The Ninth Orphan

by Morcan, James

  “We need the precise co-ordinates of the Yamashita site,” he continued. “Go to Paris and locate this rogue American operative.”

  The other agents looked on as Cho-Wu stood up and left the room without a word.

  #

  As he passed through Customs, Kentbridge studied a Union-Jack hanging from the ceiling of London’s Heathrow Airport. Out of habit, the senior agent scanned airport personnel, their faces, the objects they carried, even their uniforms.

  Having endured a six-and-a-half hour flight across the Atlantic, Kentbridge felt drained. Yet he was also feeling more alive than he had in a long time. In a way, even though the circumstances weren’t ideal, he was pleased to be back in the field as a working operative. He’d spent the last three decades managing the Pedemont orphans. To his way of thinking, that was akin to a police detective doing a routine desk job.

  Special Agent Tommy Kentbridge had always yearned to be where the action was – in the field. After all, he was a highly trained operative, skilled in martial arts, surveillance, assassination and the other dark arts common to the world of espionage.

  After being recruited into the Omega Agency at the age of nineteen, Kentbridge had completed intelligence missions in Cambodia, Panama, Syria and Cameroon with outstanding results. By twenty two, he was already one of Omega’s best operatives.

  It was almost inevitable his superiors decided he’d be the perfect man to train the Pedemont orphans in the craft of espionage and take the Omega Agency into the next phase – something he’d been less than enthusiastic about at the time.

  Further back in the queue was Seventeen. She also absorbed her environs acutely.

  A Customs official approached her. “Are you visiting the UK for business or pleasure, madam?”

  Seventeen stared at the man rather coldly. “Pleasure.”

  The official handed her a form then continued on his way. Seventeen looked straight ahead at Kentbridge's back. She wondered if he could sense her eyes on him.

  Once through Customs, the pair caught a taxi to Kensington Gardens and followed the route their fellow Omega operative had taken in the guise of an elderly Hasid.

  Kentbridge wondered what his protégé’s next step would be. He knew he had to find Nine before any more damage could be done, but he was also aware this was a man he’d personally trained in the art of disappearing without a trace.

  8

  It was early afternoon in Paris. Within a small room of a shabby inner-city hotel, Nine sat, half naked, staring at his reflection in yet another mirror. Ignoring the traffic noise outside, he studied his face as if looking at a stranger.

  After his foiled trade with the Chinese, Nine had vanished from London. He knew his fellow Omegans and operatives from other agencies would all be converging on London in their bid to obtain the Yamashita information he alone held. He had decided on the French capital as the best place to complete his bid for freedom.

  Nine’s eyes darted to the precious flash drive as he mentally retraced recent events. He recalled finding the last Yamashita treasure site in the Philippines, saving all the information on the tiny flash drive, then destroying all the maps and other evidence. Knowing how good Omega’s tracking methods were, he didn’t trust storing the information anywhere but on him.

  From now on, he hoped, things would be fairly straightforward. All he had to do was meet a Chinese agent, exchange the site co-ordinates on the flash drive for the agreed sum, then disappear to his island in French Polynesia.

  Nine stood and stretched his athletic frame. Long periods of enforced inactivity sitting in taxis, airport departure lounges and passenger aircraft didn’t agree with him. He felt stiff and slightly jaded. Wearing only underpants, his slim, toned body exuded power and revealed no outward sign of how he felt.

  His left forearm remained bandaged – a reminder of the surgery he’d performed on himself in the Philippines. Fortunately, the wound no longer ached.

  Behind him was a wardrobe of various disguise-aids which included hair-pieces and costumes. On the dressing table next to him was a full range of cosmetics, a selection of jewelry, eye glasses, contact lenses and facial prosthetics including a fake nose and ears. The cosmetics included foundation, lipstick, eye shadow, blusher, cleansers and hair dyes.

  Nine resumed sitting and began to don a new disguise. Firstly, using dark-dyed cottonwool balls, he widened his nostrils, making them appear bigger. He then blackened his face, ears, neck, arms and the back of his hands with a natural skin dye to resemble an African. Then, as he’d done for his Filipino disguise, he inserted contact lenses to change his eye-color from their usual green to black. An Afro-wig completed the masquerade. Finally, he slipped into some fashionable, casual clothes.

  The entire transformation took only thirty minutes and the end result was amazing. For all intents and purposes he was now African.

  Such were Nine’s skills in the use of make-up and facial prosthetics, his linguistic abilities and his innate understanding of human behavior, he could almost literally become someone else. Israeli, African, Filipino, Mexican. No matter. Nationality and race presented few problems. While the African guise was certainly one of his more intricate, he had the ability to adopt simpler guises at a few minutes notice – even when on the run.

  Nine recalled a time as a boy when Kentbridge had shown him and the other orphans a chameleon lizard. “You will one day be just like this lizard,” Kentbridge had told them. “See how she changes color? I’ll teach you how to blend into any environment like that.”

  Thinking of Kentbridge reminded Nine drastic guises were essential if he was to stay one step ahead of his pursuers.

  Studying his reflection, he felt satisfied he was now unrecognizable. He talked to himself in the mirror. “My name is Aslam Linguere. I was born in Dakar, Senegal.” He spoke in a deep, rich voice with a flawless French-African accent.

  Nine continued to practice the accent until he was sure it was faultless.

  #

  Later that day, walking along a busy street in Champs-Elysees, Nine didn’t look out of place in his African guise and scarcely attracted a second glance as he mingled with local Parisians. The animated conversations of pedestrians, the sirens of passing fire engines and other sounds of industry combined to produce a cacophony of sound, bombarding Nine’s senses and filling him with an exhilarating sense of independence.

  The fugitive agent entered a travel agency and purchased airline tickets to the Marquesas Islands. He used a French passport that matched his African identity. Once he had the tickets in hand for his final destination, Nine relaxed slightly. He knew all he had to do now was hand over the flash drive to the Chinese and freedom would be his.

  #

  The shadows were lengthening as Nine, still in his African guise, strolled among the market stalls in Paris’ famous artistic community of Montmartre. He entered the square of Place Du Tertre where a variety of artists exhibited paintings, ceramics and statues.

  Nine needed more makeup supplies and had been told the best cosmetics retailer in Paris maintained a stall there. As he looked for the stall, he passed a dreadlocked Jamaican who smiled at him.

  “What's happenin', brother?” the Jamaican asked him in French.

  “Just chillin', my friend,” Nine responded in his best French-African accent. The operative smiled at the Jamaican and continued walking along the rows of market stalls.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a photographer taking a photo of him about thirty yards away. Shocked, Nine quickly stepped back behind a stall. He’d reacted so quickly, he hadn’t even established whether the photographer was male or female.

  Who could that be? He assumed the photographer was an intelligence operative, or at the very least someone contracted by one of the agencies. How the hell did they get onto me? He didn’t know the answer to that question either, but suspected his stalker to be a fellow Omegan. No other agent in the world could have tracked me, he reasoned.

>   Nine peered around the corner of the stall to catch another glimpse of the photographer. His stalker was female. She’d moved further away and appeared to be taking snapshots of a juggler who was amusing onlookers by juggling a variety of fruits.

  Even from a distance, Nine could see she was an exotic beauty of mixed race. He noticed her striking features and instinctively knew she was not a fellow Omegan in disguise. Keeping a row of stalls between him and his target, he ventured closer.

  Slender with long, black silky hair and caramel-colored skin, there was an air of sophistication about the young woman that reminded Nine of an ancient Egyptian princess. She was still photographing the juggler, seemingly unaware he was watching her.

  At one point, Nine imagined she glanced at his reflection in an outdoor mirror hanging from a nearby stall. It was only a fleeting look.

  Whoever she was and whichever agency she worked for, Nine resolved then and there she’d be dead before the day was out.

  Finally, the woman placed her digital camera inside a shoulder bag and strolled off, attracting admiring glances from people nearby. Several looked at her as if they recognized her. Little wonder. She was Isabelle Alleget, the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of a former high-profile politician.

  Unaware of the woman’s identity, Nine calculated his options as he followed her. He had a feeling of dread as the knowledge of what he’d soon have to do sunk in.

  #

  Dusk was descending as Nine trailed Isabelle through Place Du Tertre. The streets surrounding the square grew busier as workers made their way home.

  Isabelle approached a taxi rank on the corner of Place Du Tertre and climbed into the rear passenger seat of the front taxi. Nine climbed into the next taxi in line and instructed the driver to follow the taxi in front. After checking his reflection in the near window to ensure his African disguise was still in place, he kept his eyes glued on the taxi ahead as they traveled past the numerous cafes along the narrow streets of Montmartre.

  Upon reaching the neighboring district of Saint Lazare, Isabelle’s taxi pulled up outside an upmarket, seven-storied, apartment complex on the street of Rue de Rome. From his taxi, Nine watched as Isabelle paid her driver, disembarked and walked toward the complex’s entrance. Nine did the same. From the foyer, he watched, unseen, as she entered a lift. He waited to see which floor the lift stopped at, hoping his quarry lived on a lower floor. Fortunately, it stopped at the second floor. Nine sprinted up the stairs.

  In the corridor outside her apartment, Isabelle was preparing to unlock her door when Nine loomed up behind her and clamped her mouth shut, smothering a scream. In his other hand, he held his Glock pistol, its silencer resting against Isabelle's forehead.

  “If you lie to me, you die. Understand, madame?” Nine whispered in French into Isabelle’s ear. She nodded fearfully. Nine listened for any sounds within the apartment. There were none. “You live alone?” Isabelle nodded. “Good. Open the door.”

  Isabelle’s hand shook. She slowly unlocked the door. As soon as it opened, Nine shoved her inside. He followed her into the spacious lounge of her well-appointed apartment, closing the door behind him. Having recovered from her initial surprise, Isabelle opened her mouth to scream for help. Nine punched her in the stomach, effectively silencing her. Winded, she fell to the floor, gasping for air.

  Unconcerned about her welfare, Nine stood astride her. As before, he questioned her in French. “Why did you photograph me?” Breathless, Isabelle was unable to respond. Nine bent down and slapped her face. “Answer me!” He slapped her face again, harder this time. The impact raised a red welt under one eye.

  “I was only taking pictures!”

  Refusing to entertain excuses and determined to find out who she was working for, Nine knelt and stuck his menacing face close to Isabelle's. He jammed his pistol against her cheek and removed the safety with an audible click.

  Isabelle became desperate. “Please! Don't kill me! I'm just a photographer!”

  Nine remained unconvinced. “But why photograph me?”

  “Look around you,” Isabelle implored, pointing at the near wall of her lounge.

  Nine looked up and noticed scores of photos – not only on the near wall but on the far wall too. They were mostly portraits. Realizing she was actually the innocent photographer she claimed to be, Nine shook his head unapologetically and stood up, turning to study the photos more closely. As he did, the airline ticket he’d purchased earlier fell from his trouser pocket and landed on Isabelle. Nine didn’t immediately notice.

  Despite her distress, Isabelle grabbed the ticket. Her eyes locked onto the destination beside the Air Tahiti logo. It read: Les îles Marquises en Polynésie Française.

  Nine looked back down at Isabelle. Damn it, he inwardly cursed. Alarmed to see she had his airline ticket, he snatched it back and stared hard at her. Thinking carefully, he knew he now had a difficult decision to make. The same feeling of dread he’d experienced earlier returned. He resumed studying the photos on the walls.

  The Frenchwoman remained on the floor. She was in shock and began to sob. Seemingly unconcerned, Nine went to the fridge and removed some ice-cubes. Wrapping them in a tea-towel, he returned and placed the tea-towel in Isabelle’s hand. He raised her hand so the ice pressed against her swollen face.

  Isabelle could feel his eyes on her and avoided his gaze. Nine was momentarily mesmerized by her beauty as he took in her exotic features. There was something fragile yet strong about her. Her slender limbs reminded him of a gazelle. Yet her dark eyes flashed anger. Nine forced himself to look away. Scanning a nearby bookshelf, he noticed The Catcher in the Rye among the titles. He turned back to Isabelle. “Keep that ice against your skin. You'll be fine.”

  Isabelle looked up into his austere, African face and glared disdainfully at him. Taking that as his cue to leave, Nine grabbed her digital camera and left. Isabelle struggled to her feet, stumbled to her phone and dialed 112, the number for the French emergency service. Gendarmes arrived minutes later, but Isabelle’s black assailant was long gone.

  9

  A China Airlines jumbo jet touched down at Charles De Gaulle International Airport, on the outskirts of Paris. MSS Special Agent Cho-Wu was among the passengers.

  After passing through Customs carrying only a briefcase, the surly-faced Chinese agent walked purposefully toward a waiting taxi. Its driver was also Chinese. Without a word being exchanged, the driver accelerated away as soon as his broad-shouldered, formidable-looking fare opened the rear door and climbed in.

  As the taxi headed toward the city center, Cho-Wu opened his briefcase and studied some documents. He was very aware that, apart from some incomplete intel relating to a treasure site in the Philippines along with a solitary photo of a US operative disguised as a Hasidic man, his superiors hadn’t given him much to go on. Cho-Wu was hoping his contact at the Paris embassy could bring him closer to the enigmatic American.

  While Cho-Wu skimmed the documents, he found himself thinking about women, in particular the buxom blonde prostitute whose company he’d enjoyed while in Washington D.C. recently. Determined to block out the inappropriate thoughts, he shook his head in a feeble attempt to drive away the distracting images of naked breasts, curvaceous asses and long, slender legs.

  He grew aroused as he imagined the various body parts pressed tight against his own taut body. Such thoughts had recurred with tiresome regularity of late.

  Cho-Wu wished he had Dr Liu, his Beijing psychiatrist, here to help him ward off the graphic fantasies that now possessed him. Dr Liu had been treating the agent for sex addiction for the past three years.

  Dr Liu’s client had made very little improvement during that time. In fact, Cho-Wu was a sex maniac unlike anyone else the doctor had treated. Almost any female turned him on, from slender teenage girls to voluptuous, mature women old enough to be his mother. He also enjoyed killing people – something he did often and well in the employ of the MSS – and even experienced erecti
ons when squeezing the trigger of his automatic pistol.

  Like all sex addicts, Cho-Wu had to constantly find new and creative ways to satisfy his randy urges. His superiors at the MSS knew about his unusual problem and the treatment he was undergoing, but because he was one of the most brilliant agents they’d ever recruited, they turned a blind eye. He’d successfully completed all thirty seven assassination missions they’d given him and, as far as his superiors could ascertain, he showed no signs of being affected negatively by his addiction.

  Cho-Wu knew differently. There had been numerous missions where his addiction had put his life, and those of his fellow operatives, in grave danger.

  As the taxi approached the Chinese Embassy on George V Avenue, in central Paris, Cho-Wu noticed a well-dressed, brunette lady walking along the sidewalk. His eyes locked on to her trim body and shapely calves. He fantasized about tying her up and ravaging her.

  Having a special lust for beautiful European women, Cho-Wu wished his current assignment could have been anywhere but the city of love, or the city of lust as he often referred to it. Memories of debauchery were still fresh in his mind from previous assignments in Paris. Cho-Wu looked back down at the documents on his lap and forced himself to refocus his mind on the job at hand.

  The taxi stopped directly outside the embassy. Without a word, Cho-Wu disembarked. Briefcase in hand, he approached the embassy and flashed his ID to an armed guard manning the gated entrance. The guard stepped aside to allow the agent in. An embassy secretary led Cho-Wu to a first floor office where he met with Lhozang, the MSS official in charge of French operations.

  At five foot nothing, the middle-aged Lhozang was the unlikeliest of agents – a fact which had saved his life more than once. Cho-Wu knew not to underestimate him. He handed Lhozang the photo of Nine that Ji'an Yang had given him in Beijing. The diminutive Lhozang produced a magnifying glass and reading glasses, then studied it.

  A full minute later, Lhozang looked up at the younger man. “The MSS Deputy Director in Beijing has authorized payment of the sum the American requested,” Lhozang smiled, revealing a set of disconcertingly over-sized false teeth.