by John Sneeden
Lifting the candle, Philippe looked inside and rummaged around. He finally found what he was looking for in the back—a large black leather-bound Bible—which he promptly pulled out and set on the table. He used one hand to hold the candle and the other to open the front cover. On the first flyleaf was a handwritten note that he had read many times:
To my dear Amanda,
You were probably surprised to receive this gift, as well as hear the things that Philippe has told you. This Bible is special to me, and I want you to have it to remember me by. I have been moved by the words printed on these pages, and I was particularly blessed by the one that you told me was your favorite.
Love, Dad
Philippe smiled. It never got old reading the words that his friend had written. And he hoped that he would get to meet Amanda one day soon. He felt as though he knew her already.
With great care, the pastor slid the Bible back into the safe. As he grabbed the safe door he heard a shuffle behind him and saw the shadow of a man play against the wall. A second or two later, he heard a click and felt hard metal pressed against the side of his head. Turning slightly, he could see a pistol out of the corner of his eye.
“I wouldn’t close that if I were you,” said the long-haired man he had just seen outside.
“How… how did you—”
“You need better locks on this place.”
Philippe nervously moved his hands into the air. “What do you want from me?”
“I need your help. I tried the nice way, and you didn’t seem to like that. So guess what? Now we’re going to try it the hard way.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to help you after—”
“I have a gun pressed against your head. Of course I do.”
“Why are you doing this? I’m a pastor. What could you possibly want with me?” Philippe knew full well what the American wanted.
While still holding the barrel of the Glock against Philippe’s head, Zane reached over and turned on a nearby lamp. The light was weak, but it was enough to reveal the safe behind the desk. “What did you just put back in that safe?”
“Nothing.”
“Reverend, I don’t have time to play games,” Zane said, pushing the gun harder against Philippe’s temple.
“I was going through my safe,” he said truthfully.
“It looked like a book to me,” the American said, pulling a flashlight out of his left pocket. He directed the beam into the safe. On the top shelf, in the midst of a number of papers and folders, was a large Bible. “Hand me that.”
“I can’t. It’s—”
“Fine,” the American replied, pulling the chair back from behind the desk with Philippe still in it.
“Please, it’s not my Bible. It’s not mine, and it’s not yours,” the pastor said in a raised voice.
The American lifted the gun from his head, and Philippe wondered if he had finally seen reason. “Whose Bible is it, and why are you so protective of it?” the man said, his tone a little softer.
Philippe looked up at the ceiling and began praying.
“Whose is it?” the man asked again, poking him lightly with the pistol.
“This I will never tell you.”
Philippe had gone as far as he could go. His hope was to keep the American talking until he could think of something, but he was running out of things to say.
“I told you before, I’ll get your help one way or another.” The stranger raised the gun again.
“You don’t understand,” the pastor said. “I’m a man of God. I don’t fear death, and I’ll never tell you who I’m holding this book for.”
“Then maybe you’ll tell me,” said a female voice.
Philippe jumped at the sound of the strange voice. He looked over at the door and saw a girl. She was in her twenties and had blond hair. Another female with long, dark hair stood behind her. The man had swung around at the sound of her voice but lowered his gun when he saw who it was.
“Amanda, don’t tell him—”
Philippe stood up. “You… you are Amanda?”
She stepped toward the pastor, her hand extended. “Yes, I’m Amanda Higgs. And you are?”
Philippe’s eyes started to tear as he reached out and clasped Amanda’s hand with both of his. “I am Pastor Philippe Bachand. I knew your father well.”
“You knew Dad?”
“I did indeed. A fine man,” Phillipe said, still holding on to Amanda’s hand. “I can’t honestly say that you look like him, but you certainly have his eyes.”
Amanda smiled. “Thank you. I’ve been told that a few times.”
The other woman stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Carmen.”
Carmen then looked at Zane. He hesitated, and then reached out and grabbed Philippe’s shoulder. “I’m Zane. I apologize for… well, my unannounced entry.”
Philippe nodded, still a bit wary of the large man.
“Unfortunately, we came here not knowing what to expect. We didn’t know who to ask for or what we were going to find. I could tell you knew something but knew you weren’t going to open up.”
“I understand.”
“So, you spoke to him recently?” Zane asked, not wanting to waste any time. With the blizzard in full force, it wasn’t likely the pastor planned on sticking around for long.
“Ian and I spoke just before he left Switzerland. He said some bad things had happened, and he feared for his life. And now…”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Zane said. “We can only assume he had a good reason for keeping the whole thing under wraps.”
“Is that all he told you?” Carmen asked.
Philippe shook his head. “No. He said if something happened to him, Amanda would probably visit. But if not her, others would come. He made me promise I'd talk to no one but Amanda.”
“Now what happened tonight makes sense,” Zane said, and he told the pastor about their journey to Vienna and the clue they had found.
Philippe frowned. “Ian was a smart man, but the whole thing is strange. Why wouldn’t he just tell his daughter to come to Geneva and speak to me directly? It would have saved a lot of time and effort.”
“I think I have that part figured out,” Carmen said. “The clue we found in Vienna is something only Amanda or someone close to her would know. So, if he had sent the letter out with just your name and contact information and it had fallen into the wrong hands, it would have led the bad guys directly to you. In the end, he did it to protect you, Philippe.”
“That makes sense now,” Philippe said.
“So, that brings us to tonight,” Amanda said. “Now that we’re here, I’m assuming Dad wanted you to pass along a message to me.”
“Not exactly.” Philippe bent down, pulled the Bible out of the safe, and placed it on the desk in front of Amanda.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” she whispered, running her hand across the leather-bound cover. “Only I’m not sure that’s what we’re looking for.”
“I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but it’s all I have.”
“Let me have a look,” Zane said, taking the Bible from Amanda. He opened it up to the center as if trying to confirm that indeed it was a real Bible, and not simply a container that looked like one. He held it up by the spine and shook it to see if anything fell out. Nothing.
“Oh,” Philippe said, snapping his fingers. “There is one thing I need to show you, Amanda. Your father wrote you a personal note in the front. Perhaps that’s what you’re looking for.”
Amanda took the Bible from Zane and opened it to the first page. She read it twice and then looked up. “This isn’t exactly what we’re looking for, but I like it.” She ran her finger across the handwritten words. “He mentions my favorite verse.”
“Yes, I’ve been wondering which verse he was referring to,” Philippe declared.
“John 15:13. 'Greater love has no one than this; to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.'”
“One of my favor
ites as well,” Philippe said.
Amanda smiled at the pastor with genuine affection. Then she frowned. “Wait a minute.” She flipped through the pages and then came to a stop toward the back. After staring at the page for a moment, she turned the Bible clockwise and held it close to her face, as though reading something along the inner crease. “Oh boy.”
“What?” Zane asked.
“I found something.” Amanda handed him the Bible and pointed to tiny handwriting printed along the crease. As Zane read, he raised his eyebrows.
“What is it?” Carmen asked.
“It’s the name of an office park,” Zane replied. “There’s only one problem—no city is given.”
Carmen pulled out her phone and began to tap on the screen. “Give me a sec.”
“May I see it?” Philippe asked. Zane handed the book to him. Philippe held it up close to his face and studied it for a moment before dropping it to his side. “I know this place. And now it all makes sense.”
Carmen stopped tapping on her phone.
“It’s west Geneva, along the north shore of the Rhone. The buildings are generally owned or leased by companies that like to maintain secrecy, such as those operating in technology or defense. It’s the typical sort of arrangement you’d expect to find in Switzerland.”
Zane frowned. “So why do you say it all makes sense now?”
“Because that is where Ian worked when he came to Geneva. But Ian didn’t just work in one place. He told me his job responsibilities took him to several locations, the main one being somewhere east of Lake Geneva. Our city was one of his other locations, and that’s how he found me. At some point he asked one of the locals where he could find a Protestant church, and someone suggested he visit us here at the St. Pierre Cathedral. I happened to be the pastor on duty the day he showed up, and we connected from the beginning. He was a fine man and had lots of questions about faith.”
Amanda smiled.
“About the place he worked here in Geneva, the office park… can you tell us more about that?” Zane asked.
“It was kind of interesting how it came up. He let the name slip one day, and I knew where he was talking about because my nephew works there.”
“Your nephew worked with Ian Higgs?” Carmen asked.
“No, he works for a company in one of the other buildings.”
Carmen was nodding. “Well, it seems obvious why Ian left this clue with you, Pastor Bachand. It sounds like you’re familiar with the location.”
“Not only the location, but I’m actually familiar with Ian’s building.”
Zane sat down in one of the empty chairs. “You are?”
“Yes. A month or so ago we had agreed to do lunch together. Ian wanted to go to a bistro near his office, so he offered to let me use the parking lot associated with his building, since there wasn’t much parking available near the restaurant.”
“Did you go into the building?” Carmen asked.
“I did not,” Philippe replied. “I simply pulled into the numbered space he told me to park in, and we walked to the café from there.”
“Can you tell us anything about the building?” Zane asked.
“Not much,” Philippe admitted. “I do know that Ian’s offices were not on the ground floor. I saw a name on the ground-floor window and recognized it, though. It's an investment firm of some kind, used by Eastern Europeans.”
Carmen looked over at Zane. “Something tells me that investment firm might be owned by Alexander Mironov. I seem to remember reading that there were a few financial pieces to his holdings.”
“Possibly,” Zane mused. “That would certainly make sense, given the location and the clientele.”
“There is one other thing,” Philippe said. “They had strange hours of operation. They operated primarily in the evening. In fact, on the night we ate dinner at the bistro, Ian was just getting to work.”
Carmen appeared intrigued. “Did he say why they operated at night?” she asked.
“No, but he did say that their work was secretive, and those in charge had a peculiar way of running things.”
Carmen looked over at Zane, who was staring at the pastor. Finally Zane said, “That’s very helpful.” He paused for a few more seconds before saying, “Pastor Philippe, can you take us there?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s late. Perhaps tomorrow we can—”
“I understand if you don’t want to be out in the storm.” Zane placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But unfortunately, this may be our best chance to get out there before the white stuff really gets deep. I simply want to drive past the building a couple of times and take notes on the location and the surrounding area.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” Philippe said.
Carmen looked at Zane and raised an eyebrow. He understood what she was implying, so he turned to the pastor and said, “Look, I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you this—we’ve been asked by the American government to look into Ian’s death. Nothing more, nothing less. And if it would make you more comfortable, we have people you can call.”
“Pastor Bachand,” Amanda said, leaning forward and placing her hands on the desk. “My father asked you to help me and you agreed to do that. And I just want you to know that these are my friends. They’re not here to hurt you or get you in trouble. They’re just trying to find out who killed my father. Please help us do that.”
Philippe looked at all three faces, one by one. “Yes, I did take a vow to help you…”
“And we would be so thankful if you would.”
Philippe let out a deep sigh. “Well, we’ll need to stop by my house on the way. None of you are dressed to be out in this weather.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE RED RENAULT Clio that had been leased by French Canadian Michel Bergeron zigzagged through the Grottes district of Geneva. Its occupants didn’t seem the least bit out of place in the distinctly bohemian neighborhood. In fact, were it not for the time of day, one might assume the three were on their way to the nearest dive bar to watch a scandalously hip alternative band while sipping a bottle of artisanal beer.
The driver, whose long brown hair flowed out from underneath a striped toboggan, watched both side mirrors through aviator sunglasses, searching for anything that might seem even slightly out of place. Seated next to him was a raven-haired woman with an olive complexion. She was also watching the surrounding streets and sidewalks, although her movements were subtler, her eyes shifting back and forth behind her own shaded lenses. The third passenger, a twenty-something with straight blonde hair, surfed the Internet on her phone in the back seat, oblivious to the activities of the other two.
After doubling back through the Grottes district three times, including several U-turns and random stops, the driver eventually satisfied himself that they weren’t being followed and headed southwest through the Servette Potterie district, eventually turning left onto a road that ran between two office buildings.
The driver—Zane—pulled out an encrypted phone, tapped a few times, and then brought it to his ear. The decision to covertly enter the Renaissance offices had been made after an evening of due diligence with Philippe Bachand two nights before, followed by a long consultation with the Oracle the next morning. Since the second floor was used only at night, it was decided that Zane would enter the bank, which was located on the first floor, during the day. Once contact was made with an employee, Zane would ask to use the restrooms, which were located down the front corridor and across from the elevator. The building's elevator was operated by a secure card, which Delphi was able to reproduce after hacking through the security firewall.
Upon gaining entry to the second floor, Zane would attempt to locate the former office of Ian Higgs. Perhaps he had left something behind in the office itself, or perhaps something had been hidden electronically. In case of the latter, the operative would procure every visible electronic device.
“Foster here,” was the answer on the oth
er end. It had been decided that Brett Foster, Delphi’s Chief Technology Specialist, would coordinate operational logistics from Arlington. The slightly heavy, dark-haired geek was a hacker extraordinaire and an invaluable asset in the organization.
He had attended MIT in the early 2000s and graduated with honors. After graduation, he entered private industry, working for several research companies at the Research Triangle Park in North Carolina. As fate would have it, one of those companies was a consultant for the CIA, and the brilliant young techie caught the eye of the head administrator of the CIA’s Office of Information Technology, and ultimately, of the Director himself.
Knowing full well that the CIA couldn’t pay Foster enough to hire him away from private industry, the Director passed his name on to Alexander Ross. Ross then used the appeal of covert work, coupled of course with a substantial increase in pay, to lure him to Delphi.
“We’re in the zone,” Zane said, downshifting the vehicle to a crawl. “I’m placing you on speaker.”
“Can everybody hear me?” Brett asked.
All three indicated they could.
“I’m behind the firewall and will be able to tell you if any alarms are activated,” Brett explained.
“What about the blues?” Zane asked, referring to the Geneva police.
“Chris is monitoring all blue communication,” Brett said. Chris Spears was Delphi’s Assistant Technology Specialist. “In fact, we’re monitoring all emergency personnel.”
“Copy that,” Zane said.
“And you have the drive and the card?” Brett asked. Both the thumb drive and access card had arrived by courier earlier that morning. If Zane could find the security room, he was going to use the thumb drive to load special software into the system that controlled the building’s cameras. Ten minutes later a trojan would activate, erasing the prior forty-five minutes of recorded video feed, something not likely to be noticed unless the users were specifically looking for it.
“Yes, we have both,” Zane replied, patting one of his pockets.
