Reid read for a moment and then his eyes widened. “What the—”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think Mironov might—”
“Nothing would surprise me at this point.”
“What next?” Reid asked.
“We have to find VanGelder. And if we find VanGelder, we’ll find Mironov.”
Carmen surveyed the crowd around them as she took a long sip of wine. “And I think I just figured out how we can do that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was the gentle rocking of the boat that finally lifted Zane out of the murky depths of unconsciousness. At first he thought the gentle movement back and forth was the product of deep REM sleep, but then, as the mental fog began to clear, he realized that the movement was anything but a dream.
Eventually he was able to lift an eyelid ever so slightly. His chin was resting on his chest, but he could see enough out of his peripheral vision to figure out that he was sitting in the back of an inboard motorboat. He could also see that his hands and wrists were tightly bound by plastic flex-cuffs.
As he carefully raised his head for a better look, he heard the soft murmur of a nearby conversation. The voices were speaking in Russian.
He decided to keep his head down. Experience had taught him that it was always better to have your captors believe you were asleep or unconscious, and the longer they thought so the better.
The conversation in the front of the boat eventually grew louder and became sprinkled with laughter. Zane lifted his chin off of his chest and turned his head slowly to the right. Off of the starboard side of the boat was a river whose surface glimmered with the reflection of city lights. On the far shore were buildings clustered tightly together. Zane soon pieced it all together: He was sitting on the Rhone River in central Geneva.
The laughter continued, so he turned his head to the left. The boat was tied to a dock that ran the entire length of a building that was sitting in the river itself. There was an arched stone foundation at the water line, and further up, a stone facade broken by tall floor-to-ceiling windows. A soft purple glow spilled out of the windows, and he could hear the faint notes of classical music coming through the glass.
Suddenly, the boat rocked and Zane immediately dropped his head back to his chest. The rocking was followed by the sound of clumsy footsteps approaching. Had he been seen looking around?
Seconds later, cold fingers grabbed his chin and lifted his head. There was a click and a burst of light as the man directed the beam of a flashlight at Zane’s eyes, using a finger to open each lid one at a time. It took every ounce of Zane’s willpower to remain motionless as the light seared through his dilated pupils.
Apparently satisfied that his captive was still unconscious, the man released Zane’s chin and let it drop back onto his chest. He stumbled back to the front and took his seat. As Russians resumed their conversation, Zane decided to see how many men he was dealing with. He also wanted to scan the boat interior for anything that he might be able to use as a weapon.
Lifting his head slightly, he was eventually able to make out the silhouettes of two men sitting in the front. Perfect. Had there been any more than that, it would’ve complicated any plans of escape. If he could somehow work his way out of the cuffs, it would take little time to dispatch them, even if they were trained professionals.
The boat suddenly swayed again as Zane saw one of the men stand and jab a hand in his pocket. After fumbling around, he lifted his hand toward his face. There was a burst of flame as he lit a cigarette. He took a long draw that made the tip glow red.
Zane’s eyebrows furrowed. The flame had thrown off just enough light to illuminate the back of the boat, enabling him to catch a brief glimpse of something, a piece of shiny metal near his feet. When the light was extinguished, he continued to stare at the spot to make sure he didn’t lose the object’s position.
Soon he realized what he’d seen and a very important conclusion entered his thoughts: that shiny piece of metal was going to be his ticket off the boat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“What a pleasure to finally meet you,” said Markus VanGelder, extending his hand as he took his seat. The Dutch physicist was a tall man, with bushy brown hair that made him look younger than his fifty-two years. “Were it not for your great generosity, none of this would be possible.”
Mironov pumped the offered hand and said, “And I hope you realize your work means everything to me and to those who share our goals. We are embarking on the century of humanity, a century that will mark a turning point in history, and your work is opening doors that will lead us into those uncharted waters.”
VanGelder smiled. In the few minutes since they had met, he had already developed a rapport with the Russian. They were cut from the same cloth, pioneers in an age in which small-minded men seemed to be content with technological advances that simply made life a little easier or stimulated pleasure. They both saw the twenty-first century as an era in which the very concept of man would change. Advances in technology would not only allow him to live longer and better, but with dogged persistence, they might achieve the very thing society had sought through religion: the immortality of the human.
But the thing that VanGelder liked most about the Russian financier was not his vision of eternal life here on earth; rather, it was his realization that man need not be limited to earth. There were new horizons to imagine, new frontiers to conquer, and he planned on helping Mironov reach that goal.
“Thank you,” said VanGelder. “I think you will find my speech tonight inspiring. There are doubters and mockers, of course, but I think my words are going to stir adventure in the hearts of those who are willing to listen. The way I see it, they can either join us, or they can be relegated to the dustbin of the last century.”
A door opened across the room, momentarily letting in the noisy din of the gala. A server stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He walked over to VanGelder and offered the scientist a flute of champagne from the serving platter.
VanGelder held up a hand. “No, I never drink before—”
“Markus, please,” said Mironov, running a hand back through his gelled hair. “I went to the trouble of purchasing the very best that money can buy. This is our special moment together. I want us to be able to look back ten years from now and remember this glass as the beginning of our partnership.”
The Dutch scientist hesitated for a moment. He was a disciplined man and didn’t like to break the habits he had formed over the years. But the Russian was right — it was a special moment, and special moments were meant to be celebrated.
“Of course,” replied VanGelder, a smile spreading across his face.
As the server bent over and placed the flute on the table, VanGelder couldn’t help but notice his appearance. Undoubtedly the poor soul had been in some sort of horrific accident, as a long jagged scar ran down the right side of his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Cleavon Skinner backed his motorcycle into a parking spot along the Quai du Seujet, ensuring that he could make a quick exit if necessary. After checking in both directions to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he stepped off the bike and crossed the street. Once on the other side, he turned left on the walkway that ran along the river.
About a minute later, he found what he was looking for: an observation point he had located earlier that day on Google Maps. The secluded spot consisted of a long wooden bench that was nestled inside an alcove of well-manicured bushes. The location would provide the perfect vantage point to keep watch over the Bâtiment across the river.