by Tim Tigner
Black Sea Coast, Russia
GURYEV LOOKED UP from the flask. “Feels a bit tingly. You said you got this from a Swiss metallurgist?”
Max didn’t understand why the guards hadn’t collapsed from electrical shock. The flask was pure copper. Highly conductive. He’d pressed both FP1 electrodes firmly against it, delivering the nanosecond electrical pulse.
The answer hit him like a hammer to the forehead while he smiled sheepishly at his drinking companions. People only get shocked if they have flesh between the electrodes.
As the guards withdrew their hands, Max knew it would all be over if he didn’t come up with another idea fast. It might already be over but he couldn’t risk a glance at the big screen to find out — not with all eyes on him.
Thinking fast, he said, “I guess the flask has to be full to work. The tingling should have been much stronger. Something about conducting the electrical force between people. Try it this way.” He flipped the flask over and pressed both his thumbs on it in a gesture reminiscent of a few drinking games.
Pushkin shook his head and sipped his vodka while Vanya and Guryev played along.
As soon as their thumbs were down, Max said, “No, like this.”
He brought his hands down on theirs, pressing electrodes directly into their flesh.
Vanya and Guryev dropped without a sound. It was as if Max had hit an off switch. One second they were upright and animated, the next they were slumped over each other like pigs on the slaughterhouse floor.
Max lost a second to surprise.
Pushkin didn’t. Years as a bodyguard had honed his reflexes. He jumped back and reached for his gun.
Max lunged after him. All he had to do was touch Pushkin’s skin with his left forefingers or the edge of his right hand — and time was on his side. Before Pushkin could aim, Max would be on him.
Pushkin somehow sensed this and shifted into a defensive crouch rather than going for his weapon. Korovin had picked a man with a quick tactical mind.
Max had no choice but to follow through with the lunge. He aimed his hands at the colonel’s throat and put all his weight into it.
Pushkin thrust his arms up and grabbed Max by the wrists. His hands clamped down like steel bands. Then Pushkin went with Max’s momentum rather than fighting it, using a classic Aikido move. The two flew back and collided with Vanya’s chair, sending it to the ground as they landed with a thud.
Immediately both combatants started to roll. Max tried to roll free. Pushkin tried to roll on top. They ended up writhing around on their sides, neither able to get atop the other. Each refusing to relinquish his grip.
Pushkin tried to pull Max’s hands ever further from his throat.
Max strained to make skin contact.
Although the two were of the same size and general build, the security chief had thousands more hours in the gym. Max realized that without a tactical triumph, he was going to lose. Eventually Pushkin’s greater strength would wrangle Max’s arms into joint locks. Then his elbows would snap and it would all be over.
Max had to find an advantage. He had to outwit his opponent.
Pushkin moved first. He bucked and wrapped his legs around Max’s in a scissor hold. Then he began to squeeze.
Max fought it by writhing like a live fish on a hot skillet.
Pushkin conserved his energy by going with the motion. He was waiting for Max to fatigue.
Eventually Max built up enough momentum to roll atop the colonel. As he reached the apex of the roll, he put everything he had into pressing his hands back together, towards Pushkin’s throat. The instant his opponent pushed back, Max reversed directions.
Their arms flew wide.
Max brought his forehead down on Pushkin’s nose like a boot-heel on a roach.
The colonel momentarily relaxed his grip as the crunch resounded and the blood spurted and the expletives escaped his lips.
Max yanked his hands back through Pushkin’s slacked fingers, bringing the electrodes into contact with exposed flesh.
The colonel collapsed as quickly as a man who’d taken a bullet to the brain.
Max reached for the clicker without even pausing to check the big screen. He pressed the button — two times.
Chapter 105
Concurrence
Black Sea Coast, Russia
AS KOROVIN REACHED for the device that would summon security, Achilles held out his phone in a blocking move. “Here you go, Mr. President. Pictures of the pickpocket.”
Korovin paused, giving Achilles a killer look.
Achilles remained calm and composed. “As I said, Mr. Glick is hesitant to get anyone in trouble. But he’s also eager to cooperate.”
“Show me.”
Achilles pulled up a surveillance photo and passed Korovin the phone.
As Korovin accepted it, the phone vibrated. Twice. “What’s that?”
Achilles checked the screen, then locked his eyes on those famous cornflower blues. “Good news, Mr. President. Justice will finally be served.”
Korovin stared back.
Achilles waited for the flash of fear, then he zapped the president’s hand.
Korovin collapsed.
Glick yelped. “My God! What have you done! Is he alive? We’ll be killed.”
“Yes, we will. Unless you play along.”
“Play along?”
“The president just had a stroke — you hear me Severin? Korovin just collapsed.” Achilles held Glick’s eye until the banker nodded. Then he scooped Korovin onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Let’s go. We’ve got to fly him to a hospital. Immediately. Otherwise he may never recover.”
Achilles didn’t lead them out the way they’d come in. He headed straight for the palace’s main entrance. They made it to within fifty feet when two guards stepped into the path ahead.
Achilles shouted without slowing down. “The president’s had a stroke. If we don’t get him to a hospital right away, he could die! Open the doors.”
The guards didn’t move. No doubt they were shocked by the sight of their virile president slung over some stranger’s shoulder like a sack of flour.
Achilles kept pressing. “Colonel Pushkin’s on his way with a car. There’s no time to spare if we’re going to avoid brain damage.”
“Who are you?”
Achilles didn’t want to zap these two. That would be asking for trouble. Where was Max? “Alex Azarov. I’m on the Swiss detail. I’m also a medic. Korovin will suffer brain damage if we don’t get him a shot of alteplase within the next few minutes. I’ve got one in my medical bag. It’s in my helicopter. Step aside!”
He watched the guards run the calculation. Brain damage was above their pay grade. “You said Pushkin’s on his way?”
“He’s probably here already. Open the doors!”
The guards opened the doors.
Achilles ran through with Glick and the guards behind.
Max wasn’t there.
“Call Pushkin!” Achilles commanded.
“Where’s Dr. Dedov?” One guard pressed.
“Here comes Pushkin,” the second guard said, pointing to an approaching SUV. As the black Mercedes turned toward them, a sedan also came into view heading toward the helipad.
“Dedov’s meeting us at the helicopter,” Achilles said, knowing that summoning the doctor had been part of Max’s plan and hoping that was him.
Max brought the SUV to a screeching halt.
The guards leapt to open the passenger doors.
Achilles saw that Max had removed his silicone mask and changed into Pushkin’s uniform. He hoped the visual similarity was sufficient for a few rushed seconds of exposure in the heat of a crisis, but he didn’t dwell on the thought. Instead he dove into the back seat with Korovin while Glick grabbed the front.
Max didn’t wait for the guards to shut the doors before gunning the gas. “Sorry for the delay. I had three thugs to disable.”
“Is Korovin’s pilot up ahead with th
e doctor?”
“I assume so. I just barked the order into the mike.”
A groan from Korovin drew all eyes.
Achilles turned and slapped the president’s face.
Korovin’s eyes sprung open. “What happened? Where am I?”
“Your past caught up with you, Mr. President.”
Korovin’s face registered fear.
Achilles wanted to identify himself. He wanted Korovin to know it was he who had beaten him. But duty defeated pride. “President Silver asked me to send you a message.”
Korovin tried to sit up but Achilles held him down. “What message?”
“He wanted me to tell you, ‘I win.’ ” Achilles gave the words a second to sink in, then zapped Korovin on the neck.
“What was that about?” Glick asked, his adrenal glands finally working.
Max reached over and clamped Glick’s thigh. “This isn’t the time for questions. Trust me, you want everything to be a blur. One second Korovin started slurring his speech, the next he collapsed from a stroke. We rushed him to a hospital. End of detail. End of story.”
Glick didn’t reply.
Up ahead the Mercedes sedan screeched to a stop beside Korovin’s big white helicopter. The driver got out and ran to the cockpit. The passenger got out and looked back their way. He was holding a medical bag.
Max parked beside the black Ansat they’d flown in on and said, “Follow me, Glick.”
As Max and Glick ran toward their helicopter, Dr. Dedov hastened over to open Achilles’ door.
“Let’s get him in the presidential helicopter,” Achilles said, without introduction.
“What happened?” the doctor asked as they lifted Korovin.
“We were having a discussion when the president began experiencing facial palsy and dysarthria, then syncope.”
Dedov’s face paled. “Sounds like a severe stroke.”
“Exactly. The moment he collapsed I threw him over my shoulder and ran for the door. There’s no time to lose.” Achilles maneuvered Korovin onto the presidential helicopter’s rear bench, zapping him repeatedly in the process, as insurance.
Max burst in while the engine roared to life, shouting “I brought your bag, doctor.”
Achilles grabbed the bag and set it down by Korovin’s head. As Max ran back to power up their Ansat, Achilles flipped open the top of his bag.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Dedov asked.
Achilles plucked a syringe and a glass vial off the bag’s top shelf. “Alteplase. Do you concur?”
“I do and I’ve got my own, already titrated. Get out of my way.”
“Bird’s ready to fly,” Korovin’s pilot shouted over the intercom.
“What’s going on?” a fourth voice demanded.
Both men whirled about to see Ignaty Filippov in the doorway, with two guards at his shoulders.
Chapter 106
Great Expectations
Seattle, Washington
WANG POKED HIS HEAD ABOVE DECK, just to feel a few seconds of sunlight on his face. He was finding maritime life a bit more challenging than expected. Given the strategic imperative of keeping out of sight, he was essentially sentenced to solitary confinement below deck during the day. Granted, his prison cell was made of polished teak and cream leather rather than bare concrete and cold steel, but the glamor wore off quickly all the same.
He was already browsing the online brokers, looking at bigger boats. Los Angeles, San Diego, Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta. Any of those venues would do. The trick was getting there — with a big bank balance.
He’d anchored the Winsome Whisper fifty feet from shore and a half-mile from a small marina north of Seattle. Even if the Russians somehow learned he was on a boat, they’d still never find him, if he remained careful. Puget Sound covered over a thousand square miles of serpentine waterways. He’d become a ghost in the fog and would remain that way until making his break for Mexico.
Wang would weigh anchor the moment the money arrived.
If it ever arrived.
It was overdue.
He’d been certain they’d transfer the $20 million within twenty-four hours. But it had been thirty-six. Perhaps they didn’t know Bitcoin worked around the clock. Perhaps there had been a delay. Surely they weren’t searching for him? Not for a mere twenty million.
A ping from his computer set Wang’s pulse racing. He’d set up an automatic alert with his Bitcoin account so he’d know the minute his deposit arrived. Turning around, he ducked back below deck and hustled over to his laptop. The ping hadn’t been Bitcoin. It was a message from his wife.
“Did the money arrive?”
When they wanted to communicate beyond the reach of the Chinese Ministry of State Security, Wang and Qi used a private chatroom on a deep web message board. You had to know the address to find it, and even if the Chinese Ministry of State Security stumbled upon it, they’d still have no way of knowing who was chatting.
Qi knew he was on the boat and glued to his computer. Ignoring her even for a minute wasn’t an option. He typed, “You’ll know as soon as I do. How are the kids?”
“Same as always. Messy and noisy and demanding endless attention. It’s hardly a vacation without help.”
His family was in Hong Kong. It was purportedly a vacation, but really a staging area for their disappearance. He had sent them false passports and airplane tickets, Hong Kong to Tokyo, then Tokyo to Mexico City. If the $20 million came through, they’d disappear and meet up with him somewhere along the Mexican Riviera to begin their new life.
Hopefully, a much more amicable one.
Qi had been born into a life of privilege, but six months after Wang had married her, Qi’s father had been convicted of corruption and executed, plunging her family into poverty and disgrace. She had become bitter and resentful and somehow seemed to blame him for it all. Wang had hoped that having children would bring her around, realign her hormones and selfish priorities, but the twin girls only seemed to remind her of all the advantages she no longer enjoyed. After listening to his wife whine nonstop for two years, Wang had requested a foreign assignment, ostensibly for the increased pay, but actually for the relief.
“Are the girls enjoying Hong Kong?”
“I suppose. I’m going to let you get back to sunning on the yacht while I care for our children. I still can’t believe you only asked for twenty million.” Qi closed the conversation, thereby erasing their dialogue.
Wang wished he could forget it so easily.
He went online to check his bank balance, just in case the automatic alert hadn’t worked. No such luck.
He clicked over to the tab displaying a lightly used 98-foot yacht for sale in Cabo San Lucas. Plenty of room to spread out there. The price wasn’t listed but he figured he could get it for two million if he showed up with cash and bargained hard.
Chapter 107
Change Of Status
Black Sea Coast, Russia
IT COULD ALL FALL APART right here, Achilles thought. The burly guards behind Ignaty looked serious as cyanide and primed to react.
Ignaty leapt aboard the helicopter with surprising grace and repeated his question, yelling over the whooping turbine. “What the hell is going on!”
Achilles turned toward Dr. Dedov, who was busy inspecting Korovin. Speaking loud enough for all to hear, he said, “You get the president to a stroke center. I’ll bring Ignaty up to speed.”
Dedov nodded with enthusiasm. “Agreed.”
Achilles grabbed Ignaty by the arm, causing the two guards to tense like chained Rottweilers. He guided Ignaty back onto the helipad, but waited for the mighty bird to lift into the sky before shouting over the roar. “The president had a stroke while talking to his banker. He has to get to a hospital immediately. If you want to follow with Colonel Pushkin and me in the banker’s bird, you’re welcome. Otherwise I’m sure one of the guards will drive you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Achilles turned and ran toward the Ansa
t.
Ignaty and the two guards followed.
Achilles whirled around as he cleared the door. “We’ve only got room for one.”
Ignaty didn’t even pause, he just barreled on in.
Doing his part to salvage their escape, Max pulled the collective lever the instant Ignaty was inside, raising the helicopter off the ground before the guards could ask questions and throwing Ignaty to the floor.
Achilles pulled Korovin’s strategist toward a seat as Max banked south in pursuit of Korovin’s bird, slamming the door.
Ignaty looked around, his eyes coming to rest on Max in his Pushkin disguise. His brow was just starting to furrow when Achilles beckoned.
Ignaty leaned in to hear.
Achilles said, “You lose,” and zapped him. What a wonderful weapon.
As Ignaty went limp, Achilles called to Max. “How’s it looking?”
“What the hell is going on?” Glick yelled.
Achilles silenced the banker with a look.
Max said, “We’re in good shape for the moment, but that could change any minute. You should get up here.”
First things first. Achilles carefully worked his hands up to his armpits and turned off the FP1’s, giving Hans and Gunter a mental salute in the process.
Free to operate normally, Achilles pulled a package of thick black zip ties and an extra-large black canvas duffel from a storage pocket. He pressed both into Glick’s hands, then grabbed Glick by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Bend Ignaty's legs and bind his wrists beneath his knees, like he’s doing a cannonball into that beautiful pool of yours. Then stuff him into the bag and fix his ankles together. Pretend your life depends on him not being able to escape — because it might.”
Glick nodded slowly. He was dazed but adapting as competing chemicals rebounded across his central nervous system like pool balls after a professional break.
Achilles moved to the front passenger seat and scanned the horizon through the windshield. Korovin’s helicopter was less than a kilometer ahead, racing south toward Sochi at 260 kilometers per hour. He looked down at the windswept Black Sea waters below, then over at the coniferous coastline a few hundred meters to their left. “Looks perfect to me.”