“Sir, you can’t come through here. It’s too dangerous!” shouted the woman police officer from behind, making a grab for George.
“CHARLIE!” he shouted, shrugging off the policewoman’s clutches, who, unbalanced, fell to the road. A quick scan of the tablet computer indicated Charlie’s location was thirty yards away. He trotted in the GPS coordinates direction and then broke out into a full sprint. “CHARLIE!” he bellowed. “CHAR-LIE!!”
There was a moment’s pause when the Earth seemingly stood still and for all around there came an eerie silence, almost expectant with foreboding, like the sound sometimes reported before a volcano erupts − cacophonous noise at an ear-splitting level − to absolute nothing...
“Daddy?” Breaking the quiet, a small figure crept out from the underbrush, his face wet from crying, the sling harnessing his arm blackened with grime and his clothes bloodied, vomit coated and torn in places. The Earth suddenly began to move again in tandem with all its surrounding brouhaha.
“Charlie!” George was just twenty-feet away from his son, a smile spreading upon his face. It was such relief to see his boy safe and well after fearing and agonising the worst. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the boy had last been in his company but the feeling of elation was easily akin to that experienced by fathers and sons reunited after a long parting. To those observing, George might well have come to collect his son after five years in Australia.
“Daddy!”
Slowing down as he came within six feet of his son, the sudden locomotive of a man charged into him from the right side, taking him completely off guard, knocking him hard and painfully to the ground, his tablet computer clattering to the tarmac, its screen becoming a spider’s web of inky-black cracks. A burly policeman straddled him.
“Now, sir! You were told to return to your car.” The policeman was applying handcuffs.
“But it’s my boy,” George was struggling with the large policeman sitting on his back. “Just my boy…”
“Please, don’t hurt him,” Charlie started crying again. “Please!”
The policeman took one look at the four-year-old, saw his banged up features, his arm in a sling and sighed. Using a key, he removed the handcuffs from George’s wrists.
“Okay, sir. Return to your car and wait. This is no place to let a child out to play.” He didn’t give the boy’s cut and bedraggled appearance a second look.
“Thanks.” George stood up, retrieved the tablet computer, winced in dismay from the sight of the damage and drew Charlie close to him, a protective arm resting over his shoulder. Together they headed back to the car.
The policewoman said something angrily to her colleague as George passed. The policeman shrugged and walked off unperturbed. Within a couple of minutes they were safely confined within the Peugeot. Charlie was safe and secured at the back behind the passenger seat.
George threw the broken tablet into the glove compartment. The damaged LCD screen rendered the gadget useless. Currently he had no way of tracking his wife. He hit the steering wheel hard with the heel of his hand, frustrated. He resisted the urge to curse, the loss of his tracking ability akin to losing eye sight or the ability to walk. He sighed and put things into perspective. His son was a little battered and bruised, but he was okay. He was now safe.
“Charlie, I was so scared,” he started, “tell me what happened. Tell me what’s happened to mummy.”
At first he acted as though he’d not heard the question. “I don’t want to talk about it,” replied Charlie finally, reticent. He turned away to the door and closed his eyes just as a tear leaked out beneath one of the lids. Behind closed eyes his mind conjured the scene of his mother’s abduction, her capture and stowage within the boot of the big, shiny car.
“They can’t hurt you Charlie, and I want to get mummy back. I promise I can get her back. But I need your help.”
After a long minute Charlie’s resolve caved in. He re-opened his moist eyes and turned from the side of the car to face his father. He juddered involuntarily from the memory. “They took her,” he whispered. “The bad men took mummy away.”
A car horn blared from behind aggressively, three loud bursts. Ahead of George traffic had started dribbling forward once again and the driver of the car immediately behind (BMW) was loath to have his journey delayed any further despite progress moving at a sloth’s pace. Now that the air ambulance had departed and debris had been cleared from the carriageway, a policeman had opened up one side of the road and was directing traffic alternately using hand signals and curt gestures, slowly dispersing the tailback that was spreading up and down either side of Seacrest Road.
The policeman who’d rugby tackled George to the ground was beckoning him forward with a hand signal.
George keyed the ignition and set the vehicle into motion. A moment later he was passing Dominic Schilling’s smouldering Mercedes carcase and the wreckage of his wife’s car. He tried to blot the images out and concentrate on getting his son home to safety and reuniting his family. Dwelling on thoughts of his wife and what her captors might be doing to her had to be put on hold – for the moment at least. His son had experienced one RTA too many in his young life, an ordeal that would haunt Charlie’s dreams for many years beyond his childhood; he didn’t want to expose him to that again by being distracted and not paying enough attention on the road.
Chapter Fourteen
Ryan
Satellite images were playing on the large screen that took up the wall. For once there was little sound filling the room, all analysts and operatives were sitting motionless, voices hushed, lulled by the events captured on the wall where all eyes were directed. It wasn’t ever this quiet, not even when the planes hit the towers on 9/11; not even at night when only a handful on late shift occupied the operations room, nursing cups of coffees to fight intruding sleep and the unavoidable boredom, where the cleaners kept them company, pushing their Henry vacuum cleaners and emptied the bins.
Samuel had descended from the mezzanine level and was standing next to Ryan’s desk. Ryan had stood up so not to feel so intimidated. Nothing he hated more than having someone tower above him whilst seated at his desk − it made him relive the ordeal that had been school. Even standing he was dwarfed by the not-so-gentle giant.
“When did this happen?” demanded the Security and Intelligence Director. His tone was not friendly and urged caution to any who dared to answer.
A timid man in his forties raised a hand to speak. Sweat had stained his light-blue long-sleeved shirt dark and had spread beneath his armpits, a by-product of his heightened nervousness and anxiety. “Ahh, ergh… Just before the police arrived at the scene, sir,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“Ja-Jason, s-s-sir,” he stammered.
“How was this missed, Jason?” Samuel demanded. He whirled around the room: “Anyone?”
A bespectacled young woman dared to speak. She looked more like a stereotypical secretary than an intelligence analyst. Naturally blonde, her golden locks cascading to just below her shoulders, slender of frame with a delicate, triangular face, her chin prominent but not unattractive; most the men in the room often found themselves distracted by her pleasing appearance. The name plate placed beneath her monitor identified her as Emily Porter.
“Our focus was on Grampian House,” she ventured, “George’s ‘not so’ secret apartment. We stumbled upon it completely by accident two days ago and believed we’d located the girl. We were following up on our leads.”
“What? All of you?”
Behind them, on a loop, the large screen continued to play footage from the overhead spy satellite; images of Harriet Jennings attacking what appeared to be a man on a mobile phone with a club-like weapon. Obsessively, they watched the overhead images of a man appearing from the cover of some trees, creeping up behind Harriet
.
“Are you seeing this?” Samuel was shaking his head as he watched the scene play out. Harriet was then overpowered from the use of a Taser, falling to the road, paralysed, visibly shaking from the electric shock. The second man, talking to the subdued mobile man, probably checking that he was all right, before manhandling her into the boot of the car. Then the image became distorted, the picture bouncing up and down, becoming snowy, the image fading into ghostly shadows, then a small warning box popped up on the centre of the screen:
SIGNAL LOST
“What did we just see?” demanded the Director.
“Opportunists?” prompted Ryan, baffled by what he had witnessed.
“D’you think?” answered Samuel abrasively. “What about the events before the dynamic duo showed up?” He walked away from his assistant, fighting the rage that was bubbling beneath the surface and the urge to punch something (or someone).
“The satellite wasn’t in range – this was all we’ve been able to see.” Ryan sat back down, earlier fears of feeling intimidated overshadowed by the feelings of inadequacy heard in the Director’s voice.
“Okay people, I want to know who they are. I want to know how come they were able to do what Blighty’s finest was unable to.” He started up the flight of stairs to his office. “Simply, I want answers. A bottle of Moet and Chandon to the person who can answer: how the bloody hell did they know to find her there when we’d missed it?”
No sooner had the door of the Director’s office closed behind him the noise level once again grew to a crescendo. Ryan tossed his pen down and let out a deep breath. He hadn’t realised it, but he’d been nervously chewing at it, bits of plastic were still in his mouth. He spat them out discretely, becoming aware that a number of people milling around were watching him, waiting for instructions.
“What?!” The ‘millers’ scattered like a flock of birds disturbed from pecking the ground by a Tom on the prowl. He turned to the bespectacled woman seated close by.
“Emily, what question is more important than any asked by the Director? Your thoughts?”
The woman in the glasses stepped over, thought lines creasing her brow. Despite her secretarial appearance, she was Kaplan Ratcliff’s most senior Intelligence Analyst, someone Ryan trusted more than any – and it wasn’t just because of a longstanding private connection they’d kept secret, a fact that, if known, would lead many to believe her position within the company was out of favouritism. She took a long moment to consider the question, mulling over it deeply before conceding defeat. The puzzled look gave way to one of resignation.
“Let me answer that with another question: Where is the boy?” Ryan stood up, taking control. “Our focus has been on George’s wife... but the boy... where is he?”
“He must still be out there,” she interjected, excitedly. “Unless... those two (indicating Harriet’s abductors by jabbing a finger towards their fuzzy images on the screen on the wall) found him after the satellite feed failed.”
“Possibly, but it’s worth looking into don’cha think?” Not waiting for a reply, Ryan continued. “Get a team out there looking for him.”
“I’m on it boss.” She trotted back to her desk, picked up her phone and made an outgoing call, her voice high in pitch and full of urgency.
“You two… Crocket and Tubby,” Ryan was picking on two assistants who acted like a double act from the 1980s – hence the nicknames (a nod towards the vintage show Miami Vice) – they were two of the less offensive monikers bandied about. In truth he’d never bothered to remember their names, thinking he’d rather save the memory space. One was called Matt Homer, the other Jacob Bowers. “I want you two to find out who these clowns are who have taken Harriet Jennings, and where they have taken her to. Start looking at CCTV footage on all roads leading to and from the satellite location. Get a make and model on that car, then get registration details.” Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee stood nodding furiously like a couple of Churchill Insurance dogs. They made notes as they went. “Time is money, guys. When you have this information,” Ryan smiled, “give me a holler.”
Ryan crossed over to another bank of desks where a man wearing a wireless headset was standing looking agitated. Moments earlier he had been shouting into the mouthpiece of the digital radio transmitter jutting out like a single vibrissa to the side of his face, a cat with one whisker. Before the Director had come down to the lower floor, all faces had been turned in his direction, eaves dropping his co-ordinated operation of attack. The Grampian House operation had been directed by this man, a former commander with the SAS and Alpha Team’s in-house team leader. He was stocky and seemed not to have a neck, his square head perched centrally upon his thickset shoulders. A second, willowy man sat next to him looking decidedly fragile in comparison.
The smaller man looked up. “Alpha Team are down, sir. Bravo Team are on standby, but orders have just been given to stand down.”
“Orders? What orders, by who?” Ryan did nothing to hide the agitation from his voice.
“Tom Kaplan, sir. He took charge as soon as Alpha Team were hit.” Ryan took a step back mentally and physically. What was going on?
Tom Kaplan was the CEO of the company. To most he was a phantom, a ghost, nothing more than a name to scare young children at night or threaten with to combat unruly behaviour. To his knowledge, no one, not even the Board of Directors, had ever seen Kaplan in the flesh − though that was just a rumour circulated to add an air of mystery and foreboding to his reputation − a sort of Emperor from Star Wars sort of character trait. Very few had even seen his photograph, so elusive and reclusively obsessed he was.
“Why wasn’t I told?” Ryan was second in command and yet things were happening beyond his knowledge or influence.
“You just were, sir,” replied the team leader sarcastically.
Ryan shook his head in disbelief, muttering a curse and walked off.
What the hell was going on? Why was Kaplan interfering? So much had happened in so little a time − could some blame be apportioned to him? After all, almost immediately after warning George earlier that afternoon about the hospital strike, events had snowballed way out of control.
But did they ever have control?
Needing to clear his head, get some fresh air, he walked out of the room, opening security doors with the electronic pass that hung around his neck on a blue lanyard, the words MAKE A DIFFERENCE printed continuously on the fabric. His picture embellished the pass with an image that would have better suited a cadaver on a mortician’s table. His eyes were shut, his lips purply-blue, his face appeared ashen-white. He couldn’t remember the circumstances surrounding that picture but thought it must have been taken on a day when he’d been ill.
Exiting the building via a side door − a services entrance − he walked down a short alley that took him to a busy road. Large commercial bins (black with green hinged lids) lined the passage, one overflowing with full black refuse bags, spilling its rubbish to the ground where the wind distributed it the length and breadth of the path. At the end of the alley he joined a sprawling commercial avenue with shops and businesses lining either side; he crossed the road, darting through a break in traffic and entered into a small coffee shop nestled between a newsagents and a dusty old empty shop, boarded up and decorated grotesquely with bright spray paint graffiti.
A small bell ‘dinged’ as he stepped into the coffee shop, the telltale aromas associated with such establishments assailing his nostrils and causing his stomach to do a 360˚ somersault. Fresh coffee relaxed and helped him think. The smell alone had soothing properties, immediately calming his nerves. He ordered a regular sized black coffee, refusing any attempts of upgrade or cross-selling (“No, I don’t want a choc-chip banana side salad with that.”).
“Do you have a phone I could use?” he asked the coffee shop attendant who’d taken a few moments
to prepare his drink; a skinny, pale youth of indeterminable age, his greasy black hair reflecting an overhead fluorescent light, who looked blank, as though the question had been posed on Mastermind. Ryan exchanged a fiver for his steaming beverage, though it could easily have been for the answer to his question. A good cop bribing an informant for an illicit tip.
“No,” was the curt reply as he reached into a cash register. He handed Ryan a handful of change. It was service without a smile. The youth was more accustomed to washing his hair than exchanging pleasantries, the Assistant Intelligence Officer mused − which would be saying something.
Taking a seat in a dark, quiet corner, Ryan reluctantly removed his mobile phone from his pocket.
He was loath to use his own mobile – he knew better than to do it – but there was little time. If he was to ever get close to him he needed the man’s trust.
Reaching into his trouser pocket he retrieved the slip of paper that he’d used earlier. He considered what he was about to do for a moment. Gut instinct was warning him against what he was contemplating. He knew better, but couldn’t help himself.
Ignoring years of experience and better judgement, he took a leap of faith and with it, an enormous risk; he proceeded. Using stubby fingers, he carefully keyed the number into his mobile phone. Once the number appeared in its entirety on the screen, Ryan took a moment to reflect, considering his actions.
What are you doing? his conscience demanded.
Then – hesitantly – he pressed the green ‘call’ icon.
The digital ringtone reverberated through the mobile’s small speaker almost immediately. Is it me, he thought, or did it sound louder than normal?
A long moment passed and Ryan felt nervous. He felt like a man cheating on his wife or partner. In some respects this was no different. After all, it was just as great an act of betrayal, with some arguing that it was even worse.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 13
