by Tim Tigner
“You talk like you haven’t found squat.”
“The water in the area of the explosion is a quarter-mile deep.”
“A quarter-mile?”
“He flew out past the shelf. No doubt that was intentional.”
“No doubt. Give me the bottom line.”
“We’ll eventually be able to identify the country of origin for the components and explosive, but not much else.”
“So after spending millions of hard-earned taxpayer dollars and holding my breath on camera for two months, I’ll get to go to the press with ‘Made in Taiwan.’ ”
Rip said nothing.
Ivan sighed. “Write it up and send it to me as a debriefing. A flash report. Word it as though this conversation never took place, and get it to me within the next two hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, just between us, and without any wishful thinking or ambiguous political drivel, do you have any concrete leads on the perp? Or his whereabouts? Or his next targets?”
Rip paused for half a beat, weighing the cost of candor against the price of peddling bullshit. “No, sir.”
“Any reason to believe we’ll catch him if we don’t get a lucky tip?”
Another brief exhale. “No, sir.”
“Any hope we can offer the people or the President?”
“Not at this time, sir.”
“I appreciate your honesty if not your lapse of competence. Call me immediately if any of that changes.” Ivan hung up without waiting for a reply.
Smiling at his phone, he scrolled to the bottom of the MiMiC app, slid an indicator to the left and hit the play button. The familiar voice of FBI Director Brix emanated from the speaker. “…do you have any concrete leads on the perp? Or his whereabouts? Or his next targets?”
“No, sir,” SAIC Ripley Zonder replied.
“Any reason to believe we’ll catch him without a lucky tip?”
“No, sir.”
“Any hope we can offer the people or the President?”
“Not at this time, sir.”
“I appreciate your honesty, if not your lapse of competence. Call me immediately if any of that changes.”
Ivan stopped the recording and spoke a single word. “Gotcha!”
73
Two Thuds
French Riviera
ACHILLES TURNED to see both bodyguards barreling his way. They hadn’t waited to reach their destination before coming for him. They hadn’t stopped the motor. A savvy tactical move. Would he now pay the ultimate price for overlooking the autopilot option?
Payment began to look inevitable.
Events quickly cascaded in the wrong direction.
Gleb pressed the Sig’s cold snout against the base of Achilles’ skull, while Gary secured a fresh lock and rebound his wrists. The click and ziiiiip sounded like nails pounding into his coffin.
The pair paused to gloat while Achilles stood there helpless as a bowling pin. “How’s it feel, knowing what’s coming? Knowing you’re about to die gasping for breath?” Apparently they didn’t want an answer as Gleb punched him in the solar plexus the second Gary stopped talking.
They scooped him up when he doubled over and carried him up onto the deck. It should have been challenging with sixty pounds of steel wrapped around his ankles, but they did it without breaking stride. Gleb grabbed him by the waist of his pants, while Gary hoisted the chains. Achilles had to arch his back to keep his head from clunking on the stairs—easier said than done while gasping for air.
They dropped him at the top of the stairs without further word.
Gleb disappeared, while Gary stood watch. A moment later the engine died. As the yacht came to a stop, Achilles became acutely aware of the rise and fall of the ocean.
Gleb returned and spoke through a smirk. “We’re going to give you a choice. You can either hop or roll to the edge.”
Achilles had always been an optimist. No way you could free-solo without a positive outlook. No way you could endure an Olympic training regimen or an undercover operation without the core belief that everything was going to work out. But there on the deck of the VaVaVoom, with bound arms and shackled ankles and beefy gunmen at his back, with hostile intent infusing the air and an ocean of isolation all around, Achilles struggled to find hope.
But not for long.
He gave up on hope and went with rage instead. Being beaten by Ivan the Ghost was one thing. He was a one of a kind genius, whose reputation was well deserved. But being bested by a Russian playboy was completely unacceptable. No way would Achilles go quietly at these amateur hands. No way would he disappear into the depths with a simple bloop.
He shifted his focus from saving himself to taking the smug bastards with him.
Rock climbers develop phenomenally strong fingers. The strength of their grip is second to none. Hand over hand, Achilles had climbed for hundreds of miles. By his fingertips, he’d hung for thousands of hours. If he could get a grip on a wrist or a shirt, he could drag the owner to the bottom. And if he could clamp onto the other with his teeth, he could drown them both.
As he pictured the scene, Achilles was struck by a plan. A far-out hail Mary kind of plan. A plan that offered hope where there had been none. The big one had the padlock key in his pocket.
While the objects of his animus watched with twisted grins, Achilles used his hamstring lift-and-squat trick to return to standing. Surveying the scene, he saw that Gleb had done as instructed. Whatever direction he looked, Achilles could see neither boat nor land.
“Hop to it,” Gleb commanded, motioning with his gun.
Achilles hopped three times, then pretended to break down. Still a good ten feet from the water’s edge, he bent over and began sobbing.
The reaction was one that he had feared, but not the one he had expected. He heard two gunshots ring out in rapid succession. The world around him—didn’t change. It didn’t snap to black or fade to white. He didn’t feel a sharp jolt or an overwhelming burning sensation.
He heard two thuds instead.
Then a familiar voice. “See what happens when you go in without me?”
Achilles looked up toward the sun. “Jo?”
“Who else?” She swung down from the roof where she’d apparently been impersonating a starfish. A seasick starfish with a Glock.
Achilles was having trouble adapting to this dramatic, magnificent, benevolent twist of fate. “How?”
“Bed was boring, so I grabbed the binoculars and a blanket, stuffed a thermos of hot tea and a pack of Pepcid into my satchel, hopped on the motorcycle and went to our picnic spot to watch you play.” She looked simultaneously radiant and pale.
“Some picnic,” Achilles said with a shake of his head.
“One to remember. Or forget.”
“Amen to that. How’d you end up on the yacht?”
“Following you from the club was a breeze on two wheels. So was slipping aboard while they brought you downstairs. The tough part was timing my strike. I initially hid in a bow box half-stuffed with spare life preservers. It was the first suitable place I saw and I grabbed it not knowing how much time I’d have. But tactically, it was unsuitable for launching an assault. Too visible. Once both guys went back down for you, I made my way onto the hard top, where I waited for clean shots.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Surely you knew I’d have your back?”
“I thought you were on your back. You’ve got food poisoning.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Achilles smiled. “Apparently nothing. You mind grabbing the key from the hairy guy’s pocket? I’m anxious to change my footwear.”
Once freed, Achilles dragged his would-be assassins to the dive platform. He bound their ankles together with the familiar chain and snapped the lock back into place. “Better you than me,” he said, and gave the pair a shove.
“How you feeling?” Jo asked as they watched the bodies vanish with a bloop and a few bubbles.
“Relie
ved, but not satisfied.”
“How so?”
“Vazov is an evil crook, but he isn’t Ivan.”
Jo put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Merde. So what next?”
Achilles gestured toward the captain’s chair. “You know how to operate one of these things? I’ve got a deck to swab.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“I’d hate to return Vazov’s yacht in bad condition.”
74
Canary
Albuquerque, New Mexico
THE STANDARD DINER in downtown Albuquerque was anything but standard, at least if Michael compared it to the other places they’d stopped on the long drive from California. Cloth napkins, granite countertops and brick walls painted the first impressions. The rare ahi tuna salad on the menu completed the above-standard picture.
Team Raven began the migration from L.A. before the smoke from the explosion had cleared. Four guys in the Tesla taking turns at the wheel. A straight shot east on I-40, with an overnight in a nondescript Arizona motel.
Michael had spent a good chunk of the drive staring at the empty space in the middle of the car, and contemplating what the loss of Raven meant. Now that the shock had settled in and they’d gotten some rest, it was time to press Ivan for answers. He’d wait for the food to arrive.
The waitress appeared as if on cue, but Ivan beat Michael to the punch. “Have any of you figured it out yet? Our next move?”
They were seated at a square four-top table in the corner. Michael looked left to Boris, then right to Pavel before replying. “I think it’s fair to say we’re full of faith but curious, concerned and confused.”
“That sounds like a rehearsed line. Is the sentiment shared?”
Pavel and Boris nodded.
“Good.” Ivan took a big bite of his Reuben. The thick, marble rye sandwich was piled high with corned beef, sauerkraut and a special sauce that oozed around the edges, begging for a lick. Ivan chewed while they stewed.
Michael broke the silence. “Why is that good? Why would you want your team, your support staff confused?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Ivan met each man’s eye. “Apparently not.”
He took another bite before continuing. “We’re in uncharted territory, guys. Nobody’s attempted anything like this before. I think I’ve got it all gamed out, but you know me, I like to be meticulous. That’s pretty important when one’s up against the combined forces of the CIA and FBI.”
“How does keeping us confused contribute to meticulous?” Pavel asked. “I’d think it’s just the opposite. I think four minds are better than one.”
Ivan let the question hang.
Boris bit. “We’re canaries.”
Ivan brought finger to nose. “Exactly.”
“I don’t follow,” Pavel said. “Call me stupid.”
Michael didn’t follow either, but he kept quiet.
“You guys know me. You guys know Raven. You guys know everything we’ve done, why we’ve done it, and how. If you still can’t figure out what I’m going to do next, then I don’t need to worry about the feds figuring it out, either.” He chomped on a couple of fries. “Evidently, I’m carefree.”
Michael set down his salad fork. “Now that you have your peace of mind, are you going to invite us behind the curtain?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“We’re still mining coal, so to speak. But I’ll give you a peek. We’re going to strike another movie star, here in Albuquerque. An off-camera grab, but still good for $40 million. Then we’ll do a public grab in New Orleans. After that, we’ll have another sit down and you can tell me if you’ve figured out what’s next.”
“How are we going to strike anyone else after blowing up Raven?”
“Oh, I’ve had two other drones shipped over. They’re both on location.”
Excluding the initial prototypes, Team Raven had only produced four drones. Two were now available to complete their mission. Michael did the math. It wasn’t difficult. “After Jenks, we still owe Vazov $482 million. That means we need to earn nearly a quarter billion per remaining drone. We got less than half that amount out of the first one.”
“We were just warming up,” Ivan said.
“My point exactly. That was before the world was watching and law enforcement was on high alert. When we hit Albuquerque, that will put the whole country on notice, not just California. We’ll be lucky to get more than a few ops per drone after that.”
“You’re exactly right.”
Michael thought about that for a second. “You’ve factored that in?”
“Of course.”
How could I ever have doubted. “Care to clue us in on how we’re going to make our number?”
“You’ve got clues.”
“We do?”
“The same ones the FBI has, as befits your function.”
“As befits our function,” Michael repeated.
“Canaries in a coal mine,” Boris said.
Michael was less than thrilled with his new title. “Care to point us in the right direction, since we’re not professional investigators?”
Ivan spread his hands in gesture. “Do what they do. Look for a motive that goes beyond the immediate monetary return. Ask yourself why I killed Sangster, then kidnapped a movie star on prime time TV. Keep asking yourself as you see what we do next—and let me know immediately if you figure it out.”
75
Broken Branches
French Riviera
JO SURPRISED HERSELF by docking the VaVaVoom without scraping fiberglass or cracking wood. They tied it down in its assigned berth, and left the yacht looking as if it hadn’t moved.
She paused as they were walking up the dock. “Why not steal Vazov’s yacht? Or burn it? Get a jab in.”
Achilles attempted a mischievous grin, but retained a rattled look. When he spoke, his tone lacked its usual exuberance. “I like your thinking, but as a rule I find it’s better to confuse an opponent than to taunt him. Missing men will play to Vazov’s paranoia. Are they dead? Arrested? Did they defect? Are they revealing secrets? He’ll also worry about me. Am I still out there? Will I be returning? How did I get away?”
Jo saw Achilles’ point, but liked the exploding-yacht idea. Let Vazov watch his baby burn on the evening news, then spend the night answering questions for the gendarmes.
But she trusted Achilles, and it wasn’t her call.
He commandeered Vazov’s SUV and she followed on her bike. They drove to the underground parking lot at the Monaco Heliport, and abandoned the SUV between a Porsche and a Rolls Royce.
From Monaco, they drove straight back to the hotel on her motorcycle. She was dying to sip peppermint tea and drink Pepto-Bismol, while he was looking forward to the first meal of the rest of his life. Her hand went to her stomach, however, when she heard his room service order. “Bouillabaisse?”
Achilles grew a guilty look. “Sorry. I suppose that’s insensitive. I’ll change my order. I felt like celebrating the fact that I can eat fish, rather than vice versa. Thanks to you,” he added.
“No need to change it,” she replied.
Their eyes met briefly before both looked away.
After a few seconds of strained silence, Jo said, “You’re absolutely certain that Vazov isn’t Ivan?”
“Positive. Our eyes met for the very first time there on the polo field.”
“You were right.”
“I wish I wasn’t. Ivan played us, Jo. He played us like a deck of stacked cards.”
“He plays everyone. That’s what Ivan does, and he’s the best in the world at it.”
Achilles began pacing. “What bothers me most is that I didn’t feel like I was being played. Before it all finally went south, I felt like I was getting the best of him. Unravelling Ivan’s deepest secret and sneaking up on him from behind.”
Jo wasn’t sure where Achilles was
headed. “You think there was more to it than simple misdirection? You think Ivan actually wanted you to investigate Vazov?”
“I do. I think he specifically set me up. Seems obvious in retrospect.”
“Why would Ivan send you after Vazov?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Earlier, when I suggested burning Vazov’s boat to get his goat, you said the best practice was to confuse your opponent. But Vazov’s not your opponent. Ivan is.”
Achilles moved to the balcony window and spread the curtains wider, startling a seagull. “Clearly, they’re connected. Vazov is making Ivan’s drones. We know that for a fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But just as clearly, we know that Vazov isn’t in Ivan’s innermost circle. If he were, he would have recognized me.”
Jo followed Achilles to the window. “Do you think Ivan wanted to pit you against Vazov?”
“I do.”
“But how could he predict which of you would win?”
“He couldn’t. Obviously, it could have gone either way.”
“So what was the point?”
“That’s what we need to figure out. I’m going to go for a run. Let you get some sleep while I generate a few endorphins.”
“What about your bouillabaisse?”
“It can wait.”
“Really? Cold fish soup—?”
“Figure of speech.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s call Agent Zonder.”
Her suggestion put a bit of spark back in Achilles’ eyes. “Any particular reason?”
“Gathering intelligence—and planting it. I suspect he’ll be receptive to anything resembling an olive branch. While you were tied up, Ivan was wiping the floor with him.” Jo recounted the debacle in Los Angeles that left the police looking helpless on live television.
Achilles shook his head. “Law enforcement has never outwitted Ivan during the commission of a crime.”
“But we did once,” Jo said. “And we will again.”
