by James Morcan
Mahamdou shook his head then turned his back on the orphan once more as he carried on loading the truck.
Nine knew he had five hundred and fifty dollars on him. That amounted to his life savings. His Omega masters had never given him a single cent, but they had taught him skills to enable him to find monies virtually whenever he wanted. Those skills ranged from fraudulently cashing in misappropriated checks to the more basic art of pickpocketing.
Conjuring up cash to survive. That was how Kentbridge had described those particular skills. Naylor had a more grandiose description for them: Manifesting your future wealth. Nine felt Kentbridge’s description was more apt – especially for where he was at this particular stage of his young life. Right now it was all about survival. Manifesting wealth could come later.
Nine recalled a time when Kentbridge had set a test whereby he and all the other orphans were dropped off in Downtown Chicago, not far from where he stood at that very moment. Using the skills they’d been taught, they each had to find twenty five dollars before they could return to the orphanage. It was a testimony to their training that every single orphan found the money, though some didn’t make it home until very late that night. Most found the money by using their highly-trained peripheral vision to spot lost coins in the streets around cinemas, cab ranks and phone booths; some, like Nine, resorted to pickpocketing to find their twenty five dollars.
None of the orphans knew exactly why they’d been taught skills like pickpocketing. They realized they were destined to become operatives, but their Omega masters never told them specifically what their training or skills would be used for. Nine however, had a theory the thievery had something to do with learning how to hold their nerve under pressure.
The slamming of the truck’s rear doors brought Nine back to the present. Mahamdou had just jumped down from the back of the truck and was walking around to the driver’s door. He was obviously ready to depart.
Nine pulled out all the notes from his wallet and walked over to Mahamdou, waving the notes in front of him. “Please. This is all I have.”
Mahamdou looked hungrily at the wad of bills.
Nine could tell the African driver was tempted. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Nine puffed up to his full height as Mahamdou looked him up and down. Although he knew he still looked fresh-faced, he hoped his height was enough to convince Mahamdou he was as old as he claimed. He also thanked his lucky stars his voice had recently broken.
“Alright.” Mahamdou snatched money off Nine. “But don’t give me any trouble, else I’ll drop ya on the side of the road.” He climbed in behind the wheel and fired up the ignition.
A relieved Nine ran around to the passenger side and climbed up next to Mahamdou who was already gunning the accelerator in anticipation of a prompt departure. The driver was mindful he was on contract and so was paid for pickups and deliveries, not for how many hours he spent driving. And he hadn’t been lying when he said he was running a day late. At least the extra cash would compensate for that.
As they approach a major intersection, Nine was mortified to see Kentbridge and Marcia standing on a traffic island. They were observing the drivers and passengers of all vehicles in the vicinity. Before Nine could react, Marcia looked straight at him.
The orphan immediately ducked down below the dashboard and, for the driver’s sake, pretended to do up the laces of his Reeboks. He just hoped Marcia didn’t see him. If she did, she may not have recognized me with my short hair.
When he adjudged they’d traveled far enough, Nine sat upright and casually looked in the truck’s side mirror. He was relieved to see Marcia and Kentbridge continued their observation of vehicles none the wiser.
Feeling somewhat safer, he sat back in his seat and took in the city sights as Mahamdou drove like the seasoned trucker he was through the heavy morning traffic.
In his peripheral vision, Nine saw a police helicopter. It hovered just above Chicago’s tallest skyscrapers. The orphan wondered if it was searching for him.
27
“Like a phoenix rising from the flame, and against all political pundits’ expectations, Bill Clinton, the self-proclaimed comeback kid--” The newsreader’s voice coming over the furniture truck’s radio cut out abruptly as static interfered with reception. The truck had just entered a tunnel near Galesburg, in Knox County, Illinois, and the signal had been lost.
“Not even a variety of scandals,” the newsreader said, his voice returning loud and clear over the airwaves as the truck emerged from the other end of the tunnel, “from accusations of draft dodging during the Vietnam War to claims of infidelity to question marks over Hillary Clinton’s personal ambitions, appear to have dampened Democrat voters’ love affair with Bill Clinton.”
Nine, who was still seated next to Mahamdou in the truck’s cab, listened to the late afternoon news report with interest. He thought back to Kentbridge’s reference to Clinton in a lecture he gave in the orphanage and wondered if the Arkansas Governor really would become the next President. Nine didn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, but the recent meteoric rise in Clinton’s stocks was a painful reminder of just how powerful the shadowy Omega Agency actually was.
Mahamdou brought Nine out of his thoughts when he flicked the radio off and reached around to a compartment behind him. He pulled out a can of Coke and large donut wrapped in plastic, and tossed them onto Nine’s lap. “Eat,” the Mali trucker said. It was one of only three or four words – more like grunts really – Mahamdou had said to his young passenger since leaving Chicago.
Having not eaten since he’d bolted from the Pedemont Orphanage the morning before, Nine ripped open the plastic bag and tucked into the donut. The orphan had never eaten a donut before, or any junk food for that matter, as his masters forbade it. He had to admit the mixture of cream, dough and sweet jam was pleasing to the taste buds. “Thanks for that,” he said, wiping a smidgeon of cream from his chin.
Mahamdou nodded and gave yet another incomprehensible grunt.
Nine was tempted to engage the trucker in French. Being an immigrant from Mali, it was a safe bet he’d be fluent in that language, as was his passenger. But Nine decided not to reveal his linguistic skills. The orphan did try to engage Mahamdou in general conversation, but gave up when he realized his companion wasn’t interested in small talk.
Lulled by the steady vibration of the truck and the warmth of the cab, Nine soon fell asleep.
#
When Nine woke it was dark, the truck was stationary and he was alone in the cab. The clock on the truck’s dashboard showed he’d slept for a couple of hours. A glance outside revealed the truck was parked amongst half a dozen other large vehicles at a truck stop. There was no sign of Mahamdou.
Looking around, Nine saw several truckers topping up their fuel tanks at nearby pumps. Others came and went from a diner. Nine guessed his African driver was in the diner, grabbing a bite to eat.
Five minutes passed and still the trucker hadn’t returned. Nine experienced a moment of panic when he imagined Kentbridge had tracked them down and possibly killed Mahamdou. He quickly pulled up his sleeve to check the White Gold remained in place over his forearm. It was, and he dismissed such negative thoughts as quickly as they’d occurred.
As if on cue, Mahamdou emerged from the diner, carrying various goodies he’d purchased. He jumped into the cab alongside Nine, dropped a magazine onto the seat between them, reached into a bag and pulled out a huge hamburger, which he handed to his passenger.
Nine snatched it from him. “Thanks!” He immediately tucked into the burger, his first ever.
Mahamdou reached into another bag and pulled out a coffee in a polystyrene cup. He removed the top to reveal he liked his coffee strong and black. Like many of his fellow truckers, the coffee and speed tablets he regularly popped were the only things that kept him awake on these interstate trips.
The Mali trucker fired up
the truck’s engine and they drove off. An interstate sign indicated they were approaching the Illinois-Iowa border.
Nine glanced down at the magazine on the seat beside him. It was the international edition of a conspiracy magazine called Disclosure. On its cover was an image of a Freemason symbol. Headings advertising articles inside the magazine indicated it covered a variety of subjects ranging from alleged health cover-ups to lost civilizations and political conspiracies.
Less than half a mile down the highway they crossed a bridge that connected one side of the Mississippi River with the other, and Illinois with Iowa.
As they continued west toward their destination in south-east Iowa, Mahamdou turned the radio on and began to sing softly to himself. Nine returned his attention to the cover of the conspiracy magazine beside him. His companion caught him staring at it and suddenly became very interested in his passenger.
“You know about that stuff, kid?” he asked, glancing at the magazine.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Let me tell you somethin’,” Mahamdou said. “You don’t know nuthin’!”
Nine knew better, but held his tongue.
“You’re a spoilt American boy born into a privileged existence. You’ve been brainwashed by the education system and your mind has been numbed by a diet of watching MTV and playing Nintendo all day.”
Nine opened his mouth to defend himself, but Mahamdou continued before he could say a word. “Anyone with half a brain knows they are trying to control us. And they are succeeding!”
As they drove further into Iowa, Nine quickly ascertained Mahamdou was a raving conspiracy theorist who had a little knowledge yet thought he knew everything.
The trucker proceeded to deliver a nonstop sermon on who they were and on some of the many conspiracy theories he believed in. His former tight-lippedness had vanished and the floodgates had opened.
In a rambling dissertation, Mahamdou spoke of Western scientists creating the HIV virus to wipe out the African race then moved on to how misguided Government officials tried to explain crop circles and UFO sightings as natural phenomena; how his brother had personally seen aliens; how Western nations purposely kept Third World countries like Mali poor through the World Bank and the IMF, and many other out-there conspiracy theories.
By the time Mahamdou got on to the subject of how the moon landings had actually been secretly filmed in a Hollywood studio, Nine had fallen asleep again.
#
Approaching the outskirts of Mount Pleasant, Iowa, at around midnight, they drove in silence. Mahamdou had mercifully talked himself out. The truck’s headlights illuminated the entrance to a long driveway leading to a big farmhouse.
Nine pointed to the entrance. “That’s my home. Could you drop me there please?”
The African trucker pulled the truck over to the side of the road and stopped alongside the farmhouse’s mailbox. He smiled at Nine. “Good luck, kid.” It was the first time the orphan had seen him smile.
“Thanks.” Nine grabbed his backpack and windbreaker, then jumped out of the warm cab. The cold night air hit him like a physical blow. The orphan quickly donned his windbreaker and waved goodbye to Mahamdou. He pretended to check the mailbox as the trucker drove off.
Standing alone in the dark, Nine took stock of his situation. He reveled in his newfound freedom as he looked up at the starry sky and smelt the country air. I’ve done it! It was a wonderful feeling. He knew his pursuers wouldn’t have a clue where on earth he was right now. First things first. He knew he needed to find somewhere to spend the night.
Looking around, he spied the outline of a barn a hundred yards beyond the farmhouse. He immediately set off for it, jogging across the paddocks. Somewhere a dog barked. Otherwise, the night was still.
Nine approached the barn cautiously. A quick reconnoiter around it and then inside confirmed he had the place to himself. He climbed up onto its mezzanine floor where he located a tarpaulin and a pile of sacks. Rearranging these, he made himself a makeshift bed, complete with make-do blankets, and bedded down for the remainder of the night. He was asleep within minutes.
28
Kentbridge felt drained. It was now well after midnight. He’d had no sleep and little to eat since Nine had gone AWOL a day and a half earlier. And his temper was worsening by the hour. He knew his job was on the line. For possibly the hundredth time in the past thirty six hours, he cursed the ungrateful ninth-born orphan.
After Senior Agent Marcia Wilson had returned from their fruitless monitoring of surveillance footage at Attorney Howard-Witten’s downtown chambers, they’d spent several hours grilling each of the remaining twenty two orphans, trying to establish whether Nine had confided in any of them or inadvertently indicated what he planned to do. That exercise proved equally fruitless.
Kentbridge had been confident Nine had acted alone for the boy was something of a loner, but it was an exercise they had to go through nevertheless – if only to satisfy Naylor who was becoming increasingly stressed, not only because of Nine’s antics but because of the deteriorating Nexus situation.
Despite the hour, the Pedemont Orphanage was a blaze of lights. None of its residents or rostered staff slept. And Kentbridge was determined none of them would sleep until the rogue orphan had been found and brought back in. There was too much at stake.
Having not long finished questioning the orphans, Kentbridge was now in their sleeping quarters on the first floor. He was going through Nine’s possessions, looking for clues as to his plans or his whereabouts. The fugitive’s bed and bedside drawers had been upended and his clothing and other items lay scattered over the floor.
The orphans looked on. They were a subdued lot. Nine’s departure had caught them by surprise as much as it had Kentbridge. While their master tried not to look flustered, they could tell by his body language that he was. Nine had succeeded in getting under his skin.
Kentbridge realized he’d drawn a blank there. Glaring at the orphans, he said, “Chances are Nine said something to one of you that seemed innocent at the time, but could provide a clue to what he was planning. Let me know if there’s anything you recall, no matter how seemingly insignificant.” He strode from the orphans’ quarters.
Behind him, the orphans looked at each other. None could still quite believe one of their own had actually had the temerity to flee the only home he, or they, had ever known.
Finally, Seventeen voiced her opinion. “I always knew Nine would turn out to be a traitor.”
“Remind us exactly how he’s a traitor, Seventeen,” One, the Native American orphan, asked.
“He’s spurned us and our masters, and as always he’s put his own interests ahead of anyone else.”
There were murmurs of assent from some of the other orphans.
“Perhaps he was tired of living like a robot and blindly following the orders of people who aren’t even our real parents.” It was Seven, the African-American boy who spoke up for Nine.
“We don’t have parents,” Twenty Three, the youngest orphan, said.
“Of course we do!” Eight, the Asian girl snapped. “It’s just that we don’t know who they are.”
“Well Doc Pedemont sure as hell knows,” said Fourteen, the Aryan-looking Nordic boy.
“Enough!” Numero Uno shouted. “Tommy made it clear we won’t get any sleep until Nine’s back with us, so we’ll be doing ourselves a favor, and probably Nine too, if we can come up with any ideas on where he might be.”
The others saw the wisdom in this. They broke up into small groups and, using the training they’d received since birth, tried to intuit where the missing orphan could be.
One didn’t join them immediately. As a friend of Nine, part of him felt guilty that he’d encouraged the others to co-operate with their masters. However, part of him felt aggrieved the younger orphan hadn’t thought to confide in him before he acted. He’d have confided in Nine had their roles been reversed. Not to be confided in was like a slap in the face.
<
br /> Despite the perceived insult, One had a grudging respect for his friend’s bold act. Fleeing the all-powerful Omega Agency had required guts and tenacity; disappearing off the radar and remaining undiscovered had required nothing short of magic. Numero Uno couldn’t begin to work out how Nine had managed that.
The Native American smiled to himself and joined the nearest group of orphans to establish whether they had any theories on how the magician had disappeared.
#
As the orphans put their heads together in their quarters on the first floor, Kentbridge and Marcia sat in earnest discussion with Doctor Pedemont in a third floor conference room. They were talking to Naylor via a live video feed from the Omega director’s office in the agency’s underground HQ.
Naylor was visibly stressed. He paced up and down as he spoke. His voice was becoming higher and higher, and every time he looked into the camera his lazy eye could be seen working overtime.
Again, despite the severity of the occasion, Kentbridge had to control himself not to burst out laughing. That damned lazy eye’s gonna be the death of me.
“So what you’re telling me is you don’t have a clue where the brat is?” Naylor shouted into the video camera at his end.
“That’s correct, sir,” Kentbridge said. “But we know he can’t have got far because we’ve taken all public transport options away from him and--”
“Great,” Naylor interjected. “So he can’t catch a train, plane or bus, but he’s free to stow away on a lorry or hitch a ride to any damn place he wants to go.”
“Even allowing for that, he can’t have got far,” Marcia said defensively.
“He’s been missing for hours,” Naylor retorted, his voice rising another octave. “He could easily be in another state now. Who knows, maybe he’s even crossed the border into Canada!”
Marcia and Kentbridge had no immediate response.