The Ninth Orphan (3 page)

From now on, Nine decided, he could never allow himself to be the same person twice, let alone his normal self.

Fortunately, he was a master of disguise. As a result of the advanced education he’d received at the Pedemont Orphanage, he was an expert in make-up techniques and facial prosthetics as well as accents and languages.

For all intents and purposes, Nine was a human chameleon. Kentbridge had often referred to him as such.
Feelings of loathing bordering on hatred welled up in his stomach at the thought of Kentbridge. He quickly put his mentor out of his mind.

Nine suddenly hit the vehicle
’
s steering wheel defiantly.
He
felt like a worker bee that had left the hive with no intention of returning. For the first time ever, he experienced an inkling of what it was like to be an individual instead of a number.

The shiny eyes of some wild animal momentarily caught in the headlights reminded him he should be concentrating on his driving. Nine tried to identify the animal, but it disappeared into the darkness before he could.

As he focused on the road ahead, he touched the ruby attached to the silver necklace he wore around his neck.

3

I
n an underground tube station in London, a train slowed to a halt beside a platform packed with the usual assortment of backpackers, students and workers. Most wore scarves, gloves and other protective clothing to ward off the cold of a typical English winter.

Inside one of the carriages, a schoolgirl looked curiously at an elderly Jewish man seated opposite her. The man had a long, dark beard and wore traditional Hasidic clothing inclusive of the distinctive shtreimel, or fur hat, as well as a black long-coat.

Ignoring the schoolgirl, the Hasid glanced at the carriage doors as they opened and the early morning commuters began boarding. They surged on like a human tidal wave. The Hasid averted his eyes as some of the new arrivals sat beside him.

A warning bell rang out before the doors shut automatically. As the train departed, the elderly Hasid remained in a world of his own. He fiddled with his beard while looking at the carriage’s dusty floor.

The wide-eyed schoolgirl, who had never seen an Hasid before, continued to watch the old man. Little was she to know the man was not elderly at all. Neither was he Jewish nor even remotely religious. This was Nine in another disguise. He’d purchased the Hasidic outfit from a local synagogue shortly after arriving in London.

Having evaded Seventeen back in the Philippines, the fugitive Omega agent had driven to Manila with the flash drive in his possession. There, he’d forsaken his Filipino guise and caught a flight to London using a Ukrainian passport.

The train arrived at the next underground station. Signs above the platform read:
High Street Kensington Station
. Nine stood up gingerly, as would any elderly gent who had been sitting too long.
He was aware the schoolgirl's eyes were on him
as he disembarked along with other commuters. Shuffling out of the station, he joined hundreds of other pedestrians above ground on bustling Kensington High Street.

A quarter of a mile along the street, Nine stopped. He looked across the road at Kensington Gardens where noisy children played football beneath the gray skies that inevitably covered London during winter.

The rogue operative was here to trade the flash drive he’d brought with him from the Philippines. The flash drive’s contents specified the exact location of
Yamashita’s Gold
–
a long lost treasure hoard Nine had located. Named after General Tomoyuki Yamashita, the stolen treasures had been hidden by the Japanese during their occupation of
the Philippine
islands in World War II.

Nine had discovered the location of the last of Yamashita’s Gold and was in London to trade that information for his freedom
.

Maintaining his gait to resemble that of an old man’s, he crossed the street and shuffled through Victorian-era gates. Inside the normally picturesque Kensington Gardens, nothing was blooming at this time of year. But Nine wasn’t here for the flowers.

Just inside the entrance, he scanned every single person in and around the gardens. He felt remarkably at ease in his Hasidic attire as he observed the kids playing football on the grass nearby. To his left, he saw two young lovers kissing on a park bench, to his right a young, redheaded woman on another bench. She talked
animatedly on a cell phone
. So chilly was the air, her breath was visible as she spoke.

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

N
ine 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-covered 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'.”