by Tim Tigner
Michael couldn’t care less at that moment. His payday beat what Ali and Foreman got for The Rumble in the Jungle, combined. He was certain Ivan had a sound strategic reason for his seemingly insane move, but then and there he couldn’t fathom it. “Please tell us.”
“I’m not buying Silicon Hill because stealing money is only half the battle.”
“And the other half?” Boris asked.
“The other half is getting away with it.”
“Unless I missed something, we’ve already gotten away with it,” Pavel said.
“No, we haven’t.” Ivan paused to allow someone else to hop in, but nobody did. “You haven’t gotten away with a crime until people stop looking for you.”
Michael finally saw the light. He felt like he’d stepped out of a cave. “You’re leading the authorities to Little V! You’re going to get him arrested for what we’ve done.”
Ivan shook his head, his expression more disappointed than contemptuous.
Boris jumped in as Michael’s glow faded. “A minute ago, you told Pavel we were ‘one dollar short.’ But that’s nonsensical.”
“I answered his question,” Ivan said, growing an approving grin.
“Let me rephrase,” Pavel said. “How much did you make from insurance premiums? What percentage of people paid?”
Ivan broke into a full-faced smile. “About one in five. Twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent?” Boris blurted back. “Of 625,000 people?”
“It’s less than half the proportion that purchase standard life insurance, but it’s a healthy number nonetheless.”
“A healthy number? Twenty percent of 625,000 people paying a $100,000 is $12.5 billion.” Boris did the math without breaking stride. “Are you telling us you banked $12.5 billion?”
Ivan raised his glass for a third time. “It’s not enough to put me on the Forbes list, but it will do. The money is still coming in, of course. But the wise man knows when to stop rolling dice and walk away with the chips he’s already got.”
They drained and refilled their glasses, repeating “$12.5 billion” over and over as the staggering sum sunk in.
Thrilled though he was with the number, Michael knew Ivan didn’t have them sitting around that table drinking vodka just so he could wow them with his wealth. The main revelation was yet to come, and he thought he knew what it would be. “So how do we get the police to stop looking for us?”
Ivan turned to him, and for a second he saw his old friend in those eyes. “You were partially right earlier. We will point the police at someone else.”
“But?”
“But we won’t get him arrested.”
“We won’t?”
“If he gets arrested, he can contradict the evidence against him. The smart move is to make sure that he can’t do that.” Ivan put both palms flat on the table and leaned in. “The really smart move is to make sure that nobody can provide contradictory evidence.”
95
Hamburger Helper
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES PLANNED to pop the Maybach’s trunk at 2:00 a.m. to begin making his way from Victor Vazov’s garage to his bedroom. That was his timetable. Once he got to the garage, whenever that was, he would set an alarm, take a nap, and go into the assault fresh and rested.
His plan didn’t last.
Not because someone else popped the trunk. They didn’t. Not because Victor didn’t drive straight home. He did. The driver took him straight from the restaurant on Tverskaya to his home in Krylatskoye. They arrived at 11:35 p.m., beating Waze’s projected travel time by three minutes. Achilles suspected the navigation app failed to account for the flashing blue light used by elite snobs like Victor to push commoners from their path.
Achilles’ plan didn’t last because he had forgotten to account for the heat his 220 pounds of black-clad meat would generate when crammed into 12.3 cubic feet of insulated space. The inside of Mercedes’ flagship ride might be as luxurious as anything on four run-flat tires, but the trunk felt like economy class on a commuter jet. And after an hour, the lack of ventilation made it as hot as a Phoenix runway.
He hit the flashing green trunk release button at 12:01 am.
He held the lid so that it wouldn’t spring all the way open and attract eyes, then he peered through the crack while sucking fresh air. He couldn’t see much more than the inside of a garage door, but the lights were out, which told him the only thing that really mattered: He was alone.
The garage was enormous and housed an impressive collection of automobiles, but otherwise was pretty normal looking. Six doors at the back, an entrance to the house at the front, and raised storage cabinets around the perimeter. Achilles recognized the doors as bulletproof and blast-resistant, although to most people they wouldn’t appear extraordinary. The garage’s checkered black-and-white floor pattern was a bit regal, but not over the top.
Once he confirmed his solitude, Achilles ignored the environment. He slid into the rear right seat of the Maybach, extended the footrest, reclined the seatback, and took his planned nap.
The starting bell sounded at 2:00 a.m., or rather it vibrated.
The house he was about to enter was French Baroque in style, with white and cream-colored stonework, plenty of symmetrical architectural flourish, and an ornate lead-toned mansard roof.
His investigation of the estate’s exterior security quickly led to the conclusion that he didn’t want to mess with it. Thus the stowaway infiltration tactic.
The mansion’s most distinguishing feature was a semicircular portico. Online photos showed it opening into a circular foyer lit by an enormous crystal chandelier and featuring an elegant freestanding staircase. Beneath that chandelier, the depiction of an eagle holding a sword and scepter was emblazoned in onyx on the white marble floor. According to the article accompanying the picture, the Vazov family crest dated back to the 15th century. Achilles had his doubts.
Achilles didn’t find much additional information online regarding the interior layout, and he didn’t have time to access other resources such as building plans or past employees. But the garage was obviously connected, and the master bedroom appeared to be at the top of the circular stairs, so he was going in with most of what he needed. Hopefully.
Achilles was prepared to lock-pick his way out of the garage, but a twist of the wrist proved that unnecessary. Before slipping inside, however, he had one precaution to take. He pulled a quarter-kilo of double-bagged ketamine-soaked hamburger from his jacket pocket and broke both seals. Then he cracked the door just wide enough to slip it through at floor level and squeezed the contents onto the floor.
If Victor had dogs, the ketamine should knock them out, quickly and quietly. That was gamble number four. If he didn’t have dogs, the maid would have a puzzle on her hands. Achilles listened to silence for a full twenty minutes, giving the scent time to circulate, then he slowly opened the door and stepped inside.
The house was dark. Electronic gadgets in various nooks provided points of dim illumination, but no lights were burning.
He heard nothing.
He smelled nothing but hamburger.
He sensed no one nearby.
If Victor stationed a guard inside his house at night for supplemental protection, that person would almost certainly be seated outside his bedroom door. Achilles considered circumventing the scene by slipping out a window and breaking into Victor’s bedroom directly—but that would expose him to the exterior patrol. And to their dogs.
Risky though it was, Achilles’ knew his best option was going through the bedroom guard.
But first he had to reach him.
96
Gurgle
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES DIDN’T KNOW what interior security measures were installed or if they were activated. All he could do was use best practices and hope the odds were in his favor. Gamble number five.
He low-crawled from the garage door to the entryway, slow and steady, hoping to avoid
eyes of all kinds. Electronic eyes, if watching for motion, typically looked above pet level. Human eyes, if not new to the job, typically looked at books or movies. Only changes in lighting or rapid movements would draw attention to a monitor screen.
He reached the base of the staircase without provoking a reaction, and slowly rose to his feet. Rather than ascending by the normal route, which would put him dead-center in any waiting guard’s field of vision, Achilles decided to climb.
He stood directly beneath the thirteenth freestanding tread, then reached his left hand overhead and grasped it by the edge. Slowly, oh so slowly, and silently, oh so silently, he worked his way up, grip by grip, rung by rung, with arms happily engaged and legs dangling over the 15th century crest.
Achilles had experience with sentry duty. He understood the psychology of men assigned to late-night watches. Certain universal truths applied. If a sentry was present, he would have his back to the boss’s door. In theory, this was for the boss’s protection. In practice, this was so the boss couldn’t catch him napping. The sentry would also have his chair positioned to point directly at the top of the stairs. This put potential threats front and center of his field of vision, while allowing his focus to rest on a cell phone or book.
After nineteen vertical moves, Achilles’ right hand took hold of the upper landing—some twenty-one feet above the marble floor. He didn’t stop moving though, and he didn’t peer over. Slowly, oh so slowly, he continued shuffling hand to hand toward the far end of the landing. He spent two full minutes covering the thirty-foot span from the top of the stairs to where the railing met the wall.
He paused there to listen—and detected a presence. A guard. It had to be a guard, dammit. With the stealth and patience of a stalking cougar, he brought an eye up to floor level.
The guard was immediately visible across the broad landing, not because he was moving or brightly dressed but because of the glowing screen in his hands. He was indeed seated with his back toward the master bedroom’s large double doors, and his chest angled 45-degrees toward the top of the stairs.
Achilles was disappointed by the absence of an earphone cord trailing from the phone, but brightened when he spotted a white cordless earbud. The guard was probably just listening with his left ear, so he could hear the boss with his right.
To Achilles’ surprise, he recognized his foe’s features, although it took him a second to place the profile presented. The last time he’d seen the man, they’d been staring at each other face-to-face. It was the bodyguard from Vertical Vision. The one who left with Vazov and his party. The one who abandoned Jo to be raped and Achilles to die.
He was seated about twelve feet from Achilles on a stool. Not a folding chair or a recliner. A stool. Smart move on the boss’s part. Much tougher to fall asleep on one of those.
Twelve feet is a tricky distance. It’s close enough to put Achilles in his peripheral vision, but far enough that Achilles couldn’t reach him in a single bound. But Achilles was five for five this evening, so he didn’t hesitate with gamble number six.
Rather than attempting to slither over the rail without observation—a fundamentally risky tactic due to defenses our lizard brains developed against snakes—Achilles exploded into motion. Zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.
He began with a powerful double-armed jerk that brought his feet to the ledge and his shoulders level with the railing. Then he leveraged the jerk’s upward momentum into a side vault that put him over the rail before the guard had fully turned his head. By the time the guard registered what was happening, Achilles had closed the gap between them.
Proximity was only half the battle, however. To win, Achilles had to silence the man. Instantly. He couldn’t afford a fight. He couldn’t afford a crash or a bang or a yelp or a shout. He couldn’t afford anything louder than an exhale or a gurgle or the sound cartilage makes beneath a razor-sharp knife.
97
Serious Problems
French Riviera
MICHAEL HAD KNOWN they’d be in for an interesting discussion when Ivan refused to answer the “Mission accomplished?” question over the phone. He’d expected that to mean Ivan wanted to finesse the answer. He’d expected bad news.
But the mission news had been unbelievably good.
The Raven program brought in the required $600 million—and $12 billion more. Ivan wasn’t acquiring the company, but bonuses were being paid, so the guys didn’t care. The thing was, Ivan could have told them that over the phone. Question: Mission accomplished? Answer: Bonuses will be paid. Details to follow. Short and sweet.
So what was the real reason for the meeting? Ivan had just clued them in. He wanted to discuss his plan for getting away free and clear. He wanted to sell them on a proposal for making the police believe Vazov was behind the K&Rs while ensuring that neither Vazov nor anyone else could “provide contradictory evidence.”
Ivan continued leaning in over the table for a few seconds after dropping his bomb, adding weight to his words. Then he broke the tension by settling back in his chair and asking one of his big-picture questions. “If you look at the history of the human race, how have the rich typically come by their money? Inheritance aside.”
“By gaining control of resources,” Boris said. “Oil fields or gold mines. Ships or railroads. Patents or production equipment.”
“I’m impressed. But you forgot one P word, the greatest wealth generator of all.”
“People,” Michael said.
Ivan leaned back in. “That’s right. Pharaohs had slaves. Kings had knights. Noblemen had serfs. These days, the titles have changed, but the fundamentals remain the same. Even though business owners no longer legally own the laborers who make them their money, employers still control how employees spend the majority of their waking hours.”
Ivan spoke without passion, more like an accountant that a demagogue. “Modern workers might be free to switch sweatshops or minimum-wage jobs, but that freedom is meaningless if it doesn’t change their fundamental circumstances. In fact, today’s laborers often receive no more now than slaves did then—just enough to keep them working. So you see, the rich have always been achieving or retaining their status by usurping other people’s lives. It’s the natural order of things.”
Michael had heard Ivan go off on similar philosophical tangents many times before. His broad talks always had a specific purpose in mind. He was planting ideas, preparing minds to reach conclusions farther down the road. As Michael listened to the lecture on the plight of modern labor, he wondered what lay at the end of this road.
Michael wasn’t the only one lacking insight at that moment. The other two were also staring at Ivan, trying to figure out where this history lesson was going.
“But back to getting away with our money. I’ve been planning and preparing since I first became The Ghost. I haven’t always known when I would retire, or what my big score would be, but I always knew that I would need the police to believe Ivan the Ghost was someone else. So I picked the perfect patsy years ago, and began creating evidence.”
“Vazov!” Michael said. “Like I said earlier.”
“Earlier you indicated blaming him for Raven. Right direction, but only halfway there.”
“He’s perfect,” Pavel said. “Right age, right build, right nationality, geography and facial features. He’s wealthy, criminally connected and largely at leisure.”
“And he’s owner and chairman of the business that built Raven in a secret lab—secret from him too, but nobody will ever believe that,” Michael added.
“I’m glad you approve,” Ivan said. “There’s other evidence that I’ll plant around his property and on his computer when the time comes. Bits from other jobs and even my fake passports, all of which have his picture on them, but different names of course. The documentation puts him at the site of many of my crimes.”
“How will you plant that evidence?” Pavel asked.
“I’ve had a spy in his camp for years. The head of his se
curity. Unfortunately, Gleb recently passed, but I’ve still got all the access cards, keys and codes required.”
Boris looked up from fiddling fingers. “There’s a problem with your plan.”
All eyes turned to him.
“The police investigation will go beyond the physical evidence. They’re going to interview people. They’re going to interview everyone at Silicon Hill. It will come out that Vazov was rarely there. They’re going to say the four of us were really running the show.”
“There’s also the problem of Victor Vazov,” Pavel said. “He’ll know his son’s not Ivan. While it’s unlikely that he’ll share his information with the authorities, it’s highly likely that he’ll use his considerable resources to conduct his own investigation. An investigation that’s bound to get ugly for us.”
The echo of those words congealed everything in Michael’s mind, a mind that remembered Ivan’s earlier comment about smart moves. This time the wave that washed over him was ice cold.
“You’re absolutely right, on both accounts,” Ivan said, meeting Boris’s eye, then Pavel’s. “Those are serious problems. And what do we do with serious problems?”
Michael answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “We eliminate them.”
98
Strange Bedfellows
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES DIDN’T FIND A GUN under Victor Vazov’s pillow.
Or his wife Iveta’s.
But she woke up while he was looking.
Victor jolted forward as his wife shrieked. In a fumbling flail, he smacked on the light but sent it to the floor, adding to the discord.
Achilles had experienced many scary scenarios, but he’d never woken in his own bed to find an intruder pointing a gun at his chest. It was the kind of experience that might make it hard to sleep soundly ever again.
