[Kyle Achilles 00.5] Chasing Ivan

by Tim Tigner

  I shook my head and steeled myself for the smug smile to come — the last I ever intended to see. “You’re where you are, and I’m where I am, and traumatized though I might be by the brutality of DC-league politics, I’m not naive enough to think that I could win that fight without a smoking gun. I’m also not corrupt enough to switch over to the dark side. Not yet, anyway.”

  “So?”

  I left him hanging for a minute. Gave him the experience of operating without air. It was a victory of sorts, albeit transient and minor. Then I handed over the letter. “So, I’ve decided to get out while my self-respect is still intact. I’ve decided to resign.”

  That yanked the mask right off, exposing the complete package. Stretched lips, raised chin, and triumphant eyes.

  I turned and walked for the door, an old life behind me, a new one ahead. As my hand hit the big brass knob, I spun about again. “Of course, since I figured out that you set Ivan up, you can be certain that he will too. Enjoy the rest of your life, Director.”

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  “EVEN AFTER my own experience, I still can’t believe Michael shot you,” Emily said. “He was such a gentleman.”

  Jo had just exchanged her hospital gown for her civilian clothes and was finally headed for the door when Emily surprised her. She’d walked right into her room, accompanied by a doctor whose lab coat read Lawrence Danton, M.D.

  Jo had assumed that Emily was back in London, having heard that her physical wounds required little more than bandages and antiseptic. It was her psychological wounds that Jo had assumed would take time mending.

  In answer to Emily’s question, Jo unfastened the blouse buttons she’d done up just minutes before. Pulling the fabric aside like a wounded Superman, she exposed the center of her chest. Four weeks of top medical care had no doubt facilitated rapid healing, but the scar on her breastbone still appeared plenty angry. Perhaps it always would. “It looks bad, but I was incredibly lucky.”

  “You were unbelievably lucky,” Doctor Danton said. “I just read through the notes on your chart.”

  Jo had been blessed no less than four times by her count. First, when the bullet expended most of its energy drilling through the Mercedes’ seat. Second, when it hit her bony sternum rather than her soft flesh. Third, when the shock knocked her out so she appeared to be dead. And fourth, by avoiding head strikes and disfigurement when Michael dumped her from his moving car. The scrapes on her back and buttocks were severe enough to require skin grafts and a month-long convalescent stay. But thanks to her leather riding clothes, those were just flesh wounds, as the professional soldiers say.

  “Doctor Danton took care of me when they brought me to the emergency room,” Emily said, her voice unexpectedly enthusiastic. Whatever mood-altering medication they’d given her, Jo wanted some.

  “We came to ask you about the man who saved me. Nobody seems to know who he is or what happened to him.”

  “Why are you asking me?” Jo asked, prevaricating. This was slippery territory.

  “The police linked our cases through Michael. He brought me to the yacht show and took you away. Since the valet said you had a gun on him at the time, we know you were trying to stop him, just like that man was trying to stop Andreas, or Ivan, or whatever his name is. We know you told the police you don’t know anything, and for some reason they appear to have lost all interest, but we were hoping you’d tell me. Girl to girl. Given that shared scars are a special kind of bond.”

  Jo knew the police had lost interest because they’d been ordered to. But she’d have expected Emily’s father to use his clout to get answers. Perhaps he had things he considered more important on his plate. “Why do you want to know about him?”

  “To thank him, of course. I owe him my life.”

  Jo was a bit slow on account of the pain medication she’d been taking. But she put it together now. Emily had been speaking in first-person plural. We came to ask you. We know. We were hoping. And her tone. Her lively, joyful tone. “Are the two of you dating?”

  Emily reached down and took Doctor Danton’s hand. “The day that necklace punctured my trachea was the luckiest of my life,” she said.

  Well, stone the crows, Jo thought. Given all the time she had to kill while confined to a recovery bed, Jo had spent hours worrying about Emily’s post-traumatic psychological condition. She hadn’t reached out herself for fear of what she’d find, fear that Achilles’ sacrifice would have been wasted saving someone who no longer wanted to live.

  Still stalling for time to think, she asked, “Does this mean you’re not going back to London anytime soon? The papers report that it’s soon to be an Aspinwall town.”

  “Home is where the heart is. Will you tell me about him, please?”

  Jo wasn’t sure what to say. She knew Achilles had resigned, but little more. The rumor mill was far less active in The Agency than in almost every other institution, but people were still people, and gossip was a force all its own, as irrepressible as the American people themselves. Some said Achilles refused to work for Director Rider, others that he’d been fired. “So you’re happy?” she asked Emily.

  “The happiest I’ve ever been.”

  Jo wasn’t sure that would last, but it was clear that Emily meant it. “Well, that’s all the thanks he’d ever want.”

  “But who is he? Where is he?”

  “I honestly don’t know where he is. As for who, well, he’s the guy who comes calling, when good people like you are in need.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  THANK YOU for reading CHASING IVAN. I hope you enjoyed this prequel to the Kyle Achilles series. If you did, I’m certain that you’ll enjoy the novels even more.

  If you would be so kind as to take a moment to leave a review on Amazon or elsewhere, I would be very grateful. Reviews and referrals are as vital to an author’s success as a good GPA is to a student’s.

  If you email me at tim@timtigner.com, I will be happy to forward you links to some some amazing Achilles-style climbing videos. Climbing is one of those cases where reality eclipses fiction.

  Thanks again for your kind comments and precious attention. All my best,

  Amazon Review Link for CHASING IVAN: US

  AU CA DE ES FR IN IT JP UK

  Also in the Kyle Achilles series

  . .

  Other Thrillers by Tim Tigner

  . .

  Click cover to learn more

  The Achilles story continues with

  PUSHING BRILLIANCE

  Turn the page for a preview . . .

  PUSHING BRILLIANCE

  Chapter 1

  The Kremlin

  HOW DO YOU PITCH an audacious plan to the most powerful man in the world? Grigori Barsukov was about to find out.

  Technically, the President of Russia was an old friend — although the last time they’d met, his old friend had punched him in the face. That was thirty years ago, but the memory remained fresh, and Grigori’s nose still skewed to the right.

  Back then, he and President Vladimir Korovin wore KGB lieutenant stars. Now both were clothed in the finest Italian suits. But his former roommate also sported the confidence of one who wielded unrivaled power, and the temper of a man ruthless enough to obtain it.

  The world had spun on a different axis when they’d worked together, an east-west axis, running from Moscow to Washington. Now everything revolved around the West. America was the sole superpower.

  Grigori could change that.

  He could lever Russia back into a pole position.

  But only if his old rival would risk joining him — way out on a limb.

  As Grigori’s footfalls fell into cadence with the boots of his escorts, he coughed twice, attempting to relax the lump in his throat. It didn’t work. When the hardwood turned to red carpet, he willed his palms to stop sweating. They didn’t listen. Then the big double doors rose before him and it was too late to do anything but take a deep
breath, and hope for the best.

  The presidential guards each took a single step to the side, then opened their doors with crisp efficiency and a click of their heels. Across the office, a gilded double-headed eagle peered down from atop the dark wood paneling, but the lone living occupant of the Kremlin’s inner sanctum did not look up.

  President Vladimir Korovin was studying photographs.

  Grigori stopped three steps in as the doors were closed behind him, unsure of the proper next move. He wondered if everyone felt this way the first time. Should he stand at attention until acknowledged? Take a seat by the wall?

  He strolled to the nearest window, leaned his left shoulder up against the frame, and looked out at the Moscow River. Thirty seconds ticked by with nothing but the sound of shifting photos behind him. Was it possible that Korovin still held a grudge?

  Desperate to break the ice without looking like a complete fool, he said, “This is much nicer than the view from our academy dorm room.”

  Korovin said nothing.

  Grigori felt his forehead tickle. Drops of sweat were forming, getting ready to roll. As the first broke free, he heard the stack of photos being squared, and then at long last, the familiar voice. It posed a very unfamiliar question: “Ever see a crocodile catch a rabbit?”

  Grigori whirled about to meet the Russian President’s gaze. “What?”

  Korovin waved the stack of photos. His eyes were the same cornflower blue Grigori remembered, but their youthful verve had yielded to something darker. “I recently returned from Venezuela. Nicolas took me crocodile hunting. Of course, we didn’t have all day to spend on sport, so our guides cheated. They put rabbits on the riverbank, on the wide strip of dried mud between the water and the tall grass. Kind of like teeing up golf balls. Spaced them out so the critters couldn’t see each other and gave each its own pile of alfalfa while we watched in silence from an electric boat.” Korovin was clearly enjoying the telling of his intriguing tale. He gestured with broad sweeps as he spoke, but kept his eyes locked on Grigori.

  “Nicolas told me these rabbits were brought in special from the hill country, where they’d survived a thousand generations amidst foxes and coyotes. When you put them on the riverbank, however, they’re completely clueless. It’s not their turf, so they stay where they’re dropped, noses quivering, ears scanning, eating alfalfa and watching the wall of vegetation in front of them while crocodiles swim up silently from behind.

  “The crocodiles were being fooled like the rabbits, of course. Eyes front, focused on food. Oblivious.” Korovin shook his head as though bewildered. “Evolution somehow turned a cold-blooded reptile into a warm white furball, but kept both of the creature’s brains the same. Hard to fathom. Anyway, the capture was quite a sight.

  “Thing about a crocodile is, it’s a log one moment and a set of snapping jaws the next, with nothing but a furious blur in between. One second the rabbit is chewing alfalfa, the next second the rabbit is alfalfa. Not because it’s too slow or too stupid ... but because it’s out of its element.”

  Grigori resisted the urge to swallow.

  “When it comes to eating,” Korovin continued, “crocs are like storybook monsters. They swallow their food whole. Unlike their legless cousins, however, they want it dead first. So once they’ve trapped dinner in their maw, they drag it underwater to drown it. This means the rabbit is usually alive and uninjured in the croc’s mouth for a while — unsure what the hell just happened, but pretty damn certain it’s not good.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, placing his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head. He was having fun.

  Grigori felt like the rabbit.

  “That’s when Nicolas had us shoot the crocs. After they clamped down around the rabbits, but before they dragged ‘em under. That became the goal, to get the rabbit back alive.”

  Grigori nodded appreciatively. “Gives a new meaning to the phrase, catch and release.”

  Korovin continued as if Grigori hadn’t spoken. “The trick was putting a bullet directly into the croc’s tiny brain, preferably the medulla oblongata, right there where the spine meets the skull. Otherwise the croc would thrash around or go under before you could get off the kill shot, and the rabbit was toast.

  “It was good sport, and an experience worth replicating. But we don’t have crocodiles anywhere near Moscow, so I’ve been trying to come up with an equally engaging distraction for my honored guests. Any ideas?”

  Grigori felt like he’d been brought in from the hills. The story hadn’t helped the lump in his throat either. He managed to say, “Let me give it some thought.”

  Korovin just looked at him expectantly.

  Comprehension struck after an uncomfortable silence. “What happened to the rabbits?”

  Korovin returned his feet to the floor, and leaned forward in his chair. “Good question. I was curious to see that myself. I put my first survivor back on the riverbank beside a fresh pile of alfalfa. It ran for the tall grass as if I’d lit its tail on fire. That rabbit had learned life’s most important lesson.”

  Grigori bit. “What’s that?”

  “Doesn’t matter where you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re a crocodile or a rabbit. You best look around, because you’re never safe.

  “Now, what have you brought me, Grigori?”

  Grigori breathed deeply, forcing the reptiles from his mind. He pictured his future atop a corporate tower, an oligarch on a golden throne. Then he spoke with all the gravitas of a wedding vow. “I brought you a plan, Mister President.”

  Chapter 2

  Brillyanc

  PRESIDENT KOROVIN REPEATED Grigori’s assertion aloud. “You brought me a plan.” He paused for a long second, as though tasting the words.

  Grigori felt like he was looking up from the Colosseum floor after a gladiator fight. Would the emperor’s thumb point up, or down?

  Korovin was savoring the power. Finally, the president gestured toward the chess table abutting his desk, and Grigori’s heart resumed beating.

  The magnificent antique before which Grigori took a seat was handcrafted of the same highly polished hardwood as Korovin’s desk, probably by a French craftsman now centuries dead. Korovin took the opposing chair and pulled a chess clock from his drawer. Setting it on the table, he pressed the button that activated Grigori's timer. “Give me the three-minute version.”

  Grigori wasn’t a competitive chess player, but like any Russian who had risen through government ranks, he was familiar with the sport.

  Chess clocks have two timers controlled by seesawing buttons. When one’s up, the other’s down, and vice versa. After each move, a player slaps his button, stopping his timer and setting his opponent’s in motion. If a timer runs out, a little red plastic flag drops, and that player loses. Game over. There’s the door. Thank you for playing.

  Grigori planted his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and made his opening move. “While my business is oil and gas, my hobby is investing in startups. The heads of Russia’s major research centers all know I’m a so-called angel investor, so they send me their best early-stage projects. I get everything from social media software, to solar power projects, to electric cars.

  “A few years ago, I met a couple of brilliant biomedical researchers out of Kazan State Medical University. They had applied modern analytical tools to the data collected during tens of thousands of medical experiments performed on political prisoners during Stalin’s reign. They were looking for factors that accelerated the human metabolism — and they found them. Long story short, a hundred million rubles later I’ve got a drug compound whose strategic potential I think you’ll appreciate.”

  Grigori slapped his button, pausing his timer and setting the president’s clock in motion. It was a risky move. If Korovin wasn’t intrigued, Grigori wouldn’t get to finish his pitch. But Grigori was confident that his old roommate was hooked. Now he would have to admit as much if he wanted to hear the rest.

  The right sid
e of the president’s mouth contracted back a couple millimeters. A crocodile smile. He slapped the clock. “Go on.”

  “The human metabolism converts food and drink into the fuel and building blocks our bodies require. It’s an exceptionally complex process that varies greatly from individual to individual, and within individuals over time. Metabolic differences mean some people naturally burn more fat, build more muscle, enjoy more energy, and think more clearly than others. This is obvious from the locker room to the boardroom to the battlefield. The doctors in Kazan focused on the mental aspects of metabolism, on factors that improved clarity of thought–”

  Korovin interrupted, “Are you implying that my metabolism impacts my IQ?”

  “Sounds a little funny at first, I know, but think about your own experience. Don’t you think better after coffee than after vodka? After salad than fries? After a jog and a hot shower than an afternoon at a desk? All those actions impact the mental horsepower you enjoy at any given moment. What my doctors did was figure out what the body needs to optimize cognitive function.”

  “Something other than healthy food and sufficient rest?”

  Perceptive question, Grigori thought. “Picture your metabolism like a funnel, with raw materials such as food and rest going in the top, cognitive power coming out the bottom, and dozens of complex metabolic processes in between.”

  “Okay,” Korovin said, eager to engage in a battle of wits.

  “Rather than following in the footsteps of others by attempting to modify one of the many metabolic processes, the doctors in Kazan took an entirely different approach, a brilliant approach. They figured out how to widen the narrow end of the funnel.”