Falling Stars

by Tim Tigner

  Achilles pulled up a pet program on his laptop, a VOIP service that allowed him to spoof his calling location. He set it for Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport, since that was sure to catch Zonder’s attention. Once he’d entered Zonder’s cell number and hit call, he pivoted the laptop toward Jo. “I wonder if he’s figured out who you are yet?”

  Jo had little doubt.

  Zonder picked up on the third ring. “Ripley Zonder.”

  “Remember me?”

  “I’ll never forget you, Agent Monfort.”

  Jo gave no reaction to the use of her real name. “Did you find my last tip useful?”

  “Very much so. Thank you. Do you have another for me?”

  “I might. But you have to earn it.”

  “And just how do I do that?”

  “You skip the boilerplate about not commenting on an ongoing investigation and tell me what you’ve learned.”

  Silence.

  Jo waited.

  More silence.

  She continued waiting. She knew it would come.

  “We identified the drone as a VV1. Everything else is supposition.”

  “And what are you supposing?”

  Zonder mumbled something to himself before replying. Jo couldn’t hear the words, but the tone wasn’t hostile. “Director Rider’s assassination is related to the drone K&R operations taking place around the country.”

  “And?”

  “And Ivan the Ghost is behind both.”

  “Right on both counts. What else?”

  “It’s your turn, Jo. Are you working with Achilles or against him?”

  The question caught her by surprise. She hadn’t considered the against-him interpretation. “With him, against Ivan.”

  “So Ivan framed Achilles.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Four birds with one stone. One, for cover. Achilles is the only law enforcement officer known to have laid eyes on Ivan. Two, for concealment. To hide his own involvement. Three, for distraction. To focus law enforcement on hunting the wrong man. And four, for revenge. Achilles is the only person to have thwarted one of Ivan’s plans.”

  “Well, at the very least you’ve short-circuited his distraction plan.”

  “Does that mean you’re hunting Ivan?”

  “We are.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  Silence.

  Again, Jo waited.

  “What’s your involvement?”

  “Ivan tried to kill me with a drone—the big drone—the same day he shot Rider with the little one.”

  “What happened? How did you escape?”

  “Not relevant.”

  “Why did he want to kill you?”

  “We think he was using me as a guinea pig.”

  “ ‘We’ being you and Achilles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you come in and work with us? Together, we’ll be more efficient.”

  And there it was, the inevitable surrender request. “We know how politicians work. Your director will throw Achilles in jail and claim victory. Probably lock me up too, as an accessory.”

  “I could make arrangements to—”

  “We’ve got a good thing going,” Jo interjected. “Don’t blow it with promises you know you can’t keep.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  Jo hung up.

  76

  The Big Easy

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  ALBUQUERQUE WAS A BREEZE. An evening grab in the isolated suburb of Corrales. $20 million from the star of Woody Allen’s latest film, and $20 million more from the studio. It reminded Michael of the early grabs in Silicon Valley.

  He wasn’t expecting tonight’s operation to be so simple.

  Ivan informed them that New Orleans would be a public grab, but he had yet to supply the particulars. Michael found the exclusion increasingly frustrating. For decades, the two of them had been a team. Michael had felt like the father of a brilliant child, offering guidance and support in some areas, while watching with wonder in others. But now Ivan was acting like a kid going off to college and leaving his “clueless” parents behind. Michael wondered if that was it. If Ivan was simply moving on? But he worried there was something more. He worried that he’d somehow offended his best friend.

  “Listen to this,” Pavel said, waving his phone from the back seat of the Tesla. They were on their way to the French Quarter for a K&R Ivan had yet to define. “The Times is reporting that the effect of the Preston Jenks kidnapping is exactly the opposite of what common sense would dictate. Rather than becoming more reclusive, movie stars are out in droves. Sightings are way up. Even the A-listers have begun parading around public locations.”

  “Of course they are,” Ivan said with a smile. “Predictable as dominoes. We gave Jenks the PR boost of a blockbuster movie with a cast of one.”

  Michael reflected on that eye-opening insight, while Pavel swiped over to a related story. “According to Hollywood Insider, Jenks made more off his kidnapping than we did. Everyone knows his name now, not just the action flick fans.”

  “Is that it?” Michael asked. “Is that how we’re going to pay off Vazov? Hold out the net and let the fish leap into it?”

  “No,” Ivan said, the hint of scorn in his voice digging deep as a dagger. “That’s not it at all. But keep guessing.”

  Boris broke the tension by announcing, “There it is, on the right.”

  Michael saw the red neon sign half a block ahead. He turned the Tesla into the parking structure and took a ticket.

  “Take it to the roof,” Ivan said. “Park in the southeast corner. We’ll be able to see Bourbon Street from there.”

  Minutes earlier, they had left Raven prepped and primed in an abandoned waterfront warehouse with a large broken window. Although the drive back across the Mississippi River had required a circuitous route, Raven was less than a mile from their current location as the drone flies.

  Michael put the car in park.

  Pavel checked his controls and confirmed, “Raven is ready to rock and roll.”

  Ivan said, “Very good. Our target is Emmy Delaney. She’ll be parading down Bourbon Street atop a float in 23 minutes. Pavel, please familiarize yourself with the terrain.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Emmy Delaney,” Michael repeated. “We’re kidnapping America’s sweetheart? She’s only seventeen.”

  Ivan said nothing.

  “Why take unnecessary risks? Why not stick with low profile victims? There are plenty of them with cash.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Michael momentarily closed his eyes. “No.”

  Pavel and Boris held their tongues while Ivan looked over from the passenger seat. “I don’t want low profile.”

  “What’s to be gained by high profile?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Michael was tired of this game. “No.”

  “You began with a faulty assumption. The risk is necessary.”

  Necessary for what?

  Ivan ended the conversation by opening his laptop. While he went to work, Michael tried to puzzle out the long game. He didn’t get anywhere before Boris brought everyone’s attention back to the moment at hand. “The parade is coming. I’ve got eyes on Emmy.”

  Ivan glanced back at Pavel. “Go.”

  From their perch atop the parking garage, they saw slivers of Bourbon Street through breaks between buildings. They couldn’t yet glimpse the parade, but they could hear it coming. Michael shifted his gaze to Ivan’s laptop, where the live feed from Raven’s main camera streamed like the aerial coverage of a football game.

  As Raven began its swift descent, the crowd appeared oblivious to the approaching threat. All eyes were riveted on floats or on tiny screens held high above heads.

  Then it happened.

  Even though Michael knew it was coming, even though he’d seen it happen dozens of times, the swiftness of
the snatch still surprised him. One second America’s sweetheart was doing the princess wave, the next she was wrapped in a metallic ring. Pavel made it look so easy.

  Thousands of spectators gasped and screamed as Raven lifted its latest victim high into the humid air—then flew away.

  77

  Messaging

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  IVAN EXPERIENCED a profound surge of satisfaction as Raven swept America’s sweetheart into the sky. Emmy Delaney was the woman that half of the world’s teenagers wanted to be. Young, beautiful, talented, famous, rich, respected, healthy, happy—and now completely under his control. Her life was on an amazing trajectory, a rocket to the moon, but he could crash it with a snap of his fingers.

  That was power.

  The surge passed quickly. Ivan wasn’t in this for influence. He wasn’t after a rush. He wanted self-respect, satisfaction, and recognition—not just as a master criminal, but as a man who changed the course of human history, forever.

  So far so good.

  At that moment, perched atop a New Orleans parking garage, Ivan was taking on the whole world. Quite literally. And he was winning.

  That left only three blank boxes on his big list. All would soon be checked. The first was money. Enough money to give him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Instant gratification, for the rest of his life. The second was freedom. The ability to enjoy everything the world had to offer without worry. Freedom from the fear that law enforcement might be closing in, or that a vigilante was on his trail. Freedom to make friends and start a family. The third was everlasting fame. Ivan would have that too. His final masterstroke would pen his name beside Nobel’s and Oppenheimer’s in the big book of human history. He was going to change the world.

  With a shake of his head, Ivan returned his focus to the game. Pavel now had Emmy dangling over Jackson Square, the historic park dedicated to the Battle of New Orleans hero who had gone on to become President. They’d whisked her three blocks east from her float on Bourbon Street, while the drunken crowd gave chase.

  He turned to Pavel. “Put her directly over the statue. If she falls, I want her skewered.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ivan felt Michael flinch beside him. A subtle twitch, but telltale nonetheless. His friend was growing squeamish.

  On the one hand, Ivan felt for his former mentor. He understood the difficulty of adapting to a state of relative ignorance after being on the inside for so long. On the other hand, Michael’s lack of faith frustrated Ivan to no end. If Ivan had ever failed to deliver, even once, he might understand the skepticism. But his record was perfect. There was no basis for anything but full faith and allegiance—unless Michael somehow sensed what was coming.

  Ivan seriously doubted that. Even the pros never saw Ivan the Ghost coming, and Michael was no pro. Not once in their twenty-plus years had his predictive powers proven remarkable.

  As he glanced over, Michael made the jackpot gesture. “The twenty from the family is in the bank.”

  “And the producers?” Ivan asked.

  “They’re working on theirs.”

  Now that the show had gone airborne, they could observe the action directly. But Ivan watched the live news feed on his laptop as well. Raven was hovering a full 130 feet above the ground, level with the spire atop St. Lewis Cathedral. This was by design, for the cameras. As predicted, they were making the most of the artistic elements, using 19th century architecture and 21st century aeronautics to frame the timeless image of a damsel in distress.

  Emmy Delaney was not attempting to mimic Preston Jenks’ breakthrough tough-guy performance. And why should she? She wasn’t seeking action-hero roles. She was a sweetheart hoping to make the move to leading lady.

  While neither calm nor cool, to Ivan’s eye Emmy appeared collected. No surprise there. One didn’t become an international celebrity at seventeen without a Mensa membership and Spartan discipline. Watching with an analytical eye, Ivan understood that she was drawing her acting cues from images of Fay Wray in King Kong’s palm. “Savvy move,” he muttered. “She’s co-opting a classic.”

  Michael didn’t comment.

  The police already had two spotlights in action, one from the ground, another from a hovering helicopter. A news chopper added a third. No doubt the crowd had swelled to the size of a U2 concert, but buildings blocked Ivan’s view of the ground.

  Time to give them a show.

  He pulled up a special app on his laptop and began typing.

  In addition to the broad framing shot, the news cameras were favoring two focal points. The first was the victim. A tight zoom on a terrorized face. The second was the clock. The bright green digital countdown displayed on Raven’s belly. They tended to split the screen, displaying one above the other on the right side, with a broader context shot capturing the entire scene on the left, including their reporter.

  Ivan was about to change all that. As the clock flipped from 11:48 to 11:47, he hit a button and the display went dark.

  The crowd gasped loud enough for Team Raven to hear it six blocks away. The buzz of frantic conversation erupted a moment later.

  After a suitable pause, Ivan hit another button and brought the display back to life. This time, however, it didn’t display a clock. Instead, it began scrolling a message: GROUND THE HELICOPTERS. OR ELSE.

  The background buzz grew louder.

  Ivan had no doubt that within seconds his words would be creeping across Headline News crawlers on screens around the world. The only outstanding question was how the pilots would react.

  But not really.

  No way, no how, could any police or news organization defy his order. Not with the world watching. Not with the resultant consequences so apparent and dire.

  “What’s going on?” Pavel asked. Raven’s digital display wasn’t visible from their position.

  “It’s a minor coding modification,” Boris replied. He pointed to the appropriate display on the Drone Command Module. “Ivan asked me to keep it confidential.”

  Pavel studied it for a second before asking, “What’s the purpose? They might land now, but they’ll still chase Raven the moment we release the hostage. It accomplishes nothing.”

  Ivan didn’t answer.

  “You can be sure it accomplishes something,” Michael said. “We just don’t see it yet. And neither do the police.”

  As those words resounded in the Tesla, the helicopters backed off and disappeared behind surrounding buildings.

  Ivan tapped his keyboard and the countdown clock reappeared. 8:38, 8:37, 8:36—

  “$20 million from the producers just cleared,” Michael said with obvious relief.

  Ivan smiled. “Well, all right then. Pavel, set Emmy down. Put her atop the horse so she can hug General Jackson. Throw our sweetheart a bone and give the photographers a money shot for tomorrow’s front page.”

  78

  Fair Warning

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  APPLAUSE ERUPTED across the French Quarter when Pavel released America’s sweetheart atop Jackson’s statue. The ruckus crescendoed and cameras flashed like fireworks as Emmy wrapped her arms around the bronze embodiment of America’s 7th President in a wholesome hug. Her next move was no less savvy. She turned her attention toward the sky as her captor climbed away—just like Fay Wray had with King Kong.

  As predicted, the other helicopters rose like wraiths from behind surrounding buildings. They swung their spotlights on Raven and began edging closer.

  Pavel didn’t move. He waited for orders.

  Ivan returned his attention to the laptop and began typing. The clock disappeared and the command reappeared. GROUND THE HELICOPTERS. OR ELSE.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

  “Giving fair warning.”

  “But we have no leverage.”

  Indeed, the police helicopters did not budge.

  Pavel kept quiet. As a former fighter pilot, he was accustomed to waiting for orders. H
e might be the master of his machine, but he wasn’t the strategist in this situation—nor had he been in any other. He hadn’t risen to the rank of general during his service, so being sidelined didn’t bother him. The same could not be said for Michael.

  Pavel respected Michael. He was disciplined, fair, and had been a boxing champ back in the day. That made him tough, smart and determined. But blind obedience was a trait he’d never learned, and at times like this, it was mission critical.

  As if making Pavel’s point, Michael stated the obvious. “If we make a threat, we have to deliver. Otherwise, we lose the power to inflict fear.”

  While Michael spoke, the side door of the police helicopter opened and a gunman appeared. The crowd on the ground reacted by backing away, even as a truck hauling barricades arrived.

  Pavel seized the opportunity to switch the subject. “The police can’t shoot because of the crowd. They’re playing for the cameras.”

  Ivan wasn’t moved. He turned to Michael and stared. He stared while the tension built and the helicopters hovered and the world watched. He stared while his message crawled across millions of television screens and Michael’s mouth went dry. He stared until Michael coughed, then he said, “I deceived you guys earlier.”

  “You did?” Michael asked quietly, as all ears strained.

  “I did.”

  “What about?”

  “The money shot—it’s not going to be Emmy atop the horse.”

  Pavel felt his own throat begin to go dry as Michael asked, “What then?”

  Ivan turned his attention Pavel’s way. “Head for Plaza Tower. Fly fast and evasive.”

  “Roger that,” Pavel said, grabbing the stick.

  When it opened its doors in 1969, the 45-story structure was the tallest in New Orleans. Alas, the glory didn’t last. One Shell Square beat it by six stories just three years later. Twenty-nine years after that, however, Plaza Tower regained renown with a new tallest ranking. But this time the title came with an asterisk. An adjective to be more precise. Toxic mold and asbestos made Plaza Tower the tallest unoccupied building in the city, a distinction it’s held ever since.