The Signal

by John Sneeden

  “Looking good?” Carmen asked, rolling her eyes as she looked down at his poorly hemmed pants. “I may have to turn you back in. That suit is just not happening.”

  “Oh hush, and just be glad you have some male muscle to back you up.” Reid accepted a flute of champagne from one of the servers. “At some point this evening, I’m sure you’re going to need me to get you out of some nastiness. Trouble swirls around you like flies at a fast food dumpster.”

  “I see. Hmmm. So is that the same kind of protection you provided in Croatia two years ago?” She was referring to an operation in which Reid and Skinner had been pistol-whipped by a man disguised as a female beggar, only to later be saved by the supreme marksmanship of a certain female Italian operative.

  “So now we’re digging up old war stories? What you didn’t realize is that Ross had specifically asked us to put you in a situation that would test you. A training exercise of sorts.”

  “A training exercise, huh? The look on your face when that ‘woman’ pulled out her Smith & Wesson and placed it against your temple indicates otherwise.”

  Reid smiled and took a long sip of champagne. As he lifted the glass up, he used the opportunity to scan the crowd around them. In a low voice, he asked, “Anything so far?”

  “Not a thing,” replied Carmen. “I feel like I’d know him immediately. Mironov, that is. Granted the photos and videos weren’t good, but there is something about him—his size and posture—that would be a dead giveaway. As for Marrese, I doubt I’d recognize him even if he came by with a tray of wine.”

  If there were only a few pictures of Mironov, then there were even fewer pictures of Marrese. Historically, the Catholic Church always kept their exorcists out of public view—they were rarely named publicly, and they certainly weren’t photographed. The best pictures Delphi had been able to obtain were cloudy stills from CCTV footage taken in and around Geneva. The former priest could be seen hopping out of a car and disappearing into a restaurant or café with Mironov. As Carmen studied the stills, all she could make out were a flash of dark hair and the hint of facial hair. How did he know about the positioning of the cameras? Why did he always seem to be on the concealed side of a group?

  “The crowd is much larger than I expected,” Carmen said. “And it doesn’t look like they’re going to be taking their seats anytime soon.”

  “Keep in mind, this is a social event. Yes, there will be speakers later, but that may be the only thing that gets people into their seats.”

  “You know, we may want to split up,” Carmen suggested. “I think it might allow us to cover more ground.”

  “Agreed. I’ll move toward the stage and then cut to the left and across to the other side.”

  “Perfect. And while you’re doing that I’ll head back toward the entrance and then come around in your direction so we can compare notes. Oh, and Keith… don’t you dare leave with anyone else, hun.”

  Reid winked and lifted his flute before disappearing into the crowd.

  Carmen took one last look at the pictures on her cell phone. The first was a photo of Mironov at a podium in a rare publicly circulated image. It was almost seven years old and had been taken at a distance. His brown hair was combed straight back with several quarts of gel, a styling quirk that Carmen had been told was still in operation. Reid had joked that anyone with blow-dried hair could be immediately eliminated.

  Carmen used her thumb to swipe the screen and move to the next image. It was a grainy picture of several men entering a small restaurant in Old Town Geneva. As was always the case, Marrese, or at least a man reputed to be Marrese, was positioned on the far side of the group. About the only thing visible was one side of his head and the jet-black hair.

  As she studied the photo, Carmen suddenly frowned and pulled the phone closer to her face. Could it be? It didn’t seem possible. Though he was facing the restaurant with only the side of his head visible, it seemed as though his eyes were turned directly toward the camera.

  “Is that a picture of your boyfriend?” asked a nearby voice in French.

  “Cosa?” Carmen jumped slightly and looked up to see an older man, probably in his sixties, standing next to her. He had silver hair and the kind of large-rimmed glasses that were popular in the seventies. His speech was slightly slurred, indicating he had made good use of the free wine.

  “No,” she answered in English. She knew most Swiss spoke passable English. “Actually I’m just checking my email. I know, I know… they always tell me to leave work at the office, but I never can seem to resist.”

  The old man grabbed her forearm and leaned closer, speaking in heavily accented English. “So, there is no boyfriend?”

  Carmen was using the arm the man grabbed to pin the clutch against her body, so she stiffened her muscles to hold everything in place. The last thing she needed was for a drunken pervert to shake her arm and cause the loaded revolver to tumble out to the floor. “Uh, I do have a boyfriend, but he’s not here at the moment.”

  “Ooh la la,” said the man, squeezing Carmen’s arm. “A shame he couldn’t make it.”

  Carmen pulled back, but he kept his hand in place. She didn’t want to cause a scene, so she let it stay there for the moment. “He’s here,” she said, gesturing toward the front with her wineglass. “He just went to use the restroom.”

  “Les toilettes? But the bathrooms are over there,” he insisted, nodding in the opposite direction.

  Carmen shrugged. “Well, I guess it may take him a while then.”

  The man laughed and momentarily released her arm in order to take a swallow of wine, slurping it more like someone drinking water on a hot day.

  “I must tell you something, mademoiselle,” said the man, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit coat. “You are very beautiful, and a beautiful woman should never be left alone.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “And I seem to hear an accent. You are American, no?”

  “Italian.”

  “Well, welcome to Geneva. You know, you must excuse me, but there aren’t many beautiful women like you here in Geneva. Where your country is blessed, ours seems to be cursed.”

  “Thank you,” replied Carmen, feigning embarrassment. “But that’s not true about Switzerland. We’ve been in Geneva for several days now, and I’ve seen many beautiful women.”

  “Perhaps.” The man's eyes roamed over the operative while he took another drink. Carmen predicted he would have to be carried out of the hall before the night was over. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Francois Maisonet. And yours?”

  “My name is Mariella,” replied Carmen. “And if you don’t mind, I need to—”

  “What a beautiful name.” Francois reached for her arm once again. Carmen pulled it away but stopped short of walking off. “It’s almost musical. So tell me, Mademoiselle Mariella, what brings you and your… ummm, boyfriend… to the celebration tonight? I’m one of the finance directors at CERN, so perhaps I know him.”

  “Scusi? Excuse me?” Carmen asked, trying to buy some time.

  “What brings you and your friend here tonight?” The man's breath was a noxious combination of mouthwash and wine.

  “Oh, uh… my boyfriend is a journalist and is writing an article about one of the speakers,” Carmen said, giving him their prearranged story.

  “Who does he write for?” Francois asked.

  Without hesitating she gave him the name of a fictitious scientific journal.

  “Never heard of it,” Francois stated with a shrug. “Well, I hope he’s not here to cover Markus VanGelder, our lovely keynote speaker.”

  Carmen noted the man’s sarcasm. “To be honest I can’t remember the person’s name. We seldom talk about his—”

  “Strange fellow, that VanGelder,” said Francois, his voice suddenly taking a more serious tone. “Always keeps to himself. I’ve passed him a thousand times out at the laboratoire, and never once has he spoken to me. Arrogant Dutch bast—”
>
  “Well, as you probably know, there are quite a few characters in the scientific community.”

  “If your friend is here to cover VanGelder, you must see if he knows anything about the rumors.” Francois had a twinkle in his eye.

  Carmen was about to express the need to use the restroom herself and walk off, but something about the man’s question caused her to linger. “Rumors? What rumors?”

  Francois looked around to make sure no one was listening. He put his hand on Carmen’s shoulder and positioned his mouth close to her face, so close that she felt she could probably pinpoint the brand of mouthwash he was using. “The crazy research,” he said in a slurred voice.

  “The crazy research?”

  “This madness he’s involved in.”

  “Oh? Tell me more,” Carmen said.

  He seemed to like that, dropping his hand from her shoulder down to her waist. “They say…” He looked up again, to make sure no one was close by. “They say he’s been using dirty money to finance his work.”

  The hair on the back of Carmen’s neck stood on end as she realized she might have stumbled onto something important. She ignored the hand that was massaging her waist and asked, “So tell me, exactly what sort of research are you talking about?”

  He laughed. “All I will say is this, Mademoiselle Mariella… just make sure you stick around for the keynote speech tonight, and you will hear for yourself. It’s all madness if you ask me.”

  “I will be here, but can you give me a little sneak preview?”

  “I tell you what,” he said, lifting his mostly empty glass and staring at it much the way a chemist would examine a test tube. “Let’s go find another drink and get away from all this noise. Then I will tell you everything you need to know about the brilliant Markus VanGelder.”

  Carmen glanced at the time on her phone. She realized she might have stumbled onto something important but also knew she needed to get away from the increasingly frisky Swiss finance director standing at her side. She needed to find Reid and then try to obtain more information about VanGelder.

  “I tell you what,” said Carmen. “Let me freshen up a bit, and then you and I will go get that drink.”

  Francois hesitated. “Something tells me that if I let you out of my sight, I won’t see you again.”

  Carmen knew that even though he was drunk, the man was no fool. “No, not at all. Can’t you tell I want to know more? In fact, I think this might be the one my boyfriend is writing about.”

  “You promise you’ll come back?” His voice sounded like that of a teenager.

  “I promise.” Carmen grabbed his arm reassuringly.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She gave him a little wave, turned around, and then slipped into the crowd.

  It took her about two minutes to locate Reid. He was standing underneath one of the massive windows, sipping his champagne and watching each person who walked by.

  “Ah, there’s my date,” he declared as she arrived. “Any luck?”

  “If getting hit on by a drunken Swiss groper in his sixties is good luck, I just won the lottery.”

  Reid grinned. “Excuse me if I don’t cry. I’m sure you acquitted yourself quite well.”

  “To be honest,” she said, stepping closer to Reid and lowering her voice, “I think that in the midst of that wine-fueled harassment I may have stumbled onto something.”

  Reid lifted an eyebrow.

  Carmen peered into her clutch and saw that the only thing inside was her Beretta. “Say, do you have that program they gave us when we came in?”

  “I think I do,” Reid replied, using his free hand to fish a program from his coat pocket. He handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. She opened it and scanned the page. “Got it. Here is the list of speakers. Yes, that’s him.”

  “Mironov?”

  “No, Markus VanGelder. He’s the keynote speaker tonight. I know this is a long shot, but the drunk who was hitting on me started rambling on and on about VanGelder, saying he’s involved in some kind of crazy research. But in order to get more information, I’d have to join him in some cozy spot to share some drinks. At that point I just had to get out of there. He was already squeezing my arm and talking into my ear, and I realized the next thing on the agenda was a slobbery kiss.”

  “That smooth, huh?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he were hugging a ceramic bowl in a couple of hours. Anyway, where was I?”

  “VanGelder.”

  “So, this guy told me that VanGelder’s research was being financed using dirty money.”

  Reid raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Alexander Mironov, I presume?”

  “Exactly. At least that’s my guess. If we knew the nature of the research, it might shed some light on why Mironov would be interested in it.”

  “Well, what is he speaking on tonight?” asked Reid, pointing to the program.

  Carmen shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Look again. They usually give the topic of the speeches.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’d be shocked if it’s not in there.”

  Carmen opened the program again and went back to the list of speakers. “Bingo. Here it is—the agenda.” She continued to read. “Oh my. Good grief.”

  “What?” Reid asked.

  She handed him the program and pointing to a place about halfway down the page.

  Reid read for a moment and then his eyes widened. “What the—”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think Mironov might—”

  “Nothing would surprise me at this point.”

  “What next?” Reid asked.

  “We have to find VanGelder. And if we find VanGelder, we’ll find Mironov.”

  Carmen surveyed the crowd around them as she took a long sip of wine. “And I think I just figured out how we can do that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  IT WAS THE gentle rocking of the boat that finally lifted Zane out of the murky depths of unconsciousness. At first he thought the gentle movement back and forth was the product of deep REM sleep, but then, as the mental fog began to clear, he realized that the movement was anything but a dream.

  Eventually he was able to lift an eyelid ever so slightly. His chin was resting on his chest, but he could see enough out of his peripheral vision to figure out that he was sitting in the back of an inboard motorboat. He could also see that his hands and wrists were tightly bound by plastic flex-cuffs.

  As he carefully raised his head for a better look, he heard the soft murmur of a nearby conversation. The voices were speaking in Russian.

  He decided to keep his head down. Experience had taught him that it was always better to have your captors believe you were asleep or unconscious, and the longer they thought so the better.

  The conversation in the front of the boat eventually grew louder and became sprinkled with laughter. Zane lifted his chin off of his chest and turned his head slowly to the right. Off of the starboard side of the boat was a river whose surface glimmered with the reflection of city lights. On the far shore were buildings clustered tightly together. Zane soon pieced it all together: He was sitting on the Rhone River in central Geneva.

  The laughter continued, so he turned his head to the left. The boat was tied to a dock that ran the entire length of a building that was sitting in the river itself. There was an arched stone foundation at the water line, and further up, a stone facade broken by tall floor-to-ceiling windows. A soft purple glow spilled out of the windows, and he could hear the faint notes of classical music coming through the glass.

  Suddenly, the boat rocked and Zane immediately dropped his head back to his chest. The rocking was followed by the sound of clumsy footsteps approaching. Had he been seen looking around?

  Seconds later, cold fingers grabbed his chin and lifted his head. There was a click and a burst of light as the man directed the beam of a flashlight at Zane’s eyes, using a finger
to open each lid one at a time. It took every ounce of Zane’s willpower to remain motionless as the light seared through his dilated pupils.

  Apparently satisfied that his captive was still unconscious, the man released Zane’s chin and let it drop back onto his chest. He stumbled back to the front and took his seat. As Russians resumed their conversation, Zane decided to see how many men he was dealing with. He also wanted to scan the boat interior for anything that he might be able to use as a weapon.

  Lifting his head slightly, he was eventually able to make out the silhouettes of two men sitting in the front. Perfect. Had there been any more than that, it would’ve complicated any plans of escape. If he could somehow work his way out of the cuffs, it would take little time to dispatch them, even if they were trained professionals.

  The boat suddenly swayed again as Zane saw one of the men stand and jab a hand in his pocket. After fumbling around, he lifted his hand toward his face. There was a burst of flame as he lit a cigarette. He took a long draw that made the tip glow red.

  Zane’s eyebrows furrowed. The flame had thrown off just enough light to illuminate the back of the boat, enabling him to catch a brief glimpse of something, a piece of shiny metal near his feet. When the light was extinguished, he continued to stare at the spot to make sure he didn’t lose the object’s position.

  Soon he realized what he’d seen and a very important conclusion entered his thoughts: that shiny piece of metal was going to be his ticket off the boat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “WHAT A PLEASURE to finally meet you,” said Markus VanGelder, extending his hand as he took his seat. The Dutch physicist was a tall man, with bushy brown hair that made him look younger than his fifty-two years. “Were it not for your great generosity, none of this would be possible.”

  Mironov pumped the offered hand and said, “And I hope you realize your work means everything to me and to those who share our goals. We are embarking on the century of humanity, a century that will mark a turning point in history, and your work is opening doors that will lead us into those uncharted waters.”