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Page 31.

15. London Three Months Ago

A young college professor at London School of Economics walked through the antique, wrought iron glories of Victoria Station in the City of Westminster, London, England. Pierre Sander was in his early thirties—a handsome man, tall and dark-haired with an air of self-assurance. He was well-dressed in a charcoal business suit with a salt and pepper overcoat (more pepper than salt). He carried a briefcase in his right hand, and a cell phone in his left.

The red brick and otherwise ornate ninetheenth century façade of Victoria Station loomed behind him as he left the station and strode on long legs toward the Vauxhall Bridge Road. As he walked, he kept looking over his shoulder to spot an available taxi. He jostled among crowds on the sidewalk, and at the same time ordered the phone to connect him with a phone number on the Continent. It was a number in the small town of Echternach, Luxembourg, and the house in which he had lived as a child twenty-five years earlier.

A familiar voice answered curtly. "Bonjour."

Papa, ech sin et, de Pierre. "Papa, it's me, Pierre."

Ah, mai leiwe Pierre. wéi geet et dir? "Ah, my dear Pierre. How are you?"

Alles an der Rei. Ech hun dei Daten. "Everything is okay. I have the data."

Wonnerbar. Da maache mer elo Schluss. "Great. Let's finish this."

Ech wärt maar de Muren zu Letzebuerg sinn. "I'll be in Luxembourg tomorrow."

Also bis dann, mei leiwe Jong. "Until then, my dear boy."

Pierre strode along the major road. He had just come from his office at the college, where he had been teaching five classes. The winter break afforded him a chance to bring his test results to his father—Professor Hilaire Sander—who was seriously considering making a run for the CEOC parliament in June. While it was pretty much obligatory for a seasoned CEO of a major conglomerate to run for the presidency, any competent newcomer could challenge the election if he or she offered a compelling case to improve the global status of the Chief Executive Officers' Confederacy (CEOC). Certainly, his dad—being an economics professor with extensive practical business experience in computer systems development—was qualified.

A black London taxi slowed, pacing Pierre at the curb.

Pierre had not hailed the cab just now. He'd given up a few minutes ago, but planned to try again in a moment. Why not? Now or never. He stepped off the curb, pulled the back door open, and climbed in with his briefcase. With a jerking motion that threw him back in the seat, the cab sped away in to traffic.

Pierre immediately knew something was seriously wrong.

The driver was an enormous African man with short, woolly, mussy hair. In the taxi were two other persons beside the driver. A handsome, dark-skinned woman, with black hair and eyes, sat in the front seat. From what Pierre could see at this angle, she wore a butterscotch leather coat, fastened with a belt. A forest-green silk scarf at her neck was tucked into the coat's collar. Most significantly, she held a small black automatic pistol, which was aimed at Pierre's head.

In the back seat sat a smallish, slim Asian man with short-cropped hair and a certain crazy laugh in his features. He too held a gun, which had a silencer on the muzzle. "Hello, Professor."

"Who are you?" Pierre said heatedly. The data must not fall into anyone else's hands.

"We are a data transport company," said the Hispanic-looking woman in the front passenger seat.

Beside Pierre sat the slender Asian man with short, ragged black hair. He wore dark pants and a black T-shirt. His bare arms were covered with lurid, colorful tattoos. His face bore a crazed, anything-goes expression as if he were silently laughing. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

The Asian man said, "Open the briefcase."

Pierre froze, hugging the precious leather case to his chest. He realized with sickening finality that these people were not taxi drivers but criminals. Murderers, no doubt. And they were after the data carrier in the briefcase, which could tip the balance of airpower around the world. He understood who they were working for—not PAX, but the other side.

"We can double whatever CEOC is paying you," Pierre said in English.

The women in the front seat spoke with a Latina accent—probably South American or close. "You would never want to pay us for what we do. We get paid by your enemies. That is who we are."

The driver chimed in with a Nigerian accent, "We know on which side our bread is buttered."

"You don't have the bread," the Asian quipped in a double entendre that made his companions snicker. "For the last time, open the briefcase."

Pierre recognized that the woman was the smartest. "Please," said to her, "we can make a deal."

She shook her head matter-of-factly. "We don't need a deal, Dr. Sander."

The Asian reached over and roughly grasped the briefcase. Pierre tried to resist, but felt his hand being cruelly twisted in a martial arts hold. He could not maintain his grip.

The Asian took the briefcase, used a knife to pry off the locks, and looked inside. "Appears to be what we want." He snapped the briefcase shut. "With regrets, Dr. Sander. We must say goodbye."

"Wait," Pierre said, "let's talk about this."

The woman smiled thinly. "We have the data, and you are now the problem. If we let you walk away, you can duplicate your work in a matter of weeks. Without you, it will take two years for NATO or the U.S. to figure out all the twists and turns."

Pierre felt a cold wave of shock and realization flood him, as if he'd been tossed into the North Sea on a freezing night. His Titanic had hit its iceberg—and he just understood this now. His last thoughts were of his widowed father, and how this would create unbearable agony. He was all the old man had left in life.

"Goodbye, Dr. Sander," the Asian said.

The Hispanic woman pulled the trigger.

Her finger, pulling the trigger—the rounded little first joint of her finger out from the knuckle of her trigger finger—soft and lovely as cocoa butter—was the second last thing Pierre Sander saw. He meditated on its feminine beauty and gracefulness.

He closed his eyes and let his mind to drift to find a memory of his father's face, gazing at him lovingly, framed in wind-blown white hair. It was a weathered, reddish face, with lines of worry and bitter experience etched into it, but the eyes remained alight with hope. With him was his dear mother, smiling again as she had in life, proudly—loving her only child…

Fade to nothing.

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