After leaving the armed services, Koehler turned his attention to his own desires. Specifically, he focused on obtaining the lifestyle he’d never been able to enjoy while in the armed services, devoting himself to becoming the best security officer money could buy. In the years that followed, he built a record of near perfection in the business of protecting wealthy clients. None of those clients had ever had a security breach under the German’s watch, and there was also the dirty little secret that he could “eliminate” problems by whatever means necessary.
It was a well-known secret that Koehler had killed a number of men over the years, both during his time in the armed services and after. The German had never lost a fight, either with weapons or with bare hands. The only significant injury he had ever received was the scar that ran down the right side of his face. It had been delivered by a Chinese agent who had been sent to infiltrate the last organization that Koehler worked for. Using his mastery of the martial arts, the Chinese man had managed to slice him with a long, sharp blade. It was the last blow the man would ever make, as the German took him down and pulverized him until he was no longer recognizable.
Koehler had never forgotten the shame and the anger of that fateful night. And even if he had the desire to forget, the permanent scar was an impolite reminder. In the wake of that event, Koehler had sworn he would never allow anyone to deliver such a blow again.
“What is the latest from our two men in the UK?” asked Mironov in accented English, his voice tinged with anger. “I’m assuming they still haven’t identified our mystery man? I’ve almost run out of patience with their incompetence.”
“We don’t have anything yet, sir. They followed the man after he left the pub. He crossed Blackfriars Bridge on foot and then entered the Tube on the other side. Shortly thereafter he disappeared. We believe—”
“I believe they’ve embarrassed the organization.” Mironov took another draw on his cigar. Koehler knew not to talk over him. “It’s very troubling that two of our men were given the slip by some man off the street, perhaps even a tourist. You assured me that these men knew London like the back of their hands.”
“That’s just it, sir. We don’t believe this is an ordinary man, and he’s certainly not a tourist.”
“Then who is he?” asked Mironov.
It was all Koehler could do to remain calm. “He’s someone who knows the craft. The things he did in the Tube aren’t something an ordinary man could do. I don’t think there is any doubt he’s a professional.”
“A professional.” Mironov let the word trail off for emphasis. Koehler couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with the assessment or being sarcastic. “That’s what they told me, and I hope for their sake it's true. Where are the pictures?”
“I examined them on the way here. Unfortunately, they’re not helpful at all. Each time they took a picture, he had his head turned away. He knew how to avoid giving our men a good look.”
“So, we know nothing about this man?”
“The only thing we know for sure is that he has long brown hair and is solidly built.”
“And I assume we still don’t know what the girl passed over to him?” said Mironov.
“Not yet. Dmitry tells me it looked like a package. We probably won’t know what it was until we find him.”
“Dmitry lost him, you idiot! And we aren’t going to find out who he is until he makes his next move. In other words, he’s in control.”
Koehler’s jaw tensed again. Nobody had ever spoken to him in that way, at least not anyone who was still alive. He forced himself to calm down, mindful of the Russian’s volatile nature, and responded in an even tone. “Yes, they did lose him. But there is one more thing we may be able to do. Sergei has a contact in the London transportation department. He has access to the municipal CCTV system, and we’re hoping that the man will show up in one of the frames. There are close to a dozen cameras between the pub and the Tube.”
Mironov’s cigar glowed brightly as the Russian took another draw. He let the smoke out slowly before speaking again. “I can’t tell you how embarrassing this is. Here we are, right before the event, and I sense things have taken a turn for the worst.” He looked over at Koehler. “What about the girl?”
“She flew to the States the next day. As far as we know, she’s out of the picture. Nothing to worry about at this point.”
“I’m not sure I’m as confident as you. After all, she had something in her hands, and we still don’t know what it was. Make sure you keep an eye on her. If we get the slightest indication that she is causing problems, she’ll need to go away.”
Koehler raised an eyebrow.
“She’ll need to be killed," said Mironov. "Do I need to say that in German?”
“Sir, I’m concerned that if we start killing—”
“Exactly when did I ask what your concerns were? Your primary concern right now is to find this man who seems to have vanished into thin air. I want to know who he is, why he met with Higgs’s daughter, and what he is going to do next. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
After a few seconds of silence, Mironov announced, “That will be all for now. Keiko, please see Mr. Koehler to his room.”
The humanoid came to life at the sound of her name. She looked at the German and gestured toward the door. Koehler glared at the robot as he stood up and walked off.
The movement on the balcony caused the dogs to growl and bark one last time. Before entering the chalet, Keiko turned and looked back at them, her eyes glowing a soft red.
CHAPTER TEN
After an unfruitful meeting with Rupert Sterling, Zane called Nigel and arranged a pre-departure meeting at the Delphi safe house. Delphi’s liaison had offered to come pick him up, but the operative refused, preferring instead to make the trip across town himself.
He took a cab to south London and had the driver drop him off two blocks away from his destination. The rain had picked up by the time he arrived at the front door of the plain brown brick townhome off of Salter Road. He knocked precisely four times. Drops pelted loudly against the awning, and a miniature torrent spilled out of the gutter. The roar of a motor caused the operative to turn around, just in time to see a gray Ford Fiesta splash through a puddle in the street behind him, its wipers furiously turning back and forth.
Zane admired the exterior of the flat as he waited. By all indications, Nigel had done a fine job of keeping up appearances. A neatly trimmed hedge encircled the quaint front yard, and while there was nothing in bloom during the London winter, each window was adorned with an ornate flower box. There was absolutely nothing that screamed, “look at me.” It was “understated Delphi,” as Zane liked to call it.
A low buzz broke the silence, followed by a loud click. On cue, the operative opened the door and entered. As he shut the door behind him, Nigel appeared from the back, holding a tray with two cups, tea for himself and coffee for Zane.
“I see you’ve managed stay alive.” Nigel set the tray down on a small table and pumped Zane’s hand. The flat was a classic Delphi safe house — nondescript, and furnished with only the bare essentials. The room had two chairs on one side, a couch on the other, and a small, cheap coffee table in between.
“For the time being. You Londoners must hire a better welcoming committee. Those chaps last night weren’t too friendly.”
Nigel laughed and handed Zane his coffee, prepared just the way he liked it, with a dash of cream and no sugar. “Yes, I heard about your Russian friends. Brett brought me up to date this morning.” Brett Foster was the Chief Technology Specialist for Delphi. “Things were getting a little boring, so I’m glad you managed to stir the pot a bit.”