by Tim Tigner
The memory made Jo aware of her stomach. She looked around the kitchen. Normally she picked up bread and croissants at the end of her run, but she’d be skipping her regular workout today. Her legs wouldn’t take it and her heart rate had been sufficiently elevated. Her flatmates would be disappointed when they came down for breakfast.
Jo lived with three other thirtyish women. The four of them were all single but looking. Likewise, all were successful professionals grateful for the pleasant company and prestigious address. They joked that their life was like the French version of the American show Sex in the City—but without the sex.
She turned on the teapot, grabbed some day-old bread and a hunk of chèvre, then sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and pencil. She wanted to sketch out the drone and its snakelike snare while their images remained fresh. She was certain those memories would never fade per se, but she knew they’d morph with time, the evil features exaggerating with every mental retelling. The drone would become bigger, its hum louder, the snake somehow both more steely and serpentine.
For fifteen minutes she munched the bread and cheese while working her sketches, paying particular attention to scale and the component locations. The four propellers. The winch. The camera and taser mounts. If she ever battled that bot again, she would be prepared.
Satisfied with her renderings, Jo used the notepad to leave her flatmates a message, apologizing for the lack of breakfast and telling them she’d been called away indefinitely.
Packing didn’t take but a minute. She knew that Achilles was a wardrobe minimalist, keen on keeping his life simple and his backpack light. She mirrored that move, changing into jeans and a gray top before slipping on versatile black boots and a matching leather jacket. Thirty minutes later, she walked out the door with a satchel on her shoulder and determination in her heart—uncertain if she would ever return. Going after Ivan the Ghost had never been a winning proposition.
8
Spoiled
San Jose, California
IVAN’S LIMO pulled to a stop beside the red carpet where the women were waiting. The escorts.
The American Express Centurion Card concierges had never let him down, but he was still amazed by the services they’d provide for a mere $2,500 annual fee. “Two escorts for 24 hours, waiting by the jet at midnight, please.” Those twelve words were all it took—given that his preferences were on file and he had charged the jet to AmEx.
Ivan wasn’t disappointed with the concierge’s selection, and judging by the looks coming back at him, the escorts weren’t either. Then again, they never were.
Ivan had hit the genetic lottery, and he knew it. He’d gotten the looks, the body, the brains and the means. Calling him one-in-a-billion was not hyperbole. Frankly, he doubted there were six people his equal on a planet of seven billion.
“Hello.”
“Hi there. I’m Scarlett,” replied the red head with a wink that made his heart rate rise.
“And I’m Daphne,” said the blonde. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll be back on this carpet tomorrow night. In between, you’ll be enjoying this beautiful Gulfstream.” What a thrill it was, offering lovely ladies a ride on a private jet.
“Where are we going?” Daphne repeated, her tone a bit tetchy.
Ivan wasn’t used to back talk from anyone, much less the hired help. What was it about Americans? “It really doesn’t matter, as you won’t be getting off anywhere but here.”
“I’m not leaving the country,” she insisted.
“Me either,” Scarlett said, taking Daphne’s arm.
Ivan locked eyes with one, then the other. He could tell them that he was headed for the French Riviera, and that would probably change their tune. But he didn’t like to be challenged, and their lack of logic vexed him. “It’s a private jet, not a panel van, and this is Silicon Valley, not Tijuana.”
Neither girl’s expression yielded. That was the problem with the high-end escorts. They weren’t hungry. “Suit yourselves.”
Ivan headed up the airstair without a backward glance.
He didn’t own the G650. Chartering jets was far more cost efficient than owning them, and infinitely more suited to the liquid-asset requirement of a man who might need to vanish at any minute. The downside was that he usually flew with an unknown crew, creating something he always preferred to avoid: unpredictability.
At the top of the stairs, he caught the eye of the flight attendant waiting in welcome, and reconsidered his aversion to unfamiliar faces. What was it they said about variety being the spice of life?
She gave a name with her greeting, but it went in one ear and out the other. What stuck was the emphasis with which she said, “It will be my pleasure to take care of you this evening.”
He gave her a silky smile.
She gestured toward the luxurious cabin. “Do you expect the others shortly?”
“It’s just me tonight.”
Her eyes registered surprise—and perhaps something more.
Ivan grabbed a seat. As he settled in, the flight attendant brought him a chilled bottle of Icelandic Glacial Water and a frosty crystal glass. Setting the silver platter before him, she said, “Still sealed, as requested. First time I’ve seen this brand.”
“A bit of purity in an otherwise tainted world.”
“Is that the voice of experience I hear?” she asked while pouring.
He cocked his head and studied the flight attendant for a few seconds. Liking what he saw, he decided to engage. “You gave me a look, earlier.”
“I might have spilled the water if I wasn’t looking.”
“Not that. You gave me a look when I told you I was the only passenger.”
“Apologies if I offended. It wasn’t intentional.”
“I’m not offended. I’m curious. What were you thinking?”
She appraised him openly for a moment, after which Ivan expected her to ask if he wanted to hear the truth—as though anyone ever said they didn’t. But she skipped the silly ritual. “I was thinking there had to be a story.”
Ivan didn’t buy it. “The look I saw was more judgmental than curious.”
Another moment of appraisal ended with a shallow shrug. “This is a lot of plane for one person.”
“You’re pretty blunt for someone working in hospitality.”
“I’m heading on vacation. Perhaps my mind is already there. Please forgive me.” Her tone was more playful than placating.
“Where are you vacationing?”
“France. Thanks for the ride.” She winked.
Playful. He liked playful. “Whereabouts?”
She shrugged. “Ne pas savoir est la moitié du plaisir.”
Not knowing is half the fun, Ivan repeated to himself. Talk about an opposite approach to life. “You speak French like a native.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment, but didn’t spout the expected “Merci beaucoup.” Fascinating.
Ivan found himself intrigued, but she’d touched a sore spot with her reaction to his flying alone. He raised the glass again in polite dismissal. “Thank you for the water.”
Ivan didn’t have regrets. He didn’t think that way. Didn’t look backward. But he had a sore spot, and this girl had found it in two seconds flat. She’d put a pin on the one thing he didn’t have. Odd as it was for a man-of-mystery, Ivan dreamed of days filled with family and friends. He longed for a prestigious permanent address with personal photos on the wall. Club memberships and restaurants where they knew his assumed name.
Of course he also had much grander ambitions. He always had grander ambitions. He wouldn’t stop until schoolbooks included his name. Why was it that no matter what you had or what you’d achieved, you always wanted more?
Ivan drank his water and pushed whimsy from his mind. Time to revel in the moment. He’d just completed a major coup. One worth celebrating. He’d served revenge, clean and cold, to a man who had betrayed him. The Director of the CIA no less
. And he’d framed his rival for it. He doubted there was another person on the planet who could have pulled that off. Not one of the seven billion.
He’d timed it perfectly as well. Crippling the CIA and forcing Achilles into hiding just when the world was about to need them most.
That called for a celebration.
He turned from the window toward the front of the plane. “Tell me, do you drink champagne?”
9
Reassignment
El Paso, Texas
MIDNIGHT PHONE CALLS rarely bring good news. Winning lottery numbers are picked early in the evening, and promotions are delivered in person. Unfortunately, SAIC Ripley Zonder of the FBI received those calls all too often. As Special Agent In Charge of the El Paso field office, he was point man on the border between Texas and Mexico.
His hand felt like lead as it reached for the phone. The remnant of a dream in full motion. “Zonder.”
“Rip, it’s Brix. Are you ready for a challenge?”
Rip was ready for his pillow and not much else. At that moment, he wouldn’t get out of bed to attend the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. A tip-driven bust on the border had kept him up for 36 hours. But Robert Brix was not a man you gave No as an answer. The Director of the FBI didn’t just wield the biggest sticks in the world, he also controlled Rip’s carrots. “Always!”
“Glad to hear it. I’ve got a new job for you. Starts in an hour.”
“In an hour?”
“That’s when your plane leaves. 03:00.”
“Leaves for where?”
“San Francisco. I’ve just named you SAIC.”
Well what do you know, a midnight promotion. The news perked him up as the questions flooded in. The first was Why me? He was a West Texas hound dog and San Francisco was more fit for poodles. But he chose a less challenging question. “Why the rush, sir?”
“Wiley Rider was just assassinated in the city. I want you running the investigation.”
“The Director of the CIA is dead?”
“Shot in the heart during a meeting with a former agent. That agent is on the run, which is why I need a sheriff running the show. Someone who knows how to lead a posse. Tangney’s good, but he’s a numbers guy. Financial crimes.”
“What’s happening to Tangney?”
“Eric’s getting your job.”
“He’s not going to be happy.”
“Nobody’s going to be happy until that assassin is a confirmed kill or behind bars.”
“I’ll grab my go-bag. Company plane?”
“Fueling up at Biggs as we speak. Kickoff conference is in four hours. And don’t worry about Eric. Long term, his career will benefit from some time on the border.”
Somehow Rip didn’t think Tangney or his former team would see it that way. They would see one Texan favoring another—and they’d be right. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a sound decision. Rip’s role was to prove Brix right.
He slept and showered on the plane and arrived at his new office feeling about forty percent. The FBI’s San Francisco field office was a typical nondescript high-rise office building, located amidst other high-rises just off Civic Center Plaza, a mile southwest of where Rider bit the bullet.
All eyes were on Rip as he walked to the empty chair at the head of the table. Few looked familiar. None were friendly. The big teleconference screen still showed the FBI seal—the stars, the stripes, the scales and the laurel leaves. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. Since Director Brix wasn’t yet on the line, Tangney must have leaked.
It was time to form a first impression and Rip resolved to make it a strong one. He would not waste a minute waiting for Brix, despite the cover the Director might provide. He would not delve into personal politics, or delay progress with introductions. He would get straight to business. “Good morning. We’ve got a killer to catch and a trail that’s seven hours cold. I’ve read the preliminary report from the crime scene, as I’m sure have all of you. We know who. We know where. We know how. With those three keys already in pocket, we’re freed from the usual delays and distractions, so I’ll accept no excuses. Just one well-coordinated crunch to catch Kyle Achilles.”
So far, so good. The eyes were still hostile, but the minds were engaging. “To do that, we need to understand him. His background, his motivations, his associates, his skills. Who here can give me the bacon without the sizzle?”
“I can,” an unfamiliar agent said without hesitation.
“And you are?”
“Oscar Pincus, CIA. I was his last handler.”
Oscar looked like he’d stepped off the bottle of Mr. Clean. One glance at the big bald prick and Rip pegged him as one of those slick Washington weasels who knew how to get dirty without letting anything stick. The kind of guy powerful politicians always kept in their corner. Their darkest corner. This one must have hopped on a plane even earlier than Rip had. That made sense. Upon losing their boss, the CIA would first scramble their own. Then they’d begin working to shift the blame. “You’re in from Langley?”
Oscar nodded. “Achilles’ last assignment was high profile, and he blew it. Director Rider fired him for it.”
In other words, the assassin wasn’t one of us. We dismissed him. A decent defense. “So Achilles was motivated by personal animosity?”
“And a misguided sense of justice.”
“How long ago was he fired?”
“Three years.”
“What’s he been doing in the meantime?”
“Climbing rocks.”
“Is that some CIA metaphor?”
“No. He’s a professional rock climber.”
Go figure. “That explains the dramatic escape. Is there money in rock climbing?”
“Can’t be much.”
Rip didn’t think so either. “So he’s broke and bitter and feeling cheated. He blames Rider and takes action.”
“Or someone wants to make it look that way,” Oscar added.
So the CIA was going to two-step this one, first add distance and then cast doubt. “You think it could be a setup?”
“It’s possible. Invite men known to have a poor personal history, then use a long gun. Glocks are easily converted to carbines, and planting brass is child’s play. Plus the killer left the weapon behind. That’s not the mark of a seasoned operative, unless said operative is losing his mind.”
Losing his mind. Make that a three-step. “Ballistics will clear that up.”
Before Oscar could respond, the big screen flickered and the FBI logo yielded to Director Robert Brix’s ruddy face. “Have you caught him yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Sorry I’m late, SAIC Zonder. Got another call. I trust you’re getting full cooperation?” Brix made a point of meeting every eye so each agent would feel the weight. “I see Acting Director Riddle also sent his man.”
“Good morning, Director.” Oscar said.
Brix’s gaze returned to Rip. “Afraid I have to run, but I wanted to check in. I’ve been rearranging my schedule so I can come out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Today if you make the arrest.”
“You’ll be the first to know if we do.”
Brix nodded and the screen reverted to the FBI logo.
“Was Achilles a good field operative?” Rip asked Oscar.
“His skills were solid. Some would say superior. Politics was his, um, heel.”
“He have any friends left at the agency? Anybody he might turn to?”
“No. There’s been a lot of turnover the past three years, and most of his work was in the field anyway. Solitary ops.”
“Good to know. He have family?”
“A fiancée, Katya Kozara. She’s Russian. And get this: she returned to Moscow two weeks ago.”
That was a lucky break. The optics were right and it would give the CIA something to do. “I trust you’re bringing her in.”
Oscar focused intently on his fingernails. “We’re working on it. Relations with Russ
ia are a bit strained at the moment.”
“Well, maybe this can make them better. Russians love locking people up.”
“They didn’t lock up Snowden.”
Rip hated guys who made excuses before lifting a finger. “Don’t worry about bitin’ off more than you can chew. Your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger than you think. Just focus on the prize. We get her, we get him. Game over.”
10
Manipulation
French Riviera
IVAN’S PHONE BEEPED as his plane descended below 10,000 feet, waking him. It was a single ping and not particularly loud, but it tickled the back of his brain. Few people had his number and none of them would leave casual messages. He checked the screen and groaned inwardly. The voice message was from the one man he couldn’t ignore. He hit play.
Four words sprang from the speaker, stripped clean of salutation or sign-off. “Come see me immediately.”
“Crap.”
The noise roused the flight attendant, who rolled over to face him. They hadn’t slept much, for all the right reasons, but she still looked alert. Perky even. “Who was that?” she cooed.
Good question. Vladislav “Vlad” Vazov, or Little V as everyone called him behind his back, was the son of Victor Vazov, one of Russia’s oil oligarchs. The single best word to describe Vlad was playboy. But of course, that hardly described their relationship, or the reason for Little V’s call. Speaking softly, Ivan said, “My boss.”
“Your boss,” she repeated, rising up on one elbow and uncovering a single beautiful breast. “I find it hard to believe that you report to anyone.” She used her free arm to gesture around the jet, exposing the twin in the process.
So do I, Ivan thought.
As The Ghost, he had operated at the apex of the dirty-deeds business. He’d been a living legend. That was fine and good while it lasted, but it came with a downside he hadn’t anticipated during the heyday of his acclaim. When one operated as a ghost, he had no verifiable income. No references. No collateral. None of the prerequisites for building anything big enough to be of interest to a giant like him. Yes, he’d done well financially. Very well. But he’d lived accordingly. So when the idea for his crowning achievement came to him, Ivan found himself far short of the financial foundation required to get it going.
