The Signal

by John Sneeden

  As they began to walk, he also picked up a smell that rode in on a breeze that was coming in off of the water. It was the distinctive smell of cooked meat. Were they near a restaurant? Or was it one of those kiosks that often lined public docks? Whatever the case, it confirmed they were in a public area of some kind.

  “We’re almost there,” said the voice, poking Zane in the side with a pistol. “No funny business.”

  A few seconds later, Zane felt the distinctive knock of wood under his feet as they stepped up onto a dock. The sound of the squawking gulls was closer then, with some of them even flying overhead.

  By Zane’s count it was twenty-five steps later that a hand grabbed his shoulder, indicating he should stop. The men spoke in Russian, and then two sets of hands grabbed him under each arm. He was lifted into the air, and his feet dragged over the gunwale of a boat. When they lowered him into a cushioned seat, the craft rocked slightly, indicating it was smaller boat.

  Seconds later the engine growled to life as they backed away from the dock. The driver shifted out of reverse and opened the throttle, which caused the prow to lift into the air. Wherever they were going, they weren’t wasting any time.

  With his cuffs off, Zane briefly considered jumping out of the boat. He could feel the gunwale on the right side of his body, and it would only have taken a second to dive over the side. But he soon realized that would be instant suicide. They were likely in the middle of the lake, and he had little chance of making it to shore, even with his ability to swim underwater, before they could circle back and grab him. No, he would wait for a better opportunity, one in which the chances were stacked in his favor.

  About fifteen minutes after leaving the dock, Zane felt the boat slow a bit. Voices shouted at them, which likely meant they were approaching a dock or another craft. A few seconds later the boat bumped up against something, and the engine was killed.

  Hands grabbed him once again, this time pulling him over a gunwale that was much higher. They were boarding a larger craft.

  “Lift your hands,” barked a new voice, which Zane immediately recognized as that of the German.

  Zane obeyed, and his wrists were secured with metal cuffs. He heard a door creaking open a few feet away, and he was unceremoniously shoved forward. Once inside, the butt of a rifle was pushed against his spine as they walked. A few seconds later, they turned left and then came to a stop.

  “The package is here,” the German said in English.

  There was a beep, and Zane heard another voice respond through a speaker, “Copy that.”

  Zane heard a door creak open. He was pushed forward, and then the hands lowered him into a chair, more gently than before. Apparently, there was a new audience.

  The operative stiffened. There was something in the room. A presence—a darkness that sent a chill down his spine. He was surprised at how clearly he understood that there was evil lurking close by.

  Soon fingers undid the clasp at the back of his head, and the blindfold was removed. The room was dark, just as he had expected, but the view that spread out in front of him was nothing he could’ve ever imagined. He was sitting in the middle of a room lit by dozens of small votive candles that flickered on tabletops.

  Zane blinked a few times and then noticed the man sitting directly in front of him. He knew immediately that the man was Alexander Mironov. The few pictures he’d seen didn’t do him justice. He was a physically imposing man, and his muscular build could be seen even through the Italian suit he was wearing. Zane also noted that his dark brown hair was combed straight back with gel.

  But strangely, the operative realized something else: Mironov was not the source of the evil he sensed in the room. Unless he was mistaken, that was coming from a place to his right, just out of view in a dark part of the room. Zane also realized that the presence was that of a man.

  “Welcome to the Grey Goose,” said Mironov in accented English.

  “Alexander Mironov, I presume?”

  Mironov laughed a hoarse laugh that ended with a cough. “Why am I not surprised that you know who I am? After all, if someone breaks into one of my offices, it’s likely they know a little bit about me.”

  “I always do my homework.”

  “But perhaps you missed the lesson on getting away,” Mironov replied.

  “Or perhaps you missed the fact that class isn’t over,” Zane retorted, his eyes fixed on the Russian billionaire.

  Mironov’s smile turned quickly into a frown. “It seems the mouse would taunt the cat just before the cat tires of playing and ends its life. You’re alive only because I’ve decided to keep you alive.”

  “And I can only assume there must be a good reason for that.”

  “There is a good reason.” Mironov pulled a cigar out of his suit. He used a match to light the end slowly, puffing a few times to get it started. Assured it was properly lit, he looked across the table and said, “To be honest, we need you.”

  “You need me?”

  “You’re an American.” He took another draw and blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “And we know Americans don’t like their own to die. If we get into a tight spot, you’re going to be our ticket out of it.”

  “A hostage? I’m disappointed. Isn’t that a bit messy for a man of your stature?”

  The Russian ignored his question. “In the meantime, why don’t we get to know one another? In fact, why don’t we start with your name?”

  Zane made a show of patting his pants pockets. “It seems someone on your staff confiscated my identification, my phone, and who knows what else. I think you know very well who I am. My name is Michel—”

  “Must we continue to play these games? We welcome you aboard, and the first thing you do is lie like a little child. Surely you know enough about me to know that I’m no fool.”

  Zane looked down at his cuffed hands and said, “I guess you and I have a different definition of the word ‘welcome.’”

  Mironov laughed again. “You know, we will play your little game for now… Monsieur Bergeron. But please know that I’m not a man who is known for his patience. Nor do I tolerate lies. Those who have lied to me in the past have taken up residence at the bottom of the Volga.” Mironov took another draw on his cigar and blew the smoke toward Zane. “And shall we also pretend that you don’t work for the CIA or some other agency of the US government?”

  “I think we both know I was in your building for a very specific reason.” Zane knew there was little reason to hide the fact that he had broken in, but he was determined to leave it at that. “So does it really matter who I work for?”

  Mironov ignored the question. “So exactly why were you in my office?”

  “I was trying to find out why a Russian billionaire would want to kill an innocent man in cold blood on the streets of London.”

  Mironov let out a sigh. “Higgs. Of course. It always comes back to him.” He tapped the end of his cigar on an ashtray. “Yes, unfortunately that became necessary. Smart man, but how do you say in English? Very little common sense.”

  “He had enough sense to leave Renaissance.”

  “And that 'sense’ got him killed. You know, that is the trouble with you Americans—you’re always putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  Zane sensed the Russian was willing to talk, probably because he planned on killing him at some point in the near future. “I’m confused. You hired him. He never solicited the job. In fact, he was on the way back to the States when you killed him. If anything, it looks like he just wanted out. That’s hardly putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “As I said, Ian Higgs was a smart man. Maybe too smart for his own good.” The candlelight danced on the Russian’s face as he pondered how much he should say. “But he made a fatal mistake.”

  “And what was that?” Zane asked.

  “It’s very simple. He forgot that he was an engineer,” Mironov said. “Engineers build things, Monsieur Bergeron. They build things, and they
keep things running. What they don’t do is stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “So you killed an innocent man because he asked too many questions?”

  “No, Ian isn’t dead because he asked too many questions. Ian is dead because he made a decision to stand in the way of progress.” Mironov took another draw on his cigar, letting the smoke snake slowly out of his mouth. “The world is about to change in ways that you can’t imagine.”

  Zane noticed that as Mironov finished, he glanced toward the corner where Zane had sensed the dark presence. Zane wondered if he was making sure that whoever was sitting there approved of the conversation. Mironov continued, “Sadly, Ian decided he wasn’t on board with some things he had discovered. And in the end, I couldn’t risk letting one man bring down what had taken me so long to build.”

  Silence fell over the room, and the candlelight played on Mironov’s face like strange dancing fairies.

  “He must have discovered some pretty bad things if it caused him to leave without warning.”

  Mironov glanced across the room again. “I’m a visionary,” the Russian said. “And a visionary is never understood in his time.”

  “Hitler was a visionary,” Zane said. Mironov’s transhumanist leanings were starting to come out. “And I think you and your fellow countrymen are probably glad he was stopped.”

  “Hitler’s goal was the creation of a master race, Monsieur Bergeron,” Mironov replied. “Surely you know history well enough to know that. He wasn’t trying to better mankind—in fact, I would say that in attempting to limit knowledge and power to one race, he was limiting man’s potential. We are expanding man’s potential, bringing great opportunity to the entire planet.”

  “I told you a little earlier that I always do my homework, and part of my homework assignment was to learn a little bit about the man you killed—Ian Higgs. And when I looked into this man’s life, I discovered that he was a decent man, something that’s hard to find these days. Not perfect, but a decent and stable man. So please tell me why he would oppose something that would supposedly bring so much good to the planet. It doesn’t add up.”

  “As I told you before, visionaries aren’t always appreciated in their day,” Mironov said, rubbing his chin with two fingers. “It takes a special person to see the beauty of what we’re doing.”

  “Why would the beauty be so hard to see?”

  “Because in order to become a butterfly, the insect must fight its way violently out of a cocoon,” Mironov explained. “Unfortunately, there are those who will only see the initial struggle, the violence that is coming, and not the greater good.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re talking about, although it sounds like you’re going to kill more people.” Zane did understand Mironov’s figurative point but wanted the Russian to keep talking.

  “Don’t worry, the fog will lift soon, and you’ll be able to see everything clearly. But here is the best news.” The Russian took another draw on the cigar. After exhaling the smoke dramatically, he said, “You’re going to have a front-row seat for the event. Unfortunately for you, just as you begin to figure it all out, you’ll be dead.”

  “You’re such a tease. How about a sneak preview?”

  The Russian stared at the long-haired man sitting across from him. “A new age is descending upon mankind,” he finally said. “New technology is coming to the world. And we’re going to introduce you to the people who are going to help us develop it.”

  “You do remember that there was a man who put you on that cutting edge, don’t you? Unfortunately, you killed him.”

  Mironov laughed. “If you think Ian Higgs was the centerpiece of what we’re doing here at Renaissance, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought. Ian knew robotics. He was the most brilliant mind in the industry. But this isn’t about robotics. This is about a revolution. Technology is coming to us—to me actually—that will make the advances of the last hundred years look like the Stone Age.”

  “If such people existed, their work would already be known.”

  “You seem like a well-educated man, Monsieur Bergeron. So tell me something… Who built the Great Pyramid?”

  Zane shrugged. “The Greeks said it was built by slaves. Tens of thousands of slaves.”

  “Maybe it’s my English,” Mironov said, adjusting in his chair. “I wasn’t asking you who moved the giant stones to the site. And I wasn’t asking you who pulled those stones up the ramps. I’m asking you who designed the structures of ancient Egypt. Who designed each and every one of those structures we can look at and touch with our hands today?”

  “The engineers of their time. I haven’t a clue, and I’m not sure it really matters.”

  “You are wrong. See, you’re not a dreamer. It does matter who designed them. It matters because the designers possessed technology that was thousands of years ahead of its time. Thousands.” Mironov lifted his hands into the air in dramatic fashion. “Do you realize that the pyramids and every other ancient structure in Egypt were constructed so precisely that we had no way of duplicating them until the advent of modern laser technology? And do you realize that the technology that they had then surpassed what even exists today?”

  Zane was beginning to wonder if Mironov was mentally stable. The conversation was growing more bizarre with each passing moment. “So you dug something up?”

  “No, we haven’t dug anything up.”

  “Humor me. Who or what are you talking about?”

  “Monsieur Bergeron, I’ve already told you. I’m talking about the designers.”

  Silence filled the room. Zane frowned as an obscure piece of information, something he had read long ago, pierced his thoughts. He decided to ask one final question. “Are you saying you found the ancient designers?”

  Mironov, his oiled hair glistening in the candlelight, leaned forward and spoke in a whisper, “We haven’t found them, Monsieur Bergeron. We’ve come to Geneva to call them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SOMETIMES THE VOICES in Vincenzio Marrese’s head came in snippets and sometimes in full sentences, but rarely were they as clear as they were the moment Mironov and the captive left the room. He knew instinctively that the clarity was a testament to the importance of the information being imparted.

  His eyes widened in the flickering candlelight as the Masters gave him both revelation and instruction. Marrese focused with all his willpower because he knew none of it would be repeated.

  When the voices finally departed, a line of sweat ran down his forehead and soaked into his brow. The information that had been delivered was shocking: the American had been hiding something from them, and had it not been revealed, it could have brought down the entire operation.

  When the voices departed, a smile broke over Marrese’s face. A crisis had been averted. Nothing could change the course of destiny.

  *

  Zane was just drifting off to sleep when the men burst into the room. Despite his groggy state, he was able to count three of them as soon as the light turned on. Two of them restrained him, while another pushed up Zane’s sleeve and examined his arm. After finding what he was looking for, the man pulled out a radio, pressed a button on the side, and spoke in Russian. The voice that answered was that of Alexander Mironov.

  After listening for a few seconds, the man placed the radio back in his pocket and removed a small black pouch from his jacket. Zane watched as he unzipped it, displaying the contents. Inside were two things he hadn’t expected to see—a syringe and a scalpel.

  Zane squirmed as the man lifted the syringe and pressed it against his bicep. A second later the point of the needle disappeared into his flesh.

  About a minute later, just as he realized what the men were doing, everything began to fade to black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  PAVEL TAMIROV SAT at the back of the Grey Goose, staring out across the dark waters of Lake Geneva. The boat had slowly moved across the lake earlier in the day,
and was anchored about three miles north of Geneva.

  Hit with a sudden thought, he turned and peered down the side of the boat toward the front. He could just barely make out the dark shapes of the two other guards, Anatoli and Fedor. They faced the other direction and were engaged in conversation. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity to enjoy a smoke, so he set his rifle down and reached into his coat pocket. His fingers fumbled around until they finally closed on a pack of menthol cigarettes. He pulled out the pack and tapped it against his hand until several of the slender sticks slid into view. He placed one in his mouth and lit it quickly with a cheap butane lighter.

  He knew that such an indulgence was forbidden while on duty, but he didn’t really care. He had been in a foul mood for most of the day and wasn’t going to be denied a small moment of pleasure.

  His foul mood had begun shortly after another boat had arrived that afternoon. The smaller craft was filled with Russian and Ukrainian beauties, leggy blondes and brunettes that one could easily imagine walking down a runway in Paris or New York. Flown in from Moscow on a chartered flight, they were said to be a gift from Mironov himself. The big event, the one nobody dared to discuss, was about to take place, and to celebrate, the Russian billionaire wanted to give his men a night of pleasure before the final preparations began.

  All that seemed fine until Pavel received some startling news from Dmitry Navalny, otherwise known as the Serpent because of the tattoo on his neck. The Serpent told him that he and two other members of the team would not be indulging their fantasies below deck after all. Due to their short time with the organization, they’d been chosen to keep watch over the ship. Mironov never allowed the boat to just sit in the water without at least three security personnel keeping watch. The Serpent went on to explain that there might be another opportunity with the women after the big event took place, but until then he would take one for the team. And while it made sense, Pavel still burned with anger over the decision. In fact, the anger was magnified as he thought about what might be going on below deck.