by Jack Bowie
“I’m looking for an American tile,” he blurted out as the couple came within ten feet.
The woman stared at him, then responded in an explosion of French that Braxton felt sure questioned his parentage and that of his ancestors back to the Revolution. She proceeded to drag her partner further toward Rue du Rhone.
Braxton watched in embarrassment as they strode away. Now he felt even more alienated. How was he supposed to find his contact?
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Braxton turned and saw another well-dressed man approaching. He was shorter than Braxton, perhaps five foot eight and stocky, with a weathered, well-traveled, face—a face that had seen many adventures. He could be forty or sixty. Whatever his age, he moved confidently and with a grace based in athleticism. He was wearing a tailored Barberry raincoat and over one shoulder hung a large brown leather bag. Resting on his head was an anachronistic English bowler. He was just what Braxton imagined for an international spy.
“Ah, yes. I’m looking for the American greeting.” Braxton pointed down to the lighted tiles.
The stranger smiled. “Welcome to Geneva, Mr. … Greystone. Such an amusing challenge from my Langley cousins. So like the colonies. I’m afraid you won’t find anything like ‘whatsup’ among the pavés. They are here to create a bond between our international visitors and the rich history of Lac Leman and Geneva. Whether America is to be included is yet to be determined.”
“Mr. Anthony?” Braxton asked.
The smile grew wider. It was an expression that invited trust.
Probably a useful trait for a spook.
“Ah. You must have been speaking with Gina. She is the only one who still uses that sobriquet. It’s so hard for the Italians to adapt to change.” The smile disappeared. “My name is Nigel Maddock.”
Rather than extending his hand, Maddock slowly turned his head to each side. Braxton thought he looked like a hunter scanning for targets. “Please, follow me. I don’t like standing out here in the open.”
Maddock walked back toward Rue du Rhone and Braxton followed.
“Are you a cleric, Mr. Maddock?”
Another smile. “Oh, no, Mr. Braxton.”
How the hell does he know my name?
“You’re surprised I know your name. Given the request came from Roger Slattery, it wasn’t hard to discover who you are. Google is a wonderful thing. So unlike the Americans to develop it. But then Mr. Brin is a Russian.”
“Do you work for the CIA?”
“Oh, heavens no. Work for you Yanks? Not bloody likely. I’m an independent contractor. Since I retired from active service, I specialize in finding lost things. Things that are, let’s say, sensitive in nature where a very light touch is required. Missing information. Missing documents. That sort of thing. I’ve known Roger for many years, although this request was rather a challenge. It wasn’t to find someone, but to lose them. That’s you.”
“That’s why Gina called you Saint Anthony. He’s the finder of lost articles.”
Maddock reached over and gave Braxton a burly slap on the back. “Well done, old chap. I’m sure the sisters at St. Ignatius would be very pleased you remembered.”
Braxton stopped short. How did Maddock know where he went to high school?
“How …?”
“Come now, Mr. Braxton. I’m sure you’re very good at detecting software anomalies. Like the Saracen worm. I’m very good at finding things.”
They walked to the end of the plaza and Maddock stopped at the street. “You have a room at the Métropole. It’s quite nice. Follow Rue du Rhone for four blocks, then take a left onto Rue du Prince. The Métropole will be on the corner. Your room is under the name Greystone, of course.”
Maddock turned and his bon homme expression turned grave. “It’s time for you to keep a very low profile, Mr. Braxton. Roger wanted me to emphasize you are not to contact him electronically under any circumstances. While it is far from perfect, Echelon will find you. You are the target of a very active search.”
“But how can I contact him? I want to know how the investigation is going.”
“Roger thought you would ask that.” Maddock removed the bag from his shoulder and handed it to Braxton. “There’s a letter from him in one of the pockets. He told me it will answer many of your questions. There is also a clean laptop. You may use the hotel’s WiFi but again, do not ever access any of your personal accounts. As for contacting Roger, you must work through me. I have a shop here in the city.” Maddock reached into his jacket and handed Braxton a small business card. “Write your messages on a piece of paper and give them to me there. As if it was a request for an item. I’ll tell you when your order will be ready. It will be quite safe.”
Before Braxton could comment, Maddock turned and began walking back into the Place. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Bon soir, Mr. Greystone. Have a very pleasant stay in Geneva. And please discard that ridiculous backpack. You are no longer an undergraduate at Boston College. This is Europe after all.”
Braxton stared as Maddock quickly disappeared into the darkness.
Why had he been sent to a strange city to be locked in a hotel room? For his safety obviously, but he had to find out who had framed him and clear his name. How could he do that in this godforsaken city of bankers and watchmakers?
Before continuing to the hotel, he glanced down at the card Maddock had given him.
Nigel Maddock, Proprietor
Antiquites Scientifiques
15 Rue du Purgatoire
Geneva, Switzerland
Chapter 19
Hotel Métropole, Geneva, Switzerland
Friday, 9:15 p.m.
Braxton had to give Slattery credit, he did know how to execute a first-class extraction. First Gina and her Ferrari, and now the Métropole Geneve, a five-star hotel dating from 1854. The building’s elegant facade covered a full block on the Quai du General-Guisan. Across the street was the Jardin Anglais, a city park filled with gardens, sculptures, fountains and paths, lying at the foot of Lac Leman.
Mr. Greystone had entered the lobby and had been immediately blinded by dazzling red carpets and ultra-modern furnishings meticulously arranged around what must have been the building’s original stone columns. At the polished steel reception desk, an attractive French receptionist had checked his reservation, efficiently completed the check-in procedures, and directed him to his room on the third floor. She had pleasantly informed him his stay had been prepaid by “his company.”
He took the elevator to the third floor and entered a room much more spacious than to those he normally frequented. Like the lobby, it was sparkling clean, bright and modern.
Braxton was exhausted. His legs were so stiff from after twelve hours in the L-100J and another nine in Gina’s cocoon-like Ferrari they felt like they belonged to someone else. He hadn’t slept in a real bed in over thirty hours. All he wanted to do was collapse and fall asleep, but he knew better.
He tossed his backpack and new-found man bag on the bed, stripped and turned to the bathroom.
Anticipating the standard European coffin-like shower stall, he instead found a spacious, plate-glass enclosed bath area with tub and shower. Maybe this forced exile wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
After fifteen minutes letting a cascade of hot, steamy water wash away the grime and relieve the cramps in his back and legs, he wrapped himself in the hotel’s plush terry robe and took stock of his accommodations. There was a double bed, nightstand, three-drawer bureau with LCD TV, and a small desk tucked into a corner.
Just the place for a globe-trotting spook.
He went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The view was out the front of the hotel. Across the darkness of the Jardin and the Rhone was the skyline of Geneva. It was like none he had ever seen. Not the jumble of architectures and elevations so common in the States, but a neat row of block-long buildings that faced the water, all of the same height—Braxton estimated five stori
es—and all with classic French Mansard roofs. Along the front of the roofs, aligned in Swiss precision like a sentence on a lined pad, neon signs glowed with the names that made Switzerland famous: “Rolex,” “Piaget,” “Patek Philippe” and “Credit Suisse.” This statement of Swiss excellence went on for as far as Braxton could see.
Finally pulling away from this display, he dropped onto the bed, grabbed the bag he had been given by Maddock and flipped it open.
On top was a pair of light cotton pajamas. At least he wouldn’t have to sleep in his underwear.
Next was a small bag of toiletries, sort of an upscale version of an airline’s first-class goodie bag. Now he could brush his teeth.
There was only one other item in the bag. When he pulled it out, his heart jumped. It was a shiny new MacBook. He immediately flipped it open. It appeared to be right off the shelf. No super-secret decryption apps, no clandestine messaging programs.
Guess I’m not a spook after all.
Reaching into a side pocket, he found the envelope Maddock had described. It was time to see what Slattery had to say. He tore the envelope open and pulled out the contents. It was a single sheet of plain white paper, likely printed on a laser printer. Braxton wondered if it would burst into flames once he read it.
Adam,
First, my apologies for the inconvenient arrangements but they were necessary for your protection. There would have been no way to protect you if the Cambridge police had you in custody. Sam and I are following the investigation and I will update you on any new developments.
By now you have met Nigel. He is an ex-MI6 agent whom I have known for longer than either of us will admit. It is imperative that you contact Nigel every day. This way I will know you have not gotten yourself into any further trouble. Until we can resolve the situation in Cambridge, he will be our conduit. This is a somewhat unusual assignment for him, as I’m sure he has explained in numbing detail, but you can trust him completely. He is being well reimbursed.
I hope this care package contains most of the items you need. Do try to control yourself with the debit card. The PIN is 1635.
If you need anything else, tell Nigel and he will forward the request to me.
And please keep your head down.
Roger
P.S. In case you are uncertain about the authenticity of this letter, just think about your PIN.
Debit card? What debit card?
He gave the envelope a shake and a plastic card fell to the bed. It was an American Express debit card.
I wonder what’s my credit limit?
The postscript did give him some comfort. The PIN was the year of incorporation of Concord, Massachusetts, and, not coincidentally, a number that played prominently in the incident that had introduced him to the CIA agent.
He grabbed the toiletry bag and headed back into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returned, he stared at the MacBook and his backpack then shook his head and moved them to the corner desk.
Ten minutes later, he was stretched out on the bed, fast asleep.
* * *
Karen Chu sat at her desk staring blankly at the door to the Cerberus Consulting suite. Her whole afternoon had been spent explaining, for the umpteenth time, to Lockheed Martin, Accenture and the CDC why their projects were to be delayed indefinitely. All because her boss was “sick.”
It was against everything Chu had been taught to lie. Her father, a Federal judge in Pennsylvania, had drilled the importance of decency and honesty into his children for as long as she could remember. It was her family’s credo. She had been grounded for a month when she had lied to her ninth-grade physics teacher about losing an assignment.
And now that code was eating at her soul.
The phone rang and she almost didn’t answer it. She just couldn’t lie to another client.
“Cerberus Consulting.”
“Karen? It’s Sydney Walker.”
“Sydney!” Chu had last spoken to Walker when she had been in a San Francisco hospital recovering from a nearly fatal warehouse fire. Chu didn’t know much about what had really transpired, just that Walker had been working for the DIA and she and Chu’s boss had located someone very important to the government. And that individual had not wanted to be found. Beyond that, it was one of those assignments Braxton had been unable to explain.
It was, without doubt, another escapade Mr. Smith had instigated.
Chu didn’t know much more about Walker, just that her boss trusted her. And that was enough.
“How are you? Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m just fine Karen. And I’m back in Bethesda taking a little time off. Now tell me about Adam.” Her voice lost its cherry tone.
“I don’t know, Sydney. It’s awful.” Chu recounted the events of the past week. At least as far as she knew. The telling made her confront all the pent-up fears. Her voice cracked and tears welled in her eyes.
“I saw the news reports on the web,” Walker explained. “I was afraid it was something like this. Is Sam still in Boston?”
“I think so. I haven’t heard anything since yesterday. I’m dying here, Sydney. I can’t keep making up stories for our clients. What should I do?”
There was silence on the line. “Sydney?”
“Sorry, Karen. I was sorting out a few things in my head. How about I come by later? We could talk.”
Chu wiped her eyes. “I’d like that Sydney.”
* * *
“Colonel. The new recruit is here.”
Rockwell looked up from his financial report to see his aide standing in the doorway.
“Was the trip without incident?”
“Yes, sir. Routing was through Frankfort and Bern. Keating had no problems at passport control. She is still a bit groggy.”
Rockwell waved his right hand toward him. “Understood. Bring her in.”
Penrose disappeared from the doorway, then returned a few minutes later holding the hand of a small girl. Her gray eyes drifted around the room.
Rockwell knew she was eleven years old and had grown up in a suburb of Austin, Texas. She was stocky, the result of overly indulgent parents no doubt. Dark curly hair exploded around her brown face, a reminder of her Mexican heritage. Useful coloring for many assignments.
Penrose pulled a chair in front of Rockwell’s desk, sat the girl down, and stepped to the doorway.
“Hello,” Rockwell said in a soft voice. “My name is the Colonel. How are you?”
“O … K. Where … am … I?” Her words slithered out like mush.
“You are at a ranch, Juliet. A very nice ranch in the country. This is your new home.”
“But … I … don’t … live … here. My … name … is … Sarah.”
Rockwell came around his desk and knelt in front of the girl.
“There was a terrible accident, Juliet. I’m so sorry. Your parents were killed.”
The girl tried to focus. A tear ran down her cheek. “My … parents?”
“Yes, Juliet. We are so very sorry. But your parents knew how special you are.”
“Special?”
“Yes. God gave you very special gifts. You need to learn how to use them. Your parents made arrangements for you to stay with us if anything should happen to them.” He paused to let the words soak in.
“Stay … with … you?”
“Yes. This ranch is a very special, and safe, place. It is called Nod. We have lots of other special children. They will be your brothers and sisters. Won’t that be nice?”
“I …want … my … mommy.”
“Yes, Juliet. I know. It is very hard. But your mommy is gone. We are your family now. Do you understand that?”
“Mommy … gone?”
“Yes. We are all very sad.” Rockwell reached out and held the child’s shoulders. “But your mommy and daddy wanted you to stay with us. We will teach so many things. You are very special.”
“I … am … Sarah.”
“Here you will be called Ju
liet. This is for your safety. Do you understand safety?”
“Safety … nothing … bad … happens.”
“Yes, Juliet. We want you to be safe. And to learn.” Rockwell stood and motioned to Penrose. “This is William. He will take you to your bed. We will talk more tomorrow.”
His aide extended his hand. Her gaze lingered on Rockwell, then she took it.
“And William?” Rockwell added.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Samson to complete the mission and return. We need him here.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Rockwell watched as the child walked, slowly and awkwardly, out of the room.
The first night is always the hardest.
Chapter 20
Hotel Métropole, Geneva, Switzerland
Saturday, 9:00 a.m.
Braxton awoke to the sounds of morning traffic. He rolled over and tried to focus on the alarm clock on his bedside table. Squinting, he saw it was nine o’clock. Three a.m. according to his biological clock. No wonder he felt like crap.
He sat up, then padded over to the window. The view from his room was just as majestic by day as it had been by night. The marques were less visible now, but the details of the skyline were still impressive in their elegance and regularity.
There were pedestrians walking the Jardin and a few tour boats cruised the calm waters of the lake. He really should get outside to do some sightseeing, but other priorities nagged in the back of his head.
He took another long shower—he was beginning to really like the Métropole—got dressed and sat down at the desk. A quick call to the front desk got him the hotel’s WiFi password. Then he opened the MacBook and tested his access, surfing to tourist highlights of Geneva and carefully avoiding anything related to Adam Braxton, Cerberus Security, Omega Genomics, or ChildSafe.
His stomach growled loudly and he realized he hadn’t had an actual meal since the snack in Ciampino. He grabbed the phone, dialed room service and requested an American breakfast.
