by John Sneeden
“By all means. I think I’ve been looking at it for too long.”
Carmen took the paper from him and examined it closely. Ross had e-mailed her a copy when she got the assignment, but this time she felt as though she were reading it with new eyes.
Zane watched his partner read. Carmen was sharp and had an uncanny ability to figure things out, but he doubted Higgs had left any hints in the letter. It looked as though someone had gotten here first and picked up whatever he had left.
Suddenly, Carmen’s brow furrowed, and she leaned forward. “Amanda…”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you tell me that your mother bought you that miniature Rosetta Stone as a gift years ago?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, is that what your dad is referring to in the letter?”
“Huh?”
Carmen slid the paper in front of Amanda. “Right here, your father’s postscript.” Carmen pointed to the bottom and continued. “It says, ‘Your mother would be so proud of you as well. I remember the cute little gift she gave you as a child—it turned out to be the key to your career and the key to the future!’”
“Right. That’s what I told you. I don’t see what you’re driving at though.”
“I think this is what we’ve been looking for. I think your dad has written some kind of clue on the Rosetta Stone… which is rather fitting.”
Zane was already walking over to the writing desk as Carmen finished her sentence. He picked up the replica and held it close to his face. It was made of hard plastic and was attached to a square metal base that weighted it down, much like the actual display in the British Museum.
Carmen and Amanda walked over and watched him examine the small object on each side. Finally, he handed it to Carmen. “That was a good guess, and it’s precisely the kind of thing we need to be looking for. Unfortunately I don’t see anything. Dead end.”
Carmen took the object from him and sat down at the desk. She turned on the lamp and examined the replica under the light. After a few seconds she frowned. “Not so fast.”
“What?” Zane asked.
“I think I see something. Amanda, go get me a knife from the kitchen.”
Amanda walked back to the kitchen and began rummaging through one of the drawers. Carmen ran her finger along the edge of the object. “Take a look at this.”
Zane leaned over for a better look. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Look at the edge.”
Zane squinted and then ran his finger along the side of the replica. “Interesting.”
Amanda returned and handed Carmen a steak knife. Carmen stuck it into a seam that ran along the side of the stone.
“Wait!” Amanda shouted.
“It’s fine,” Carmen said. “You’ll see in a moment.”
Carmen kept pushing the knife further in and then began to twist it back and forth. Suddenly there was a loud snapping sound. Amanda jumped and held her hand up to her mouth.
“Thank you, Ian Higgs,” Carmen said, smiling.
“What the…” Zane said, leaning over for a better look.
The replica had broken down the middle and separated into two equally sized pieces. The center of the souvenir was hollow, and a small piece of paper had fallen out of the cavity. Carmen grabbed the paper and held it up to her face. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“What?” Amanda asked.
“It looks like we’re going to Geneva.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NAMED AFTER THE favorite vodka of its Russian owner, the seventy-meter boat known as the Grey Goose sat motionless on the still waters of Lake Geneva. It was nighttime, and the boat was mostly dark, save only for several running lights that illuminated the dark waters underneath.
From a distance, the vessel appeared to be one of the side-wheel paddle steamers that transported tourists back and forth across the monstrous lake, and in its former life, that is exactly what it was. But the aged structure had been modified into a modern freshwater craft, more yacht than cruise boat.
Mironov had spared no expense in bringing about the transformation. He had enclosed three stories of seating and dining space. The third floor served as the central nervous system, with a bridge in the front and a communications post in the rear. The second—deck-level—floor contained a number of meeting rooms, as well as a small kitchen and dining area. On the first floor, below deck, were Mironov’s master suite and other living quarters, all on par with any five-star hotel.
Most residents in the towns adjoining the lake were familiar with what had come to be known as the floating estate, but none truly knew who owned it. Some were convinced that the man was Russian or Eastern European, while others claimed it was a wealthy Brit with a penchant for expensive vodka and younger women. A third group insisted the craft, adorned with antennae and satellite dishes, was some sort of aquatic intelligence agency, perhaps operating under the auspices of the European Union. Whatever the case, the boat was the source of endless conversations in the cafés and bistros of towns such as Lausanne and Montreux.
Jorg Koehler sat in a deck chair at the rear of the Grey Goose. A rifle lay across his lap, and Mironov’s three miniature pinschers lay huddled at his feet. Koehler had always thought it strange that the small dogs, with their thin coats of fur, enjoyed being out in the cold.
Two other guards patrolled the perimeter of the boat, pausing occasionally to look out over the water. Koehler shivered, still irritated that he had to wait outside in the freezing cold. He would have preferred the warm comfort of his room below deck, but that wasn’t an option that night. An important guest would be arriving soon. It was the guest’s first visit to the boat, and it was Koehler’s job to make sure he was welcomed aboard in a way that befitted his special relationship with the Russian.
As he pondered the nature of the impromptu visit, Koehler heard a low growl at his feet. One of the min pins, Athos, was sitting up, glaring into the black of the night. Koehler squinted, trying to see if he could make out any shapes on the water. He could see nothing, but he knew that the guest and his entourage must be close. The dogs always seemed to sense the man’s dark presence long before he actually arrived.
Finally, the German heard a distant hum from somewhere out on the water, which he recognized as a boat engine. As it grew louder, one of the other dogs, Aramis, rose to his feet and began barking along with Athos. Very soon all three were on their feet, growling, barking, and foaming at the mouth.
Koehler stood up and walked over to the side of the boat. The dogs followed, anxiously bouncing up and down in a futile attempt to see over the gunwale. The German lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned the water in the direction of Villeneuve, hoping to see the craft’s running lights. Spotting nothing, he let the binoculars drop down to his chest.
As soon as he did, he felt a chill spread across his body, and he knew immediately what it was. It was the cold, clammy feeling that always preceded the arrival of that guest. But Koehler was confused because he still couldn’t see the boat.
“Craft starboard!” shouted a voice from the other side of the stern.
Koehler cursed under his breath as he realized the man was coming from a different direction than expected. Apparently, he had embarked from Montreux, or had decided to swing around the Grey Goose before coming alongside. Either way, Koehler knew it was done on purpose. The man liked to keep people guessing and often changed plans for no logical reason.
As he crossed to the other side, Koehler felt another boat bump up against the Grey Goose. A few seconds later, a dark silhouette floated over the gunwale. The man’s head was covered with a hood, and a cape flapped behind him. The dogs suddenly began to whimper and scurried down a set of nearby stairs.
Koehler knew that the cape was a holdover from the man’s previous life as a Roman Catholic priest. Despite the fact that he had repudiated his former faith, he still seemed to enjoy its trappings. Koehler thought the whole thing was nothing more
than a pompous charade.
“Welcome, sir,” announced one of the guards who was standing at the top of the starboard ladder.
The man, Vincenzio Marrese, ignored the guard and continued toward Koehler. Four men, also adorned in hoods and capes, followed him.
“Sir,” Koehler said, bowing slightly.
Marrese stopped in front of Koehler, his face hidden under the hood. Coldness caused Koehler's muscles to freeze in response. “I trust all of the arrangements have been made?”
“Yes, they have, sir,” confirmed Koehler.
“Excellent. And Alexander?”
“He’s in the room you requested. I’ll take you there now.”
Marrese nodded and then followed Koehler through a nearby door, his disciples in tow. Once inside, the German led the group down the hall and turned left. A short distance after the turn, he stopped abruptly at a door on the left. Lifting his wrist, he spoke into a transmitter on his cuff. “The guest is here.”
*
A couple of minutes prior to the man’s entrance, Alexander Mironov felt a wave of coldness sweep into the room. Like Koehler, he immediately knew that Marrese had arrived. The two guards standing at the door suddenly stiffened, also aware of the approaching presence. Keiko sat in a seat directly across from Mironov, her face expressionless. If she knew the guest was on board, she didn’t show it.
The Russian glanced around one last time to make sure everything was in order. Whenever the priest ventured outside of his compound in Locarno, Switzerland, he insisted on full control of logistics, and on that occasion he had been even more controlling than usual. But everything seemed in order—black tapestries hung from all four walls, several plush chairs were arranged in a circle, and twenty-six candles were lit and scattered throughout the room.
The chill seemed to grow as footsteps approached in the hallway outside. A few seconds later, a voice crackled across the transmitter of one of the guards. “The guest is here.”
“Copy that.”
When the door opened, Marrese entered the room boldly, followed by his four disciples. Once inside, the priest pulled his hood back, revealing a small head and weak chin. A pointed goatee framed his cruel mouth, and his jet-black hair formed a widow’s peak. The priest had probably been a handsome man in his youth, but his appearance was hardened by age and the dark arts.
Mironov extended a hand. “Welcome to the Grey Goose, Vincenzio.”
The priest grasped Mironov’s hand and stared into his eyes. “A fine craft. Quite suitable for our stay.”
“Thank you. As you know, I have a strong dislike of hotels.”
“As do I.” The priest turned and examined the room. “Everything seems to be in order.” His eyes landed on Keiko, who was standing. “Your people won’t be needed.”
“Keiko, you can leave us now,” Mironov said.
“As you wish, sir,” said Keiko, bowing at the waist and walking toward the door. Just before stepping out, she paused and looked toward the priest. He seemed to sense her gaze and turned quickly toward the door. Their eyes locked briefly before Keiko finally bowed again and left the room.
“And the men as well.” Marrese gestured toward the guards.
Mironov frowned. “I always—”
“There will be no one else,” Marrese interrupted, his voice almost a hiss. Mironov thought he saw the candles flicker. He hesitated for a moment but then motioned for the guards to leave the room.
“We’ll be right outside, sir,” said the one with the transmitter.
The guest spoke to his disciples is a low voice, and they followed the guards out into the hallway. When the door was shut, the two men sat down facing one another.
“How was the trip?”
“Pleasant, actually,” Marrese replied, his eyes fixed on the Russian. “The lake is beautiful at night.”
“It’s why I spend so much of my time here.”
“Thank you for making all of the arrangements. As the date approaches, we need to make sure all of the final details stay between us. At the proper time, we can let your men know exactly what they need to do.”
Mironov nodded.
“I also want to repeat my concerns regarding that…” Marrese gestured toward the seat where Keiko had been sitting. It was almost as though he couldn’t bring himself to speak her name or even describe her.
“Keiko?”
“Yes. She’s not one of us, Alexander.”
“Of course not. She is a robot. A metal casing filled with software, nothing more.”
“No, she’s different. I’ve told you that before. Something passed to her from the traitor.” Mironov knew that his guest was referring to Higgs. “The Masters have told me.”
“You’ve mentioned that before,” Mironov said, “and I’ve had our best men look at her programming. She’s clean.”
The guest sat back in his seat and crossed his fingers. “Let me tell you something else I’ve learned. She’s in opposition to our plan.”
“You’re acting as though she’s human. As I said, she’s nothing more than a computer that can move.”
“She understands more than you realize.” Marrese stroked his goatee. “I understand all things spiritual, and I’m telling you here and now that she is going to be trouble. The Masters have never lied to me.”
“I’ll have Jorg keep an eye on her.”
“And what is the latest on the girl?”
Mironov squirmed in his seat, a bit uncomfortable with the topic. He’d hoped that it wouldn’t come up. “Well, there is a new development. She has returned to Europe.”
“What?” Marrese leaned forward in his chair.
“We were monitoring her credit card, and well… she has booked a flight to Vienna. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. My men will be there to follow her when she arrives.”
Marrese shook his head. “This is yet another thing I warned you about, Alexander. I told you we weren’t done with her.”
“Look, we don’t even know if this has anything to do with us,” Mironov explained, although he did remember Marrese's warning.
“And you also said it was a coincidence that the girl went to London. Then we find her meeting with a man, and apparently she passes something along to him. Then this same man easily escapes the surveillance of your men.”
“We still don’t know exactly what she did in London, although I agree with you that she was probably there because of the investigation. But Vienna is different. Higgs was never there, and I have no business interests there. None.”
“We don’t know that Higgs never went there. You told me yourself that you didn’t pick up any of his phone activity until later.”
“But why would Higgs have gone to Vienna?”
“Why not? He was simply trying to get away. And who knows who he met with or what he did while he was there.”
Mironov shrugged. “Everything we know indicates he went directly to London.”
The priest frowned. “This is much worse than you think. If it turns out she is still looking into this, we may need to find a way to eliminate the problem permanently.”
“You know I’ve never had a problem eliminating trouble when it’s come my way. I do want to proceed carefully with the girl, though. My government couldn’t care less about thugs and lowlifes. I’ve never even been questioned when we’ve had to put down problems. But, if we kill this girl, everything changes. The Americans will get involved. As it stands, they’re letting the Brits take the lead, and the Brits still think Higgs was killed by one of his creditors. But if the daughter shows up dead, you can rest assured everything will change.”
“This is true,” said the priest, nodding. “And yet, we may have no other choice. I will continue to consult with the Masters.”
“And as I said, my men are already in place in Vienna. My guess is she’s there to see a friend or attend some convention.”
Marrese ignored Mironov’s last comment and stood up. He walked over to the table, picked
up one of the candles, and stared at the flickering flame. After a few seconds of thought, he looked sideways at Mironov. “And now we must discuss another important matter. Have you made arrangements to obtain the code?”
“Yes, I have,” said Mironov. “We’re going to pick it up tomorrow night.”
“And you’re sure we can’t be connected to this man?”
“Impossible. We’ve always used encrypted lines when communicating with him. He has no idea who we are, and we can’t be connected to him in any way.”
“How do you know he hasn’t told someone about the calls or the payment?”
“First of all, the man is a loner,” Mironov reassured him. “He never seems to leave his flat. The epitome of a loser. In fact, that’s one of the reasons he was selected.” Mironov then leaned back in his seat. “But the other reason is that we have been monitoring him night and day. He doesn’t make a call that we don’t know about. The man doesn’t even relieve himself without us knowing about it.”
The former priest seemed satisfied with Mironov’s explanation. “And you remember what else the Masters told me about this man? That we can’t risk him speaking after this is all over?”
Mironov seemed uncomfortable with the topic but nodded.
“And you’re prepared to carry it out?”
“I am.”
The priest smiled, and much to Mironov’s surprise, the candles flickered in unison.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ZANE LOOKED AT the piece of paper a fourth time, as if the content might magically change, but it still only gave an address and a time: Place Bourg-Saint-Pierre, 1204 Geneva, Switzerland 10:00.
Frustrated, he handed it back to Carmen, who shrugged. “Well, it’s better than nothing. And we know what to do next.”
“Dad was an engineer. Everything he did was logical and methodical,” Amanda explained. “That means if we go to that address at that time, we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
“One thing is illogical, though,” Zane said.
“What’s that?” Amanda asked.
“Your father is sending us to a church. I’ve been to Geneva a half dozen times, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s the address for the St. Pierre Cathedral.”