-brainer his fellow Omega operatives would be coming for him. The contents on his flash drive were far too valuable for the agency to give up on.
The fugitive agent reminded himself it was imperative he presented a different face to the world each time he ventured out.
He made a silent vow to make good use of his vast array of disguises. Be like a ghost and they’ll never catch you.
As his latest identity took shape, Nine continued to study his own reflection. He was slowly morphing into an obese, over-the-hill businessman. Having hidden his eyebrows behind a mixture of spirit gum, mortician’s wax and other specialized make-ups, he began to create false stubble in the form of fine hair lace.
Even allowing for his semi-completed disguise, Nine didn’t entirely like what he saw in the mirror. There were some lines around his eyes he hadn’t noticed before and he found one or two gray hairs on his head. Although he still looked youthful for his thirty one years, these signs of aging were painful reminders of his own mortality.
Nine wasn’t afraid of dying, but he hated the idea of kicking the bucket without having lived a real life. He didn’t consider being a pawn since birth counted for any sort of life at all.
As he glued the last of the stubble to his face, Nine’s internal pain overwhelmed him. He put down the hair lace and stared blankly at the desk he was hunched over. His weapon of choice, a .45 GAP, or Glock automatic pistol, lay next to his make-up supplies. Nearby was the all-important Yamashita flash drive.
In the center of the desk was an opened wallet with a faded photograph protruding from it. The image was of a striking, dark-haired, green-eyed woman. A wave of emotion swept over Nine as he focused on the ruby necklace around the woman’s neck. It was the same necklace he now wore.
Kentbridge had given the ruby to him when Nine was just a boy at the Pedemont Orphanage, advising it had belonged to his mother. Nine wasn’t sure if it was the placebo effect, but during times of stress he often found just touching the ruby seemed to connect him to family he’d never known.
Having never known his now deceased mother, her ruby necklace and photo were the most precious things in the world to him. Such was the unsolved jigsaw of his life, he’d only ever learned a few things about her. They were telling facts, however.
Born in San Francisco, her name was Annette Hannar. In her early teens she was orphaned overnight when both her parents were killed in a car crash. Coming of age in the Sixties during California’s Hippie revolution, Annette experimented with various drugs. By the Seventies, she was a full blown addict living on the streets of Chicago.
Nine’s independent research revealed it was around that time Annette had been approached by Omega to join The Pedemont Project. Unable to resist the money, she reluctantly agreed and, once weaned off her addiction, was impregnated as a vehicle to manufacture orphans.
A year or so after giving birth to him, Nine’s mother had escaped from The Pedemont Project. Frightened by the Omega Agency’s dark agenda, she went to the police. Naylor ordered Kentbridge to have Annette killed before she could expose Omega any further. Kentbridge had refused – something to this day Nine remained unaware of. In the end, Naylor had one of his other operatives do it.
Nine absentmindedly touched his mother’s face on the photo. The rage he already felt toward his Omega masters intensified as he suddenly pictured them discussing Annette's termination.
As if to numb his sorrows, Nine pulled another photo from his wallet. It was an image of a tropical island. The South Pacific paradise was located in the Marquesas Islands, the most northerly archipelago in French Polynesia and one of the remotest places on earth.
The island, which he’d purchased shortly before his mission in the Philippines, represented his one and only shot at freedom. After thirty one years as a slave of the Omega Agency, he felt certain the secret island location was a viable way of getting off the grid – that invasive surveillance network designed to pick up almost every individual on the planet.
Getting off the grid was of paramount importance to him. Until he did that, he’d forever be changing identities and countries just to stay one step ahead of his fellow Omegans.
Nine knew the population of the Marquesas Islands was only eight thousand and the island he’d purchased was a good fifty miles away from the nearest inhabited island. There were no phone lines or electricity, and therefore no grid. Once he reached his island, he planned to settle into a permanent false identity. He would reside as the island’s rightful owner and never have to explain himself to anyone.
But first he had to complete his trade with the Chinese. Only then would he have enough wealth to spend the remainder of his life on the island. If he succeeded, Nine planned to invest most of his millions in Swiss annuities, which he knew were safer than houses, and live forever off the interest generated.
He looked back at the flash drive on the desk before h
im. Cashing in the last of Yamashita’s treasure was the only way his plan would ever become a reality.
6
Across the Atlantic, in the Omega Agency’s subterranean HQ beneath the disused hydro dam in south-west Illinois, Naylor and Kentbridge were closeted in a small meeting room. The atmosphere was decidedly frosty despite the efficient central heating.
Naylor was still seething. He made no secret of the fact that he partially blamed his subordinate for the current situation with Nine. Kentbridge had kept such a tight control over his orphans all these years, Naylor never expected one of them to threaten Omega’s security or jeopardize its standing in world affairs. That the mess had unraveled on the eve of securing one of the most substantial treasure booties in the world was the real bitch.
Few knew more about Yamashita’s Gold than Naylor did. His own father had served in the Philippines under General MacArthur and, at the end of World War Two, had witnessed the earliest discoveries of Japan’s massive plunder. Naylor had also confirmed that the former president of the Philippines, Ferdinand Marcos, had obtained much of his personal fortune from later discoveries.
Naylor had been intent on finding the remainder of the legendary Asian treasure hoard ever since being appointed Omega director in the late 1970’s. He’d spent many a late night pouring over the faded Japanese army maps he had acquired. This obsession had been noted by his Omega co-founders.
The ultra-secret organization had a ruling council of twelve individuals – all dissatisfied members of various Illuminati societies. These Omega heads included a media mogul, a former New York City Mayor, a member of the British Royal Family, a Presidential advisor, an OPEC chief and a banker allied with the US Federal Reserve.
Although Naylor came from more humble beginnings, he was also one of the twelve founding members. His motivations for forming the Omega Agency were no different to the others and could be summed up in two words: greed and globalization. The founding members all had one thing in common: the desire to create a New World Order.