Chasing Ivan

by Tim Tigner

  Chapter 25

  Flash Bang

  IGNORING THE SEARING white flashes of pain and the concerned queries from the little girl’s gawking mother, Jo pulled herself to her feet and continued her ascent.

  No, she wasn’t all right.

  Yes, she needed a doctor.

  But her needs would have to wait.

  Each step set off an explosion in her foot, but each stair brought her closer. She didn’t look down. She didn’t want to see. It was enough to know that no matter what was there, she couldn’t stop. Not until she had Michael. By the time she reached the top, her endorphins had kicked in and her Glock had come out.

  Parting the blue curtain through which they’d watched Emily disappear an hour before, Jo spotted her prey. Michael was slipping into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, while the attentive valet held his door.

  She almost cried with relief.

  This was perfect!

  She could hold Michael at gunpoint in his own car while calling Langley for instructions. They could even patch her through to Achilles. She hoped that he’d saved Emily and ended Ivan, but if not, capturing The Ghost’s right-hand man would be some consolation. A reportable event. Food for Rider’s PR machine.

  Jo pushed all the pain from her body and pulled all her skills into play. She willed herself to be silent and invisible as she sprinted the short gap to the rear passenger door.

  While the valet wished Michael a good evening, Jo slipped into his car. She was already positioned by the time Michael sat down. Arm raised, Glock aimed, game on.

  Michael’s door closed a second later with an incredibly loud bang, and a blinding white flash.

  Chapter 26

  Smug

  AS I SPLASHED into the cool Mediterranean water, my hands made immediate contact with the back of the C-Explorer.

  Then everything started to go wrong.

  I couldn’t find anything to grip, and my loose mask was filling with water, impeding the search. As the sub literally slipped through my fingers toward darkness and freedom, my lungs began screaming for air.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  I wouldn’t let it.

  Ignoring the burning in my eyes and the panic in my lungs, I kicked and I stroked and I scanned and I prayed. Any second now, Ivan would engage the forward thrusters and vanish into the deep dark Mediterranean. I had to gain a handhold before he did.

  After a few seconds of panicked searching and furious kicking, the Anzhelika’s underwater lights revealed a prize. Like a shady palm tree on a desert oasis, a black handle protruded from the sphere’s entry hatch.

  If only I could reach it.

  I was no kind of competitive swimmer, but cross-country skiing had given me an ox’s heart, a dolphin’s lungs, and a muscular system primed for sprinting. I set my eye on that finish line and gave it everything I had. I kicked harder and stroked faster, and I stretched and strained, while the tank wobbled and the mask fluttered and my lungs begged for air. Then a thousand tiny bubbles spewed from the sub’s rear grid, and I knew the forward thruster had just been engaged.

  It was now or never.

  With a giant coordinated thrust that called on every major muscle in my body, I porpoised forward and made contact with the middle finger of my left hand. It wasn’t much, just a single distal phalange. But for a climber it was plenty. I locked it down and levered my shoulders forward, catching a full grip with my right hand just as the C-Explorer began to bolt.

  Air.

  I needed air.

  I swapped my right hand for my left on the grip, reaching back for my regulator.

  It wasn’t there. The usual sweeping retrieval move doesn’t work when you’re being dragged.

  My screaming lungs were starting to spasm.

  I fought back by clamping my mouth shut. Turning my head, I saw my regulator flapping around with the three other hoses like towed ropes. I tilted my shoulders until it was fluttering in the right place, then snatched it and pressed it to my mouth.

  Oxygen never tasted so sweet.

  I cycled through a few deep inhales, then snugged and cleared my mask before recceing my situation. We were humming through the water at what felt like a sprint, but was likely just the speed of jogging. The water was cool and getting colder. And dark. So very dark.

  Yachts moored above on harbor buoys spotlit the sea with azure cones of light. Seen from below, it looked like the set of a science fiction movie. An alien invasion.

  Now that I could breathe and see, I pulled myself forward and looked into the sphere. It glowed with the radiation of dozens of LED lights. Knobs and buttons and screens and panels gave it a living luminescence.

  The Ghost turned his head and looked back.

  I don’t know what I expected to see on his face. Maybe fear, or anger, or nervous tension. But those weren’t what I got. There in the bluish-white glow, The Ghost wore a grin of pure satisfaction.

  It didn’t compute.

  He should be angry, furious even. His plan had been foiled for the first time ever, and now he had a live tail.

  Comprehension struck me like a blow to the gut. Ivan had actually mapped this out. He’d gamed this very scenario in his head. Probably weeks earlier. He’d done the proverbial math during extensive contingency planning. Now he was sitting smugly like a chess master who saw ten moves ahead, while I was just getting a feel for the board.

  With a dismissive shoo-bug brush of his hand, Ivan turned back to the main control panel and began diving even deeper. As the lights disappeared ever further above and behind, I recalled from my scuba certification class that anything below 60 feet was considered deep, and 130 was the conventional limit. I had no idea how deep the Mediterranean got off the Monaco coast, but I was pretty sure it was a lot deeper than that.

  The race was on, and I only had about a minute.

  I had two options: drown Ivan, or get him to surface. To do either, I’d have to disable the sub, quickly and without tools.

  I started looking around for things I could yank or kick or twist or release. Cords or plugs or cables or housings. The C-Explorer looked more streamlined than a Formula One racer. I supposed that when someone was manufacturing toys for billionaires, the smart marketers went big on sleek design. My hungry eyes found nothing of tactical value anywhere, including alternative grips.

  I thought about trying to jam the propeller housings at an angle that would force the sub to the surface, but there were two of those and just one of me. Regardless, I couldn’t see either from my topside position, and I had no means to descend.

  That left the passenger hatch. It screwed shut using a wheel housed in a recession that was covered on the forward half, making it hydrodynamic. Translation: I wouldn’t get a lot of leverage. But with no destructive tools, no choice of handhold, and no time, I had no alternative. I grabbed the wheel and started twisting.

  It didn’t resist.

  I got it through half a revolution before Ivan reached up and back behind his head to grab the inside lever with his right hand.

  Submarines were born as military vessels. Naval engineers had designed them to prevent exactly the maneuver I was attempting. They put spoked levers rather than wheels on the inside of hatches, specifically to provide superior leverage.

  I put both hands on the wheel and then doubled over to brace my feet against the housing. I began to heave with my arms extended, using the muscles of my back and legs. The wheel gave an inch. Hand over hand I worked it like a tug-of-war, fighting for every inch as I worked it through most of a rotation.

  Then two things happened at once.

  Ivan stood up, and stopped the wheel by bracing it with his second hand.

  And my air ran out.

  I don’t scare easily, but losing the ability to breathe really rattled my cage. One second I was breathing normally, no more conscious of the process than on land, and the next my lungs wouldn’t inflate. There was nothing to pull. It was like someone slapped duct tape over
my mouth and nose.

  Instinctively, I looked up before looking back down. There was only blackness above. I could have been fifty-feet down, I could have been a hundred. Ivan’s eyes said it all when I returned to the wheel, determined to overpower him. The leverage required to turn it from the outside just wasn’t there. And the bastard knew it.

  The sub had stopped moving when Ivan abandoned the controls to stand. With no need to hold on, I now had the freedom to use both of my hands. But I didn’t reach for the wheel. I yanked the empty tank off my back and raised it over my head like a battering ram. I was going to attack the sphere.

  I envisioned Emily’s choking face, and thought about the anguish she surely felt. I pictured Oscar and Rider back at Langley, barking out orders from the comfort of plush leather chairs. I thought about Jo, and the possibility that she might now be dead. I bundled those emotions and fed them to the fire that now fueled the rage powering my arms, back, and shoulders. Then I brought the tank down between my legs with the full force of my furious anger. It smashed into the sphere with a metallic clank that rang like victory in my ears, and sent a flash of fear across Ivan’s eyes.

  But the glass didn’t crack.

  As my heart dropped, my lungs implored me to swim for the surface.

  Hatred held me in place.

  I unscrewed the regulator from the top of the tank, streamlining my improvised weapon and giving it a point. Raising it high over my head, I brought it down again and a third time, pounding the valve stem against the same spot on the sphere with the precision and force of an ironworker’s hammer. I was expecting a crack and hoping for an implosion.

  I got nothing.

  For all my effort and emotion, I was only burning oxygen, and making noise.

  Game over.

  The last I saw of Ivan the Ghost, he was sporting a smug smile, and waving goodbye.

  Chapter 27

  Motivations

  THE OFFICE of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is no oval, but it still stole a few pints of my breath. The first three things to catch my eye were an ornate oak desk that looked as weighty as the decisions made behind it, a framed American flag rescued from the ruins of the World Trade Center, and a long lineup of vanity photos with celebrities ranging from LeBron James to Donald Trump. The plush blue carpeting still smelled new, and I was standing on it.

  “You let The Ghost escape,” Rider said, his voice tinged with anger and wrought with scorn. “The bloody Russian’s been a thorn in our side for eight years, and when we finally get a lead on him, you literally let him walk. You had him, and you let him go, contravening my direct order.”

  I found Director Rider’s contemptuous expression similar to Ivan’s last glance. Even with air in my lungs, however, this experience was worse. In part because he was right. In part because I couldn’t fight back. Regardless of what I thought of Rider, I respected his position. So I stood there and took it, eyes forward and mouth shut.

  “You may think you’re on the side of the angels, because you saved a girl, but you’re failing to see the big picture. What you did was weaken a nation, a nation that millions fought to make strong. You not only showed poor judgment, you demonstrated that you can’t be counted on when the going gets tough. When the big decisions are called for, you, Agent Achilles, get squeamish. That’s what Granger failed to foresee when he recruited you from a ski club rather than the Special Forces. I require more than skills. I require instincts, and attitude.”

  I said nothing.

  This seemed to further perturb the director. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  I shifted my eyes to Rider’s. He looked exactly like what he was: a seasoned politician comfortably seated behind a big desk. An armchair general pretending to lead from behind. “Sir, what is Agent Monfort’s condition?”

  “Agent Josephine Monfort? Yes, there’s another mark on the debit side of your ledger. Were it not for a first-rate emergency medical team, you’d be responsible for adding her star to the lobby wall. As it stands, she’ll make a full recovery. Physically, that is. Losing Ivan isn’t going to help her career. Anything else you’d like to say?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well. Agent Achilles, having disobeyed a direct order and proven yourself to be of no use to me, and thus to this agency, you’re fired.”

  “No, sir.”

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “Something about this case bothered me from the very beginning.”

  Rider grabbed a letter-opener off his desk, a miniature broadsword, and began to slice the air with its handle pinched between forefinger and thumb. The sight reminded me of the last thing I’d pinched between those fingers — and a decision I’d never regret. “And what was that?” he asked. “What bothered you?”

  “The big picture.”

  I paused for a second to let my words plant roots in the worry center of his mind. “For eight years, Ivan’s been a ghost. So smooth and secretive that he’s become a living legend. But then suddenly he supposedly made the mistake of using the same bank account twice. I don’t buy it. Too basic and amateur for a man who’s legendary for operating without a trace.”

  Rider spread his hands, palms up. “He was due for a mistake. One in eight years isn’t bad. Of course his record makes the fact that you blew it all that much worse.”

  I kept my eyes locked on Rider’s. “That doubt nagged at me until I met The Ghost face to face. Then it vanished. The reason there’s not another criminal on the planet like Ivan is that he takes meticulous planning to the extreme. The Ghost has contingencies for his contingencies. He’s the Gary Kasparov of crime, except that he only plays one or two matches a year. The idea that Ivan would make such a basic mistake is as preposterous as Kasparov losing at checkers.”

  Rider brought his hands back together with a clap. “And yet that’s how we found him.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You conducted the investigation yourself, former-agent Achilles.” Rider’s voice was calm and unwavering, but the corners of his eyes were pulling back a little.

  “I conducted the investigation that followed from having the client’s identity, not the investigation that led to it. His identity was provided to me. By you.”

  Rider leaned back, shaking his head. “I got it from the financial crimes division.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve arranged for someone there to back you up on that. Nonetheless, I asked myself how you really might have gotten a lead on The Ghost. That’s where Ivan’s nature entered the mix.” I paused just to watch his expression.

  “You became Director of the CIA only after two surprising events happened. First, the president’s initial nominee suddenly withdrew his name, citing personal reasons. Then, the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee suddenly became your ardent supporter.”

  “That’s the nature of politics. What’s your point?”

  “My point is the pattern. That pattern was about to repeat in the London mayoral election — not that anyone would notice. Who would ever think to compare them? Two different continents, two different positions.”

  “I’ve run out of patience with you, Achilles. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you hired The Ghost. You hired him to secure your position, and at the same time, you hired him to sway the London mayoral election.”

  Rider continued shaking his head. “Why on Earth would I care who wins the London mayoral election?”

  “I can’t think of a single reason.”

  “Well then …” He began to stand.

  “Which is exactly why you picked it. It’s similar enough in scale to the CIA Directorship that The Ghost wouldn’t blink at having them grouped together, but different enough that nobody would ever connect the two.”

  Rider plunked back into his chair. “You’re not making sense. Why would I hire The Ghost to rig an election I care nothing about?”

  It was my turn to enjoy myself, and I
was going to savor every second. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? I have two good answers. The first was camouflage. Hire The Ghost to put you into office, and he’ll know it was you, regardless of code names and numbered bank accounts. Hire him for a package deal, however, with two totally unrelated names, and Ivan wouldn’t have a clue as to who had hired him, or why.” I paused to soak up the moment. Then I pulled a letter from my back pocket.

  “As clever as that tactic is, the second reason is my favorite because it was a two-for-one deal.” I paused there, just to see if I could make veins appear on Rider’s temples. It took three seconds. “I spent the past twenty-four hours doing a bit of investigation, while I still had my credentials. I didn’t find any evidence of your looking into Ivan’s banking, but I did find your extensive research on Aspinwall. The London contract wasn’t about influencing British politics. The London contract was about setting Ivan up.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “By killing Ivan shortly after coming to office, you would eliminate the only witness to your crime. You’d begin your tenure with a dramatic win, a win that would prove your past naysayers wrong and cause your future opponents to think twice. Strategically, it was brilliant. Admirable, even. You outwitted the president, the Senate, and one of the most notorious criminals of our time.”

  Rider swapped his mask of indignation for one of pleasant indifference, a core item in the wardrobe of all career politicians. “If that were true, one might say it reflects the kind of operational mind this country needs at the helm of the CIA.”

  “One might. But not me.”

  “But not you.” Rider chewed on that a moment. “Well, it’s been interesting listening to the imagination of a disgraced and traumatized former agent, but as long as you’re where you are and I’m where I am, this story will never amount to more than that. Unless you have evidence, of course?” His eyes went to the letter in my hand. He couldn’t help it.