The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  It was finally time to get to work. He opened his old laptop, checked that the WiFi switch was still off, and called up the entry and exit logs he had gotten from Kennedy. Those logs would tell him who was on-site during the periods the data access logs had been modified. And perhaps explain what was really happening at Omega.

  * * *

  By ten-thirty breakfast had come and gone—it had been as delicious as it was artfully presented—and he was working on the last, and earliest, event. So far only one individual had been present during the suspicious hours.

  A few minutes later he had his answer.

  There was only one person on the Omega premises each of those nights. The person who had doctored the log files to hide something. For what purpose?

  He had to tell Slattery. And that meant going to Maddock.

  Braxton grabbed his new bag and headed for the door. Passing a mirror, he saw he looked more like a vagrant than a well-heeled tourist. His jacket was streaked with dirt and his pants and shirt appeared to be permanently creased in all the wrong places. A new set of clothes was definitely in order. He added another stop to his planned itinerary.

  Back in the lobby, the concierge quickly recovered from his surprise at seeing the ill-kempt guest and provided precise directions to the nearest Globus department store—undoubtedly pleased the guest was going to upgrade his appearance—and also made recommendations on nearby sights.

  Braxton walked outside to a day feeling much like Boston. It was cool, with a mild breeze, but the morning sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. The familiar weather took away at least some of his feelings of isolation. The department store was near Place du Molard, so he retraced his steps from the previous evening. It felt good to get out and exercise his body.

  Globus was a huge, modern department store, taking up a whole block on the Rue du Rhone, not unlike the Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s he knew from D.C. His American Express card in hand, he roamed the aisles searching for a new wardrobe. Half an hour later he had purchased four sets of underwear, two pairs of slacks, three shirts, a new sports coat, a jogging outfit and new Adidas running shoes.

  This experience had taught him two things. First, he now understood why Geneva was considered one of the most expensive cities in the world, and second, Slattery had been realistic in setting his credit limit.

  He didn’t want to lug his purchases all over Geneva and now was anxious to get out of his current attire, so he decided to return to the Métropole. On his way, he stopped at a small croissanterie and grabbed a sandwich and Coke. As he watched the flow of business people and tourists from his outdoor table he thought of his life in Northern Virginia. What was happening at Cerberus? Karen must be beside herself. Slattery had said Sam would contact her—he was sure his friend would—but he shuddered to think of her response to the call. He had to get this problem resolved and get his life back to normal. Whatever that was.

  He smiled at the concierge as he walked to the elevators and again when he emerged a few minutes later in his new clothes. The concierge nodded with an approving smile.

  It seemed early to visit Maddock, the day was only half over, so Braxton set out on a walking tour. Realizing he no longer had a cell phone, he grabbed a hotel map on his way out.

  Immediately across the street from the hotel, in the Jardin Anglais, was the L’Horloge Fleurie, the Geneva Flower Clock. According to his map, the clock, made of colorful flowers lying on a gently sloping hillside, passed time with both the movement of its giant hands—the second hand was at least two and a half meters long—and seasonal flowers arranged in and around the dial. This fall, the display was a pattern of brilliant reds and purples.

  He had worn his new running shoes, so he took a loop through the park, marveling at stately stands of trees and well-manicured gardens. His legs were finally beginning to feel like his own. Coming to the edge of the park, he paused at the railing overlooking Lac Leman. Across the water was the most famous of Geneva’s landmarks, the Jet d’Eau. Every second of every day, five hundred liters of water were pumped at two hundred kilometers an hour into the air. The resulting geyser rose one hundred forty meters into the air, descending in a graceful plume back to the lake. He could feel the cold spray from the plume on his face.

  Braxton couldn’t imagine the hydraulics necessary for such a feat. The Métropole concierge had said that the only thing more secret in Geneva than the workings of its banks was the engineering behind the pumps of the Jet.

  After marveling at the Jet, Braxton turned right onto Rue Pierre-Fatio to return to the city. A few blocks later he came to Rond-point de Rive, a huge traffic circle at the junction of four major avenues. The circle was so big its center contained both a tram and bus stop.

  His new shoes had loosened, threatening blisters, so he entered the circle and sat down on one of the concrete benches to tighten his laces. Watching the cars stream by, he realized he had never seen so many exotic automobiles in one location. In his short trip thus far, he has seen more Ferraris, Porsches, Bentleys and Lamborghinis than in all his years in D.C. There was little question as to the wealth present in this city.

  He heard a sound, and his world stopped.

  * * *

  “Help! Au secours!”

  Every nerve in his body burst into flame. It was the same voice. The voice of the street urchin in Cambridge. But how?

  He forced his head up and looked toward the sound. All he saw was a girl riding a bicycle around the circle. Curly blond hair bounced around her head as she rode past.

  Then he saw five more children riding behind her. They weren’t in danger, at least not from each other. They were all yelling as kids do anywhere in the world. Teasing each other. And perilously weaving in and out between the automobiles.

  Only a handful of adults were around; tourists pointing cameras and businessmen talking into cell phones. They all stared disapprovingly at the unruly youths.

  Then something changed. It was subtle but unmistakable. The random pattern of the play morphed into a formation; the way birds soar into the sky from a tree then group to form a perfect chevron. The target of the formation seemed to be a small red Fiat that was passing around the circle.

  The calling continued and the other cars braked and swerved to avoid striking the waifs. If chaos was the strategy, it had worked.

  The chevron suddenly opened, and the two lines of cyclists sped past each side of the Fiat.

  As the lines passed the Fiat, one of the boys reached out and appeared to touch the side window of the car. Then, as if on command, all six cyclists scattered into the streets away from the circle.

  Twenty seconds after Braxton had first noticed the swarm, they had disappeared. It was obviously choreographed, but what could be the point?

  The drivers quickly recovered and continued their travels. As the Fiat again passed Braxton’s position, he noticed a large black “X” on the side window. It looked like the boy had drawn on the car with a magic marker. And no one had noticed until the children were long past.

  Braxton returned his gaze to the inside of the circle. The tourists had returned to their guidebooks and the businessmen to their discussions. All but one. He was dressed casually, dark pants and a black ski jacket, walking with a confident stride. He had lowered a video camera and was now talking, non-stop. He couldn’t be talking to himself, so it was likely into a cell phone or recorder. It was also not a casual conversation; there was no pause for a response. Could he be making a report on the operation?

  The reporter continued to the left, up Cours de Rive. He was shorter than Braxton, with close-cropped hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. This man was once, or perhaps still was, military. His presence was not an accident; he was connected to the curly-haired girl. Could this be the man that nearly killed Braxton in Cambridge? The man who framed him for murder and killed O’Connor?

  The man apparently had completed his report. He put his hands in his pockets and strode rapidly up the st
reet. Braxton could feel the rage burning inside his body. This was the link he needed. He couldn’t just let him disappear.

  He forgot about his laces and followed the man up the avenue.

  Chapter 21

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Saturday, 12:45 p.m.

  The reporter had walked confidently through the streets of Geneva for the past ten minutes. He did not seem to be concerned about being followed; no double-backs, no frequent stops or random street crossings. Still, Braxton had tried to remember all the tricks of surveillance that he had been taught in the Army. He had stopped at shops to observe his subject in window reflections and purchased a newspaper to subtly alter his appearance. He would have moved into alleys and run ahead of his target on side streets but he was afraid of losing the man should he enter a shop or call a taxi. Braxton was sure he would meet with the children soon and he could not miss the chance to see where they would go.

  They were in a less-traveled area now; small, quiet shops populated the street. The man stopped alongside a white Mercedes cargo van parked in front of a patisserie. He paused, looked around, then moved to the passenger’s side and entered the van.

  Braxton decided it was safer to just continue walking up the street. Soon he would be able to see the license plate and perhaps even get a glance into the car. His heart began to race the closer he got to the vehicle. What if he ran into the children? Would the curly-haired girl recognize him? Would the driver?

  His bravado disappeared and he wished he had taken Slattery’s orders. He was alone on a nearly empty street with no weapon. If this was the man that had killed O’Connor, he would think nothing of eliminating a meddlesome witness. Braxton quickened his pace and decided he would just walk past the car and keep moving. At least his face would then be hidden.

  Braxton was approaching the rear of the vehicle, carefully noting the number on the rear license plate, when three loud blasts stopped him in his tracks. His first reaction was to dive to the ground thinking they were gunshots directed at him, but he then realized it was only the horn on the van. He regained control, focused on passing the vehicle as quickly as possible, when the six children suddenly appeared on their bicycles and converged on the car. They had apparently been hiding, each in separate locations, waiting for the signal to return. He was just passing the front fender when they reached the van, loaded their bicycles inside and disappeared. Their perfectly executed movements would put an Olympic bobsled team to shame.

  Braxton was now safely past the vehicle and the pounding in his head became a bit less emphatic. He heard the van’s motor turn over and prayed he would soon see it move on up the street. His walk was stilted and mechanical; he willed his legs to keep moving as he focused on the sound of the engine. Taking a deep breath, he realized he had gotten away without being recognized. Just a few more seconds and they would be gone.

  Ahead, he was approaching a narrow side street and managed to step off the sidewalk just in time to avoid tripping on the curb.

  That was when the screaming specter nearly killed him. Too focused on the children’s transport, he had failed to see the dark Jaguar sedan speeding down the narrow alley. The driver laid on his horn when he saw the insane pedestrian in his path and barely managed to avoid striking the fool as the car leaped into the cross street and fishtailed into a hard left turn.

  Braxton froze as the vehicle flew by, then unconsciously followed its path with his eyes. Unfortunately so did the driver of the Mercedes. As the driver turned to the source of the blasting horn, he saw the face of the errant pedestrian. Their eyes met for only a second, but in that moment Braxton knew he had been recognized.

  The Mercedes suddenly roared to life, but not to escape down the street. The eyes of the driver stayed transfixed as he jerked the wheel of the van, bounced over the curb and headed on a direct line at Braxton.

  * * *

  Braxton froze as the van sped toward him. He had to get away, but which way? The shops were all behind him. There were no doors he could run into. If he stayed on the sidewalk the van would surely run him down. That only left the alley.

  The van was now fully on the sidewalk. It was only seconds before he would be splayed on its hood. Braxton spun and ran into the alley. Behind him, he heard a screech of tires and crunch of metal. He assumed the van had failed to make the turn.

  Am I safe?

  Then he heard the door of the Mercedes open. They were coming after him!

  He didn’t even bother to look back. He was running down the middle of a narrow cobblestone alley. The sides of the alley were walls of rough stone and brick. There were no sidewalks, no doors, and barely enough room for a car to pass.

  He saw an opening twenty-five yards ahead. He decided to go right again, hoping to find relative safety in a busier part of the city.

  As he turned, he glanced over his shoulder. The stocky driver was sprinting down the alley toward him.

  The opening was another alley. He continued running, his bag now bouncing on his back like the pounding of a gavel. There were a few doorways set in the massive walls but stopping to try them did not seem like a good idea.

  Light shone ahead and he saw pedestrians and traffic. There was safety in crowds. Surely they wouldn’t attempt to capture him in the middle of all those witnesses.

  He was almost there. He decided to turn left, then go into the first business he found. There was always the possibility of police involvement, but he hoped his attackers would avoid such a public confrontation.

  As he slowed to make his turn, a white van suddenly pulled into the alley entrance. It had a crumpled left fender and the man from the traffic circle was sitting in the driver’s seat. He must have been communicating with his partner as Braxton raced through the alleys.

  There was no way he could get past the side of the van. It was too close to the wall of the alley.

  The driver had stopped just at the start of the alley. He hadn’t pulled all the way in. Likely to allow room for the van doors to open. There was only one way to escape.

  Braxton reached back, pulled his bag in front of his face, and jumped to the right, over the hood of the Mercedes like a halfback diving for a touchdown.

  His stomach slid over the metal, his right arm scraped past the corner of the alley, and he slammed down onto the concrete sidewalk. He tucked and rolled to control his momentum, then came up into a crouch, his bag now clutched in front of his chest.

  Looking up, he saw a small circle of pedestrians around him, eyes wide in astonishment over his acrobatics.

  Then he heard a car door slam followed by another screech of tires. He turned and saw the white van speed down the street.

  Braxton brushed off his clothes, smiled to his audience and calmly headed in the opposite direction from the van. Now he really needed to find Maddock.

  * * *

  It was two o’clock when Braxton arrived at 15 Rue du Purgatoire. The Street of Hell was actually a very calm, and short, street in Cité, Geneva’s Old Town. It connected the Rue du Vieux-College on the east and the Rue de la Madeleine on the west. It seemed that streets in Geneva changed their names on nearly every corner.

  The south side of the street was a thick, ten-foot high stone wall beyond which the Temple de la Madeleine, one of the oldest churches in Geneva, rose into the sky. The north side was a large five-story building that appeared to consist principally of apartments. The ground floor, however, housed a row of businesses: two dress shops, a furniture store, and Antiquites Scientifiques.

  Braxton approached the store and gazed into the window. He hadn’t been sure what “scientific antiques” had meant, but the name was now clear. Inside he saw a cluttered landscape of antique scientific instruments: steel sextants, brass microscopes and even a wood and brass ship’s wheel that must have been five feet in diameter.

  He entered the shop, causing a small bell over the door to chime. It was like walking through a portal into the nineteenth century. Devices were everywhere: hangi
ng from the ceiling, filling bookcases on the walls, lying on every flat surface available and packed into glass display cases standing on the floor.

  There were four others in the store, a man and a woman in European dress perusing the instruments and two men wearing kaduras and keffiyehs speaking with Maddock in a far corner. The Muslim attire was not surprising—during his walk, Braxton had seen all manner of national dress—but he did wonder which of Maddock’s vocations was the topic of their conversation.

  The proprietor turned when the door opened, gave a slight nod to his visitor and returned to his conversation. Maddock was casually dressed, but now wore a pair of very academic-looking gold-rimmed glasses. They were a perfect addition to his persona. Braxton doubted they contained anything but clear glass.

  He began his own inspection of the crowded aisles. There was a wall of nautical devices: sextants, telescopes and gimbaled compasses. Then a case with tools of construction: squares, hammers, levels, scales, and drawing instruments. He moved to the next case and saw more medical instruments than he could name. There was even a leather case, rolled open, that displayed the tools of a military surgeon during the Prussian Wars. They made him shudder.

  As frightening as some of the exhibits were, this was definitely a place where Braxton could spend many pleasant hours.

  “Monsieur, how can we help you?”

  He looked up and saw Maddock approaching, having turned away from the Muslims. Damn, he needed to ask for something. He hadn’t prepared for others being in the shop.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a cryptex,” Braxton blurted.

  Maddock’s eyes went wide behind the glasses.

  “A cryptex,” he finally replied. “Yes, well, those are rather rare. I’ll have to call some of my contacts. Give me some details on the specifications you would like. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Braxton reached into his pants and handed Maddock the note he had written after his encounter with the child: