“So, I guess it’s safe to assume there's more?”
“Yes, there is. You may not know this, but Higgs worked in London in the 1990s. He signed on with a company that specialized in robotic technology with industrial applications. Berger Technologies was the name. Those were the early days of robotics, and the company eventually went under. There just wasn’t enough demand. People were skeptical of the whole industry, and many thought of it as science fiction, not a tool for manufacturing. It was also the recession, and British companies were afraid to invest millions of pounds in something that might not bring them a return on their investment.”
“Does this somehow relate to why Higgs was in London a week ago?”
“Indirectly, yes. We’ve learned that Higgs became close to a British man while working at Berger, a Rupert Sterling.”
“Never heard of him,” said Zane.
“You wouldn’t have. He’s an accountant. When he worked for Berger, he was head of the payroll division. He still lives and works in London.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s the CFO for a British export company,” said the Oracle. “And yes, he and Higgs were in contact. Here is where it gets even more interesting. Sterling received a text from Higgs about two weeks ago. It was the first time he had heard from him in years. Higgs asked Sterling to meet him at an old watering hole. Didn’t say what it was all about.
“So they meet up, and Higgs tells Sterling that he’s in danger, claiming his company was up to no good and that he had to slip out without so much as a goodbye.” There was a brief pause as Ross looked at some notes lying on his desk. “Oh, and apparently he’d been lying low for a while before meeting with Sterling.”
Sam hopped up into Zane’s lap and tried to rub against his arms. Zane picked him up and set him on the floor again, giving him a short pat on the rump to signal this was not the time. The feline let out another loud meow and then scampered off into the dark.
Zane turned back to the screen. “Lying low in London, I presume?”
“Not the entire time. In any event, that’s all he told Sterling. The guy asked a lot of questions, but Higgs wasn't ready to talk.”
“Where was he killed?”
“Right outside of the pub. At close range, with a forty-caliber pistol. There was a snowstorm, so the streets were empty. I guess whoever killed him saw that as an opportunity.”
“Do they believe Sterling killed him?”
“No, his story checks out. He showed Scotland Yard the text he had received from Higgs. In addition, Sterling stayed behind in the pub to finish his beer. The body was found while he was still inside, and the waitress, a Vanessa Wells, confirmed he never left.”
Zane set both elbows on the table in front of him and crossed his fingers together. “If Higgs’s story is true, this should be pretty easy to clear up, Ross. I assume Scotland Yard is interviewing people within the company?”
“Yes and no. Yes, they've interviewed executives. But no, it’s not going to be easy. When Scotland Yard showed up, the company produced a signed letter of resignation. They also said Higgs was indeed having financial problems. The company brass told investigators that Higgs had a slew of creditors, including some shady individuals, all of which turned out to be true. So, Scotland Yard is back to square one, reviewing evidence.”
“What is the name of this company?”
“Well, that depends,” replied Ross.
“On…?”
“It depends on which of the fourteen subsidiaries you’re referring to. As best we can tell, the holding company at the top is an entity known as The Renaissance Group, or just Renaissance.”
Zane leaned back in his chair, thinking through everything Ross had told him. He then sat back up again and asked, “So, why do we care, Ross? This sounds like a routine murder case to me.”
“We care because three men, all of whom worked on a joint project between NASA and the DOD, leave the country to work for a private conglomerate… and now one of the three is dead. I still don't know what the NASA project was about, or why this has caught the president’s eye, but it has.”
“I see.”
“And there is something else I haven’t told you yet,” said Ross. He took a long drink of bottled water before continuing. “Earlier this week, the FBI received a call from a young lady named Amanda Higgs. She's the daughter of Ian Higgs and contacted the FBI shortly after learning of her father’s death. She said she had just received a letter from her father and didn’t want to share it with the London police, at least not just yet. Apparently, he mailed it from Austria a day or two before he was killed.”
“From Austria? Strange.”
“Yes. We think that when he left Renaissance, he went to Vienna before making his way to London.”
“What was in the letter?”
“Miss Higgs refused to discuss it over the phone," said Ross, "but she said it was very important to her father’s death. Word of the call went up the line; the FBI passed her contact information along to the CIA. And now the president and director want Delphi to run point. They discussed it last night over dinner.”
“Has anyone met with Amanda Higgs yet?”
“No, she’s still in Israel. She’s an archaeologist and has been over there on some kind of dig.”
“How old is she?”
“Forget it, Watson,” the Oracle said firmly, knowing the operative’s penchant for the opposite sex. “She’s in her twenties.”
“I’m trying to size up her maturity. But thanks for being concerned about my love life.” Zane shook his head. “If she’s young and immature, she may just be reading too much into that letter.”
“We don’t believe that to be the case. This young lady graduated at the top of her class, magna cum laude. We made some discreet calls, and she is well respected. A rising star, if there is such a thing in archaeology. No, she said there's information in that letter that could help those conducting the investigation, and we believe her.”
Zane was nodding as he listened, feeling himself getting drawn in. “Ross, I’d like to meet with Amanda.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. We’ve booked you on a flight to London tomorrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The wheels touched the ground at London’s Heathrow airport at exactly 7:27 a.m., local time. Zane looked out the window at the tarmac, which was covered by an early-morning mist. He could see his reflection in the glass and noted the long brown hair. He had chosen not to get it cut on the way to the Denver airport, deciding instead to let it serve as a partial disguise. His handsome, chiseled face was easy to distinguish, but the hair might throw someone off at a distance. Looking over his shoulder and hiding his identity was a way of life. At last count there were a dozen or more people who would have loved nothing more than to see him dead. And probably a few more that would have kept him alive just so they could torture him.
For that reason, he had decided to book a reservation at the Millennium Hotel in London’s exclusive Mayfair district. Delphi had a flat overlooking a nondescript street on the south side of the city, a location they had never known to be compromised, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The Italian operation had been lengthy and dangerous for him and Carmen, and had created a whole new set of enemies across the European continent.
When the plane came to a stop at the gate, Zane rose from the leather seat and retrieved his sole piece of luggage from the overhead bin, a small nylon suitcase with a telescoping handle and wheels. After waiting briefly for the cabin door to open, he filed out and made his way quickly to passport control. The tall control officer looked at him over dark-framed glasses and snatched the paperwork quickly out of his hands. Zane’s passport named him as Michel Bergeron, a Quebecois born in Montreal in 1971. He was fluent in French and answered the woman’s questions in heavily accented English, at times making it seem as though he were struggling to find the right word. She eventually tired of the tedious back and forth and stamped an empty page aggressively before handing it back to him.