by Tim Tigner
His computer chimed on time and as planned. “Tell me,” Ignaty said.
Ignaty had insisted on a daily call rather than the usual message board. Theoretically this was to avoid any chance of confusion, given the exceptionally high stakes, but Max felt certain that Ignaty had gone that route in order to maximize the pressure he could inflict. Ignaty was that kind of guy. Even with the Mickey-Mouse voice distortion, Max could still sense the glee as he twisted the knife.
Max put as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could muster. “Delivery in five days.”
“Five days? All fifty of them?”
“All fifty.”
Ignaty didn’t say, “Excellent!” or even “That’s early.” He said, “Are you ready for them?”
“I will be.”
“So that’s a no.”
It was uncanny just how intuitive that bristle-faced ferret could be. Max wanted to point out that he was one man, working alone, in a foreign country, against the most secure corporation on the planet. But those were excuses. He wanted to ask for permission to reach out to SVR assets in the area, fellow foreign intelligence agents who had undoubtedly already analyzed Vulcan Fisher for weaknesses. But Ignaty had already denied that request with a reprimand that made him feel like a schoolboy. What didn’t he understand about the consequences to Russia if the inevitable extensive American investigation turned up anything implying Russian involvement? Ignaty was right. In the aftermath of the operation, the FBI would offer millions for information. If Max made queries, someone would remember. The consequences would not be pretty. “That’s a no.”
“That’s disappointing.”
Max had planned to ask about Zoya, but this clearly wasn’t the time. Operations security protocol prevented him from contacting her directly, but Ignaty had promised to pass along news and relay messages. What an ill-conceived plan that was, passing verbal I-love-you's via Ignaty. Get real. During their first call, he realized that he’d never get anything more than a she’s-fine even if he asked. But today, anything would sound good. He needed the boost he’d get from even that brief third-party interaction with her. God, how he missed her. His fiancée. He decided to risk it. “What’s the latest from Zoya?”
“She loves you. She misses you. She’s pregnant.”
“What!” If ever there was a time when you didn’t want a four-second communication delay, this was it.
“Just kidding. But what if she were? What world would you be bringing that child into? One where daddy is a hero, or a national disgrace?”
Max’s shoulders slumped even as his neck recovered from the emotional whiplash. “I better get back to it then.”
“See that you do.”
Chapter 31
The Request
Hawaii
ACHILLES OPENED HIS EYES, and once again found a beautiful woman looking down at him. This time he recognized her face and knew her name. This time he was lying on a proper mattress, beneath a puffy white duvet and a circulating ceiling fan. Oh what a difference a day makes.
And a night.
He turned toward his bride, studying her face in the morning light as if for the first time. She was already dressed in a tawny t-shirt that accented the highlights in her hair and the amber flecks in her big brown eyes.
“Ready to get to work?” Jas asked. “I’m not letting you out of this bed until you remember me.”
He reached back and ran his index finger over the lump on his head. It was still angry, but it wasn’t screaming.
Jas studied him. “What is it? Your head bothering you?”
“A little.”
“All the more reason to stay in bed.”
“I need my morning coffee.”
Jas gestured with her chin.
Achilles looked behind him to see a covered bowl, a silver thermos flask, and an empty mug. He sat up, poured the coffee, and lifted the lid off the bowl.
“Steel-cut organic oats, with raspberries,” Jas said. “That sound about right?”
“That sounds perfect.” Sipping the coffee, Achilles found the taste divine. Fresh and bold. Chock full of caffeine, minerals, and antioxidants. What a woman.
Reading his expression, Jas flashed him a million-dollar smile. “Better?”
“Much better.”
“Good. Can we get back to healing your mind?”
“Bring it on.”
She sat beside him on the edge of the bed and brought her anxious eyes to his. “Two years ago, you were climbing Lover’s Leap, and trying to devise a plan. Tell me about it.”
Achilles balked. He was eager to oblige Jas for oh so many reasons, but this first step was a hurdle. Obviously they’d already discussed the important stuff. She already knew the damning details. The sensational headlines. The secrets worth killing for. Silver had asked him to assassinate Korovin, and he had complied. The things she didn’t know were just footnotes. Still, it wasn’t in his nature to discuss operations with outsiders. Perhaps that was the rub. The fundamental mistake of a bachelor’s mind. She wasn’t an outsider. They were a team. A marital team. A successful team. A team made strong by sharing everything.
“What is it?” Jas asked, setting her hand atop his.
“Nothing. I’m just a slow learner.” He shook his head and took another sip of coffee. “We identified a gap in Korovin’s security. A gap he created himself.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Korovin. He was so security conscious that he never even used a cell phone.”
“Yeah, well, apparently the rare exception gave him the strength to stick with the rule.”
Jas nodded understanding. “Like the fashion model who allows herself the occasional chocolate truffle. What did he do?”
“He occasionally slipped his security and exposed himself.”
“When? How?”
“The details don’t matter. The problem was figuring out how to exploit his behavior, because it was so unpredictable.”
Jas withdrew her hand. “The details are all that matter! That’s how we’re going to extend the path back to your lost memories. Detail by detail. Brick by brick. I need you to remember, Achilles. I need a husband who knows me and loves me despite everything he knows.”
Achilles set his mug down a bit too roughly, sloshing coffee. He ignored it. “I don’t know the next move. I don’t know what I did. I’m just as stuck now as I was back then.”
Jas looked like she was about to cry. “I thought we had it. You got my hopes up. I need you to remember me. Surely you understand that.”
“I’ll try. I promise. It’s absolutely my top priority. It’s important for me to remember everything. Especially the day I met you — the luckiest day of my life.”
His words evoked a smile, giving Achilles hope that he’d eventually get the hang of the husband thing.
“Your oatmeal’s getting cold,” she said.
Achilles broke eye contact to look over at the bowl on his nightstand. He scooped up a spoonful with a raspberry on top. “How’s Silver’s second term going?”
Jas tensed up.
Looking back over he saw that the fire in her big beautiful eyes had faded. She lifted a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Achilles. President Silver had a stroke shortly after Korovin died. It killed him. Matthews is now president.”
Achilles was no psychologist, but he was certain their textbooks included phrases like tipping point, inciting incident, and precipitating event. The news that fate had prematurely snatched away yet another pillar of his self-identity felt like one of those.
“I’m going to get some air,” he said, rising from the bed and heading for his closet.
Most would consider his wardrobe an amusing if not an odd sight. During the extended backpacking trip that Achilles had taken immediately after leaving the CIA, he had learned to appreciate the efficiency of limiting his base wardrobe to under ten pounds. A pair of loose blue jeans, a set of khaki cargo shorts, a couple of soft white Tees, and some cotton undergarments w
ere all he really needed. His feet only had one home: approach shoes — the special soft-soled sneakers that were an efficient hybrid of a hiking boot and a climbing shoe. Buy them in black, and they were one-size-fits-all as far as most occasions were concerned. Rounding off his wardrobe was a single luxury item, a quality black leather jacket. That should have been all he saw when he slid aside the mirrored door, but apparently he’d made a concession to married life or island life or both. His lonely shelves also supported a set of swim trunks, blue with a white stripe, and some flip flops, brown rubber and natural leather. Gifts he guessed.
“Please, Achilles. Come back to bed. Back to me. Let’s talk.”
The climbing clothes went on with practiced familiarity. Twelve seconds flat. He looked up from the second shoelace to see Jas standing there in the closet doorway with her ankles crossed and her arms outstretched. Naked.
His throat turned dry, and his breath came up short. If memory served, he’d passed out during the massage.
Her legs were long and lean and looked like they could go for miles and miles. She only got better heading north from there. “Stay with me,” she said. “Talk to me. We don’t know what’s going on with your head. You need to take it easy until we get you checked out. Don’t be rash.”
Chapter 32
The Accomplice
Seattle, Washington
“THIS COULD BE THE ONE,” Wang said, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.
Max sure hoped so. There was only so much more General Hospital talk he could take. Still, he was happy to suck it up as penance if it made Wang happy.
They were peering through the window of a hot sheets motel across the road from Callie’s Club. The enormous bar was frequented by airmen and soldiers from the neighboring joint base, and by Vulcan Fisher employees, many of whom were retired airmen and soldiers. A neon sign in the window promised live music and dollar longnecks, while Callie’s winking logo hinted at something more.
Wang had finally come around. As upset and intimidated as he was by the prospect of slipping into Vulcan Fisher for a midnight soldering session, the siren song of a seven-figure payday had proved irresistible. And as it turned out, Wang had been holding back. He’d been to Vulcan Fisher just six weeks earlier.
“He looks nothing like me,” Max replied.
“Right age, right height. You not so fat, but people lose weight. The hair you can fix.”
“His nose is twice the size of mine and his eyes are set much deeper. You think we all look alike, don’t you?”
“You really want to have that conversation? A Caucasian talking to an Asian? I look nothing like the guy whose ID I copied, but Vulcan Fisher’s lily-white guards never blinked.”
The two spies watched another car with a VF parking permit pull into Callie’s lot. Four guys dressed in jeans and sneakers piled out. Rats from the local lab. One was black. Another was both vertically challenged and pumping lots of iron to compensate. But the remaining two had potential. They sported both the right general appearance and regular facial features, although the blonde one wore a wedding ring. Max was encouraged. “Two show potential.”
“Well all right then!” Wang said, punching his shoulder. “You see. All kinds of good things happen when the sun is shining.”
The sun was indeed our friend today. No rain meant no raincoats, leaving ID cards exposed. They’d likely have come off in the bar anyway — Callie kept it warm and thus welcoming for thirsty servicemen sick of the cold — but Max was happy to take a sure thing. The lack of outerwear also helped speed up target assessment.
Wang’s plan for covert entry into Vulcan Fisher had two steps. The first was ID replication. They had to borrow a suitable ID long enough to copy it, and then return it before it was missed. The second step was ensuring that the target would not go into work the next morning. Couldn’t have two Lester Winkelmans showing up, not with a security system as sophisticated as Vulcan Fisher’s.
Entering the bar half a minute after his prey, Max saw that the foursome had snagged a table up by the stage. A good sign. They were more interested in entertainment than conversation. Their waitress, a healthy college student dressed in short black shorts and a tight Callie’s T-shirt, was already filling frosty mugs from their first pitcher.
Max grabbed a seat that put them between him and the stage. Both his potential marks were taking notice of the charms their waitress had on display. A promising sign. He knew that married men cheated all the time, but now that he was engaged himself he found it freshly repugnant. He couldn’t imagine cheating on Zoya. Then again, by landing the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, he had stacked the deck.
Wang elbowed him. “Which one do you like most?”
“Blondie’s facial features are a better match, but he’s about four inches too short. Will that be a problem with the gait analysis?”
“Almost certainly. But remember the gait monitors aren’t installed everywhere. You might be able to avoid them. That would be a good idea in any case. I don’t know how accurate they’ve gotten. They’re supposed to be adaptive, learning as they add data points. Getting harder to fool every day.”
“Your advice?”
Wang studied them for a second. “Go with the tall guy. His build is more like yours.”
“But his face is longer and thinner.” Max began thinking aloud. “I suppose I could let my jaw hang loose, and wear glasses. His center hair part is unusual enough that the guard’s gaze will gravitate to it. If I get that right, I should be okay.”
“Assuming he wore it that way when he took his security picture.”
“Men don’t change their hairstyle. Only women.”
“Okay then,” Wang said, raising his phone in a victory gesture. “We’ve got our first choice, and a backup. I’ll let Lucy know.”
Callie’s was a target-rich environment for practitioners of the oldest profession, and as long as those practitioners were discreet, Callie didn’t protest. Word was, that was how she earned her seed capital. In any case, she was giving this Seattle neighborhood exactly what it wanted.
Max thought Lucy looked even better live than in the picture Wang had shown him. Reputedly a law student at U-Dub, Lucy was in her early-twenties and vivacious. She had a blonde ponytail, long athletic legs, and a mischievous kitty vibe. She’d reportedly cost Max $5,000, although he’d assumed Wang was skimming at least half off the top. Now he wasn’t so sure.
In response to Wang’s text, Lucy grabbed a seat at the empty table next to the boys. Positioning herself just inches from target number one, she laid her long, bare legs up on the neighboring chair like a fresh cake in the window. While necks began straining, Lucy turned her eyes to the stage and began nodding her head with the beat of the Nickelback tribute band.
Target number two rose as the song drew to a close. He grabbed a seat at Lucy’s table. Skillfully leveraging both the tiny musical gap and the title of the last song, Max heard him ask, “What would you do if today was your last day?” Max didn’t hear her answer, but based on her response it was obviously friendly. A few seconds later the mark was flagging their waitress.
“Do we want man number two?” Wang asked, his phone out and ready to text Lucy.
“Number one would be better, but that could get complicated. We might not get either.” As Max weighed the potential downsides of trying to upgrade, Wang’s phone vibrated. Max looked over at the screen. It read: “+$1k for 2.”
Chapter 33
The Horn
Hawaii
ACHILLES WAS NOTHING IF NOT DISCIPLINED. He’d worked his way to Olympic bronze in the biathlon before a back injury had dashed his dreams of gold. Then he’d served with distinction in the CIA’s Special Operations Group until the joy was gone. Both careers had demanded the constant sacrifice of short-term desires for long-term goals. He wasn’t certain that clearing his head would be considered a long-term goal, but he was certainly sacrificing his short-term desire to achieve it.
A ver
y strong short-term desire.
Jas looked more astonished than upset as he headed for the door.
Free solo climbing isn’t as reckless as it sounds. You don’t just walk — or in this case swim — up to a class 5 cliff face and start climbing without a rope. Not if you hope to survive. First you plan your route and prep the rock. Before working your way up from the bottom with nothing but a sure grip between you and the Almighty, you work your way down from the top — on a rope. You prepare for the insanity by brushing away grit and growth and removing any rock that’s not firmly fixed. That way every hold you lunge or leap or strain for will be solid and sure and clean. Only when the prep is done, do free solo climbers tackle the tough climbs aided only by bravado and a bag of chalk.
Even without his memory, Achilles instantly knew the best route to take up Nuikaohao. Experienced climbers see routes on rocks faces the way cosmetic surgeons see wrinkles on humans. It’s automatic. From the water, it appeared that the cliff face angled outward, more like the prow of a mighty ship than the horn of a big goat. Perhaps the Polynesians had named it before a mighty ship ever reached their shores.
Pulling himself up out of the warm waves at the start of the obvious route, he had expected to slip into a familiar groove, both literally and figuratively. Let the meditation begin!
But he didn’t slip into a familiar groove.
The meditation didn’t begin.
The peace of mind did not come.
Time and again his chosen grip was slick and his foothold was slippery. At first he attributed the discrepancy to Hurricane Noreen, assuming that her wild winds and torrential rains had washed away the chalk and deposited the grit. But that hypothesis faded fast. No amount of blowing and blasting could account for the abundance of moss and loose stone he found on the favored routes.
