The Signal

by John Sneeden

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ZANE WATSON SMILED as he looked down at his watch. The hands indicated it was precisely ten minutes after three in the afternoon, and he smiled because the wheels of the Lufthansa jet had touched down within seconds of its scheduled arrival in Vienna. German efficiency could be counted on much like the rising of the sun.

  He had spent the entire flight trying to fend off the advances of the divorced, late middle-aged woman sitting next to him. He initially thought she was in her forties, but upon closer inspection he realized a criminal amount of plastic surgery and implants had managed to trim a decade from her appearance.

  The woman had used the opportunity of having a captive audience to recount her entire biography, including a former marriage that was devoid of love and excitement. As the woman lamented her life of loneliness, she punctuated each sentence with a quick squeeze of the operative’s arm. Fortunately for Zane, he was back in the role of Michel Bergeron, who was flying to Vienna to attend a firearms conference. He feigned an inability to speak English and spent most of the trip nodding and responding with the always useful “yes” and “interesting.”

  At the airport, it took him little time to find a suitable cab, and within minutes they were racing along the Ost Autobahn. Much to Zane’s relief, the driver was the type who only spoke when spoken to, and the journey proceeded in peaceful silence.

  Shortly after passing a massive industrial park, the road turned to the right and crossed over the Danube River to the Donauinsel. The island was a mix of green parks, luxury apartments, bars, and nightclubs. Zane had only been to Vienna once while on a summer vacation as a college student and had forgotten the beauty of the majestic Austrian city.

  Eventually the highway crossed back over the Danube River and into the heart of historic Vienna. Nigel had arranged accommodations in a small hotel on the Stephansplatz, perhaps Vienna’s most famous square. After paying the driver, Zane entered and checked in as the annoying and flirtatious Michel Bergeron.

  Per organizational procedure, Nigel had booked Zane’s room on the side facing the street. How he always seemed to secure the perfect room was beyond Zane. He had come to learn that the Brit was an administrator extraordinaire, getting things done that others couldn’t.

  After depositing his bag on the bed, the operative stepped over to the window and opened the curtains slightly. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, and the Stephansplatz was mostly shaded. The evening buzz had almost set in, and both locals and tourists were beginning to swarm in and out of the shops and cafés that lined the square. He also noted that, despite the late hour, a long queue extended out of the famous Stephansdom, a block away. The operative’s eyes took in the beautiful Gothic structure.

  Nigel does know how to book a hotel, Zane thought, after taking a sip of the coffee he had picked up in the lobby.

  Carmen was not due for another couple of hours, so the operative lay back on the bed for a short nap. He drifted off almost immediately, his mind transitioning into a disturbing dream. When it began, he was standing in front of a large, multi-story apartment building with a gray stone façade. He’d never been there before, and yet it looked strangely familiar. Was it the one Ian Higgs had stayed in? And if so, why was he dreaming of it?

  After examining the building for a minute or two, Zane climbed the front steps, entered the lobby, and crossed over to the elevator. Without hesitation, he reached out and pressed the button. Seconds later, there was a ding. As the doors began to slide open, a deep and ominous voice spoke out. The operative turned around several times, but there was no one there. The voice warned him that an unexpected visitor would be arriving soon. The warnings grew louder and louder as he stepped inside the elevator.

  Just as he was about to press the button for the third floor, the operative heard a tap. He stepped back into the lobby and looked around, but there was still no one there. And then, a few seconds later, there was a second tap that was louder than the first. It was then that something in the recesses of his brain told him the tapping wasn’t a part of his dream, so he opened his eyes. After opening them, there was a third tap, which confirmed that someone was knocking on the door to his room. Carmen.

  As he got up off of the bed, Zane thought back on the dream. Was it one of his regular premonitions, or was it simply his mind registering the same concerns he’d have for any operation? He shrugged, realizing he’d find out soon enough.

  After standing up, Zane glanced over at the clock and noted that it was just a few minutes past seven. He was certain it was Carmen at the door, but since he was unarmed, he looked through the peephole. Standing a few feet away was a moderately tall woman with long, raven-black hair. Her olive complexion was partially hidden by bug-eye sunglasses. Zane released the latch and opened the door.

  “Ciao!” said the smiling Italian. “I was just about to pick your lock.” Zane noted that she was dressed impeccably, as always. He imagined that her skinny jeans and heels had already turned a few heads out on the Stephansplatz.

  “I know, I know.” Zane motioned her inside. “There was a woman on the plane who wore me out—”

  “Please,” said Carmen, holding up a hand and smiling as she passed by. “I’m not one of the guys, so not really interested in one of your war stories.”

  Zane shook his head. “So I get no sympathy for the torture I endured?”

  “And of course at some point she came on to you?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  “Well yeah, then there’s that.” They walked back into the room. “Not sure ‘Michel’ is going to be using that phone number tonight.”

  “Ah yes, Michel Bergeron, breaker of women’s hearts.” Carmen grinned. “Anyway, how are you?”

  “Doing well,” Zane said. “Good to see you.”

  The two embraced briefly, and then Zane went back to enable the chain lock on the door.

  “Nice,” said Carmen, staring out of the window. “I knew the view was good, but I had no idea it was this good. I threw my bags in the room and came straight over.” She turned around, hand on hip, and surveyed the room. “Speaking of which, where are your bags?”

  “I have some clothes, but unfortunately the toys won’t arrive until tomorrow. I flew commercial.”

  “I came over on our charter so I have something you can use until then.”

  “Charter, huh? Nice to see one of us is loved.”

  The Italian paused and looked back at him, as if hit with a thought. “But… I just remembered, the spare I’m going to offer is not exactly your favorite.”

  “I don’t even need to guess.”

  “One of these days, you’ll realize you’re in better hands with a Beretta anyway, my friend.”

  Zane laughed. He was and always had been a Glock man. He liked its lighter weight and never-fail reliability. There were more sophisticated, heavy-duty pistols out there, but as he so often told those he trained, when you’re in a firefight and your life is on the line, your superior weapon won't help you if it jams. And when he spoke, the trainees listened. While he hadn’t engaged in competitive shooting in over a decade, Zane Watson was still known as one of the best marksmen in the world. And that also meant that whatever shortcomings Glocks had were more than overcome by his ability to fire the weapon.

  Carmen, a full-blooded Italian, preferred using a Berretta. She lived in the States, and had become Americanized in a number of ways, but her heart would always be in Italy. And Italians used Berettas.

  “92FS?”

  “Of course. Brand spanking new. Compliments of Ross.”

  “Switching gears, I hear you were able to, ummm… tie up all of our loose ends in Sicily?”

  Carmen smiled. “Yes, I was. And it’s a good thing we finished when we did. I’m not sure if Ross told you or not, but the Italian government became aware of our involvement. At this point they don’t know who we are, only that some in our group spoke English with an American accent. Not me, of course. Anyway, they probably as
sume we’re CIA and have read Langley the riot act for operating on their soil. And I’m sure the director has steadfastly denied any knowledge that operation.”

  “How did they find out?”

  “Long story. I’ll fill you in later. I’m just happy Ross let me come straight here without going dark first. This Higgs affair must have set off some alarms pretty high up.”

  “So high you can’t get any higher.”

  Carmen raised an eyebrow. “I guess that’s not surprising.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I have not. Should we go now or wait?”

  “Let’s go before we visit the apartment. I’d prefer to arrive there a little later. I don’t expect any problems, but I’d rather enter when there aren’t as many people around. We’ve had zero time to conduct due diligence.”

  Carmen sat down on the bed. “Have you even had a chance to look over the exterior yet?”

  “I’ve taken a look at some satellite photos and Google street views, but haven’t been over there yet. The building has six stories, and our apartment is on the third floor. As best I can tell, there are two entrances.”

  “And the neighborhood?”

  “The entire block appears to be apartment buildings that form a square around a central courtyard. Each building has one entrance facing the street, and I’m assuming another that opens onto the courtyard.”

  “Is there a way to get to the courtyard from the street?” asked Carmen.

  “You can’t tell from the satellite view.”

  “Who owns the apartment?”

  “We have his name, but we weren’t able to learn much about him. He lives in Munich and owns quite a few properties in Germany and Austria, including several here in Vienna. He and Higgs attended college together, so we can only assume Higgs reached out to him for a place to stay when things got hot. Anyway, we’re running on the assumption that this man knows nothing about what went on. In fact, he may not even know Higgs is dead.”

  “In other words, we don’t believe the keys have even been changed out yet?” said Carmen.

  Zane nodded. “But it’s probably best that we case it for an hour or so first, on the off chance the man found out about Higgs and sent over someone to get the place ready for the next tenant.”

  “Sounds good,” said the Italian, standing up. “I need to get out of these heels, if you don’t mind. I also know a good place to eat that’s close by. I'll call and get a table.”

  “I need to tidy up myself. I’ll be down in a few.”

  “A dopo,” she said as she moved toward the door. She stopped about halfway and turned around. “Just don’t get back in the bed, sleeper agent.”

  *

  Ten minutes later, Zane met Carmen at her door. She was wearing a charcoal wool coat that hung just past her waist and a gray scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.

  “Very nice look for you,” he remarked as he walked past her into the room. “You’re even stylish when you’re casual. I should’ve known you were going to upstage me once again.”

  Zane was wearing a dark gray sweater, black pants, and black buck shoes with soft soles for walking. When Carmen looked over and sized him up, she remarked that cold weather rarely seemed to have any effect on her hot-natured partner. “You’re going to fit right in with the Viennese.”

  “I decided shorts, black socks, and white tennis shoes might not work here.”

  “Believe me when I say I’m most grateful for that.” Carmen secured the latch on the door. Two pieces of luggage were lying on the bed—a large, closed suitcase and a smaller one that was open. The small one was filled with the tools of the trade, everything from guns to knives to a portable GPS.

  Zane surveyed the contents. “You have everything you need?”

  “Si,” she replied, opening her coat and pointing at the bulge in one of the pockets.

  Zane smiled as he noted there were only two guns remaining, both Berettas. One was matte black with an Osprey silencer, and the other was silver and black with no silencer. He chose the matte black, which also had an internal laser sight. He didn’t anticipate using it during the search of Higgs’s apartment but was still mindful of the mysterious dream he had had earlier. He had learned to pay attention to the premonitions that plagued him, and having a semi-automatic Beretta tucked into his belt would be a nice insurance policy against trouble.

  He clicked in a fresh magazine and put an additional one into his right pocket. “What about a light?”

  Carmen stepped over and shuffled a few items around before producing a small tactical flashlight.

  “Perfect.” He placed it in his other pocket. “What about a lock pick kit? We’re going to need a Plan B if those locks were changed out.”

  Carmen opened her coat again, pulled out a zippered leather pouch, and held it up in the air.

  “Great. All set.”

  Carmen closed up the case, which had reinforced steel ribs in its outer shell as well as a triple-locking system. Zane often remarked that not even an RPG blast could open a Delphi equipment case.

  *

  After spending ten minutes surveying the Stephansplatz through a crack in the curtain, Zane determined the square was clear. As best he could tell, no one looked out of place, nor was anyone positioned outside the front entrance except those who had a reason to be there.

  As was their custom, the two operatives left the hotel separately. Zane exited the building first and stood under the awning of an Austrian jeweler across the plaza. He pretended to scroll through his smartphone while using his peripheral vision to take in that end of the square. After making the appropriate check-offs, he sent Carmen a short encrypted text. Precisely thirty seconds later, the Italian beauty strode out of the hotel and into the crowded square.

  By prearranged plan, they made their way separately through the crowd before meeting in front of the main entrance to the Stephansdom.

  “Don’t you think we’re engaging in a bit of overkill?” Carmen asked as they began walking together.

  “I wondered that same thing myself, back in London. That is, until the two uglies showed up and followed me into the Tube.”

  “And you think they’re here now?” Carmen asked in a skeptical tone, stepping aside to avoid a couple that almost ran into them. She glanced back at them briefly before continuing.

  “No, I don’t. I doubt they picked up my trail again after that. I did more checking and double-checking than I have in years, particularly after meeting with Sterling.”

  “Which means you arrived here clean?”

  “Yes,” he said, glancing up at the majestic Stephansdom as they passed in front. Even though he was in work mode, he couldn’t help but note how stunning the ancient church was at night, its individual towers and 450-foot Gothic spire illuminated by spotlights. He looked back at Carmen and said, “I’m certain I wasn’t followed. But I still believe it’s possible they’re here.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think they followed me, but it’s not unreasonable to think they might have been able to piece together the route that Higgs took after leaving Renaissance.”

  “Then why didn’t they hit him while he was here?”

  “I mean piece it together after the fact. I’ll tell you more later, but one piece of information Scotland Yard passed along is that the assassin removed Higgs’s cell phone from his body after killing him. And we both know there may have been information on that phone which would lead them back here. It’s also possible that they knew all along he was in Vienna but just couldn’t pinpoint exactly where.

  “It’s unlikely Higgs used his phone much at all prior to sending that text to Rupert Sterling. I believe that’s what revealed his location, and in the end that’s what sealed his fate.”

  Carmen nodded in agreement.

  After migrating through the crowd, they turned down a side street and walked two blocks to the restaurant Carmen had made reservations at. It was a small, Hungarian eatery she had bee
n to when she was younger, nondescript and yet classy. There were a few tables outside with heat lamps, but she had requested an inside table next to the window.

  Upon entering, they were greeted by a man whose shaggy brown hair and handlebar mustache might have been more at home on the set of a Viking film. As he led them to their table, he ignored Zane, focusing his attention instead on Carmen, trying to impress her with his limited Italian.

  The tables of the restaurant were scattered around in what could only be described as a decorated catacomb, with brick arches encircling the entire space. There was a crowded bar in the rear, already filled with revelers. As usual, his Italian partner had made a brilliant choice.

  A young waiter, his blond hair combed over with enough gel to lubricate a car engine, appeared at the table as though suddenly teleported into their presence. “Good evening,” he said in German.

  “Good evening,” Zane replied in English. “Yes, we would like to hear about your specials.” He winked at Carmen and turned back to the waiter. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AFTER A LONG dinner of chicken paprikash and grilled duck in beet sauce, the two operatives returned to Stephansplatz and spent a few minutes walking back and forth across the crowded square. They stuck close together, giving the appearance of a smartly dressed Viennese couple out for an after-dinner stroll.

  As he surveyed the dozens of faces that crossed their path, Zane was reminded of how misleading Carmen’s looks were. The average man saw only the beautiful face, long black hair, and attractive figure. But beneath that was a toughness that had taken many an attacker by surprise. Her frame was not large, but she had the speed and cunning of a cheetah.

  But while Zane acknowledged Carmen's beauty and respected her toughness, the thing that impressed him the most was her heart. Through their time together, he had learned that she genuinely cared about the welfare of others. Case in point was the current operation. Zane was already convinced that Carmen would eventually see the Higgs case as more than just a murder investigation, although it was certainly that. She would see this as an opportunity to bring closure to a young American who was grieving the death of her father.