by Tim Tigner
Chapter 23
Bad Call
NINETY MINUTES LATER the assassins’ Escalade was in a distant corner of SFO’s long-term lot, Dix’s disassembled Sig was on its way home compliments of an express mail drop box, and Kyle and Kate Yates were ticketed for Moscow via Frankfurt. They were already calling our flight when we cleared security.
I pointed Katya toward our gate. “Why don’t you see if you can get through to Dr. Tarasova before boarding. I have another call to make, but I want to use a payphone.”
“Moscow as well?”
“No, local.”
“At eleven o’clock on a Sunday night? This part of the strategic plan?”
“Just the first move. The second call will be the big one. I’ll make that from Frankfurt during our layover. Go ahead and board as soon as you’re done with Tarasova. No sense making it easy for anyone watching the video surveillance of my call to figure out we’re together.”
“I should have guessed,” Katya said, with the hint of a smile.
One tough girl.
I ran to the other international wing and began stuffing quarters into a pay phone that wasn’t under direct surveillance from a security camera.
My call was answered on the second ring. “Santa Barbara Police Department.”
“ADA Kilpatrick, please.”
“I’m sorry, the District Attorney’s office is closed right now.”
“I’m sure it is. I need to get ADA Kilpatrick an urgent message. Can you do that for me?”
“I can try.”
I dictated the message, then added, “Please be sure to tell him the number from which I called.”
Ten hours and nine time zones later, I picked up a different pay phone. I fed this one with euros while Katya stood by my side. I didn’t dial the SBPD directly, but rather a CIA relay. With that trick, the caller ID would show up as Unknown even if I dialed the White House or the Hoover Building.
“Santa Barbara District Attorney’s Office.”
“ADA Kilpatrick, please. He’s expecting my call.”
“Hold on.”
Katya leaned up and in to hear.
“Mister Achilles?”
“Morning Mister Kilpatrick. Do you have Casey McCallum and Detective Flurry with you?”
“We’re all here, as is Detective Frost,” Casey said. “And anxious for your, ah, update.”
“Thank you for getting together on short notice. I appreciate your time, and will get right to the point. I’m calling to arrange for bail.”
As we listened to silence, I pictured the faces of the three senior officers of the court, first looking at each other and then staring into space. The brooding eyes and furrowed brows of professionals who just moments ago had thought they’d already heard it all.
Kilpatrick broke the silence. “Your request for bail was denied some six months ago, Mister Achilles. I’m about to have a bench warrant issued for your arrest. I would have done so already if your attorney hadn’t convinced me that you could be made to see reason.”
“I thought it might be in everyone’s best interests if you reconsidered my bail request.”
“I don’t see how granting you bail would be in anyone’s interest but yours.”
Patrick Kilpatrick was a boy-faced redhead, with freckles and sad eyes that seemed to reflect all the misery he’d witnessed in the course of prosecuting cases of domestic violence, child abuse, murder, and rape. I could picture those eyes now, dark tranquil pools concealing the shark within. “Well, first of all, if I’m not out on bail, then the nightly news will carry a story that makes your boss look bad, Mister Kilpatrick. Secondly, compared to the alternative, it’s a win-win situation. If I show up for my trial, then no one looks incompetent. If I don’t show up, then I’m just another bail-skip, and the city gets a fat payout. No news story there.”
“Are you planning to show up for your trial?”
“Absolutely — if I get bail. There’s no other reason to ask for it, given the circumstances.”
“Then why did you break out? You’d already been in jail for six months. What’s the big deal about two weeks more?”
“It wasn’t a question of time. It was a question of necessity. It became clear that I was going to have to conduct my own investigation in order to prove my innocence.”
“That’s what you’re currently doing, investigating?”
“Exactly. And that’s why I wanted Detective Flurry on the phone. I may need some help.”
“Detective Frost and I have already concluded our investigation,” Flurry said.
“Yes, but I got the feeling your gut was at odds with the evidence against me. I thought you’d want the chance to help get it right.”
Before Flurry could answer, Kilpatrick said, “I don’t think we can go for this. There’s no precedent for it. Without precedent, the DA would be out on a limb.”
My stomach dropped.
I needed bail.
Without bail, my odds of walking away free and clear plummeted from low to near zero. Precedent or not, granting bail in these conditions seemed like a no-brainer to me. I suppose I should have known better after working for the CIA. Risk aversion was a way of life for people counting on government paychecks and pensions. But I’d felt certain that with elected officials like the DA involved, the desire to CYA would trump all. “Check with your boss, Kilpatrick,” I said, trying to sound more upbeat than I felt. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Chapter 24
Tricky Situation
FROST SLAPPED HIS NOTEBOOK against his palm the moment Casey left the conference room. “I really want to nail this bastard. First he manipulates the system to make us look incompetent, then he tries to use that very fact to blackmail us. Fuck him and his special request.”
Kilpatrick rose from the table, but the detectives remained seated. By now, they both knew that the ADA literally liked to think on his feet. Anyone visiting his office figured that out pretty quickly. Kilpatrick had stacked old Martindale-Hubbell law directories under the legs of his desk, raising it an additional eighteen inches so that he could stand while working. If anyone commented, he’d note that each volume included the name of at least one attorney he’d trampled in court.
Kilpatrick began pacing with his bat. “I think we’re all agreed on the goal, as you so eloquently put it, detective. Let’s make sure we don’t underestimate Achilles again. As I see it, we have two options for putting him back in jail. We can either find him, or we can trick him.”
Flurry scooted forward in her chair. “What do you mean by trick him?”
“The use of deceptive tactics in situations like these is sanctioned. Let’s think about what we could tell him the next time he calls to lead him into a trap. Detective Flurry, why don’t you focus on that.”
“Okay.”
Frost looked up from his notebook. “Shall I focus on finding him?”
Kilpatrick shook his head without turning his gaze from the garden outside the window. “I don’t want any attention drawn to this situation. It’s too politically sensitive. That means no BOLO’s or other forms of outside involvement. Given that, and the fact that Achilles has almost certainly fled the jurisdiction, and most likely the country, there’s nothing you can do. Our hands are tied, for now.”
“What about the jailbreak? Shall I look into that?” Frost asked.
“Not yet. Same reason. For now, besides the perpetrator and his attorney, we’re the only people who know that there’s been a jailbreak. I’d like to keep it that way until he’s back behind bars, or ...” Kilpatrick drifted off into thought.
Frost and Flurry sat in silence, watching and waiting until the ADA spun back around. When he did, there was excitement plastered across his ruddy cheeks.
“Achilles inherited about ten million dollars, right?”
Flurry was faster off the mark. “He did. I moved to seize it, but his father kept it overseas, and Achilles was smart enough to have it moved again before we coul
d get to it. It’s gone.”
“So let’s get him to bring it back.”
Frost chuffed. “You mean as bail? All of it? No way he’s going to do that. The guy’s in the wind with ten million in the bank. He’d be a fool to take that deal.”
Kilpatrick swung his bat in slow motion at an imaginary target. “Let me worry about the negotiation. Meanwhile, let’s figure out how to catch him quietly, on our own. If we apprehend him now, we’ve got a lock on an escape conviction. With that, the triple homicide conviction will be virtually guaranteed. He’ll go away for life.”
PART 2: CONNECTIONS
Chapter 25
Déjà Vu
WE REGISTERED our fresh passports at a big old hotel near Katya’s former dormitory. Perched in the woody Sparrow Hills, the Korston Hotel overlooks a big bend in the Moscow river and many of the city’s most notable landmarks. It also transports visitors through time and space.
Walking through the Korston’s lobby doors, tourists exchange views of Moscow State University’s iconic stone spires and the legendary gardens of Gorky Park, for those of old Las Vegas. Red carpets, colored lights, and cocktail lounges abound — all designed to put people in a playful mood. A round-the-clock buffet keeps clientele inside and fueled while noisy slot machines and chatty prostitutes drain their pockets. Hardly my definition of paradise, but to each his own.
Katya and I skipped the glamour and glitz and headed straight for our room, aiming for power naps amidst piles of pseudo-silk pillows.
I woke after forty minutes, and hit the shower. It was my first since the prison attack and I welcomed it like vindication. I listened to half of Adele’s latest album under the hot torrent of a large showerhead, part of it performing maintenance, all of it enjoying a simple pleasure six-months denied.
Exiting the bathroom wrapped in a towel and surrounded by a refreshing cloud of steam, I walked into a trap I thought I’d avoided. I found myself flanked by two enormous black suits, both wearing wraparound shades.
To the left, a gorilla with a shaved head held Katya’s throat in his fist. He looked ready to crush it like an empty beer can. Straight ahead, a brute with a wicked scar covering half his left cheek held a Glock pointed at my heart. Rock steady. The G43 slimline subcompact, I noted reflexively. Ideal for concealed carry. A considered purchase. A professional shooter. And the same model used by the boys in Palo Alto.
Scar pointed to the pile of clothes outside the bathroom door. “Odevaicya. Get dressed.”
I played out the next ten minutes like a fast-forward movie, scrambling to find a place to splice an escape into the film. The pressure points were the hand on Katya’s throat, and the finger on the Glock’s trigger. I needed a situation that would enable me to neutralize both long enough to work some magic.
Our hotel room was no good. They’d established advantageous positions and had space to maneuver.
The doorway was better. A pinch point that split their attention.
The hallway was bad. They’d be behind us with straight shots, unless we were lucky enough to run into a crowd. I wasn’t feeling lucky.
The descent was the first situation that held promise. Ten flights of elevator or stairs. Holding someone by the throat on an elevator was risky, since they didn’t know how often the doors would open, or who’d be there when it did. For that reason, I figured they’d go for the stairs. Nobody used those. Plus, they were more isolated and controlled.
They’d exit us into a waiting vehicle, probably through an exit that avoided the lobby. That would take us through back hallways, and potentially past fire extinguishers, cleaning carts, and maintenance supplies. All were potentially useful, but none were predictable.
I needed something I could rely on. Something in my control. Once we were in the car, or truck, or van, then rope, or handcuffs, or duct tape would come into play, and our odds of escape would plummet.
I had to act before we got that far.
I had to come up with a plan before we left the room.
In my mind, I backed up to the stairwell and pictured it as a battlefield. A jungle of concrete walls and metal rails slathered in gray paint. Twenty flights of tripping points and sharp turns, of rigid corners and precipitous drops.
I made my decision.
Raising my hands slowly, I put quiver in my voice. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Odevaicya,” Scar repeated, the right side of his mouth drawing back in a sneer.
I pulled my t-shirt on first, followed by my jeans and leather jacket. I was consciously fumbling in fear on the outside while my mind raced, surreptitiously searching for weapons or tools. The floor was bare, and there were no tabletop trinkets within range. I settled my mind on the Bic pen I’d used to complete our customs forms. A simple yellow cylinder in my back jeans pocket, next to the paperclips I always carried as makeshift tools. I tied my shoes and stood slowly, shoulders slumped, palming the pen out of sight while dangling my arms like broken wings.
Scar gestured toward the door with his gun. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 26
Making a Point
WHEN CONFRONTED with superior numbers, the first rule is split the opposing force. Divide and conquer.
I beckoned to Katya with my head, urging her to go first and allowing my eyes to flash lucidity as they met hers. I wanted her to know I was on my game. I wanted her prepared.
She started walking as though there wasn’t a fist wrapped around her throat. The gorilla slid his grip to her shoulder, covering it like a baseball mitt as she led us out of the room.
“To the right,” Gorilla said, steering her toward the stairs. The hallway was empty. Not so much as a maid’s cart to be seen. Two steps in front of me, Gorilla had his paw on Katya’s shoulder. Two steps behind me, Scar had his Glock leveled on my center of mass. He’d literally be shooting from the hip, firing through his suit coat pocket, but at that range, a drunk blind man couldn’t miss.
At the stairwell entry, Gorilla swapped his left hand to Katya’s shoulder so he could use his right to open the fire door, which was no doubt held closed from the inside by a heavy pneumatic spring. We accordianned back together as a foursome and I followed the leading couple through.
I reached up with my left hand to prop the door for Scar, glancing over my left shoulder as people in polite company do. Of course, people in polite company don’t have guns pointed at each other’s backs, so Scar was left with a dilemma. Should he pull his gun hand out to prop the door, or should he let me hold it while he walked through, or should he reach awkwardly across with his left?
I was ready for all three.
He went with option one, pulling the gun from his pocket and using the butt to prop the door. He had four inches and fifty pounds on me, and three minutes prior had heard me quiver with fright. Hardly high-tension for him. Just another day on the brute-squad job.
My left hand followed my gaze, rocketing up from my waist to grab his right wrist from below, pushing it up while my fingers clamped down like emergency brakes. The moment they locked on, I sprang up and back with my legs, pulling Scar off balance and on top of me.
He began squeezing the trigger as he toppled forward, his sunglasses flying from his face. Once, twice. Crack! Crack!
We went airborne, nose to nose, with concrete chips flying and the echoes of gunshots reverberating.
I brought my rigid right arm around, pen now clenched like an icepick in my fist, eager to extinguish the confident gleam in his eyes. Ignoring the threat of the rising concrete floor, I put my back and shoulder into the swing, driving the exposed inch straight into his left ear canal. This stunned him, but it didn’t put him down. His grip on the gun remained firm as we smacked down on my left side.
If Gorilla also had a gun, this was the moment where I’d meet my maker. I hadn’t seen a telltale bulge on his breast or ankle or in the hollow of his back, but that was far from definitive with slimline automatics against that m
uch bulk. In any case, it was out of my hands, so I put it out of my mind.
I used Scar’s moment of shock to wrap my legs around one of his, taking knees out of play and gaining some control. Our arms began a desperate two-front tug-of-war. My right hand kept pressure on the pen puncturing his ear, as Scar struggled with savage fury to pull it out the way it had gone in. Meanwhile my left hand battled his right for control of the gun. I couldn’t pull the trigger, but he couldn’t aim.
I looked up and back, over my head, and along my arm.
I saw Gorilla making the decision to abandon Katya and go for Scar’s gun.
Then I witnessed the bravest act I’d ever seen.
The strongest muscle in the human body isn’t the arm’s biceps brachii or the thigh’s rectus femoris. Pound for pound, the jaw’s masseter muscle takes the prize. Delivering up to 270 pounds of force through dense mandibular bone and teeth designed to cut and grind, it powers nature’s original weapon, and it functions with equal ferocity whether the object encountered is dead or alive.
Katya twisted her long slender neck down to the left and clamped the full breadth of her jaw around Gorilla’s left hand. The move was amazing, both for its accuracy and its speed, like a chameleon catching a fly. She must have been rehearsing it in her head. Must have spent the walk screwing her courage tight and preparing for that strike.
And that wasn’t all.
While maintaining the grip with her teeth, Katya swung her fist down and back between her tormentor’s legs, making audible contact and eliciting a tortured groan. The combination blow momentarily knocked Gorilla out of commission, and saved both our lives.
Or at least it postponed our deaths by a few auspicious seconds.
I pushed my left arm up while vising my thighs in and down, leaving Scar’s shoulder with minimal leverage so I could direct the gun. I didn’t need it pointed anywhere in particular. I just needed it clear of Katya. With her safe for a second, I focused on the pen. Scar was desperate to pull it out. I was determined to drive it in. But I didn’t have the room. The pen was only five and a half inches long, and my fist was covering four. We were at a stalemate, but one that wouldn’t last. Katya’s bite had bought us the ability to keep fighting, but Gorilla would knock her aside and get to Scar’s gun in a heartbeat or two.
