The Ninth Orphan

by Morcan, James

  Cho-Wu nodded to Lhozang. He wondered why the American in the photo only wanted a hundred million dollars for a quarter-of-a-trillion-dollar booty. Cho-Wu didn’t dwell on that. He knew it would be a major coup for him personally if he secured the maps that lead to one of the biggest, if not the biggest, treasure finds of the Post-Mao era.

  The agent excused himself and left the embassy. Outside, the same taxi was waiting for him. He jumped in the back seat again and the taxi pulled out into early evening traffic. The inner city streets were near gridlock as Parisians made their way home from work.

  Cho-Wu’s taxi eventually stopped outside The Red Dragon Chinese Restaurant. Still holding his briefcase, Cho-Wu disembarked and went to the restaurant’s front door. He and other patrons had to step over a mangy dog asleep in the entrance. Cho-Wu deliberately stepped on the dog’s tail. The dog woke with a yelp and ran off down the street. Cho-Wu didn’t give it a second glance as he entered the establishment.

  #

  Within MI6 headquarters on Vauxhall Bridge Road, in Vauxhall Cross, London, Kentbridge and Seventeen sat with three British secret agents – a woman and two men. Like almost everyone else in so-called positions of power, the MI6 secret agents were totally unaware of the existence of the Omega Agency. They simply believed the two Americans before them were CIA employees, which officially they were. Had the British known the pair’s true identity, they’d have detained them immediately.

  Kentbridge and Seventeen were part of the dark, invisible element operating within the CIA. Over the past decade or so, the Omega Agency had infiltrated the highest ranks of the CIA. It was a silent coup d'état. Ironically, despite having official CIA status, Kentbridge and his orphans hardly ever set foot in the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters at Langley, Virginia, and only ever did so to preserve their cover.

  The meeting had been set up for the Omegans by CIA Deputy Director, Marcia Wilson, the Omega Agency’s star mole within the CIA.

  Marcia Wilson was a good example of Omega’s core strategy for creating a New World Order. It involved placing their people, or moles, in positions of power within the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the White House and global organizations like the UN, the IMF and the World Bank. This enabled Omega to pull some of the strings of these organizations and to direct American, and world politics, to an extent.

  Yamashita’s Gold was the opportunity the Omega Agency had been waiting for – two hundred and fifty billion dollars would fund numerous covert ops around the world. Kentbridge knew Naylor wouldn’t relent until he had hunted Nine down and secured the co-ordinates for the treasure location.

  Kentbridge looked on as the MI6 agents studied photos of Nine in some of the disguises he’d adopted on assignment over the years. There were images of him as a Mexican drug dealer, an Elvis impersonator, a wheelchair-bound geriatric and even one of him as a double for the President of East Timor.

  The female MI6 agent looked impressed by Nine’s ability to alter his appearance. “Absolutely bloody amazing,” she gushed. “He's a real, live chameleon.”

  Seventeen bristled at her opposite’s show of appreciation for Nine’s skills. “What information did you receive from your EU sources?” she asked impatiently.

  Kentbridge had instructed Seventeen not to mention anything about Yamashita’s Gold. The last thing they needed was another competitor. As much of the lost treasure was originally Britain’s, Kentbridge knew they’d want it back if they found out about it.

  Britain’s connection with the treasure dated all the way back to Hitler’s rise to power. Fearing Germany was going to invade, Britain had shipped the bulk of its gold reserves, including the Royal Family’s massive stockpile, to Singapore, which was under British rule at the time. When Singapore suddenly fell to the Japanese in 1942, Britain lost nearly all of its gold supplies overnight.

  “Our tip-offs in Madrid, Helsinki and Luxembourg have all proven negative,” the female MI6 agent responded. “However, there's still an unresolved lead from one of our sources in Paris.” She opened a file. “Last night, a Parisian photographer reported an assault to the local gendarmes. She said a man interrogated her in her apartment simply because she photographed him in public.”

  Kentbridge and Seventeen glanced at each other. “Is this photographer reliable?” Kentbridge asked.

  “She's Isabelle Alleget, the daughter of a former French politician. We got a trace on this report simply because the victim said the offender seemed intent on protecting his identity. Apparently he confiscated the camera she photographed him with, then left.” The MI6 agent hesitated. “Only thing is, he was black. I'm not sure your agent's that --”

  “Trust me, he's that good,” Kentbridge interjected.

  As Seventeen speed-read intelligence files MI6 had gathered on Isabelle Alleget, Kentbridge thought about Nine. He wondered if his operative had really jumped ship, or whether he was in some kind of danger and was merely looking after himself.

  Considering he’d trained him, Kentbridge was both embarrassed and surprised he hadn’t seen Nine’s rebellion coming. He took pride in knowing his orphans better than they knew themselves, and yet here was his protégé throwing him a curve ball.

  #

  Five minutes later, Kentbridge and Seventeen were being driven through the streets of London back to Heathrow Airport. Following the lead provided by MI6, the two Omegans had booked the first available flight to Paris.

  Sitting in the rear, Kentbridge glanced at himself in the reflection of the rear view mirror. The craggy face that stared back was still chiseled and vaguely handsome, but it had definitely seen better days. It looked hard too. He put this down to the things he’d seen and done. By the time he was twenty, he’d witnessed things people should never see.

  Kentbridge felt bored as he half-listened to a speech by the US President being televised on a monitor set into the back of the seat in front. Such was Kentbridge’s disdain for politicians, he didn’t even bother to look at the screen.

  Contrary to the media circus which portrayed politicians as all-powerful figures, Kentbridge knew from experience the vast majority of US Government officials – elected or otherwise – were puppets who only had the illusion of power. This included Presidents. These public figures all understood the game and were happy to go through the motions, carrying out orders that came from above – from the likes of the Omega Agency – so they could fulfill their own egotistical ambitions.

  Although political parties often seemed poles apart, in reality they all bowed to this higher order of power. Kentbridge had long since understood Democrats and Republicans were essentially the same party with different faces and that was why, no matter how many promises each leader made, significant change rarely transpired.

  Consequently, Kentbridge had never voted in his life. Certainly there were obvious differences in policies between the various leaders, and an America run by a Bush, an Obama, a Clinton or a Palin, would have distinct contrasts.

  Those variables didn’t concern the secret elite rulers, however. As long as the Omega Agency and other clandestine groups ensured each administration sold out on the most lucrative issues – oil, banking, drug trafficking, arms sales – they couldn’t care less whether a political party poured a few more measly bucks into healthcare or schools.

  Kentbridge switched the television off and focused his mind on Nine. He hoped the man in Paris was indeed the rogue orphan.

  10

  While his Omega colleagues were heading toward London’s Heathrow Airport, Nine was using a computer in a cyber café in Montparnasse, Paris. With a fake beard and pale skin, he was masquerading as Dimitri Saratovski, a Russian man he’d invented.

  Saratovski was one of an almost limitless number of characters he had in his arsenal. This constant shapeshifting was the way he’d always operated. It was the only existence he’d ever known.

  Over the years he’d been hunted by many people – most professionals like himself and many with the latest t
echnology at their disposal. Few got close to him before he changed guise and effectively disappeared.

  His current situation was different though. Now he was being hunted by Omega, the very organization that had trained him. They understood how he operated. Sometimes he sensed they even knew what he was thinking.

  Nine set up an anonymous email account online before typing a message. It read: Today’s meeting delayed till further notice. Have minor security issue to clear first. Will make contact later in week to organize new time and location for the trade. Everything still in order for a clean exchange. Stand by for next message.

  Nine sent the message – not as an email, but as an SMS text message to a cellphone.

  The minor security issue he’d referred to was Isabelle Alleget. He felt a headache coming on as he thought about her. The operative conducted a quick search online on Isabelle’s father. He speed-read several articles in a matter of seconds. Finally, after paying for his Internet session, he hurried outside.

  #

  At the same time, in a first-floor office of the Chinese Embassy, on George V Avenue, in central Paris, MSS intelligence official Lhozang finished reading a text message on his cellphone. It was the message Nine had sent sixty seconds earlier.

  Lhozang promptly translated the message into Chinese then sent a coded email to his superiors in Beijing. The MSS decided it was in China’s interests to wait a day or two for the all-important exchange to take place. Whoever he was, they knew the rogue American operative was China’s best chance of locating the last of Yamashita’s Gold.

  Once the decision was relayed from Beijing, Lhozang called Cho-Wu who was making his way to his pre-arranged rendezvous in Paris. As chance would have it, the agreed location was a park on the other side of the city from where Cho-Wu was staying.

  Already in a bad mood as a result of withdrawal symptoms he was suffering after forty eight hours of celibacy, Cho-Wu felt his frustration skyrocket when Lhozang reached him on his cellphone and advised his meeting with the American had been postponed. He wanted to scream, but kept his anger within like the well-trained agent he was.

  To make matters worse, the embassy car Cho-Wu was traveling in was stuck in heavy late-afternoon traffic. The streets were gridlocked. When Cho-Wu thought he’d explode, he spotted a strip club up ahead. It had a tacky, X-rated, neon sign above its entrance. Pointing at the establishment, the MSS agent instructed his driver to wait for him outside it. Without another word, Cho-Wu jumped out of the car and hurried toward the strip club. For the first time in two days, he felt things were about to improve.

  #

  It was dark by the time Nine arrived back in Saint Lazare. As he neared Isabelle’s street, Rue de Rome, the operative thought about the sequence of nightmarish events that had shaped his life. As always, his mind drifted back to his bizarre childhood.

  Nine had literally been born into the murky, grotesque world of espionage. Strangely though, he didn’t consider himself as someone who had been born. Rather, he viewed his body as a scientific invention and calling his inception a birth seemed as inappropriate as describing a robot being born.

  Unlike robots, he and his fellow orphans experienced the full spectrum of emotions and suffered like anyone else. As if his body was reminding him of this fact, Nine suddenly felt waves of anger as he recalled what he’d learned of his creation thirty one years earlier.

  His so-called birth had been nothing more than a laboratory experiment in human engineering. He, Seventeen and the others were manufactured orphans – products of The Pedemont Project, a radical scientific endeavor carried out by the Omega Agency. This super-secret experiment involved the creation of twenty three genetically superior humans whose fetal genes had been selected by scientists.

  Because of their sublime genes, the orphans were all incredible specimens and often referred to by their creator, Doctor Pedemont, and by Naylor, Kentbridge and the rest of their Omega masters, as post-humans. Their DNA was different to anyone else’s and by their teens they were superior in many ways to the rest of the population, being smarter, faster, stronger and more adaptable.

  The funding of The Pedemont Project was considered a long-term investment. Hundreds of millions of dollars had been spent on the orphans. Their unique birth process alone had come with a seventy-five million dollar price tag.

  From a very early age, Nine had been aware Omega’s motivation for manufacturing himself and the other orphans was to create the world’s most effective espionage agents. The mysterious figures who ran the Omega Agency knew from experience that family ties and espionage didn’t go together. In fact, they were a recipe for disaster. The shadow organization’s hierarchy needed operatives who were unencumbered by family ties, who could undertake any mission, anywhere on earth, no matter what the sacrifice.

  To achieve its New World Order plans, the Omega Agency needed people who could make use of their primordial instincts, who wouldn’t question the morality of orders and who would kill without hesitation. Operatives of that caliber were priceless.

  Nine snapped out of his reverie as he reached Isabelle’s complex. He knew he couldn’t procrastinate any longer. The feelings of dread he’d experienced earlier returned as he looked up at a light coming from the bedroom window of Isabelle’s apartment.

  11

  Isabelle eased her body into a nightgown as she prepared for bed in her Saint Lazare apartment. Hers was a body that was kept taut and trim through an exercise regime that included snow skiing in winter and swimming in summer. This was complemented in no small measure by a sensible diet.

  The striking Frenchwoman was modestly aware of her looks. Not one to dwell on her appearance, she was constantly reminded of her exotic beauty by friends, associates and, last but not least, adoring parents; and she had been approached more than once by modeling agencies on the lookout for new talent.

  Before turning out the light, Isabelle studied herself in the dressing table mirror. Her face was still slightly bruised and puffy – a legacy of her traumatic encounter the previous night with Nine, or rather the man she believed to be African.

  Isabelle had felt violated ever since he’d accosted her. She cursed him for making her feel like that. A curse on all men, she swore to herself. Isabelle immediately regretted she felt this way. She knew it was wrong to tar all men with the same brush.

  The truth was she had made herself unavailable to men for some time. It had been more than a year since her boyfriend and childhood sweetheart, Jacques, had left her for another woman. Growing up, she’d always assumed she would marry Jacques, but that was over now. Since the separation, she’d sworn she’d never get attached to another man.

  Isabelle had blocked out every painful memory and kept a tight rein on all emotions. To limit the risk of further exposing her broken heart, she had avoided relationships and had thrown herself into her artistic career, often photographing non-stop from dawn till dusk. Much as she enjoyed her photography, she couldn’t feel passionate about it. Rather, she felt totally numb inside. Even so, she had convinced herself that repressing her true feelings was the only way to cope with life.

  Isabelle switched off the light and climbed in between the sheets. Sleep came quickly.

  #

  While Isabelle slept, Nine remained outside the apartment complex on Rue de Rome. He’d seen her bedroom light go off and knew it was time. Apart from exterior security lights and the occasional street light, the entire complex was in darkness. Light rain began to fall as he continued to look up at Isabelle’s apartment. He pulled his black coat up over his head to protect the heavy make-up that formed his Russian guise.

  The fugitive agent shook his head as he considered the bad luck that had forced him to return here. He wished the ebony woman hadn’t photographed him the previous day. If she hadn’t, she could have carried on living her life as before, but fate had intervened and, unbeknown to her, she’d become caught up in a dark and ruthless underworld she probably didn’t even know existe
d.

  Nine would have given anything to be able to turn back the clock. He now had to deal with the innocent woman who had become a major threat to his mission.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Kentbridge and the other Omega operatives would be using all intelligence resources at their disposal and would eventually connect Isabelle with himself.

  He also knew that once they tracked her down, which they most assuredly would, they would interrogate her until she told them everything she knew about him. Unfortunately, that would include the crucial piece of information she’d unwittingly discovered when his airline ticket fell from his pocket: his intended destination after he dropped out of the espionage game once and for all.

  Nine couldn’t allow that to happen. His all-important hideaway in remote French Polynesia represented his one chance for freedom.

  Earlier that day, he had accessed the report Isabelle had filed at the local police station by hacking into police records online. Isabelle hadn’t reported seeing her assailant’s airline ticket, but Nine was certain she had noted his Marquesas Islands destination. Leaving that information inside her head for his fellow Omegans to pry out of her was a chance he couldn’t take.

  There was only one solution. It wasn’t going to be pretty. The very thought of it prompted Nine to break out in a sweat. His skin was starting to itch, too. He'd experienced these symptoms increasingly of late. Nine knew they were stress-related.

  Rain continued to fall as he broke into the apartment complex. A few minutes later, after deftly disabling Isabelle’s newly-installed security alarm, he was inside her apartment. The light from the streetlights outside negated the need to use his pen-torch.

  Nine felt decidedly uncomfortable to be in the same apartment in which he had assaulted Isabelle just over twenty four hours earlier. He looked around at the photos, the fridge and other familiar objects. His eyes scanned the nearby bookshelf and once again locked onto the copy of the classic American novel, The Catcher in the Rye.