Seconds later the engine growled to life as they backed away from the dock. The driver shifted out of reverse and opened the throttle, which caused the prow to lift into the air. Wherever they were going, they weren’t wasting any time.
With his cuffs off, Zane briefly considered jumping out of the boat. He could feel the gunwale on the right side of his body, and it would only have taken a second to dive over the side. But he soon realized that would be instant suicide. They were likely in the middle of the lake, and he had little chance of making it to shore, even with his ability to swim underwater, before they could circle back and grab him. No, he would wait for a better opportunity, one in which the chances were stacked in his favor.
About fifteen minutes after leaving the dock, Zane felt the boat slow a bit. Voices shouted at them, which likely meant they were approaching a dock or another craft. A few seconds later the boat bumped up against something, and the engine was killed.
Hands grabbed him once again, this time pulling him over a gunwale that was much higher. They were boarding a larger craft.
“Lift your hands,” barked a new voice, which Zane immediately recognized as that of the German.
Zane obeyed, and his wrists were secured with metal cuffs. He heard a door creaking open a few feet away, and he was unceremoniously shoved forward. Once inside, the butt of a rifle was pushed against his spine as they walked. A few seconds later, they turned left and then came to a stop.
“The package is here,” the German said in English.
There was a beep, and Zane heard another voice respond through a speaker, “Copy that.”
Zane heard a door creak open. He was pushed forward, and then the hands lowered him into a chair, more gently than before. Apparently, there was a new audience.
The operative stiffened. There was something in the room. A presence — a darkness that sent a chill down his spine. He was surprised at how clearly he understood that there was evil lurking close by.
Soon fingers undid the clasp at the back of his head, and the blindfold was removed. The room was dark, just as he had expected, but the view that spread out in front of him was nothing he could’ve ever imagined. He was sitting in the middle of a room lit by dozens of small votive candles that flickered on tabletops.
Zane blinked a few times and then noticed the man sitting directly in front of him. He knew immediately that the man was Alexander Mironov. The few pictures he’d seen didn’t do him justice. He was a physically imposing man, and his muscular build could be seen even through the Italian suit he was wearing. Zane also noted that his dark brown hair was combed straight back with gel.
But strangely, the operative realized something else: Mironov was not the source of the evil he sensed in the room. Unless he was mistaken, that was coming from a place to his right, just out of view in a dark part of the room. Zane also realized that the presence was that of a man.
“Welcome to the Grey Goose,” said Mironov in accented English.
“Alexander Mironov, I presume?”
Mironov laughed a hoarse laugh that ended with a cough. “Why am I not surprised that you know who I am? After all, if someone breaks into one of my offices, it’s likely they know a little bit about me.”
“I always do my homework.”
“But perhaps you missed the lesson on getting away,” Mironov replied.
“Or perhaps you missed the fact that class isn’t over,” Zane retorted, his eyes fixed on the Russian billionaire.
Mironov’s smile turned quickly into a frown. “It seems the mouse would taunt the cat just before the cat tires of playing and ends its life. You’re alive only because I’ve decided to keep you alive.”
“And I can only assume there must be a good reason for that.”
“There is a good reason.” Mironov pulled a cigar out of his suit. He used a match to light the end slowly, puffing a few times to get it started. Assured it was properly lit, he looked across the table and said, “To be honest, we need you.”
“You need me?”
“You’re an American.” He took another draw and blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “And we know Americans don’t like their own to die. If we get into a tight spot, you’re going to be our ticket out of it.”
“A hostage? I’m disappointed. Isn’t that a bit messy for a man of your stature?”
The Russian ignored his question. “In the meantime, why don’t we get to know one another? In fact, why don’t we start with your name?”
Zane made a show of patting his pants pockets. “It seems someone on your staff confiscated my identification, my phone, and who knows what else. I think you know very well who I am. My name is Michel—”
“Must we continue to play these games? We welcome you aboard, and the first thing you do is lie like a little child. Surely you know enough about me to know that I’m no fool.”
Zane looked down at his cuffed hands and said, “I guess you and I have a different definition of the word ‘welcome.’”
Mironov laughed again. “You know, we will play your little game for now… Monsieur Bergeron. But please know that I’m not a man who is known for his patience. Nor do I tolerate lies. Those who have lied to me in the past have taken up residence at the bottom of the Volga.” Mironov took another draw on his cigar and blew the smoke toward Zane. “And shall we also pretend that you don’t work for the CIA or some other agency of the US government?”
“I think we both know I was in your building for a very specific reason.” Zane knew there was little reason to hide the fact that he had broken in, but he was determined to leave it at that. “So does it really matter who I work for?”
Mironov ignored the question. “So exactly why were you in my office?”
“I was trying to find out why a Russian billionaire would want to kill an innocent man in cold blood on the streets of London.”
Mironov let out a sigh. “Higgs. Of course. It always comes back to him.” He tapped the end of his cigar on an ashtray. “Yes, unfortunately that became necessary. Smart man, but how do you say in English? Very little common sense.”
“He had enough sense to leave Renaissance.”
“And that 'sense’ got him killed. You know, that is the trouble with you Americans — you’re always putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Zane sensed the Russian was willing to talk, probably because he planned on killing him at some point in the near future. “I’m confused. You hired him. He never solicited the job. In fact, he was on the way back to the States when you killed him. If anything, it looks like he just wanted out. That’s hardly putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“As I said, Ian Higgs was a smart man. Maybe too smart for his own good.” The candlelight danced on the Russian’s face as he pondered how much he should say. “But he made a fatal mistake.”
“And what was that?” Zane asked.
“It’s very simple. He forgot that he was an engineer,” Mironov said. “Engineers build things, Monsieur Bergeron. They build things, and they keep things running. What they don’t do is stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“So you killed an innocent man because he asked too many questions?”
“No, Ian isn’t dead because he asked too many questions. Ian is dead because he made a decision to stand in the way of progress.” Mironov took another draw on his cigar, letting the smoke snake slowly out of his mouth. “The world is about to change in ways that you can’t imagine.”
Zane noticed that as Mironov finished, he glanced toward the corner where Zane had sensed the dark presence. Zane wondered if he was making sure that whoever was sitting there approved of the conversation. Mironov continued, “Sadly, Ian decided he wasn’t on board with some things he had discovered. And in the end, I couldn’t risk letting one man bring down what had taken me so long to build.”