Most residents in the towns adjoining the lake were familiar with what had come to be known as the floating estate, but none truly knew who owned it. Some were convinced that the man was Russian or Eastern European, while others claimed it was a wealthy Brit with a penchant for expensive vodka and younger women. A third group insisted the craft, adorned with antennae and satellite dishes, was some sort of aquatic intelligence agency¸ perhaps operating under the auspices of the European Union. Whatever the case, the boat was the source of endless conversations in the cafés and bistros of towns such as Lausanne and Montreux.
Jorg Koehler sat in a deck chair at the rear of the Grey Goose. A rifle lay across his lap, and Mironov’s three miniature pinschers lay huddled at his feet. Koehler had always thought it strange that the small dogs, with their thin coats of fur, enjoyed being out in the cold.
Two other guards patrolled the perimeter of the boat, pausing occasionally to look out over the water. Koehler shivered, still irritated that he had to wait outside in the freezing cold. He would have preferred the warm comfort of his room below deck, but that wasn’t an option that night. An important guest would be arriving soon. It was the guest’s first visit to the boat, and it was Koehler’s job to make sure he was welcomed aboard in a way that befitted his special relationship with the Russian.
As he pondered the nature of the impromptu visit, Koehler heard a low growl at his feet. One of the min pins, Athos, was sitting up, glaring into the black of the night. Koehler squinted, trying to see if he could make out any shapes on the water. He could see nothing, but he knew that the guest and his entourage must be close. The dogs always seemed to sense the man’s dark presence long before he actually arrived.
Finally, the German heard a distant hum from somewhere out on the water, which he recognized as a boat engine. As it grew louder, one of the other dogs, Aramis, rose to his feet and began barking along with Athos. Very soon all three were on their feet, growling, barking, and foaming at the mouth.
Koehler stood up and walked over to the side of the boat. The dogs followed, anxiously bouncing up and down in a futile attempt to see over the gunwale. The German lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned the water in the direction of Villeneuve, hoping to see the craft’s running lights. Spotting nothing, he let the binoculars drop down to his chest.
As soon as he did, he felt a chill spread across his body, and he knew immediately what it was. It was the cold, clammy feeling that always preceded the arrival of that guest. But Koehler was confused because he still couldn’t see the boat.
“Craft starboard!” shouted a voice from the other side of the stern.
Koehler cursed under his breath as he realized the man was coming from a different direction than expected. Apparently, he had embarked from Montreux, or had decided to swing around the Grey Goose before coming alongside. Either way, Koehler knew it was done on purpose. The man liked to keep people guessing and often changed plans for no logical reason.
As he crossed to the other side, Koehler felt another boat bump up against the Grey Goose. A few seconds later, a dark silhouette floated over the gunwale. The man’s head was covered with a hood, and a cape flapped behind him. The dogs suddenly began to whimper and scurried down a set of nearby stairs.
Koehler knew that the cape was a holdover from the man’s previous life as a Roman Catholic priest. Despite the fact that he had repudiated his former faith, he still seemed to enjoy its trappings. Koehler thought the whole thing was nothing more than a pompous charade.
“Welcome, sir,” announced one of the guards who was standing at the top of the starboard ladder.
The man, Vincenzio Marrese, ignored the guard and continued toward Koehler. Four men, also adorned in hoods and capes, followed him.
“Sir,” Koehler said, bowing slightly.
Marrese stopped in front of Koehler, his face hidden under the hood. Coldness caused Koehler's muscles to freeze in response. “I trust all of the arrangements have been made?”
“Yes, they have, sir,” confirmed Koehler.
“Excellent. And Alexander?”
“He’s in the room you requested. I’ll take you there now.”
Marrese nodded and then followed Koehler through a nearby door, his disciples in tow. Once inside, the German led the group down the hall and turned left. A short distance after the turn, he stopped abruptly at a door on the left. Lifting his wrist, he spoke into a transmitter on his cuff. “The guest is here.”
A couple of minutes prior to the man’s entrance, Alexander Mironov felt a wave of coldness sweep into the room. Like Koehler, he immediately knew that Marrese had arrived. The two guards standing at the door suddenly stiffened, also aware of the approaching presence. Keiko sat in a seat directly across from Mironov, her face expressionless. If she knew the guest was on board, she didn’t show it.
The Russian glanced around one last time to make sure everything was in order. Whenever the priest ventured outside of his compound in Locarno, Switzerland, he insisted on full control of logistics, and on that occasion he had been even more controlling than usual. But everything seemed in order — black tapestries hung from all four walls, several plush chairs were arranged in a circle, and twenty-six candles were lit and scattered throughout the room.
The chill seemed to grow as footsteps approached in the hallway outside. A few seconds later, a voice crackled across the transmitter of one of the guards. “The guest is here.”
“Copy that.”
When the door opened, Marrese entered the room boldly, followed by his four disciples. Once inside, the priest pulled his hood back, revealing a small head and weak chin. A pointed goatee framed his cruel mouth, and his jet-black hair formed a widow’s peak. The priest had probably been a handsome man in his youth, but his appearance was hardened by age and the dark arts.
Mironov extended a hand. “Welcome to the Grey Goose, Vincenzio.”
The priest grasped Mironov’s hand and stared into his eyes. “A fine craft. Quite suitable for our stay.”
“Thank you. As you know, I have a strong dislike of hotels.”
“As do I.” The priest turned and examined the room. “Everything seems to be in order.” His eyes landed on Keiko, who was standing. “Your people won’t be needed.”
“Keiko, you can leave us now,” Mironov said.
“As you wish, sir,” said Keiko, bowing at the waist and walking toward the door. Just before stepping out, she paused and looked toward the priest. He seemed to sense her gaze and turned quickly toward the door. Their eyes locked briefly before Keiko finally bowed again and left the room.
“And the men as well.” Marrese gestured toward the guards.
Mironov frowned. “I always—”
“There will be no one else,” Marrese interrupted, his voice almost a hiss. Mironov thought he saw the candles flicker. He hesitated for a moment but then motioned for the guards to leave the room.
“We’ll be right outside, sir,” said the one with the transmitter.
The guest spoke to his disciples is a low voice, and they followed the guards out into the hallway. When the door was shut, the two men sat down facing one another.
“How was the trip?”
“Pleasant, actually,” Marrese replied, his eyes fixed on the Russian. “The lake is beautiful at night.”
“It’s why I spend so much of my time here.”
“Thank you for making all of the arrangements. As the date approaches, we need to make sure all of the final details stay between us. At the proper time, we can let your men know exactly what they need to do.”
Mironov nodded.
“I also want to repeat my concerns regarding that…” Marrese gestured toward the seat where Keiko had been sitting. It was almost as though he couldn’t bring himself to speak her name or even describe her.