The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) (60 page)

4

N
ine wondered which Western organization had sabotaged the Chinese operation and planted its own agents undercover. He didn’t have time to figure it out. In less than a second, Nine turned, dropped the Chinese man with a karate blow to the neck then sprinted for the nearest exit. Gone was his earlier shuffle. He now moved like an athlete.

The redheaded woman pocketed her cell phone, stood up and pointed at the fleeing Hasid. “Stop that man!” she screamed.

Hearing the woman, the two policemen who had just walked by ran to intercept Nine. As they were closer to the exit, they both beat him to it. There, they drew their batons and advanced on him. They were surprised when the supposedly old Hasid kept running toward them. Ninja-like, Nine leapt in the air and knocked out the first policeman with a roundhouse kick to the head. He followed this with a power punch to the now unconscious man’s chin to be doubly sure he wouldn’t pose any further problem.

The other policeman, a particularly beefy individual, looked on in disbelief. He’d never seen anyone move like that before. He raised his baton to strike the offender. Before he could bring it down,
Nine glided gracefully to his left and effortlessly swept the man’s feet out from under him. The martial art Nine was using was Teleiotes, a secret fighting style Kentbridge had taught him at the orphanage.

Before the policeman could recover,
Nine employed a sleeper hold, rendering him unconscious. The operative then quickly surveyed his surroundings before sprinting through the gates. Behind him, the young lovers he’d passed earlier looked horrified at the sudden display of violence by the seemingly elderly Jewish man.

In Kensington High Street, Nine slowed to a walk and merged in with other pedestrians. He approached a stationary black taxi, casually opened its rear passenger door
and climbed in, apparently unworried by the distant howl of police sirens.

Deep down, he was concerned, but his Omega training never allowed him to show fear. Emotions, facial expressions, body language. All had to be kept in check. “Be like the eye of the cyclone and remain calm amidst chaos,” he heard Kentbridge say.

An aching in his arm reminded Nine of the surgery he’d performed on himself before fleeing the Philippines. He’d almost forgotten about it since arriving in London. The exertions of a few minutes earlier had aggravated it. He hoped the stitches hadn’t torn.

The taxi headed down Gloucester Road toward the River Thames and soon reached the upmarket neighborhood of South Kensington. As the taxi pulled into the residential street of Cranley Gardens, two police cars followed from the adjoining Old Brompton Road, their sirens howling and lights flashing.

Inside the taxi, the driver, a portly Welshman, looked in his rear-vision mirror. “Wonder who they're chasing?” he asked.

Nine ignored the driver whose strong Welsh accent was barely intelligible. The operative was solely focused on a towering Armenian church directly ahead. Saint Yeghiche Church couldn’t be missed. It was something of a local landmark. Nine had noticed it on a previous assignment in London.

As it drew steadily closer, his hawk-like vision spotted a sign hanging above the church’s entrance. It read:
Closed for Maintenance
. “Stop here,” he instructed the driver in a heavy Israeli accent.

The driver stopped directly outside the old building. His customer paid him then climbed out of the taxi and walked as fast as he dared toward the church’s entrance. The driver watched him until he disappeared inside before turning his attention back to his rear vision mirror as the pursuing police cars pulled up behind his taxi. Two or three policemen jumped out of each car and sprinted into the church.

Inside Saint Yeghiche Church, a senior officer led his men up a narrow, spiral staircase leading to the building’s upper floors. They were slowed by a group of maintenance workers who were descending at the same time.

As they climbed higher, the policemen were greeted by a cheerful-looking Cockney laborer. Wearing dusty overalls and a hard hat, the laborer smiled as he walked down the stairs toward them. “Sorry Guv'ner, the church is closed.”

“We're not here to pray!” the senior officer snapped. Neither he, nor the other policemen with him realized this was the man they were looking for.

Now in the convincing guise of a laborer, Nine’s appearance and persona were the polar opposite of the Hasid he’d been posing as a minute earlier. In similar fashion to how trained dancers project using body language, his posture and demeanor were in keeping with macho workers often found on building sites. He now walked with a swagger and wore a cheeky grin on his dust-covered face.

“We're after a Jewish man,” the senior officer continued. “Have you seen --”

“Too right I 'ave, mate,” Nine interjected in a strong Cockney accent that would have fooled the patrons of any East End pub.
“Passed 'im on the way down. The geezer said he's a lawyer or somethin'.”

Nine grinned at the policemen as they pushed past him in pursuit of their quarry.

Upstairs, in the church’s dusty attic, they discovered a semi-naked maintenance worker lying bound and gagged. Next to him was a discarded black coat. It was the same Hasidic clothing Nine had worn earlier. A young policeman picked up the black long-coat. Beneath it, he found a wig, a fake beard, contact lenses, and a shtreimel.

Realizing they'd been outfoxed, the senior officer ran back down the stairs. His subordinates followed, leaving the unfortunate maintenance worker where he was.

Outside, Nine strode out of the church’s main entrance just as another black taxi pulled up across the road to drop off its fare. Dodging traffic, he crossed the road and jumped into the taxi before its driver had time to take off.

The driver, a West Indian, turned around and smiled at his customer. “Where would you like to go?” he asked in a melodious Caribbean accent.

“Thought I'd meet the missus at the Blind Beggar in the East End,” Nine said, maintaining his Cockney accent. “Ya know the one?”

The driver nodded. “Yeah, I know it.” He accelerated away.

In the back seat, Nine removed his hard hat and looked over his shoulder in time to see the policemen emerge from the church. They spread out in all directions as they continued the hunt for their elusive, chameleon-like quarry.

Nine looked straight ahead as the taxi turned into Old Brompton Road and headed east. He fiddled with the ruby on his necklace while trying to make sense of the last few frenetic minutes. He knew the Chinese hadn’t ambushed him. There was too much at stake for that. Somehow, another outfit had gotten wind of the trade. He didn’t know whether it was the CIA, MI6, Mossad or the Omega Agency, but just hoped it wasn’t the latter.

5

T
he emerald green eyes that stared back were full of strength and determination. They were also tinged with sadness – for a life their owner had never experienced.

Studying his reflection in the safety of his hotel room,
Nine noticed the mirror had flecks of mold on it as well as fingerprints from other guests.

Lamenting his foiled transaction with the Chinese in
Kensington Gardens earlier that morning, he still didn’t know which agency had interfered. It had been a serious setback for his plans. He knew there’d be another opportunity to trade with the Chinese, however.

After he’d given the police the slip at Saint Yeghiche Church, he’d gone to the East End. Then, once satisfied he’d shaken his pursuers, he had checked into this inconspicuous hotel and immediately set about establishing a new identity for himself.

Nine knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the Omega Agency would already know he was in London. He was only too aware Omega had people planted on the inside of all Western intelligence agencies. It was a no-brainer his fellow Omega operatives would be coming for him. The contents on his flash drive were far too valuable for the agency to give up on.

The fugitive agent reminded himself it was imperative he presented a different face to the world each time he ventured out.

He made a silent vow to make good use of his vast array of disguises.
Be like a ghost and they’ll never catch you.

As his latest identity took shape,
Nine continued to study his own reflection. He was slowly morphing into an obese, over-the-hill businessman. Having hidden his eyebrows behind a mixture of spirit gum, mortician’s wax and other specialized make-ups, he began to create false stubble in the form of fine hair lace.

Even allowing for his semi-completed disguise,
Nine didn’t entirely like what he saw in the mirror. There were some lines around his eyes he hadn’t noticed before and he found one or two gray hairs on his head. Although he still looked youthful for his thirty one years, these signs of aging were painful reminders of his own mortality.

Nine wasn’t afraid of dying, but he hated the idea of kicking the bucket
without having lived a real life. He didn’t consider being a pawn since birth counted for any sort of life at all.

As he glued the last of the stubble to his face, Nine’s internal pain overwhelmed him. He put down the hair lace and stared blankly at the desk he was hunched over. His weapon of choice, a .45
GAP, or Glock automatic pistol, lay next to his make-up supplies. Nearby was the all-important Yamashita flash drive. 

In the center of the desk was
an opened wallet with a faded photograph protruding from it. The image was of a striking, dark-haired, green-eyed woman. A wave of emotion swept over Nine as he focused on the ruby necklace around the woman’s neck. It was the same necklace he now wore.

Kentbridge had given the ruby to him when
Nine was just a boy at the Pedemont Orphanage, advising it had belonged to his mother. Nine wasn’t sure if it was the placebo effect, but during times of stress he often found just touching the ruby seemed to connect him to family he’d never known.

Having never known his now deceased mother, her ruby necklace and photo were the most precious things in the world to him. Such was the unsolved jigsaw of his
life, he’d only ever learned a few things about her. They were telling facts, however.

Born in San Francisco, her name was
Annette Hannar. In her early teens she was orphaned overnight when both her parents were killed in a car crash. Coming of age in the Sixties during California’s Hippie revolution, Annette experimented with various drugs. By the Seventies, she was a full blown addict living on the streets of Chicago.

Nine
’s independent research revealed it was around that time Annette had been approached by Omega to join
The Pedemont Project
. Unable to resist the money, she reluctantly agreed and, once weaned off her addiction, was impregnated as a vehicle to manufacture orphans.

A year or so after giving birth to him, Nine’s mother had escaped from The Pedemont Project. Frightened by the Omega Agency’s dark agenda, she went to the police. Naylor ordered Kentbridge to have Annette killed before she could expose Omega any further. Kentbridge had refused – something to this day
Nine remained unaware of. In the end, Naylor had one of his other operatives do it.

Nine absentmindedly touched his mother’s face on the photo.
The rage he already felt toward his Omega masters intensified as he suddenly pictured them discussing Annette's termination.

As if to numb his sorrows,
Nine pulled another photo from his wallet. It was an image of a tropical island. The South Pacific paradise was located in the Marquesas Islands, the most northerly archipelago in French Polynesia and one of the remotest places on earth.

The island, which he’d purchased shortly before his mission in the Philippines, represented his one and only shot at freedom. After thirty one years as a slave of the Omega Agency, he felt certain the secret island location was a viable way of getting off
the grid
– that invasive surveillance network designed to pick up almost every individual on the planet.

Getting off the grid was of paramount importance to him. Until he did that, he’d forever be changing identities and countries just to stay one step ahead of his fellow Omegans.

Nine knew the population of the Marquesas Islands was only eight thousand and the island he’d purchased was a good fifty miles away from the nearest inhabited island. There were no phone lines or electricity, and therefore no grid. Once he reached his island, he planned to settle into a permanent false identity. He would reside as the island’s rightful owner and never have to explain himself to anyone.

But first he had to complete his trade with the Chinese. Only then would he have enough wealth to spend the remainder of his life on the island. If he succeeded,
Nine planned to invest most of his millions in Swiss annuities, which he knew were safer than houses, and live forever off the interest generated.

He looked back at the flash drive on the desk before him. Cashing in the last of Yamashita’s treasure was the only way his plan would ever become a reality.

6

A
cross the Atlantic, in the Omega Agency’s subterranean HQ beneath the disused hydro dam in south-west Illinois, Naylor and Kentbridge were closeted in a small meeting room. The atmosphere was decidedly frosty despite the efficient central heating.

Naylor was still seething. He made no secret of the fact that he partially blamed his subordinate for the current situation with
Nine. Kentbridge had kept such a tight control over his orphans all these years, Naylor never expected one of them to threaten Omega’s security or jeopardize its standing in world affairs. That the mess had unraveled on the eve of securing one of the most substantial treasure booties in the world was the real bitch.

Few knew more about Yamashita’s Gold than Naylor did. His own father had served in the Philippines under General MacArthur and, at the end of World War Two, had witnessed the earliest discoveries of Japan’s massive plunder. Naylor had also confirmed that the former president of the Philippines, Ferdinand Marcos, had obtained much of his personal fortune from later discoveries. 

Naylor had been intent on finding the remainder of the legendary Asian treasure hoard ever since being appointed Omega director in the late 1970’s. He’d spent many a late night pouring over the faded Japanese army maps he had acquired. This obsession had been noted by his Omega co-founders.

The ultra-secret organization had a ruling council of twelve individuals – all dissatisfied members of various Illuminati societies. These Omega heads included a media mogul, a former New York City Mayor, a member of the British Royal Family, a Presidential advisor, an OPEC chief and a banker allied with the US Federal Reserve.

Although Naylor came from more humble beginnings, he was also one of the twelve founding members. His motivations for forming the Omega Agency were no different to the others and could be summed up in two words:
greed
and
globalization
. The founding members all had one thing in common: the desire to create a New World Order.

Omega, the last letter in the Greek alphabet, had been chosen as the name of the organization as it alluded to
the end
. That was the founding members’ ultimate aim – to put an end to conflicts between countries and facilitate the birth of a new united world ruled by a totalitarian government which they would control.

The bottom line though, was the Omega Agency remained in expansion mode and desperately needed a shot in the arm to have a realistic chance at creating a New World Order. Naylor felt certain Yamashita’s Gold was the answer, but the other Omega heads were fast losing patience, especially since
Nine had gone AWOL.

Naylor looked across his desk at Kentbridge, who noted his superior’s
lazy eye twitched. That was always a sign he was excited. Naylor had dollar signs in both eyes.

Little wonder
, Kentbridge thought to himself. He knew Japan had gained enormous wealth when it invaded China and a dozen or so other Asian countries during the Second World War. The Japanese looted bullion by the truckload.

In addition to the incalculable amounts of gold, gigantic quantities of diamonds, silver and religious artifacts had also been stolen. These colossal treasure troves were shipped to the Philippines in preparation for transportation to Japan. However, as the war in the Pacific intensified, the ever-increasing presence of Allied ships made the transport of such treasure problematic for Japan. As a result, much of it was hidden in the Philippines.

The site Kentbridge had ordered Nine to find was buried by prisoners of war who had booby-trapped the location to protect the riches.

The Japanese army maps Naylor had in his possession revealed the whereabouts of various burial sites packed solid with treasures. Some locations, known as Trillion Yen sites, contained gold and other precious metals valued during the war at one trillion yen. Taking
inflation since then into account, Kentbridge knew this equated to approximately two hundred and fifty billion dollars per site.

Initially, there were dozens of Trillion Yen sites in the Philippines, but Naylor had confirmed that after the waves of bounty hunters
– first the Americans under General MacArthur, then Marcos decades later – only one such site remained. Despite many attempts to find the location, it had remained undiscovered until Nine found it. The crafty orphan had somehow uncovered the elusive site’s location in the province of Benguet.

Kentbridge shared his superior’s opinion that the quarter-of-a-trillion-dollar treasure could be the catalyst to propel Omega to global domination. For that to occur, Naylor knew they’d have to hunt
Nine down before he could trade with anyone else. He had already tried once with the Chinese. It was only a question of time before he’d try again.

“Fetch Seventeen,” Naylor ordered.

Kentbridge stepped out of the meeting room and returned seconds later with Seventeen, who had literally just arrived in Illinois. Her stern Aryan face was tanned as a result of her exposure to the tropical sunlight of the Philippines thirty six hours earlier.

Naylor handed a photo to Seventeen. The image, which showed
Nine in his elderly Jewish guise, was courtesy of one of London’s security cameras.

Seventeen glanced at it then passed it to Kentbridge. The senior agent studied the photo.
He was impressed by the authenticity of the Hasidic character pictured. Kentbridge noticed Nine was hunched over like an old man.
I trained you too well
, he thought.

“You never should’ve put so much faith in one man,” Naylor said accusingly. The Omega director appeared to be looking at someone over Kentbridge’s shoulder, but the senior agent knew better. Naylor was looking right at him through his lazy eye.

Ignoring the criticism, Kentbridge studied a framed color photo on the far wall. It was of the abandoned hydro dam one mile above them. He deliberately allowed himself to daydream for a few seconds. Kentbridge found clarity often came to him doing that. Finally, he turned back to Naylor.

“What do you suggest we do?” Naylor asked. Although Kentbridge had made a judgment error in sending
Nine to the Philippines, Naylor still had the greatest respect for him. Kentbridge had the sharpest of minds and was rarely wrong.

“The only way we'll ever locate the treasure is by playing his game, one-on-one,” he said. Pointing to the Hasid in the photo, he added, “I have to go after him.”

Naylor nodded. “Agreed, but I want Seventeen to go with you. Just in case.”

Kentbridge squirmed in his chair as he glanced at Seventeen. She gave him a cold stare. While she, too, respected Kentbridge, she didn’t particularly like him. If she was honest, she didn’t particularly like anyone. As with all the Pedemont orphans, her strange upbringing had left her with more than her share of hang-ups.

“Seventeen knows things about Nine that maybe you don't,” Naylor added.

Kentbridge nodded reluctantly. He would have preferred to go after
Nine alone, but was in no position to argue.