John Sneeden
The Signal
For my mom, Ernestine, who gave me my love of books.
CHAPTER ONE
Rupert Sterling walked through the heavy London snow. His face was set with purpose, and his breath formed billowing clouds that dissipated in the darkness. He glanced up at a street lamp and noticed the flakes swirling around it like white moths.
The Victoria Embankment, which runs along the north side of the Thames, was crowded that night. The snow was the first of the season, and there was excitement in the air. Loud tourists made their way toward Westminster and the historic sites. Locals, usually on their way home after work, swarmed to the local pubs to celebrate winter’s gift.
But Rupert’s thoughts were not on the snow that evening. He kept thinking about a text he had received, two days ago, from a friend who had been out of touch for almost three years. It had simply read: Our old spot when you get off on Friday night. Ian.
No further explanation was necessary. Ian and Rupert had worked together in the early nineties. Ian was an intense workaholic American, and Rupert an extroverted free spirit who brought out the fun side of his Yank friend. The two had hit it off immediately and had spent many evenings together in their favorite pub.
The text had come as a complete surprise. Rupert had replied but received no response. Whatever Ian was going to say, it would not be said until Friday.
The sidewalk angled uphill and turned to the left, indicating he was almost there. Rupert lowered his head and quickened his pace.
The Shakespeare was one of London’s most beautiful historic pubs. Nestled just two blocks off the Thames in the City district, it had served patrons for over a century. The interior celebrated England’s famous poet, with reliefs of his head and plaques of his writing scattered throughout.
After kicking the snow off his shoes, Rupert opened the heavy wooden door at the front of the tavern. He was immediately met with a rush of warm air and loud noise. Men and women lined the bar directly in front of him. The bartenders pulled taps and rushed about like so many worker ants.
Rupert looked around, taking in the place that he knew so well. To his immediate left was a table of American tourists. One of the women hoisted a mug into the air, using a faux-British accent to declare her approval of the pale ale. To Rupert’s right were a man and woman dressed in business attire. The man held a glass of wine in one hand and leaned awkwardly into the woman, talking with slurred speech.
It didn’t surprise Rupert that Ian was not there in the front. If he had suggested a meeting at their old spot, he would be at their table.
With that in mind, Rupert pushed his way through the crowd toward the double archway at the back. He had never seen the pub this full. People were pressed together, and the smell of beer hung in the air. After some effort he finally made his way into the back room. Standing just inside the wooden arch, he paused and looked toward the table in the right corner: their table. His first reaction to the man seated there was one of disappointment — that was, until the man turned toward him and smiled.
A slow hint of recognition crossed Rupert’s mind as he neared the table. “Ian? Ian Higgs, is that you?”
The other man stood as Rupert approached. “Let me guess — the beard and the dark hair were a wee bit of a surprise.”
Rupert smiled, still in disbelief. “A wee bit of a surprise? Since when did you start growing facial hair? And why haven’t you kept in touch?”
The two old friends looked at each other, and then fell into a long, warm embrace.
As Ian pulled back, his smile diminished. “Have a seat, mate. There is a lot I’d like to say. Unfortunately, I’m only going to be able to tell you a little tonight.”
On a slow night, the man sitting on a stool in the back room of the Shakespeare would have stood out. Unlike most pubgoers, he was alone, and his demeanor made it all too clear that he wanted to remain that way. But on that night there was too much revelry for him to be noticed, except by waitress Vanessa Wells. She would later tell police that he scared her, so much so that she considered sending one of the bartenders to wait on him.
His face wasn’t easily forgotten. A large half-moon scar ran from his jawline up past his right eye. Pockmarks dotted both cheeks. He had close-cropped blond hair and stood well over six feet tall. Some would later describe him as Scandinavian. In fact, he was German.
He scarcely paid attention as the waitress handed him his second beer. This would be his last, a self-imposed limit when working. The German was disciplined. He never broke his own long set of rules. They were the rules that kept him alive.
As he looked across the room, his eyes widened and his body tensed. The target had a guest. The German continued to watch as the two hugged, exchanged words, and sat down. He smiled and placed a gloved hand on the metal lump in his pocket.
Rupert leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You must be kidding? That’s all you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid so.” Ian took a drink from his pint glass.
“So, let me get this straight — you basically took the job in Switzerland because it paid well, only to find out there were dark things going on.” Rupert paused to let that sink in and then continued, “But you can’t tell me who these people were or what they were doing?”
“You know what company I was working for. I just can’t go into who did what.”
“You asked to meet with me tonight. Surely that must mean you need help. And I can’t help you unless I know more.”
“Maybe it was a mistake asking you to meet me—”
“No," said Rupert. "It was your conscience talking to you. It was your conscience that told you to seek help from someone on the outside. So, please, at least give me some indication of what was going on.”
“What I need is some stability. I’ve been on the run.”
Rupert’s eyes widened. “On the run? For heaven’s sake.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. These are dangerous men, and they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want and to get rid of any obstacles.” He looked around the room and then leaned forward. “And I have strong reason to believe they consider me an obstacle.”
Rupert sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath, searching for the right words. “So why am I here? I’d like to help, but you don’t seem to be giving me any way to do so.”
“First of all, I’ve missed you. Other than Amanda, there are very few people I care about more than you. And second…” There was a long pause. Ian rubbed his chin and looked around the room. “Second, I wanted you to know in case something should happen to me.”
“In case something should happen to you? Don’t you think that going to the authorities—”
Ian held up a hand. “I am going to the authorities, just not now. And there is a very good reason why I can’t go to the authorities yet.”
“And why is that?”
Ian leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need to make sure I contact the right people.”
“What in the bloody — you need to make sure you contact the right people? I can think of three or four we can call right now. I’m sure you know how you sound.”
“Of course,” Ian replied. He looked up at one of the wooden gargoyles hanging over their table, and then, as if hit with a thought, he said, “One thing I can tell you is this: these people have powerful friends who operate across the globe. It will all come out in due time. Right now I need you to be a friend. And here is something I really need…” His voice trailed off, and then he looked Rupert in the eye. “I need a place to stay for a few days before I go back to the States.”