by James Morcan
Some of us may not survive what’s ahead.
His sentimentality ended abruptly when he noticed Seventeen. His cold, blue-eyed rival was studying herself in a mirror on the basement’s opposite wall. Seventeen’s disguise was more subtle than any of the others. She had simply applied a tanning agent to her normally pale skin to give her the suntanned appearance of someone who spent most of her time in the African outdoors.
Nine knew Kentbridge had tasked Seventeen with assisting with a lucrative diamond smuggling operation in Sierra Leone. He couldn’t help noting that while her disguise was less radical than anyone else’s, she was already in character and appeared to be in no mood to take prisoners.
The ninth orphan returned his attention to his reflection in the mirror and resumed his one-way discussion in Japanese. “As I said, I am from Wales.” He bowed again. “I am spending a year in Japan, teaching English to students in Tokyo and Kyoto.” So intent was he on perfecting his character, he didn’t notice Ten watching him mischievously.
“You sure all you gonna be teaching those Japanese girls is English?” Ten asked.
Nine spun around and saw the orphanage’s resident comedian was entertaining the other orphans at his expense. Impersonating Michael Jackson, Ten placed his hand over his genitals and began moonwalking across the basement floor while rapping. There the likeness to Michael ended: Ten was rapping in fluent Japanese.
“Tommy sent Nine to Japan to collect intelligence on the country’s head, yet good old Nine ended up collecting Geisha girls instead!” Ten rapped. “The eager young man returned expecting a pat on the back, but all he received was a dose of the clap!”
Those orphans within earshot laughed at Ten’s cheeky humor. They’d each been the butt of his jokes on many an occasion, so it was always a relief when he picked on someone else.
Nine knew they’d miss Ten’s shenanigans. He had brought some light into their dark world without even realizing it.
Suddenly feeling great affection for Ten, Nine strode over to him as if to reprimand him. Ten saw him coming and adopted an exaggerated karate stance, berating Nine in Japanese. The pair began to engage in an impromptu martial arts duel, to the delight of the others who crowded around them, egging them on. With each kick he directed at Nine’s head, Ten made high-pitched, Bruce Lee-like shrieks.
Nine burst out laughing. They were both soon laughing so hard, they couldn’t continue fighting. Nine suddenly hugged Ten. The resident joker became serious. It was as if he, too, recognized this could be the last time they would ever see each other.
70
The Omega Agency’s founders, together with Marcia Wilson, reassembled in the HQ’s boardroom following a brief lunch adjournment. They were confronted by a floor-to-ceiling video screen on the wall behind Naylor. No sooner had they sat down than the agency head pressed a button on a wireless remote.
A man’s face filled the screen. His features were distinctly South American Indian. The fiftysomething man was being interviewed in a television studio. Flickering black and white images and a fuzzy soundtrack signaled the footage was dated and shot on a low budget.
“Excuse the quality of the film,” Naylor said. “It gets better as it goes on.”
Having already been briefed, the Omegans were aware they were watching rare footage of one Quamina Ezekiel, a little-known, but highly influential Guyanese intelligence official. At six foot four, the man’s imposing countenance was magnified on the fifteen foot high screen.
“I am a proud citizen and patriot of Guyana,” Ezekiel proclaimed in a deep, gravely voice. “I was named after the hero of the Demerara Rebellion.” He was referring to his namesake, Quamina, who led the great revolt of 1823 when ten thousand slaves rebelled in the former Crown colony of Demerara-Essequibo. “I would never betray Guyana.”
Naylor knew the former Guyanese Army Colonel was telling the truth. At least it was the truth as he knew it. But deep in the recesses of Ezekiel’s mind resided a terrible secret – something that had occurred in the jungles of Guyana twenty years earlier.
“So he’s a sleeper agent?” Marcia asked as she watched the Guyanese.
Naylor nodded. Next to him, Von Pein scribbled something on a notepad. Naylor glanced at the note. It read: MK-Ultra.
The Omega director was very aware of the CIA’s insidious mind control program, which had been used to employ advanced mind control techniques on unwitting subjects. He had it on good authority that recent MK-Ultra victims included Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh as well as the Branch Davidians at the Waco compound in Texas.
“I voluntarily entered Jonestown only days before the deaths,” Ezekiel said in response to his interviewer’s latest question.
Again, Naylor knew Ezekiel was speaking the truth only as he knew it and not as it truly was. The sleeper agent had been under the influence of mind control when he entered Jonestown just days before the so-called mass suicide of more than nine hundred of Jim Jones’ Peoples Temple followers in 1978. Omega had discovered the Nexus Foundation had brainwashed Ezekiel and thirty other agents using the MK-Ultra program, and planted them in Jonestown.
A knock at the door prompted Naylor to stop the film. “Come in!” he shouted.
The door opened and Kentbridge walked in. “Afternoon all,” Kentbridge said to his fellow Omegans as he sat down next to Marcia. The special agent looked remarkably fresh despite not having slept since Naylor had woken him with an early morning phone call, ordering him to attend today’s meeting. He glanced at the video screen and saw the frozen image of Ezekiel.
Naylor was pleased to see Kentbridge. He felt it was important the head of the Pedemont Project be present for what was coming up. “Quamina Ezekiel,” Naylor said as he pointed to the screen. “He’s in Guyanese Intelligence,” the Omega director continued. “Officially, Ezekiel holds a low-level government position, but that’s just a smokescreen.” Naylor paused for effect. “What do you know about Jonestown?”
Kentbridge shrugged. “Just what I saw on the news at the time. Nine hundred odd people drank cyanide and died, right?”
Next to Naylor, founding member Bill Sterling chuckled. “Jonestown was one big Trojan Horse, Tommy.” The software magnate slid the Quamina Ezekiel file along the table top to Kentbridge. He continued speaking as the special agent scanned the dossiers on Ezekiel and Jonestown. “The cult and the resulting deaths appeared to be very straightforward on the surface, but weren’t what they seemed.”
The Trojan Horse Sterling had referred to reflected his belief that the truth about Jonestown had never been revealed to the American people. A belief shared by his fellow co-founders. They were certain that while there were undoubtedly suicides at Jonestown, the event could more accurately be described as a mass murder that resulted from an experiment of sorts carried out by various US agencies.
Why such a massacre had occurred, the Omegans could only speculate. Some thought it may have been to stop a large-scale emigration out of America to a fabled Utopian society; others wondered if it was intended to create fear in the populace – fear of cults, fear of Communism, fear of anything foreign; and still others believed it was to create a precedence whereby any groups labelled a cult would be vilified without due diligence by the public.
Naylor leaned toward the latter theory. After all, it was only a minor stretch to apply the cult label to groups with differing political ideologies. Ideologies that may not fit with those of the mainstream political parties. Naylor also knew that what most citizens assumed to be factual reporting was often propaganda fabricated to provoke a certain reaction from the masses.
“So we are talking genocide?” Kentbridge asked, looking up from the file before him.
“Damn straight we are,” Sterling said. “Most of the cult members were murdered.”
“Our research reveals evidence for only a small number of suicides,” Naylor added. “Most of the deaths were undoubtedly the work of MK-Ultra brainwashed moles operating inside the Peoples Temple com
munity.”
Naylor’s certainty was based on Omega’s own investigations, which blew big holes in the official mass suicide findings. Omegan research teams had confirmed major discrepancies in body counts, conflicting reports on the causes of death as well as no clear evidence on the exact numbers number of survivors.
“Jonestown was a Waco beta test,” Lincoln Claver added for Kentbridge’s benefit.
Ignoring Claver, Naylor said, “Although the CIA were involved to an extent, the MK-Ultra brainwashed assassins were all planted by Nexus.”
Kentbridge was all too aware of how powerful the Nexus Foundation was and had been for some time. In recent years, the clandestine organization had gone from strength to strength, placing their moles in illustrious positions of power. Those positions included Defense Secretaries, Secretaries of State and even a Vice President.
“It suited the authorities that mainstream media reported the Jonestown tragedy as a mass suicide,” Naylor continued. “The American public readily accepted that, shocking though it was. But make no mistake. It was primarily mass murder and the Peoples Temple was effectively turned into a slaughter house.”
Kentbridge remained skeptical. He’d heard various conspiracy theories about Jonestown before. How the Russians had been involved. How aliens were responsible. The list went on. “What about Jim Jones?” he asked. “By all accounts he was a megalomaniac. So isn’t it palpable he killed himself and his devotees followed suit as per the official story?”
“Jim Jones was certainly no saint. He was actually the devil’s assistant. The real devil being the powers-that-be that created the whole scenario. Especially Nexus.”
Kentbridge had to admit it seemed unlikely anyone could convince more than nine hundred people to willfully commit suicide, especially when so many were young children.
“Jim Jones’ defectors were Nexus agents or moles,” Naylor continued. “They’d been planted inside the Peoples Temple to destabilize the cult.” He pointed to the file in front of Kentbridge. “Quamina Ezekiel was one of those undercover agents. He assassinated scores of people in Jonestown. To this day, as he was under the influence of MK-Ultra at the time, he has no recollection of the killings.”
Naylor gestured to the map of South America that was still spread out on the table top. He pointed to Venezuela, one of the countries sharing a border with Guyana. “Nexus continue to use Ezekiel by triggering the mind control program in him every so often.”
“Why?” Kentbridge asked.
“Nexus have serious relations with the Venezuelan Government. And as you know, Venezuela has been in a long running border dispute with Guyana.” Naylor pointed to western Guyana where a series of dotted lines indicated a disputed region known as Zona en Reclamación, or the Reclamation Zone – a territory Venezuela believed to be rightfully theirs. “The British Monarchy is opposed to foreign forces encroaching on its interests. After all, resources in the disputed region are valued in the billions of dollars.”
Sharp though he was, Kentbridge was struggling to disseminate all the information Naylor was throwing at him. He couldn’t work out where he, and more importantly, his orphans fitted in to all this.
Naylor could sense Kentbridge’s confusion, so got straight to the point. Looking at Ezekiel’s image on the big screen, he said, “This Nexus mole is unwittingly selling out Guyana by delivering sensitive information to the Venezuelan Government. Information that could potentially help Venezuela grab the disputed territory or at least its resources.”
Kentbridge studied the region Naylor referred to on the map. The dotted lines symbolizing the disputed Zona en Reclamación region covered much of western Guyana.
“The Monarchy wants us to take this Manchurian Candidate out so they can regain control of their Commonwealth territory,” Naylor said, still looking at Ezekiel’s image.
“And you want to send an orphan for this mission?”
As always, Naylor was impressed by how quickly Kentbridge worked things out. “Yes. Three of our operatives are already in Guyana, but this mission is so crucial I want one of our orphans there as back-up. To observe and offer assistance if required.”
Now it all made sense to Kentbridge. This was what he’d been working toward these past eighteen years: sending his orphans out into the field, not on training exercises but on actual missions. And on vital missions – like this one.
“We need your best orphan, Tommy.” Naylor looked at Kentbridge expectantly.
Kentbridge thought of Nine. His protégé was soon to depart on his first overseas mission, as were all the orphans. In Nine’s case, he was about to catch a flight to Japan. That assignment would now have to be scrapped. “Nine,” Kentbridge said with certainty.
Naylor wasn’t a fan of the ninth-born orphan, and he didn’t attempt to hide that from the special agent. He hadn’t forgotten the headaches the boy had caused after fleeing from the orphanage six years earlier. “What about Seventeen?” he countered. “I hear she really has the killer instinct.”
Kentbridge shook his head. “Nine has always been my best pupil.” He could see the Omega director remained unconvinced. “Sure he’s been one of the most stubborn and sensitive orphans, but when required, Nine can be a cold, ruthless, cerebral killer, sir.”
“Let’s send Nine and Seventeen,” Marcia piped up. She ignored the glare Kentbridge directed her way. Noticing Naylor was considering her idea, Marcia spoke to him instead. “And this mission I’d suggest warrants two orphans.”
“Two it is then,” Naylor said with finality.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” Kentbridge ventured. “Nine and Seventeen don’t exactly get along.”
“This is not some domestic drama to play out within the walls of your little orphanage!” Naylor shot back. His lazy eye was beginning to twitch, advertising to all that he wasn’t happy. “Tell your two little brats to get along and complete the mission, otherwise there’ll be no Omega left and they’ll be destroyed along with the rest of our orphan products!”
Kentbridge didn’t react. He’d known Naylor long enough to expect such outbursts and not take them personally when they occurred.
Naylor regained his composure and turned to Marcia. “You are to co-ordinate the entire mission, starting with the unfortunate demise of Ezekiel’s mother.”
Marcia nodded. As it had been her idea to terminate the old lady, she had already worked out how that could be achieved.
Naylor continued, “Then instruct our assets in Guyana to finish off Ezekiel when he attends poor old Missus Ezekiel’s jungle funeral.” He turned back to Kentbridge. “And you send Nine and Seventeen to Guyana to provide back-up.”
“Okay. When?”
“Yesterday.” Naylor wanted there to be no doubt he expected the two orphans on the next available flight to Guyana. “Ezekiel has a meeting with high level Government officials later this week. We must get to him before that meeting takes place. Otherwise the Royals say they will lose control over a vital part of Guyana. If that happens, there’s no more funding and Omega is dead in the water!”
With that, the agency director stood up, signaling the meeting was over.
Almost in unison, Kentbridge and Marcia produced their cell phones and prepared to speed-dial their respective operatives.
71
By mid-afternoon the following day, Nine and Seventeen were already deep in Guyana’s Amazon rainforest, not fifty miles from the Brazilian border. They’d been walking nonstop since leaving their four-wheel drive rental vehicle at the end of a seldom used dirt road several hours earlier.
Tropical heat, humidity and mosquitoes assailed the unlikely partners as they followed the Maparri River in the isolated Kanuku Mountains, in southwest Guyana. A tributary of the Rupununi River, the Maparri was a scenic wonder. Its usually placid, crystal clear waters occasionally morphed into churning white water, cascading over high, spectacular waterfalls. More than once, the two orphan-operatives had to deviate away from the river
to avoid impassable falls and rapids.
One of the most pristine Amazonian areas in all of South America, the region’s rich flora and fauna as well as the plethora of wildlife all combined to create a sensory overload. The chatter of monkeys high above in the trees was constant and the birdlife impressive with the colorful macaws and graceful herons prevalent. So dense was the jungle-like rainforest in places Nine and Seventeen had to use their machetes to hack their way through it. Their recently allocated jungle fatigues were now drenched in sweat and torn.
Since leaving the rental vehicle, Seventeen had set the pace. Nine was content to let her lead. Her fitness rivaled his, and she seemed to be in her element, swinging her machete at any vines or branches that threatened to slow her progress. They stopped only to fill their water bottles. Each knew the importance of maintaining their fluids in tropical climes.
Occasionally, the rainforest would retreat from the riverbank and they would catch a glimpse of the surrounding jungle-clad mountains.
But the orphan-operatives weren’t here to admire the view. They were on a mission, and it consumed the thoughts of each.
In Nine’s case, he was still in catch-up mode. Since his efficient handling of P.I. Milburn in Seattle earlier in the week, he had spent every waking hour preparing for what was supposed to his first overseas mission – in Japan. Then, while awaiting his departure flight at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, he’d received a last-minute call from Kentbridge telling him to forget about Japan and catch the first flight to Guyana.
There hadn’t even been time for the special agent to fully brief Nine on his new assignment. One of Omega’s senior agents had had to deliver coded, written orders to him just before he’d boarded his plane, and Nine had studied them during the six-hour flight to Georgetown, Guyana’s capital.
In a nutshell, his orders were to meet up in Guyana with Seventeen who had left on an earlier flight. They were then to rendezvous with three veteran Omegans deep in the Amazon. From there, they would all make their way on foot to the isolated Amerindian village that was the ancestral home of their target, Quamina Ezekiel. Nine and Seventeen had been told Ezekiel would be there to attend his mother’s funeral. They had not been told her very recent death had been arranged by Marcia Wilson. The orphan-operatives were simply to provide support for the veteran Omega operatives who were tasked with assassinating Ezekiel.
