by Tim Tigner
“Excellent. Now, there’s been a lot of speculation on exactly how much of the people’s money you’ve stolen while in office. The estimates I’ve seen range as high as two billion.” Achilles pulled out a laptop computer. “What you’re going to do is show us the money. Once you’ve identified at least $500 million in active accounts, we’re done. Are we clear?”
Grachev’s eyes began spewing venom again.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You’re going to pull up your bank accounts, and show the cameras the money you’ve stolen. Now, are you ready for the good news?”
Grachev appeared to be attempting to pulverize his own molars, but he nodded.
“The good news is that you get a two-minute grace period. Plenty of time to let your fingers do the talking — if you don’t waste precious seconds on the aforementioned bullshit. And we highly recommend that you don’t, because after two minutes, we light the candle.”
Chapter 88
The Candle
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES LOCKED HIS EYES on Grachev’s once the politician finally looked up from the fat candle poised beneath his exposed flesh. Achilles waited for the motors to stop whirring and resignation to kick in, then he threw the next blow. “The candle doesn’t get extinguished until either you’re done typing or both legs are done cooking. Personally, I’d strongly suggest you strive to show us the money before the candle ever gets lit, but then maybe I’m just too fond of my legs. Are we clear?”
The remaining bravado drained from Grachev’s eyes like a flushing toilet.
“Are we clear?” Achilles repeated. “Or shall we skip the grace period and move straight to the candle?”
Grachev nodded.
“Good. Now aren’t you glad we plugged your pie hole? Think of all the flesh we’re saving.”
Grachev looked away.
Achilles regained the politician’s attention by setting an open laptop before him. “Here’s the computer. The internet connection is high-speed, you’ll be glad to know.”
Grachev reflexively positioned his hands on the keyboard. Max gave the go-ahead, and Achilles spoke to the camera. “Chairman Grachev, you’ve stolen hundreds of millions of dollars from the people of Russia. The time has come for you to show us where it is.” He opened the stopwatch app on his phone and hit the green button. “You have two minutes.”
Achilles didn’t know what to expect. Neither he nor Max had used the classic foot-to-the-fire tactic before. Modern interrogation techniques generally leveraged an unlimited supply of the one thing Max and Achilles didn’t have: time. They had an hour to accomplish what Guantanamo Bay hadn’t managed in a decade. But then, Grachev was no fundamentalist, and freedom was a big fat carrot.
Grachev pulled up the notepad application and typed. “I don’t have the login information in my head.”
Achilles pointed to the timer. “One minute fifty seconds.”
Grachev typed. “$1Billion at Credit Suisse. I don’t know the number.”
“One minute forty seconds.”
Achilles pulled out the lighter they’d selected. It was the long type used on fireplaces and barbecues. He clicked it once and got a flame.
Grachev clawed the air for answers with panic stricken eyes.
Achilles looked over at Max. He was remaining behind the cameras since his disguise wasn’t quite as impenetrable. Max had one lens focused on Grachev’s face, a second on the computer screen, and a third capturing the whole scene.
Max gave a thumbs up.
Achilles said, “Ninety seconds. You’re not fooling anybody, Mr. Chairman. Guys like you check your bank balances more often than your in-boxes.”
Grachev sat staring and sweating and seething as he ran the permutations.
Achilles stopped counting time. He held up the stopwatch so his prisoner could see it, but turned away to lesson Grachev’s shame.
Grachev caved with fifty-eight seconds left.
His fingers began flying across the keys. Then he groaned. Achilles turned to see the website spinning a circle in thought. Spinning. Spinning. Achilles began to wonder if this was a trick he hadn’t foreseen.
The website relented with twenty seconds left on the clock. Then a security question took it down to nine.
Grachev typed like he was already on fire.
A second security question popped up with just two seconds remaining.
Another groan.
Achilles clicked the lighter to life. He put it to the candle. As the flame caught, the account summary exploded onto the screen. Three-comma’s worth of Swiss francs. Roughly two billion dollars.
Max whistled.
Grachev began shouting incomprehensibly but emphatically.
Achilles licked his fingers as he met Grachev’s eye. Then, with a satisfying pinch and an appropriate hiss, he extinguished both the flame and the chairman’s career. “The videos sync live with the cloud, so rest assured they’ve already left the building. The two of us are about to do the same — while you take another nap.
“On our way out, we’ll tell your guys that you got an important call and asked for privacy. We’ll stress that you asked not to be disturbed for a few minutes. We suggest that you play along to avoid embarrassment.”
Grachev didn’t attempt to reply. He’d learned to respect the duct tape.
“The money will be gone by then, but resign from parliament within forty-eight hours, and we’ll put ten percent back. Stay retired, and we’ll return another ten percent on every anniversary of today’s date. Nobody need ever know of your humiliation. Be content with what you have. Let enough be enough.”
As Max again brought the needle to Grachev’s neck, Achilles added, “They say that misery loves company. Well, Mr. Chairman, you’ll be glad to know that you’re not alone.”
Chapter 89
Two Possibilities
The Kremlin
THE SHATTERING GLASS brought the presidential bodyguards running, two crashing through the double doors and a third bursting in the private entrance.
Korovin held up his hand. “It’s all right, guys. Just had a disagreement with my teacup.”
He’d tried to hurtle it through the window, but of course china couldn’t penetrate bulletproof glass, so the cup swallowed the surplus energy and shattered like a fragmentation grenade.
As the guards backed out, weapons holstered, Korovin addressed the senior officer. “Get me Ignaty.”
The president’s day had started off badly and gotten worse. Grachev and Sobko had both resigned for personal reasons — and he’d learned about it from the paper. He didn’t know what upset him more, losing his two biggest allies in parliament or learning of it after the fact. It was a slap in the face. If the Middle-Eastern summit didn’t have him so pressed for time, he’d have tracked them down immediately to voice his disappointment.
The double doors opened, and Ignaty walked in. “This about Grachev and Sobko?”
“No. But we will get to that.”
“How else can I help?”
“Sit.” Korovin indicated the chessboard abutting the front of his desk. He wanted Ignaty positioned with their faces aligned.
The president took the opposing chair and locked his eyes like lasers on Ignaty. “I just acquired 4.9 percent of Vulcan Fisher’s common stock. Four billion dollars worth.”
“What! Why on earth would you do that? It’s about to tank. Worse yet, it puts you in the picture.”
Korovin stared in silence.
“But of course you know that,” Ignaty added.
“I didn’t order it.”
“Glick acted independently?”
Ignaty struck Korovin as genuinely surprised, and deeply concerned. Then again, deception was his job description. “I just got my weekly report, and there it was.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No, it can’t.” Korovin kept his eyes riveted on Ignaty's. It wasn’t pleasant. His chief strategist’s head looked like a volleyball with
a bristly brown brush stuck on — below the nose, not above.
Ignaty didn’t blink.
Korovin pressed on. “You’re the only person besides me who knows about Glick. The only one. And you’re the only person of consequence to know about Operation Sunset. Unless you’ve told anybody about either? If so, if anything slipped your mind, this would definitely be the time to enlighten me.”
“I’ve told nobody, absolutely nobody, about either.” Ignaty looked and sounded sincere.
Korovin remained fixed on his strategist’s facial features. “So how do you explain it? Put your strategic hat on. Speculate for me.”
Ignaty leaned back and looked up, his hands cradling the back of his head. After six seconds of staring at the chandelier he said, “My best guess: the CIA.”
Korovin had run that permutation. “That’s the worst-case scenario. If it’s true, Sunset is dead, and they have me by the short hairs. But I don’t think it’s true.”
“Why not?”
“4.9 percent is a strategic number. It’s just below the disclosure requirement. Why would the CIA stop there?”
“It’s meant to be a warning shot, not a fatal wound.”
Korovin pulled the black queen from the desk drawer and rolled it around the chessboard as he thought. “Let’s assume you’re right. If the CIA knows, then the information had to come through human intelligence. There’s no electronic communication to intercept. Never has been.”
“You think they got to Glick?”
“I think they either got to him — or you.”
Ignaty’s eyes bugged as words leapt from his lips. “Well then, I think it’s Glick. Do you want me to go to Switzerland? Take a couple of guys with a nail gun and cheese grater?”
“No,” Korovin replied, his voice a hammer hitting a nail. “I want you to stay at the Kremlin. I’m going to handle this myself.”
“But you’re hosting the summit tomorrow. You need to be here — and surely you won’t risk calling?”
“Zurich is a three-hour flight. I’ll leave now and come back tonight.” Korovin locked his gaze on Ignaty’s bugged eyes. “Wait for me.”
Chapter 90
Bombs Away
Zurich, Switzerland
THE BLACK MERCEDES G65 SUV blew past the gate, kicking up gravel as it shot around the circular drive.
Achilles had gotten a good feeling when he saw the gates opening with no car in sight. A first since he and Max had started their around-the-clock surveillance. “You ready on the detonator?”
“Oh yeah,” Max replied over their scrambled comm.
They each had a detonator — for redundancy and so neither would ever know for certain who had killed Korovin. Ambiguity might be useful, if the lie detectors ever came out.
This time they weren’t positioned shoulder-to-shoulder. Max was perched in the tree they’d used for reconnaissance. Achilles was three stories up on a neighboring mansion’s roof, also about two-hundred yards from target. He wanted them to have a 360-degree perspective on the house, in addition to line-of-sight views of the lions.
Just in case.
Large quantities of explosives called for extreme caution.
Achilles was dressed in coveralls that matched the slate tiles, and had three pieces of equipment: a suppressed Remington with a Bushnell scope, a monitor showing the video of Glick’s front door, and a remote detonator for the explosives. Max was similarly equipped.
“I can’t believe I’m actually about to do this,” Max said. “Assassinate my president. I’m supposed to be on the beach right now.”
“Exactly. You’re supposed to be on the beach. Korovin brought this on himself.”
The Mercedes looked as though it was going to ram Glick’s front door, but it slid to a stop instead — nearly crashing into the marble lions.
“That’s one mad president!” Max added. “Good call on the Vulcan Fisher stock.”
Achilles’ focus was elsewhere, and his mood far less celebratory. “I lost the camera feed!”
“Bollocks! Me too. Korovin’s car must have knocked something loose. I’m glad we brought the scopes.”
That explanation didn’t sit right with Achilles as he put the scope’s reticle head-height between the lions. Something felt wrong. He just couldn’t nail it. “Good thing we went with explosives rather than a long gun. That parking job cut Korovin’s exposure time down to a single second.”
“And we’ve got wind,” Max added.
The mansion’s front door opened wide, revealing — no one.
In response to the silent invitation, both of the SUV’s front doors opened. Men whose height and width resembled commercial refrigerators exited on either side. After a quick 360-degree appraisal, they opened the rear passenger door.
The man who stepped into view was almost certainly Korovin. The thin hair and predatory posture made him unmistakable even in wraparound shades.
“Confirmed,” Max and Achilles both said at once.
Achilles pressed his detonator button.
Nothing happened.
He hit it again. Still nothing. “I’ve got a malfunction.”
“Me too. What the—”
With no time left for a proper rifle shot, they watched in helpless frustration as Korovin disappeared into the mansion.
The bodyguards took up posts at the ends of their car. Battlements protecting a mobile castle.
Max came back on. “The Mercedes must have hit the detonator’s receiver.”
Achilles head caught up with his gut. “No. He’s got a signal jammer in the SUV. That explains the camera malfunction too.”
“You’re right,” Max said. “I see the array on the Mercedes roof.
Achilles pounded a fist against a slate tile. “Damn! I should have anticipated it.”
“No wait. Our comm units are working.”
Achilles puzzled on that for a second. “We must both be outside the blackout radius. Portable jammers have limited power, but still have to cover the full signal spectrum, so they go broad but not deep.”
“What do we do now?” Max asked.
“I don’t know. The jammer’s overpowering our detonation transmission. The only ways to beat a jammer are to outpower it or turn it off.”
While Achilles was studying the scene and weighing the options, Max asked, “What if we shot out the array?”
“We’d alert the guards. Who knows what they’d do then.” Achilles thought about the EMP he’d recovered from the goons at his house. He still had it. An EMP would take out the jammer — but it would fry the detonator as well.
“Stealth?” Max suggested.
“Let’s game it out. One of us infiltrates while the other sits behind a sniper scope. The ground guy has to get into the Mercedes, power down the jammer, and exfiltrate. All undetected. Virtually impossible with two pros watching.”
“What if we take out both guards with sniper shots? Synchronized fire.”
“We still need to infiltrate and exfiltrate without tripping an alarm or alerting Glick’s gate guard.”
“We have to risk it,” Max pressed, the weight of the world in his voice.
Achilles thought out loud. “We know how to get onto the grounds. It’s a mansion, not a fort. The security’s good, but passive. Fences, not dogs. A gate guard, but no patrol. The odds aren’t good, but they’re probably the best we’ll ever get.”
He had his conclusion.
Achilles reached for his rifle. “You get a bead on the north guy. I’ll take south. We drop them, then I go in while you cover.”
Chapter 91
The Replay
Zurich, Switzerland
WIND WAS WORRISOME when you needed a head shot, so Max was worried. Both of Korovin’s bodyguards were wearing body armor, therefore head shots it had to be. He and Achilles. Two cold bores. One bullet each.
They were both about two hundred yards out, Max to the north, Achilles to the south. On a competition range, two hundred yards was the equiva
lent of a three-foot putt. But they weren’t on a range. He was in a tree, and Achilles was on a roof. Max’s oak was pretty stable. He was on the big branches. But the slightest sway could be enough when your target was only six inches wide. Achilles’ rooftop wasn’t moving, but he had an updraft to contend with.
Achilles’ voice came through on his earpiece. “Got mine. Got yours?”
The guards were standing at either end of the SUV like bookends. Both faced away from the house, studying their surroundings through aviator shades. Scanning for threats. Looking for them.
“Roger that. Initiating.”
Max had a voice-activated timer app open and ready. He spoke to it. “Timer start!”
The lovely British lady began counting down loud enough for Achilles to hear her as well and synchronize their trigger squeezes. “Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen…”
Max made himself relax.
He had the barrel braced on a branch as sturdy as a bipod. His chest and forearms rested on another. At two hundred yards, he didn’t need to worry about vibration from his heart rate. That came into play with distances of a thousand yards or more. But breathing moved the needle. He’d hold his breath for the last few seconds of the count. Meanwhile he focused on relieving muscle tension and making the Remington part of his body.
With six seconds left on the count, the red dot in his reticle was rock steady. Then Plan B fell apart.
Korovin burst through the front door after just a few minutes inside. The guards reacted instantly, the north one moving to the driver’s door, the south one to the passenger side. Korovin was out of sight in two seconds.
“Abort,” Achilles said. “No point shooting. Move to fallback.”
Max abandoned the reticle and cursed his luck as the Mercedes roared away, spraying gravel.
Five minutes later, he was back in the Audi, letting the ramifications of his failure sink in.
The moment Achilles slid in beside him, Max voiced his conclusion. “We’re screwed.”
