by Tim Tigner
It was so unjust, being skewered for getting caught being honest. What did the public want? Lies? That was what they usually got, if they got anything at all. Most were just too stupid to realize it. They let the government get away with exaggerations, obfuscations, misdirections and lies of omission. They let politicians hide behind claims of committee work, confidentiality and national security. The truth was, the CIA and FBI and their European equivalents had all searched extensively for Ivan and none of them had found him.
Jo puffed her cheeks and exhaled, blowing suds. Maybe she was just projecting her own frustration. Rip’s demise had reopened a wound, a wound she now realized had never quite healed. It wasn’t that long ago that she had gone from the streets to the CIA and back again. For a few short months, she’d been at the pinnacle of global intelligence, part of a proud international brotherhood. It was undoubtedly the most special, unique and satisfying time of her life. Then she, like Rip, had been assigned to Ivan. Failing to capture The Ghost had ended her career before it really got started. Oh, how she wanted to bag that bastard.
Achilles’ voice came from the balcony, disturbing her pity party. She’d left both the sliding glass door and the bathroom door open so she could enjoy the sound of slapping waves while soaking. Achilles was supposed to be off on one of his runs. “Jo?” he repeated.
“I’m in the tub.” She checked the water and found it still sufficiently sudsy. A stuffed wash cloth and a slow trickle from the tap allowed her to keep it filled to the rim. “You can come in.”
Achilles entered her room, but stopped at the bathroom doorway. He leaned against it, facing the wall so their eyes met in the mirror. “Before my run, I ran a fresh search on Vlad Vazov. His name popped up on a local blog. Google was nice enough to translate it for me. He’s having two fortieth birthday bashes this weekend. One on Friday at the Monte Carlo Polo Club, and the second on Saturday at Silicon Hill.”
“You in the mood to party?”
“That’s when Ivan’s going to off him. It totally fits his style.”
“At which one?”
“Has to be Silicon Hill. It’s got the connection to the drones. It’s also the one he’ll invite his family to attend, since his CEO face is the one he’ll want to show his father. Ivan will want Big V dead too, to avoid comebacks.”
“I can see that,” Jo said with a nod. “Wait a minute. Ivan can’t kill Vazov yet. The kidnappings are still going on.”
“Yeah, but we’ve seen the big reveal. The insurance scheme. He’s making his financial killing while you soak. It’s time for him to vanish. If I’m right, between now and Saturday, the killings will stop.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought it through.”
“I’ve been thinking about little else.”
“So what’s your plan to catch him?”
Achilles gave her a wily look. “I want to team up with Vazov.”
Jo couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re absolutely crazy.”
“To the contrary, it’s absolutely classic. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Have you forgotten your last meeting with Vazov? Even if you’re right about the big picture—even if Ivan has been setting up Vazov to take the fall—it’s still a huge risk. Vazov’s most likely reaction will be to say ‘thanks for the tip’ and put a bullet in your head. His second most likely reaction will be to skip the thanks.”
“So it would be a crazy move?”
“Yes. I’m sure if we pulled in a few psychologists and told them about your recent boat trip and your intended course of action, the majority would declare you unequivocally insane.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t consider going with me?”
“Now I’m starting to think you’re insane.”
“Not one chance in a thousand?”
“Not one.”
“Excellent.”
“Excellent?”
“Ivan won’t have accounted for it.”
“He will have in the sense that you end up dead.”
“What if I can convince Vazov not to kill me?”
“How would you do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m just brainstorming with you.”
Jo swatted suds at him.
Achilles gave her a wink and a smile. “Seriously. How could I pull that off?”
92
All Inclusive
Chautauqua, New York
MICHAEL was not enjoying the K&R operations anymore. Neither were Pavel or Boris. The novelty had worn off and the thrill of the hunt had given way to the fear of capture. While Ivan was back in France preparing for the endgame as he put it, they were stuck sweating in the heat of a thousand spotlights.
Ever since Ivan launched fallingstars.info and his insurance scam, he’d insisted on high-profile public operations. Maximum publicity was his mantra. We can’t sell ‘em if we don’t scare ‘em. So let’s keep ‘em scared.
It was working.
Not a night had passed without the latest drone attack leading the news. Morning talk shows covered little else. Even the President was playing second fiddle—and reportedly none too happy about it. Who was the latest victim? Who had dodged a bullet? The public was always eager to know.
Michael used express mail to send notes to those who allegedly would have been next, but were spared because they bought insurance. In reality, Ivan just picked people from his list who lived near the actual victim. His tactic added authenticity to the averted threat and facilitated side-by-side appearances on morning talk shows. The wise man and the rich fool. One counting his lucky stars and the other lamenting the skepticism that just cost him $10 million.
It was brilliant, but Michael wondered whether it was effective. He had no idea how many people were paying for the insurance—and Ivan was frustratingly tight-lipped about it. Getting people to act on anything was a challenge, even when they had the intention to do so. Throw in the $100,000 price tag and it was an uphill battle for sure.
Speaking of battles, they were about to begin the day’s K&R. Ivan had sent them to Lake Chautauqua in upstate New York, a sparsely populated rural heartland destination with a 150-year-old intellectual hub known as the Chautauqua Institution. He figured it would be good for the insurance business to do a kidnapping that was nowhere near a major metropolitan area. Make sure that no one felt safe for geographical reasons.
Michael was studying the victim’s lakefront estate through binoculars when Boris cried out from the passenger seat. “Whoa!”
“What?”
“Our victim. What do you know about her?”
“She’s an heir to the Packard automobile fortune. She lives at Packard Manor. And she has a habit of meditating in her garden at sunset while Bach plays in the background.”
“Yeah, well that omits a key piece of information. She’s eighty years old.”
“Eighty!” Michael dropped the binoculars and pulled up the photo supplied by Ivan’s secret reconnaissance team. It was taken from where they were now parked—half a mile across the water on the opposite bank. It showed a woman sitting cross-legged on the grass with her palms upturned on her knees. The shot gave them everything they needed to identify their target, but it wasn’t close-up enough to discern her age. “I guess Ivan’s going for more than geographic diversity. He wants people to know that age isn’t a disqualifier either.”
“What if she has a heart attack?” Pavel asked. “What do I do then? Do I drop her or set her down or fly her to a hospital?”
Michael said, “She’s a billionaire who has the discipline to meditate daily. She’ll probably outlive you. That’s why Ivan picked her.”
“What’s going to be next?” Pavel asked. “We’ve gone coast to coast, hitting major cities, posh suburbs and rural regions. We’ve kidnapped men and women, young and old, celebrities and nobodies, every race on the rainbow. What remains? Who’s left to frighten?”
The question was a good one, and it stumped the
m all.
A phone call broke the silence. Ivan. “How’s it going?”
“We’re on location, waiting for the show to start. Shouldn’t you be sleeping? It’s what, 2:00 a.m. there?”
“I’ve been busy and my body clock hasn’t adjusted. I wanted to let you know that this will be the last op.”
“We’re all done?”
“You will be within the hour.”
“Night-shift flight?”
“Out of Buffalo Niagara International Airport. They know you’ll be traveling with a crate containing four high-speed electrical fans with a battery pack and control unit. The paperwork is all filed.”
“Nice.” Michael was thrilled that the K&Rs were almost over, but something in Ivan’s tone wasn’t sitting right. He decided to ask the question so that he wouldn’t spend the next twelve hours worrying about it. “Will there be champagne on the plane?”
“Pardon?”
“Mission accomplished?”
Ivan didn’t answer immediately. When he did, Ivan made Michael wish he’d kept quiet. “We’ll talk about the money when you get back.”
93
Jack in the Box
Moscow, Russia
HER HEELS WERE IMPOSSIBLY HIGH. Her legs were delightfully long. And her breasts had minds of their own. Both bouncing beauties appeared determined to break their silk bonds and breathe freely on that warm Moscow night. They dared any and all not to stare—but got no takers. At least not the driver of the Mercedes-Maybach parked on the sloping side street outside the Georgian restaurant Aragvi.
As the girl walked down the road toward Victor Vazov’s car, Achilles walked up it—not in the street like her, but on the sidewalk. When she was about twenty paces from the car, her footfalls became less certain. A bit too much champagne? Or perhaps a date unwilling to risk rejection had spiked her drink? It was late enough that the possibilities plied the imagination.
When she was two paces from the Maybach, just a few feet from its driver, her luck ran out. Her heel slipped and her balance shifted, then her legs went up and her bottom went down. The impact was more than her button could bear, and her breasts broke free at last.
There were no onlookers at that late hour, but had there been any, they would have seen the driver’s door to the Mercedes begin to open a split-second before its trunk. A few seconds later, he would then have seen both close simultaneously. In between, he’d have seen one man step out of the driver’s seat, and another slip into the trunk.
Achilles was glad to find the trunk clean and empty. He’d gone with the odds, but it had been a gamble. The first of the night. By his count, he would be gambling six more times before dawn—and the odds would get worse with each.
He and Jo had spent hours discussing tactics by which he might approach Little V and get him to partner with them against Ivan. Their ultimate conclusion had been the same as Jo’s initial one. Achilles would be crazy to try—not because Vlad wouldn’t believe them, but because he’d likely kill Achilles all the same.
While the toilet was still flushing that brilliant idea, Achilles floated another. “What if I approach Big V instead? I bet he’s coming here in a few days for Vlad’s fortieth birthday bash. I could attempt to join him.”
“Equally crazy.”
“I think it might be different.”
Jo’s expression made her opinion clear, but she voiced it all the same. “Victor ordered his bodyguards to send us out in the trash. Vlad ordered his bodyguards to drown you. I don’t think that’s a difference we can work with.”
“The difference is pride. I’d be telling Vlad something that damages his self-esteem. He’d lash out at me for that. I agree with you. But with Victor, I’d be warning him of an assault on his family—one for which he bears no personal blame. That’s an entirely different pill to swallow.”
Achilles eventually talked Jo around and they began brainstorming tactics. Both agreed that the time and place of the pitch would be critical to Victor’s receptiveness. Ideally, it should be one-on-one and without forewarning, preferably under circumstances that allowed Achilles to escape if Victor gave him a bad vibe.
They decided that Achilles should visit Victor in his bedroom, preferably late at night so there would be no interruption. Then they set about figuring out how to make that happen. Once they had a plan, they discussed the option of Jo accompanying him, but it wasn’t much of a debate. She had a ton of work to do in France preparing to catch Ivan.
Two days later, Achilles slipped into Victor Vazov’s trunk, while a talented prostitute drew the driver’s full and complete attention.
You don’t need a key to get into a Mercedes trunk if the car’s unlocked, and getting out is incredibly easy. Achilles had surprised a dealer by practicing the move. Turns out there’s an open button that begins flashing green whenever the trunk is closed. It also serves as mood lighting, he was discovering.
Achilles worked himself into a comfortable position so that he wouldn’t have to move when the driver returned from helping the damsel in distress. There weren’t a lot of alternatives for a man of his size given the potential need to spring to action. That was the second gamble. He was gambling that nobody would open the trunk tonight. If someone did, he’d spring out locked and loaded, and hope that surprise gave him the opportunity to slip, shoot or smooth talk his way out of whatever situation presented.
Vazov was at a business dinner. That meant there would likely be multiple rounds of after-dinner drinks. Achilles didn’t mind. Alcohol worked in his favor, and he’d be in the trunk for hours regardless—if nobody opened it.
The driver returned to the car a few short minutes after stepping out, removing the immediate threat of an opening trunk. Achilles allowed his mind to wander. It went to Katya, of course. He felt terrible that his past had come back to haunt her, and he missed her so much.
Achilles assumed that Katya was only about 250 miles from where he now lay, holed up in a rental cabin. When she described Lake Gryadetskoe that day in Napa, she told him it had been perfect for her purposes, boasting fresh air and a beautiful view and nothing else. No Internet or telephone or nosy neighbors. Just a few local villagers living like it was the 1800s and minding their own business.
He pictured her sitting on a picnic table covered in books and papers, scribbling away with a smile on her face. He wished he could visit. That was out of the question, of course. He couldn’t see or speak to her until this was all over. Not without putting her in danger—given all the tracking tools at his antagonist’s disposal. Damn you, Ivan.
On that thought, the Maybach’s engine roared to life, a 463 horsepower biturbo V8. Two doors opened and closed, first the right rear and then the right front. Victor and a bodyguard.
As the car pulled from the curb, Achilles pulled up Waze on his cell phone. According to the driving app, he was 34 minutes from the Vazov residence. He hoped that was where they were headed. Gamble number three.
94
The Number
French Riviera
BUTTERFLIES FLUTTERED in Michael’s stomach as he entered Ivan’s villa with Pavel and Boris. Despite foreknowledge of the people and place, it felt like he was stepping from an exploratory ship into a new land after a long and treacherous voyage. He was excited and relieved, but filled with trepidation about what they were about to learn.
Had they discovered gold? Or was the insurance scheme a flop?
What was Ivan planning to do next? And where did that leave Michael?
Ivan led them to the kitchen table rather than the soft seating. It was a round four-seater with a polished wooden top and off-white upholstered chairs. Spotless since nobody ever ate there. Off to the side, an ice bucket dripped condensation. A common sight in France, but the bottle within wasn’t rosé or champagne, it was vodka. Belvedere. Was that a good sign, or bad? His ability to interpret Ivan’s moves continued to flounder.
Ivan poured four shot glasses and raised his in a toast. “To Raven.”
/> “To Raven,” the three replied.
They drained their glasses and Ivan refilled them. This time he didn’t raise his before speaking. “I won’t be acquiring Silicon Hill.”
Michael felt his stomach turn to ice despite the ethanol infusion. He couldn’t believe the insurance scam had failed so completely.
“Why not?” Boris asked, his tone academic. The man had just lost one percent of $600 million but he still showed no emotion.
Pavel, also a one-percenter, drained his glass and immediately refilled it. “How much are we short?”
Ivan turned toward Pavel. “One dollar.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve paid back the loan. But I’m not exercising the option.”
“You’re not?” Pavel continued, his voice brimming with bottled rage.
“To be honest with you, I never intended to buy Silicon Hill.”
Pavel clenched fist and chest. “But our options, our bonuses. That’s what we’ve been working for.”
“Oh, I’ve already made good on those—monetarily speaking.” Ivan spoke with the nonchalance of an afterthought. “Each of you has a new Bitcoin account with a balance equal to your promised share of the $600 million.”
“We do?” the three said in chorus.
Ivan raised his glass.
Relief washed over Michael like a warm wave on a cold night. He felt his shoulders turn to putty and his neck begin to tingle. Retirement was in the bank! His two-percent share was worth $12 million. Way more than he could ever have hoped to make as a boxer. And he didn’t even get punched in the face.
After they drained their glasses, Boris again asked, “Why not? Why not buy Silicon Hill?”
