Falling Stars

by Tim Tigner

The spark struck his primed mind while Ivan lounged on the beach in Cannes, watching the beautiful people, listening to the sound of the sea, and soaking in the sun. At the next umbrella over, a slim, freckled boy with too much red hair was flying a remote-control helicopter while his voluptuous mother plowed through Samantha Christy’s latest romance novel. Although she caught Ivan’s eye initially, her son soon captured it.

  The boy was stuffing toy soldiers into his helicopter, then taking it about twenty feet up and shaking it around until the soldiers fell out. Once Freckles tired of simulating paratrooping, he started lining up the soldiers on the sand and attempting to scoop them up on the fly by sticking a skid between their plastic legs. Watching the boy attempt what would prove to be an impossible maneuver, Ivan was struck by a simple but profound insight that would steer his life for years to come. If a person was abducted by an unmanned aircraft, nothing could save the hostage while he was airborne.

  Disable the aircraft—the hostage dies.

  Spook the pilot—the hostage dies.

  Stall for time—the hostage dies.

  There was literally nothing anyone could do to salvage the situation once the hostage reached breakneck altitude. It was as close to a black and white situation as Ivan had ever encountered in the dirty-deeds business.

  And the beauty didn’t stop there.

  When you robbed a bank or stole a painting or boosted the family jewels, you put yourself at risk. You could be shot or caught or captured on film. Prison and death were clear and present dangers. That was not the case when using drones.

  Given the capacity of remote controls, a drone pilot could work from anywhere in the world. If Ivan was cautious, he couldn’t be caught in the act. Period. And if picked up for questioning, he’d always have an alibi.

  The trick, he quickly realized, was getting paid. For his perfect plan to work, the ransom had to be paid while the hostage was still aloft. Cash was out of the question. Nobody had millions lying around, and even if they did, collecting it would cost him the remote advantage. That left online banking.

  Could electronic transfers be completed fast enough? Ivan had doubts. And doubts upon doubts—because even if they could, those payments had to be irreversible and untraceable.

  Still, the prospect was too alluring to dismiss.

  He kicked at the sand as the glow of his spark dimmed. Rather than letting that precious ember extinguish, however, he kept on kicking. He kicked until ideas cascaded through his mind and revelations rekindled his fire. Standing on that sunny beach surrounded by Europe’s rich and pretty, Ivan concluded that with the right drone there was no limit to the cash he could make, the glory he could earn, or the future he could hold—if he just figured out how to get paid.

  26

  Party Time

  Moscow, Russia

  JO’S HEAD was spinning as Achilles pulled their rented BMW up to Skolkovo’s guard gate and lowered the window. Spinning not from inertial force or jet lag, but from the rapid evolution of recent events. Once Achilles fixed on a target, he launched after it with all the speed, power and determination of a guided missile. She admired his brazen go-get-’em style while simultaneously worrying that they might drive full throttle into a wall. She was happy enough to take her chances with Achilles, however. Better to drive into a wall than be kidnapped by a drone.

  Jo had never been to Russia, but she had crossed paths with a few Russian “businessmen” back in France. They were merciless brutes, but they also had brains. A dangerous combination.

  “Vladimir and Patricia Makatsaria,” Achilles said. “We’re here for the investor reception.”

  Jo was relieved to see the guard wearing the same generic Russian rent-a-cop uniform they’d seen in photographs. Gray with red security insignia and a black beret. She was less comforted by the size of the guy and steadfastness of his expression. It revealed nothing. After a cursory glance at the empty rear seat, the guard pulled up a tablet and poised his finger for action. “Spell it.”

  “M - A - K - A -”

  The guard cut Achilles off with, “Got it. Vladimir and Patricia. The reception is in the Hypercube. Just drive straight and you can’t miss it. Parking lot is to the right.”

  As they pulled away, Jo asked, “Who are the Maka-whatevers?”

  “The Makatsaria’s are old friends. Tonight is their twentieth wedding anniversary. I’m supposed to be celebrating it with them and a hundred other guests at the art museum in St. Petersburg. Knowing Patty, it will be a first class affair, with a string quartet, sumptuous banquet and fireworks, but obviously I’m not going to make it. And just as obviously they have an ironclad alibi, should they need one.”

  “They just happened to be on the list?”

  “No. But it was a simple hack to put them there. I just spoofed an email from Skolkovo’s president to the lady listed as the media contact.”

  “Clever.”

  “I actually have friends from a former mission who are perfectly positioned to get us legitimate invitations. They work for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation in Moscow. But the CIA knows of our relationship, so that wasn’t an option.”

  “Maybe you can introduce me to Bill and Melinda once this is a former mission.”

  Achilles chuckled and changed the subject. “Should be an interesting party, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

  I could be into this kind of thing, Jo thought with a smile. While France was famous for its lavish parties and sumptuous champagne-soaked feasts, she had never been to one. Not, at least, as a legitimate guest. Her bank balance had always been at least three figures short. No doubt the shallowness of the relationships and pettiness of the one-upmanship at these high-society affairs would quickly have her eyes rolling. But still, she’d be willing to endure a life of pampered privilege for a month or six—with the right guy beside her.

  They turned into the designated parking lot, cut the lights, and studied the scene. Resting on a rise beside a man-made lake, the glass block of a building looked as if it had been dropped from above by aliens, or a really big baby. The first floor of the Hypercube was entirely lit, whereas those above only displayed an occasional light.

  “Looks like a Google building,” Achilles said. “I’m sure that’s no coincidence.”

  Peering through the glass walls at the glamorous dress of the champagne-sipping guests, Jo felt the familiar flutter of adrenaline hitting her blood. Phase one of tonight’s incursion was all on her. Her operation to win or lose. Achilles was just there as window dressing.

  Speaking of dressing, the alterations on hers were only hours old. Having grown up in the capital of fashion, Jo had not expected to find haute couture in the former capital of communism. She had been pleasantly surprised—both by the selection of dresses and the skills of her seamstress. The shops surrounding Lenin’s tomb were anathema to his ideology, but they could hold their own against those on Boulevard Saint Germain.

  Jo had no trouble discovering a design that met her tactical needs: long sleeves, short skirt and space to add concealed pockets. Its charcoal color wouldn’t attract wandering eyes, and any attention it did draw would be diverted to boosted cleavage and exposed legs.

  A chestnut wig with straight bangs and long locks rounded out her look for the evening. The total package she presented was chic enough to fit in among the spoiled millionaires’ mistresses and wives, but not stunning enough to stand out. She’d be just another pretty face in the privileged crowd.

  As Jo reached for the door handle, Achilles asked, “How long do you think you’ll need?”

  “Five or six.”

  “Six hours? I was counting on closer to one.”

  “Six minutes, silly.”

  “Six minutes? How could you possibly—” Achilles didn’t finish his sentence. “I forgot whom I’m talking to.”

  Jo winked and got out of the car. Her mission was a simple swipe. She had a pocket to pick. Not just any pocket, of course. The pocket of one of the security
guards. Phase two of tonight’s mission required one of their all-access passes.

  One potential target opened the door as she approached, ushering her from the dark to the light. Given the optics of glass buildings at night, Achilles would remain in the car where he could watch without being seen, and listen through a mic concealed in her ear. She spoke to him as she walked inside, her words punctuated by the tapping of stiletto heels. “I’ll keep you updated with quick comments.”

  “Much appreciated. I’ll keep quiet to avoid distracting you. I know what it’s like at the tip of the spear.”

  Jo’s first objective was blending in, becoming part of the crowd. She used a celebrity trick. When A-listers want to avoid attracting attention, they stick with common clothes, but go one step beyond the stereotypical baseball-cap-and-sunglasses camouflage. They carry a Starbucks cup. With nothing else on display, it’s the first thing to ping people’s radar, and it screams “I’m a local!”

  Jo grabbed a glass of bubbly from a tuxedoed waiter toting a silver tray, and plunged into the crowd. She crossed casually through their midst, careful not to be the fastest mover, peppering her twists and turns with smiles and nods while her eyes wandered. Everyone else was working the scene—creating connections and making pitches. Forcing laughs and animating expressions. The only person availing himself of the famous neon-green beanbag chairs was an older, bow-tied gentleman. He was watching the silent slideshow projected on the wall while sipping a martini. Undoubtedly a foreigner.

  Jo spotted her mark within twenty seconds of entering. He was bigger than she would have preferred—what did they feed the men in this country?—but the rest of his profile was right. Mid-thirties with a handsome face and eyes that weren’t too bright. Enough experience under his belt to be bored by his routine, enough testosterone in his blood to be distracted by his dick.

  She stopped before him and took a nervous sip of champagne, leaving lipstick. Once she had his eye, she pointed at the ceiling and smiled. “I left my purse upstairs during Pavel’s pitch, and now the door is locked. Would you mind escorting me to get it?”

  His eyes went from her lips to her glass and back again, with a slight detour a few inches down. When he spoke, his tone was apologetic. “My English not so good.”

  “Better than my Russian.” She set down the champagne, used her thumbs and forefingers to frame a box on her bare thigh, and repeated the word Achilles had taught her, “Sumka.” Again she pointed upstairs.

  “Vasha sumka naverkhoo. Ponyal.”

  “Sumka naverkhoo,” she repeated. Then she grabbed his arm and led him to the elevator before dereliction of duty could cross his mind.

  27

  Improvements

  Loire Valley, France

  THEY SAY THAT WITH SEX, the second time is the best because the exploratory passions remain piqued, but the nervous tensions have eased. Michael found himself experiencing a similar excitement with Raven.

  The maiden voyage with LeClaire could not have gone smoother. Raven had flown in and out without being seen. The ransom had been paid without dickering or delay. And Ivan was the happiest Michael had ever seen him. He resembled a prospector who’d struck gold after years of digging. Relieved, gratified and on the brink of serious wealth.

  Now that they knew Ivan’s grand idea worked, the Raven operations would be practically stress-free. What was left to worry about? There was no fear of capture. How could they possibly get caught? Even if law enforcement stumbled upon them in the Tesla with the Drone Command Module in operation and Raven flying, they were bulletproof. Pavel would just hit the SELF-DESTRUCT button and all evidence would vanish. Raven would explode into confetti-sized pieces, and the DCM would link up with one of Silicon Hill’s legitimate little drones. Poof. Instant absolution.

  Michael’s only major concern was paying off Vazov before the deadline. Thirty ops in as many days would be a challenge, for sure. The real trick, however, would be keeping those victims quiet. Abducting people by drone would become much more difficult once victims became wary, neighbors began watching and law enforcement started scanning the sky.

  But Ivan was oddly unworried about word getting out, so Michael suppressed his concern. At least verbally.

  Ivan had joined the team for tonight’s op rather than watching it remotely on his laptop screen. Claiming that he wanted to experience a capture live “just this once” and “see the improved Claw in action,” he had relegated Boris to the Tesla’s third row and hopped into the passenger seat beside Michael.

  To connoisseurs of mechanical might, the captures were now as beautiful as any ballet performed by a prima ballerina. Michael was no artist or engineer, but after working closely with Boris and other brilliant scientists for years, he could appreciate The Claw’s performance both as an engineering marvel and as an intricate amalgam of precision parts.

  Thirty feet in length and an inch in diameter, The Claw resembled a finger with a hundred knuckles. If one had X-ray vision, he’d see that the two-inch segments of aluminum pipe were connected by cables and universal couplings, while the last four feet were also jointed with ratchets that allowed them to lock along a parallel plane like a long finger closing tight. Once those joints closed, their handcuff-like mechanisms could not be forced open. Once The Claw wrapped around your waist, there was no escape.

  “What’s better about the new capture system?” Ivan called over his shoulder.

  Boris said, “It has a ninety-degree joint just above where the ratchets start. That allows us to swing the last four feet forward like a lance. With the press of a button, Pavel can place The Claw in perfect position for a wraparound. Then a second button closes The Claw. It takes no time at all.”

  “Walk me through it.”

  Pavel did. “I aim to fly Raven in from behind, fast and low, until The Claw is hanging down just behind the target’s right side. Then I engage the lance function, jutting the last four feet up like the base of an ‘L.’ I activate the ratchets the instant the lance is beside his waist, looping it around his middle like a long metal finger closing tight. Takes less than two seconds in total.”

  “The concert of closing ratchets sounds like a rattlesnake,” Michael added. “Increasing the fear factor.”

  “I practiced the maneuver for hours on end,” Pavel continued. “First on mannequins, then on animals, then on human volunteers. I practiced with them standing and fighting and fleeing. I practiced coming at them head on and from behind. I practiced swooping in at high speed and dropping down from high above. Meanwhile Boris optimized the engineering to make the motion fast as a finger snap.”

  “Show me,” Ivan said.

  28

  Illusion

  Moscow, Russia

  ILLUSIONISTS ARE SPECIALISTS at manipulating perception. They leverage misleading expectations and utilize flashy distractions to conjure up false conclusions. As a con artist, Jo had mastered many of their tactics and would be using one tonight.

  The secret to cons, like optical illusions, is taking advantage of anticipation. Feeding customers the appearance of something they’ve been waiting for while distracting them from what’s really happening.

  Illusionists can make a caged canary disappear, for example, by acting in the slim sliver of real estate that exists between the laws of physics and the boundaries of the human mind. While there is no physical constraint that prevents turning a tweeting tuft of yellow fluff into a wafer-thin pancake, everyone is born with a mental constraint. Fortunately, tonight Jo would be performing the more pleasant part of that trick. The reincarnation. She didn’t have a twin canary tucked up her sleeve, but she did have a purse. Or rather a spring-loaded purse-shaped object made from the same material as her dress.

  “Kakaya komnata?” the security guard asked.

  Jo assumed he was asking Which room? She pointed to the right.

  She’d picked the fourth floor because it had the fewest lights, and now turned right because that was the darkest direction. She l
ed him around the corner of a bisecting corridor and stopped beside a conference room. She knew it was a conference room because a door plaque stated as much in both Russian and English. “Mendeleev Conference Room.” No doubt an homage to the Russian chemist, given where they were standing.

  “Mendeleev?” the guard asked.

  “Yes. Da,” Jo said with a smile.

  The guard reached for his belt and produced the prize. It was white—good. It was plain—also good. It was slotted—still good. It was clipped to his belt by a retractable string—bad.

  In preparation for tonight’s incursion, she and Achilles had studied countless photographs and hours of YouTube video. Skolkovo was a prestigious place eager for publicity, so there was no shortage of selfie-video available to anyone who wanted to view the interior. She’d found footage showing a Hypercube keycard in action as an incidental part of an intern’s unofficial tour. He had produced the keycard from his wallet, however, rather than the end of a string.

  The guard held the card to the lock and Jo heard a click. Her plan had been to get ahead of him, using her body to block his view while she supposedly found her bag. But that had presupposed a simple pocket pick. Not a card clipped to a string.

  Thinking on her feet, Jo allowed the gentleman to get the door.

  The guard obliged.

  Mendeleev’s setup was modern standard, with roller chairs around a long laminate table and a large flat-screen on the wall. At this point, the natural move would be for her to return to where she’d presumably been sitting and produce her purse. She gestured instead. Be a gentleman. I’m wearing ridiculously high heels.

  He walked around to the table, pulled aside the indicated chair and studied the floor.

  She followed him, frowned, then smiled, pointed and tripped.

  When you watch magicians perform card tricks, half the amazement comes from the apparent ease with which they do it. Cards fly around their fingers, darting in and out, up and down, as if piloted by microprocessors and pulled by strings. For the average person whose exposure is limited to card games at family reunions, the ease with which magicians manipulate those thin sheets of plasticized cardboard is miraculous. Most people couldn’t do it in a thousand years. Except actually they could—if they put in a thousand hours.