by John Sneeden
The crowd and the noise were almost overwhelming, but they also provided some cover as Zane crossed the room. He paused at times, acting as though he wanted to squeeze over to the bar, but instead using the opportunity to examine as many faces as possible. He began to realize that searching for the two men in such close quarters was a risky proposition, but he also knew not to ignore the alarm signals that had been going off ever since he had first seen them.
He planned to make one pass through the pub, use the rest room, and then make another pass on his way out. He had given up on the idea of ordering another beer—that would expose him to closer scrutiny. He still felt he had the upper hand, because he didn’t believe they knew he was on to them.
Zane noted nothing out of the ordinary until he opened the door to the men’s room. As he did, he almost ran into another man who was leaving. The man quickly turned sideways to avoid contact, and his head was awkwardly bent down.
It took only a second or two for Zane to realize it was one of the two men he had seen earlier, the one with the blond hair. His heart raced as he walked over to the sink. Unfortunately, he had been unable to note much about the man's appearance.
Fearing the man might have been spooked by the close encounter, Zane splashed some water on his face, waited for about a minute, and then walked back into the pub. He stood just outside the door and looked over the crowd, examining each person carefully.
After three minutes, he came to one unmistakable conclusion: whoever the two men were, they were no longer there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WERE NO taxis waiting outside, so Zane decided to return to the Millennium on foot. He figured the walk would clear his mind and allow him to digest his conversation with Amanda Higgs. After an hour of talking to her, he realized she was even more impressive than her file had indicated. She was honest to a fault and smart beyond her years. Despite being overwhelmed by the death of her father, she was able to communicate clearly. In fact, Zane couldn’t help but think she would be a good fit at Delphi. Maybe he’d bring that up with the Oracle after all the Renaissance business was finished.
The operative had only traveled one block before realizing he was being tailed. As he glanced back, he noticed two men following at a distance, their profiles barely noticeable in the shadows of the dark street. Zane’s eyes had only rested on them for a brief second, but it was enough to determine that they weren’t pub crawlers.
He quickened his pace when he reached the Millennium Bridge. About halfway across, he met a couple going the other direction. He slowed down and asked them for a cigarette. The man, a classic goth with purple-streaked hair and tight-fitting black jeans, kindly obliged, pulling out a pack of Luck Strikes and offering one to Zane. The man also pulled out a lighter, clicked it once, and held the flame in front of the operative’s face. Zane leaned forward with the cigarette in his mouth, using the opportunity to glance back down the bridge. The two men who were following him had come to an abrupt halt and were looking down the Thames. They were still some distance away, but Zane was able to see that the nearer one was bald. It was the same man he’d seen inside the pub.
The operative took a deep draw, thanked the couple for the smoke, and continued on his way. When he had passed the crest of the bridge, he flicked the cigarette out into the river. After exiting the bridge, he walked almost three blocks and entered the Tube at Blackfriars. He then began a series of evasive moves: He went from one train to the next, his knowledge of the London subway system making him decisive and quick. Upon exiting at a station, he would climb the stairs quickly, sometimes taking three or four at a time, and then descend the stairs to the other side, hopping on the next train that arrived. He changed lines several times, and would often make multiple moves within a station, looking as though he was indecisive but knowing the entire time exactly where he was going.
But forty-five minutes later, three things became apparent: the two men were indeed professionals, they knew the Tube as well as he did, and he had not been able to shake them. The only thing Zane had managed to do was force them to drop all pretense of secrecy. They now looked at him with unashamed regularity, and Zane once even thought that he saw the hint of a smile from the bald one as he exited through the sliding doors.
As Zane sat on the green line and stared up at the subway map, an idea entered his mind. He felt sure it would work, and it was his best hope of losing the men in the Tube. If the plan didn’t work, he’d have to take his chances on the street—a much riskier proposition.
Zane exited at Charing Cross, his plan firmly set in his mind. He knew the station well and barely even looked up as he made his way over to the platform of the red line. The next train arrived thirty seconds later, and after entering it, he stood near the door. He then glanced toward the next car down and noted that the two men had settled into their seats. The bald one turned toward him, the hint of a grin on his face. Zane winked at him, which quickly turned the man’s smile into a glare.
Two stops later the train entered Piccadilly, the place where Zane would enact his plan. In order for it to be a success, he needed a large crowd, and the scene that swirled past the car’s windows told him he’d made a good choice. Throngs of diners, theatergoers, and revelers filled the platform to capacity, setting the stage for what was about to happen.
When the doors hissed open, Zane slid through the crowd. He received a couple of hard bumps but made it to the stairs without major injury. As he climbed each step, his movements became more slow and deliberate, sending a false signal to the men behind him that he had given up on the prospect of losing them. It was one of the keys to making the whole thing work.
After reaching the top of the stairs, he wound through several walkways before finally descending to the blue platform. Much to his satisfaction, it was even more crowded than the red. A group of drunks was singing at the back of the crowd, adding to the carnival-like atmosphere.
Zane pushed his way through the crowd and found a spot about a hundred yards down. He stopped several times along the way to look back, and each time he could see the two heads bobbing in his direction. They seemed to have correspondingly slowed their pace in order to maintain distance.
As they waited for the next train, the operative scanned the crowd for the next critical element of his plan. He needed performers for the drama that was about to unfold, and it only took him a few seconds to find the first two, a couple dressed in their theater finest. The man was wearing an Italian suit and shoes that were polished enough to serve as a mirror. For her part, the woman was wearing a navy dress and a faux-fur coat, with a Prada clutch pinned under her left arm.
The couple would be perfect, and Zane only needed to find a third performer. Fortunately, a third actor boarded the train just ahead of him, the smell of beer hanging in the air around him like a cloud. Just as the operative had assumed, the drunken reveler made a beeline for the metal pole, clutching it as though his very life depended on it. A few feet beyond him stood the well-dressed couple. All of the players were in place.
As the crowd continued to press into the train, the operative looked down into the next car. As before, the two tails boarded late and kept an eye on Zane. They were professionals, but they were also predictable.
Zane knew from previous stops that it took approximately twenty-five seconds for a door to close on a crowded car. He counted off the seconds in his head while glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. Satisfied, he moved closer to the drunk who was still clutching the pole. When the time count hit ten seconds, Zane reached around the drunken man and shoved the woman in the faux-fur coat. When he shoved, he made sure her beloved Prada purse was dislodged on the follow-through.
The next series of events went by so fast that many would not be able to clearly articulate what happened. The woman, inebriated herself, stumbled forward and fell through the crowd, and the shiny purse disappeared through several sets of legs. Throwing away any attempt at decorum, the woman shove
d people out of the way as she rose to her feet. “What the bloody hell?”
The husband, taking little time to determine the culprit, grabbed the drunken man by the scruff of the neck. “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing, you—”
The sentence was never finished. The drunken man needed little excuse for a good brawl, and struck an awkward blow across the other man’s face. As soon as the punch landed, sheer pandemonium broke out. People began to yell and scream, with some calling for calm and others shoving each other for perceived slights. A domino effect of violence ripped through the crowd.
*
The commotion had also drawn the attention of the bald man one car down. Dmitry frowned, his senses telling him that something didn’t smell right. He had already determined that the man they had been following was a professional, and the fact that a commotion had broken out near where he had been standing was certainly not a coincidence. He reached into his right coat pocket and clutched the semi-automatic pistol hidden there. He then pushed through the crowd toward the scene that was unfolding, troubled that he could no longer see the target.
As he drew closer, an automated voice warned people to step away from the subway doors. Dmitry panicked and shoved two women out of the way, arriving at the scene with his gun half drawn.
Seconds later the doors finally slid shut, he came to a disturbing conclusion: the man they had been following was no longer there.
Filled with rage, Dmitry turned and looked out the window. It was hard to see anything on the crowded platform, but as the train left the station he could have sworn he saw a man with long brown hair running up the stairs.
CHAPTER NINE
ALEXANDER MIRONOV SAT perfectly still on the balcony of the mountain chalet overlooking the snow-covered village of Verbier, Switzerland. Two heat lamps glowed on either side of him, providing warmth on the bitterly cold night. A trail of smoke drifted into the night air from a Double Corona cigar positioned between two of his fingers.
At his feet lay three miniature pinschers—Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—which Mironov had named after The Three Musketeers, his favorite childhood novel. The canines appeared peaceful as they slumbered up against one another, but the slightest sound would rouse them into a barking fury.
The glow from the heat lamps revealed Mironov’s dark brown hair, which was combed straight back with copious amounts of gel. Although in his early fifties, the Russian was in good shape. His large, fit frame bulged underneath his tight wool sweater.
Very few people had ever met the billionaire tycoon, and he had rarely been photographed. A internet search of his name would only turn up a few distant or fuzzy shots, most of them taken as he climbed out of his Mercedes limousine and darted into a building.
Mironov lifted the cigar to his lips and took a long draw, causing the tip to glow red. One of the pinschers awoke, and his head turned quickly toward his master. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, the dog lowered its head and closed its eyes again. The billionaire opened his mouth and allowed the aromatic smoke to slowly escape before throwing his head back and blowing the remainder up toward the brilliant half-moon.
The chalet was located about three-quarters of the way up the mountain at the end of a winding private road. No other houses were located within a kilometer of the property, and more than a dozen security personnel patrolled its perimeter. Four were located at the gated entrance at the base of the mountain, and the other eight were scattered along the perimeter.
By using multiple layers of shell companies and paying hush money to realtors, Mironov had made sure his presence on the mountain would be unknown to the vast majority of locals. When he and his entourage arrived, it was usually in the dead of night and always without fanfare. The black Mercedes S-Class sedan would quickly turn off the main road, pass through the guarded gate, and then wind its way up through the dense forest.
Mironov frowned, troubled, and he pressed a button at the bottom of a wand that was lying in his lap. Almost immediately, the silence was broken by the sound of a door sliding open behind him, and after that came a mechanical whine from the balcony.
The min pins awoke on cue, barking ferociously and baring their fangs. As the noise grew nearer, the dogs began to jump up and down, their anger reaching a fever pitch. But despite the display, they knew not to rush forward and attack.
“Comrades, comrades, enough,” Mironov ordered. The dogs barked and whined a few more times before sitting back on their haunches. Despite their reluctant obedience, all three continued to glare in the direction of the door.
Soon the noise stopped, and a figure appeared. From afar, she looked like a woman of Asian descent. However, a closer inspection would reveal skin that was too smooth to be human and eyes that remained fixed in one direction. In reality, she was a masterpiece of robotics, a humanoid more advanced than any other thing built by the hand of man.
The lips on the figure moved, their movements roughly matching the sound that came forth. “Good evening, sir,” she said in perfect Russian. “May I help you?”
“Yes, Keiko,” Mironov replied. “Please bring me a drink… Kir Royale.”
“Yes, sir. Your favorite, sir.” One of the pinschers gave a low growl at the sound of the humanoid’s voice, which caused her head to turn in its direction. “And shall I put the dogs away, sir?”
“No, not now, Keiko.” Mironov took a draw on his cigar. He was pleased that the advanced emotional programming was working. The bot was showing irritation, one of the dozens of emotions that had been entered into her system over the last year. With each passing day, the differences between her and her distant human relatives were growing smaller and smaller. She was smarter and stronger than the average man or woman on the street, and her personality was blurring the lines even further.
“As you wish, sir,” she said with a slight bow.
The humanoid then turned and walked back into the chalet, her movements fluid. Just as she was about to enter, the man spoke again. “Keiko?”
The mechanical whine stopped. “Yes, sir?”
“Do we have any word from Jorg? He’s late.”
Keiko returned to the man’s side. She looked down at him, and her mouth started to move, but then—as if hearing some undetectable sound in the distance—she turned her head slightly and stared down the slope of the mountain. As she did so, her eyes changed. The iris and the pupil disappeared, and both eyes glowed with a soft aqua-blue light that extended out like beams into the darkness.
As she stared down the mountainside, her head turned left and right. After a few seconds, she said, “Sir, there is an automobile approaching.” A low whir came out of her head, much like the focusing of a camera, and the aqua of her eyes changed to a deeper blue. “I have identified a car coming up the mountain, sir. They are the lights of a BMW 740i sedan. Current year model.”
No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than headlights suddenly appeared through the fir trees on the slope below. The lights moved back and forth as the car made its way up the mountain. The min pins, hearing the noise of the engine, ran to the edge of the balcony and began to bark aggressively.
Keiko watched the dogs. There was almost the subtle look of irritation written on her face as her eyes transitioned from blue to red. “Shall I pull the dogs away, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary. Please bring my drink.”
“Yes, sir. Kir royale. Your favorite, sir.”
*
When Jorg Koehler finally stepped out of the elevator onto the fourth floor of the chalet, he was gripped by a rare emotion: fear. Mironov’s curt instructions to return to Switzerland meant that the billionaire wasn’t happy about how events had unfolded over the last couple of days. And whenever he wasn’t happy, someone paid the price. Koehler’s goal was to reassure the Russian that despite appearances, things were under control. Anything that hinted otherwise could jeopardize his position in the organization, or even worse.
As the German walked out onto the
balcony, Keiko gestured toward an empty chair. After Koehler took his seat, Keiko moved to his side and leaned forward. “May I get you something to drink, Mr. Koehler?”
“I’m fine,” he replied curtly. He despised the humanoid and always felt humiliated when forced to speak to her. Koehler was Bavarian, and Bavarians didn’t speak to machines. But he knew that she was Mironov’s crown jewel and kept those feelings to himself.
“Very well, sir,” she replied.
“You’re late,” said Mironov after a long and uncomfortable silence. Koehler looked over, hoping to read the Russian’s expression, but it was too dark. The only thing that stood out was the glowing red orb of his cigar.
“I apologize. Our flight was late.”
“I told you to always take an earlier flight so that any delays wouldn’t disrupt my plans. Make sure you do that next time. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Koehler clenched his jaw in the darkness. Mironov was the only person who had ever triggered anxiety inside of the German. It was not just the man’s penchant for violence, or his ties to the Russian mafia; there was something else that was hard to quantify—an evil, not bound by any moral authority or ethics. Just being in Mironov's presence was unsettling.
Koehler himself was greatly feared across the European continent. As a younger man he had served in the German Special Forces, the KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte. His rare combination of mental prowess, physical strength, and fearless demeanor put him on the fast track, and he soon rose to the top of his elite unit. Along the way, he gained a reputation as being one of the most ruthless fighters in the world. One astute observer had noted that the German’s body seemed chiseled out of one of the mountains in his native Bavaria.
After leaving the armed services, Koehler turned his attention to his own desires. Specifically, he focused on obtaining the lifestyle he’d never been able to enjoy while in the armed services, devoting himself to becoming the best security officer money could buy. In the years that followed, he built a record of near perfection in the business of protecting wealthy clients. None of those clients had ever had a security breach under the German’s watch, and there was also the dirty little secret that he could “eliminate” problems by whatever means necessary.