by Tim Tigner
To Reggie’s great surprise and delight, he was conscripted as point-man on the arrest of Mrs. Pettygrove. The CIA convinced the FBI that the old lady would be in possession of a suicide pill. So the decision was made to send Reggie home with a tranquilizer gun. To knock her out before she knew the gig was up. Of course, no ordinary tranquilizer gun would do, not for the apprehension of their chief historic rival’s greatest asset. So Reggie found himself walking up the steps of Mrs. Pettygrove’s Georgetown brownstone clutching a Langley-issue umbrella.
The entryway light was on as always, although it appeared different to Reggie tonight. It had always been a mark of affection, an indulgence even, extended by a considerate widow who ordinarily watched her electric bill. Now it looked more like a spotlight at Checkpoint Charlie.
The landlady didn’t materialize as he entered, eager to wish him a good evening in hopes of extending the greeting into a bit of companionship. That wasn’t unprecedented. Sometimes he arrived while she was “indisposed,” so he gave her a moment.
Normally she’d trot out from her suite at the back of the main room, wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe. But tonight she didn’t come.
His eyes drifted down to the umbrella. A nervous tick. He called out. “Mrs. Pettygrove.”
Nothing.
Normally he’d head up to his room, eager to hit his pillow without delay, but this was no normal night. He headed toward her suite instead. “Mrs. Pettygrove? Are you okay?”
Her room was what Reggie thought of as B&B classic. A four-poster bed draped in a white spread adorned with pink roses, and a few pieces of antique wooden furniture. “Mrs. Pettygrove?”
The bathroom light was on, so he moved toward it. “Are you okay?” Reggie gave the old wooden door a quiet triple-rap using the knuckles of his left hand.
No answer.
Holding the umbrella poised and ready in his right hand, he twisted the knob with his left.
The bathroom was empty.
Mrs. Pettygrove wasn’t home, and Reggie knew she never would be.
Chapter 123
Redistribution
Bel Air, California
THE PARTY FUNDRAISER didn’t make national news, because it wasn’t an election year, but the rich still turned out to mingle with the famous. The Bel Air home belonged to the showrunner of several of television’s most-celebrated series, and the guest list included scores of red-carpet regulars paying homage and laying down $50,000 a plate to dine with royalty from Hollywood and D.C.
Achilles, Katya, Zoya, and Max had come in with the caterers, but rather than heading for the kitchen, they made their way up to the owner’s study where they could wait without being seen. They found ball gowns and tuxedos waiting, all perfectly sized and accessorized.
No sooner had the four exchanged their server uniforms for formal wear than someone rapped on the door. Achilles opened it to find President Silver, along with Chief of Staff Sparkman, Ambassador Jamison and, to Achilles’ great relief, a lovely grande dame. Senator Cathleen Collins looked as vibrant as ever despite her recent brush with death.
As their eyes met, Silver said, “Once again, we’re meeting under unusual circumstances. And once again, I find myself and our nation in your debt.”
As on their first encounter, Silver struck Achilles as exceptionally charming and charismatic. A real head-turner of a man. “It was a team effort, and I’m sure you’ll agree that I had an extraordinary one.”
“Indeed,” Silver said with a flash of his blue eyes, before moving on and extending his hand. “Katya, I’m sorry it’s taken us this long to meet. I trust you can appreciate the rationale for my prior lack of attention.”
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. President.”
“Zoya, I must say you’re even more lovely in person than on the screen.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I’m sure this won’t be the last time. And Max. Welcome to the other side. I’m confident you’ll enjoy our hemisphere. People breathe freer here.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Now, if we could all grab a seat. I know we have serious business before us and a limited amount of time.”
They settled into opposing couches. The four politicians sat on one side and the four operatives on the other, with a lacquered coffee table carved entirely from a redwood stump in between. All eyes turned to the president.
“I’ll start with the update. As you know, the government of Russia has not yet announced Korovin’s demise. Our sources say the search for him is frantic, but highly confined. They’re not even certain that he’s dead. Some speculate that he’s shaking the trees to find out who his friends really are. Others think he ran off or was kidnapped. The whole situation’s a bit reminiscent of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370, except for the lack of publicity.”
Everybody nodded along politely.
“The only people with direct knowledge of Korovin’s last known whereabouts all speak of a stroke, but none of them have first-hand knowledge of his collapse. And none of the last people to see him are ranking members of government. We’re using the window of uncertainty to prepare the ground for Gorsky to assume the presidency. Both Grachev and Sobko have been anonymously reminded of their predicaments, and we’re confident they’ll remain retired. So overall the geopolitical balance is poised to take a big step toward stability.”
“As you planned,” Achilles said. “More or less.”
“More or less,” Silver repeated with a smile. “Now, I’ve considered your proposal for dealing with information containment. Given Katya’s relationship with you and Stanford, I’m not concerned. We’ll get her citizenship processed and have her sign a SF-312 Nondisclosure Agreement within a week.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Silver nodded graciously before turning to Max and Zoya. “I’m afraid your personal history makes things a bit more complicated.”
“We understand.”
Silver redirected his gaze to Achilles. “I read your proposal with interest. It was unconventional, to say the least. Would you care to add anything in person?”
“Just a bit of perspective, Mr. President.”
Silver nodded the go ahead.
“Think of it as a modified version of the witness protection program. Like informants who turn against the mob, we’re giving them new jobs.”
Silver nodded. “It’s an intriguing proposal, to say the least. Clandestinely dispensing Korovin’s stolen billions back into Russia under the charitable guise of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Do I understand correctly that they’ll be keeping their identities?”
“That’s right. Since Korovin kept their assignment completely confidential, and Ignaty is in custody, nobody in Russia knows what they’ve done. They don’t need to hide.”
Silver chewed on that for a second before responding. “Do you actually have Korovin’s billions?”
“We know where to get it. My suggestion is that we allow Max and Zoya to coordinate the recovery, which should take anywhere from three to six months. Once it’s all in the bank, they go to work for the Gates Foundation, distributing it. It will take a lifetime to properly steward that much money.”
“A life sentence to golden handcuffs,” Silver said with a knowing smile.
Turning toward Max but focusing on Zoya, the president asked, “Are you really ready to give up your acting career?”
“My age means I will likely have to give it up before too long in any case. Better to do so while I’m on top, before I do anything I might later be ashamed of.”
“And this new line of work suits you? You’ll need to keep a much lower profile than other celebrities who’ve turned to charitable causes. You can’t become a George Clooney, Angelina Jolie, or Bono. You’ll have to ensure that Bill and Melinda get all the headlines.”
“I can think of nothing I’d rather do with my life,” Zoya said. “Korovin was good for his cronies and the capital, but the re
st of Russia suffered mightily under his reign. There’s a lot of good work to be done. As for my future husband, I can assure you he is, and will always be, of a like mind.”
Max nodded.
“Well then, I believe we’re all in agreement.” Silver rose, and everyone jumped to follow. “I should get back to the party. People keep pretty tight tabs on me, and we’re reaching the reasonable limit of a bathroom break.”
After shaking hands all around, Silver paused beside Jamison and Sparkman to address them from the door. “I know Senator Collins would like a few words with Achilles. Meanwhile, I believe Bill and Melinda are eager to meet their new recruits.”
Chapter 124
The Kiss
Bel Air, California
SENATOR COLLINS held up her wrist. “We both got scars on this assignment.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Achilles replied.
The two of them were talking at one end of the enormous upstairs study, while the three Russians were engaged with their own lively discussion in an opposite corner. Achilles couldn’t help but admire the scene, which reflected the ladies excellent use of their long-promised spa day. Katya’s honey-blonde hair was done up to display her long neck and accent her broad Slavic jaw. As if that wasn’t enough to draw every eye in the room, she also wore an off-the-shoulder red dress, one guaranteed to add ten beats to every pulse. Zoya was decked out in an emerald green gown fit for a big-budget movie premier. She had styled her thick mane of dark hair such that it cascaded around her slender shoulders, adding an animalistic energy to her exceptionally glamorous appearance. Then there was Max, who appeared every bit the British aristocrat in a tuxedo with the same classic cut as Achilles’. He’d look right at home beside Zoya as they wined and dined and danced their way around the world, coordinating big-budget charity campaigns.
Collins put her hand on Achilles’ shoulder. “I read your report — both the typed words and those between the lines. For a while, you believed they’d stolen two years of your life. You began living in a different paradigm, a world without either the work or the woman you hold most dear. That has to shake a person — and leave a few scars.”
Achilles took tender hold of Collins’ free hand, but didn’t speak.
“In the wake of all that, and with two nations working to stop you, you and your unlikely crew fixed the Russian succession planning problem, completed your initial mission, and even returned Korovin’s stolen billions to the Russian people. I’m shocked, awed, and thrilled to know that someone like you is out there keeping me safe.” Her eyes began to tear. “But I’m also concerned for the toll these last weeks must have taken.”
Achilles wasn’t sure what to say to that. Honestly, he was no worse for the wear. In fact, he was better off than he’d been before. He’d done some good, settled a score, made some friends, and gained clarity on what mattered most.
His eyes drifted over Collins’ shoulder toward Katya. She was so beautiful. An appropriate answer to Collins’ comment appeared while he stared at Katya with ensorcelled eyes.
Returning his gaze to the woman before him, Achilles spoke softly. “At rock climbing competitions, people always ask me how I can free solo. Some understand the thrill of the climb, but most say they’d be paralyzed by fear if they didn’t have ropes. They want to know what my secret is.”
Collins' eyes sparkled with wisdom. “What do you tell them?”
Achilles shrugged. “I tell them my secret.”
She held his hand and waited.
“I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid not to live.”
“Just like the original,” Collins said with a knowing smile. “But you have to admit, your definition of living is atypical, to say the least.”
“Perhaps I take things a bit further than the norm, but I think most people prefer to live life unencumbered — many just don’t know it.”
She nodded knowingly and released his hand. “I think it’s safe for us to join the party, but a word of advice if I may?”
“By all means.”
“I wouldn’t let Katya off my arm if I were you — half the hunks in Hollywood are down there!”
* * *
John Mayer was belting out an acoustic version of Half of My Heart when Achilles led Katya onto the dance floor.
She put her arms around his neck. “You look kinda silly with a shaved head. It’s so white.”
He gazed into her upturned eyes, and pulled her warm body to his. Nothing had ever felt better. “You look spectacular.”
They began to move with the music.
Mayer sang about the struggles of giving one’s heart away. The loss of freedom. The fear of falling short. The lifestyle change. All the worries felt familiar. None of them mattered anymore.
As Achilles pulled Katya closer, he felt his heart mend, right there amid the swaying crowd. He hadn’t realized that it had ripped, but he felt it coming together.
Katya saw the healing happen, and he knew that she felt it too.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and he kissed her.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
THANK YOU for reading The Lies Of Spies! They say writing novels is easy, you just sit in front of the keyboard until blood comes out of your forehead. I know that reading them takes devotion too, and I sincerely thank you for yours.
If you have comments or suggestions, I welcome them. You will reach me and receive a personal reply at [email protected].
Authors rely on the kindness of strangers to thrive. If you enjoyed The Lies Of Spies, PLEASE leave a review on Amazon. Your kind words will help keep the blood flowing.
Thanks again. All my best,
Amazon Review Link: The Lies Of Spies
NOTES ON THE LIES OF SPIES
I draw heavily on my background when constructing plots, but I also do extensive research. If you’re curious or skeptical about something, you might want to check out the Pinterest Board I used to store my research. Unfortunately, Pinterest doesn’t let you organize the pins on a board, but if you look around you’ll find links to the Russian president’s palace on the Black Sea and articles on his banking and communication habits, the military stun gun that was the basis for the FP1, the militarization of space including a system like Sunrise, actual gait analysis systems, the American president’s limo and body man, the Russian president’s helicopter, rock climbing, silicon masks, and many of the locations in the novel.
I’d like to give a special call-out here to Tim Ellwood, a dedicated fan who self-tested a taser’s ability to shock multiple people at once by touching it to a conductive surface. Like Max with his vodka flask, Tim concluded that you need flesh between the two electrodes for the taser to work.
WANT MORE ACHILLES?
Achilles will return in 2017. Meanwhile, please visit my website, timtigner.com, where you can download Chasing Ivan for free. Chasing Ivan, a 150-page novella, is the story of a pivotal mission in Achilles’ career while he was still at the CIA.
Also in the Kyle Achilles series
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tim Tigner began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs.
With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he lead prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare.
; Moving to Brussels during the formation of the EU, Tim ran Europe, Middle East, and Africa for a Johnson & Johnson company and traveled like a character in a Robert Ludlum novel. He eventually landed in Silicon Valley, where he launched new medical technologies as a startup CEO.
In his free time, Tim has climbed the peaks of Mount Olympus, went hang gliding from the cliffs of Rio de Janeiro, and ballooned over Belgium. He earned scuba certification in Turkey, learned to ski in Slovenia, and ran the Serengeti with a Maasai warrior. He acted on stage in Portugal, taught negotiations in Germany, and chaired a healthcare conference in Holland. Tim studied psychology in France, radiology in England, and philosophy in Greece. He has enjoyed ballet at the Bolshoi, the opera on Lake Como, and the symphony in Vienna. He’s been a marathoner, paratrooper, triathlete, and yogi.
Intent on combining his creativity with his experience, Tim began writing thrillers in 1996 from an apartment overlooking Moscow’s Gorky Park. Twenty years later, his passion for creative writing continues to grow every day. His home office now overlooks a vineyard in Northern California, where he lives with his wife Elena and their two daughters.
Tim grew up in the Midwest, and graduated from Hanover College with a BA in Philosophy and Mathematics. After military service and work as a financial analyst and foreign-exchange trader, he earned an MBA in Finance and an MA in International Studies from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton and Lauder Schools.