The Orphan Uprising (The Orphan Trilogy, #3) (18 page)

“So where are we going?” Isabelle asked.

“I’m still working that out. Firstly, we have to get away from here.” Seventeen knew from the description given of the man who had been asking after Isabelle that it was Twenty Three. She was also aware that when he did resume his door-knocking quest the next day, someone would recognize the Frenchwoman.

Isabelle wanted to argue the point with Seventeen. She still didn’t trust her. But something told her to follow orders for the moment.

“Okay,” Seventeen said. “Say your goodbyes. I’ll be waiting in the Jeep.” She took Isabelle’s bags from her and left the kitchen.

Isabelle followed Seventeen outside. She found Chai and other members of his extended Thai family waiting for her on the veranda. Tears flowed as Isabelle hugged her dear friends and thanked them for their hospitality. She had a special word for Chai. “Thank you, Chai. Sebastian and I will never forget your family’s kindness.” She kissed his cheek.

Chai placed his right hand on Isabelle’s shoulder as if to bless her. “It is as my uncle would have wished.” He referred to his uncle and Nine’s long-time friend, the kindly monk Luang. He removed his hand and stepped aside to let Isabelle pass.

In the waiting Jeep, Seventeen reached behind her and opened the rear door as Isabelle approached. “Jump in the back,” she ordered.

Isabelle did as she was told. She waved to her friends as the vehicle drove off. Up ahead, the Jeep’s headlights illuminated one of Chai’s brothers as he unlocked and opened the commune’s front gate to allow the vehicle to pass through. Isabelle waved to him and then he disappeared into the darkness behind the Jeep as it accelerated away.

“Keep out of sight back there,” Seventeen said. “I don’t want anyone seeing you.” She felt it unlikely anyone would see them let alone recognize them in the darkness, but didn’t want to take any chances.

Isabelle lay down across the back seat. Looking up through the Jeep’s rear window, she studied the stars in the night sky. She wondered where Nine was and whether he was looking at the stars at that moment. And she wondered if he’d found Francis yet.

35

It was now four in the morning in Greenland, and if Nine had looked skyward at that moment he wouldn’t have seen stars – not even if they were normally visible in summer in the land of the midnight sun. The skies above were hidden behind dark clouds; a storm was brewing as the Albermarle continued her journey south.

Since departing Thule, the voyage had been uneventful. The permanent daylight ensured the west coast was always in sight, which made navigation relatively straightforward. All Nine had to do was ensure the coastline remained in sight, to port, and he’d reach his destination sooner or later. Already, he’d rounded Cape York, so by his reckoning Savissivik was only half an hour away.

An hour earlier, he’d called Hells Angels biker Lars Khader on the boat’s radio-telephone. Lars had confirmed the helicopter he’d chartered on Nine’s behalf was already waiting for him at the pre-arranged venue. Nine was thankful the big biker hadn’t specified that the venue was Savissivik. He and Lars were both aware the line they used was an open one and their conversation could be overheard by anyone else who happened to share their radio frequency.

Using the vaguest of terms, Nine had advised him the
consignment
he’d hoped to uplift at his last stop had not been found, but there was another possibility he needed to check out before leaving the country. He ordered Lars to relay that information to the chopper pilot and ensure that the chopper had enough fuel for an extended flight. Lars had assured him he’d relay that information to the pilot immediately.

Now, as Savissivik came into sight, Nine’s thoughts turned to the next step in his mission to find Francis. From Savissivik, he’d do as Fourteen had suggested and fly to American Summit Camp, in the middle of Greenland’s ice sheet, to see if his son was being held there. From there, he’d fly to Kangerlussuaq  International Airport. Where he went from there would depend on whether or not he was traveling alone or with Francis. He prayed it would be the latter.

#

Omega boss Andrew Naylor was in deep discussion with CIA Director and fellow Omegan Marcia Wilson. It was early in the morning and the meeting was in Naylor’s office at Omega HQ. Marcia was there in the flesh this time, not in holographic form – such was the importance of the meeting.

“And there’s been no sighting of him since?” Marcia asked. She was referring to the unexplained disappearance from Thule of the man posing as Danish photo-journalist Johannes Petersson. Neither Marcia nor Naylor had any doubt the man was Nine.

“Nothing,” Naylor said. He continually massaged his temple to ward off the headache that was now a permanent and unwelcome companion during his waking hours. It served to constantly remind him of the rogue operative, and that did nothing for his already short temper. Gone was Naylor’s earlier enjoyment in the challenge Nine was providing. Now he was just angry, frustrated and worried.

“This isn’t good, Andrew.” Marcia’s tone was one of rebuke. It was as though she held Naylor personally responsible for Nine’s actions.

“Christ, don’t you think I know that?” Naylor said, glaring at his opposite.

Marcia had a cutting response of her own planned, but was interrupted by the ringing of a phone on Naylor’s desk.

Naylor picked up the phone. “Speak to me.”

“It’s Kamal Al Saud,” the voice said on the other end.

Naylor placed his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed to Marcia, “It’s Three.”

This was the second call Naylor had received from Three that morning. Several hours earlier, the mixed-race operative had phoned, advising of the dramas that had occurred at Thule Air Base and at the underground lab. At that stage, Three had just discovered Fourteen’s body and had not long learned of the young airman and the controller who had both been found tied up. He’d established that the Danish photo-journalist had been one of three outsiders to visit the base on official business that night and had effectively disappeared after leaving the base.

Naylor removed his hand from the mouthpiece and resumed talking to the caller. “Give me the latest.” He flicked the speaker phone mode on so that Marcia could also listen.

“It looks like Petersson is our man alright,” Three said. “The rental car he was using was left down at the port and I’ve established he chartered a boat, and the same boat was sighted arriving in Savissivik, a small settlement south of here, about an hour ago.”

“Marcia Wilson here, Kamal. Was Petersson sighted?”

“Yes ma’am. He was seen boarding a private helicopter. No markings.”

Naylor leaned forward. “Where’d he go?”

“Destination unknown, but the pilot of an Air Force jet reported that he sighted an unmarked chopper flying south east from Savissivik around that time.”

“Your thoughts?” Naylor asked.

“If I had to bet, I’d say he’s flying to Kangerlussuaq,” Three ventured.

Naylor looked at Marcia.

“Makes sense,” Marcia said to Naylor. “Our Mister Petersson came up empty-handed in Thule. Next stop the DRC.”

“Not if I can help it,” Naylor mumbled through gritted teeth. He flicked off the speaker phone and resumed talking to Three. “I don’t want him leaving Greenland. Got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Miss Wilson already has some of the firm’s people watching out for him at the airport at Kangerlussuaq, but I want you there, too. Pronto. And do whatever needs to be done to stop him. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

Naylor ended the call in no doubt Three knew what he meant. Nine wasn’t to leave Greenland alive.

#

Several hours after departing the commune on the north-western side of Tahiti Nui, Isabelle and Seventeen arrived in the small tourist town of Taravao, on the south-eastern side. For want of a better plan, Seventeen decided they’d pose as tourists and stay at a motel until a safer alternative presented itself.

The former operative was still in the guise of a man. Until they moved on, she was resigned to maintaining the guise, and decided she and Isabelle should pose as husband-and-wife. That would help throw the bloodhounds off her scent, she hoped.

A
Vacancy
sign outside a three-star motel several streets back from the waterfront caught Seventeen’s eye. The establishment was in darkness, and its proprietor – a grumpy, fiftysomething man – was even grumpier than usual over being woken in the middle of the night. A sweetener of a hundred dollar bill helped smooth him over.

Using a pretty convincing male voice and speaking in an even more convincing, clipped English accent, Seventeen told the proprietor his wife was poorly and needed peace and quiet. She stressed they wanted a self-contained unit and didn’t want to be disturbed during their stay. The proprietor assured her he understood.

Under cover of darkness, Seventeen shepherded Isabelle into their unit, which was conveniently located to the rear of the premises, away from prying eyes.

Inside the unit, the two women looked at each other for a moment.

Seventeen noticed her sister-in-law looked tired and stressed. “You okay?” She knew that was a silly question as soon as she asked it.

Isabelle nodded. “I need to sleep.” She headed for the nearest of the two bedrooms.

Seventeen went to say something, but remained silent. She’d been about to advise Isabelle she wouldn’t be able to venture outside the unit for fear of someone seeing she was pregnant. If they did, there was a very real risk her former Omega colleagues would eventually hear of it. However, she decided that bit of news could wait until morning.

The former operative was also resigned to having to continue her masquerade as Isabelle’s husband. Something that didn’t exactly thrill her to bits.

36

Rasmus Posse, the Greenlandic helicopter pilot ferrying Nine to American Summit Camp, couldn’t believe the change that was taking place before his very eyes. Alongside him, in the passenger seat, Nine was transforming himself from Johannes Petersson, the ginger-haired Danish photo-journalist, to Andreas Olsen, a Greenlandic Inuit hunter.

Appropriate clothing and equipment for Nine’s latest guise were already on board the chopper when it arrived in Savissivik to collect him. Biker Lars Khader had made sure of that, as per his client’s very specific orders. Lars had also chosen the pilot carefully, using one he’d groomed to transport future heroin supplies to the network of pushers he’d set up throughout the country.

The Inuit disguise presented more of a challenge than most new guises posed for Nine. For a start, the distinctive gun-sight eyes and Eskimo-like features of the Inuits were extremely difficult to replicate, even for a superior shapeshifter like Nine.

In the confines of the chopper, it had taken him over an hour to complete his transformation. Even now, as the chopper approached the ice station, he wasn’t totally happy with it, but it would have to do. His appearance wasn’t his only concern. Nine was also very aware he didn’t speak Greenlandic, the native tongue of the country’s Inuit population. Of the many languages and dialects he’d mastered in the course of his years as an Omega operative, Greenlandic wasn’t one of them.

Nine’s answer to that particular problem was he’d pretend to be deaf.
Not ideal, but it’ll have to do
. His attention was diverted when the pilot pointed to several low-lying buildings visible on the ice sheet several miles ahead.

“There’s the Summit Camp,” Rasmus said in Danish.

“I see it,” Nine responded in kind. Looking at the camp, he marvelled at how tiny and inconspicuous it looked against the vastness of the ice sheet – a mere speck on a canvass of blinding white nothingness that extended as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Nine knew American Summit Camp was one of several such research stations on the ice sheet. This particular one was operated by a US-based company in support of Greenland’s deep ice coring effort. In winter, the station’s population dropped to five, but at this time of year it accommodated up to fifty-five people. Three of the current residents could be seen moving around, like dots, between the buildings.

“Where’s the laboratory building?”

“It will come into view soon. Ah, there it is.”

At first, Nine couldn’t see it. Then he was able to make out its outline against the glaring whiteness of the ice. It was a small building exactly where Fourteen had said it would be, five miles south of the ice station.

Nine studied the building and hoped he’d find Francis inside it. “Pity you can’t drop me there.”

Rasmus mumbled his agreement. He and Nine had already discussed the drop-off and pick-up arrangements. All visiting aircraft had to land at American Summit Camp where pilots and passengers had to undergo the same strict security checks that were in force at Thule Air Base.

“There’s our reception party,” Rasmus said. He pointed to a small group of Inuit hunters who had assembled on the ice just beyond the perimeter of the station. The snowmobiles that had delivered them to this remote location were parked nearby.

Nine studied the hunters and marveled at the fact that Lars’ influence and long reach even extended out onto the ice sheet. Through a contact of a contact, the Hell Angels biker had somehow arranged for a group of Inuits to rendezvous with a foreigner in the middle of Greenland. Just how he had managed that, Nine couldn’t even guess, but he made a note to congratulate him on his organizational skills when they next met.

The Inuits studied the chopper as they became aware of its approach. There were six of them. Their snowmobiles set them apart from other hunters in the region whose mode of transport was the more traditional dog sleighs.

The chopper descended rapidly toward a clearly marked helipad near the station’s front entrance. Nine busied himself checking that he had all he needed for what he hoped would be a brief visit. The seats behind him were covered in pelts and furs that would soon come in handy. He was here, officially at least, to trade with the locals.