by Tim Tigner
Then there was Why. In retrospect, Jas’s tactical focus made this crystal clear. She wanted to know how Achilles planned to kill Korovin. Her synapse-reconstruction scheme was a brilliant way of slipping beneath the radar and onto topic. And why not discuss it with a wife who already knew the big picture, especially with both the target and the man who ordered it already dead?
Achilles was about to continue his descent through the tropical forest when another, more disturbing question hit him. How? How had Korovin learned of Silver’s plan? How did he know that Achilles was to be his executioner? And how was it that someone with that knowledge wouldn’t know of the security gap revealed by the Moscow station chief’s research?
Those were crucial questions — but he’d come back to them later. For the moment, he needed to focus on staying alive.
While he jogged down Nuikaohao, Achilles used a tried-and-true tactic for strategizing. He mentally consulted his mentor Granger.
The man who’d recruited him into the CIA had an unparalleled talent for cutting to the crux of a matter, and Achilles found that when he imitated him, his critical thinking improved. Funny how the human mind worked.
“What’s your top priority? Right now, at this moment?”
“Getting back to Jas.”
“Why?”
“The longer I’m away, the more suspicious she’ll get. The more suspicious she gets, the more likely she’ll be to say enough’s enough. I didn’t give her the specifics of Korovin’s security gap, but I probably supplied enough for Korovin to figure it out. Assuming, of course, that she is Korovin’s spy.”
“Is there another explanation? Any other scenario that accounts for her lies?”
“No.”
“So you fell for a honey trap. The oldest trick in the espionage book.”
“This one came with a pretty big twist.”
“Yeah, but you fell for it. You fell for it because she’s so beautiful. So desirable. You wanted it to be true. With the honey trap, the guys always do.”
“I fell for it because she’s so convincing. I still can’t believe she’s a spy. Is she even French? Or is she really Russian?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re losing focus. Get back on track. Is she working alone? Physically? Is there anyone else on the island?”
“Too risky. It’s such a small island, and they had to allow for the possibility that the operation would drag on for days.”
“I agree. So what’s their backup plan if the shit hits the fan?”
“The cavalry must be close by. Watching. Listening. She mentioned the Coast Guard.”
“So you’ll need to get her someplace they don’t have eyes and ears. You’ll need to get her alone, and then apply pressure. More than you’ll want to. Once you get past her prepared line of BS to the actual operational situation, you can set a trap of your own.”
“I agree.”
“Thing is, that’s the obvious play. They’ll have accounted for that in their contingency planning.”
“Right. But how? She can’t carry a gun.”
“Maybe she’s a kung-fu master. Maybe she’s got poisoned fingernails. Maybe she—”
“She’s got a panic button. Her opal amulet. It’s always around her neck. One good squeeze and the cavalry appears.”
“Well then you better make sure it’s out of reach when you make your move.”
“Agreed.”
“So what’s the play?”
“By ear.”
“A hostage situation is the most likely outcome — and that won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
Achilles did. Even if Jas was Korovin’s spy. Even if she’d planned to play him and turn him over to the brute squad, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. “She won’t know that I’m bluffing.”
“She’s much more empathetic than you. And she’s obviously got your number.”
“What else can I do?”
Even Granger didn’t have that answer.
When Achilles emerged from the jungle and into the clearing, he expected to find Jas waiting on the back deck with two glasses, a bottle of wine, and a relieved look. But nobody was there.
He kept jogging.
Jogging looked natural enough for an athlete returning home from a workout, and it minimized both his exposure and her preparation time. Funny how he was looking at everything anew now that he was an operative again.
He studied the deck boards to avoid those most likely to creak, and used his eyeballs more than his neck to direct his gaze. Nothing untoward registered. His ears caught only the roar of the ocean and wind-rustled leaves, his nose only the smell of blooming flowers and the salty sea.
Aware that he was likely on camera, he couldn’t do anything but head straight for the back door. He slid it aside without a surfeit of sound, and stepped silently into the family room. This wasn’t going to be a “Honey, I’m home!” moment.
The smell hit him as he was closing the door. Smokeless propellant. The unmistakable scent of a fired gun.
Chapter 37
Try This
Seattle, Washington
MAX SHIFTED HIS GAZE from Wang to the problematic piece of equipment. Gait monitors were similar to the body scanners used at airports except that they were ten times as long and didn’t require you to stop moving. The one down the hall only rose to waist height, leaving any adult walking through it open to observation. The attendant doing the observing was positioned about twenty feet further down the corridor in a setup similar to a TSA passport checking station, but with the addition of a large screen.
Max knew he should abort.
But he also knew he wasn’t going to.
Time was tight, Ignaty was breathing down his neck, and the gait monitor would still be there when he came back. Best to think fast and act faster. Perhaps an alternative approach? He looked back at Wang. “We could try packaging or shipping first, and then circle back.”
Wang shook his head, dashing Max’s hopes. “The branch off to those departments is also on the other side.” As he finished speaking, Wang began tapping his clipboard. A thought had arrived. “You went with Bradly’s ID, right?”
Back at the bar, and with the promise of an extra grand, Lucy had sold the idea of a threesome to both of her marks, men Max now knew to be Bradly Richards and Michael Grumley. Once she got them back to her room, she’d led them to the shower to kick things off. While they’d sudsed up, Wang’s techie cloned their IDs and spritzed their clothes with poison oak extract. Today, Bradley and Michael would be far too consumed with scratching their privates and researching STDs to think about coming to work.
Lucy’s entrepreneurial move gave Max the choice between a better facial match with Bradley and a better body match with Michael. He’d gone with the face, partly because challenges would climax in a face-to-face confrontation, and partly because Bradley worked in maintenance. “That’s right. Best facial match.”
“Did you also bring a mylar envelope?”
“I stitched one into my back pocket.”
“Good. Use it to shield your ID from the gait monitor, and try to blend in with a crowd.”
Max nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Best we split up,” Wang added. “I’ll go first. See you on the other side — or at the rendezvous.”
Max turned around and went back to the break room. He stopped just inside the door, presumably to check a vibrating phone but actually to transfer his ID to the pocket lined with mylar film. His blip would suddenly disappear off the radar, but as one of thousands now on the system, he didn’t expect that to raise a loud alarm. Technical glitches happened all the time.
He studied his phone’s screen until the last group of morning stragglers began exiting the break room, at which point he blended into their midst.
While walking through the gait monitor with others both before and behind him, Max tried to pay the guard no more attention than a piece of furniture. The a
ttitude was not reciprocated.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you have your ID?”
Max ignored him.
“Sir!”
Max looked up. “Me? Of course.”
“May I see it.” Not a question.
Max set the toolbox down and dutifully produced Bradley’s ID.
The guard ran it beneath a scanner and received the requisite chime.
Max waited patiently. Bored even. To accomplish this, he used an old trick Zoya had taught him: picturing an elevator button.
“Have you got electronic equipment in your toolbox, Mr. Richards?”
Max raised his eyebrows. “That’s it. Magnetic interference. Happened once before.”
“If you could just walk back through without the toolbox.”
Max accepted the ID and retreated down the opposite side of the corridor, thinking fast. He had three options, all messy. He could keep walking. He could slip the ID back into the mylar pocket. Or he could roll the dice with the gait monitor.
He decided to go with option three, hoping fortune would favor the bold.
Entering the scanner, he kept his friendly gaze on the guard, but caught a glimpse of Wang standing before a bulletin board further down the corridor. Max was almost at the end when the podium began beeping, and the guard began frowning.
The guard silenced the alarm.
Max put on a perplexed look without altering his pace. He needed to close the gap between them. “Did my equipment screw things up?”
“I don’t see how it could.”
“Here, let’s see if that’s it.” Max reached the toolbox and unclasped its lid.
“That’s not necessary. In any case I’ve got to call this in.”
“I bet this is it,” Max said, removing a black box sized and shaped like a cigarette pack but sprouting a pair of short metal antennae. He offered it to the guard, but at the last moment lunged and plunged the taser into his chest.
Chapter 38
The Assassin
Hawaii
AS THE SCENT of smokeless propellant triggered all sorts of physiological reactions, prepping his body for combat, Achilles cursed his carelessness. Once again he was headed into a firefight without a firearm. This time, he didn’t even have a knife. When this episode was behind him, he was going to have a serious sit down with his pacifist side. Meanwhile, he was certain that the real owners of the island home would have a gun safe stocked with serious hardware for defense against pirates. Alas, he had neither the location nor the combination or the time.
Jas would surely have a gun too — stashed somewhere, just in case. But the same problems applied.
The questions kept coming as he crept down the hall. Had Jas been the shooter or the target? In either case, the shot indicated that they were not alone on their little island. Had the third party been there all along? Or had they arrived while Achilles was climbing?
His ears detected nothing but ocean waves as the telltale scent grew stronger. A few stealthy strides took him to the arched entryway beyond which lay the kitchen and family room. The heart of the house.
He spotted Jas immediately. She was seated before a writing desk in the far corner. She’d whirled her chair around to face back in his direction, but her eyes were staring at the ceiling, and her arms were dangling straight down. With the kitchen counter blocking his view, he couldn’t see below her breast, but that was enough to know that she was either unconscious, or dead.
He ran to her.
Achilles knew that was a mistake, but his impulse center overrode the warning. Apparently his heart hadn’t heard that she probably wasn’t his wife.
As he reached her side, a familiar voice called out from behind the kitchen bar. “I caught her sending a coded message. The old-fashioned kind, with a one-time pad. You believe that?”
Achilles whirled about to see Foxley crouched in a classic shooter’s stance. Shielded to his shoulders by the kitchen island between them, he was holding not one, but two handguns. Achilles recognized the rectangular snout of a Glock in Foxley’s right hand, whereas his left held an odd, round-barreled weapon that looked even more sinister but was probably less.
The guns didn’t waver while he spoke. “I couldn’t read the Russian, but obviously you’re the victim of a double-cross. Food for thought while you spend the rest of your life in a traitor’s jail.”
Achilles brushed the words aside. Obviously, Foxley had mixed good information with bad assumptions. Achilles would address the false conclusions in a minute. For the moment, Jas had his attention.
He spotted the red tail of a tranquilizer dart beneath her left breast. Although difficult to discern against the fabric of her shirt, he now saw that it was rising and falling with her breath.
Achilles used his right hand to verify that Jas’s carotid pulse was strong and stable while his left covertly plucked and palmed the dart. “How’d you find me?”
Foxley grinned. Keeping the Glock rock steady, he set the tranquilizer gun down on the counter and pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. Working left-handed, he unlocked it, exposing an open app which he flashed. It showed a map with a pulsating red dot.
“You tracked me? How? An isotope injection?”
“Nothing so sophisticated. Your predictability made it easy. I put a pellet in your shoe.”
Achilles frowned. That was a downside to a spartan wardrobe that he hadn’t previously considered.
Foxley returned the cell to his back pocket and again palmed the tranq gun in his left hand. “President Silver didn’t think you’d sell out. But I told him everyone had his price. Speaking of which, nice island. Might have been tempted myself. But I’m surprised you fell for a honey trap. An amateur mistake. I thought you were better than that.”
“You got it all wrong, Foxley.”
Foxley’s tone turned harsh. “Tell that to Lukin.”
“Korovin’s successor? What’s he got to do with this?” Achilles’ processor was whirring away while he spoke. Offensive tactics. Defensive tactics. Situational analysis. Too much here was not what it seemed — to either of them.
“Lukin got gunned down shortly after you went off the grid. I suppose you’re going to pretend that was a coincidence?”
Achilles was only half-listening to Foxley. His mind had snagged on something important. “Did she see you coming? Did she grab her amulet?”
“What? Look—”
Foxley’s head exploded into a red cloud before Achilles’ eyes as a staccato symphony assaulted his ears. The back of Achilles’ mind automatically deciphered and mapped every sound. The two guns that shot Foxley. The sickening splats of lead on flesh. The two guns that Foxley fired in shock. The crack of the Glock’s bullet impacting the writing desk. The thwack of a dart impaling Jas’s chest. The crunch of Foxley’s skull against the marble floor.
Achilles dropped as quickly as Foxley did, although driven by reflex rather than gravity. He caught a brief glimpse of the assailants before the kitchen island obscured his view. It wasn’t encouraging. Two large crew-cut men wearing Coast Guard uniforms and pointing automatic pistols. They were turning from Foxley’s position toward his like the turrets on twin tanks.
Given his distance from the goons, Achilles guessed that he had about three seconds to live — two seconds for them to reacquire line-of-sight, plus a bonus second for them to aim and fire. Two armed men on the move, one unarmed man on the floor. He might buy another second by turning over the writing desk to use as a shield, but then what? If he had a blanket he could throw it over both himself and Jas to make a desperate run for the jungle, assuming they wouldn’t fire on their partner. But there was no blanket and he refused to use a woman as a shield. Some things weren’t for sale at any price.
Rolling onto his back, Achilles drove the dart he’d pulled from Jas’s chest into his own. Then with legs splayed and mouth agape, he forced himself to go limp and close his eyes.
Chapter 39
Leaps Of Faith
Seattle, Washington
WITH THE GUARD momentarily stunned by the taser, knocking him out with a quick uppercut was child’s play for Max. He even felt a flash of guilt for cheating. But no doubt the victim would welcome a concussion to avoid the alternatives.
As the guard collapsed into his arms, Max looked around the corridor like a kid who’d tripped and fallen. Nobody had seen him! Slipping in with the last of the stragglers had paid off in an unexpected way.
Of course, the next passer-by would sound the alarm — unless he could dispose of the unconscious guard. There was no obvious place to stash him, and Max couldn’t prop the limp body back up on the bar stool. The physics of flesh didn’t work that way.
The toolbox was also an issue. Lugging it out would slow him down. Stashing it wouldn’t work either, no matter how good a job he did. The surveillance tapes would show it there one minute and gone the next. A frantic hunt would ensue. They’d be worried about a bomb.
They’d be worried about a bomb, Max repeated to himself. There was an idea. He re-clasped the toolbox lid and left it beside the body. An unconscious guard. A big black box. Imaginations would run wild. Fear would change the focus — from finding the intruder to saving themselves.
Or so he hoped.
Max ran. Not back to the lobby, but rather toward shipping — with its receiving bays and cargo trucks. He picked up his knees and pumped his arms and made like the building was about to explode.
He’d just turned off the main corridor when his chest began to buzz. Taser! No, not a taser. His right hand quickly confirmed something worse.
His amulet was vibrating.
Zoya had hit her panic button.
While the original pair to Zoya’s panic button was with the team circling Nuikaohao on a Coast Guard boat, Max had insisted on receiving a duplicate copy for his own peace of mind. As long as it didn’t buzz, he knew Zoya was fine. The rest was details — details he was better off not knowing or thinking about. But her physical safety was where he’d drawn the line.
