3

Manhattan, New York

24 February

Saturday, 4:00 a.m. local time

Aidan settled himself in the rear seat of the limo as it pulled away from his apartment building.

He punched in a secure cell phone number that rang in Lyon, France. When the other party answered, he said, “It’s Aidan.”

“I assumed so. Patience. I just sent you the email,” Simone Martin responded in her lilting voice, her speech laced with that particularly sexy French accent. That, among other things, had been what drew Aidan to Simone from the start. Their relationship was a complicated and torrid one—on-again, off-again at the beginning, very much on-again now.

Ironically, it had been Valèrie who’d introduced them when Aidan was, once again, overseas, having been called back to active duty by the Marines for a specified period of time. Valèrie and Simone had studied together at the Paris-Sorbonne University and gone on to remain friends. As for the introduction, it was classic Valèrie. She’d bid a fond adieu to the month-long sexual marathon she and Aidan had shared, and had become immersed in some intensive journalistic assignment that consumed all her time and energy. As a result, she was unbothered by the obvious and electric attraction between Aidan and Simone.

Life worked in strange ways. At the time, Aidan had dismissed the affair with Valèrie as a pleasant diversion. But that had been before he’d known Abby had been the result. Now? He could never regret a liaison that had given him his precious child.

As for him and Simone, it turned out that, at the time, she was working for Thales, a military contractor, giving the two of them the opportunity to work—and to play—together. She’d moved on to McKinsey and Company, and Aidan’s military assignment had ended, at which time he’d headed home to the States and begun working with Heckman Flax. But their fire still burned, even now, when they continued to live countries apart and saw each other so seldom.

“Aidan?” Simone prompted.

“I’m here.” He cleared his throat and checked his iPhone. “I don’t see the email yet.”

“Un minute, chéri. I included a brief summary of the skills I felt were necessary, plus a list of those people best suited to address a European kidnapping with an industrial espionage component. You’ll find dossiers on each individual attached, as well as a few alternate selections in the event that you disagree with my assessment of the mission.”

Aidan felt himself grinning. “When have I ever disagreed with your assessments?”

Simone was what Aidan affectionately referred to as a “people whisperer.” She knew more about human beings than they knew about themselves. Based out of Lyon, France, she spoke five languages fluently. In her current “real” job as a managing partner for McKinsey, she was head of recruiting. Her role was to find the best people in the world and convince them to join the firm. As the Zermatt Group’s human capital expert, she applied the same skills in recruiting talent for them.

Aidan relied on Simone to not only find new talent but, when a project presented itself, to scan their talent pool and develop a short list of professionals with the skills and team chemistry to be successful.

She’d never let him down yet.

“Here it is,” he said, opening the email. “Great. I’ll review it all on the plane.”

* * *

Two hours later, Aidan’s flight took off.

First class on United flight 303 to San Francisco was quiet this morning. Probably because it was Saturday and all the business travelers were already home for the weekend.

Aidan sank back, enjoying his morning cup of black coffee. He needed it after the night he’d had. Poor Abby had woken up at two a.m. really sick. Aidan had prevailed upon their pediatrician, explaining his business dilemma. The compassionate man had met them in his office and diagnosed Abby with strep throat. The twenty-four-hour drugstore had filled the doctor’s prescription. Still, Aidan had been in a major bind. He had to take this trip. But Abby’s fever was high and her throat was horribly sore. Not to mention she was probably still contagious. The nanny had left at midnight and was now visiting her daughter in New Hampshire for the weekend. He just didn’t know how he was going to manage.

So he’d called Marc and Maddy to come over quite early. God bless his brother and sister-in-law. They were dressed and ready before Aidan hung up the phone. Madeline was an ER nurse. She’d assured Aidan that she’d take care of Abby. And Marc would love being the entertainment committee.

Abby had woken up from her feverish sleep as soon as she heard her uncle and aunt arrive. And she’d forgotten all about how sick she was. Not only were they here for what she viewed as a two-day playdate, they’d brought gifts: a gallon of cotton candy ice cream, her favorite, and a get-well present of a brand-new princess doll they’d saved to give her. The doll had flowing golden hair, a pink satin gown, and a crown with tiny colored rhinestones on it. Abby collected princess dolls like baseball cards. This was another beauty to add to her prized collection.

So Aidan had blown out of there with an enormous hug from his own little princess and, just as importantly, peace of mind.

“Mr. Devereaux, can I bring you anything?” the flight attendant was asking. “Breakfast will be served in an hour. Would you like something in the interim?”

Aidan glanced at his near-empty cup. “Just some more coffee, please. I need all the caffeine I can get.”

She smiled, having seen more than her share of business travelers. “I’ll get it right away.”

Aidan spent the next few hours reviewing everything Simone had sent him. All spot on—as usual.

He glanced out the window. The morning was new and clear, and he found himself staring down at the beauty of the Rockies. Just seeing them brought back vivid memories of the Swiss Alps, the formation of the Zermatt Group, and the events leading up to the coalition that had taken on a life of its own.

It started five years ago in the small Swiss town of Zermatt. Three amazing professionals from Aidan’s previous life—Terri, Simone, and former MI6 agent Philip Banks—had arrived at the mountain resort at Aidan’s invitation. Over wine and raclette, they came together as a loosely formed group and adopted their meeting location as a nom de guerre: The Zermatt Group.

Aidan had met each of them during his overseas military career in communications and intelligence. They had worked together on different projects, under the auspices of different organizations and governments. Aidan had selected them for the unique talent they brought to the table—leadership, information technology skills, investigative abilities, even the assessment of human personalities and capabilities. But most important was each team member’s strong network of contacts and innate skill at recruiting others to serve as a secondary circle of operatives.

With the same respect that he’d shown in naming Zermatt’s AI system, Aidan had modeled the group after the actions of his own childhood hero, World War II intelligence leader “Wild Bill” Donovan. Donovan’s outgoing personality and business skills afforded him access to key European leaders in both industry and government. His skill in recruiting others to help him, both domestically and internationally, made him the ultimate master spy and the founder of the OSS, the precursor of the modern-day CIA. Aidan had been fascinated with Donovan. It was that fascination that led him to enter military service, become a Marine, and choose a specialty in communications and intelligence that allowed him, like Donovan, to travel the world, working with many talented people on difficult missions.

Over the past decade, Aidan’s international exposure had afforded him a unique view of global geopolitics and business. And it had turned his stomach. The world was taking an alarming direction. With the lines blurring between legal and illegal, moral and immoral, the Zermatt Group would be there to remind the transgressors that they had gone too far.

Utilizing his Marine training and Donovan’s intelligence methods, Aidan had founded the Zermatt Group like a special ops military strike force, with himself, Terri, Simone, and Philip—who served as the group’s lead on-the-ground investigator—as a force multiplier to help the good guys, above or below their radars. They relied upon the respective networks of contacts they’d cultivated over the years.

The Zermatt Group members lived and worked in their local communities. Their jobs and business contacts gave them critical access to people, technology and financial assets. That allowed them to operate in the shadows. Terri made sure of it.

That’s how it started, and that’s how it had stayed.

And now, the Pennington kidnapping and industrial blackmail crisis loomed over them, begging for a swift resolution without sacrificing Lauren’s life in the process.

* * *

Aidan picked up his rental car and drove the fifty minutes from San Francisco to Silicon Valley, and directly to Santa Clara. It might be a Saturday, but it was no surprise that Vance Pennington was at work. Like Aidan’s, Pennington’s job required a seven-days-a-week, twenty-four-hours-a-day commitment.

Pulling around the bend, Aidan drove up the private road that led to NanoUSA. At first glance, he thought he was at a top-secret military base rather than a corporate headquarters. The entire building complex looked as if it were on lockdown.

He was stopped at the main checkpoint, where, as a visitor, he was required to leave his vehicle, plus just about everything else. All his personal belongings, including electronic communication devices, were placed in a steel box and locked away for safekeeping. He had to submit to a body scanner, which could check for any hidden weapons or embedded devices—swallowed, implanted, or otherwise.

The security procedures were similar to those Aidan had experienced at FBI Headquarters, only heightened to the nth degree.

When he’d stepped into the security office, he could see that his cell signal died instantly. So the windowless building was lead-lined, blocking any and all signals from entering or leaving.

These people were definitely serious about keeping their secrets secret.

Aidan was transported in a company vehicle from security to the main building and reception area. Since it was Saturday, a security guard was on duty, instead of a receptionist. Aidan gave him his name, and the security guard called Vance to tell him that his visitor had arrived. The security guard attached a Bluetooth bracelet to Aidan’s wrist and told him to make sure he was always with his escort. The bracelet would keep track of his physical whereabouts at all times, and any attempts to leave authorized areas or to tamper with the device would be immediately detected and dealt with harshly.

A second guard arrived, advising Aidan to accompany him up to Mr. Pennington’s office.

They rode up to the tenth floor and exited, walking past frosted glass walls to the rear corner office that flourished a brass plate with the name Vance Pennington, Vice-President on it.

The guard knocked. “Mr. Pennington? Mr. Devereaux is here to see you.”

“Come in,” came the reply.

The guard pushed the door open and gestured for Aidan to enter. Then he quickly made his retreat, shutting the door behind him.

Glancing around, Aidan crossed over the threshold and onto the thick pile of cream carpeting. The office had classic mahogany furniture, plush leather sofa and chairs, and an expansive, horse-shoe-shaped desk. It was a good thing that the place was so huge and well-appointed, since there wasn’t a single window to look out of or to make you feel connected with the outside world. In short, it was a luxury coffin. Given the number of hours Vance Pennington worked, if this office were anything less than it was, he might succumb to claustrophobia.

Aidan’s gaze quickly scanned the few personal items on Pennington’s desk. Photos of his family. An expensive fountain pen and ink well. And on the wall behind him, a framed US Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal.

Not a surprise. Terri’s intel had told him as much, just as John’s information had informed him that Robert Maxwell hired patriots. But the fact that Pennington had served in Aidan’s own division of the military was a nice bonus. It might be a bonding mechanism that would swing the pendulum in Aidan’s favor.

“Mr. Devereaux.” Vance Pennington rose from behind his desk, reaching across to shake Aidan’s hand. Saturday or not, he was wearing an expensive suit and tie, as if it were a weekday.

Then again, so was Aidan.

“Please.” Vance gestured at one of the buttery-soft leather chairs across from him. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Aidan sank down into the chair. “And I’m not big on the formalities. It’s Aidan.”

“Vance,” Pennington replied. “Can I have someone get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

“I’m fine,” Aidan assured him. “Although I am intrigued by the extent NanoUSA has gone to ensure its security. The grounds and the building are a veritable fortress.”

A hint of a smile touched Vance’s lips. “It’s the only way to ensure the level of secrecy we require.”

“Does that apply to the executives, as well? Do you also have to forfeit your cell phones at the door?”

“Absolutely.” Vance nodded. “The cell phones we use outside of this office complex are quarantined in a special facility. Phone calls and texts are forwarded to our red phones that are only used within this facility.” He held up his red phone for Aidan to see. “This way, we can stay in touch with the outside world, but because the devices are quarantined, any potential for hacking, spying, industrial espionage is eliminated.”

Aidan found himself fascinated. “How can you be so sure? There’s always the next virus or Trojan horse that someone manages to sneak by even the best of systems.”

“Very simple,” Vance replied. “We change the form of each type of communication and then change it back. Say, for example, that you receive a text message. Let’s assume that somehow, the text message had a nefarious payload along with it. The first step in the process would convert the text message into speech, preventing any payload from being delivered. In the second conversion step, the now audible words of the text message would be converted using a speech-to-text algorithm in a separate system. We do the same kind of conversion for phone calls, as well. The process is just reversed.”

A corner of Aidan’s mouth lifted. “Got it. It’s like having my Siri talk to your Siri.”

“Exactly. Photos and videos are handled in a similar but different fashion. Incoming images are displayed on a high-resolution LCD screen. In the second conversion, a high-resolution video camera aimed at the computer screen captures a still picture or video of the incoming visual information. In this way, the form of the picture remains the same, but the air gap isolation keeps any potential computer viruses from entering Nano. Soundtracks from videos are played through studio-quality speakers, where they’re picked up by the video camera during recording.”

“I’m impressed. And I don’t impress easily.” Aidan cleared his throat and got down to business. “We’re both busy men. I’ll get to the reason I’m here.”

“Please do.” Vance’s brows drew together and he sat back, inclining his head. “Your assistant at Heckman Flax said this meeting was of an urgent nature.”

“It is.” Aidan didn’t mince words. “But it has nothing to do with Heckman Flax.”

A start of surprise. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say that I work independently of Heckman Flax, as well, with some very well-connected, one-of-a-kind professionals all over the world. Our job is to identify high-level crises and to stop them before they get out of hand.”

Pennington took a moment to digest all that. “Is Heckman Flax aware of this enormous additional job you have?”

“No. But now you are.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because you’re in the middle of a crisis that you’re completely unaware of. It involves the new manufacturing technology that NanoUSA is about to commercialize.”

Vance’s eyes narrowed. “And you want to hear all the details of the technology in order to fix my problem?”

“It’s not what I want that matters,” Aidan said. “It’s what others want—and what they’ll do to get it. We already have a significant amount of data. We need more.”

“What is it you think you know?”

Aidan relayed all the information John had debriefed him with.

With a dubious shake of his head, Vance rose. “None of that is news to us, Mr. Devereaux.” It didn’t go unnoticed by Aidan that Vance had reverted back to the formal address. “I’m surprised that you’d come all this way to ask something of me you know I can’t reveal. If you’re right and the Chinese are stepping up their game to try to obtain our technology, we’ll handle it on our own. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“They’ve got your daughter.”

Vance froze. “Pardon me?”

“Lauren. She’s been kidnapped. The Chinese hired an Albanian crime group to take her—which they did four days ago. They’re going to offer you a trade—the technology for Lauren. And they’re going to kill her unless we act now to prevent it.”

Vance gripped the edge of his desk. “What proof do you have of this?”

Aidan went on to provide some of the intel Zermatt had gathered, including the unreported kidnapping outside Hofbräuhaus.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe this,” he added. “Have you noticed any change in Lauren’s behavior over the past couple of days?”

The expression on Vance’s face told Aidan he’d struck a nerve.

He started to speak and then abruptly halted as wariness interceded. He stared at Aidan, his long, hard assessment a clear indication that he was waging an internal battle over whether or not he should trust a total stranger, compelling or not.

Aidan remained silent, keeping his own gaze steady as he waited for Vance to reach the inevitable conclusion that trusting Aidan was his only choice.

Sure enough, Vance gave a hard swallow and an almost imperceptible nod.

“My wife . . . I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but my wife has been concerned,” he said at last. “Lauren’s phone calls have stopped. So have her texts, other than a once-a-day, same-time-every-day check-in.” Vance shifted from one foot to the other. “In her last text, she told us that she was having a problem with the reception where she was. Also, that her cell phone was fading in and out. She was taking it in to be checked out, so we shouldn’t worry if she was out of touch for a day. She said she’d call soon.”

“Did her tone sound different?”

“You’re saying you don’t think she’s the one who sent those texts.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Aidan went on without so much as a blink. “I’ve given you more than enough data to convince you of what’s happening. Do you want to bring me into the loop so we can help you and Lauren? Otherwise, I can promise that you won’t be seeing her again—at least not alive.”

Vince winced at Aidan’s words. “I can’t divulge company secrets,” he replied on autopilot. “There has to be another way. We’ll call the police. The FBI. The damned White House if we have to.”

“And tell them what? There’s no tangible proof. And there won’t be until we’re out of time and Lauren is dead.”

Vance rubbed his hand over his jaw. He was clearly waffling. Aidan rose. “I’m leaving town in a few hours. What’s your decision?”

Before Vance could reply, his red phone vibrated.

Aidan’s gaze shifted and he gestured at the phone. “Go ahead. See what that is.”

Reluctantly, Vance looked down and took his phone out of sleep mode. He was greeted by five successive bings.

“Texts,” he murmured.

Each of the five texts appeared in a balloon message on his phone, all of them in rapid succession.

“Oh my God,” Vance whispered, sinking back down into his chair.

Aidan came around and read the texts over Vance’s shoulder.

You have: Seven days to comply.

You will: turn over all the details of your manufacturing technology.

You won’t: contact the police, the FBI, or make any changes in your routine.

You should: Wait for our instructions.

You must: do everything we ask or your daughter will be dead in a week.