by James Morcan
Kentbridge said nothing. His expression indicated there would be no negotiation – just as there’d been no negotiation in any of the other assignments he’d set for any of the orphans.
In the four years since Nine had been forcibly returned to the orphanage and reprogrammed, Kentbridge had sent him and his fellow orphans on various intelligence missions around the country, mostly as information gatherers. For all intents and purposes, they were already operatives, albeit low-level ones. Sometimes they’d have to trail individuals, bug them and then monitor their private conversations; sometimes they’d have to break into private homes to steal documents; on other occasions, they’d have to gain entry to public buildings after hours to illegally download files from computers or carry out similar clandestine tasks.
At certain times, such as during public rallies, the Omega Agency had found it was actually more effective to use minors on actual missions. People trusted kids, and officials and security personnel often never gave the orphans a second glance as they carried out their assignments on behalf of Omega. Such low-key assignments served as advanced training, even though the stakes were real.
Neither Nine nor any of the other twenty two orphans had ever failed one of these assignments. On occasion, Kenbridge had to intervene or send in an adult operative to assist, but at the end of the day every orphan had succeeded in whatever task they’d been set.
As Nine was about to discover, the time had come to accelerate things in the Pedemont Project and fast-track the development of high-caliber assassins or, more correctly, the highest-caliber assassins. Having been trained in martial arts, the use of firearms and explosives, and many other related activities, the orphans already had all the skills the best assassins had apart from one: the ability to kill without hesitation.
Now Kentbridge needed to completely break each orphan down to destroy any sympathies and sensitivities they still possessed. Only then would they be able to kill on command without their conscience or any moral dilemmas coming in to play. The special agent had started with the oldest orphans. Now it was Nine’s turn.
Aware Nine viewed Cavell as his best friend, Kentbridge had decided the dog was the perfect way to initiate the boy in the act of taking a life and, in the process, to break him down. By destroying what he loved, he knew Nine would also destroy that side of him that ever cared for such things.
Kentbridge loaded the pistol and shoved it into Nine’s hand. He flicked its safety off. “There, I’ve done everything for you. All you need to do is pull the trigger.”
Nine looked down at Cavell.
“Do it!” Kentbridge shouted into Nine’s ear.
“I cannot--”
“Don’t give me that crap, Sebastian!” Kentbridge continued to scream into Nine’s ear. He was using a tried and tested interrogation tactic designed to stress and disorientate the subject, and thereby put him, or her, into a fragile mental state.
Nine was developing a headache like none he’d experienced before. It started as a throbbing in his temples then seemed to expand to his entire brain. He felt weak and totally defeated. The orphan assumed the shouting, combined with sudden stress, had set off a tension headache. Having trouble concentrating, all he could do was continue to shake his head in defiance of the order.
Kentbridge realized his current tactic wasn’t working, so decided on a different tack. He moved between Nine and Cavell, and spoke softly to his student. “Remember what I told you when you were a little boy and too afraid to go swimming in Lake Michigan?”
Trying to shake off his worsening headache, Nine thought back and vaguely remembered the incident his master referred to.
“An operative is never without fear,” Kentbridge said to remind Nine of what he’d told him all those years ago. “He fears as much as anyone else. Yet the operative is able to ignore his fear to complete the mission.”
The throbbing in Nine’s head continued. He’d been getting a lot headaches of late. Except they didn’t feel like ordinary headaches. He thought them something more akin to a painful brain fog and wondered if they were caused by Omega. The stress of knowing what the agency had in store for him perhaps? Or something Omega was putting in the orphanage’s water supply, or in the food or through the air-conditioning? Or subjecting the orphans to electrical frequencies? He could only guess.
Kentbridge snapped the orphan out of his thoughts by clicking his fingers three times. “Terminate the target, Number Nine!”
Nine noted he had been reduced to a number again. What happened to Sebastian? He shook his head yet again, indicating he still wouldn’t carry out the mission.
“If you are not with Omega, then you are against us,” Kentbridge said.
“I am with Omega. I have proven that over and over. But why do I have to kill Cavell?” Nine could feel tears welling in his eyes as he stared at the helpless dog stretched out at his feet. Still Cavell stared up at him.
“It’s not for you to ask why.”
Kentbridge put on a pair of sunglasses then pulled a remote control from his pocket and pushed a button. The ceiling lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. A second later, wall-mounted strobe lights came on and flashed directly into Nine’s eyes. Kentbridge pushed another button on the remote and death metal music blared out from speakers.
Nine instantly understood the interrogatory methods Kentbridge was using were designed to alter his brainwaves, but that didn’t mean he could prevent it happening. Already he could feel the thudding heavy metal music combined with the relentless flashes of the bright strobe lights were making his brain even fuzzier. His splitting headache was now a white hot pain in his brain and he could no longer think clearly.
Kentbridge clapped his hands three times in front of Nine’s face. “Terminate the target, Nine!” Kentbridge screamed into his ear. “Now!”
The lights and music had put Nine into a hyper-state and his mind was reeling. Almost as a reflexive reaction, his finger tightened around the trigger of the pistol he held.
The silencer, combined with the thudding music, dulled the sound of the shot so much that Nine and Kentbridge weren’t even sure they’d heard it. However, the sight of the motionless dog at their feet left no doubt a shot had been fired.
Satisfied, Kentbridge removed his sunglasses and pressed the remote. The death metal stopped and the strobe lights were replaced by the regular ceiling lights.
For a moment, Nine couldn’t bear to look down at Cavell. Finally, he forced himself to. He already knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it any easier. Cavell lay on his back, staring up at his killer accusingly. There was a neat round hole between his eyes; the back of his head had been blown off and his brains lay scattered about; there was blood everywhere – even over Nine’s shoes.
Nine could only stare at Cavell. The orphan was no longer capable of thought. He felt numb, though not so numb that he couldn’t feel his headache which continued to hammer away incessantly.
Kentbridge considered his job done. He took back his pistol and began walking from the room. The senior Omegan hesitated then turned back to face Nine. “Being an operative is your destiny.”
A distraught Nine turned away from Cavell and looked into his mentor’s eyes.
“You will never attempt to resist your destiny again,” the head of the Pedemont Project said quietly. He delivered it not so much as an order, but as a fact.
59
“These kids, or should I say young adults, need to be activated as full scale operatives,” Naylor said, “and they need to be activated now.”
The Omega director looked around the table at each of the agency’s founding members. For once his lazy eye was behaving itself, and he was able to look directly at them. They were seated around a circular table in a conference room within the agency’s HQ. The founders, who collectively constituted Omega’s ruling council, had flown in from all over the country, or, in British Royal Lady Penelope’s case, from Europe.
Also in attendance were
Special Agent Kentbridge and Senior Agent Marcia Wilson. Marcia had been held in high regard since her rapid rise within the CIA. She was aware of her growing importance to the Omega Agency and no longer felt she was just another employee as she privately deemed Kentbridge to be.
This was a crisis meeting and Kentbridge was currently in the hot seat. To Marcia’s secret delight, the special agent was being grilled by Naylor and the other council members.
Naylor continued, “Tommy, tell me we are on the same page.”
“No sir, we’re not. I’d remind you of our original agreement, which was that training of the Pedemont orphans would continue until they each turn eighteen.” Kentbridge was mindful that the oldest orphans were still only sixteen and had by no stretch of the imagination completed their training.
Fletcher Von Pein, who was sitting to Kentbridge’s immediate right, swiveled in his chair to address the special agent. “Tommy, we need a return on our massive investment in your orphans,” he said. “And we need that return now.”
Kentbridge went to respond, but was stopped by Von Pein who raised his hand to indicate he hadn’t finished. When the majority shareholder of the US Federal Reserve wanted to speak, everyone listened. He commanded that sort of authority.
“Just think, they were supposed to be the first of many batches of orphans.” Von Pein was referring to the stalled cloning project Doctor Pedemont had masterminded. “If we’d known there would only be twenty three orphans in the end, we never would have invested the hundreds of millions that we have.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but I can assure you they’re still not ready,” Kentbridge countered. He was feeling outnumbered and ganged-up on, but carried on regardless. “Physically and mentally they are, but emotionally they’re not. For starters, none of them have had a hit yet.”
Von Pein’s fellow founding member, leading computer software designer Bill Sterling, fixed his beady, bespectacled eyes on Kentbridge. “A hit?” he asked.
“An assassination,” Kentbridge quickly explained to Sterling before looking back to the others. “Once they’ve all had one kill on home soil, they’ll be ready for foreign assignments. As agreed.”
The special agent paused. He noted he had the full attention of everyone present. It brought home to him the gravity of what they were discussing. He sensed the very future of Omega rested on the outcome of this meeting. At the same time, he found himself resenting these people cocooned in their ivory towers doing whatever it was they did. Judging me no doubt. Who do they think they are, Knights of the Round Table? He considered his next statement thoughtfully.
“Carry on,” Naylor instructed.
“I promise you,” Kentbridge said with as much sincerity as he could muster, “even though there are only twenty three orphans, they will return your investment many times over. I will deliver you operatives unlike any ever seen. They will each have the military capabilities to lead teams of mercenaries in foreign lands, the intelligence to infiltrate and help overthrow governments, and the ruthlessness to kill without question. But they need another year at least.”
The founders looked at each other. Kentbridge could see his argument was swaying them. He swore he could even see dollar signs in the eyes of one or two.
“We may not have another year.” Naylor said ominously. The Omega director was referring to the agency’s desperate state. Naylor didn’t need to elaborate for everyone in the room was aware of the financial crisis Omega was facing.
To establish a New World Order and achieve the world domination they lusted after, the founders needed literally billions of dollars. Their plan to siphon mineral riches out of Third World countries on an unprecedented scale still depended on using their genetically superior orphans to do the dirty work. However, this required huge financial resources.
And therein lay the problem.
It was in fact a threefold problem.
Firstly, if Kentbridge was right, the orphans weren’t yet operationally ready; secondly, the Nexus Foundation had beaten Omega to the punch on a major currency deal which, in one hit, would have provided the agency with the funds it needed to finance its immediate plans.
Thirdly, and worst of all, Nexus had terminated several of Omega’s veteran operatives, all of whom had been on the verge of completing important missions in foreign locales. Their deaths, and the failure to secure the expected financial returns, had suddenly created a serious cash flow problem for the agency.
As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the Omega founders had learned that foreign powers were poised to take over heroin-trafficking routes in Afghanistan – routes which Naylor had been quietly working toward securing for some time.
“I believe we should do this Tommy’s way,” a posh female voice piped up. The voice belonged to Lady Penelope, the British Royal and the agency’s only female founding member. Like Von Pein she, too, commanded respect, and not only because of her close relationship with the Queen.
Lady Penelope had a mind like a steel trap and was the intellectual equal of everyone in the room. Besides, her colleagues were very aware it was mostly monies from the British Royal Family that was keeping Omega afloat.
“Our orphans are the agency’s long term future. If Special Agent Kentbridge says this is not the time to risk them in the field, then we must accept that.”
Sterling and several other founders nodded at the wisdom of her words.
Kentbridge was grateful Lady Penelope supported his argument. Because of her connection to Royalty, he suspected her word would be final.
In fact, Lady Penelope was only distantly related to the Windsors, or British Royals, and that relationship was by marriage rather than blood. However, she was an influential figure as she represented many of Queen Elizabeth’s financial interests.
Despite the absence of Queen Elizabeth II’s name in annual Forbes Rich Lists, everyone in the room was aware the Queen was one of the wealthiest people in the world, if not the wealthiest. However, hers and the House of Windsor’s assets and income were mostly non-declared. Naylor himself claimed to have witnessed one offshore bank account of the Queen’s whose value was in the hundreds of billions.
Contrary to the myth that the British Royals were no longer all-powerful, it was common knowledge within Omega and other organizations in the know that they remained one of the most dominant forces on the planet. The Royals were totally comfortable with the mass populace believing they’d passed their heyday. That belief allowed them to control things behind the scenes with effortless ease. And control they did, in every way imaginable.
The reality was the Windsors had their fingers in many pies and had a huge say in global affairs. At home, they dictated to the British Parliament, and no elected Prime Minister could take up office without first pledging total allegiance to the Queen and future King. To Kentbridge’s way of thinking, that proved Britain was no more a democracy than was the United States.
The special agent had often told his orphans that in her capacity as the reigning monarch of the Commonwealth nations, the Queen had legitimate business interests in the pharmaceutical, banking and mineral industries in most or all of those countries. No small cheese considering those nations included mineral-rich Canada and Australia as well as India and numerous African states.
Kentbridge had also told the orphans it was a commonly held belief within Omega that the Queen bankrolled and reaped the rewards from other far more secretive ventures worldwide. As for the exact nature of those other ventures, nobody in the agency knew.
Lady Penelope’s active involvement in Omega proved beyond doubt to Kentbridge and his superiors that the British Royals considered the agency a likely way to expand its semi-secret, global empire. The extremely intelligent and influential Omega founding members gave the Royals faith that the below-the-radar Omega Agency would eventually become the potent organization it strived to be.
As the Royals were the only financial lifeline Omega could count on for the moment, Kentbridge was fe
eling confident Lady Penelope’s word would indeed be final. He desperately needed more time, for deep down he knew his orphans were still too immature to be sent out into the field on life-and-death missions.
“Alright, Tommy,” Naylor said. “Once Number One turns eighteen he and all the orphans will graduate and be sent out on missions.”
It wasn’t quite per their original agreement, but Kentbridge figured he’d pushed his luck as much as he could for one day. Besides, he knew Numero Uno at sixteen was only marginally older than most of the other orphans. The bottom line was Naylor’s decision allowed for another two years and that was all Kentbridge figured he’d need to deliver twenty three brilliant orphan-operatives.
60
Nine joined the crowds braving the cold on the streets of the Loop, in downtown Chicago. It was winter again and he had to keep his gloved hands in his coat pockets to protect them from the unrelenting icy wind.
The orphan had just spent several enjoyable hours with Sherrice, a high-class African-American prostitute. He could still smell her seductive scent and picture her sexy hourglass figure – especially her small waist, curvaceous hips and rounded ass.
Waiting to cross a busy street, he absentmindedly looked up at a massive digital clock atop a radio tower. It displayed the time and date: 2.33PM, January 27, 1998.
Nine had recently celebrated his eighteenth birthday and was aware he would be graduating from the Pedemont Project any day. Kentbridge had told him there would be one more initiation to pass before graduation and then he’d be sent on his first overseas assignment. As usual, the special agent had only given him the information he deemed necessary. The two had very different definitions of what that word meant.
Nine now carried himself like a man. A little over six feet, he had packed further muscle on his frame in the last couple of years, but still retained his lean, athletic look. It was a look that invariably attracted admiring glances wherever he went. There was no denying, Omega’s regime, combined with his superior genes, had turned him into an impressive male specimen. And like some vestige of his earlier rebelliousness, he still wore his hair long – so long it almost reached down to his shoulders these days. However, that was the only thing that set him apart from his fellow Omegans; he had long since stopped trying to resist his destiny and had resigned himself to becoming an elite operative.
