The Orphan Uprising (The Orphan Trilogy, #3) (14 page)

After arriving at the commune and seeing for herself how secure and self-contained it was, located as it was in a remote valley, she’d changed her mind. She now believed Isabelle was as safe here as anywhere in Tahiti – for the moment at least.

Under normal circumstances, Seventeen would have taken Isabelle to one of the remote outer islands in French Polynesia. However, given her advanced pregnant state, that was out of the question. She needed to be close to a hospital in the event of complications.

Now into her eighth month, Isabelle was extremely uncomfortable. Her swollen belly felt tight and distended, her lower back constantly ached, her feet and knees hurt, she was always hungry and she had trouble sleeping.

The heat and humidity only added to Isabelle’s discomfort – and Seventeen’s. Although the two women were sitting in the shade, they were sweating profusely. Humidity levels were already high and it was not yet mid-morning.

Seventeen looked at her companion. “Feel like a cold drink?”

“Non.”

That was another thing that irked Seventeen. On the odd occasion Isabelle did deign to speak to her, she spoke French. The former operative shrugged and disappeared inside.

In the bungalow’s kitchen, as she poured herself a pineapple juice from the fridge, Seventeen wondered how long she’d have to put up with the cold-shoulder treatment from Isabelle.
Surely she’ll realize her survival, and the baby’s, depends on me no matter what I may have done to her in the past.
She drained the glass and closed her eyes as the ice-cold juice slid down her parched throat.

#

If Seventeen had known how close one of her former Omega colleagues was at that moment, she’d have been more than a little concerned. Twenty Three was only a few miles away, working his way up the same gravel road the commune was on. He was calling in at every holding along the road to ask if anyone had seen a pregnant woman matching Isabelle’s description.

Elsewhere on the island, Fifteen was following the same modus operandi, showing an identical photo of Isabelle to local residents.

So far, the two operatives were having no more luck than Twenty Three had when he was working alone. However, both men were feeling confident. They were convinced Isabelle was still on the island. And they had eyes everywhere since setting up a network of informants – local islanders who were being paid a handsome retainer to look for Isabelle and who stood to make a small fortune, by their standards at least, if they found her.

#

In his office at Omega’s subterranean headquarters, Naylor sat, alone, massaging his temple. It was late and apart from a dozen or so personnel working the night shift on other floors he just about had the place to himself.

The Omega boss had been studying maps and photos of the agency’s secret orphanages in Greenland and The Congo – the two medical labs whose existence the ninth-born orphan Sebastian Hannar was now aware of.

Just thinking of Nine gave Naylor a headache. That was why he was massaging his temple. Since the rogue orphan had physically assaulted him in his home, he’d suffered headaches. His doctor had assured him they’d pass, but here he was, several days later and they were as bad as ever.

For perhaps the tenth time that day, Naylor cursed the ninth orphan. The old man remained fearful his nemesis would go public with the information he had. He and his fellow directors would be in the hot seat if that happened and he knew it. However, with each passing hour he breathed a little easier. Naylor hoped Nine would realize he’d be saying goodbye to any hope of finding his son if he went public with what he knew. He would make sure of that.

Naylor returned his attention to the documents spread out before him. He had no doubt whatsoever that if Nine wasn’t there already, he would be on his way to one of Omega’s two offshore medical labs in his search for his son. Which one, he had no way of knowing.

There had been no reported sightings of Nine since video surveillance cameras had filmed him driving into the car park building in downtown Chicago several days earlier. Nor had there been any sightings of Seventeen.

Using his secure line, Naylor had just phoned one of the orphan-operatives he’d sent to the orphanage in the DRC, in Africa. The operative had reported all was quiet.

Now he was in the process of placing a call to the operatives he’d sent to the lab in Thule, Greenland. The call was answered by
Number
Three, a mixed-race individual of African-American and Arabic descent known for his mastery of Teleiotes, a deadly martial art. All the Omega’s orphan-operatives had been drilled in Teleiotes since early childhood. However, the swarthy Three had taken it to another level and he prided himself on his ability to kill using only his bare hands.

“Kamal Al Saud speaking,” Three answered, using the codename he’d been assigned for this mission.

“Naylor here.”

“Yes sir.”

“Anything to report?”

“No sir, not a thing.”

“Well stay alert, both of you.” Naylor referred to Three and his fellow operative Fourteen who had both been sent to Thule. “There’s a one-in-two chance our man will go to Thule first, so the odds are high he’ll make an appearance sooner or later.”

“Understood.”

“And watch out for the woman, too,” Naylor said, referring to Seventeen. “She may well be with him.” Naylor ended the call and immediately resumed massaging his temple. His headache was worsening and as always he blamed Nine.

27

On arriving at Thule Air Base via Air Greenland and passing through the various US Air Force security checks, Nine’s first port of call was his guest house in the tiny settlement of Thule. Then, after checking in and taking delivery of a rental car, his next port of call, quite literally, was the nearby Port of Thule.

Located as it was above the Arctic Circle, it was the world’s northernmost deep water port. And, like all Greenland’s east coast ports and settlements, it was also ice-free in summer, which suited Nine just fine for what he was planning.

Driving through town to the port, he observed the charming and colorful houses that were home for many of Thule’s seven hundred or so residents. The dwellings hugged the edge of the harbor and afforded their occupants unobstructed mountain and sea views. At this time of year, the only visible snow was on the mountaintops. Even so, Nine was pleased he was wearing his winter woollies, and he drove with the car’s heater on full. It was only five degrees Celsius outside.

The skies above were never free of jet aircraft. There was at least one in sight at any given time, and the sound of fighter planes landing and taking off at the air base was constant.

Why on earth Omega had chosen Thule as the location for one of its secret medical labs, Nine could only guess. He assumed its isolation was one reason. No doubt the security afforded by the Air Force base was another.

Re-evaluating what he knew about the base, the former operative was aware it was home to the 21
Space Wing’s global network of sensors that provided space surveillance and missile warning to the Air Force Space Command and the North American Aerospace Defence Command. It also served as a ballistic missile early warning site and since 2002 had been home to the 821
Air Base Group.

That knowledge didn’t fill him with confidence. Nine had already had a taste of the tight security in force at the air base. He had a feeling finding his son – if Francis was even there – would be difficult enough. Secreting him off the base and away from Thule would be another matter. He had visions of being pursued by fighter planes or military helicopters intent on blowing them both to oblivion.

Nine was also aware of the strange events said to have occurred at or near Thule over the years. Conspiracy theories abounded.

In the early Twentieth Century, the tiny settlement inspired the underground Nazi occult organization known as the Thule Society. Its membership was rumored to include Adolf Hitler and numerous other Nazi leaders. Then in the 1950’s, American soldiers wounded in the Korean War were hospitalized in Thule because the US Government considered its citizens weren’t ready to see battle casualties so soon after World War Two. And when a B-52 nuclear bomber crashed and burned on the ice near Thule Air Base in 1968, the Pentagon classified all documents relating to the crash. Since then, media reports on America's northernmost Air Force base had been unaccountably few and far between.

Nine slowed as he neared a security gate at the entrance to the main wharf. Flashing the same security passes he’d used at the base, he drove onto the wharf, his destination a bright yellow boatshed at the far end.

Driving well within the ten miles per hour speed limit, he had plenty of time to observe his surroundings. In addition to the presence of commercial freighters, fishing boats and container ships in the harbor, there was a surprising number of pleasure craft at anchor. They included cabin cruisers, speedboats, schooners and even the odd racing yacht.

Nine felt slightly apprehensive as he pulled up outside the boatshed. This would be the first test of the loyalty and efficiency of Hells Angels biker Lars Khader. The big fellow had been ordered to book a fast, reliable boat to facilitate what Nine anticipated could be a hasty getaway from Thule.

Disembarking from the car, he walked to the edge of the wharf and looked down. There, tied up alongside, was a sleek Albermarle sport fishing boat. Nine liked the look of her. Around thirty foot long, her markings indicated she was a 310 Express.

The former operative wracked his brains. Information filed away since his exhaustive studies at the Pedemont Orphanage slowly came to him: the craft’s powerful inboard twin diesel engine had a range of three hundred and sixty-five nautical miles, and could maintain forty knots in heavy seas. He decided it’d deliver him to where he was going in good time.

Nine looked behind him as he became aware he was being observed from the boatshed.

A bearded, stocky, fiftysomething man greeted him from the boatshed’s doorway with a friendly wave. “Alluu,” he called out in Greenlandic.

“Hej,” Nine responded in Danish.

Believing the stranger to be Danish, the seafarer switched to that tongue. “Are you here about the Albermarle?”

“I am.”

“Come on in.” The seafarer, who was in fact the boatshed’s owner-operator, returned inside and motioned to Nine to follow.

Inside the boatshed, the man introduced himself as Hans Holdt. The transaction was finalised in double-quick time. Lars had already paid by credit card for the boat hire and for its fuel and provisioning, so all Nine had to do was sign the hire papers and insurance documents.

When Hans asked what he needed the boat for, Nine fobbed him off by saying he planned to use it to visit nearby Cape York, to the south, to take wildlife photos. Hans handed over the keys to the Albermarle and didn’t question his customer any further.

Before departing, Nine asked, “What time does it get dark around here this time of year?”

Hans chuckled. “This is the land of the midnight sun my friend. The sun never sets this time of year.”

Nine immediately felt stupid for asking. He knew he should have known that.
I must be slipping
. The former operative would never have needed to ask such a question once. He put it down to the heart pills he was on. They were taking their toll and he was aware he wasn’t as sharp as he once was, mentally or physically. He covered his embarrassment with a smile. “Thanks for that.”

The two shook hands and Nine hurried back to his car. Now that he’d finalized his escape route, he was ready to rescue Francis.
If he’s here
. Nine still had no way of knowing if his son was even in Greenland. He’d find out soon enough. His next stop was Thule Air Base.

Driving back through town, Nine experienced chest pains.
Not again!
He pulled over to the side of the road and quickly popped a couple of pills. The pain subsided almost immediately, but the experience served as a timely reminder that he had to pace himself. It also left him feeling tired – so tired he could have easily fallen asleep right there and then.

Nine wasn’t sure if it was the drugs causing his tiredness or the unrelenting stress he’d been under since Francis’ abduction.
A bit of both perhaps
. Fighting against the tiredness, he resumed driving. Not to the air base, but to his guest house. He knew his limitations; he needed to grab some sleep before doing anything else.

Back at the guest house, he made a quick phone call to the air base’s Customer Liaison Office to postpone his appointment by several hours. His contact there – a young airman assigned to guide him around the base – was most obliging. The airman was working the so-called night shift, so the rescheduled appointment wouldn’t inconvenience him.

A desperately tired Nine then went to bed. Sleep came quickly.

#

The former operative woke to the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. He could easily have slept on, but he felt considerably more alert than when he’d crashed three hours earlier.

The clock told him it was eight thirty at night. For a moment Nine couldn’t make sense of the sunlight that was streaming through a gap in the curtains then he remembered where he was and why he was here.
Francis!
He sprang from bed, splashed cold water on his face from a tap at the sink and hurriedly dressed.

Nine felt ready for whatever lay ahead. After repacking his travel bags and loading them into his rental car, he settled his account at reception then set off for nearby Thule Air Base to find his son.

As he drove, he recited his daily affirmation aloud.

I am a free man and a polymath.

Whatever I set my mind to, I always achieve.

The limitations that apply to the rest of humanity,

Do not apply to me.

28

From the upstairs visitors’ lounge at Thule Air Base, Nine had a panoramic view of the base and its surrounds. The never-ending summer daylight facilitated flights by US Air Force jets twenty-four hours a day every day. This day, or night, was no exception: fighter planes were landing and taking off every few minutes. Even through the double-glazed windows, the sound of roaring jet engines was constant.