The Signal

  THE SIGNAL

  A DELPHI GROUP THRILLER

  John Sneeden

  For my mom, Ernestine, who gave me my love of books.

  CHAPTER ONE

  RUPERT STERLING WALKED through the heavy London snow. His face was set with purpose, and his breath formed billowing clouds that dissipated in the darkness. He glanced up at a street lamp and noticed the flakes swirling around it like white moths.

  The Victoria Embankment, which runs along the north side of the Thames, was crowded that night. The snow was the first of the season, and there was excitement in the air. Loud tourists made their way toward Westminster and the historic sites. Locals, usually on their way home after work, swarmed to the local pubs to celebrate winter’s gift.

  But Rupert’s thoughts were not on the snow that evening. He kept thinking about a text he had received, two days ago, from a friend who had been out of touch for almost three years. It had simply read: Our old spot when you get off on Friday night. Ian.

  No further explanation was necessary. Ian and Rupert had worked together in the early nineties. Ian was an intense workaholic American, and Rupert an extroverted free spirit who brought out the fun side of his Yank friend. The two had hit it off immediately and had spent many evenings together in their favorite pub.

  The text had come as a complete surprise. Rupert had replied but received no response. Whatever Ian was going to say, it would not be said until Friday.

  The sidewalk angled uphill and turned to the left, indicating he was almost there. Rupert lowered his head and quickened his pace.

  *

  The Shakespeare was one of London’s most beautiful historic pubs. Nestled just two blocks off the Thames in the City district, it had served patrons for over a century. The interior celebrated England’s famous poet, with reliefs of his head and plaques of his writing scattered throughout.

  After kicking the snow off his shoes, Rupert opened the heavy wooden door at the front of the tavern. He was immediately met with a rush of warm air and loud noise. Men and women lined the bar directly in front of him. The bartenders pulled taps and rushed about like so many worker ants.

  Rupert looked around, taking in the place that he knew so well. To his immediate left was a table of American tourists. One of the women hoisted a mug into the air, using a faux-British accent to declare her approval of the pale ale. To Rupert’s right were a man and woman dressed in business attire. The man held a glass of wine in one hand and leaned awkwardly into the woman, talking with slurred speech.

  It didn’t surprise Rupert that Ian was not there in the front. If he had suggested a meeting at their old spot, he would be at their table.

  With that in mind, Rupert pushed his way through the crowd toward the double archway at the back. He had never seen the pub this full. People were pressed together, and the smell of beer hung in the air. After some effort he finally made his way into the back room. Standing just inside the wooden arch, he paused and looked toward the table in the right corner: their table. His first reaction to the man seated there was one of disappointment—that was, until the man turned toward him and smiled.

  A slow hint of recognition crossed Rupert’s mind as he neared the table. “Ian? Ian Higgs, is that you?”

  The other man stood as Rupert approached. “Let me guess—the beard and the dark hair were a wee bit of a surprise.”

  Rupert smiled, still in disbelief. “A wee bit of a surprise? Since when did you start growing facial hair? And why haven’t you kept in touch?”

  The two old friends looked at each other, and then fell into a long, warm embrace.

  As Ian pulled back, his smile diminished. “Have a seat, mate. There is a lot I’d like to say. Unfortunately, I’m only going to be able to tell you a little tonight.”

  *

  On a slow night, the man sitting on a stool in the back room of the Shakespeare would have stood out. Unlike most pubgoers, he was alone, and his demeanor made it all too clear that he wanted to remain that way. But on that night there was too much revelry for him to be noticed, except by waitress Vanessa Wells. She would later tell police that he scared her, so much so that she considered sending one of the bartenders to wait on him.

  His face wasn’t easily forgotten. A large half-moon scar ran from his jawline up past his right eye. Pockmarks dotted both cheeks. He had close-cropped blond hair and stood well over six feet tall. Some would later describe him as Scandinavian. In fact, he was German.

  He scarcely paid attention as the waitress handed him his second beer. This would be his last, a self-imposed limit when working. The German was disciplined. He never broke his own long set of rules. They were the rules that kept him alive.

  As he looked across the room, his eyes widened and his body tensed. The target had a guest. The German continued to watch as the two hugged, exchanged words, and sat down. He smiled and placed a gloved hand on the metal lump in his pocket.

  *

  Rupert leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You must be kidding? That’s all you can tell me?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Ian took a drink from his pint glass.

  “So, let me get this straight—you basically took the job in Switzerland because it paid well, only to find out there were dark things going on.” Rupert paused to let that sink in and then continued, “But you can’t tell me who these people were or what they were doing?”

  “You know what company I was working for. I just can’t go into who did what.”

  “You asked to meet with me tonight. Surely that must mean you need help. And I can’t help you unless I know more.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake asking you to meet me—”

  “No," said Rupert. "It was your conscience talking to you. It was your conscience that told you to seek help from someone on the outside. So, please, at least give me some indication of what was going on.”

  “What I need is some stability. I’ve been on the run.”

  Rupert’s eyes widened. “On the run? For heaven’s sake.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. These are dangerous men, and they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want and to get rid of any obstacles.” He looked around the room and then leaned forward. “And I have strong reason to believe they consider me an obstacle.”

  Rupert sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath, searching for the right words. “So why am I here? I’d like to help, but you don’t seem to be giving me any way to do so.”

  “First of all, I’ve missed you. Other than Amanda, there are very few people I care about more than you. And second…” There was a long pause. Ian rubbed his chin and looked around the room. “Second, I wanted you to know in case something should happen to me.”

  “In case something should happen to you? Don’t you think that going to the authorities—”

  Ian held up a hand. “I am going to the authorities, just not now. And there is a very good reason why I can’t go to the authorities yet.”

  “And why is that?”

  Ian leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need to make sure I contact the right people.”

  “What in the bloody—you need to make sure you contact the right people? I can think of three or four we can call right now. I’m sure you know how you sound.”

  “Of course,” Ian replied. He looked up at one of the wooden gargoyles hanging over their table, and then, as if hit with a thought, he said, “One thing I can tell you is this: these people have powerful friends who operate across the globe. It will all come out in due time. Right now I need you to be a friend. And here is something I really need…” His voice trailed off, and then he looked Rupert in the eye. “I need a place to stay for a few days before I go back to the States.”

  Rupert smiled, his irritatio
n receding. “That’s more like it. You know Gemma and I would be happy to have you. She’s been worried sick about you the entire time you’ve been gone.”

  “Thank you, friend,” Ian replied, taking another swig of beer. “I knew I could count on you. I’ve been trying not to use my credit card until I’m ready to fly out, and my cash is running low.”

  “It’s settled then. You can come over tonight and—”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t come over until tomorrow. I have another meeting tonight, one that may last a while. I think it will help me get some of the answers I’m looking for.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He’s a world-renowned physicist. Someone I knew when I worked here in London. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” Rupert said.

  “No, no, no. There is no need for that. I know my way around London, and to the best of my knowledge, you’re one of only two people who know I’m here. Besides, I doubt he’d meet with me if he knew someone else were coming.” Ian reached across the table and squeezed his friend’s arm. "I know this whole thing is hard for you to understand, but for now that’s how it has to be."

  A waitress appeared at the table. “Can I bring you gentlemen anything else?”

  Ian glanced at his watch and told her to bring the check.

  “By the way, does Amanda know you’re in Britain?” asked Rupert.

  “She knows I quit my job, and she knows I might be coming to see you.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s on a dig in Israel, but she'll be returning to the States in two weeks.” When he spoke of his daughter, Ian smiled. Rupert knew that Amanda was his friend's life, the only light from a dark and failed marriage. Ian made every decision with her in mind.

  The waitress returned with the ticket. Ian stood up, put on his coat, and dropped a few bills on the table. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Rupert remained seated, smiling as he watched his friend turn and disappear through the crowd. He began to wonder if he’d ever learn the truth about what happened.

  *

  It was snowing even harder as Ian exited the Shakespeare. The outdoor tables and chairs looked like white mushrooms growing on a field of white. A group of men approached, talking loudly. They walked past Ian and opened the door to the pub. As they entered, a tall man in black slipped out into the snow.

  The traffic had lightened considerably, and the previously crowded sidewalks were deserted. Ian wondered how hard it would be to find a cab. As he stood there, his thoughts turned back to Rupert. He hated keeping his friend in the dark, and he understood his irritation. But Ian also had no reservations about holding things close to the vest. The less his friends knew, the safer they would be.

  Ian flipped his scarf across his face and walked toward New Bridge Street. After passing the outdoor seating and reaching the sidewalk, he stopped and looked for any sign of a taxi. As he glanced back and forth, he heard the snow crunching behind him. Swiveling around, he half expected to see Rupert. Instead, he saw a tall figure standing underneath a streetlight. The snow was blowing sideways, obscuring him.

  The figure took a few steps forward, and his face came into view. “Doctor Higgs?”

  Ian shuddered and stepped back. “You. How did you…?”

  “You didn’t think we’d just let you leave, did you?” The man grinned and pulled something out of his right pocket.

  Ian held up a hand. “I can explain. I only—”

  “The time for explanations has passed, Dr. Higgs.” The man waited for a few seconds, and the look on his face indicated he was enjoying the moment.

  Ian heard two soft spits, with corresponding flashes of white light. He thought of Amanda as he crumpled into the snow.

  The assassin walked over to the body, knelt down, and began to rummage through the man’s clothing. A smile crossed his face as he pulled out a cell phone. He tucked it into his pocket and stood up. As he did so, he heard the soft purr of a distant engine. Headlights appeared through the swirling snow, coming across Blackfriars Bridge.

  The man turned, and then like a winter phantom, he disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE LARGE BUCK lifted its nose high into the late afternoon air, sending warm plumes of breath out of its moist black nostrils. The bare trace of a scent had reached the animal, carried by the cold wind that came down off the mountain. It was a scent that the mule deer had encountered many times in its twelve years of life, and if confirmed, would send it into full retreat.

  Ever cautious, the animal kept its nose in the air. The scent had only registered for a brief moment and had been mixed with the other smells of the forest—frozen mulch under the snow, firs and pines that covered the nearby mountains, and the myriad of mammals that scurried about in the underbrush.

  A soft thud caused the deer to turn its head quickly to the left. A pine squirrel had landed awkwardly on the limb of a Douglas fir, sending a mist of snow toward the ground. It quickly regained its balance and leaped again to an adjoining tree. The buck snorted its frustration at the rodent.

  The snow was beginning to fall harder, obscuring the deer’s vision and making it more difficult to sort through the dozens of smells that bombarded its olfactory nerve. Something was out there; the aged buck could sense it. Erring on the side of caution, it decided the time had come to move to higher ground.

  At the very moment the buck turned to leave, a loud cracking sound echoed across the frozen valley. The frightened animal jumped and let out a loud grunt. Quickly regaining its balance, it bounded off into a line of fir trees a few yards away and then continued to grunt and snort as it made its way up the mountain.

  On the opposite side of the valley, about a hundred yards away, was a small mound in the snow. The untrained eye would have deemed it a natural part of the landscape, a simple curve in the topography. The trained eye would have noted that the mound had been formed in the last several hours. The trained eye would also have noted the long white barrel hidden underneath the limb that protruded from the mound.

  Shortly after the buck disappeared into the trees, the mound moved slightly. Then, almost immediately after that, it moved again, as if some great weight was shifting underneath. Finally, the entire mound lifted up as though the mythical kraken was rising out of the sea.

  As the snow settled to the ground, it revealed not a kraken but a man—a tall, physically fit man dressed in a camouflage suit of white and light grays. His longish brown hair spread from underneath a white knit cap, and a two-week-old beard framed a handsome face. His gloved hands clutched an all-white Remington .270 rifle with Leupold scope.

  The man set the gun gently against a nearby tree and pulled a pair of matte black binoculars out of his coat. He lifted them slowly to his eyes and scanned the valley floor in front of him, turning his head back and forth until he found what he was looking for. A gloved finger moved the focusing wheel until the image took form.

  Satisfied he had found what he was looking for, the man picked up the rifle again and began to jog. When he reached the other side of the valley, he knelt down and examined the area where the deer had been shot. There were one or two faint drops of blood just barely visible in the accumulating snow.

  He began to run again, following the faint drops of scarlet into the fir trees and up the side of the mountain. He was an expert tracker, having learned the trade in his SEAL training some twenty years before. But on that day his skills weren’t needed; a small child could have followed the blood and the hoof prints.

  At first the drops were about ten feet apart, and then as they continued up the mountain, they grew closer together. The animal was slowing and would seek cover soon.

  He eventually found the buck hidden under the snow-laden limbs of a blue spruce. He crouched down and pushed one of the limbs aside. The deer was lying prone against the trunk of the tree; its eyes stared blankly into the distance, and its breathing was labored but s
teady.

  A slight look of satisfaction crossed the man’s face as he pushed up his white-framed Oakley goggles and examined the animal more closely. It was a majestic buck, the largest one he had seen in months of tracking in the area. Its body was large and well toned. He guessed it weighed over three hundred pounds.

  He had carefully stalked the buck for almost two weeks, noting its every movement and every routine. Nothing was left to chance; in fact, the man kept a running log of the deer’s activities and reviewed it for a half hour each evening. He had discovered it was the one way he could maintain his skills as he waited in the Colorado wilderness.

  As the days passed, he had learned that the animal liked to feed in the valley late in the afternoon. When it arrived it would pause just inside the cover of the trees, watching for predators and waiting for the sun to drop below the mountaintops. If conditions were satisfactory it would then make its way out into the field, pushing the snow up with its snout to feed on the frozen tundra.

  Once the man had determined the attack zone, the rest was easy. It hadn’t been necessary to bury himself in the snow, but he did so in order to maintain his ability to disappear into the landscape. It was a craft he had developed over the years, albeit to pursue a quarry of a different kind.

  But the deer was not precisely a “kill.” It was very much alive and would be on its feet again soon. It had been brought down by syringe dart, which the man found buried in the flesh just behind the animal’s right shoulder blade. As usual, his aim had been flawless, and it had taken only minutes for the tranquilizer to have its intended effect.

  He pulled out the dart, and a small trickle of blood ran down the soft brown coat. He had killed a number of deer on nearby slopes, but that one he spared. He had ample meat to last the rest of the winter, and to him it was a matter of respect for an animal that had survived for so long in that rugged environment.