by Tim Tigner
The intruder’s expression changed. “Which Volodya?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Dubnov? Was it Dubnov?”
“I’m not sure. His last name wasn’t mentioned.”
“I hope not, but I wouldn’t put it past Stepashin. He’ll fire anyone for anything. You better hurry up. It’s crazy up there, and Mister Voskerchyan doesn’t like crazy.” His eyes appraised me, head to toe. Seeming to approve, he said, “Take my advice and work to appear calm and deferential at all times, no matter what these spoiled bastards say or do. By the way, I’m Pavel. Gotta run.”
“What the hell is going on?” Director Rider asked in my ear.
Pavel turned and began to exit but then stopped short. Two other guys walked past him into the room. Pavel turned back around. “This is Volodya Dubnov,” he said, pointing to a thick man with wrestler’s ears on his left. “And this is Volodya Mendelson.” He pointed toward his right, to a handsome guy whose height and build were more suited for the NFL than a cruise ship. “Which one are you replacing?”
The gig was up. Pavel’s expression told me he knew he’d been played, and wasn’t happy about it. I was oh for two on finesse today, and the stakes were mounting with each failure. This time I was facing a veritable wall of opposition. At 6’2” and 220 pounds, I’m no powder puff, but these three were close to that on average, accent on the three.
“Mister Voskerchyan doesn’t like thieves or spies,” Pavel continued. “Which one are you?”
Wrestler spoke next, confirming that Pavel’s question was rhetorical. “Last guy we caught provided us with a week’s worth of entertainment before we let the sharks in on the fun. It gets boring down here in the crew quarters, you see. All the good stuff is up top. So thanks for joining us, regardless of your reason.”
“International waters are like outer space,” Handsome added. “Nobody can hear you scream.”
While they were busy working themselves up as men do before combat, I was assessing the situation. The trick was going to be rendering them unconscious without inflicting permanent damage or worse. Although the more they talked, the less I was concerned about the worse. Keep talking, guys. Given the close-quarters combat environment, I pegged Wrestler as the biggest threat and decided to take him out first.
“Let’s go talk to Voskerchyan,” I said, raising doubt as I moved toward them and the door.
The uppercut has several advantages, one of which is that it’s delivered through the undefended territory between the arms. Another advantage to uppercuts is that they slip in below the visual field. Recipients often never see them coming. That was exactly what happened to Wrestler. “Nobody gets-” was as far as he got before my palm-heel strike turned off his lights. If there had been onlookers, they’d have said, “He never knew what hit him.”
With the other two just off to my left, I spun around and put my right elbow into Pavel’s solar plexus with enough force to lift him off the ground with a grunt and a whoosh. Solar plexus blows are beautiful because they cause all kinds of stress. The recipient remains conscious, but his system goes into reboot as it reacts to the systemic disruption that just paralyzed his diaphragm and stole all his air.
Continuing around with my circular momentum, I attempted to place a crushing yoke strike against Handsome’s larynx. I was fast, but not fast enough, and he snapped his head back in time to dodge the brunt of it. I continued through with my planned combination, planting a powerful left cross on Pavel’s temple and sending him to dreamland with a headache that would reverberate for weeks.
Dodging a kick from Handsome, I put myself between him and the door. The expression on his face told me he thought I was going to run for it, but I kicked it closed instead.
As the lock clicked home, the right side of his mouth pulled back in a primordial smile, revealing his canine tooth. Apparently Voskerchyan staffed his yacht with men who could serve a dual purpose. Being the bigger guy, and thinking I was cornered, Handsome launched himself at me as if he was storming the castle gate. His intent seemed to be to crush me where I stood, a bug on the windshield of his brawn.
I shot my left hand forward as though I was going for his eyes. Nothing induces panic faster than an ocular assault. As he tilted and twisted his head, I hit the other panic button. I drove my right fist straight into his balls, fast and true. Momentum carried him into me and flattened me against the door, but he doubled over rather than pushing through. A quick rabbit punch knocked him out.
“I repeat. What the hell is going on?” The voice in my ear was still talking. “You’re not in direct contact, are you Achilles?”
Direct contact was a literal description of what I was doing, but Rider didn’t need to know that. “Hold on, sir.”
I got busy stuffing three oversized sailors into three undersized wardrobes. The result wasn’t pretty, but I got all the doors closed and locked with keys from their pockets.
Time to deal with Rider, one way or another. I considered switching off the mike now that I was alone, but it was about to get hairy, and I knew I might need support. “Sir, I’m aboard the yacht where we believe Ivan is meeting Emily.”
“What do you mean you believe?”
Their syntax was so similar that I wondered if Rider was secretly Oscar’s father. “Emily was brought here, we believe, as part of Ivan’s plan to influence the London mayoral election, but I don’t have visual confirmation. The Anzhelika is the size of a football field, so I’ve changed into a crew uniform to facilitate the search. I need to get on that now, sir.”
“You do that. Don’t plan to disembark while Ivan’s still breathing.”
Chapter 15
Show and Tell
“I’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING with me. A little show and tell that I guarantee will change your life.” Speaking to the mayoral candidate, Michael’s tone made it clear that his words should not be construed as hyperbole.
Lounging before a gas-and-glass fire pit at the aft end of the Daisy Mae’s big deck, Kian Aspinwall appeared as relaxed as a politician in the midst of a high-profile campaign can be. He wore a pink button-down beneath a blue linen blazer, and boat shoes on bare feet. Keeping his eyes on Michael’s, and flashing a pleasant smile that showed plenty of perfect teeth, he replied, “I’m intrigued.”
So was Jo.
She’d crept to a perch on a neighboring yacht that gave her line of sight on the conversing couple. From that vantage point, her directional microphone delivered their words as clearly as if she’d been seated with them. She was reveling in her good luck when Michael lifted his tan leather bag and said, “Let’s move to the table.”
Her heart sank, her lips mouthing, “Merde.”
That ruined everything.
When they moved back toward the main saloon, she’d lose sight and sound. Even worse, there was no location on her yacht that gave a downward angle on that table. To see what was in the bag, she was literally going to have to jump ship — silently, invisibly, and immediately.
Jo jammed her equipment back into her purse. As she slipped off her boots and socks, the internal monologue began. What are you doing, Jo? My job. Don’t think about the risks, just do it.
She backed up to the far railing, took a deep breath, and then started sprinting. Five strides to gain speed, then up onto a footstool with her left, then the guardrail with her right, followed by an open-air dive — arms forward, legs up, eyes locked on the guardrail of the Daisy Mae’s top deck some ten feet away.
If she missed, she’d likely drop three stories to the water. Noise. Injury. Attention. Failure. She let the consequences fly by as fast as the scenery, maintaining her focus on victory.
The instant her fingers touched precious chrome, Jo used core strength and momentum to pike her hips up, flipping her legs over like she’d done a thousand times on the uneven bars. She released her grip on the rail as soon as her ankles broke the vertical plane, and a split second later landed — on her ass. Her pride took a hit, but she was none
the worse for wear.
After scrambling to her feet, Jo pulled the monocular and directional mike from her bag, and scurried to the far edge. Peering over, she found the corner of the wall separating the saloon from the aft deck. She wriggled under the guardrail on her belly at that spot, and then slid over the edge.
Hanging with her knees crooked over the middle beam of the guardrail above, she maneuvered to an angle that let her see the table over Kian Aspinwall’s shoulder. Covert surveillance Batman-style had never come to mind while practicing inversions in yoga class, but it likely would hereafter.
As she redirected the mike, she heard Aspinwall say, “After your introduction, I wasn’t expecting fruit.”
“Ah, but when is citrus not fruit?” Michael replied.
Jo saw that he’d placed a grapefruit on the table, atop a little trivet that held it steady.
Kian’s expression hinted at the perplexed indifference that Jo suspected he was feeling. Perplexed, because this was no doubt the most unusual one-on-one meeting he’d hosted all day. Indifferent, because the thousands of pounds Michael had no doubt contributed to his campaign for the privilege were already in the bank.
Michael then withdrew a manila envelope from his bag.
The thought of blackmail photos crossed Jo’s mind before he slid an unfamiliar object out and it clunked onto the table. It was a loop of wire joined by a metal puck the size of a large coin, but about four times as thick.
“That’s interesting,” Kian said, his confusion obviously mounting.
“Isn’t it,” Michael replied.
He proceeded to belt the grapefruit with the wire, securing it at the equator by pulling the ends tight. “Now comes the cool part.”
Chapter 16
Range-R
“DON’T PLAN TO DISEMBARK while Ivan’s still breathing.” I repeated Rider’s words to myself as I fastened my black tie. The man had sounded like a saint during his Senate confirmation hearing. All polite and prim and proper. Politicians were a different species. But I was happy enough with the plan.
I’d boarded the Anzhelika under the guise of being an advance member of Prince Albert’s security detail. This had resonated with the matched set of Russian thugs at the bottom of the gangplank, as it made me a brother-in-arms of sorts.
That didn’t stop them from confiscating my Glock.
Losing my firearm was a setback, but not critical. I could kill Ivan with anything from a shoelace to a copy of Vanity Fair, although I’d prefer the speed of something more conventional.
I made my way down the hall toward the galley in search of camouflaging props and more conventional weapons.
The galley was a veritable beehive. White-hatted chefs were checking and chopping, while the arms of assistants flew about their production stations. Chicly attired servers came and went, deftly carting away culinary masterpieces on silver platters.
My stomach began to growl like a belligerent dog at the smell of bacon-wrapped scallops. I was overdue for dinner. An approaching waitress heard the rumble and gave me a look.
“Where can I get a bottle of Cristal Champagne?”
She began to answer without breaking her stride, but then caught my eye and paused. “You’re new. But then you wouldn’t be asking the question if you weren’t, I suppose. I’m Tanya.”
“Vayna. Pleased to meet you.”
Tanya was a dark-haired beauty whose long legs made the most of her stylish uniform. She gave me a smile so warm I worried it would bake the rare Ahi tuna on her plate. “The wine store is one level down toward the bow, with the other cold storage. Alex will help you.”
I said, “Thanks,” and grabbed a couple of her hors d’oeuvres with my right hand while my left surreptitiously slipped the long silver corkscrew from her apron.
She winked and was gone.
I inspected my new weapon on the way to cold storage, while making the Ahi vanish. It was a three-for-one deal. The foil knife was small but very sharp. Probably Swiss. Well-tailored for windpipes and carotids. The actual corkscrew swung out of the middle to form a T. Protruding between my middle and ring fingers, it would work as a knuckle-duster, debilitating major muscles, and wreaking havoc on throats and eyes. Finally, the blunt end would function like a Kubotan stick. Lethal on the temples, and good for debilitating blows to bony areas and sensitive fleshy spots. Best of all, it looked innocuous.
I found Alex as advertised. He was mid-sixties if not older — the oldest guy I’d seen working. Also the most relaxed. I guessed he’d been with Voskerchyan since before the Berlin Wall came down. “A bottle of Cristal?” I asked, by way of greeting.
“Semechkin must have arrived,” he said, his voice unexpectedly low. “Coming right up.”
I had no idea who Semechkin was, but when luck smiles you smile back. I accepted the bottle in an iced silver bucket along with two crystal flutes and the obligatory silver platter.
Oscar had sent the Anzhelika’s deck plan to my smartphone. What a monster. But as big as she was, I only spotted a few likely haunts for Ivan and Emily. Those included the saloons, the open decks, and the guest rooms. Since the common areas were crawling with both hostile eyes and thirsty guests, I decided to try the cabins first.
They were two levels up.
As I headed for the stairs, I wondered how Jo was faring. Her moves picking the pockets of the prince’s entourage had impressed me, as much for the strategic thinking it represented as for her tactical execution. She must have had quite a time at The Farm, using her quick wits to compensate for a lack of prior training.
I could relate to that.
I looked forward to learning more about her story over a beer, once we’d taken Ivan out.
I paused on the stairwell to study the main saloon through the open lobby doors. It looked like the red carpet at the Academy Awards. There were enough jewels on display to pay off Greece’s national debt, and a wide enough range of beauty to supply an entire Miss Universe pageant. I would have enjoyed mingling for an hour or two, just to pick up tips on which islands to buy, and where to acquire the most obedient slaves, but I limited my exposure to a quick scan of faces.
Emily’s wasn’t among them.
Worried that I’d be flagged down like the lone waiter in an overcrowded diner, I completed my ascent when most heads were turned, and ducked into the hallway that led back to the guest rooms. Despite the Anzhelika’s size, there were only seven. A literal interpretation of living large.
I’d formulated my plan of attack while Alex was placing the Cristal in the bucket. Noting the shape and recalling the weight of the last bottle I’d hefted, I realized he was handing me a club. It would only be good for a surprise blow or two, but surprise was exactly what I intended.
Posing as a daft and misdirected waiter, I’d key into promising rooms until I found Ivan. At that point, there would be a bit of quarrelsome dialogue including who ordered what and now that I’m here, followed a few days later by a headline reading: The Champagne went to his head.
I whipped out the Range-R and began walking down the left side of the corridor, pressing it against the wall with my left hand while my right supported the Champagne.
The Range-R Xtreme was like a sophisticated stud finder that painted a picture of bodies in a room. Very cool. Of the seven staterooms, only two contained animate objects. The third on the left had a couple I was quite certain were naked, and the VIP suite at the end contained a trio I was equally certain were not. Neither room looked particularly promising, but tactically there was a smart place to start. I wasn’t worried about dying from embarrassment.
Chapter 17
Pushing Buttons
JO MENTALLY URGED Michael to hurry as he set his cell phone down on the table, and opened an app. Her calves were really wailing now.
She was dangling face down over the rail, hooked by the crook in her legs. She’d been crossing and uncrossing her ankles to shift the weight, but that no longer helped. Soon they would give out and she’d
drop. At least her plan was working. By using the monocular’s fine-tuning, she’d brought the phone’s screen into sharp focus.
As Kian watched, oblivious to Michael’s sinister intentions, the app came to life. It displayed red, yellow, and green buttons on the left, and a slider switch on the right. “The slider controls the wire’s length,” Michael said, his tone making this achievement out to be the equivalent of cold fusion. To demonstrate, he slid it until the grapefruit looked like a fat man in a tight belt.
Michael shifted his gaze to Kian, obviously expecting a reaction.
“Fascinating. What do the buttons do?”
“Green is the release,” Michael said, extending his index finger with a flourish. He ceremoniously tapped the screen, causing the wire to slacken and the puck to thunk onto the table. “It’s heavier than it looks. Now, I want you to remember that button. It’s going to be very important later on.
“Next is yellow. When I tap yellow, like so, the belt begins to tighten. The Swiss precision is too slow to see, but trust me, it’s moving.” He lifted the widget by the puck, and sure enough, after about ten seconds it was tight enough that he could remove his hand without it falling.
“Now, as you might guess, red is the opposite of green. Would you care for the honor?” He proffered the phone, as the grapefruit began to pucker.
Ever the gentleman, Aspinwall mimicked Michael’s fanfare as he pressed the red button.
The wire cinched like a hangman’s noose, and the grapefruit burst open, sending sticky pink juice spraying in all directions. A second later, the puck clattered to the table and Michael lifted the top half of the grapefruit clean off. “No breakfast table should be without one.”
Jo thought Aspinwall was doing a great job of maintaining an enthusiastic face, despite being confronted with what appeared to be a late-night infomercial reject, at the end of a long campaign day. Again his response was politely ambiguous. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
