by Tim Tigner
She studied the bedroom of one of the most powerful women on Earth. Beyond the plush seating arrangement near the window, a big bed with a European-style white duvet dominated the room. It was flanked by end tables supporting electronic necessities and piled high with reports and romance novels — the only clutter in an otherwise immaculate environment. The bed faced the wall to their left, which was adorned with a white marble fireplace and a modern television, both dormant. A long hip-high dresser topped with family photos completed the scene.
Achilles pointed to his ear, his face now fraught with concern.
She didn’t hear anything.
He released her hand and walked silently toward the archway before them. It appeared to lead between his-and-hers closets to the master bath. Staring in the direction of Achilles’ movement, Zoya detected the flickering of candlelight.
She stayed rooted, while he forged ahead. She expected to hear the sound of splashing water accompanied by the startled senator’s scream. She got the splash, but the scream was from Achilles. “No! No! No!”
Zoya ran toward him rather than away, surprising herself. She stopped just as suddenly upon entering the bathroom. The decor was all done in various shades of white — the tile, the marble countertops, the walls — all accented by brushed nickel fixtures. Right out of a catalogue. The exception was the bathtub, which was filled with red.
Zoya had made a few movies involving murders. A hanging, a stabbing, some gunshot wounds. They’d looked similar enough, but had felt nothing like this. They’d been staged. This was tragic.
Despondency and despair washed over Zoya like a bloody wave, making her stomach sick. She realized now that Collins had been a beacon of hope. A potential source of salvation in an otherwise pitch-black night. She’d been fixated on that guiding light all the way from Hawaii. Now her last ray of hope was extinguished and she felt herself plunging into darkness.
Achilles was also in agony. Zoya could sense it. He’d lost more than hope; he’d lost a friend.
Zoya didn’t speak. She didn’t scream. She just turned and ran.
Chapter 54
Flight Plans
Russian Airspace
THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT summoned Ignaty shortly after takeoff. Her name was Oxana, and in Ignaty's opinion, she was the highlight of Korovin’s plane. She was also his mistress. One of several.
It was almost worth the verbal thrashing from the president that usually ensued, just to follow her heart-shaped ass up the aisle. But Ignaty wouldn’t be getting a thrashing today, so the summons was pure pleasure.
Korovin flew to Seaside most weekends. This delighted Ignaty. With a private plane and helicopter at their disposal, the trip only took a couple of hours — not much more than the average Muscovite’s daily commute. The remote setting provided infinitely fewer distractions than Moscow, improving Korovin’s mood, and increasing Ignaty’s face time.
“Have you caught Achilles yet?” Korovin said, as soon as Oxana closed the burl-wood door. He was seated before a silver bowl of nuts and a bone china tea service. With the glow of sunset pouring through the single open window bathing the president in golden light, the scene resembled those rendered by Rembrandt.
Ignaty slid into the deep cream leather seat opposite his boss. “I expect to have Achilles within the next twenty-four hours. My guys are waiting in ambush at the one place he’s guaranteed to show. Meanwhile, the frame worked, so he’s neutralized. Any moment now, Senator Collins’ body will be discovered and an APB will go out on Achilles. A massive manhunt will ensue.”
Korovin grunted. “Still no sign of Zoya?”
“Nothing. I’m not optimistic.”
“That’s a shame,” Korovin said, shelling a pistachio. “We can’t let Max know until it’s over.”
“Agreed.”
“What’s the latest on Sunset?”
Ignaty scooted forward, relieved to have made it to the good news unscathed. “Max came through.”
“He cracked Vulcan Fisher?” Korovin tossed the nut into his mouth and the shells over his shoulder.
“Not exactly. He thought outside the box. He’s hacking the shipping company instead. He’s going to adjust the pickup time in their records, and change the pickup address to a location he’s rented down the street.”
“Okay…”
“Then he’ll pick up the units as originally scheduled, install the Sunset devices—”
“And have the original shipper collect the modified units from the new address, for delivery to Boeing as scheduled,” Korovin said, completing the thought as was his habit. “I like it. What can go wrong?”
“The plan creates discrepancies. Obviously minor discrepancies of time and location, but also product discrepancies, as a result of repackaging.”
“What makes you think they’ll go unnoticed?”
“They don’t need to go unnoticed, although I believe they will. They just need to go unreported.”
“So you’re betting on lazy.”
“And an abhorrence of bureaucracy, a lack of accountability, and the managed chaos that defines life in large organizations. In the lean-manufacturing climate, people are way too busy and scorecard oriented to care about anything that’s not formally identified as a problem.”
Korovin nodded his approval, and grabbed a few more nuts. “I can see the CNN reports already. Have you done any modeling?”
“Of the damage?”
“Yeah.”
Ignaty was thrilled to share that data. The obvious comparison to Bin Laden made him out to be a strategic genius. “Southwest configures their 737s to fit 143 passengers. Adding in crew and allowing for a few empty seats, I estimate 140 people per plane. Multiply that by fifty aircraft and that’s seven thousand souls. More than double the 9/11 casualty count — and that’s just the base.”
“Just the base?”
“Once you add in the ground casualties, the airport employees and passengers waiting to board when the planes come through the terminals at 140 knots, shattering glass, twisting steel, and spewing jet fuel, the numbers will skyrocket.”
“How much?”
“That’s much less predictable, but by targeting the middle of the busiest terminal we’ll add hundreds more casualties per plane. It’s safe to say the total will top ten thousand, but I think we’ll see closer to thirty or forty thousand if we go with a major travel day, as planned.”
Korovin pushed the nuts Ignaty’s way. “It will be good shock value if we can add a zero to the 9/11 casualty count. I can see the newscasters going wild with a 10X comparison.”
“Agreed.”
“Of course the lasting damage will come with the subsequent paralysis and loss of infrastructure. That’s the real prize. With that in mind, I want you to target the planes to cause maximal structural damage to the airport, rather than immediate loss of life.”
“Will do.”
The president blessed Ignaty with a rare smile. “What else have you got for me?”
Ignaty recognized the perfect opportunity to slip in his bad news. A flea on the camel’s back. “Wang extorted an extra $1.5 million for his hacking services.”
Korovin chuffed. He’d predicted as much. “Has he figured out who we are or what we’re up to?”
“Max thinks the British illusion is still holding. More importantly, he’s certain Wang has no inkling of the end game. But he warns that Wang is very smart, so our risk increases with our exposure.”
“He has to figure it out eventually, right?”
“Once we hand him the autopilot systems to modify, it won’t be much of a leap.”
Korovin began flicking pistachio shells off the table with his finger, aiming for the trashcan by his desk, but missing. “By then the millions will be within his grasp. He won’t have the willpower to back away. He’ll find some justification to go through with it, to earn his payday — people always do. We just have to keep him hungry. Tell Max not to pay any of it, including this latest $1.5 million, un
til Wang’s work is done and Boeing has the modified units.”
“Will do.”
“What’s the plan for Wang when it’s over?”
“I expect that he plans to disappear, which is perfect. It reinforces our ruse. But if he decides to stick around with his newfound wealth, that wouldn’t necessarily be bad either. Assuming he knows nothing that links Sunset to us.”
“Agreed,” Korovin said, flicking his last shell, and scoring. “What about Max?”
Ignaty turned to the window to study the stars before answering.
Chapter 55
Shifting Priorities
San Francisco, California
“NO! NO! NO!” Achilles fought back the gag reflex as he leapt to Senator Collins’ side. She was laying with her head flopped against the rim of her tub and her arms dangling in the water. If it weren’t for the crimson, she’d have appeared to be sleeping.
He thrust his fingers against her exposed left carotid while his eyes tried to penetrate the water. If she had a pulse, it was too weak for him to feel. With trembling fingers, it was hard to tell. Trembling fingers, he couldn’t remember that ever happening before.
Snatching the phone off the tubside cradle, he hit 9-1-1 and the speaker button. While the call connected, he pulled Collins’ arms out of the water. Her left wrist had several long slits. He spoke the moment he heard the click. “I need an ambulance immediately at this address. Senator Colleen Collins’ wrist has been slit. She’s unconscious and has lost a lot of blood.”
The responding voice was crisp and cool. “Please confirm the address.”
Achilles gave the house number and hung up immediately. He needed his hands working the medical emergency and his brain crunching this big twist to his predicament.
Grabbing the senator beneath her armpits, he dragged her out of the tub and onto the floor, so that her ankles hooked on the rim. His assumption was that maximizing blood flow to the brain was priority number one, and that elevating her feet would help. “Zoya, grab me a belt and a towel.”
He used his left hand to compress the senator’s left wrist while elevating it straight up. Zoya didn’t reply and he didn’t hear her moving. He turned his head to find himself alone. “Zoya, I need your help!”
He pulled the belt off Collins’ bathrobe and wrapped one end around her wounds, tying it off as tightly as he could, with the knot over the cuts. Zoya had run, goddamnit! He lashed the free end of the belt around the faucet in order to keep her arm raised, then started CPR.
A whirlwind of rage and sorrow and fear swirled within him as he rhythmically pressed his big palm down against Collins’ fragile breast. He hadn’t realized how much she meant to him until that moment, when he held her life in his hands.
They hadn’t enjoyed much time together, but the hours they’d shared had been intense. His feelings weren’t so much love, as respect and admiration. “Don’t die on me, Colleen. Just hold on a little longer. The world still needs you.”
He continued the chest compressions for a few minutes before stopping to check for a pulse. Fearful of what he’d find, he put his ear to her heart and fingertips to her neck. He heard it and he felt it! She had a pulse, weak but steady.
His first sigh of relief went into her mouth, the start of rescue breathing. During the second breath he heard noise downstairs. Was it Zoya, or the paramedics? If it was the paramedics, he should leave — get away and go after Zoya. But he couldn’t be certain that it was the paramedics, and he couldn’t leave without passing Colleen into competent hands. He gave her one more breath, then shouted “Top floor master bath!”
He heard the clumping of burdened feet running up stairs, and a moment later two medics joined him. The first was toting a large medical bag, the second carried a stretcher. “I found her in the tub seconds before I made the call. I don’t know how long she’d been bleeding. I couldn’t tell if she had a pulse but she’s got one now. I gave her CPR.”
Achilles stepped aside and let the professionals take over.
While they set about stabilizing her on the stretcher, he went out the sliding glass door, and over the rail.
He ran down the hill toward the bay, keeping his eyes open for Zoya but knowing it was hopeless. He flagged the first cab he saw by running out in front of it and holding up both hands. The Ford Fusion screeched to a stop three feet before him, its bearded driver too shocked to curse.
Achilles practically dove into the back seat. “How long to Palo Alto?”
“Man that was dangerous.”
“This is life or death. Please start driving. How long?”
“This time of night, about forty-five minutes. Depends on the address.”
Achilles rattled off the block he wanted, then added, “If you get me there in thirty minutes, I’ll tip you a thousand bucks.”
The driver met his eye in the mirror. Achilles studied him right back. He saw hope and ambition and a clenched jaw. “If I get a ticket, I could lose my job.”
“So let me drive. You still get the thousand.”
“Then I definitely get fired.”
“You’re burning clock. Life or death, man. Decide!”
The driver studied Achilles for another second and then floored the gas. “It’s 8:26 p.m.”
Achilles knew exactly what time it was. Katya’s favorite yoga class ended at 8:30. It was down in Santa Clara, fifteen miles south of their home, but Katya made the drive because she loved the instructor, a Latvian woman who’d won an international competition for best human pretzel or something like that.
They hit Highway 101 after five minutes of scooting through residential streets with no regard for speed limits or stop signs. Now that they were on a straightaway, the driver met his eye in the mirror. “Show me the money.”
Achilles pulled ten of the Russians hundred-dollar bills from his backpack and held them up.
The driver nodded once and returned his focus to the road. He’d been scanning it like a Humvee driver in Baghdad. Achilles wondered if he actually had been, but didn’t ask. They both needed to focus elsewhere.
Achilles wished he’d had time to search the streets around Collins’ house for Zoya. A cab would have been perfect for that kind of tactical reconnaissance. She might even have inadvertently approached him.
But Zoya was no longer his primary concern.
Whoever went after Collins, would go after Katya next.
Chapter 56
Three Strikes
Palo Alto, California
ACHILLES GAVE the driver an intersection a block south of his house as their destination. This afforded him the opportunity to scan for goons as they drove by. He didn’t spot any. Hope surged in his chest when he noted that the garage light wasn’t on. Katya hadn’t arrived in the last couple of minutes. He just might have beaten her.
The driver announced “8:58” as they screeched to a halt.
Achilles pushed the thousand dollars through the slot. “Please don’t double back along these side streets. I don’t want anyone to see your car twice.”
“Whatever you say. Thanks, man!”
Achilles made it to his neighbor’s backyard thirty seconds after exiting the cab. The Khan’s black lab came running as he vaulted the fence. Achilles landed in a crouch and extended his hand. “How’s my Puck? How’s Pucky?” His playful tone and a ruffle behind the ear calmed the dog right down.
The fence dividing the Khan’s yard from his own was a six-foot redwood construction, but it was a row of Cypress trees that provided the real cover. Achilles rolled over the fence and melted down between the branches, where he squatted to surveil the scene.
The home he shared with Katya appeared tranquil, but then so could shark-infested waters. He would proceed as though Jaws was inside until investigation proved otherwise.
Like all homes in the city of Stanford and the heart of Silicon Valley, the residence he’d inherited was priced at about ten times what people from the American heartland would expect. It was nice, bu
t nothing spectacular. A two-story tawny stucco with a red-tiled roof and a semicircular drive around a Spanish fountain.
He approached the back patio like a fox on the prowl, low and silent and alert. Having been a covert operative for five years, Achilles knew exactly what he’d do if Russian intelligence had sent him to kidnap Katya. He’d slip into her house and wait for her to come home. Why grab someone on the street, where confounding factors abound — bystanders and video cameras and traffic? Much better to set up shop at home and do the dirty work in the predictable isolation of the victim’s own garage.
Achilles planned his incursion accordingly.
His thoughts moved to the alarm. He had a top-notch system, but there was only so much electronics could do. Home alarms all shared a weakness, a keypad that gave hackers access to the motherboard. Achilles had added a layer to his security by installing his control panel within a wall safe that opened with a palm scan. Sixty seconds wasn’t a lot of grace period when you had two systems to overcome, even if you were SVR. But Achilles knew there were two constants that killed even the best of operatives: bad luck and the unexpected.
For the second time in as many hours, Achilles found himself looking through a glass door at curtains. Beyond these were a kitchen to the right and a dining room to the left. No light was coming through, so he pressed his ear to the glass and listened. Silence.
Achilles didn’t have his keys. They hadn’t made it to the island. His patio door closed with a standard latch, as there wasn’t much to be gained by upgrading the lock on a piece of glass, not with patio bricks at hand. But Achilles had no need for picks or bricks since he knew where the Hide-A-Key was. He grabbed it from the magnetic box he’d secreted beneath one of the outside lights, and eased it into the lock.
The opening of the door should have resulted in the low annoying hum of an alarm counting down. But he heard nothing.
