by Tim Tigner
Good to go, Achilles repeated to himself with a shake of the head. Some math professor.
As they raced toward Sacramento, closing in on the red dot inch-by-inch, Achilles explained how it had come to pass that he was running for his life from both American and Russian covert operatives. In a stolen car. With two dead hit men in the trunk. In pursuit of a Russian film star.
“It all started with Silver asking you to assassinate Korovin?”
“Near as I can figure.”
“Why you? Why not the CIA?”
“Because Silver couldn’t risk having the U.S. government implicated if details leaked or the operation went sideways, as covert-ops all too often do. One loose lip and we’d all be sunk. Can you imagine anything more dangerous than two feuding men clenching nuclear control panels while millions of proud and patriotic supporters cheer them on?”
“But you used to be CIA,” Katya prodded, going after his logic. “Doesn’t that make using you the same thing — as far as political perception is concerned?”
“Not with all that’s happened since I left. As you know, I had problems with the government, and Korovin killed my family. Lone wolf would be an easy sell. The media would eat it up.”
With the stage set, Achilles continued his story, starting with his island awakening. He walked Katya through everything, step-by-step.
She stayed quiet throughout. It wasn’t until he choked up during the bloody bathtub scene that she chose to interrupt him. “So you don’t know if Colleen’s alive?”
“I hated to leave, but I’d done all I could. As soon as the shock of finding her wore off, I realized I had to get to you. If I hadn’t . . .” Achilles wanted to tell Katya how losing her had caused him to realize just how much she meant to him. How it had felt like the tragedy of his life. How he wanted to pick up where his brother had left off.
But he found himself holding back.
This wasn’t the time to unfurl those emotions. Too many other winds were blowing.
Katya changed the subject. “What if Collins dies, and we don’t catch Zoya? What do we do then?”
“I don’t know.”
“With your going AWOL right before Lukin’s death, I can see why Silver would suspect you of selling out — especially given your recent financial escapades. Then Foxley finds you in Hawaii, but disappears. Then Collins is nearly assassinated.”
“Yeah. Korovin’s a mastermind.”
“You really think he’s running this personally?”
Achilles thought about that for a second. “I doubt he’s more than one step removed. He’s probably got a razor-sharp strategist on point, acting as both brains and buffer. Can’t wait to get my hands on him.”
“Or her.”
“Or her,” Achilles repeated, remembering how effective Zoya had been.
They lapsed into silence for a few miles until Achilles blurted, “You said you had news! Back when you were still in the garage, you said my timing was good because you had great news.”
“Now’s not the time. The airport exit is just one mile ahead.”
Achilles smiled to himself as he checked the red dot. They both had hot items on hold for cooler times. He had a lot to look forward too — if he got out of this alive. “Zoya’s still on course. Still about ninety minutes ahead.” She was driving a steady 72 mph. Fast, but not fast enough for a highway ticket. Smart if you were in a stolen car without a driver’s license. She was probably tailing a truck just to be sure.
Achilles ran some calculations. If he drove 90 mph, he’d catch up before she hit Seattle. But he too was in a stolen car, and while he had a driver’s license, he also had a couple of corpses in the back. “Let’s risk the plane. If we get caught with this car, it’s all over.”
As he exited I-5, he said, “We might not have to wait to learn about Colleen. She’s a senator. She might be in the news.”
Katya picked up her phone. “I’ll Google it. Hey you just missed our turn.”
“That was the Executive Airport.”
“Which is where we’re going.”
“Yeah, but we can’t leave this car there. We have to hit long-term parking at the commercial airport and then take a cab.”
“Of course.”
A moment later, Katya said, “Channel 4 just posted a video on Senator Collins two minutes ago.”
Achilles had to keep his eyes scanning for airport signs, but his ears honed in on the chipper reporter’s voice. “Senator Colleen Collins was rushed to the emergency room at the California Pacific Medical Center earlier this evening after an anonymous 9-1-1 call. Details are unconfirmed, but her condition is listed as critical. In conjunction with this, police are now searching for Kyle Achilles, the Bay Area resident who won a bronze medal in the biathlon at the 2010 Winter Olympics. Anyone with information …”
Chapter 61
Boys & Toys
Sacramento, California
KATYA DIDN’T EXHALE until the news video summarizing the attack on Collins had ended. After a moment of stunned silence, she looked over at Achilles. His knuckles had turned white on the steering wheel. “Why are they looking for you?”
Achilles slowly shook his head with clenched jaw and furrowed brow before responding. “Clearly there are multiple forces at work. I made the 9-1-1 call, and the EMTs caught a glimpse of me at the scene, but that should have taken time to process. I’m guessing that the real killer planted evidence against me. I didn’t have time to search the scene. But that’s not what bothers me.”
“No?”
“No. The speed of the publicity was too quick. Something like this, where rushed judgments lead to lawsuits and lost careers, the CYA process takes time.”
“What are you saying?
“There’s pressure from the top. The very top.”
Katya felt her stomach drop. “President Silver?”
“He sent Foxley after me, and Foxley disappeared. Now the only other person knowledgeable of the operation is at death’s door.” Achilles pounded the wheel as he spoke.
“Can we still risk the airport?” Katya asked, disturbed by the panicky tenor of her own voice.
“We have to. It would be a bigger risk to let Zoya get away.”
Katya wasn’t so sure. “But your picture is on the news, and they probably have the news running all the time at the airport.”
Achilles turned to give her a reassuring smile. “The pilot’s not going to be waiting around in the terminal. They’ll call him in and he’ll go straight to pre-flight inspection. Plus I’ve got a mustache and some glasses in my backpack. We’ll be fine if you do the talking.”
Katya lacked Achilles’ confidence, but experience had taught her to trust his instincts on operational matters.
Achilles left the motor running after they parked in the back section of Sacramento International’s economy lot. He got out, causing the door to begin a steady reminder chime.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see something.”
Katya watched him reach around and pull a big black briefcase from behind her seat. Given the way he struggled with it, she figured it was full of gold bricks. “What is that?”
“I think this is what Korovin’s thugs used to defeat my alarm. I’m pretty sure it’s an EMP.”
Katya wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “An electromagnetic pulse device? Those are real?” She thought the electronics-frying energy bombs were still science fiction.
“Sure, they’re actually pretty easy to make. But they don’t discriminate, so I want you to take our phones out of range.”
“You’re going to test it on the Tahoe?”
Achilles nodded. “As a favor to the detectives discovering the bodies. It will add excitement to their investigation.” He gave her a wink and handed her his cell phone. “Please turn on the radio.”
There were some parts of the Y chromosome that Katya would simply never understand. She complied with a half-smile and shake of her head, then realize
d that her half-smile had been Achilles’ objective. Despite all the strain he was under, he was still trying to lighten her mood — in his own weird way.
A commercial for the radio station interrupted her momentary reprieve. She wondered why all stations advertised themselves on themselves, even the ones claiming to be commercial free. Seemed counterproductive to her.
Achilles gestured. “If you’ll back up about a hundred feet that should be plenty.”
“You’re really going to set that thing off? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Only to cyborgs and people with pacemakers.”
She backed away until Achilles gave her the thumbs up. Then all of a sudden the chiming stopped, the radio went silent, the motor stopped, and the dome light extinguished. Achilles said, “Cool!”
Katya returned to his side, feeling a mixture of wonderment and worry. “How did you know it wasn’t a bomb?”
“Only religious fundamentalists put the detonation trigger on the actual bomb. Everyone else uses a remote. Besides, it was stuffed with wire, not explosives.”
“They could have been at the bottom.”
“The weight told me it was all battery and wire.”
Katya wouldn’t have risked it, but then she wasn’t the pro.
She took a second to ponder that, to learn from it. Achilles won, constantly and consistently, by putting everything on the line and then giving it everything he had. He took things further than most people would dare to go, and did so not just without hesitation, but apparently without worry. She knew by now that it wasn’t an act. You couldn’t fake courage on the side of a cliff. Her conclusion: Either he was a whole lot better at running probability calculations than she was, or his instincts were of a different breed.
As they wiped the Tahoe’s the shiny surfaces free of prints, she asked, “Why did the motor shut off? This isn’t a Prius or Tesla, it runs on gas.”
“All cars are computer-controlled.”
“Huh.” She thought of the Lada she’d driven back in Moscow and wasn’t so sure, but didn’t comment.
“Let’s go.”
Katya was surprised to see Achilles hauling the heavy briefcase. “Why are you bringing that?” She knew the answer even before he replied: boys and their toys.
“It’s a pretty cool weapon. Why leave it behind if we don’t have to?”
Chapter 62
Grim Reflections
Portland, Oregon
THE RED DOT was still heading north along I-5 when Kyle and Katya Yates boarded their chartered Piper. It was fast-approaching Portland when Captain Roberts landed them in The City of Roses. By the time they had rented two surveillance cars and loaded up with Egg McMuffins and drive-through coffee, it was at the city limits. As they pulled onto the I-5 with their car radios Bluetooth-synced to their cell phones, Zoya was only eight minutes behind.
Katya had not liked the idea of separating from Achilles in different cars, but she found herself appreciating the time alone to think and reflect. Achilles had confessed to feeling deep sadness about drifting apart from her upon learning that he’d married Zoya. That gave Katya a lot to think about.
She knew that Achilles loved her, and of course she loved him too, although they hadn’t spoken of it or acted on it. They had almost yielded to their urges once — during an exceptionally stressful moment back before she’d moved in. But Colin had only been gone for six months at that point, and she’d told Achilles that she needed more time.
He’d respected her wishes.
His recent expression of remorse was the closest he’d come to bringing the subject up since she’d moved in.
Katya realized that the prospect of Achilles marrying Zoya had the same effect on her. She didn’t like the feeling.
She diagnosed her predominant emotions as grief and jealousy. Then she couldn’t resist Googling Zoya’s image. There were hundreds of them online. Some very sexy. She’d been hoping to find pictures worse than the one in her head, but had found the opposite instead. Now she couldn’t help but imagine Achilles making love to the beautiful movie star. The scene made her sad.
Katya had just decided that this was a good thing, the two of them having the same reaction, when she remembered her big news. How would that affect things? Under normal circumstances, they’d have spent the evening discussing it. She’d have made a nice dinner of chicken picatta or stuffed grouper, and grabbed a bottle of good wine. They’d have sat outside, and ate and talked it through while the sun set over the Cypress trees. But with everything else going on, her news hadn’t even come up.
That concerned her. The fact her big life event didn’t make the agenda was distressing. It highlighted the downside of life with Achilles. Nothing she did could compare to the coups he pulled off.
Her heart felt like it was in a blender. On the one hand, she was now more certain than ever that Achilles was the man for her. On the other hand, she didn’t know if she could adopt the lifestyle required to live with him. In fact, given her feelings regarding today’s big revelation, she was certain that she couldn’t. For the moment, anyway.
Katya decided she’d endured enough self-reflection for one sitting. With the cruise control set on 65 miles per hour and the road straight ahead, she picked up her phone to check for news on Collins.
She’d just finished reading the story a few words at a time, when Achilles’ voice came over the speaker. “Zoya’s just a mile back now, with her cruise control still set on 72 mph. When she closes to a quarter mile, I’ll let you know so you can set yours for 72 miles per hour as well. That will keep you a quarter-mile ahead. I’ll follow her from a quarter-mile behind.”
“Okay. I just saw a report that Collins is in a coma.”
“I suppose that’s better than dead. Did they mention me?”
“Yep. Same story.”
Achilles didn’t reply.
She had no idea how Achilles was going to get out of this one. She decided to change the topic, confident that somehow he’d find a way. He always did. “What’s the plan for catching Zoya?”
“The Russian consulate in Seattle is just an office in a downtown high rise, so she won’t be able to drive into it like she could a diplomatic compound. We’ll grab her when she parks.”
“Then what?”
He didn’t answer.
“Achilles?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Chapter 63
Old Tricks, New Tricks
Seattle, Washington
ZOYA WAS HAVING TROUBLE reading the street signs as she exited I-5 in Seattle, not because of the dim morning lighting or the heavy rain, but rather due to her tears. She thought she’d cried them all out in the first six hours of her marathon drive, but obviously she had more. And these were different tears. Those had been tears of frustration. These were tears of relief.
For eight hundred miles she’d expected to see flashing lights or flood lights. She’d strained to hear helicopter rotors and police sirens. But in the end, her trip had been entirely uneventful.
That was a small miracle.
She wasn’t just an escaped Russian spy operating on American soil — a designation so far from anything related to her own self-identity that it still completely blew her mind — she was also a car thief.
In the heat and shock of a startling confrontation, she’d summoned not only the courage to run, but also the presence of mind to think and act tactically. She hadn’t just run out into the night. She’d snatched the senator’s keys from the seashell bowl by the front door and stolen her Cadillac. Then she’d found the Chevron card in the armrest and the parking money. And even now, twelve hours later, she still couldn’t think of a better plan than the one she’d devised in the heat of a murder scene.
Zoya was shocked by her own performance.
She’d been conscripted into a devious con by none other than the president of Russia, compelled to act as another man’s wife, and forced to reconcile the fact that her fiancé had all
owed her to be prostituted, yet she was still in control of her emotions. And despite being captured and bound and threatened and hauled halfway around the world and back again, she was still performing, still thinking fast on her feet. Now that she’d found a quiet moment to exhale, she felt entitled to a few tears.
But only briefly.
Just enough for a quick release.
This was no time to let her guard down. Sooner or later someone would notice that Collins’ car was missing. Probably sooner given the high profile of the case. And when they did, the police could probably just punch some registration code into their big computer and see exactly where she was.
She had to distance herself from Collins’ Cadillac. To do so, she followed signs to the train station.
Located just south of the center of downtown Seattle, near the intersection of I-5 and I-90, and within the shadow of CenturyLink Stadium, King Street was an epicenter of mindless commuter movement and anonymous transient activity.
She’d come there on instinct, drawing on her limited espionage experience. Four years earlier, she had made use of her French by playing a Russian spy in a French miniseries. Although the role didn’t fulfill her dream of breaking her into the French film industry, it did lead her to Max. As she learned later, he’d been in Paris on an actual espionage mission.
Max had approached her one night after filming as she was leaving the hotel restaurant. In a characteristically bold move, he had pretended to be the author of the novel on which the show was based. He’d flashed his brilliant smile and asked in Russian if she’d like some tips. Who could say no to that?
He’d led her to the hotel bar, and they’d discussed her character over Irish coffee. In the miniseries, Zoya seduced a nuclear scientist in order to lure him to the bad section of Paris where his murder could look accidental. Max had proposed that she might score points with the director if she suggested leaving the scientist’s keys in the ignition of his unlocked car, so that its theft would add to the illusion. She did, and the director revised the scene.
