The Ninth Orphan (33 page)

The thought of Isabelle turned his mind to his next mission which was, as Kentbridge had advised, to gate crash the Bilderberg Conference and confront Naylor. He was under no illusions. Infiltrating that conference would be difficult. Given that it attracted many of the world
’
s most powerful leaders, security would be extremely tight. Some would say impossibly tight.

Nine examined different strategies in his mind. Each one led to a dead end. Inevitably, his thoughts returned once more to Isabelle. He wondered how she was faring.

#

As Nine was thinking of Isabelle, he was also on her mind. She had been left alone for hours in her Andorran CIA prison cell. Isabelle hadn't a clue how long she'd been there. There was something about Mountain Retreat that made her lose all sense of time. She wasn't aware the prison had that affect on all the detainees.

Determined to keep her mind intact, Isabelle suddenly felt the urge to walk. She fought through the pain and forced herself out of bed, swaying unsteadily as she stood for the first time since being shot.

Tears started to stream down her face as she heard a fellow detainee screaming out during a torture session. She also tried to repress the memory of her parents’ deaths, but it was all too much. Isabelle collapsed back onto her bed.

The fingers of her hand curled around the ruby on the necklace she now permanently wore. Its touch brought her comfort, as it had Nine.
Where are you, Sebastian?

48

S
ightseers meandered along a walking track that followed Cornwall’s picturesque, rocky coastline, in south-west England. Nine was among them.

Masquerading as a hiker, complete with pack, hiking boots and fake suntan, Nine paused to look at the medieval castle that was perched atop the tiny island of Saint Michael's Mount, about four hundred yards offshore. He couldn’t help thinking that even on an overcast day such as this, Saint Michael's Mount looked majestic.

Nine watched as several groups of sightseers took advantage of the present low tide to walk across the mudflats to the historic island.

The rogue agent was here on the advice of Kentbridge. Saint Michael’s Mount was the venue for this year’s Bilderberg Conference. Heads of state from North America and various EU countries were in attendance along with some of the world’s most powerful businessmen. But it was Omega head Andrew Naylor that Nine was here for.

The fugitive knew this would be his last chance to secure his freedom from the Omega Agency once and for all. He’d thought of little else since Kentbridge had suggested this course of action in the Black Forest. Although Isabelle was never far from his thoughts. The uncertainty over her whereabouts and her safety created something of a ticking clock inside him. He desperately wanted to track her down and assist her, but first he needed to follow Kentbridge’s advice and attack Naylor where he was most vulnerable.

The plan was simple: he’d get Naylor alone and blackmail him. Nine found it ironic that a lifetime of enslavement to Omega was about to end with negotiation rather than physical force.
I must be getting soft
.

When he resumed walking, Nine noticed half a dozen smartly-dressed, security men up ahead. They were part of the security presence associated with the Bilderberg Conference and were keeping an eye on the tourists and locals who were out in force.

Fit-looking, the men stood out with their dark sunglasses, suits and close-cropped hairstyles. Several communicated via two-way radios. Their accents were British and American. Behind them, on Saint Michael's Mount, more security men could be seen patrolling the perimeters of the castle and the island's foreshore.

Nine casually joined the tail end of a group of Dutch backpackers who were laughing and joking as they sauntered along. He engaged them in conversation and was soon swapping jokes in their native tongue. Nine noted the security men were watching the group he was with. As he walked past, he was relieved none gave him a second glance. There was no reason they should. For all intents and purposes, he was just another tourist.

The orphan spotted a film crew setting up equipment nearby. An independent journalist was preparing to speak to camera and record a news report. She stood facing the shore so that viewers would see the island behind her.
Several twitchy security men hovered close by.
They seemed nervous about having a news crew in the vicinity.

The cameraman gave the journalist the thumbs up. She began her report. “Here in Cornwall, the historic Saint Michael's Mount behind me is this year's venue for the annual conference of the influential Bilderberg Group. As you can see,” she looked pointedly at the security men, “security here is extremely high. As usual, the conference organizers are tight-lipped about who is attending this year's event.”

Looking on, Nine noticed several security men move closer to the journalist. They looked anxious and appeared to be receiving orders from their superiors via earpieces.

The journalist continued, “However, local rumors are rife that the British Prime Minister and the US President are just two of the many heads of state in attendance.”

On hearing this, one of the security men stepped in front of the journalist while another removed the camera from the disgruntled cameraman.

Nine wasn’t surprised. He knew every Bilderberg conference dating right back to the fifties had total media blackouts. Bilderberg
's modus operandi reinforced
in his mind the complexity of the global hierarchy. He didn’t know if Omega controlled the Bilderberg Group or vice versa, but the situation reminded him that no matter how much anyone thought they knew about the New World Order elite, there were always higher levels in the plethora of secret societies and shadow organizations that ruled the planet.

He took one last look at the castle before moving away from the backpackers he’d befriended. They bade him farewell, but not before enquiring where he was staying. He told them he’d yet to arrange accommodation for himself. They insisted he check in to the nearby backpacker hostel they were staying at and Nine readily agreed. He thought they were a likeable enough bunch and their companionship would help preserve his cover.

The operative immediately checked in to the hostel his new friends had recommended. He secured the last single room available and spent the rest of the day ensconced there pouring over architectural drawings he’d obtained of Saint Michael’s Mount. The drawings included the castle’s intricate layout.

Having studied architecture during his formative years, he was able to visualize every inch of the castle as he translated the plans from paper to his razor-sharp mind.

Never far from his mind was his intended plan of action. Around midnight, he planned to access the castle via most unconventional means.

#

That evening, Isabelle found herself seated in a small, dimly-lit interrogation room at the CIA prison in Andorra.

She had no idea why she’d been moved. She'd lost all track of time and sensed she was fast losing the ability to think rationally. Her mind was in a whirl and everything seemed confused.
Mountain Retreat was wreaking havoc with her mental wellbeing and she knew it.

On the positive side, Isabelle's wound was healing nicely and the pain in her back was fast disappearing. Above all, there was no sign of infection. She was relieved at that, yet still uncertain if she’d ever be released. After the violent murder of her parents, part of her felt like there was no longer a reason to live, but her greater self still wanted to survive.

Seventeen entered the room unannounced. Isabelle glared at her. The sight of her parents' killer filled her with loathing – and fear.

The operative wasn't happy about being back at the prison either. Naylor had ordered her to return to Mountain Retreat after Nine's trail had gone cold. Nearing the end of his tether, he'd given Seventeen permission to do whatever it took to persuade Isabelle to talk.

Like Naylor, Seventeen was fast losing patience. She knew Isabelle represented Omega's last hope of tracking Nine and was prepared to resort to torture to extract every last bit of crucial information from her.

Although Omega now had the last of Yamashita's Gold in its possession, Seventeen was aware the agency also had a rogue operative somewhere
out there
. Nine knew too much. He had to be terminated. Besides, Seventeen reasoned, as Naylor had said, there was a principle at stake.

The operative fixed Isabelle with a stare. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the man who abducted you.”

“
I don't know anything about--”

“
And if you value your life, you’d better tell the truth,” Seventeen warned. To reinforce her point, she produced a flick-knife which she clicked open and skillfully twirled with her fingers as she stared at her prisoner.

Isabelle grew even more fearful. “I’ve already told you, he never spoke to me!”

“
Did he ever show affection or make advances?”

Unable to take her eyes off the knife that now moved so fast it was just a blur between Seventeen's fingers, Isabelle could only shake her head.

“
Then why did he give you the necklace if you meant nothing to him?”

Isabelle had no answer for that. She reflexively touched the ruby around her neck. Desperate, she prayed for Nine to rescue her. She sensed he was her only hope.

#

The stars shone brightly in the skies above Cornwall, in England, that same night, but Nine was too busy to observe them. He was preparing for an underwater swim.

Security men were out in force patrolling the Cornish coastline. Behind them, lights shone from within the castle on Saint Michael's Mount. The lights were reflected in the sea which now covered the mudflats sightseers had walked across earlier.

The sea now provided a natural moat between the island and the shore. Even so, the nervous security men were taking no chances. They continued their surveillance of the coast with a conscientiousness that bordered on the extreme. It was obvious they knew the importance of the VIP’s they’d been assigned to protect. If they’d known what was about to take place right under their noses, they’d have been even more nervous.

Nine was hiding among large rocks near the water's edge. Suited up like a frogman, he wore a black wet suit, face mask and flippers. An oxygen tank was strapped to his back. He adjusted his face mask and looked out toward Saint Michael's Mount. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were signs of activity on the island as security men patrolled the grounds around the castle. Their diligence matched that of their counterparts on shore.

As he prepared to enter the water, Nine froze when two security men approached. Stopping nearby to share a cigarette, they conversed quietly in English. Their accents were clearly American. After a few moments, they moved on. When he was satisfied it was safe, Nine crawled silently between the rocks and into the water. Pulling the face mask down over his face and inserting the regulator in his mouth, he disappeared beneath the surface.

Underwater, guided by the castle lights, he swam toward the island. A trained diver, he felt at home underwater, moving quickly and effortlessly.

49

T
en minutes of steady swimming underwater saw Nine reach Saint Michael's Mount. He quickly found what he was looking for: a large underwater pipe. It was exactly where the plans he’d studied indicated it would be. He produced a screwdriver and proceeded to remove a grill that covered the pipe's entrance.

A hundred feet above him, a young security guard looked down from one of the castle’s ramparts and saw air bubbles rise to the sea's surface. He was immediately suspicious. Seconds later, the bubbles stopped. The guard watched for a while longer then walked off. He reasoned the bubbles must have been caused by an emission of air from some underwater pipe. He wasn’t far wrong.

Using a diver’s torch to light his way, Nine was pushing himself swiftly through the pipe. He estimated he was now somewhere under the castle itself. The pipe progressively narrowed until its diameter became too small to accommodate both him and his oxygen tank. He was forced to remove the tank and hold it out in front of him as he entered the narrowest section of the pipe. Nine kicked hard to propel himself along its confines. Progress was slow. A protruding spike forced him to take care he didn’t tear his air hose as he squeezed past it.

Up ahead, a faint glow of light grew brighter. The pipe curved upwards as he traveled further into the bowels of the castle. When his head eventually cleared the surface, he found he was in some kind of soak hole in the floor of a disused basement.

Nine was relieved to see he had the basement to himself.
He pushed himself up onto the floor. Quickly removing his face mask and flippers, he unzipped his wetsuit to reveal he wore a slightly crumpled but perfectly dry caterer's uniform beneath it.

He hid his dive gear and oxygen tank inside a trash can then produced a caterer's hat from a pocket and placed it on his head. Opening an airtight plastic bag he’d wrapped around his waist, he pulled out a pair of black shoes and slipped into them. Spectacles and a false goatee beard completed the disguise. That done, he quickly located a door and opened it carefully, checking to see no-one else was around. All was quiet.