“I am fully capable of that,” replied Keiko, seemingly unaware that Zane had taken a jab at the Russian. “Think of it this way: I can converse on any subject you could imagine. There is virtually nothing I do not know about or have an opinion on.”
“Here’s the problem, Keiko. Information has very little to do with companionship.”
“I think I know what you are trying to say. What you do not understand is that I have also been programmed with emotions. If you tell me your mother died, I know how to express sympathy.”
“That’s not the same thing. In real—”
The sound of a beep cut him off. It came from somewhere in the direction of the robot. Keiko lifted her wrist and held it up to her mouth. “Yes?”
“Is he awake?” growled a voice that came out of her wrist.
“Yes, Mr. Bergeron has been up for a few minutes. We were just talking.”
“We’re coming in then.”
“But I still have to—” There was another beep indicating the call had been ended.
“They will be here shortly.” Keiko looked up at Zane. “Mr. Bergeron, I would advise you to cooperate, or it will not go well for you.”
Zane said nothing but turned and looked outside. Flakes swirled and danced beyond the crack in the window. Wherever they were, it had begun to snow again.
There was a loud rap at the door. Keiko stood, walked over to a small pad on the wall, and entered a code. After a few seconds, a green light appeared on the pad, and the door swung inward. Two armed men walked in. One had close-cropped blond hair. He was tall, and the frame under his black leather jacket indicated he was in prime physical condition. Experienced at gauging potential threats, Zane knew that the man would be a formidable foe in hand-to-hand combat. Not only was his build strong, but also, the way he moved indicated that he was someone accustomed to violence and physicality.
The taller man’s partner was the opposite. He was short and his flat face looked like the back side of a shovel. Zane recognized immediately that he was a slab of meat who knew how to hold a gun and pull a trigger. He would be little or no threat.
The taller man looked at Keiko and jerked his thumb toward the door. “That will be all.”
“Thank you. Call me if you need anything.”
“We won’t.”
Zane thought he saw a strange red glow coming from the area around Keiko’s face as she departed. Had it come from her eyes?
The taller man turned back toward the bed after the door closed. “Well, well, well. Mr. Bergeron, was it? Probably a fake, but we’ll play along with your little game.”
Zane stared back at the man and said nothing.
“What’s the matter, don’t speak English?” asked the smaller man, jabbing Zane’s side with the end of his rifle.
The operative jerked reflexively, trying to see just how secure the cuffs were. They didn’t budge.
“A little testy, are we?” asked the taller man with the close-cropped hair. “You’re awfully brave with those cuffs on your wrists, Samson.” The smaller man laughed at the taller one’s joke. “Something tells me you wouldn’t be so brave if we took them off.”
“Well, then why don’t we test your theory?” Zane asked. As always, it was better to engage, unless silence was needed to preserve information. “Go ahead, take them off. What do you have to lose?”
The taller man leaned forward and positioned his lips just an inch or two from Zane’s ear. As he did, Zane noted the details of his face: chiseled bone structure with pockmarks sprinkled across both cheeks. But there was something else that grabbed his attention even more: a scar that ran from above the man’s right eye all the way down to his jaw line. The scar was familiar, but Zane’s brain was still too foggy to remember where he might have seen it.
“Listen up, pretty boy,” the taller man whispered. “I’d love nothing more than to take those cuffs off and give you a beat-down so bad you’d be screaming for your mommy. But for some reason the boss thinks it’s a good thing to keep you alive… for now anyway.”
Zane noted that the man’s English was accented. He was likely German or Austrian. The operative turned his head slightly, so that his own lips were close to the man’s ear. “And now you listen to me, you Schwarzenegger wannabe,” he said in a measured tone. “If I ever do get out of these cuffs, I’m going to make you wish I hadn’t.”
As soon as the words were out of Zane's mouth, the man lifted his rifle into the air and swung the butt across the side of Zane’s head. The operative’s ear rang from the blow, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his neck. “If that’s the best you can do, you’d better hit the weights some more, Arnold.”
The insult was the final straw, and the man’s anger crossed over into blind fury. He raised the rifle again, bringing it down even harder than before. Zane’s ears rang again, and sparkles of light crossed his field of view, signaling he was close to passing out.
But the man wasn’t done. He lifted the rifle a third time and shouted, “Don’t you ever get smart with me again you long-haired bas—”
The shorter man, Shovel Face, stepped in front of him and held a hand up. “Hold on, man. You know we’re not supposed to mess this guy up.”
As he watched the man finally lower his gun, Zane continued to wonder where he had seen him before. The man’s appearance and even his temper were familiar.
And then it hit him. He had never known him at all. He had only heard him described by a frightened waitress named Vanessa Wells. He was the man she had served that night in the Shakespeare. More importantly, he was likely the man who had killed Ian Higgs.
“He needs to be taught a lesson,” the man said, wiping spittle off of his lips with an arm.
“Don’t let him get to you. Maybe when they’re done with him, we can have a little fun. Until then, we don’t need to get in hot water.”
The tall man seemed to calm down but pushed the smaller man aside while continuing to stare at Zane. “Your time is coming, pretty boy. I always settle accounts.”
“Is that right? Is that what you were doing with Ian Higgs?”
Koehler’s eyes widened, startled. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Zane replied. “I asked if you were settling accounts with Ian Higgs. You remember him, don’t you? The man you killed in cold blood in the streets of London. Does that ring a bell?” Zane knew he was taking a risk in laying all the cards on the table. There was no question that he was in Switzerland to investigate the murder of Higgs, but at the same time, he felt he might get the man to talk if he played on his temper. “You know, I’m starting to see a pattern here. First, you kill an unarmed man at point-blank range. Then you hit someone strapped to a bed. It seems Mironov could’ve hired a teenager to do that.”
The thug's anger flared again, and he reached down and grabbed Zane’s neck. But then, just as soon as the anger had come, it disappeared. His face softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Yes, I killed Higgs. I did. Enjoyed it actually.” He released Zane’s neck and drew back. He stood there for a moment before speaking again. “You see, for Mr. Mironov… this was simply a business transaction. Higgs walked away without finishing his work, so I was sent to terminate the contract. After all, we want everything to be official, don’t we?” He laughed. “But with me it was more personal. I despised the man. He was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong, moralizing over everything.”
“Sounds like a good man to me,” Zane said.
The German ignored the remark. “I thought those two bullets had solved our problem. The contract was terminated, and I ended the life of a very annoying man. But it didn’t… because a part of him is still here.”
“Oh?” Zane asked, shifting to a softer approach in the hope of getting the thug to open up.