The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2)

by James Morcan

  For some reason, that still didn’t make him want to press the button on the device that remained next to him on the bed. He didn’t know whether the hesitation was due to his conscience, or the continued throbbing in his head which almost made him feel faint.

  Nine’s headache wasn’t helped by Kentbridge’s voice, which reverberated in his mind over and over. Stop procrastinating and complete the mission, Sebastian. The voice in his head was so loud it was as if his mentor was in the hotel room with him. The orphan knew Kentbridge was back at the orphanage in Chicago, waiting to receive confirmation the mission had been completed, but still the voice persisted.

  Nine touched the small ruby attached to the silver necklace he wore and attempted to think things through. He remained in two minds. Part of him wanted to give up and walk away, while part of him was pumped to carry out the mission and move on to international assignments. After all, that’s what he’d been training for his entire life.

  Deep down, though, he realized there was actually no decision to make. The decision had been made for him before he was born when his Omega masters had created the Pedemont Project and selected his genes. Nine understood now it was his destiny to become an operative, just as Kentbridge had said. Even if he refused to carry out this mission, his mentor would just keep setting him new assignments until he eventually graduated.

  Fighting hard to calm himself, Nine took some deep breaths. He tried to slow his brainwaves into alpha, just as he’d been taught to do. Gradually, it worked, and even though the headache persisted, it became duller.

  The orphan picked up the device again and looked down at the red button, willing himself to press it.

  Kentbridge’s voice still reverberated in his head. This time however, it strengthened his resolve.

  An operative is never without fear. He fears as much as anyone else. Yet the operative is able to ignore his fear to complete the mission.

  Nine became focused and singular-minded.

  He walked over to the window and looked through the gap in the curtains at the apartment building opposite. He was relieved to see P.I. Milburn was still close to the window of her apartment. Using his binoculars, he could see her face clearly.

  Finally, he pressed the red button on the black device he held.

  A second later, in Milburn’s apartment, her telephone rang. She turned away from the window, picked up the phone and put the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”

  The P.I. blinked as a fine jet of some foreign substance shot out from the telephone’s mouthpiece, much like Ventolin from an asthmatic’s inhaler. Her first impulse was to drop the phone. Sensing something terrible was happening, she hastily retrieved it and prepared to dial 911. Before she could dial, her chest constricted and breathing became progressively difficult; her face contorted in pain and blood began trickling from her nose.

  Milburn instinctively knew what was happening to her, but could do nothing about it. Even in her distressed state, now only seconds from death, her keen mind processed her situation. As she slumped to the floor, twitching violently, she guessed she’d inhaled some kind of lethal nerve gas. She even guessed, correctly, it was sarin, the extremely toxic gas used so effectively in the Tokyo subway terrorist attack in 1995 and by the Serbs during their ethnic cleansing campaign around the same time.

  What Milburn couldn’t guess was who had done this – and why.

  As her life ebbed away, the last thing she saw was the two briefcases on the floor nearby.

  In the fifth floor room of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, Nine pulled the curtains across so they were completely open. He had no reason to hide now. There was nothing to connect him to P.I. Milburn’s death – except for the radio-controlled device he’d activated sixty seconds earlier to explode the compressed gas dispenser he’d inserted into the woman’s telephone mouthpiece. Besides, it would be hours, if not days, before anyone found her body.

  Mission accomplished, Nine stared into space. It took him a while to comprehend that, at the age of eighteen, he’d just graduated and he’d just killed a person.

  The orphan turned his back on the view and walked away from the window. He knew the woman he’d terminated had been investigating the death of a prominent Seattle judge aligned with Omega. Her termination had been ordered by the agency. Unfortunately for P.I. Milburn, she had been getting too close to the truth for comfort, and Nine’s superiors had sent him to shut down the problem.

  As he packed up his gear and prepared to vacate his hotel room, he realized that even after killing somebody he felt nothing.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t believe killing a fellow human being left him feeling no different than swatting a fly or standing on an insect. At the very end, he hadn’t even seen P.I. Milburn as a person. She was just a target.

  Nine shook his head in disbelief. Never having killed anyone before, he didn’t know whether it was normal to feel as he did now – numb and totally without remorse. What he did know was he was quite capable of killing again.

  As he walked out of his hotel room, suitcase in hand, he wondered whether Kentbridge’s carefully crafted training over the years had desensitized him.

  68

  Naylor was convening an emergency meeting of the agency’s founders. The venue was the boardroom in Omega’s underground headquarters in rural Illinois.

  All twelve founders were present, although Lady Penelope, the British Royal, was attending more in spirit than in the flesh: she was participating courtesy of a live holographic video feed from her estate in Walton-on-Thames, just outside London. The holographic technology made it seem as if she was actually in the conference room. It was only on close inspection that it became evident she was not physically present.

  Also in attendance, in accordance with Naylor’s orders, was Marcia Wilson. Given the relatively senior position she still held within the CIA, Naylor had invited her, recognizing she could be helpful in resolving Omega’s current financial crisis.

  Up to this point, Marcia had not contributed to the discussion. As the only non-founder present, she knew her place and wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

  Outside the boardroom, all available Omega HQ staff were on duty. Leave had been cancelled and it was all hands to the grindstone inside the ultra-secret, high-tech command facility. Among the hundred and twenty staff present were three Latin America experts and an advisor on the British Monarchy. They would be especially busy before this day was out.

  In the boardroom, the mood was grim. Naylor and the others had spent the past hour discussing Omega’s critical financial situation. There was general agreement the organization was on the brink of insolvency. They desperately needed a game-changer if the agency was to survive and achieve its end goal of establishing a New World Order.

  Having analyzed their predicament from every possible angle and agreed on a strategy to try to buy some time to get cashflow moving again, they’d turned their attention to a large map of South America, which was spread out over the length of the table they sat around.

  “Christ, I hate South America,” Naylor cursed. “It’s the hardest region to conduct any operation.”

  Federal Reserve majority shareholder Fletcher Von Pein, his head buried in a classified document, nodded sympathetically. “Remember the Bogotá fiasco,” he said without looking up. He was referring to a botched Omega assignment in Colombia over a decade earlier involving cocaine smuggling into the United States.

  “Don’t remind me,” Naylor mumbled. The agency director wasn’t thinking about Colombia or cocaine, however. His focus was on Guyana, the small republic sandwiched between Brazil, Venezuela and Suriname.

  Von Pein’s focus was on the document he’d been studying for the past few minutes. Headed Quamina Ezekiel, it contained photos and detailed information about the document’s subject, Quamina Ezekiel, a fiftysomething Amerindian Guyanese. It also contained gruesome photos of the Jonestown massacre, Guyana’s mass suicide of 1978 that claimed the lives of over nin
e hundred followers of American cult leader Jim Jones.

  Naylor looked up from the map to the hologram of Lady Penelope whose life-size image was directly across the table from him. “Where do we stand with the family at this point, ma’am?” he asked.

  Everyone present knew the family he referred to was the British Monarchy, otherwise known as the House of Windsor, which Lady Penelope was distantly related to.

  “The family has run out of patience,” Lady Penelope answered as clearly as if she was physically present. “If we cannot destroy this bloody Jonestown element still operating in Guyana, the family will cut all ties with Omega.”

  “I understand.” Naylor returned his attention to Guyana on the map before him. His lazy eye was threatening to start twitching like crazy – as it always did in times of stress. And stressed he was. In less than five seconds, Lady Penelope had confirmed what he and the others already knew: the Omega Agency was a hair’s breadth away from losing the financial support of the British Royals.

  Everybody in the boardroom understood the sudden importance of Guyana to the Omega Agency. Recent events, and others not so recent, had conspired to put Guyana to the forefront of their plans to salvage the agency, or to try at least. As the only Commonwealth country in South America, the Republic of Guyana needed protecting. Not for the Guyanese people’s sake, for nobody present gave a rat’s ass about them. Rather, it was about protecting the British Monarchy’s extensive business interests there.

  Like most Third World countries, Guyana was susceptible to interference by influential nations. In this case, it was Britain which was intent on capitalizing on the wealth – such as it was – of one of its former colonies.

  Every Omegan in the room was also aware that as Queen Elizabeth II remained the Head of State of Guyana, the Monarchy had major involvement in the republic’s industrial and financial affairs. The House of Windsor’s business activities were, of course, under the radar and not reported, just as its operations in larger Commonwealth nations like Australia and Canada were also under the radar.

  When he’d received a phone call from Lady Penelope hours earlier expressing concerns about developments in Guyana, Naylor had instantly recognized the opportunity for Omega to put the British Monarchy in its debt. More importantly, he’d come to the conclusion the Guyana mission they were now considering was their one and only shot to save the agency and continue their NWO aspirations.

  Along from Naylor, Von Pein finally finished with the file he’d been reading on Amerindian Guyanese Quamina Ezekiel. He passed the file to his fellow founding member, pharmaceutical magnate Lincoln Claver, then stared across the table at Lady Penelope’s holographic form. “I assume there have been other attempts on Ezekiel’s life over the years?”

  “Correct,” Lady Penelope replied. “Several that I’m aware of.”

  All eyes turned to Von Pein. He was weighing up the risks of what was being proposed and wasn’t going to be rushed. His fellow founders were happy to give him all the time he wanted. After Lady Penelope, Von Pein was the agency’s most powerful founder given his influence over the Federal Reserve. Even so, his financial contributions of late had dried up and he was as desperate as anyone to please the Royals.

  Von Pein cleared his throat to address Lady Penelope once more. “So you’re saying if Omega can take care of Ezekiel, the Monarchy will pump more monies into the agency?”

  “If by that you mean if your operatives can assassinate Quamina Ezekiel, then most definitely. The family will see to it that Omega has sufficient funds to survive at least.” Lady Penelope waited for any other questions. None were forthcoming. “If you’ll excuse me,” she announced, glancing at her watch. “I must away. I have to prepare for a teleconference with her Majesty later today.” The holographic imagery of her eyes looked directly into Naylor’s eyes. “Andrew, make no mistake. The family will cut all financial contributions to Omega unless you can deliver the desired result in Guyana.”

  As he watched the holographic image fade, Naylor digested the fact that it really was crunch time for his beloved agency. That much was crystal clear. Casting his fears from his mind, he turned to Marcia Wilson. “What has your CIA intel unearthed on Ezekiel?”

  “He’s been calling his mother’s residence several times a day,” Marcia said. “She’s ninety six and riddled with cancer.” The senior agent had come well prepared. Naylor had briefed her on what was likely to transpire at this make-or-break meeting of the agency’s heavyweights, and since receiving the order to travel to HQ, she had been on the phone to many of her CIA colleagues, learning as much as she could about the man of the moment, Quamina Ezekiel.

  “What’s the prognosis?” Naylor asked.

  Marcia could see the agency director was trying hard to contain his impatience. His lazy eye was twitching more than ever. “She’s due to die any day now.”

  “Not her prognosis!” Naylor snapped. “Yours! What are you suggesting, Marcia?”

  “We could put the mother out of her misery now, making it look like she died in her sleep,” Marcia said, unfazed by Naylor’s outburst.

  “What the hell would that achieve?”

  “Nothing in itself.” Marcia looked down at the map. “But her death would get her son out of Georgetown,” she explained, pointing to Guyana’s seaside capital. “He’s surrounded by his minders there and impossible to get to.”

  “Where is his mother currently?” Naylor asked.

  Marcia pointed to the Kanuku Mountains, an isolated region not far from the Brazilian border in southern Guyana. “His Mom lives here.” She looked knowingly at Naylor. “As you can see, it’s miles from anywhere.”

  Naylor looked down to where Marcia’s forefinger rested. He noted the region she pointed to was shaded green, indicating it was dense jungle. Symbols denoted numerous rivers and mountains, while a lack of dots indicated there were no cities and few towns in what was clearly a sparsely populated region.

  “The mom’s funeral would create a small window to terminate Ezekiel,” Marcia added.

  Pondering the idea, Naylor looked around at the rest of Omega’s ruling council.

  69

  As their Omega masters held crisis talks at the agency’s HQ, all twenty three orphans were in the Pedemont Orphanage’s basement preparing for their first overseas missions. Looking on were Doctor Andrews, Nurse Hilda and various other personnel who included two veteran adult operatives. They were all helping the orphans – or orphan-operatives as Kentbridge now referred to them – with their preparations for their first international assignments.

  The orphans would start flying out within twelve hours, and the last of them within the week. Collectively, their missions would take them to four of the seven continents.

  Preparations included ensuring passports and travel documents were in order, packing suitcases, and selecting and donning disguises.

  Nine was focused on perfecting his guise, as were the other half dozen orphans who were scheduled to depart later that day. Standing before a mirror at one end of the basement, Nine applied a goatee to his chin. As he did so, he spoke in Japanese, one of many languages he’d long since mastered. “My name is David Jones,” he said by way of introduction. Though his Japanese was fluent, he spoke with an affected Welsh inflection. “I am from Cardiff, Wales.” He bowed in the Japanese tradition.

  He suddenly noticed a map of America on the wall beside the mirror. His eyes wandered to Washington State in the top left corner of the map and settled on Seattle. Nine was reminded of the assassination he’d conducted the day before in that city. He retraced the final actions of his graduation assignment. After terminating P.I. Milburn and retrieving the papers she’d taken to her apartment, he’d spent the night sifting through them. The upshot was, despite Omega’s concerns, he’d found nothing in the papers that could incriminate anyone in, or associated with, the agency. Nine worked out the woman he’d killed had died for nothing and his Omega fathers had ordered the hit simply to be prudent.


  Forcing the Seattle job from his mind, Nine returned to the present. In the mirror, he could see his fellow orphans creating their own guises. Number Two, a long-haired, brown-eyed brunette, now wore a short blonde wig and contact lenses that made her eyes appear blue; Five, one of the redheaded female twins, had dyed her hair black and wore the uniform of a flight attendant; Nineteen, the mixed-race male, was lightening his dark skin tone through clever use of makeup; and Eleven, the Beauty Orphan, was glammed up and displaying plenty of cleavage.

  The purpose of the guises was not to protect their true identities, for officially the orphans did not exist except as numbers on Omega’s database. Rather, the guises were extensions of the characters all the orphans were slowly morphing into for their first overseas missions. Characters that had assumed names, passports and personal histories.

  Two was to travel to Edinburgh to assassinate a Scottish conspiracy theorist and amateur journalist who had uncovered information pertaining to the Omega Agency’s existence. Five was tasked with drugging a Russian diplomat on a trans-Atlantic flight so that he couldn’t attend a UN meeting in Germany. Nineteen had to pass himself off as a Dutchman in order to abduct a Nexus operative in Holland, while Eleven was to set a honey trap for a Ukrainian official attending a finance summit in Laos.

  In Nine’s case, he was to travel to Japan to undertake a tricky surveillance assignment involving a relative of the Japanese Prime Minister. He had to pass himself off as a Welsh language teacher graduate attending a school in Tokyo.

  As he studied his fellow orphans, Nine was surprised he felt more than a little melancholy. He was mindful this could be the last time he would see some of them. From now on, he and the other orphans would continually be on assignments around the world, and usually alone. Many of those assignments would be dangerous.