The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  Emily lowered the mobile from her ear, glanced nervously around the room before peering through a couple of slats of the blinds. She quickly opened the door, stepping out into the deserted corridor. Less than a minute later she was back behind her desk listening to fake laughter as it filtered down from the office at the top of the metal staircase and beginning to plot her next move.

  Chapter Fifty One

  Thomas

  By the time Ryan had finished his account of the events from the previous forty-eight hours, a local pizzeria delivery guy riding a moped with an ‘L’ plate pulled up in the driveway beside the two parked cars carrying the ordered food in a padded bag. Another man appeared from the side of the house wearing dark jeans and a yellow short-sleeved polo shirt with Fred Perry motif. He had cropped brown hair and wore designer spectacles. He approached the delivery man, waving a twenty pound note into his face.

  “This should cover it.” He spoke deliberately slow with a Scandinavian accent .

  “Barely,” grunted the delivery guy, scrunching the note up deep into the folds of a pocket and rooting around for some pennies.

  The Scandinavian took the three large pizza boxes off the man. “Keep the change,” he said. Not waiting for a reply he took them up to the house. He knocked on the door and waited.

  A brief moment passed before Ryan opened the door. He nodded confirmation to an unasked question, taking the pizzas from him. On closing the door, the Scandinavian stood in the hallway waiting for the moment, waiting for his cue.

  Ryan returned to the living room carrying the three large pizza boxes. Pepperoni, Hawaiian and Margherita.

  “Get it whilst it’s hot,” Ryan recommended, lifting out a slice of Pepperoni pizza for himself.

  In the corner of the room an old television box the size of a Mini Cooper, played a Disney movie: Pocahontas. Momentarily distracted by food, the trio crowded round the three boxes of pizza and stripped a couple of slices away each, returning to the movie a moment later.

  “So, where does that leave us now Ryan?” asked Sophie, helping herself to some pizza. The kids had dived in, oblivious to the continuing conversation.

  “Well, I guess we lay low until we have information of your father’s whereabouts. We then decide whether or not we go after him.”

  “What d’you mean ‘whether or not’? Of course we are going after him. He’s our father!”

  “Sophie, it’s complicated.” Ryan took a mouthful of pizza and continued. “There’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”

  Hearing his cue, the Scandinavian stepped into the living room from the hallway and with a limp, walking purposefully to the centre of the room.

  “Sophie, this is Thomas Mundahl.”

  Thomas Mundahl, where have I heard that name? she thought. A puzzled look appeared on her face as neurons connected in her brain and the image of the man appeared in her mind’s eye.

  Sophie stood up from where she was sitting and ran to the man. “Tom!” she squealed in excitement, wrapping her arms about his chest and almost off-balancing him. “But how?”

  “I guess you thought me dead, little one?” He spoke carefully, over-articulating every word, his accent Norwegian-rich. “Though, not so little anymore,” he appraised as she disentangled from him.

  Turning to Ryan, Sophie spoke: “But how?” How did Tom survive?

  Ryan smiled reassuringly. “Thomas survived the explosion that killed Maksim Alekseev, and my daughter, Clara…”

  “My dad said they were all dead.”

  “Yes. George believed it so. George had…” he trailed off for a second, momentarily distracted, before finishing, “…wanted it so.”

  “I can assure you Sophie that I am not dead. See…” Thomas held out his hands, and turned them palm out then palm inwards, as though this proved everything. He was smiling like a lunatic.

  “George wanted them all to be dead, Sophie. Because, I’m sorry to say, George wasn’t who he said he was.” Ryan took his seat and helped himself to a slice of Hawaiian pizza. “He’s been living a lie all this time. As have you…” he shook his head, a look of apology on his face. “You all have.”

  “I…” Sophie looked confused, almost hurt. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

  “Your father was a spy, Sophie. He worked for the Americans. CIA we think, or NSA; but most likely the CIA in view of their recent involvement with abducting your mother. We didn’t want to believe it, but it’s true. After the explosion our investigations proved… conclusive.”

  “You must be mistaken. I know George.”

  “Why do you think you’ve been in hiding Sophie, and your family on the run? It was George who blew up the lab. It was George who killed Maksim. It was George who killed my daughter Clara and the others on that hateful day.”

  “My dad said it was the corporation that did it; he said they wanted the whole team dead once I had been created. They had no use for them anymore… that was why he did what he had to do.”

  “Think about it Sophie. Why would they want him dead? It doesn’t make sense. The team were an asset – you don’t kill your star players.” Ryan was chewing but the pizza was just going round and round in his mouth. He tossed the half-eaten remnant of the slice back into the box in disdain. All of a sudden he was no longer feeling hungry.

  “Sophie, think about it. Doesn’t it strike you odd that the Americans found your mother despite her getting away from Kaplan Ratcliff at the hospital? They were having insider help? Your father. How would they have found her unless they knew where to look?”

  Sophie opened her mouth to speak against the accusation and suddenly closed it. She didn’t believe this man was right… but he made a convincing point.

  “Only George and I knew your mother would be driving down that road,” adding as an afterthought, “and, bizarrely, Dominic, of course.”

  The room was silent whilst the information sunk in. Meredith, Stanley and Charlie had each returned to the pizza boxes for more helpings, their eyes still glued to the television screen, not the least interested in the grownups talk despite it involving their parents.

  “Ryan, if what you say is true about my father… why were you helping him?”

  The former Assistant Intelligence Officer looked at the young woman and smiled warmly.

  “Who said I was helping him?”

  Sophie looked perplexed. “But your calls, your warnings…”

  “My dear Sophie...” he continued to smile, “it wasn’t him I was helping. It was you… It was always you… for Clara.”

  Sophie was baffled. What was he saying? It was too much information, the overload was barely registering and made little sense.

  Ryan felt the urge to unburden his final bombshell.

  “Sophie…” Ryan took a deep breath. For a moment he didn’t think he would be able to tell her, but then it was out without warning. “My daughter Clara – not Harriet – was your biological mother… she,” indicating Harriet, “was just the surrogate,” he smiled, taking a long pause for the detail to sink in. “Sophie. I am your grandfather…”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  George

  He felt lightheaded and giddy, still subdued from the general anaesthetic that had been injected shortly before the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III (prolonging his paralysis having been knocked out with the butt of a rifle shortly before) had started its descent for landing at the Air Force Base at Langley, situated on more than 3,100 acres of land. Unconscious for the landing and subsequent journey, his face was again concealed within the black velvet hood that had first been pulled over him back at the industrial estate just outside Norwich.

  Where he was, he didn’t know… couldn’t even risk a guess. He knew he was no longer in England and basing judgement on the accents of the few people who had been spe
aking around him he thought it likely that he was in America.

  Waking more fully, George shifted around slightly. He was uncomfortable and it took very little time to realise that his hands were still cuffed behind his back and that he had been seated upon a carpeted floor, his legs outstretched ahead of him.

  Because he had been put to sleep for a proportion of the journey, he had no concept of time. It could have been a couple of hours since he was at the warehouse with his daughter attempting to rescue his wife, the last time his eyes were free to see the world around him; it could have been literally days… how long had he been out for?

  A short time had passed when George heard the sound of a door squeak open, the three hinges all protesting in unison to announce the entrance of a visitor (or visitors). It sounded a short distance away. He heard only one set of footfall enter the room. The door closed quietly behind the newcomer, his shoes making whispery noises as they tread softly on the thick, cushioned carpet.

  A clatter as if a thick wad of papers or a book smacked the surface of a desk or table, echoed around the room, followed by a creak as weight was lowered onto the surface. George guessed the newcomer was sitting on the table or desk, confirmed by the further metallic/wooden creak as the newly positioned weight shifted, one cheek to the other.

  “I’m guessing you’ve brought me here for a reason.” George’s throat was dry and the words that escaped his cracked lips were rasped, hoarse and almost whispered. He thought he sounded like an old man.

  George detected the sound of the newcomer’s feet making further whispery noises as they approached him, then stopped. He sensed the newcomer was standing close by.

  A second later and the hood that had obliterated the world around him was swept off his head and tossed aside.

  Bright, blinding light lanced into his eyes like twin pokers of searing electricity, stabbing at his pupils. He blanched at the sharp intrusion and tried to turn away, scrunching his eyes closed with minimal effect. Having been in perpetual darkness for longer than he dared imagine, his ocular organs felt lambasted by the sudden incandescence.

  “Hello George.” The newcomer spoke casually, the voice George recognised but could not place a name to. “You can quit the pretence. You know who I am and why you are here. Would you like a drink? Some water? Or… something stronger maybe? I have some Pappy Van Winkle whiskey in my desk… twenty-three-year reserve.”

  George was blinking back tears; the glare of light that filtered through the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling along one entire wall was still hurting his eyes. “Please,” he croaked. “Water.”

  The newcomer offered a glass of cold, refreshing water to George’s lips and gently poured the liquid into his mouth. George coughed and spluttered and dribbled but then swallowed deeply.

  “Good. That’s better, hey?” The newcomer took the almost empty glass away and placed it on the desk that was in the room.

  With a couple more minutes of blinking furiously, George’s vision began to slowly adjust to the room’s brightness. The sun was streaming in through the window, three-quarters up the sky. He guessed from its position that the time was closing in on midday. With his eyesight settling he looked about the room in which he was being held captive. Sparsely furnished with just a Queen Anne style desk, a leather office chair placed behind it and two small chairs in front, very little else of note filled the room – save for the large stars and stripes flag standing behind the desk. Upon the wall were photographs of former presidents, the most recent, Avery Harrison shaking the hand of the man within whose office he now found himself. There were other photographs of the man, the most notable with former governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Also adorning the wall were copies of one or two oil paintings of the sixth President, John Quincy Adams, the originals of which hang in the Department of State’s drawing room.

  George, hands still restrained behind his back turned his attention on the man who’d recently entered the room, who’d removed the obstruction from over his head and who’d kindly given him water. He was in his early forties with a square jaw line, a good crop of hair that was styled like Tom Cruise in War of the Worlds and a physique that took too many hours in the gym to maintain − a fact which attested to the reason why he was single and long-divorced. Also like Tom Cruise he had a good set of pristine white teeth that shimmered in the sunlight. Perched on the Queen Anne’s edge, he looked like a politician rather than a senior CIA officer.

  George started to smile as recognition darted across his face, the smile turning to laughter at the absurdity of the situation.

  “Milo you rabid dog! Get these cuffs off me!” George’s throat was still hoarse but his voice was slightly recovered, his mood vastly improved.

  Milo Calland smiled. “Hello my old friend,” he said mildly, crossing silently through the deep pile of the carpet to where George was still sitting. He crouched down and leaned over the man’s shoulder, reaching for the cuffs and deftly unlocking one. He gave the key to George to finish off the job. George unlocked the second cuff and allowed them to drop to the carpet.

  “Why the theatrics Milo? We had a deal.” George stood up unsteadily and tried walking about a bit to get the blood re-circulating. His feet were numb and his arms, shoulders and hands were a bit stiff from being restrained for so long.

  “We did have a deal. That was two years ago. We waited. We waited. We waited. We waited some more; we just didn’t think you were ever going to come in.”

  “I did leak some information,” George offered in defence.

  “Only after we contacted you.”

  “Milo... I had my family to think about. I couldn’t just leave them. We were being hounded.”

  “And the girl?” Milo was now sitting behind his desk. “When were you going to give her up?”

  George sat down in one of the small chairs in front of Milo and looked down disconcertedly. “Sophie wasn’t part of the deal,” he said quietly, pausing to look up forlornly. “I was never going to give her up to you or to anyone; just the technology, the research… nothing more.”

  Milo sighed. “Very well, for old time’s sake I’ll let that pass. But I do hope you remember who your allegiance is to, George. We invested a lot of time and money in you… now is the time for a return on capital and we expect a lot of interest.”

  “You’ll get it Milo. You’ll get it. As soon as I know that my family is safe I will give you what you want.”

  Milo smiled reassuringly. “Your family is safe, you have my word on that but we are out of time. D’you remember the old recruitment posters with the catchphrase emblazoned across: Uncle Sam Needs You?”

  An image of a white haired, white goatee bearded man in a blue white top hat emblazoned with white stars, blue suit jacket and a red dickie bow tie, flashed in his mind.

  “Well, the time is now. We need you George; we need your genetically engineered super soldiers in our war against terrorism… our enemies grow stronger by the day, we need them more now than ever before.

  “Because George, ever since nine-eleven we’ve been losing the war against terror. For every Bin Laden or Saddam Hussein or Muammar Gaddafi there’s a hundred other fanatics coming up through the ranks taking their place; like weeds in a field of corn trying to poison the crop. I want to rip out those weeds and I don’t want them to see us coming.”

  George frowned. Milo was laying it on too thick for his comfort. He was torn between his conscience and his duty. Despite masquerading as a Brit since the early nineties, George Jennings was American, born and raised. He sighed theatrically. “I’ll do this for you... on one condition.”

  “You’re not in a good position to negotiate George,” Milo cautioned, “but I’m listening.”

  “When my job is done I want out. I want you to return me to my family – no ifs, buts or maybes.”

  �
�Is that all?”

  “And…”

  Milo raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “… new identities for me and my family – when it’s over, we want to disappear. No more running – if that’s not too much to ask for?”

  “Just give me my super soldiers, George… then I’ll consider giving you what you want.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Sophie

  Sophie had stormed out of the room, crashed out of the house through the front door and slammed it behind her. She’d walked to the side of the building and sat down on some grass, her back to the house, knees drawn to her chest. She rocked back and forth as she tried to make sense of the information Ryan had announced. In her hand she held the Whisper of Persia, quietly comforting as she passed it from one hand to another, back and forth, back and forth, the stolen item strangely soothing, helping her to think. That had been nearly ten minutes ago. Despite being deep in thought she’d heard Thomas creep up on her. Her hearing was spectacularly powerful.

  “What’s that you got there?” The Scandinavian had grown concerned and had thought to consol her should she need it.

  Ignoring the question, Sophie spoke brusquely. “Ryan could be lying. How do I know he’s telling the truth? Who do we trust?”

  Thomas shrugged, sitting next to her. “I accused Ryan of being wrong… when I first found out,” he spoke with his thick Norwegian accent. “Your father and I had been friends for a number of years, we’d gone to university together, so like you I was sceptical. Ryan gave me this. He said it was proof.” He handed Sophie a photograph. It was a bit crumpled, a little old, a bit dog-eared around the edges but it was clear as a sunlit vista. George in US military uniform, peaked hat, a hand pressed to his forehead in formal salute.