The Ninth Orphan (9 page)

Kentbridge took a shine to him and taught him everything he knew. Against his better judgment, he found himself conversing with Nine almost as if the boy were his son. This closeness between teacher and student caused jealousy among the other kids.

The blonde female orphan, Seventeen, was especially envious. This manifested itself in the form of competitiveness. She was always looking for an opportunity to outperform Nine. Even as a young girl, her personality was cold and calculating, and she would do anything to win. Although Nine wanted no part in this intense rivalry, he had little option but to engage in it. Seventeen was always right behind him, looking for a way to prove to Kentbridge she was every bit as good as his favorite protégé.

Her opportunity came during the hunting expedition in Montana when Nine was unable to finish off the wounded deer. Seventeen completed the mission instead.

That was the one and only occasion during their childhood that Nine was bettered by another orphan. Seventeen took it as a personal victory. From that point on, she viewed herself as the best orphan in the program, or at least the equal of Nine. She now realized that although Nine was superior to her in terms of strict espionage skills, he had one weakness that could be exploited: his heart. Nine had sympathy for things Seventeen didn’t care about. He had sensitivities operatives weren’t supposed to have.

* * *

Still seated at Isabelle’s dining table, Nine thought of Kentbridge and wondered who the senior operative had sent to search for him. He imagined one of his fellow orphans would have been tasked with that job – and he had a fair idea who that would be.

Further images from his past came to the fore including the now-blurred faces of all the people – some innocents, some not – whom Kentbridge and Naylor had ordered him to terminate over the years. As the guilt he’d tried to suppress for many years rose to the surface, he felt nothing but self-loathing.

Nine was abruptly brought out of his reverie when he heard the door to Isabelle’s bedroom open. He sat there, immobile, as Isabelle emerged. Yawning, she walked right past him and into the kitchen without bothering to turn the light on. There, she opened the fridge door and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Light from the open fridge momentarily illuminated the kitchen and adjoining dining room.

As Isabelle closed the fridge door, plunging the apartment into darkness again, something briefly caught her eye in the dining room. She turned on a light and screamed when she saw the bearded stranger at her dining table.

The man didn’t react. He remained as still as a statue, which frightened her even more. She screamed again when she saw the pistol which now lay before him on the tabletop. Her first instinct was to run, but she couldn’t move. She could only stand there, as if rooted to the spot.

The Slavic-looking stranger just stared at her. More accurately, he seemed to be looking right through her. Isabelle wondered if he even knew she was there.

N
ine was first to recover. He quickly placed the ruby necklace back around his neck and motioned to Isabelle to sit in the chair opposite. She remained frozen, like a deer caught in the headlights.

“
Sit,” Nine commanded. Maintaining his masquerade, he spoke English in a thick Russian accent that would have fooled a Moscow native.

Still, Isabelle didn’t move. Nine picked up the pistol and used it to motion once more to the chair opposite. Isabelle immediately moved toward the chair.

“
Turn off the light,” Nine added, realizing light could draw unwanted attention to the apartment.

Isabelle stopped in mid-stride. Unable to take her eyes off the pistol in the bearded stranger’s hand, she backed up to the light switch and turned it off. In the semi-darkness, she hesitantly approached the table and sat opposite Nine. All she could see of him now was his silhouette. Light from a streetlamp reflected off the barrel of the pistol he still held.

Sensing her fear, Nine placed the pistol back down close to him on the tabletop.

Something about the bearded stranger chilled Isabelle to the bone. She shivered involuntarily then pulled her winter dressing gown tight around her.

For several long moments, neither spoke. Finally, Isabelle could stand it no longer. “What do you want?” she murmured in French.

Nine looked at her uncomprehendingly, pretending not to understand the language.

“
What do you want?” she repeated in English. Although her English had strong French inflections, it was perfectly understandable to Nine’s ears.

Nine averted his eyes to the wooden tabletop. He couldn’t trust himself to speak again. Not yet. The fugitive agent needed time to process his inner pain and turmoil – to work out what the hell had just happened to him. He was more certain than ever he was experiencing some sort of meltdown. Possibly a nervous breakdown. He wasn’t sure.

His mind searched frantically for a solution to his predicament. He still couldn’t get his head around the fact that he’d been unable to terminate this woman.
What on earth am I going to do with her?

Such questions were giving Nine a headache. He felt like his brain would explode and he was having trouble breathing. It seemed as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. Desperate for fresh air, he grabbed his pistol and stood up. Isabelle recoiled, afraid he was going to shoot her. Ignoring her, Nine lurched to the near window and flung it open. He stood there breathing in the cold, night air.

Isabelle watched him as he fought to regain his self-control. She realized he was in difficulty but, like him, had no idea what the problem was. “Do you need help?” she asked, slowly standing up. “I can call an ambulance.” She took a step toward the kitchen.

“
No, devotchka!” Nine motioned to her to sit back down. She reluctantly obeyed.

Nine continued taking deep breaths. Eventually, this brought his breathing under control, but did nothing for the pounding in his head. His heart was hammering away, too. Finally, he closed the window and rejoined Isabelle at the table. He noticed she was also shaking. Not sure whether she was cold or fearful, he put the pistol back in his pocket.

Isabelle’s shaking continued. “May I get a blanket?” she asked hopefully.

Nine shook his head. A look of anger flashed across Isabelle’s face. In the semi-dark, Nine sensed rather than saw this. He felt a glimmer of admiration for the woman. For the first time, he thought of her feelings, not just his. He realized she must be terrified, yet despite her terror she had found it within herself to feel anger. As well as impressing him, this pricked his conscience. He immediately forced it to the back of his mind.

As Nine continued to ponder his predicament, he studied Isabelle’s hands. Long and slender, they told him a lot about her. Through years of observing people, he’d learned a person’s hands often reflected his or her personality.
Isabelle’s were well-manicured, as expected of a politician’s daughter, and very feminine, too. Her nails were painted white, which contrasted nicely against her caramel skin tone.

But what really interested him was the shape of her hands: they looked resilient. This further supported his growing realization that there was a hidden strength in Isabelle.

“
Who are you?” Isabelle suddenly asked, interrupting his thoughts. “What do you want?” Nine remained silent. “What is your name?”

Nine shrugged his shoulders. “I go by every name and no name,” he said at last.

“
At least tell me why you are holding me at gunpoint!” Nine offered no explanation. “Is it something to do with my father? Is this political, or are you after a ransom? You want money, is that it?” Nine shook his head. “Then what?”

Isabelle sensed she was talking for her life. She felt sure the mysterious Russian meant her harm and she knew instinctively her best chance of survival was to engage him in conversation. If he was insane, talking probably wouldn’t help, but she had to try.

Inexplicably, Nine, too, suddenly felt the need to speak. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s all a mistake.” Isabelle listened, willing him to continue. “None of this was meant to happen. You should be gone. And I should be chasing my freedom.”

“
Your freedom? What about mine?”

Afraid he’d already said too much, Nine admonished her in Russian: “Keep quiet, devotchka. None of this can be helped by your words.”

Isabelle looked at him strangely. “What is that? Russian?” Now that Isabelle’s eyes had adapted to the dark, the stranger was no longer just a silhouette to her. His beard and pale skin were more discernable. Her eyes searched his, but it was too dark to read them. “I cannot understand Russian.”

After another long silence, Isabelle asked if she could turn the light on. The darkness was starting to freak her out. Nine reluctantly agreed, but only after he pulled the window drapes over. That done, he turned a light on. The pair blinked as they adjusted to the light.

Isabelle looked the intruder up and down. She wasn’t encouraged by what she saw. To her, the Russian looked like a cold-blooded killer. She also noted the rash on his cheek.
It was obviously troubling him as he itched it periodically.

Nine walked over to where Isabelle's photos were displayed on the wall. Programmed as he was to constantly take in new information, he instinctively scanned the photos once more. He picked up a framed photograph of Isabelle’s parents.

The operative remembered from the Internet article he’d speed-read earlier that day, her father, Fabrice Alleget, had recently retired. As he looked at Isabelle’s father, his mind worked overtime. Having to deal with a woman in these circumstances was going to be hard enough, but her being the daughter of a politician would make this even messier.

Nine walked to the bookshelf and picked up the copy of
The Catcher in The Rye
.

Isabelle watched him for a moment then slowly stood up. Nine kept an eye on her as she tentatively approached him. “I can see you are not well,” Isabelle ventured. “Maybe you need help? Are your parents or next of kin in Russia? I can phone them if you like.”

“
They're dead,” Nine said matter-of-factly. “I'm an orphan.” He didn’t know why he’d just told her the truth. He was a professional liar and usually never revealed the slightest truth about his real identity. He wasn’t concerned, however. His mind was focused on what to do with her rather than her line of questioning.

Isabelle looked deeply into his green eyes. Their intensity startled her. “An orphan? Is that why you have sad eyes?”

Her sharp observation surprised Nine. Not used to being cross-examined, he suddenly felt even more vulnerable than he already was.

Nine hated anyone playing amateur shrink like this. He hated it even more when someone saw past his disguise as he sensed Isabelle was beginning to. Such were the ramifications of his past, this was one of the very few times he’d ever had to engage in any real form of human interaction. Although he was extremely advanced physically and mentally, his emotional self was not. Feeling her eyes still on him, Nine looked away.

Isabelle could see she had struck a raw nerve. For as long as she could remember, she’d had this uncanny ability to look into people’s eyes and see them for who they were rather than who they pretended to be. This had made her somewhat of an outsider as many of her friends and family became wary in her presence as she grew older and wiser.

In a way, that was why she had chosen photography as a career. It allowed her to delve into the nature of human existence without hurting anyone’s feelings.

Fearing Isabelle was beginning to see his real self, Nine turned his back on her and looked down at the copy of
The Catcher in The Rye
he held.

M
id-way between France and England, an Air France airliner flew through the night sky twenty three thousand feet above the English Channel. In Business Class, a hostess pushed a trolley down the aisle, stopping to serve tea and coffee to those passengers who were still awake. Only half the seats were occupied – mainly by French executives returning home and by their English counterparts heading for Paris on business.

Half-way along the aisle, Kentbridge and Seventeen sat together. Both were thinking about their forthcoming interrogation of Isabelle. Neither had any idea Nine had returned to her apartment. The only question on both their minds was whether the black man who assaulted Isabelle was Nine in disguise,
or just a member of Paris' African community.

For his part, Kentbridge believed the individual MI6 had alerted them to was Nine. It was just a hunch, but he’d learned to listen to his hunches. They were usually correct.

Seventeen wasn’t so sure. She didn’t share her superior’s same instincts, preferring to be guided by cold, hard logic than by some hunch.

As if reading her mind, Kentbridge said, “I want you to leave the questioning of Bella to me.” For security reasons, the Omegans referred to Isabelle as Bella when discussing her in public. “You need to stay in the background for the moment.”

Seventeen didn’t argue, but hoped she’d get a crack at the Frenchwoman if Kentbridge didn’t get anywhere. While she respected her superior’s interrogation skills, she was also aware he was only human and had been known take it easy when questioning a woman – especially one as beautiful as Isabelle. Seventeen knew she wouldn’t fall into that trap. If she thought Isabelle was holding anything back, she’d go for the jugular.