by Tim Tigner
“Spunt would have seen him,” Rip replied, referencing Ronald Spunt, the bodyguard who had ridden up the elevator with Achilles. “Other than over the rail, there was no exit off the roof that wouldn’t have led the perpetrator right past their guy. That was why they allowed the private meeting to take place where it did. It was easy to secure and isolate.”
Brix leaned back in his chair. “Have you figured out why they were meeting? Why the Director of the CIA would agree to a private, late-night rendezvous with a former agent he despised?”
“Spunt says it was arranged that afternoon. Achilles called with a meeting request and Rider agreed.”
“Why did Rider agree to the meeting?”
“Nobody knows,” Rip said.
“I can think of one reason, and one reason only. Blackmail. Blackmail could compel Rider to meet on that rooftop. If it was legitimate CIA business, it would get done in the office. Or more likely Achilles would go to someone else, someone with whom he has a better working relationship.”
“I agree.”
“Let’s keep that speculation between us. As for the media, we have what we need. It’s time to go public. How close are you to catching him?”
Rip considered his response. In fact, he was nowhere. But that could change at any minute. “We’re just one tip away.”
Brix snorted. He knew the score. He’d been there. “I’ll have the press here in an hour. We’ll announce that we’re seeking Kyle Achilles for questioning, but we won’t go any deeper than that. Let the reporters speculate. The news desks will love it. They’ll get two or three cycles out of it, given the personal interest side of things, his being an Olympian and all. Might even lead to that tip you mentioned.”
“And if exonerating evidence comes to light, we won’t be on the record calling him a suspect.”
Brix met his eye with a steady gaze. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not suggesting it will. I’m just covering the bases.”
Brix put both fists on the desk and leaned in. “Let me be clear. Our reputation is on the line. Decisive action is required. Swift justice must be served. We have everything we need to do that. Speculation and second-guessing will only serve to keep the story alive.”
Rip didn’t retreat. “I understand. No media leaks. No divided efforts. We catch him quick and put the screws on.”
“You intend to put the screws on?”
“I intend to actively encourage a confession.”
Brix leaned even closer. “There’s no need for a confession. We have him, dead to rights. Take the advice of a man who’s made the mistake of being soft and has suffered the consequences. You get a glimpse of this slippery fish, you pull the trigger.”
17
Stunned
French Riviera
IVAN COULD TELL that something was wrong from the moment he saw Michael. It wasn’t that the former boxing champ wore a worried expression. He always looked as solid and unflappable as a Greek statue. It was the very fact that he was standing outside when Ivan arrived home, waiting.
The obvious conclusion leapt to mind. Michael had failed. He slammed the car door to punctuate his speech. “You let her beat you?”
Michael nodded.
“How did she do it?” Ivan asked, walking past Michael into the lobby. Despite the double dose of bad news, it was good to be home.
Visitors to Silicon Hill encountered three immediate attractions vying for their attention. First and foremost was the through-and-through clifftop view to the blue sky and azure ocean beyond. Majestic.
Second were the receptionists, Giselle and Girard. Blue-eyed, blonde-haired twins in their twenties, both more charismatic than magazine covers. Beautiful.
The third was a large-as-life portrait of Little V on his polo pony, a modern parallel to the famous portrait of Napoleon about to cross the Alps. Regal.
Ivan ignored the view, the receptionists and the portrait. He headed straight for the sweeping staircase while struggling to mask his concern and control his rage. Ivan prided himself on his ability to account for everything, but he had not predicted the possibility of Jo’s survival. Given the resounding success of Raven’s previous tests, her death had been a foregone conclusion.
Michael interrupted his thoughts. “Jo exposed both tactical and functional weaknesses. We’ve corrected for both.”
“Show me,” Ivan said, topping the stairs and turning left toward the hidden door.
Michael summarized the Versailles debacle while they rode down. Ivan had to admire the shrewdness of squeezing one’s shortcomings into an elevator ride.
When the door slid open, it revealed a laboratory abuzz with activity and provided a natural change of topic. Michael gave Ivan a moment to let it soak in, then led him to the drone where Boris was working. The engineering genius was absorbed in alterations and oblivious to their approach. No doubt the headphones helped to isolate his marvelous mind. Boris was constantly plugged in to something with a strong beat.
Michael tapped the engineer on his shoulder.
Boris completed his adjustment before turning, then did a double-take when he saw Ivan. He pulled the headphones down to his neck, making the incessant electronic rhythms audible to all before a finger tap silenced them. He met Michael’s eye but didn’t speak.
“We’d like to see the improvements you’ve made.”
Boris had the drone mounted on an articulating robotic arm that permitted positioning it at any angle. He manipulated the joystick to make the weapon system easy to view. “First thing I did was replace the traditional tasers with a military-grade prototype system.”
“Military grade?” Ivan asked.
“It’s more accurate, and it uses nanosecond pulse technology to deliver a different kind of shock. It renders the victim unconscious for about three minutes. No chance of fighting back.”
Ivan cocked his head. “Why haven’t I heard of that technology?”
“It’s not commercially available. Pavel acquired it from the Austrian firm that’s developing it in secret.”
“Why in secret?”
“I don’t know. Not my field. Probably has something to do with the fact that it can cause cardiac arrest.”
“We don’t want to be killing anyone either,” Ivan said.
“Odds are just 0.2 percent.”
No government would sanction a weapon that accidentally killed 1 in 500, but Ivan was okay with those odds. “Does the nanosecond pulse technology work the same as a standard taser?”
“Same barbs and wires. Different power supply.”
Ivan nodded. “What else have you done?”
Boris gave the joystick another twist and the winch came into view. He pressed a button and fed out the end of The Claw. Two of the black aluminum segments had been replaced with copper ones.
“What’s with the copper?” Ivan asked.
“I installed a traditional stun gun.”
“And you couldn’t make it work in black? I thought aluminum was conductive?”
“Aluminum is, but aluminum oxide isn’t. And Pavel thought the visual aid might prove useful during deployment.”
“I don’t like the loss of camouflage.”
“The shiny segments will be hidden when the winch is fully wound. After the Versailles experience, we thought it sensible to sacrifice a bit of defense for better offense.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m implementing a design change that will speed up the snaring process, but it isn’t ready yet.”
“When will it be ready?”
“Soon. A day or two.”
“Make it one.”
Boris nodded.
Ivan turned to Michael. “Upstairs, you also referenced tactical corrections.”
“Going forward, Pavel will avoid attempting captures in close proximity to anchoring handholds, like lampposts or trees.”
Ivan grunted. “Give me the bottom line. What’s your conclusion regarding our current operation
al status?”
“We’re good to go.”
“You’re confident that Raven’s ready for prime time?”
Michael met his eye. “I am.”
“Good, because there’s been a change of plans. We’re going live tonight.”
18
Needle
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
JO SCANNED THE HORIZON as she exited the Philadelphia Museum of Art. No drones in sight. Thank goodness for the little things.
She was feeling refreshed but frustrated. While browsing the exhibits proved to be a delightful distraction, it brought her no closer to her goal. No closer to freedom from the fear that Ivan might inflict a final surprise at any moment. She’d be studying the sky every time she walked outdoors until one of them was dead.
How on earth were they going to find Ivan? Interpol had tried and failed. So had America’s CIA and FBI, Britain’s MI-5 and MI-6, and France’s DGSI and DCPJ. Nobody knew where he lived or with whom he associated. What could she and Achilles do that the police hadn’t already tried?
After a morning without discernible progress, they decided to stimulate their minds with fresh air and open horizons. The jogging route they selected wasn’t quite as serene or picturesque as her usual tromp around the palace grounds, but the broad diagonal boulevard cutting through the City of Brotherly Love from the Academy of Natural Sciences to Fairmont Park’s riverfront trails had proven to be both beautiful and invigorating. They put in six miles, after which she spent an hour wandering the museum in search of inspiration, while Achilles ran up and down the steps made famous by Rocky Balboa.
Jo walked across the broad courtyard toward the top of the steps, searching for Achilles. She stopped in the center where the statue of Rocky had once resided. Like millions had undoubtedly done before her, Jo put her feet on the brass footprints and looked out over downtown Philadelphia. As her eyes came to rest on the statue of William Penn atop City Hall, she resolved to return to this spot once Ivan was buried and raise her arms in triumph as Rocky had done. Jo liked circling back to visit vanquished problems once victory had been won. Little moments of positive reinforcement built up courage for battles to come.
She scanned the stairs, but Achilles was nowhere to be seen. Again she looked skyward, although that was silly. If he’d been snatched, there would be commotion all around.
She broadened her search and spotted him off to the side, doing sit-ups on the grass. The kind where you twisted at the top to touch elbows to opposite knees. She walked over. “Where do you get all the energy?”
“Nervous energy?” he replied with a wink.
“Forget I asked.”
He rose and they resumed the run back toward Rittenhouse Square. For a few minutes, she forgot her problems.
“What are you up to these days?”Achilles asked. “What did Ivan interrupt?”
“Nothing related to drones or ringing of international intrigue. Just routine P.I. work. Looking for missing persons. Catching cheating spouses. Collecting business intelligence.”
The third item on her list elicited a spirited response. “Corporate espionage?”
“Nothing glamorous or illegal. No hacks or bribes involved. Just a bit of clandestine observation and refuse collection. Competitors in certain niche industries like to keep tabs on each other, particularly when big contracts are accepting bids.”
Achilles nodded. Not his thing, and probably not relevant.
A minute later he asked, “Is there anyone back in France who could be leveraged against you?”
“You thinking K&R? Kidnap and ransom?”
“To get you to surface. If Ivan wants to take another shot.”
“Yeah, I get it. I have three flat-mates, but they’re more casual friends of convenience than best friends for life. There’s no man,” she added. “What about you?”
“I’m engaged, but my fiancée is in Moscow for the summer. I let her know what’s going on. She’s laying low.”
“Understanding woman.”
“We’ve been through a lot together.”
“So I’m not the only one?”
“Alas, no. I seem to bring troubles to all the women in my life, but for some reason this one sticks with me.”
“Is she in the business?” Jo asked, referencing intelligence work.
“Hardly. Katya’s a mathematics professor, at Stanford no less. But she was asked to guest lecture at Moscow State University this summer, her alma mater. It’s a big honor—and I just torpedoed it.”
“That’s tough.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why didn’t you go with her? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My history with Russia is—complicated. We agreed I’d be wise not to return and tempt fate.”
Jo glanced over at her jogging partner. “Sounds like Katya’s both smart and wise—yet somehow stupid enough to stick with you.”
Achilles smiled. “Paradoxical, I know.”
The friendly banter broke the tension. Jo felt blood flowing to areas that had been constricted. She’d done the right thing in calling Achilles.
He suddenly stopped running.
Jo stopped and looked back.
Before her eyes he grew a satisfied grin. “I know how we’re going to find Ivan.”
19
Invisible
French Riviera
MICHAEL WAS NERVOUS. Cautiously optimistic, but nervous. For better or worse, however, he had no time to dwell on emotion. The accelerated timeline had him hopping.
Michael’s latest hop took him to Pavel’s workbench. The pilot was busy practicing his maneuvers, and Michael spotted trouble. Big trouble. The display on the Drone Command Module was all out of whack.
Designed to be folded into a carry-on sized bag, the DCM consisted of a multifunction joystick and three laptop-size screens. The left screen displayed gauges, dials and flight controls. The right screen split camera feeds from fixed cameras facing all six directions. And the central screen displayed the main camera feed. Pavel referred to it as the “windshield.”
At the moment, however, none of the displays were normal. The left and right screens were blank, and the windshield image was low resolution. “What’s wrong?”
Pavel released the joystick. That move normally put Raven in hover mode as a fail-safe, but instead, it just froze the display. “Nothing’s wrong. This is a simulation.”
Michael felt relieved, but perplexed. “A simulation? Why bother with a simulation when you can practice with the real thing?”
“Mickey figured out how to run Google satellite images through a flight simulator. Now I can optimize our assaults in advance.”
That made sense. Michael was pleased to see some independent innovation. Sometimes he felt like nothing happened if he didn’t instigate it himself. “Will that help?”
Pavel put the joystick on the workbench. “I expect that we’ll be making most of the grabs between dusk and dawn?”
“Whenever possible,” Michael agreed.
“Low altitude navigation is challenging in the dark. By covering the terrain in advance, even using Google’s daylight images, it will be easier for me to judge distances and identify landmarks. The simulation will also help with flight path planning. We’ll want to pick the routes that are least likely to be observed.”
“Good thinking.”
“I’m pleased. Of course, before I can practice I need to know who we’re going to hit. Have you decided?”
As part of the preparation for the rollout of Ivan’s master plan, Michael had been analyzing dozens of potential targets. High-net-worth individuals within a day’s drive of Silicon Hill. He was looking for opportunities to grab them. This proved to be easier than expected once he implemented the right tools.
GPS tracking got him ninety percent of the way there. Since everyone carried a GPS chip in their pocket, only two tricks were required: acquiring the targets’ cellphone numbers, and hacking their telecom providers. Neither of those
was particularly challenging when you had Ivan’s connections and resources at your disposal. With that data in hand, the rest was routine analysis. Michael mapped out their movements over time, looking for patterns. Once his software identified the locations visited on a regular basis, Michael zeroed in on those that were prime for plucking people. Parking lots. Jogging trails. Backyards. Beaches.
“Looks like CJ LeClaire is our best bet for tonight. He’s just come into a lot of cash, and he has a sundown yoga ritual with his husband that tees him up like a golf ball.”
CJ was the CEO of LeClaire Designs, a fashion company that had recently signed a global distribution agreement with a major retailer. With that single signature, his net worth had jumped from low seven figures to middle eight. Nine figures was on the horizon if the LeClaire brand remained trendy. That possibility undoubtedly put the couple in an optimistic, forward-focused state of mind.
Michael called up a satellite photo of LeClaire’s home on his laptop. “What do you think?”
“I like the isolation. And Saint Tropez is convenient,” Pavel said.
“Convenient but a bit too close to home.”
“Given the timeline though—”
“We’ll take the risk,” Michael confirmed.
Pavel reached for the joystick. “I’ll start studying the terrain. Work out our approach and exit vectors.”
Michael nodded and stood to leave, but Pavel cut him off by asking, “Why the rush? What happened?”
The question caught Michael by surprise. Pavel tended to be tight-lipped. No doubt this was a symptom of pre-battle excitement. Michael had known boxers who acted out of character before every big fight. He leaned in toward Pavel’s ear. “Vazov is demanding daily payments on the loan.”
“But it’s not due for a month!”
“He’s concerned that Ivan will skip town without paying.”
