by Tim Tigner
Achilles nodded. “The drone pilots fighting the Taliban aren’t in Afghanistan. They’re in Florida or Nevada or Colorado. Half a world away and safe as a king in his castle. I think it’s safe to say Ivan is no less savvy. It’s also safe to say the FBI has California covered. I don’t know what we could do there that they aren’t already doing.”
“You have another angle?”
“There’s one I’d like to try. It assumes you’re right about Vazov being Ivan.”
“You’ve warmed to that idea?”
“I’m still skeptical. But I don’t have a better tactic for tracking Ivan down.”
Jo withdrew her hands and assumed a thinking pose. “Tell me.”
“When I hunted people for the CIA, I occasionally did it through their purchasing habits. Artwork. Automobiles. Wine. Watches. People with power tend to get obsessed with their image. They want to be that guy, and they want everyone to know it. And it’s not always expensive stuff. Sometimes it’s silly things. Russia’s Prime Minister got nailed in a colossal corruption scandal due to his obsession with tennis shoes and untucked shirts.”
Jo’s expression said she didn’t quite follow. “Did you find a peculiar purchase in Vazov’s closet?”
“Not exactly. And not his closet. His office. It’s very nice and very new. Too new. Virtually unused.”
“Maybe he had it remodeled while he was in California.”
“No. It didn’t have that brand new smell. Quite the opposite. It felt abandoned. Same goes for his residence. Half the second floor is Vazov’s personal suite. I broke in overnight. It’s beautifully staged but has never been used.”
“I still don’t follow.
“Hang with me for a second. Do you recall the huge portrait in his lobby?”
“Vazov on horseback doing a Napoleon impression.”
Achilles nodded. “There were similar paintings in his office. Not of Vazov, but of polo players.”
“You think polo is his hobby?”
“More like an obsession. Silicon Hill is a unique entrepreneurial endeavor and an impressive accomplishment. But the vanity shot isn’t one capturing an inventive moment or even the great man surveying his empire. It’s him swinging a mallet.”
“Maybe we’re just missing the symbolism.”
“Remind me to call Robert Langdon.”
Jo flashed a lopsided grin. “Seriously, that’s pretty thin.”
“I’d agree with you, if it weren’t for an unguarded comment. I asked a passerby when Vazov usually gets in. He said, ‘He usually doesn’t. But then I’d be playing polo too, if I had the option.’ ”
“So you want to start snooping around local polo clubs?”
“How many can there be?”
56
Goal Posts
Los Angeles, California
GIVEN THE SIZE of the media swarm that engulfed Silicon Valley, you’d have thought it was hosting the Olympics. News trucks outnumbered taxi cabs and hotel rooms became hard to find. Dozens of Bay Area police forces were burning through overtime budgets responding to drone-related reports, and most local mayors had enacted bans prohibiting the operation of drones.
All were going to be disappointed.
Team Raven had left town.
Michael was thrilled to leave the circus behind, but he was nervous about setting up the tent in L.A. For their purposes, Silicon Valley was an exemplary location, offering a high concentration of extreme wealth paired with perfect geography. The endless expanse of rolling hills and wild lands surrounding the valley floor provided an abundance of isolated environments ideal for eight-figure estates and unobserved abductions.
Los Angeles, by contrast, was a concrete jungle. Ten million homes packed into a coastal basin and connected by a clogged highway system. While there were plenty of ultra-wealthy neighborhoods in the greater metropolitan area—Manhattan Beach, Beverly Hills, Hidden Hills, Rolling Hills, Bel Air—there was limited isolation. Especially for activities taking place at an elevation of eighty-five feet.
The fact that falls from altitudes of eighty-five feet and above were one hundred percent fatal was one of many that had made the news. As Ivan had predicted, the talking heads jabbered on about little else. The surviving CEOs had all come forward under the condition of anonymity to share their experiences in scintillating detail. The strange sound preceding the strike, like locusts or a rattlesnake. The cold constriction around their waists, a steel shackle that would not yield. The incomparable terror of being torn from the earth and tethered to a UFO. The accounts went on and on in dramatic fashion, feeding voracious appetites for vicarious experiences of the most famous abductions since the Lindberghs lost their baby.
Ivan maintained a mischievous look in his eye throughout. That “all according to plan, my plan” look. Michael knew it to be a sure sign that the great man was happy. It occurred to Michael that Ivan was only happy at times like these, when the dominoes he’d so ingeniously arranged were toppling according to plan—racing toward an inevitable and yet unforeseeable conclusion.
Michael couldn’t believe that Ivan would really give it all up. The Ghost was fooling himself, pretending that it was all about the money. His bank balance was just a scorecard. It was icing on the cake. The real gratification, the true impetus for his action, was proving that he could outwit the rest of the world combined.
Ivan had an unparalleled ability to invent and implement schemes that showered money. Schemes so cunning and complex that nobody could second-guess his next move. That unique ability to outwit was his bliss. His passion. His calling. It gave him a sense of satisfaction no bank balance could replicate.
“You’re looking at me funny,” Ivan said, setting down his silverware.
They were in a booth at the Tune-In Diner, one of those restaurants with televisions on the wall and speakers at each table. Take your table, choose your channel and tune in. Perfect for couples tired of talking, or those with children they needed to keep occupied. Ivan liked it because all the background noise kept conversations private, and half the on-screen action these days revolved around Raven.
Michael set his fork beside his plate. “Are you really going to do it? Walk away, I mean. Leave The Ghost behind and become ordinary.”
“There’s nothing ordinary about being a billionaire.”
Michael shrugged. “It’s passive. Being isn’t doing.”
Ivan resumed the attack on his steak. “This game I play is no different from other contact sports. It’s physically dangerous, mentally demanding and ultimately exhausting. It favors the young. If I keep going, I’ll fade. Bit by bit. Imperceptibly perhaps. But eventually, I’ll get sacked, or benched, or knocked-out—choose your metaphor. Best to retire while wearing the heavyweight belt, the Super Bowl ring.”
“You’ve been wearing those for years.”
Ivan speared another rare chunk of red meat. “I intend to take my title to the grave—many years from now.”
“So you’re not going to retire?”
“Oh, I’m going to retire all right.”
“I don’t follow.”
Ivan waved his knife. “We’re about to take bold to a whole new level. Before we’re done with Raven, we’ll have moved the goal posts so far down field that our record will never be beaten.”
57
Three-Day Plan
French Riviera
THEY FOUND THE CLUB. It wasn’t hard. There were only a few polo clubs in the south of France, and the Russians all belonged to the same one. The newest one. The Monte Carlo Polo Club.
Once they knew where to focus their efforts, Achilles and Jo dug deeper and discovered that the MCPC was owned by none other than Vlad Vazov. Little V himself.
Shortly after that discovery, Achilles enjoyed another breakthrough. He got one of those ideas where your mind lights up like Christmas and a grin connects your ears. He was brainstorming ways to confirm that Vazov was Ivan without being recognized. The idea appeared as insights usually do, wit
h a warm flash of excitement. He could spy on Vazov using a drone.
Achilles found poetry in turning The Ghost’s own weapon against him. He also found merit in learning to fly one of the machines. Know thine enemy, be prepared, and all that. The icing on the cake was that he didn’t need to be particularly concerned with camouflage. What more natural place to fly a camera drone than over a sporting match?
His bright idea literally took a nosedive hours later. No sooner had he breached the aerial border at the Monte Carlo Polo Club than his shiny new toy dropped like a swatted fly. It didn’t act like it was supposed to when there was a simple signal disruption. It didn’t hover or return to base. It simply plummeted.
“Did you hit the wrong button?” Jo asked, glancing over from her 25x70 SkyMaster binoculars.
They were “picnicking” atop the hill nearest the MCPC, which was a half-mile away. While too distant for definitive facial recognition even with a telescope, the hill was close enough to watch the game through high-powered binoculars. It even gave them a partial view of a house hidden from the road at the far end of the field. A sprawling compound built in the same Mediterranean style as the clubhouse, but with security enhancements sufficient for storing nuclear weapons. Vazov’s real house, no doubt.
Achilles pointed to the display on the drone control unit, where “Connection Lost” was flashing in red. “Talk about an understatement.”
“What happened?”
“Vazov obviously has defensive measures in place.”
“A jammer?”
“Something more serious. I’m thinking either an EMP cannon fried its circuits or a counter-drone weapon switched off its power.”
“You sure it wasn’t just a fluke?”
Achilles wasn’t completely certain, so they sent in a second drone. A different model from a different manufacturer. It met with a similar end. “They must scrape drones off the field like bugs off a windshield.”
“So what’s next?” Jo asked. “How do we give you a good look at Vazov without giving him a good look at you?”
Achilles whipped out the idea he’d been working when the drone tactic came to him. “It’s become clear to me that the club is our best and perhaps only way to approach Vazov in an unsuspicious manner. The polo field is the one place where he isn’t cordoned off by bodyguards. It’s also a place where attention isn’t on faces—it’s on horses and mallets and, of course, the ball.”
“So?”
“So I need to get myself onto the polo field while Vazov is playing.”
“You mean as a referee or something?”
“I’m thinking as a player on an opposing team.”
“You ever played polo before?”
“No. I’ve never even held a mallet. But I rode a lot as a kid. Horses are big in Colorado. I figure I can become reasonably competent in a couple of days with intense private lessons.”
“Private lessons?”
“I’ll pay the club pro whatever he asks. That will give me an ally and get me out on the field. It will also provide plenty of time in the club. Who knows, maybe I’ll receive a social invitation to something Vazov is also attending. Or maybe I’ll find the means to swipe his phone or steal his wallet. Once I’m inside, opportunities will present themselves.”
“What if Vazov gets a good look at you—while you’re seeking opportunity? If he is Ivan and he recognizes you, it’s all over. You’ll be surrounded by his men.”
“I won’t give him the opportunity.”
They both knew that was easier said than done, but Jo let it slide. “You really think you can get onto an opposing team? Sounds like the very definition of something that’s easier said than done.”
“It probably is. I’ll know by the end of the first day.”
“How so?”
“Either the club pro will call me a natural, or he won’t. If he doesn’t, then we’ll try to find some other situation that brings me face to face with Vazov without making him suspicious.”
“And if the pro does call you a natural?”
“Then I work my butt off to impress him enough that he recommends me as a substitute if somebody doesn’t show up for a match against Vazov’s team.”
“What are the odds of a player not showing up?”
“Under normal circumstances, not very good, given that there are only four people on a team. But that’s where you come into play.”
“Me? How so?”
“When the time comes, you’re going to ensure that the right guy fails to show—without warning.”
“Really? And how do I do that?”
“I have no idea. But I’m completely confident you’ll figure it out.”
58
Boris
Los Angeles, California
BORIS OFTEN HEARD that he had an unusual mind, although he wasn’t sure what constituted usual. Everyone seemed unique to him. Of course, they were referencing his aptitude for engineering—which was entirely natural if not usual.
Since his single-digit years, Boris had devoured and absorbed engineering texts like so many lollypops. Laws, rules, theorems and hypotheses, all of it stuck. Now, if he studied an object in operation, be it a predatory bird or a nuclear submarine, he could deconstruct the design in his mind. Kind of like X-ray vision.
And that was only half his talent.
The lesser half.
His mind also worked the other way. If he knew what he needed, he could create a design. Plausible, if not practical.
While this struck most people as a remarkable ability, for Boris it was just there. An intuitive application of basic mechanical principles—and some advanced ones. The challenge he faced was finding projects that cranked his intellectual motor.
Most employers were looking for incremental improvements. Sleeker models. Iterations. Designs that would increase their share of proven markets. That wasn’t Boris’s thing. He wanted to break barren ground. Open new markets. Be an engineering entrepreneur. But the money just wasn’t there. Not in Russia anyway. Not until Ivan came along.
Ivan brought him the idea of Raven and the money to make it happen. Boris took it from there.
It had been a great ride, but this one was nearing its end. Ivan had brought him along for maintenance and troubleshooting as a one-man pit crew. There wasn’t much of that required, so his role had morphed into mundane things like driving.
Until today.
Today’s assignment began with boosting the truck they would use during their “Los Angeles premiere.” A generic white model the size of a UPS truck, with a roll-up door and a pullout ramp. Having him steal a car, even when it required disabling the GPS, was like having Rembrandt paint your house.
But Boris didn’t mind.
He was happy to be busy with his hands.
And the next steps would be far more exciting.
Once he had the truck, his next move was removing the roof. A clean cut that wouldn’t be noticed from the ground. One that would allow Raven to fly in and out without getting snagged.
Then the real fun started.
For Raven to fly in and out of a truck, Boris had to make two of the rotors retractable during flight. Otherwise it wouldn’t fit.
There was no weight problem, as Raven carried no cargo during those parts of the mission, but it still presented a tasty engineering challenge.
Normally Raven folded away for transport like a transformer from the movies. The rotor blades rotated to stack and the rotor housings folded in half. The rotor arms telescoped and The Claw winch flipped aside. But that all happened with the drone on the ground. Boris had just made it possible to retract two rotors with Raven in the air. It was a temporary fix, and not particularly pretty, but Ivan said it only had to work for one mission.
With Raven ready, all that remained was camouflaging the truck. Boris painted Elite Exterminators in blue on both sides, and slapped Toxic Hazard warnings all around. The resulting drone transportation vehicle was exactly what law enforcement was look
ing for, except that they were looking 400 miles north in Silicon Valley.
When the truck was ready, Ivan revealed another pleasant surprise. He put Boris back to work on the drone. “I want you to remove the components required for folding. Everything but your new additions. Should knock off about ten pounds.”
“It’s really not necessary,” Boris replied, reaching for his socket wrench. “It won’t impact performance in the least. Not that I’m complaining. I’m happy to do it.”
“Do you really think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Ivan asked, surprising Boris with a tone that was anything but inquisitive.
“No, it’s just—”
“Then don’t tell me there’s no need.”
The abandoned warehouse where they were working went quiet.
“We’re all just a bit mystified,” Michael said, wading into the cooling water. “You indicated that tomorrow’s mission is going to be special, and you’ve had us prepare a new truck, but otherwise you’ve been tight-lipped about it.”
Ivan said nothing.
Reading Boris’s mind, Michael motioned toward the discarded roof and socket wrench. “You’re also adopting tactics that you once dismissed for being shortsighted and ordinary. Then there’s the Sangster drop.”
“What about the Sangster drop?”
“It cost us our invisibility. We’re exposed now, and as a result, a bit nervous.”
“So, what are you: nervous or mystified?”
Michael blanched, but stood his ground. “The two are related. We just want to know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is business as usual. I devise a plan. You execute it. Everybody wins.”
“The plan appears to be changing. Usually, you have everything scripted—our moves, their moves, from bitter beginning to elusive end—with uncanny foresight and precision. Suddenly, however, we’re altering a fundamental part of the operation. Plus, we’re way behind with Vazov’s payments.”
