Rupert smiled, his irritation receding. “That’s more like it. You know Gemma and I would be happy to have you. She’s been worried sick about you the entire time you’ve been gone.”
“Thank you, friend,” Ian replied, taking another swig of beer. “I knew I could count on you. I’ve been trying not to use my credit card until I’m ready to fly out, and my cash is running low.”
“It’s settled then. You can come over tonight and—”
“Unfortunately, I can’t come over until tomorrow. I have another meeting tonight, one that may last a while. I think it will help me get some of the answers I’m looking for.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s a world-renowned physicist. Someone I knew when I worked here in London. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Rupert said.
“No, no, no. There is no need for that. I know my way around London, and to the best of my knowledge, you’re one of only two people who know I’m here. Besides, I doubt he’d meet with me if he knew someone else were coming.” Ian reached across the table and squeezed his friend’s arm. "I know this whole thing is hard for you to understand, but for now that’s how it has to be."
A waitress appeared at the table. “Can I bring you gentlemen anything else?”
Ian glanced at his watch and told her to bring the check.
“By the way, does Amanda know you’re in Britain?” asked Rupert.
“She knows I quit my job, and she knows I might be coming to see you.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s on a dig in Israel, but she'll be returning to the States in two weeks.” When he spoke of his daughter, Ian smiled. Rupert knew that Amanda was his friend's life, the only light from a dark and failed marriage. Ian made every decision with her in mind.
The waitress returned with the ticket. Ian stood up, put on his coat, and dropped a few bills on the table. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Rupert remained seated, smiling as he watched his friend turn and disappear through the crowd. He began to wonder if he’d ever learn the truth about what happened.
It was snowing even harder as Ian exited the Shakespeare. The outdoor tables and chairs looked like white mushrooms growing on a field of white. A group of men approached, talking loudly. They walked past Ian and opened the door to the pub. As they entered, a tall man in black slipped out into the snow.
The traffic had lightened considerably, and the previously crowded sidewalks were deserted. Ian wondered how hard it would be to find a cab. As he stood there, his thoughts turned back to Rupert. He hated keeping his friend in the dark, and he understood his irritation. But Ian also had no reservations about holding things close to the vest. The less his friends knew, the safer they would be.
Ian flipped his scarf across his face and walked toward New Bridge Street. After passing the outdoor seating and reaching the sidewalk, he stopped and looked for any sign of a taxi. As he glanced back and forth, he heard the snow crunching behind him. Swiveling around, he half expected to see Rupert. Instead, he saw a tall figure standing underneath a streetlight. The snow was blowing sideways, obscuring him.
The figure took a few steps forward, and his face came into view. “Doctor Higgs?”
Ian shuddered and stepped back. “You. How did you…?”
“You didn’t think we’d just let you leave, did you?” The man grinned and pulled something out of his right pocket.
Ian held up a hand. “I can explain. I only—”
“The time for explanations has passed, Dr. Higgs.” The man waited for a few seconds, and the look on his face indicated he was enjoying the moment.
Ian heard two soft spits, with corresponding flashes of white light. He thought of Amanda as he crumpled into the snow.
The assassin walked over to the body, knelt down, and began to rummage through the man’s clothing. A smile crossed his face as he pulled out a cell phone. He tucked it into his pocket and stood up. As he did so, he heard the soft purr of a distant engine. Headlights appeared through the swirling snow, coming across Blackfriars Bridge.
The man turned, and then like a winter phantom, he disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
The large buck lifted its nose high into the late afternoon air, sending warm plumes of breath out of its moist black nostrils. The bare trace of a scent had reached the animal, carried by the cold wind that came down off the mountain. It was a scent that the mule deer had encountered many times in its twelve years of life, and if confirmed, would send it into full retreat.
Ever cautious, the animal kept its nose in the air. The scent had only registered for a brief moment and had been mixed with the other smells of the forest — frozen mulch under the snow, firs and pines that covered the nearby mountains, and the myriad of mammals that scurried about in the underbrush.
A soft thud caused the deer to turn its head quickly to the left. A pine squirrel had landed awkwardly on the limb of a Douglas fir, sending a mist of snow toward the ground. It quickly regained its balance and leaped again to an adjoining tree. The buck snorted its frustration at the rodent.
The snow was beginning to fall harder, obscuring the deer’s vision and making it more difficult to sort through the dozens of smells that bombarded its olfactory nerve. Something was out there; the aged buck could sense it. Erring on the side of caution, it decided the time had come to move to higher ground.
At the very moment the buck turned to leave, a loud cracking sound echoed across the frozen valley. The frightened animal jumped and let out a loud grunt. Quickly regaining its balance, it bounded off into a line of fir trees a few yards away and then continued to grunt and snort as it made its way up the mountain.
On the opposite side of the valley, about a hundred yards away, was a small mound in the snow. The untrained eye would have deemed it a natural part of the landscape, a simple curve in the topography. The trained eye would have noted that the mound had been formed in the last several hours. The trained eye would also have noted the long white barrel hidden underneath the limb that protruded from the mound.
Shortly after the buck disappeared into the trees, the mound moved slightly. Then, almost immediately after that, it moved again, as if some great weight was shifting underneath. Finally, the entire mound lifted up as though the mythical kraken was rising out of the sea.
As the snow settled to the ground, it revealed not a kraken but a man — a tall, physically fit man dressed in a camouflage suit of white and light grays. His longish brown hair spread from underneath a white knit cap, and a two-week-old beard framed a handsome face. His gloved hands clutched an all-white Remington .270 rifle with Leupold scope.
The man set the gun gently against a nearby tree and pulled a pair of matte black binoculars out of his coat. He lifted them slowly to his eyes and scanned the valley floor in front of him, turning his head back and forth until he found what he was looking for. A gloved finger moved the focusing wheel until the image took form.
Satisfied he had found what he was looking for, the man picked up the rifle again and began to jog. When he reached the other side of the valley, he knelt down and examined the area where the deer had been shot. There were one or two faint drops of blood just barely visible in the accumulating snow.
He began to run again, following the faint drops of scarlet into the fir trees and up the side of the mountain. He was an expert tracker, having learned the trade in his SEAL training some twenty years before. But on that day his skills weren’t needed; a small child could have followed the blood and the hoof prints.