by Tim Tigner
Achilles didn’t reply.
Max pulled onto the winding residential road and headed up into the mountains. He had no destination other than release — and the A8 provided 450 turbocharged horses to achieve it.
Achilles sat contemplatively while Max tested the Audi’s ability to stick to curves and dodge sheep.
After ten kilometers of going nowhere fast, his phone rang. A call forwarded from his computer. “It’s Ignaty.”
“Take it on the speaker.”
Max used a steering wheel button to accept the call, and Ignaty's voice came over the Audi’s speakers. “Report.”
“No issues of note. Just preparatory grunt work. We’re on target and on schedule.”
“Everything happens Friday?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s Wang behaving?”
“Like a man who knows we’re putting the caviar on his blini.”
“No concerns?”
“None.”
“Alert me immediately if anything changes.” Ignaty hung up without waiting for a response.
Achilles gave him a wry smile. “My last handler was a charmer too.”
Max barely heard him over the voices in his head. “I’ve got to get back to Seattle where I can be seen.”
Achilles’ expression soured and his voice became stern. “Not an option. Either Korovin’s going to his grave, or you’re going to jail.”
Max hit the brakes, skidding the Audi to a stop on the cliff side of the road, dangerously close to the edge. “We can’t kill him now! We blew it. Korovin knows.”
“What does he know?” Achilles asked.
“He knows that someone’s onto him.”
“How does that change anything? Korovin was paranoid in the first place. He doesn’t know who’s behind the stock purchase. Or why.”
Max wasn’t mollified. “There’s a limited number of candidates. I’m on the list, because I know about Vulcan Fisher.”
“All the more reason to take him out.”
“Easier said than done. I don’t have another backdoor pass.”
Achilles turned to face him full on, exposing unwarranted excitement. “I was thinking about that while you were scaring the wool off sheep. We don’t need another pass. We can still use the one we have.”
Max wondered if Achilles had hit his head climbing down off the neighboring mansion. “Are you crazy? Now Korovin and Glick both know their communications are compromised.”
Achilles’ demeanor didn’t change. He looked the same way he had when dreaming up the Charlie Rose con. “What did they say?”
“I don’t know,” Max replied. “I was in a tree at the time.”
“You didn’t have to be in the room to know how that conversation went.”
Max found Achilles’ self-assuredness maddening. “What are you talking about?”
“You saw Korovin leave. He was only in there for two minutes. Given that, I guarantee you their meeting went like this. Korovin stormed in and asked, ‘Why did you buy four billion worth of Vulcan Fisher?’ Glick replied, ‘I was just following your orders.’ Korovin looked him in the eye, saw fear but not deception, and decided he needed to reevaluate. They both agreed to look into it, and Korovin raced home to his summit.”
Max had to concede the point. Anger and frustration had clouded his thinking. “I buy that. But I don’t see how that gives us another backdoor pass.”
Beaming eyes told Max that Achilles did. “We play to it.”
Chapter 92
Ten X
Zurich, Switzerland
THE BLACK MERCEDES G65 SUV blew past the gate, spraying gravel as it shot around the circular drive.
Again it came to a stop abutting the marble lions.
This time the pair of Russians who exited weren’t quite refrigerator-sized, although their dark suits matched those of their predecessors. The passenger was six-foot-two and 220 pounds, the driver an even six-foot and closer to 180 pounds. While Max walked around the car, Achilles bent down as if to tie his shoe.
A quick scan confirmed that the detonator was still in place.
If all went as planned, he’d snatch it up on the way out. They’d leave the explosive in place. Without the detonator, the ANFO would be no more threatening than the marble surrounding it.
Achilles stood and met Max’s eye before pivoting toward the door. They’d phoned ahead to give a few minutes warning, as Korovin had the day before. Just as the gate had opened during their approach, so the front door did now.
The two marched in.
Glick had a home to die for. A decorator’s dream. Marble and mahogany. Mosaics of brightly colored glass and the Dutch Masters rendered in oil. Vaulted ceilings, curved walls, and a sweeping staircase.
The king of the castle stood before them trying to appear regal with his tail between his legs. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a dove gray shirt, both custom of course, and flawlessly pressed. His silver tie matched the reading glasses in his breast pocket and gave luster to his thick white hair. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Let’s move to your home office, shall we,” Achilles said. No introduction. Not a question.
“But of course. Can I offer you a coffee? Some schnapps?”
“Is it upstairs?” Max asked, ignoring the drink offer.
“Yes. Right this way.”
The study door slid aside automatically before the master of the house, and closed just the same behind. More like the starship Enterprise than Walmart.
Glick’s home office was everything you’d expect from the banker who managed the money of the man many considered to be the world’s wealthiest criminal. Since Glick was Swiss, it was more austere than flashy, but wealth oozed from every crevasse nonetheless. The Persian rugs, the investment-grade artwork, the antique furnishings. Nice, Achilles thought, but not worth ten thousand times the IKEA alternative.
Glick gestured them to plush seating overlooking distant snow-capped mountains.
Achilles and Max remained standing. “We’ll be working on your computer.”
“I’ll get my laptop,” Glick replied. “Please, have a seat.”
They sat at the edge of their chairs, rather than sinking into them.
Glick returned with a slim silver computer, his face an obsequious mask. “Now, how can I help the president?”
Achilles let the tension build before responding. “He’s not a happy man. You’re fortunate he has the summit to distract him.”
Glick said nothing, but his expression didn’t reflect fortunate feelings.
“Despite the security breach, he’s decided to give you a second chance.”
Glick exhaled. He’d been expecting worse — but then he hadn’t heard the details.
“Assuming that’s what you’d like?” Achilles queried.
“But of course. Of course. He won’t regret it.”
“Good attitude. Time to get specific. What is the total combined value of Mr. Korovin’s holdings as of this morning?”
Glick donned his reading glasses and began typing. “In U.S. dollars?”
“Yes.”
“9,989,641,717.”
“That sounds right,” Achilles said, although in fact he’d been hoping for a much larger number. If Glick only had $10 billion, then Korovin must be using dozens of bankers. That diversification wouldn’t affect today’s plan, but it would create complications down the line. “Here’s the plan. It comes in two parts.”
“I’m listening,” Glick said, scooching forward.
“Today we’re going to transfer nine billion to other accounts.” Achilles held Glick’s eye, making it clear there was no wriggle room. “Then, next Sunday, you’re going to present Korovin with your strategy to turn the billion that remains in your control, back into ten billion.” Achilles paused to allow Glick to absorb the one-two blow.
Glick managed to retain his composure. Achilles figured that was the first lesson in Swiss banking school. Never pucker.
Achilles waited.
Glick finally found his tongue. “I’m to take one billion and increase it ten-fold?”
“As quickly as possible.”
“Meanwhile we’ll be transferring 90 percent of his current holdings out of my bank?”
The banker’s speech remained serene as a swan on a pond, but Achilles knew his mind was thrashing beneath the surface.
That was perfect.
Achilles wanted Glick’s mental faculties devoted to self-control. “It could be 100 percent. Your call. But the president thought you would appreciate the chance to make things right.”
“Yes, of course. Of course.” Still no strain or stutter. The banker was very good. “And he’s returning Sunday? This Sunday? For the growth strategy presentation. Back to ten billion. As quickly as possible.”
“No.”
“No?”
Achilles shook his head. “We will be picking you up and taking you to him.”
Max spoke for the first time. “His weekend home on the Black Sea. Lovely place.”
Chapter 93
The Good Life
Zurich, Switzerland
MAX AND ACHILLES were back in divide-and-conquer mode. The tight timeline demanded it.
Max knew that Achilles hadn’t planned to ever let him off a leash, but a combination of earned trust and forced practicality had scuttled that operating paradigm on the second day of their joint mission. Now, with successes behind them in Zurich and Moscow, they were functioning as efficiently as any team Max had ever been a part of, and far better than most.
But this bonhomie hadn’t convinced Achilles to tell Max more than he needed to know — or allow Max to speak with Zoya. Max respected Achilles’ operational discipline, but he didn’t like it.
Today’s divide-and-conquer approach had Achilles off hiding their stolen money while Max was arranging the transportation they’d need during their second attempt on Korovin’s life. Later today, they would reunite in Austria to acquire a special weapon system for that assault. Achilles hadn’t provided any detail on that special weapon — he tended to be cryptic when it came to operational details — but he had piqued Max’s curiosity by promising something extraordinary.
Max was finding his current assignment pretty cool as well. He’d been tasked with chartering a private helicopter and jet — and thanks to the Glick operation, he had unlimited funds with which to do it.
The jet would take them from Switzerland to Russia, and then from Russia to the United States. The helicopter would be for transport within Russia, specifically from Sochi International Airport to Korovin’s Seaside home and back — the same route he and Zoya had flown some four weeks earlier, the day this whole crazy caper began.
Switzerland was exceptionally well-suited for making private travel arrangements. As one of the world’s most established and grand headquarters for clandestine banking, the neutral nation in the heart of Europe was geared to cater to the world’s wealthiest citizens and their many privacy peccadilloes.
Max had operated undercover in Switzerland before, but this was the first time he’d posed as one of the uber-wealthy individuals they loved so much. He was rather looking forward to the experience.
Walking through the sliding glass door of Zurich’s Private Aviation Center dressed in an exquisite, freshly-fitted suit and polished Bally loafers more comfortable than bathroom slippers, Max wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Would it resemble any other airline terminal or look more like the lobby of one of Switzerland’s private banks, effusing symbols of wealth and security? What he found reminded him of a 4-star hotel lobby: polished marble floors and solid custom furnishings. The engineer in him recognized a design intended to retain a fresh appearance despite high traffic levels while requiring only minimal maintenance. Lacking were the live flower arrangements and original artwork you found in 5-star establishments — although the women behind the counter appeared top-shelf.
“Hello, I’m Kendra. May I help you?” one of them said. With her platinum blonde hair and million-franc smile, she was as welcoming as a warm blanket on a cold night.
Max noted that Kendra somehow knew to address him in English. He wondered if that was a default setting or a judgment call. In either case, he was glad she hadn’t spoken Russian. Max prided himself on being mistaken for a Brit and used that accent in his reply. “I’m most hopeful that you can. Herr Leibniz over at Baumann Brothers recommends you most highly, most highly indeed,” he said, referencing a banker he’d seen mentioned in Le News while extending his hand. “Name’s Archibald Vanklompenberg. I need to charter a long-range jet and an executive helicopter.”
“That was very kind of Herr Leibniz,” Kendra said with a flash of her bright blue eyes. “You have indeed come to the right place, Mr. Vanklompenberg. Let’s start with the helicopter. When do you need it?”
“Please, call me Archibald. Everyone does — Vanklompenberg is a bit of a mouthful.” Max paused there.
“Very well, Archibald. When would you like to travel?”
“I shall require the helicopter this Sunday.”
Kendra’s nod indicated this would not be a problem. “From where to where?”
Max looked left then right before returning his focus to the agent’s plump red lips. He lowered his tone. “That’s where it gets a bit complicated.”
Her lips spread into a knowing smile. Kendra was accustomed to complicated. She pandered to clientele who’d inherited half the world and yet somehow seemed perpetually dissatisfied. “Why don’t we have a seat and you can walk me through it.”
She picked up the tablet on which she’d been typing and gestured toward the fat burgundy armchairs off to her right. “Would you care for a coffee or perhaps something from the bar?”
Over espresso, Archibald was delighted to learn that the Sochi helicopter rental was no trouble at all. Nor was the long-haul jet. The price for the combo was well into six figures, but like most of Kendra’s clients, Archibald Vanklompenberg did not dwell on that. Impeccable, invisible, imperturbable service was what mattered. That and one final point.
Setting down his second espresso, he said, “Now that I know you’re able to accommodate us from a logistical perspective, I need to run our other requirement by you.”
“Other requirement,” Kendra replied, a smile on her face but here-it-comes in her eyes.
“We need these charters to appear routine.”
She chewed on that one for a second, like a perky weather girl encountering an unexpected cloud formation. “What you’ve described is perfectly routine, I assure you. We regularly fly all over the Russian Federation and often to places far more remote than Sochi.”
Archibald shook his head at his own shortcoming. “Forgive me, I wasn’t clear. I literally need the flights to be booked in the name of one of your routine clients. We don’t want to raise any eyebrows or generate any paperwork in our names.”
Kendra’s smile faded as the processor began whirring behind her beautiful blue eyes.
Max set the hook before her lips got too far. “Anonymity is our objective, and we’re willing to pay for it.”
Kendra reacted as expected to the magic words. This time she was the one who looked left and right and lowered her voice. “There’s an engineering company we work with that does a lot of business in and around Sochi. They are one of our more price-sensitive clients. I suspect that if money’s no object, they’d be willing to accommodate you.”
Man, was it great to be rich, Max thought, suddenly reconsidering his government service career. “Excellent. And you, Kendra, would you mind brokering the deal for, say, a ten-percent commission? I’d rather not be involved.”
Chapter 94
Forged Bonds
Switzerland
NICCOLO BOLZANO stubbed out his cigarette and shook his head at Achilles while a smile spread ear to ear. “When you asked for forty numbered accounts spread across Europe, Asia, and the Caribbean, I was prepared for a hundred milli
on or so — but nine billion. Mamma mia.”
Achilles had the same reaction when he started thinking about Korovin’s money, the money now in his possession. Million and billion sounded similar, and the words were used interchangeably in colloquial conversations, but the enormous difference became blindingly obvious in context. A million seconds was about twelve days, whereas a billion seconds was nearly thirty-two years. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No no no. It’s only zeros,” Niccolo replied, his arms as active as his lips. “Given your security concerns, I’d suggest no fewer than seven anonymous interjurisdictional leaps before parking it across your forty accounts. We’ll split and shuffle each deposit before transferring it, making every leap the electronic equivalent of three-card Monte.”
Niccolo had once helped Achilles track down an arms trafficker. A Swiss-Italian, he was the polar opposite of Severin Glick in everything but ability. Jet black hair slicked back, a portly physique, and compulsive addictions to both nicotine and caffeine. Despite soulful gray eyes, he always struck Achilles as a man clutching to life by both breasts and daring her to defy him.
“How long will it take?” Achilles asked.
“With most bankers, you’d be looking at three weeks and astronomical fees. But I know which countries and banks are geared to take direct international wires without undue bureaucracy, so there won’t be any inquiries or hold-ups. Working full-time, I can do it all in three days. The cost will be peanuts.”
Achilles was sure that Niccolo’s definition of peanuts varied from his own, but then it was Korovin’s money, so he didn’t really care.
The last time Achilles had worked with Niccolo, the banker had refused payment with a wave of his cigarette. Granted, giving up a modest government fee in lieu of having the CIA owe you one was a shrewd move, but Achilles had appreciated the gesture.
Today, Niccolo would reap his reward.
