The Signal Page 3

  “I thought that might surprise you. Yes, we need to pull you out… assuming, of course, that you agree to it. We fully intend to comply with the terms of your contract, and if you want to stay dark for another three months, we’ll honor that. But both the president and the director have requested that you run this next operation, and it’s one that can’t be put on hold.”

  “You know I’m fine with coming out. I’ve never felt the dark period was all that useful. It’s just that the Ross I know doesn’t violate protocol.”

  “Well, and I wouldn’t have if the president hadn’t called me and made a personal plea," said the Oracle. "I'd already decided to have Carmen look into it after she finished up in Sicily, and then once we knew what we were dealing with, we could adjust accordingly. But the president made it very clear that this was a top national priority, and he wanted you to lead our effort.”

  “Do you agree that it's a ‘top national priority’?”

  “Not yet. It has that potential, but it also has the potential to be nothing more than a series of strange coincidences.”

  “Tell me more,” said Zane.

  “Let me start at the beginning. Does the name Ian Higgs ring a bell to you?”

  Zane rubbed his beard and thought for a moment. “It does. NASA engineer. Brilliant man.”

  “Yes, that’s him. And not only NASA, but he was part of a joint venture between NASA and the Department of Defense.”

  Zane took another sip of coffee and set his mug on the table. “I remember he was all over the front page of the Wall Street Journal four or five years ago. I read the article. It named him as one of America’s brightest, an engineer that had us on the cutting edge of futuristic technology. The gist was that he was solely responsible for the expanding US lead over the Russians and the Chinese.” He paused for a moment, as if more information was being pulled out of the recesses of his mind. “I also seem to remember the article was written in the wake of his resignation. He had taken a job somewhere. Western Europe, I think? It was a major blow to both NASA and the US. He might have had financial problems, but those were never confirmed.”

  “And I’m sure you also remember that two of his colleagues followed suit shortly thereafter,” Ross added.

  “I do. It was the proverbial salt in the wound for the US.”

  “That's the guy,” Ross replied. “We’re concerned because he was murdered in London a week ago.”

  “London? The article didn't say he was in England.”

  “He wasn’t. Not initially anyway. The company he went to work for has several offices, none of which are in the United Kingdom. And of course, his presence in London is part of the mystery.”

  “So, I guess it’s safe to assume there's more?”

  “Yes, there is. You may not know this, but Higgs worked in London in the 1990s. He signed on with a company that specialized in robotic technology with industrial applications. Berger Technologies was the name. Those were the early days of robotics, and the company eventually went under. There just wasn’t enough demand. People were skeptical of the whole industry, and many thought of it as science fiction, not a tool for manufacturing. It was also the recession, and British companies were afraid to invest millions of pounds in something that might not bring them a return on their investment.”

  “Does this somehow relate to why Higgs was in London a week ago?”

  “Indirectly, yes. We’ve learned that Higgs became close to a British man while working at Berger, a Rupert Sterling.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Zane.

  “You wouldn’t have. He’s an accountant. When he worked for Berger, he was head of the payroll division. He still lives and works in London.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s the CFO for a British export company,” said the Oracle. “And yes, he and Higgs were in contact. Here is where it gets even more interesting. Sterling received a text from Higgs about two weeks ago. It was the first time he had heard from him in years. Higgs asked Sterling to meet him at an old watering hole. Didn’t say what it was all about.

  “So they meet up, and Higgs tells Sterling that he’s in danger, claiming his company was up to no good and that he had to slip out without so much as a goodbye.” There was a brief pause as Ross looked at some notes lying on his desk. “Oh, and apparently he’d been lying low for a while before meeting with Sterling.”

  Sam hopped up into Zane’s lap and tried to rub against his arms. Zane picked him up and set him on the floor again, giving him a short pat on the rump to signal this was not the time. The feline let out another loud meow and then scampered off into the dark.

  Zane turned back to the screen. “Lying low in London, I presume?”

  “Not the entire time. In any event, that’s all he told Sterling. The guy asked a lot of questions, but Higgs wasn't ready to talk.”

  “Where was he killed?”

  “Right outside of the pub. At close range, with a forty-caliber pistol. There was a snowstorm, so the streets were empty. I guess whoever killed him saw that as an opportunity.”

  “Do they believe Sterling killed him?”

  “No, his story checks out. He showed Scotland Yard the text he had received from Higgs. In addition, Sterling stayed behind in the pub to finish his beer. The body was found while he was still inside, and the waitress, a Vanessa Wells, confirmed he never left.”

  Zane set both elbows on the table in front of him and crossed his fingers together. “If Higgs’s story is true, this should be pretty easy to clear up, Ross. I assume Scotland Yard is interviewing people within the company?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, they've interviewed executives. But no, it’s not going to be easy. When Scotland Yard showed up, the company produced a signed letter of resignation. They also said Higgs was indeed having financial problems. The company brass told investigators that Higgs had a slew of creditors, including some shady individuals, all of which turned out to be true. So, Scotland Yard is back to square one, reviewing evidence.”

  “What is the name of this company?”

  “Well, that depends,” replied Ross.

  “On…?”

  “It depends on which of the fourteen subsidiaries you’re referring to. As best we can tell, the holding company at the top is an entity known as The Renaissance Group, or just Renaissance.”

  Zane leaned back in his chair, thinking through everything Ross had told him. He then sat back up again and asked, “So, why do we care, Ross? This sounds like a routine murder case to me.”

  “We care because three men, all of whom worked on a joint project between NASA and the DOD, leave the country to work for a private conglomerate… and now one of the three is dead. I still don't know what the NASA project was about, or why this has caught the president’s eye, but it has.”

  “I see.”

  “And there is something else I haven’t told you yet,” said Ross. He took a long drink of bottled water before continuing. “Earlier this week, the FBI received a call from a young lady named Amanda Higgs. She's the daughter of Ian Higgs and contacted the FBI shortly after learning of her father’s death. She said she had just received a letter from her father and didn’t want to share it with the London police, at least not just yet. Apparently, he mailed it from Austria a day or two before he was killed.”

  “From Austria? Strange.”

  “Yes. We think that when he left Renaissance, he went to Vienna before making his way to London.”

  “What was in the letter?”

  “Miss Higgs refused to discuss it over the phone," said Ross, "but she said it was very important to her father’s death. Word of the call went up the line; the FBI passed her contact information along to the CIA. And now the president and director want Delphi to run point. They discussed it last night over dinner.”

  “Has anyone met with Amanda Higgs yet?”

  “No, she’s still in Israel. She’s an archaeologist and has been over there on some kind of dig.”

  “
How old is she?”

  “Forget it, Watson,” the Oracle said firmly, knowing the operative’s penchant for the opposite sex. “She’s in her twenties.”

  “I’m trying to size up her maturity. But thanks for being concerned about my love life.” Zane shook his head. “If she’s young and immature, she may just be reading too much into that letter.”

  “We don’t believe that to be the case. This young lady graduated at the top of her class, magna cum laude. We made some discreet calls, and she is well respected. A rising star, if there is such a thing in archaeology. No, she said there's information in that letter that could help those conducting the investigation, and we believe her.”

  Zane was nodding as he listened, feeling himself getting drawn in. “Ross, I’d like to meet with Amanda.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. We’ve booked you on a flight to London tomorrow afternoon.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE WHEELS TOUCHED the ground at London’s Heathrow airport at exactly 7:27 a.m., local time. Zane looked out the window at the tarmac, which was covered by an early-morning mist. He could see his reflection in the glass and noted the long brown hair. He had chosen not to get it cut on the way to the Denver airport, deciding instead to let it serve as a partial disguise. His handsome, chiseled face was easy to distinguish, but the hair might throw someone off at a distance. Looking over his shoulder and hiding his identity was a way of life. At last count there were a dozen or more people who would have loved nothing more than to see him dead. And probably a few more that would have kept him alive just so they could torture him.

  For that reason, he had decided to book a reservation at the Millennium Hotel in London’s exclusive Mayfair district. Delphi had a flat overlooking a nondescript street on the south side of the city, a location they had never known to be compromised, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The Italian operation had been lengthy and dangerous for him and Carmen, and had created a whole new set of enemies across the European continent.

  When the plane came to a stop at the gate, Zane rose from the leather seat and retrieved his sole piece of luggage from the overhead bin, a small nylon suitcase with a telescoping handle and wheels. After waiting briefly for the cabin door to open, he filed out and made his way quickly to passport control. The tall control officer looked at him over dark-framed glasses and snatched the paperwork quickly out of his hands. Zane’s passport named him as Michel Bergeron, a Quebecois born in Montreal in 1971. He was fluent in French and answered the woman’s questions in heavily accented English, at times making it seem as though he were struggling to find the right word. She eventually tired of the tedious back and forth and stamped an empty page aggressively before handing it back to him.

  After clearing customs, Zane made his way to the waiting area just beyond baggage claim. The room was crushed full of people waiting for the new arrivals—smiling families looking for relatives and friends, and bored drivers holding up signs. Zane hated those first moments after disembarking, walking around in a crowded room full of staring faces. It was always the time he felt most vulnerable. He kept his head down and walked in a way that was not normal for him, using a subtle limp.

  Eventually he passed the line of people and stood in the open area just beyond. It only took him a few seconds to find the driver he was looking for. He was a young man, perhaps in his early thirties, standing just in front of the newsstand. The young man’s eyes passed over the crowd, and he held up a simple sign that read: MICHEL BERGERON – PATTERSON TOURS. As Zane limped toward the newsstand, the young driver’s eyes finally settled on him. At first there was confusion, and then recognition. They knew each other well, but the hair and the limp were serving their purpose.

  The young man nodded at Zane as he approached. “Welcome to London, Monsieur Bergeron,” he announced in a British accent.

  Zane smiled and nodded but remained silent. The man took Zane’s luggage then gestured toward the sliding doors, and they exited the building. The driver led Zane past the line of taxis and into the multi-level parking deck on the other side of the street, where they took the lift to the third level.

  “Well, here we are,” the driver said as they approached a row of cars to the right. The hatch of a bright red Vauxhall Meriva lifted into the air. The driver stowed the luggage, and the men climbed into the car, with Zane taking a seat in the back.

  Once they had settled in, Zane finally spoke. “A bright red Vauxhall, eh? I’d forgotten what a subtle man you were, Nigel.”

  “I believe you Americans call it reverse psychology, don’t you? I’ve always operated on a certain theory, that if there are bad guys around, then inevitably it’s the subtle they’re going to look for.” He winked at the operative in the rear-view mirror.

  Nigel Clarke was Delphi’s London-based liaison, handling all logistics and administrative functions for the region. The organization had eight such liaisons around the globe. Clarke’s territory was the entirety of the United Kingdom, as well as a number of other countries in northwestern Europe.

  Zane had initially opposed the decision to hire Clarke three years ago. He was a former administrator for MI5, which was problematic in itself, but was also a native-born Brit. But over time, Clarke had won the confidence not only of Zane but of the entire Delphi organization. He was meticulous, thorough, and a quick thinker. He had bailed operatives out on a number of occasions and had earned the respect of those he worked with.

  “I suppose you’re right. In that case, have you considered a magnetic sign for the side… perhaps one that reads ‘Covert Operations’? ”

  Nigel laughed. “As a matter of fact, Kristine has put one on order. And speaking of subtlety, do I dare ask about the hair? Not a wig, I presume?”

  “No, not a wig, so please don’t pull. Let’s just say I wasn’t given much time to clean up, and since I’m coming out a bit early I figure a little change can’t be all bad.”

  Zane cringed as Clarke jerked the car quickly to the left to merge onto the highway, prying in between two large trucks. The one behind laid on the horn for two or three seconds, and Nigel waved at him in the mirror with his left hand.

  “More subtlety?”

  Nigel smiled and then accelerated, deftly shifting the gears as the car gained speed. They were entering London on the A4, which was lined on both sides by council housing.

  As they pulled up to the first light, Zane glanced around the intersection, his work mode kicking in despite his exhaustion. To his right was a group of mustachioed Indian men in heavy coats, waiting for the bus. One took a final draw on his unfiltered cigarette and tossed it to the sidewalk, mashing it into the concrete with his shoe.

  “You haven’t been to see us in a while. The last time was the affair at the British Museum, wasn’t it?”

  Zane snapped out of his thoughts and made eye contact with Nigel in the rear-view mirror. “It was. That’s one I don’t think any of us will soon forget. Speaking of visits, has Ross brought you up to date on mine?”

  “He has,” replied Nigel, keeping his eyes on the road. “I was a bit disappointed you’re not going to stay in our flat, but I think I follow your reasoning.”

  “In addition to the security concerns, I just have a funny feeling about this one. I also don’t anticipate being here long, and the Millennium puts me near where I need to be.”

  “I understand completely. The flat is indeed in good shape, though, no thanks to Fleming.”

  “Fleming?”

  “Yes, he stayed there for two nights on his way back from Morocco," said Nigel. "I’ve never seen the place in such a mess. Rubbish everywhere.”

  “Let’s write that one off to stress.” Zane looked out of the window as they pulled up to another light. They were entering London proper, with commercial buildings closing in on both sides. A group of young professionals scampered across the street as soon as the vehicles came to a stop. The men were dressed in suits and black trench coats, and most of the women in stylish
skirts with winter stockings. When the light turned green, a man on a motor scooter shot between the two lines of traffic and across the intersection.

  “As you can see, scooters and bikes have their own set of rules here in London,” Nigel said, shaking his head.

  It was the morning rush, so the drive into the city took longer than expected. Just after nine, Nigel finally turned onto Upper Brook Street. Up ahead and to the right was Grosvenor Square, with its neatly trimmed hedges and concrete block pathways. The snow was all but gone. A few splashes of white in the shade were the only reminder of the storm that had blown through the week before.

  Just through the trees and on the other side of the park was the Millennium, with its stately columns and familiar red brick.

  “Let’s do a once-around,” Zane said.

  “Something told me you’d want that.” Nigel directed the car around the square. A moment later, they rolled past the grand entrance to the Millennium. Several groups of tourists waited on the sidewalk to board buses. One of them, a Japanese tourist carrying a camera with a large telescopic lens, had wandered out into traffic, intent on photographing the statue in the center of the park across the street. Nigel swerved to miss him, uttering an oath toward the closed window.

  In the meantime, Zane continued to take in the surroundings, but other than a few heavily bundled locals walking briskly to work, the plaza was mostly empty. Nigel continued on past the United States Embassy and then circled back to the square on Upper Brook Street. He pulled over to the left and parked the car.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Nigel as he set the parking brake.

  “Seems to be all clear. I had actually hoped it would be a little more crowded.”

  Nigel turned and faced Zane. “Did I tell you I have a gift for you?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Compliments of Dr. Ross.”

  Zane glanced to his right, taking one last look across the park. “Let me guess, a toothbrush and razor?”

  “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to get those yourself, Watson. Shall I wait whilst you check in?”