by Tim Tigner
He turned toward her. “I had to borrow money to build my business. The caller was my creditor.”
“What business is that?”
An abundance of caution kept him from saying the name of his business. “A high-tech company.”
“Sounds sexy.” She traced a nail across his bare shoulder. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to come by your place to help work off any tension that might arise from your meeting.”
I bet you would.
Ivan let her eat silence for few seconds before saying, “I owe him $600 million.”
“$600 million,” she repeated, her eyes growing wide.
Ivan nodded.
She dropped back onto the mattress but left her charms exposed. “Why call a creditor your boss? I’ve heard it said that you have a problem when you can’t repay a million dollar loan, but it’s the bank that has the problem if you can’t pay back a billion.”
“That’s an acute observation.”
“For a flight attendant, you mean?”
“For anyone. ”
“I have my moments. Is it true? If so, then the banker’s not really your boss, and we can play some more.” She ran a fingernail across his shoulder.
This girl really was a sharp one, but she still had to go. He was nearing the endgame of his grandest operation and could afford no distractions, regardless of how smart, sweet, or stress-relieving. “Who says I borrowed from a banker?”
Her look shifted from puzzled to perturbed as realization dawned. “The mob? You’ve got the mob after you?”
Ivan shrugged.
She blinked a few times, then rolled into a seated position and began putting on her clothes. “We’re about to land. You should get dressed.”
Ivan smiled to himself. Nothing sent them running like mention of the mafia. If only he could manipulate Vazov with such ease.
11
Katya
San Francisco, California
ACHILLES would have preferred a day at the dentist to the call he was about to make, but the entire 49ers defensive line couldn’t have stopped him from making it.
Since he no longer had a phone and it was after midnight, his options were limited. He decided to hit the Four Seasons Hotel in Silicon Valley, which was near the storage facility where he kept his go-bag—his stash of weapons, documents, disguises and emergency cash. It was a big stash, all of it long-forgotten, off-the-books remnants from CIA missions. All of it untouchable except in emergency situations—kind of like a 401k.
Rather than asking at the desk, Achilles approached the valet, an Indian with a thick gold bracelet and lively eyes. Achilles held up a $100 bill. “I need to make an international call, immediately.” He whipped out a second hundred. “For cash.”
“Of course, sir. How long a call?”
“Less than five minutes.”
Rather than picking up the phone on his stand, the valet said, “Please follow me.”
He didn’t take Achilles to the lounge or business center. He took him to the luggage storage room. Pulling out his own cell he called up an app. Skype. “Take your time.” He handed the phone over, closed the door, and left Achilles in his own private phone booth.
Achilles sat on a hard-case bag while dialing, but got up again immediately. He was too nervous to sit. He began pacing while the call connected.
“Hello.”
“Katya, I’m so glad you answered. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just preparing for class. You sound stressed.”
Relief swept over Achilles—but plenty of nervous tension remained. He had a big ask of Katya, and he wasn’t sure she’d go along. Katya was fiercely loyal, but she wasn’t a woman to stand blindly behind her man. She had fought her way up the academic ladder in Russia, and then made the leap from its top rung to America’s, landing a plum professorship. Like Jo, she thought for herself, and acted for herself, and Achilles admired her greatly for it. But tonight, he needed her to follow his instructions. Tonight, he needed her to do as he asked—even though it would pain her greatly.
“I’ve just been framed for killing CIA Director Rider. Looks like it was Ivan the Ghost. By morning, half of U.S. law enforcement will be hunting me.”
“Oh, goodness.”
“It gets worse. They’re going to come after you to get to me.”
“In Moscow?”
“You’re going to have to leave the university and go into hiding today. Immediately.”
Katya only paused a single second. Her mind was the fastest he knew. “You’ve thought this through? Weighed the alternatives? Considered the consequences—to me and my career—and concluded that my leaving is the only way?”
“I have. There’s no room for negotiation—with the authorities, I mean. They’ll pounce like an angry lion. No chance to reason. No opportunity to fight. Absolutely no way to keep teaching. If you don’t go, you’ll be locked away and used as leverage against me.”
Katya knew how serious Achilles’ world was. She had firsthand experience with it. So she didn’t push back with complaints about career or commitments or students depending on her. She didn’t say, I just got here, or That’s not fair. Instead, she said, “I can visit my aunt in Saint Petersburg. She’ll be happy to see me.”
Again, Achilles had to be cruel to be kind. “I’m sorry, but you can’t visit anyone you know. The CIA will make capturing me a top priority. They’ll use everything they have and will likely draft the FSB. You have to get off the grid. No cell phone. No computer. No friends. I’m so sorry.”
Katya paused, and Achilles felt his heart stick in his throat. It only stayed there for a second.
“Where should I go?” she asked, her tone replete with resolve.
“You told me that when you were finishing up your dissertation, you went into isolation. You traveled to a small village beside a remote lake. Just you and your books. Do you remember the place? Don’t say the name.”
Achilles hadn’t been there. He hadn’t known Katya at that time. But one afternoon in Napa, she’d told him the story over a flight of five Cabernet wines. Following in the footsteps of a friend who had recently completed his dissertation, Katya had taken a train 250 miles east and glued herself to her books until her dissertation was done. Achilles remembered the name of the lake because they’d laughed about it. Gryadetskoe sounded a little like graduation. Her goal.
“I remember.”
“You’ve got a few papers to publish, don’t you? Part of your tenure track requirements? Can you do what you did then? Grab your books and research notes and go crank them out in solitude?”
“I guess so. If that’s what I have to do.”
“It absolutely is. Your attitude is amazing. I appreciate it more than I can say.”
“How long will I need to stay there?”
“I don’t know. Weeks. Maybe a couple of months. I’m so sorry.”
After a pause, she said, “How will we communicate if I’m off the grid?”
Leave it to a math professor to probe the practicalities. “We won’t. Too dangerous. I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry.”
“I’ll come get you when it’s safe. In the meantime, I’m sure there will be some news coverage of my situation, even in Russia. If anything should happen to me, you’ll hear about it. But I don’t want you worrying about me. I’ll be fine. Focus on making this an opportunity to get those publications cranked out.”
“I will.”
What a woman. She wasn’t moaning about the career impact of walking away from a prestigious visiting professorship without notice. She wasn’t complaining about leaving civilization behind. She was just doing what had to be done—for him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
12
Promotion
French Riviera
LIKE ITS CREATOR, Silicon Hill was not what it seemed. On the outside, Ivan’s business complex looked like a posh oceanfront community—secluded, exclusive and secur
e. On the inside, it appeared to be a high-tech research facility, complete with laboratories, dormitories, offices, eateries and recreational facilities. In actual fact, it was all those things—but it was also much more.
Michael was about to pull back the curtain for one of the engineers. Welcome to Oz.
Mickey Leonov was top talent on their primary legitimate venture, a shoebox-sized drone that monitored pipelines for oil and gas companies. And being of Russian descent, he had an intuitive understanding of both the privilege of insiders and the perils of crossing the powers that be.
Mickey’s promotion wasn’t planned, but the failure in Versailles required immediate corrective action. More action than could be completed by the current crew before Ivan’s return. Michael wanted to retrofit Raven with improved offensive capabilities so that he could present the solution at the same time he revealed their shortcoming. Problem encountered, problem dispatched.
Ivan didn’t know about the debacle in Versailles yet. Having taken a page from the playbook of Russia’s previous president, he refused to discuss operations on the phone, even in code. He’d find out in person when he returned from California.
Michael, Boris and Pavel spent the drive back to the Côte d'Azur brainstorming fixes for Raven’s flaws. They arrived home with workable solutions and implementation was now underway.
Michael phoned down to the laboratory. “Mickey, it’s Michael. Please join me upstairs.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Mickey replied with excitement in his voice, “On the second floor?”
The second floor was strictly off limits to non-executives. A call like this was tantamount to a promotion, and every engineer knew it. “That’s right.”
“I’ll be right up.”
In a stroke of genius typical of Ivan, he had named his company Silicon Hill. The obvious comparison worked as anticipated, and Silicon Hill quickly became the talk of Silicon Valley. Ivan’s technology incubator boasted everything that Google, Facebook and YouTube offered its best and brightest—plus a beachfront location.
And not just any beach.
The most prestigious beach in the world.
The Côte d'Azur. The French Riviera. Home of Monte Carlo, Cannes and Saint Tropez. Topless beaches, tropical weather and mega yachts. Exotic cars, celebrity chefs and classy casinos.
Converted from a seaside estate, Silicon Hill’s corporate compound centered around the previous owner’s clifftop mansion. The ground floor of the two-story structure housed its large lobby, administrative offices, meeting rooms and an enormous kitchen. The second floor contained the executive offices, and the owner’s residence which went unused. Vazov preferred his home on the grounds of the Monte Carlo Polo Club. All the legitimate creative work was conducted underground in a 20,000-square-foot finished basement that had once housed the most valuable exotic car collection in France.
Michael met Mickey at the top of the grand staircase that linked the lobby with the executive suite. “Right this way,” Michael said, motioning toward the east wing, which appeared eerily quiet. “You expected to see more people,” Michael added, reading Mickey’s expression.
“I did.”
“They’re not here. They don’t usually work here.”
Mickey cocked his head.“They don’t?”
“I know. You see them going up the stairs every morning and down them every evening, but they’re not actually coming here. They’re just passing through.”
“Passing through?” Mickey’s face displayed a gratifying disorientation. He really had no idea.
“You know the work we do here is highly confidential, right? Everything has to be kept secret until patents are issued or products are launched.”
“Right. That’s one reason Mr. Vazov has us living on his compound. It minimizes interaction with the outside world. We’ve figured that out.”
Michael nodded while smiling inside. The hired help all thought Vlad Vazov was the brains behind Silicon Hill, when in reality he was just the bucks. This was intentional. An unwritten yet explicit clause in the loan deal. Vazov used the illusion to pacify his father—and Ivan was happy to be a ghost. “Well, Mr. Vazov has taken that approach one step further with his pet project.”
“Pet project?”
“The team I’d like you to join.” Michael stopped walking and turned to face the engineer. “But only if you’re willing to keep it quiet—no matter what.”
“No matter what?”
Michael reached beneath his jacket and pulled a handgun from the holster behind his back. He rarely carried. Ivan considered guns to be beneath them and preferred to get creative in situations where weapons were usually required. But in this instance, flashing a bit of cold steel was a smart tactical move, so Ivan would approve. “The pay is triple, but there are dire consequences for betrayal.”
Mickey stared at the Sig with wide eyes for a few seconds.
Michael studied his face, looking for the decision.
“Everybody who comes up here—”
“Is part of that pet project.”
“Triple the pay?”
Michael nodded.
Safety in numbers. The A Team. Mickey’s calculations were obvious. “Well, all right then. Count me in.”
Michael holstered the Sig and resumed walking. They passed Vazov’s office, Michael’s, Boris’s and Ivan’s, then turned left into a short hallway made to appear longer by a mirror at the end. Michael passed Pavel’s office and the bathroom without slowing, causing Mickey to fall back. At the last instant the glass slid aside, swiftly and silently, and he stepped onto an elevator. “Are you going to join me?”
Mickey followed him aboard, silently but with an expression that spoke volumes.
The elevator had no buttons or switches, and it didn’t ask for a command, but as soon as Mickey cleared the threshold it sealed them in and started to descend.
“You know the previous owner had a huge car collection, right? All housed in the enormous underground garage where the laboratory is now located.”
“I do.”
“Well, he had another collection, a secret collection, as the world’s wealthy often do.”
Michael would have paid for a picture of Mickey’s expression. “What kind of collection?”
“Artwork, armaments and apparatuses of a sexual nature. Much of it stolen, scandalous, or outright illegal. He kept it all on the next level down.”
“Next level down? I had no idea—”
“This elevator is the only way to get there. Well, other than the cargo lift concealed in the laboratory floor.”
Mickey was still processing the grand revelation when the elevator door opened and they found themselves looking at Silicon Hill’s secret lab. Identical in size to the one above, it was similarly replete with storage racks and work benches and scores of high-tech tools. All the so-called executives were busy working on one of four big black machines, each roughly the size of a mattress.
“Those drones are enormous,” Mickey muttered with wonder in his eyes.
“So are our plans,” Michael replied. “Welcome aboard.”
13
Little V
French Riviera
EXITING HIS LIMO at the Monte Carlo Polo Club, Ivan rolled his shoulders like a boxer about to enter a ring. Meetings with Vazov were always a battle of one sort or another. Vlad had an ego that outweighed his abilities tenfold, and the attitude of a man who thought the world owed him more than it had already given.
Ivan walked through a lobby festooned with trinkets and trophies and stepped out to the massive expanse of manicured grass. Polo fields were roughly nine times the size of football fields, with goal posts set wide enough apart that you could drive trucks between them—two at a time.
Ivan made his way to the owner’s tent and availed himself of one of the chairs facing the throne. Vazov habitually sat with his back to the action in Japanese style, so as to be viewed against the best background. In his absence, this gave Ivan th
e opportunity to watch the match while waiting. Fortunately a flag indicated that this was the sixth and final chukka. He was eager to clear this hurdle, get home, and hear about Raven’s test run.
A waiter appeared wearing the black and gold colors of Vazov’s Team Excelsior, along with the requisite smile. Ivan ordered an Erdinger wheat beer and returned his gaze to the game.
People speculated that Vazov gravitated to polo because being on horseback literally kept the little guy out of his father’s enormous shadow. Ivan saw the appeal, but developed his own theory. He suspected that Vazov simply liked to walk around with a polo mallet—given that swords were out of style. In preparation for a game of buzkashi, the Afghan analog to polo played with an animal carcass, he’d seen the playboy take the head off a tethered goat with a euphoric look in his eyes. Ivan shuddered to think how much practice it had taken to learn to strike a blow with that much force and precision—and how heartless one had to be to deliver it.
Sitting there waiting for Vazov to come galloping along, Ivan felt like a tethered goat. He didn’t like the feeling.
The waiter returned with two frosty mugs as the bugle sounded: hefeweizen for Ivan and Panaché for Vazov, a fifty-fifty mixture of pale ale and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Ivan enjoyed a gratifying first sip as the black-and-gold team captain thundered to a stop before him. He had to concede that the scene made for an impressive sight.
Whereas Big V was a bear of a brute, with a thick neck, bald head and knuckles resembling walnuts, Little V was lean and athletic, with bronzed skin, thick hair and manicured nails. Obviously, the genetic roulette ball had favored his mother, a Latvian beauty queen. As far as Ivan could tell, the only things father and son shared were money, a name and a ruthless temperament.
