by Tim Tigner
“Anything else?”
“Wear something distracting. A tie with a print that requires deciphering, or a flower on your lapel that appears about to fall. Something to draw the eye from your face.”
As Achilles made mental notes, his phone began vibrating. It had to be Katya calling. “Can we take two minutes before you start on my hands?”
“But of course. I’m ready for another one of those delicious chocolates you brought.”
Achilles put the phone to his ear. “How’d it go?”
“I got them both!” Katya’s bright voice conjured up a picture of her beautiful smile.
Their plan had been a simple one. Call Grachev and tell him: Charlie was interested in interviewing one of Korovin’s potential successors, while he was in town to interview the president. Would the parliamentary leader be interested, or should she call Sobko instead? Charlie only had a two-hour window. Of course, Sobko got the call as well.
“So we’re set?” Achilles asked. “The day after tomorrow?”
“They couldn’t sign up fast enough. Grachev is at 4 p.m. Sobko’s at 8 p.m.”
The only thing Achilles liked about politicians was their predictability. Unfortunately, that quality didn’t extend to their bodyguards. Regardless of the quality of their makeup, the danger of detection by pros like those would be significant. Achilles found himself reminded of the proverb, Be careful what you wish for.
Chapter 84
The Metropole
Moscow, Russia
MAX COULDN’T BELIEVE the transformation Mila had created. Achilles was Charlie Rose.
At least from across the room.
If he didn’t speak.
Or move.
“You’re not walking like a 75-year-old. Rose is fit, but he’s not spry.”
Achilles tried to modify his gait. “Thanks. Zoya, any suggestions on how I could do that? We’re about out of time.”
Zoya was watching him via Skype. “What’s the furthest you ever ran without stopping?”
“26.2 miles.”
“Remember how sore you felt the next morning?”
“More or less.”
“Walk like that. And put some pebbles in your shoes.”
Max checked his watch. “I gotta go. I’ll see you at the Metropole.” He still wasn’t allowed to speak openly with Zoya. He understood why, but it still pissed him off.
Playing the role of Charlie Rose’s secretary, Katya had booked top-floor corner suites at two landmark hotels within a stone’s throw of the Kremlin. The Kempinski and the Metropole. She’d also arranged for two chauffeured stretch limousines and three first-class bodyguards.
Max went straight from Mila’s office at MosFilm into the first limo.
“The Metropole,” he told the driver. Max was dressed in a working-class suit. The kind worn five days a week with wrinkle-free shirts. The kind appropriate to blue-collar work in white-collar surroundings.
Turning to the bodyguard beside him in the back, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Ivanov.”
“You know who we’re protecting, Ivanov?”
“That American reporter. Rose.”
“That’s right. We’re the advance team. Your job is to stick with me until I say otherwise, and to stay silent until you’re off the clock. Not a word, not to anyone. It’s quiet day, you got that?”
The bodyguard nodded.
“Good man. When I say the word, your job will be to clear everyone from the room. Everyone but Grachev, Rose, and me. No exceptions. Got it?”
Ivanov nodded again.
“Good man.”
The Metropol was only about ten kilometers from MosFilm, but it took Max forty minutes with Moscow traffic. This was his second trip of the day. He’d been setting up the hotel rooms during the hours it took Mila to get Achilles resembling Charlie Rose.
Federation Council Chairman Sergey Grachev arrived just as Max and Ivanov were exiting their limo. It was easy to tell the cars of Russian officials. They had special license plates with flags and three numbers, and the lower the number, the higher the rank. Grachev, a bull of a man who resembled a Siberian wrestler more than a politician, was technically the second most powerful man in parliament after the unpopular prime minister. But as a relative newcomer to the stage, his license plate was only 008.
Three people and a German Shepherd climbed out of the black SUV with Grachev. Their functions couldn’t have been more clear if they’d been printed on signs. Eight of the legs obviously belonged to Grachev’s bodyguards, the other two belonged to a lovely assistant.
Max approached her only to have two hundred pounds of beef step into his path. The blocker had congenial features, making him suitable for background photographs, but the Krinkov short assault rifle slung across his chest more than compensated for any perception of weakness.
Ivanov moved in to face off with him, one bulldog to another. Max ignored them and, putting some flair into his gesticulations, greeted the woman in English with his British accent on full display. “I’m Tony Swan. I’ll be running the shoot. If you’ll come with me, we’ll get Chairman Grachev set up. Mr. Rose will be here shortly.”
Without waiting for an answer, Max turned and entered the Metropole. Ivanov followed a step behind to the right. Grachev, his assistant, and the two assault rifles trailed a few meters back with the dog.
Max hadn’t counted on a dog.
Chapter 85
Final Sweeps
Moscow, Russia
IT HAD BEEN FOUR DAYS since Max had handled the ANFO that went into Glick’s new marble lions. Now he was getting into an elevator with an explosive-sniffing dog. He tried to recall what he knew about canine capabilities, but was still drawing a blank when the doors swooshed closed and sealed him in.
He inhaled deeply, but detected only sweat and gun oil. Then the dog began to fidget — but no menacing growl followed. As the express elevator rocketed them toward the penthouse floor, Max let out a silent sigh and set about using the mirrored wall to study his opponents.
Grachev looked older in person than on TV, but nonetheless radiated a commanding general’s energy. His assistant, a thirty-something looker in a stylish gray suit, made a phrase come to mind. The best that money could buy.
Max couldn’t help but give his own disguise one final inspection. His silicone mask had been delayed by a technical glitch, so he’d taken advantage of the expectation for finding eccentrics among the show biz crowd, and had gone with the look of a British film star from the 1950’s. He’d combed his hair straight back and dusted it gray with some of Mila’s powder. Then he’d complemented the hairstyle with a mustache, sideburns, and glasses. The result was a persona so out of character that even Zoya wouldn’t recognize him. Most satisfactory.
Max turned to address Grachev after they’d cleared the elevator. They were standing in an area reserved for penthouse suite guests only. The lounge was a five-star room itself, complete with beverage and concierge service. “Mr. Chairman, I’m sure you can appreciate that like most artists, Mr. Rose is very particular about the way he works.”
Grachev nodded tentatively.
“He’s adamant about not permitting any distraction. As the camera operator, I’ll be the only third party permitted in the room during your interview. I’m sure your staff will be comfortable out here for ninety minutes.” He gestured to the soft furniture surrounding them.
Grachev didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure you can appreciate, Mr. Swan, that men in my position require certain security precautions.”
Max held up his arms as if surrendering. “Of course. Of course. If your security detail wants to do their thing while we’re waiting for Charlie, they’re most welcome. Most welcome, indeed. Meanwhile, let’s get you seated by the camera so we can perfect your lighting. Time’s tight, so we’ll want to roll the minute Charlie arrives.”
While the dog went to work methodically sniffing the suite, and the bodyguards did their best impression o
f storm troopers, Max led Grachev to his seat.
The two chairs were set up facing each other in the middle of the room, with the makeup artist Max had hired standing between them. As Tiffany went to work fitting Grachev with an apron, Max signaled Achilles using a clicker concealed in his pocket. Taking Charlie’s chair, he said, “I’ll have three cameras rolling the whole time. One on you. One on Charlie. One that captures both of you. For any particular moment, the editors back in New York will use the one that best captures the dramatic tension.”
“I’m familiar with the procedure.” Grachev’s deep baritone resounded off the walls, making Max glad there would be two doors between him and his guards. “But I’m surprised you’ll be managing the equipment all by yourself. Usually there’s a team of four or five.”
“Charlie likes to keep it simple, the producers like to keep it cheap, and modern technology makes both possible. Personally, I like being indispensable,” he added with a wink that bounced off Grachev, but fit Swan’s colorful character.
A bit of bustle erupted from the direction of the suite’s entrance.
They turned to see Charlie enter. He headed straight for Grachev, his right hand extended.
Tiffany, busy putting makeup on Grachev’s face, prevented him from rising. Grachev just smiled and poked his own right hand out from beneath the apron.
Achilles started coughing into his left. “Excuse me.” He shook Grachev’s hand while trying to clear his throat. “Give me a minute,” he added, and turned toward the master bedroom and its private bath.
Max spoke up for all to hear. “Okay, we need to clear out! Everybody, please! This will take about an hour and a half. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable in the lounge.”
Tiffany made two final strokes with her brush, then ran for the door, leaving her kit behind.
Ivanov dutifully herded everyone toward the lounge before becoming the last to leave.
Max bolted the door behind him.
Chapter 86
The Bear
Seattle, Washington
“WHAT IS IT with you and that umbrella?” Katya asked, as Wang twirled it round his hand. “You have a dagger in the tip? Cyanide pellets perhaps?”
Wang looked back and forth between the women and his umbrella. “Sometimes an umbrella is just for the rain.”
He looked at his watch, then exhaled loudly and returned his attention to the walls.
There wasn’t much to see in the warehouse they’d rented. Ten unmanned assembly stations equipped with soldering irons, screw drivers, magnifying glasses, and grounding pads. Ten large tables for the unpacking / repacking operation. The rest was bare concrete and old workers’ rights posters.
When Katya’s gaze wandered back to his, Wang said, “Actually there is a story. When I was young, we had a terrible monsoon season. The whole village flooded. We moved to higher ground, but I was still wet for an entire month. Once the water finally receded, there was nothing left of our home. We moved to the city after that. Now I hate the rain.”
“And they sent you to Seattle.” Katya almost felt for the spy.
Wang nodded.
They’d rendezvoused to inspect the truck that would be used in Friday’s operation. It had yet to show up.
Katya had offered an independent trucker twenty thousand dollars to paint his truck to match the ones used by Solid Green, and make the pickup Friday morning. Not bad pay for a paint-job and a morning’s work.
But apparently not good enough.
“Let me show you something.” Zoya’s upbeat voice buoyed their moods. She pulled out her phone, opened the music app, and selected Singing in the Rain from her song list. As Gene Kelly began belting out the classic, she took Wang’s umbrella and started dancing about the warehouse floor.
She was masterful. Clearly she’d performed the routine professionally at some point in her career. By the time the song ended, Zoya was sleek with sweat and Wang appeared to be smiling for the first time in years.
The truck still hadn’t arrived.
Zoya bowed, returned the umbrella, and rained on the parade. “I think our driver took the money and ran.”
“How much did you pay him in advance?” Wang asked, fiddling on his phone.
Katya said, “Half.”
Wang’s expression said bad move. “Half the pay, none of the work, and zero risk.” He shook his head. “Never trust a fox with your chicken. Do you have a backup candidate?”
Katya held her ground against the two of them. “We’ll find one.”
Wang checked his watch. “I’ve got to go. You might want to stick around in case it was a flat tire, or a speeding ticket. If he doesn’t show, you best get right on finding a replacement. Tick tock.” He started to turn, but paused. “Thanks for the show. I’ll never look at my umbrella quite the same again.” He lifted it in a wave, then turned and walked out to the curb.
Ninety seconds later a car showed up.
Nothing traceable.
Wang went everywhere using Uber.
Zoya looked at her watch as he pulled away. “How long until the truck is actually due?”
“Twenty minutes,” Katya replied after checking her phone. She opened an app and added, “Same goes for the first ping.”
Zoya had used the dance to tag Wang’s umbrella with a Bear, a tracking device that hibernated. Pulled from Max’s bag of tricks, Bears powered on just once every seven hours, and only for long enough to emit a single ping. A 500-millisecond cycle time meant the detection window was only one second in 50,000. Odds they were willing to take. Bears were almost useless for tailing active targets, but good for creating maps over time. With luck, the Bear would pinpoint Wang’s lair. Just in case.
Zoya glanced over Katya’s shoulder at the map of greater Seattle now displayed on the screen. “I’m starting to enjoy this.”
Chapter 87
Two Minutes
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES EMERGED from the bathroom and headed straight for his interview chair, his hand resting on his stomach the whole way. Speaking to Grachev, he said, “Excuse me, Sergey. I think I got some bad shrimp on the plane.” He let out another cough as he finished.
A colleague of Mila’s had coached Achilles on imitating Charlie’s voice, but he knew it remained the weakest link. Both Grachev and Sobko spoke excellent English, and would likely have listened to Rose speak without interpretation.
Achilles met Grachev’s eye, then cocked his head. “Tiffany missed the left side of your nose. Tony, will you …” He made a brushing motion with his hand.
“Of course,” Max said. “Good eye.”
Achilles knew that the big makeup brush Max extracted from his sleeve concealed a hypodermic needle amidst its bristles, but he couldn’t discern it. Grachev also never saw it coming. As the needle pierced his neck, he went from relaxed to rigid to relaxed in the course of three seconds.
Achilles breathed easier with Act One of his impersonation routine successfully completed. The rest, while less pleasant, would be more predictable.
When Grachev awoke some five minutes later to the pungent kick of smelling salts, he found himself in an entirely different position from when he’d gone under. His neck was tethered to his left ankle, by a taut cable running behind his chair. Another bound his chest and biceps, while a third looped around his right thigh. The combination immobilized him and discouraged struggling — even with free hands.
He was going to need his hands.
But he wouldn’t be needing his mouth, so Max had duct taped it.
As Grachev’s eyes sprang wide and his nose tried to figure out how to react, Achilles said, “Calm down. With a bit of cooperation, this will all be over in a few minutes and you’ll be back on your feet. No worse for the wear.”
Grachev began yelling as best he could. The result was neither intelligible, nor loud.
“There’s no need to talk, Sergey. Only to type. All you need to do is show us something, and we’ll be on our way.”
More unintelligible blather. He was really working it. The chairman’s pride was at odds with his position, and his glaring eyes reflected his outrage. This couldn’t be!
Achilles peeled off another six inch strip of duct tape with that unmistakable sound, and pressed it down atop the first. This didn’t substantially change the physics, but it reinforced Achilles’ point. “As soon as you calm down, we’ll get started.”
With venom practically squirting from his eyes, Grachev began waving his fists to the degree his bound upper arms would allow. This tightened the cable around his neck, causing him to choke.
Achilles waited.
Grachev’s panic grew but his struggles subsided. Then the big old cuss noticed his right leg and his face paled. Achilles had wondered how long that would take.
They’d removed his shoe, rolled his pant leg up to his knee, and locked his ankle into a custom stockade. With his leg extended straight out in front, it looked like a pig set to roast over a fire — or more accurately, a big fat candle.
When Achilles smelled hot urine, he knew the moment was right. “We’re going to ask you to show us something on the computer. Once you do, we’re all done. We’re leaving. You with me so far?”
Grachev nodded.
“Good. Now, as you may have noticed, you’re unable to speak. That’s intentional. We won’t be listening to anything you have to say until this is over. Are we clear? We’re literally not going to listen to your bullshit, so the smart move is not to bother. Get it?”
Another nod.