Instead of taking a seat, Skinner continued a short distance down the river in order to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He looked around at the lighted buildings, playing the role of a tourist out for an evening stroll. After walking for approximately a hundred yards, he returned to the bench and sat down.
Once settled, the operative lifted his hand and spoke softly into a microphone clipped to his cuff. “Skinner here. In position. Over.”
A few seconds later, Brett’s voice crackled through his earbud. “Copy that. What is your sight line? Over.”
“Directly across from Walmart. No obstructions,” replied Skinner. Walmart was the operational code name for the Bâtiment.
While waiting for Brett to respond, Skinner pulled a night-vision monocular out of his backpack and lifted it to his eye. He then pointed it at the building across the river and brought it into focus. The first thing that grabbed his attention was the purple light that was glowing out of each window — a strange sort of atmosphere for a gathering of scientists.
Skinner noted the throngs of well-dressed people pressed up against the glass. He guessed the crowd was a mixture of scientific glitterati, government officials, and random groups of pretty guests who always seemed to find a way to get into those types of events.
“Copy that,” said Brett. “How does the pedestrian bridge look?”
Skinner lowered the monocular and looked to his right. “All clear. One couple walking across. That’s it.”
“Copy that. Can you see into Walmart?”
“I can,” Skinner replied, lifting the monocular once again.
“Lots of shoppers?”
“Yes.”
“How good is the view? Any chance of seeing Gorbachev or the Exorcist?” Brett asked, using the code names of the targets.
“Very little chance of that. Too many attractive dresses blocking my view.”
“Copy that. I may need to come out and do some shopping myself.” Skinner heard Brett pecking away at his laptop. A few seconds later, Brett said, “I’ve been unable to locate any CCTVs inside. We’re going to need to rely on our two shoppers.”
“Are they in place?”
“They’ve been inside the store for approximately thirty-two minutes.” Brett had been able to commandeer a CCTV near the front entrance, and had therefore seen Carmen and Reid step out of their taxi about a half hour earlier.
“Any word?”
“Negative, although that’s not a concern. First check-in will be upon visual confirmation of targets.”
“Copy that.” Skinner heard footsteps approaching and said, “Hey, I may need to sign out.” He slid the monocular down into an open pocket on his backpack and whispered into his cuff, “Third party approaching. Will check in later.”
“Copy that.”
As Skinner moved his hand away from his mouth, two shadows appeared on the cement to his left, approaching slowly.
In one smooth movement, the operative reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his hand around the grip of his SIG Sauer P226 pistol.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to approach someone working the event?” asked Reid as he and Carmen walked toward a circle of men.
“Negative. Asking someone official would raise all sorts of red flags,” Carmen said. “Men who’ve been boozing it up won’t question anything. Besides, you can always get more information out of a drunk.”
“You mean, women can always get more information out of a drunk.”
“You got it,” she replied with a wink. “Just step aside and let me do my thing.”
Carmen had already identified the men as CERN employees because of the circular symbol on each of their nametags. Reid had managed to find VanGelder’s image on the Internet using his smartphone, so they knew he was not one of the men in the group, but the Italian still thought she might be able to solicit their help.
Running her fingers through her hair one last time, she stepped up to the closest man and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” she asked in English. When he turned around, she asked, “By chance, are you Markus VanGelder?”
The man was tall with short salt-and-pepper hair. As soon as his eyes settled on Carmen, his face broke into a wide grin. Carmen smiled to herself. Some things were just too easy.
“No, but I wish I was,” the man replied, his eyes still taking her in. “He is younger and has much more money than I do. But may I offer myself as a suitable replacement?”
The man extended his hand. Carmen shook it firmly and said, “I’m so sorry. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what he looks like. Do you know where I can find him?” She gestured toward Reid. “My brother is a big fan of his, and I’d like to get a picture.”
“I see.” The man gave Reid a slight frown, turned back toward Carmen, and said, “Well, you’re in luck.” The man turned around toward the rear of the room. As he scanned the crowd, he frowned. “That’s funny…”
“What?”
“He was back there talking to someone just a few minutes ago. And now I don’t see him. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to get you a drink so that—”
“Can you show me exactly where he was?” Carmen interrupted.
The man shrugged and gestured toward the back. “He was standing in front of one of those doors. I remember, because he was talking to a colleague of mine.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the man said, giving her a quizzical look.
She realized she sounded a little too intense for someone just seeking a photo for her brother. “Okay cool. That’s fine. You’ve been a big help. We’ll just wander back that way,” she said, jerking a thumb toward row of doors at the rear. “If we find him, great. If not, then that’s fine too.”
And with that she bowed slightly as they turned and left.
The man stared at the two operatives as they walked away. There was something about the couple that bothered him, particularly the girl. Despite having already consumed five flutes of champagne, CERN’s associate director of security still had enough wits about him to know that the raven-haired beauty wasn’t searching for Markus VanGelder so that she could take his picture. No, she had been too inquisitive, almost desperate even, to find the Dutch physicist. A part of him doubted that it was anything serious, but at the same time he had learned to always trust his gut. And his gut told him that the two people who walked away were trouble.
Draining the last of his champagne, he resolved to look into the matter further.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Zane found it hard to believe that the guards hadn’t noticed there was a scaling knife in the bottom of the boat, not far from his feet. It was a stroke of good fortune that seemed inconceivable for a professional security team. But Zane didn’t have time to wonder why that piece of good fortune had been delivered to his doorstep. That would be a conversation for later, perhaps over a tall mug of beer at the Oracle’s favorite watering hole, the Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington. For now, his sole focus was bringing the knife into reach without being seen.
As Zane observed the men at the front, he noticed that one of them looked back toward the rear about every two minutes or so. He was much more alert than his partner, so Zane was careful to keep still and not open his eyes more than necessary.
Zane used the time in between the man’s glances to extend his foot toward the knife, one slow inch at a time. But when his foot was only a couple of inches away, he had a two-fold problem. One, he was extending his leg about as far as he could without sliding further out in his seat, and sliding was exactly the kind of movement that might be seen out of the man’s peripheral vision. Two, it probably wasn’t smart to leave his leg extended like that, because at some point the man might notice.