by Tim Tigner
“The special clasp makes the length fully adjustable. I think that’s about right. What do you think?”
Emily swapped out her simple gold earrings for the celestial bodies, and dropped her arms to admire the complete package. “I think it’s perfect. I don’t know what to say. I really need to change before we go. Although I’m not sure I have anything that will do them justice.”
“That’s all been taken care of.”
Overwhelmed by the situation, she again spoke without thinking. “How is that possible? Andreas and I talked about a lot of things, but my dress size wasn’t one of them.”
“Your shoe size either, I expect, but then Andreas is a resourceful man. We really do need to be going.”
Emily didn’t want to get too analytical for fear she’d ruin everything. She had a choice to make. A simple yes or no decision, and yet as complicated as any she’d made.
She felt stuck and was frustrated with her own indecisiveness when the back of her mind kicked out a trick her mother had taught her way back when. The right move became obvious when framed with the right question. She asked herself what she would be feeling an hour from now, if she said no. “Give me two minutes to slip on some dry jeans.”
Chapter 4
Suspect Motivations
I PUNCHED THE AIR with the elation of a big-game hunter spotting a fresh trail. “Bingo!”
I’d made it down the high-rise just before the police arrived, only to court disaster again by racing through three miles of central London traffic without regard for traffic signs. But the risks had paid off when I reached Palace Place in time to enter with Emily.
“Say again, Achilles.” Oscar’s voice was getting weak in my ear. The battery on my comm unit was dying.
“This could be it.”
“Do you think Michael could be Ivan?” Oscar asked.
Oscar had heard the same promising discussion I had, despite being 4,000 miles away. “I didn’t see him,” I said. “But I seriously doubt it. The Ghost is too cautious not to use an intermediary at this stage.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see him? How could you miss him?”
“I was up in the third-floor hallway. After sticking the cricket on Emily’s purse, I needed to disappear.” Crickets were the CIA’s latest listening devices — highly-sensitive, internally-powered bugs that also chirped a GPS signal, hence the name. The one I’d just placed would allow us to keep tabs on Emily until she got a new phone. Or changed her purse.
“And you chose to go into a blind spot, rather than back out to the street?”
“An about-face would have looked suspicious. I didn’t know her date was going to show up four hours early. Don’t worry though. I’ll get film when they leave. I’m in the lobby now.”
The mysterious Andreas had been our prime suspect from the beginning, but he’d taken so long to close the deal that we’d begun to think that he really was just an online suitor. Ironically, the most encouraging thing was that we hadn’t been able to learn anything about him.
This last twist made me certain.
“You think she’ll actually go? She might be desperate for dick, but how stupid do you have to be to fly overseas at the last minute for a blind date?”
Oscar was supposedly only a decade or so older than me, but sometimes I thought he was a defrosted Neanderthal. “She’ll go because she’s a romantic, and she’s fallen for him.”
“If he really was Casanova, or her motives really were pure, he wouldn’t need the chauffeured limousine, private plane, and custom jewelry.”
I’d been studying Ivan as a professional hobby for the better part of a year, which was how I’d landed the case when Director Rider got a lead. That and my Russian fluency. “He probably doesn’t need those things. But probably isn’t the same thing as definitely. The Ghost leaves nothing to chance. He never fails, and he’s never detected, because he’s extraordinarily meticulous.
“As for Emily, personally I’m convinced that she would happily ride on the back of a scooter to a chippy, so long as Andreas keeps the love-light burning.”
Oscar chuffed loud enough for me to hear it. “Women. Where do you think they’re going?”
“I don’t know. But this changes things. Now we have to let Emily know what’s going on.”
“No way! Don’t you even think about it, Achilles.”
I’ve gone by my last name ever since I was a toddler.
For my third birthday, a family friend gave me a jersey with my name across the back, and I basically refused to take it off until my fourth. At which point the same friend gifted me a fresh one and my parents gave up all hope of ever calling me Kyle.
It also made for a good call sign.
“We don’t know for certain that anything is going on,” Oscar added, when I didn’t reply immediately. “And if something is, then this is the first physical lead we’ve ever had on Ivan. You blow this for the sake of some British debutant, and Director Rider will show you the door faster than you can say operational security.”
“She’s not just leaving London. They’re taking her out of the country. We don’t know what kind of protection we’ll be able to provide because we don’t know where she’s going.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s not in danger. Ivan’s not violent. Killing clashes with his m.o.”
“We don’t know that he’s not violent. We just surmise that from the crimes attributed to him.”
“We’re not telling her, Achilles. Drop it. At best, she’ll freak out. At worst, she’ll open her mouth and then Ivan really will kill her — right before he disappears. If you’re worried about her, then you just plan on doing whatever it takes to keep her safe. Are we clear?”
God, how I missed Granger. I’d been stuck with Oscar for three missions now. I’d gone from working with one of the greatest legends in special operations, to working for a politician. I don’t have anything against politicians, mind you. Well, that’s not entirely true. At times, their disingenuous, self-serving nature makes me want to head-butt a window. But my issue with Oscar was that he didn’t know what he didn’t know.
Ignorance killed people in our line of work. The people in the field, that is. The armchair warriors back in Langley only had to weather the occasional paper cut. “Ivan will have his people deep-six her purse, you know. Just like he did her phone. No way that was a coincidence. They’ll swap her old Coach bag for a fancy new one on the plane. Then we’ll lose audio and GPS.”
“So you’ll just have to tag her again when you land. This time you can plan ahead for it, so you’re not stuck hiding when all the action goes down.”
I wanted to point out the stupidity of bumping into the same mark twice in the same day in two different cities, but didn’t see any percentage in it. Oscar’s only concern was the optics of the outcome. He didn’t care how we got results, or even what results we got, so long as they made his boss look good.
CIA Director Wiley Rider was in desperate need of a few wins. His confirmation had been contentious and rocky. The president’s first nominee to run the CIA had been both a darling of the Senate and a career veteran of the agency. Much to everyone’s surprise, however, he’d withdrawn his name and then retired, citing personal reasons.
Rider, an outsider with substantial family wealth and great political ambitions, eventually secured confirmation only because the powerful head of the Senate Intelligence Committee pushed his name loudly and repeatedly and forcefully enough to eventually squeak him over the confirmation line.
In classic Washington style, the minute Rider was in the big office he began sweeping out the old guard to make room for his cronies. This included retiring Granger in order to make room for Oscar.
Managing sensitive foreign threats to the American way of life now came second to making Rider shine. This op would do it. Nailing the globe’s most clever and elusive criminal in his first hundred days would both put Rider’s naysayers to shame, and give him enough political capital to coas
t on for years. He wouldn’t care if a girl had to die to make that happen. She wasn’t even American.
Chapter 5
Jet Set
EMILY COULDN’T STOP SMILING. Her trip down the rabbit hole into Andreas’s wonderland was already the most exciting adventure of her life. And this was just the warm-up.
When Michael opened the limousine door to reveal the stairway to a private jet, she paused for one moment to steady her legs. Then another to soak it up.
Her elation turned to shame, Eliza Doolittle style, when she placed her sandaled foot with its two-week-old nail polish onto the red carpet that met the limo’s door. She looked up at Michael, who returned a charitable expression.
“It has all been taken care of,” he repeated, reading her mind.
If Andreas were even half the gentleman Michael was, Emily would think about kidnapping him.
A woman greeted her from atop the short, curved airstair. A twenty-something who looked as if she belonged. She had a fashion model’s face, with thick blonde hair and a couture uniform of emerald-green, accenting her curves and matching her eyes. Emily’s jealous side would have hated her immediately if her smile weren’t so welcoming.
Emily caught her hand reaching subconsciously for the gold pendant on her new necklace, and redirected it before anyone noticed. Standing and straining to reach a full 5’5” height, she threw her shoulders back and chest out while holding her chin high. Then she directed her sandaled feet up the airstairs.
“Hello, Emily. I’m Alexandra. I’ll be taking care of you this afternoon. Please, take any seat you’d like. Captain Roberts will have us in the air momentarily.”
Emily looked around, drinking the atmosphere in. She’d never flown first class, much less private. Thick carpet of burnt gold, bird’s-eye maple tables, and buttery-leather armchairs the color of crème caramel. The wall accents had been polished to a mirror shine, and the leather still smelled new. Wow!
She picked the second seat on the left side of the plane and sat with her face to the window. She resolved to sit that way until her face was as composed as Alexandra’s.
Her mind was still racing in a dozen different directions.
She tried to let the rhythmic house music emanating from a dozen hidden speakers sweep her away while she watched a matched pair of white Rolls Royces disgorging a large family of Arabs near the airstair of a neighboring jet.
This really was happening.
If ever there was a time to call Jen, this was it. Surely there was a phone on the plane. If only she could remember Jen’s number.
She turned from the window to find Alexandra standing there with a glass of champagne. “Captain Roberts said the control tower has delayed our departure, so we can get started.”
Emily accepted the glass and immediately took a long sip, feeling the cool liquid slide all the way down. “Get started with what?”
Alexandra beckoned with her head in answer, and began walking toward the back of the plane. Her hips swayed in a fashion that even Emily found hypnotic. Some women were blessed top and bottom, front and behind.
Emily followed her to where the main cabin ended at a bird’s-eye maple door in a matching wall. Alexandra pressed a button, and the door slid to the left, revealing a washroom far more spectacular than the one in her flat.
Emily’s eyes immediately went to a blue and gold silk dress that popped from the glistening white surroundings like a flower from the desert sand. Then her eyes dropped to the floor beneath, where beautiful gold sandals and a matching purse waited. Emily looked back at Alexandra who nodded the affirmative.
An alarm tinkled in the back of her mind as she held the dress against her body and appraised the fit in the mirror. Perfect. She checked the shoes. Size seven. “How did Andreas know my sizes?”
Alexandra smiled. “He didn’t. I sized you up during boarding. I’ve got eleven more dresses and five more pairs of shoes in a wardrobe up front.”
“Is this some kind of uniform? Does Andreas do this every weekend?”
“Heavens no. It’s Hermes. They don’t do uniforms. I bought them while Michael was fetching you. I had a picture of the necklace to match, and your online profile to size with. Of course people tend to tell white lies online, so I allowed for variance. But you come exactly as advertised. Andreas assured me you would.”
Alexandra paused for a moment. “As to your second question, the answer is no. To my knowledge, Andreas has never done this before.”
Chapter 6
Alone
I SHOOK MY HEAD as the timbre of the jet’s engines changed, and the Mediterranean Sea came into view on the horizon. “Tell me you got someone, Oscar. We’re running out of time.”
“It’s coming in now,” Oscar said. “Hold on.”
Despite the radical shift our surveillance operation took when it suddenly went international, we’d reestablished our tactical advantage with a bit of subterfuge and a government G150 jet. By working with the control tower to learn Emily’s flight schedule and then delay her departure, I was now following her plane from a hundred miles in front. Even The Ghost would be unlikely to spot me there. People look in their rearview mirrors for tails, not their windshields.
Our advantage would evaporate without a skilled and knowledgeable driver on the ground.
Getting a local agent to meet me shouldn’t have been a problem, but for some reason, it was today. If Oscar didn’t have a name soon, I’d either have to steal a car, or use a taxi to tail the most elusive criminal in modern history through the packed streets of Nice.
“Agent Joe Monfort will meet you at the plane.”
“Hallelujah. What’s his background?”
“It doesn’t say anything.”
Was this guy twelve, or did he think I was? “Don’t bullshit me, Oscar. If it doesn’t say anything, I’m sure you can look him up in the database. Tell me he’s not a rookie. The last time you were vague about a partner, it turned out to be his first day in the field. This is no time for a training exercise.”
“Half of OPEC is in Monaco for the Yacht Show. It’s probably the single biggest gathering of Islamic billionaires in the world. The only reason you’re getting anybody at all is because Director Rider personally made a call. By the way, he wanted me to remind you how important this operation is.”
Of course he did. I was sure that deep down Oscar was aware of the contradictions coming out of his mouth, but on the surface he was clearly comfortable ignoring them. “Do we know his background? Tell me it’s Special Forces or DGSE or DGSI, and not the Foreign Legion.”
The CIA’s Special Operations Group typically drafted veterans of other elite forces. The DGSE and DGSI were France’s version of the CIA and FBI, and along with the COS, France’s Special Operations Group, they were our favored recruiting grounds. Unfortunately France’s top people typically preferred to stay domestic. The French Foreign Legion, on the other hand, was essentially a tough band of misfits who tended to be much bigger on brawn than intellect. Good horses, and much easier to recruit, but not the best for the course I was running. I wasn’t sure if that was it, but I could tell Oscar was hiding something.
“You know what I know,” Oscar said. “Regardless of background, I’m sure Joe can drive. What else do you need?”
I didn’t have time to explain field operations to someone daft enough to ask that question. “Nothing.”
“Good. Don’t fuck up.”
“How’s the facial recognition coming?” By walking around the lobby of Palace Place while pretending to talk on my cell, I’d gotten decent video of Michael escorting Emily to the limo.
“Nothing yet. I checked with Willis, and he said it’s clear that Michael’s had facial surgery, so I’m not holding my breath.” Willis was a plastic surgeon with the Department of Justice. The Witness Protection Program was his main gig, but he also consulted for the CIA.
“Great. How about the plane? Anything on it yet?” Emily’s jet had a VP-C tail number, which I
knew to be a Cayman Island registration. Not a good sign as far as transparency was concerned.
“It’s a nested corporate registration, a regular onion. The owner went to great lengths to conceal its identity, which isn’t that uncommon, as you know.”
I did know. People who could afford to fly private tended to love their privacy as much as their lawyers loved all the billable hours they got to spend on the obfuscation. “Let me know the minute you’ve got it peeled.”
The descent into Nice Cote D’Azur Airport was spectacular enough to lighten my mood, if only for a minute. Approaching over the red-tiled roofs of the French Riviera’s exquisite mansions as we flew toward the Mediterranean’s winking blue waters and sparkling white sands, I found myself enjoying my first lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous moment. Granted, my private jet was owned by the government, and I had been sent to dispatch an enemy of the state, but this was definitely a rosebud-worth-gathering moment, so to speak.
The CIA’s Special Operations Group was the real-life version of the IMF, the fictional organization made famous in the Mission Impossible series. We had access to private jets, and some pretty cool equipment, although it was nowhere near the extravagant assortment Hollywood produced. The aspect that did match the show, however, was the requirement to operate under the radar.
I carried no special ID, wore no uniform, and used no equipment uniquely traceable to Uncle Sam. I also couldn’t interact with foreign officials, even law enforcement — or get a better table at Spago.
Without the ability to turn to the locals for help, I really did need a competent French partner on the ground. It wasn’t just a question of transportation. One never knew what would come up that might require local influence or expertise. Speaking of things coming at me, it appeared that Joe hadn’t. I was looking at nothing but an empty carpet at the bottom of the G150’s airstair.
