Falling Stars

by Tim Tigner

  Her eyes flew to the end of the muzzle and she found it impossible to look away. Would it all end here on this gypsum covered floor, a thousand miles from home? Would she vanish without a trace? She stared into that dark abyss until Achilles appeared at her side. Then her rational mind overrode her lizard brain with a simple deduction: if her assailant was going to fire, he would have done so already.

  Actually, there were two assailants. A matching set. One for her, one for Achilles. Both wore suits rather than uniforms. Both carried semi-automatics designed for concealed carry. Bodyguards, not security.

  The pair was guarding a man who didn’t appear to need it. A big bear of a brute, with a thick neck, bald head and knuckles resembling walnuts. Late-fifties by wrinkle count, but mid-thirties by physique, with an arrogant stance, clever countenance and commanding presence. A beautiful woman clung to his side. Not a tart or prostitute. A wife, judging by her jewelry, wardrobe and 50 year-old hands.

  Another couple, also dressed for the party, waited wide-eyed a few paces back. Investors apparently, and unaccustomed to the sight of guns.

  Jo had worked her way out of many a fix with quick wits and a clever tongue. In the background, her mind was already working. But misdirects and deceptions couldn’t save her today. She didn’t speak Russian.

  Achilles did.

  He spoke two words.

  Jo understood both of them. “Victor Vazov.”

  The oligarch himself, Jo realized. He hadn’t plastered his face all around the web like some CEOs. No mystery to that corporate strategy. Not if the goal was attracting investors, rather than frightening them.

  Victor studied her for a long, thick second. Then Achilles. His gaze was like that of a housewife in a butcher shop—skeptical and appraising. When he spoke, he spoke to her, genteelly and in English. “Good evening. May I help you?”

  She turned toward Achilles, anxious to read his expression.

  “Don’t look at him,” Victor admonished. “That’s not polite. I’ve just asked you a question.”

  No doubt Victor considered her the weak link. A woman rattled. Jo could work with that. She shrugged and donned a meek expression. “We saw an opportunity to score, and we took it. Surely you can appreciate that?”

  “What opportunity?”

  “A distracting party. An unguarded safe.”

  “There’s no safe here.”

  Jo shrugged. “We were misinformed.”

  Victor raised his eyebrows. “Indeed you were. Not only did you set yourself up for a lengthy prison stay, but you missed a nice party. Since no real harm was done, I’ll thank you for identifying a weak spot in my security and wish you the best with the judge.” He gave a quick farewell bow of his head, spun on his heels and headed for the exit with his lovely wife at his side and the other couple two steps ahead.

  The bodyguards remained, waiting for the police to arrive. Supposedly.

  35

  Double Take

  Lyon, France

  ARNO CHAUVEAU pulled his putter from his bag for the thirteenth time that evening and sized up the short grass between sumptuous puffs on his hand-rolled Dominican. The hole was par five, but he’d killed the drive and hit the green in two. A perfect putt would bag him an eagle.

  He played the course almost every Friday night, and always as the last one through. His workweeks were stuffed solid with stress, and this was his favorite way to unwind. His ritual. With no one behind him, he could take it easy. Enjoy a cigar and half a flask of brandy. With no one accompanying him, he had no pressure to perform. So, of course, these games were always his best.

  He practiced the putt, lubricating his shoulder joints while slipping into rhythm. It was getting dark. He’d have to switch to a glow-in-the-dark ball for the next hole. His night vision wasn’t what it used to be, but he refused to let his age change his behavior. That was Arno’s secret to staying young. Refuse to yield.

  Once his practice swing felt right, he took a half-step forward, addressed the ball, and—What the hell was that? Arno turned toward the woods behind him and the source of an unfamiliar disturbance. It looked and sounded like a tiny tornado had just touched down on a beehive. The wind grew more intense as he studied the foliage. Loose ash flew from his cigar, sending sparks onto his sweater, while a black shadow moved overhead. Not a shadow, rather some kind of hovercraft. Fascinating!

  Something tapped his foot. He looked down to see his ball, rolling from the wind. As he bent to retrieve it, something encircled his waist. Something hard. It wrapped all the way around. He abandoned his putter and cigar, and grabbed the offending object with both hands. Thick as a broomstick and metallic black in color, it was hard, cold and completely unyielding. As panic engulfed him, his feet left the ground.

  The hovercraft sucked him skyward until he was just above the trees, but not within their reach. Once it stopped ascending, it started flying backward. Away from the clubhouse and out over the woods.

  Was he hallucinating? Had someone spiked his cigar or tampered with his brandy? Surely this couldn’t really be happening, yet somehow it was. Glancing up at the big black all-too-real machine, Arno found pride in the fact that he hadn’t soiled his pants or begun frothing at the mouth. He sought to build on that emotion.

  He had worked his way up the real estate development business from the bottom, starting with high-rise construction work in his youth. The experience of working on girders had tamed his fear of heights and trained him to think clearly under duress. He owed much of his success to the lessons he’d learned and the discipline he’d developed at altitude. He drew on that experience now.

  Instinct told Arno that the smart move was to seize control, to leap for the treetops when an inviting branch appeared below. But the coil encircling his waist would not yield. He had little choice but to hang there and take it. For the moment, at least.

  To keep himself calm, Arno occupied his mind by attempting to guess what would happen next. Analytically. Remotely. As if watching himself in a movie.

  He didn’t get far.

  The hovercraft halted before he got to his first good guess. It halted high above Carter Creek, a shallow stream running erratically through the thick woods. The stream looked cold, its rocks hard and jagged. Very uninviting. Arno chose to look upward instead—and got the answer. A negotiation would be next.

  A headset was dropping down. Dangling on a thin cable, it stopped right before his eyes.

  He slipped it on.

  “Mr. Chauveau, we’re calling with a request.”

  I bet you are, you wily bastard. “I’m listening.”

  “We’re about to get your CFO on the phone. We’re going to give him a bank account number, and you’re going to tell him to wire $10 million to it. Immediately.”

  As a seasoned negotiator, Arno’s impulse was to ask what would happen if he didn’t place the order. Get them to reveal their hand. But in this case, that answer was obvious. Dickering over the price seemed neither wise nor dignified. He had no leverage, nothing with which to bargain. They had him over the proverbial barrel. Way over. He’d have to be satisfied escaping with life, limb and pride intact. With living to fight another day. That wasn’t so bad. “And if I comply?”

  “You get to putt for an eagle.”

  Arno looked up again. The hovercraft had four rotors arranged equidistant from a central winch, a winch that controlled the mechanical cable from which he hung. Next to the winch was a digital display. Two numbers, glowing green, counting down.

  “It’s minutes of remaining battery power,” the voice replied in answer to his unasked question. “Of course, we’ll lighten the load well before we run out of juice so we can bring our baby home safely.”

  Bring our baby home, Arno repeated to himself. He’d heard that phrase before. Come to think of it, he’d heard that voice before. Who was it? He’d remember. By God, he’d remember. Then payback would come tenfold. He would have the last laugh. “Get Elizabeth Piper on the line,” he said,
referencing his CFO.

  “She’s already on hold,” the familiar voice said.

  “Arno?”

  “Hey, Lizzie. We need to make a transfer. $10 million. Immediately.”

  “What’s going on? Can you turn off the hair dryer—it’s kinda hard to hear.”

  “It’s not a hair dryer, and you wouldn’t believe what’s going on if I told you. Did they give you an account number.”

  “Yeah. You sure this is what you want? $10 million to Highlife Insurance in Antigua?”

  “I’m absolutely certain.”

  “Okay. Should I consult with Uncle Saar first? Or send him to the golf course?”

  Saar Shmueli was head of corporate security. A former Israeli Defense Forces major, Saar was as smart and serious as soldiers came. “No. I need you to make the transfer immediately.” He looked up at the green clock: 41 minutes. Not a lot of time to deal with computer glitches or pesky procedures. “Time is of the essence.”

  “Hitting send now,” Piper said.

  “Waiting for confirmation,” the familiar voice said.

  Fabre! The voice was Emile Fabre. He’d fired the bastard years back for theft. As vice president of sales, Fabre’s job was closing the big deals. “Bringing babies home” he’d called it. Many of those deals were contracts requiring kickbacks. Arno had caught Fabre doubling the ask and pocketing half. He’d dismissed him on the spot. Fabre had gone on to become CEO of a rival corporation, something Arno was constantly reminded of since Fabre built his personal brand by jumping in front of every camera that came along.

  So now that he was fat and happy, Fabre wanted revenge. Payback. Well, two could play at that game. He’d serve it up himself, old school. Baseball bats and brass knuckles rather than high-tech toys.

  “Funds received,” Fabre said.

  Arno exhaled. He knew Piper would pay, but felt a warm wash of relief nonetheless. “So set me down already!”

  “Sure. Just one more thing first,” Fabre said, his voice taunting.

  “What’s that?”

  “Another $10 million.”

  36

  Three Heads

  Quantico, Virginia

  RIP DIDN’T immediately inform Director Brix of the drone discovery as he’d told his team he would. He set up a meeting instead. As any corporate climber would testify, it was best to present progress in person—especially when your record showed more misses than hits.

  Before heading to the airport, he had told the team where he was going and directed strict silence regarding the drone. The look in Oscar’s eyes told him that his order had come too late. No doubt the CIA’s representative had rushed to inform Langley the moment their meeting ended.

  That suited Rip just fine.

  His phone rang as the plane was landing at Reagan National. Caller ID indicated Agent Clancy. “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a tentative ID on the drone. It’s a modified VV1, manufactured by Vertical Vision and used for surveying oil and gas pipelines.”

  “Tentative?”

  “The photo resolution is too rough to be certain. And VV1s are white, whereas the drone in question is black. But paint is cheap and the VV1 is the only drone I’ve found with matching ears.”

  “Ears?”

  “They’re antennae, but—”

  “I get it. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks, Clancy. Good work.”

  An hour later, Rip walked into the corner office in Quantico. His boss wasn’t alone. CIA Director Kevin Riddle was also seated at the table. Two directors, twice the credit. Thank you, Oscar Pincus.

  “Have a seat, Rip,” Director Brix said. “Director Riddle was just telling me that you have evidence of drone involvement in his predecessor’s killing?”

  Despite the cordial tone, Brix was undoubtedly pissed that Riddle received first word. But Rip was confident his transgression would soon be forgiven. He’d emerge from this meeting with two gold stars. “That’s right. Given the severe ramifications, I thought we should discuss it in person.”

  Rip whipped open his laptop and showed them the video from EarthCam. Then he pulled up stills of the drone coming and going.

  “What have you concluded from this?” Brix asked.

  “I see two possible scenarios. One, Achilles used the drone to slip a gun past Rider’s bodyguards. Two, a third party used the drone to kill Director Rider and frame Achilles for it.”

  “Which do you consider more likely?” Brix asked.

  “Using a drone to deliver a weapon is a lot more complicated than hiding one.”

  “But potentially more reliable,” Brix countered, playing devil’s advocate. “A gun might be discovered.”

  Rip nodded diplomatically. “I take your point.”

  Riddle said, “Achilles could have hidden a ceramic knife without fear of discovery. In his hands, it would be just as deadly. For that matter, Achilles wouldn’t require a weapon. Not against a politician.”

  Rip didn’t contradict him.

  Brix cracked the knuckles of his left hand, one after the other, his eyes on the ceiling. “If the drone pulled the trigger, then we’re looking at something very different from a disgruntled former employee taking revenge. Potentially something much bigger.”

  “What are you thinking?” Riddle asked.

  “Either someone wanted Rider dead and figured that framing Achilles was the best way to get away with it. Or killing Rider served a different purpose entirely.”

  “Such as?”

  “Suppose, for example, you want to convince prospective clients that you can kill anybody. Anybody at all. A sheik. A sultan. A president. Killing the Director of the CIA would be one hell of an audition. You do that, and you could name your price. Nine figures wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  Riddle nodded somberly before turning to Rip. “What are you thinking, Agent Zonder?”

  “I have to admit, the audition angle didn’t occur to me. My thoughts went straight to the broader security picture and got hung up there.”

  “Broader security picture?”

  “Our country is packed with guns and it’s filling up with drones. Once people realize they can combine the two to kill with anonymity, we’re going to find ourselves living in a different world.”

  Rip watched the two powerful men absorb his words like heavy weights laid on raw shoulders. Nobody said anything for a few beats.

  Brix was first to break the silence. “We need to keep this development quiet.”

  Riddle immediately concurred. “Agreed.”

  “My team knows to keep quiet,” Rip said.

  “We should personally reinforce that message,” Brix said to Riddle before turning back to Rip. “Looks like finding Achilles is more important than we thought. It’s not just optics anymore.”

  “I agree,” Riddle said. “Achilles knows what happened on that roof. If he was framed, he’ll likely know who did it. The urgency of finding him just increased tenfold.”

  Brix said, “So as far as everyone not on the team is concerned, Achilles will remain our prime suspect. There will be no public mention of the drone. Rip, your team should investigate the drone angle with strict discretion.”

  Rip was tempted to ask Brix if this negated his previous order to shoot Achilles on sight, but bit his tongue. “Understood. We’ve tentatively identified the model as a VV1, manufactured by Vertical Vision in Moscow.”

  “The bloody Russians,” Riddle said. “That makes sense.”

  “Vertical Vision is owned by Victor Vazov, the oil oligarch,” Rip added.

  Riddle raised his eyebrows. “I’ll see if he’s crossed paths with Rider.”

  “There’s another Russia connection,” Rip said. “The call that got me searching the sky for drones was made from Moscow, although I’m pretty sure the caller was a French woman.”

  “A French woman? With what intent?” Brix asked.

  “She appears to want to get Achilles off the hook.”
r />   “You think he was with her when she called?”

  “At the very least, she’d spoken to him after the event.”

  “How old did the woman sound?” Riddle asked, his voice suddenly more energetic.

  “Young enough to have me thinking ooh la la, but old enough for me to take her seriously. Early thirties, I’d guess.”

  “Did you mention that to your team? Does Oscar know about the French woman?”

  Rip had kept her tip to himself until the video yielded fruit. “We didn’t discuss her.”

  Riddle slammed the flat of his hand against the table, causing the others to jerk their heads. “Achilles’ last partner was a French woman. A rookie. They only worked one operation together. It was a high profile assignment and they blew it. Cost both of them their jobs. That operation was an attempt to capture Ivan the Ghost.”

  37

  Separation

  Moscow, Russia

  ACHILLES KNEW what was coming before it happened. After a dozen paces, Victor Vazov raised his left index finger and stopped walking. The oligarch’s good-cop routine wasn’t so much for Jo as for his wife and the foreign investors. He said something sotto voce to the missus, then returned to the nearest bodyguard and spoke, while she escorted the guests toward the door.

  After listening to Victor, the bodyguard motioned for his partner to accompany the boss. He did so without taking his aim from Jo’s center mass.

  As Victor walked off, Jo whispered, “What did he say?”

  “Apparently the garbage truck comes in the morning. We’re supposed to be in it.”

  “No talking!” their minder growled. He kept his Glock 19 on Jo’s chest, but locked eyes with Achilles. A sound tactical move. “Get back inside.” He gestured toward the hole with his chin.

  Achilles put his arm around Jo to guide her.

  The bodyguard cut him off. “Just you. She stays here.”

  Achilles had faced scores of tough choices over the years, but he couldn’t recall another one this gut wrenching. He couldn’t leave Jo alone with Vazov’s brute. The way she looked in that dress, with her lithe legs, boosted bust and sparkling eyes, no magic was required to read his mind. But Achilles also couldn’t cover the ten feet between them faster than the twitch of a trigger finger. Sure, the brute would hesitate. Even pros would think twice before shooting a beautiful, young, non-threatening woman. But the order had been given. They were going out with the trash and this guy’s orders were to put them in the can. Doubt would only buy half a second.