Storm Front

“So not Blois,” Storm said to himself.

“Just make sure you read the instructions,” the caretaker said

“Why would I do that?”

“I was told you would ask that,” he said, chuckling. “The answer is: because Jones said so.”

Storm went inside and quickly changed into the new clothes, silently thanking Jones for arranging a more Derrick Storm–like outfit, one that actually matched. It also included one of his favorite kind of fashion accessories, the kind that took bullets. The 9mm Beretta wasn’t necessarily Storm’s gun of choice, but it would beat a good talking-to if he bumped across someone with a bad attitude. He slipped the grappling hook sleeve onto his arm, over his shirt but under his jacket, leaving the small aperture just barely peeking out from the jacket’s cuff.

He left without further comment, jogging to the waiting helicopter, a Griffin HAR2 that had the markings of the Royal Air Force. Storm clambered into the main hold. There was a seat with a helmet sitting on it that he assumed was for him. He donned the helmet and strapped himself in.

“You’re late,” Storm said into the helmet’s intercom.

“Sorry, sir,” the pi lot replied.

“What, did you get caught in queuing on the M-1?” Storm joked. “Or was it that the destination made your navigation sort of… Blois.”

The pilot did not reply.

Storm tried again: “Or maybe the helicopter is having a… Blois day.”

The pilot punched a few buttons on the control panel.

“Oh, come on, nothing for that? You have such a… Blois sense of humor.”

Still no words from the pilot.

“Get it? Because you’re going to a city called Blois and…”

“You think a joke improves when you have to explain it?” the pilot asked.

“Right. To London, then.”

Storm felt the surge of the chopper lifting upward then watched out the small side window as the fields of northern France passed underneath. He turned his attention to the grappling hook, tossing the instructions onto the floor of the chopper. By the time they reached the iconic shores of Normandy, he felt comfortable with the device’s operation.

Somewhere over the English Channel, he dozed off.

LONDON, England

It was mid-morning by the time Storm landed near the crime scene. He felt refreshed from the nap and was keen to be able to do his own investigating, not just rely on reports from others. He didn’t necessarily think he was smarter than any of the agents who had combed through the other scenes. But he did know Volkov. Maybe there would be something the other agents had overlooked or the significance of which they didn’t understand.

The building where the killing had occurred was filled with fashionable condominium lofts in a reclaimed industrial building along the south bank of the Thames, two turns of the river away from Parliament, not far from King’s Stairs Gardens.

This was a part of London that had undergone much change since World War II, and its rejuvenation had continued into the twenty-first century, albeit haltingly. Next to the loft, rising forlornly from the earth, there were empty steel girders of what would someday — if the financing could ever again come together — be an office tower to approach the Shard as one of London’s tallest buildings. The superstructure had been completed, but construction had since been halted, a reminder that En gland had not been immune to the economic malaise that had gripped Europe. Storm wondered idly how many millions of dollars of steel had been used in making what was essentially a towering skeleton.

Storm entered the condo building and rode to its top floor, the eighth, which was swarming with officials of all stripes. At the front door, he was handed a pair of latex gloves by a uniformed man, who logged Storm’s entry. He walked through the foyer, into a sitting room, then toward where all the action seemed to be taking place: the office, in the northwest corner of the loft.

At least in the Western world, crime scenes always looked the same. There were people in varying kinds of uniform running around, working on their small piece of the action, doing their duty. And then, somewhere, not in uniform, there was the person in charge.

Storm finally found that person in the office. He was tall, bespectacled, and gentle-looking, with long, chestnut-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked less like a Scotland Yard detective and more like someone you might find in a computer science Ph.D. program. The man was staring at something on a clipboard, looking up as Storm approached.

“Hi, I’m…”

“Derrick Storm,” the man said. “And I’m Nick Walton, Scotland Yard. I’ve been told to cooperate fully with you. Would you like some tea?”

Okay, so maybe there were small differences in crime scenes. “No, thank you,” Storm said. “What do we have here?”