The Signal

by John Sneeden

  VanGelder smiled. In the few minutes since they had met, he had already developed a rapport with the Russian. They were cut from the same cloth, pioneers in an age in which small-minded men seemed to be content with technological advances that simply made life a little easier or stimulated pleasure. They both saw the twenty-first century as an era in which the very concept of man would change. Advances in technology would not only allow him to live longer and better, but with dogged persistence, they might achieve the very thing society had sought through religion: the immortality of the human.

  But the thing that VanGelder liked most about the Russian financier was not his vision of eternal life here on earth; rather, it was his realization that man need not be limited to earth. There were new horizons to imagine, new frontiers to conquer, and he planned on helping Mironov reach that goal.

  “Thank you,” said VanGelder. “I think you will find my speech tonight inspiring. There are doubters and mockers, of course, but I think my words are going to stir adventure in the hearts of those who are willing to listen. The way I see it, they can either join us, or they can be relegated to the dustbin of the last century.”

  A door opened across the room, momentarily letting in the noisy din of the gala. A server stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He walked over to VanGelder and offered the scientist a flute of champagne from the serving platter.

  VanGelder held up a hand. “No, I never drink before—”

  “Markus, please,” said Mironov, running a hand back through his gelled hair. “I went to the trouble of purchasing the very best that money can buy. This is our special moment together. I want us to be able to look back ten years from now and remember this glass as the beginning of our partnership.”

  The Dutch scientist hesitated for a moment. He was a disciplined man and didn’t like to break the habits he had formed over the years. But the Russian was right—it was a special moment, and special moments were meant to be celebrated.

  “Of course,” replied VanGelder, a smile spreading across his face.

  As the server bent over and placed the flute on the table, VanGelder couldn’t help but notice his appearance. Undoubtedly the poor soul had been in some sort of horrific accident, as a long jagged scar ran down the right side of his face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CLEAVON SKINNER BACKED his motorcycle into a parking spot along the Quai du Seujet, ensuring that he could make a quick exit if necessary. After checking in both directions to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he stepped off the bike and crossed the street. Once on the other side, he turned left on the walkway that ran along the river.

  About a minute later, he found what he was looking for: an observation point he had located earlier that day on Google Maps. The secluded spot consisted of a long wooden bench that was nestled inside an alcove of well-manicured bushes. The location would provide the perfect vantage point to keep watch over the Bâtiment across the river.

  Instead of taking a seat, Skinner continued a short distance down the river in order to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He looked around at the lighted buildings, playing the role of a tourist out for an evening stroll. After walking for approximately a hundred yards, he returned to the bench and sat down.

  Once settled, the operative lifted his hand and spoke softly into a microphone clipped to his cuff. “Skinner here. In position. Over.”

  A few seconds later, Brett’s voice crackled through his earbud. “Copy that. What is your sight line? Over.”

  “Directly across from Walmart. No obstructions,” replied Skinner. Walmart was the operational code name for the Bâtiment.

  While waiting for Brett to respond, Skinner pulled a night-vision monocular out of his backpack and lifted it to his eye. He then pointed it at the building across the river and brought it into focus. The first thing that grabbed his attention was the purple light that was glowing out of each window—a strange sort of atmosphere for a gathering of scientists.

  Skinner noted the throngs of well-dressed people pressed up against the glass. He guessed the crowd was a mixture of scientific glitterati, government officials, and random groups of pretty guests who always seemed to find a way to get into those types of events.

  “Copy that,” said Brett. “How does the pedestrian bridge look?”

  Skinner lowered the monocular and looked to his right. “All clear. One couple walking across. That’s it.”

  “Copy that. Can you see into Walmart?”

  “I can,” Skinner replied, lifting the monocular once again.

  “Lots of shoppers?”

  “Yes.”

  “How good is the view? Any chance of seeing Gorbachev or the Exorcist?” Brett asked, using the code names of the targets.

  “Very little chance of that. Too many attractive dresses blocking my view.”

  “Copy that. I may need to come out and do some shopping myself.” Skinner heard Brett pecking away at his laptop. A few seconds later, Brett said, “I’ve been unable to locate any CCTVs inside. We’re going to need to rely on our two shoppers.”

  “Are they in place?”

  “They’ve been inside the store for approximately thirty-two minutes.” Brett had been able to commandeer a CCTV near the front entrance, and had therefore seen Carmen and Reid step out of their taxi about a half hour earlier.

  “Any word?”

  “Negative, although that’s not a concern. First check-in will be upon visual confirmation of targets.”

  “Copy that.” Skinner heard footsteps approaching and said, “Hey, I may need to sign out.” He slid the monocular down into an open pocket on his backpack and whispered into his cuff, “Third party approaching. Will check in later.”

  “Copy that.”

  As Skinner moved his hand away from his mouth, two shadows appeared on the cement to his left, approaching slowly.

  In one smooth movement, the operative reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his hand around the grip of his SIG Sauer P226 pistol.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “WOULDN’T IT JUST be easier to approach someone working the event?” asked Reid as he and Carmen walked toward a circle of men.

  “Negative. Asking someone official would raise all sorts of red flags,” Carmen said. “Men who’ve been boozing it up won’t question anything. Besides, you can always get more information out of a drunk.”

  “You mean, women can always get more information out of a drunk.”

  “You got it,” she replied with a wink. “Just step aside and let me do my thing.”

  Carmen had already identified the men as CERN employees because of the circular symbol on each of their nametags. Reid had managed to find VanGelder’s image on the Internet using his smartphone, so they knew he was not one of the men in the group, but the Italian still thought she might be able to solicit their help.

  Running her fingers through her hair one last time, she stepped up to the closest man and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” she asked in English. When he turned around, she asked, “By chance, are you Markus VanGelder?”

  The man was tall with short salt-and-pepper hair. As soon as his eyes settled on Carmen, his face broke into a wide grin. Carmen smiled to herself. Some things were just too easy.

  “No, but I wish I was,” the man replied, his eyes still taking her in. “He is younger and has much more money than I do. But may I offer myself as a suitable replacement?”

  The man extended his hand. Carmen shook it firmly and said, “I’m so sorry. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what he looks like. Do you know where I can find him?” She gestured toward Reid. “My brother is a big fan of his, and I’d like to get a picture.”

  “I see.” The man gave Reid a slight frown, turned back toward Carmen, and said, “Well, you’re in luck.” The man turned around toward the rear of the room. As he scanned the crowd, he frowned. “That’s funny…”

  “What?”

  “He was back there talking to someone j
ust a few minutes ago. And now I don’t see him. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to get you a drink so that—”

  “Can you show me exactly where he was?” Carmen interrupted.

  The man shrugged and gestured toward the back. “He was standing in front of one of those doors. I remember, because he was talking to a colleague of mine.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” the man said, giving her a quizzical look.

  She realized she sounded a little too intense for someone just seeking a photo for her brother. “Okay cool. That’s fine. You’ve been a big help. We’ll just wander back that way,” she said, jerking a thumb toward row of doors at the rear. “If we find him, great. If not, then that’s fine too.”

  And with that she bowed slightly as they turned and left.

  *

  The man stared at the two operatives as they walked away. There was something about the couple that bothered him, particularly the girl. Despite having already consumed five flutes of champagne, CERN’s associate director of security still had enough wits about him to know that the raven-haired beauty wasn’t searching for Markus VanGelder so that she could take his picture. No, she had been too inquisitive, almost desperate even, to find the Dutch physicist. A part of him doubted that it was anything serious, but at the same time he had learned to always trust his gut. And his gut told him that the two people who walked away were trouble.

  Draining the last of his champagne, he resolved to look into the matter further.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ZANE FOUND IT hard to believe that the guards hadn’t noticed there was a scaling knife in the bottom of the boat, not far from his feet. It was a stroke of good fortune that seemed inconceivable for a professional security team. But Zane didn’t have time to wonder why that piece of good fortune had been delivered to his doorstep. That would be a conversation for later, perhaps over a tall mug of beer at the Oracle’s favorite watering hole, the Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington. For now, his sole focus was bringing the knife into reach without being seen.

  As Zane observed the men at the front, he noticed that one of them looked back toward the rear about every two minutes or so. He was much more alert than his partner, so Zane was careful to keep still and not open his eyes more than necessary.

  Zane used the time in between the man’s glances to extend his foot toward the knife, one slow inch at a time. But when his foot was only a couple of inches away, he had a two-fold problem. One, he was extending his leg about as far as he could without sliding further out in his seat, and sliding was exactly the kind of movement that might be seen out of the man’s peripheral vision. Two, it probably wasn’t smart to leave his leg extended like that, because at some point the man might notice.

  As Zane pondered his next move, the boat swayed a bit. He looked up just in time to see one of the men stand and toss another cigarette into the Rhone. It looked as though the man might turn around, so Zane pulled his foot back. But rather than turn, the man simply stretched and said something to the other man before sitting back down.

  Zane cursed under his breath. That was five wasted minutes. He had been only moments from pulling the knife back with his foot and then picking it up. Once the knife was in hand, it would be child’s play to cut the cuffs and dive into the icy water. Zane had also determined that if once in the water, he could easily swim around the corner of the building without coming up for air.

  But he couldn’t afford to go through another five-minute exercise just to get his foot in position. The men at the front of the boat were moving more, which was perhaps an indication that the others would return soon. And if they did, the opportunity to retrieve the knife would be gone.

  Zane knew that once the big event was over, he would become an expendable commodity. They would take him to some point along the river, put a bullet through his head, and sink him into the murky depths of the Rhone.

  Which led him to one simple conclusion: when the time was right, he would make a bold move, one that would be the difference between life and death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  SKINNER SLOWLY RELEASED the hold on the pistol in his pocket. The approaching shadows had turned out to be a man walking his well-coiffed bichon frise. The elderly Swiss gent had tried to engage the operative in small talk, but Skinner was able to dismiss him by feigning an inability to understand French. Eventually, the man shrugged and walked away with his dog in tow, muttering something about rude tourists taking over the city.

  Skinner checked the time on his phone. Based on Brett’s report, Carmen and Reid had been inside for the better part of thirty-five minutes. In all likelihood, the delay in communication was likely the result of having to sort through the hundreds of people attending. And of course, it was also possible that Mironov had not shown, perhaps due to the events on board the yacht. Anything was possible.

  The operative lifted his monocular and took another look across the river. He could still see the crowd of people pressed up against the windows from one end to another. It was highly unlikely he’d be able to spot Mironov, yet the Russian did have physical features that could be discerned from a distance.

  After several minutes, Skinner tired of the scanning the attendees and moved his monocular to examine the exterior of the building once again. When he did his body tensed as he caught the hint of movement down low near the water. He didn’t recall a walkway on the river side of the building. And yet, he knew something had moved. The area under the windows was dark, but Skinner moved the monocular around until he finally saw a dark object floating in the river. He turned the focus wheel until the image took shape, and when it did, his heart began to race. There was a boat with at least two figures huddled inside.

  Despite turning the wheel back and forth, he was unable to make out any more detail. But the one thing that did become clear was that the boat was out of place. No attendee would have arrived by boat in such cold temperatures. And Skinner doubted that a Christmas party would require any sort of maritime security—for high-ranking politicians, yes, but not for physicists.

  Taking a deep breath, the pulled his phone out and dialed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  REID’S PHONE BEGAN to vibrate in his pocket just as he and Carmen arrived at the row of doors at the rear of the hall. Pulling it out, he stared at the screen for a moment before tapping Carmen on the arm to indicate she should stop.

  He then answered the phone as if taking a casual call. “Reid here.”

  “I think you have company,” said Skinner.

  “Who? Where?”

  “A boat. It’s sitting in the river behind the building.”

  “Anyone in it?”

  “At least two, perhaps more. It’s very dark down near the waterline, so that’s the best I can do.”

  “Where exactly?” Reid asked softly as two people walked past him.

  “Not far from where the building turns. There appears to be a dock, with several doors leading out to that dock. Can you see them?”

  “Hold on a sec.”

  Reid leaned toward Carmen and relayed what Skinner had seen outside.

  “If these doors lead to rooms,” she said, pointing toward the ones near where they were standing, “then I’m sure we can get to the outside through there. Tell him to hold tight and keep watching. And tell him to be ready to follow that boat if necessary.”

  Reid nodded, relayed Carmen’s instructions to Skinner, and ended the call.

  “He’s right,” said Reid in a low voice. “Something is going down. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Oh my.” Carmen grabbed Reid’s arm. “Look.”

  “Look where?”

  “Over there, by the second door.”

  Reid turned his head slightly and saw a bald man standing just outside. “So what? He looks like one of the staff.”

  “That is not one of the staff.” Carmen tried to look in another direction. “That’s the bald goon w
ho chased Amanda Higgs and me across Lake Geneva.”

  “And you recognize his bald skin how? There are probably dozens of bald men in here.”

  “I’m telling you, that’s him. I’d know that face and that head anywhere.”

  “Well, if you’re right, it means we’ve probably found Mironov.”

  Carmen pulled Reid behind a group of people so they could watch the man without being seen. She didn’t think he’d recognize her in this setting, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The man suddenly looked at the floor and touched the side of his head, as if listening to an earpiece. He nodded a couple of times, spoke into his cuff, and then looked around before entering the door behind him.

  Carmen looked at Reid. “It’s time. Let’s move.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  IT WAS SOON after draining the last of the champagne that Markus VanGelder began to feel light-headed, more than he should have after one drink.

  “Well, I must say this is good… very good,” he announced, staring at the empty flute. He chuckled. “I don’t drink much anymore, and it shows.”

  After setting the glass on the table, he looked over at Mironov. The Russian had a blank stare on his face, and he was no longer smiling. “I only drink the best.”

  “I can tell,” replied VanGelder. He dropped his head and rubbed his temple, confused at the potency of the drink. “I’m embarrassed to say… I’m really feeling this one. I need to be careful…”

  “Just relax,” said Mironov.

  As the symptoms grew worse, VanGelder raised his head and looked around the room. The table and chairs appeared fuzzy and were running together, almost as though his contact lenses had suddenly been removed. Despite his fading cognition, VanGelder began to realize it wasn’t the effect of the alcohol. Alarmed, he suddenly swiveled his head toward the Russian. “What did you do? What did you put…?”