by Tim Tigner
Chapter 7
Transformation
AS HER PRIVATE JET soared over the gleaming waters of the English Channel, Emily found herself eager to learn everything Alexandra knew about her virtual boyfriend. “Do you work full-time for Andreas?”
Alexandra shook her head in a practiced manner that tossed her curls without being overtly flamboyant. “No, I work for an acquaintance of his. The man who owns the plane. He needed Andreas to stay the weekend, and offered this accommodation when Andreas explained his conflicting commitment to you.”
“Sounds like a good acquaintance to have,” Emily said. She was also dying to know where they were headed, but would have felt silly asking at that point, so instead she said, “How long is the flight?”
“About two hours,” Alexandra said. “You can go back and change now. Take a shower if you’d like, but don’t be too long. We’ll need time for your mani-pedi, makeover, and hair.”
Time for a mani-pedi, makeover, and hair. Of course. She wondered if she should ask someone to pinch her.
Emily had to take a shower if for no other reason than to take one on a plane. A private jet, no less. Heading to meet her new boyfriend somewhere on the continent for a dinner date. Unbelievable.
People always said she had pretty eyes. And she maintained a diet that held far more no’s than yeses. She also worked hard to keep in shape with yoga and jogging. But she was no model. No Alexandra. Far from it.
She’d just found her soul mate, at long last.
And he happened to be rich.
After fumbling unsuccessfully with the clasp of her new necklace, she decided to leave it on, unwilling to risk jinxing things. While she lathered up with lilac-scented soap, Emily thought about the salon treatment to come. She silently promised herself that however this day turned out, she wouldn’t get upset.
A couple of hours ago she’d been in the pit of despair, standing in her doorway with a broken phone and a wounded heart. Now she was living a life beyond her wildest dream. Even if Andreas turned out to be a fat old cretin who thought of women as objects of amusement, it would still be a day she could revisit. A story she could regale for the rest of her life.
That was a lie, of course.
If Andreas disappointed her, she’d be curled up in the corner with a case of wine and a tear-soaked blanket until her fortieth birthday. Even Jen would stop calling. Please, God. Please.
“How well do you know Andreas?” she asked, picking up their earlier conversation, as Alexandra worked on her nails.
“We’ve never actually met. We just spoke on the phone.”
“Oh?” Emily said, disappointed.
“He sure seemed smitten with you, though. He was much more interested in the details than most men, particularly the cut of your dress.”
Emily looked down. The open front put her new necklace on prominent display, and more importantly, it did right by her cleavage. It wasn’t a bad picture, a golden sun rising from a sea of blue silk between two mountains. Well, hills really, or hillocks perhaps. Regardless, in the abstract it resembled one of widow Cooper’s paintings. Classy, if not sexy.
“It was a first for me,” Alexandra continued. “Shopping for clothes for a woman my client had never seen. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you and Andreas become acquainted?”
“We met through an online dating service, a couple of months ago.”
“A couple of months? And you still haven’t met in person?”
“Bad prior experiences made us both cautious. But nonetheless, we soon developed an amazing online rapport. I felt as though he was inside my head. At some point I think we both became hesitant to meet because we didn’t want to risk ruining the virtual relationship. We picked this date a month ago to take the pressure off, agreeing to meet if things were still going well. We didn’t even set the details, just the time and place: my flat at 6:00 tonight.”
“Not a restaurant?”
Emily tried replicating Alexandra’s perky head shake. “We’d both been in situations where a date didn’t show at a restaurant. So we agreed to meet out front of my building instead. If he didn’t show, or I didn’t come downstairs, then at least the other’s embarrassment wouldn’t be public.”
“But still, giving out your address. Wasn’t that risky?”
Emily thought about her secret. Was there any reason to keep it, given what she’d learned today? Quite the opposite, it seemed.
Sensing her hesitation, Alexandra kept talking. “I’m going to fix your hair up, if that’s all right. Andreas mentioned that he loved the lines of your neck.”
“I’m in your hands. To answer your question, I wanted Andreas to have my address. I wanted him to know that I live modestly.”
Alexandra cocked her head. “I don’t follow, but maybe that’s because I spend my days helping the wealthy to look positively rich.”
“My father is an influential public figure, a Member of Parliament. We don’t communicate — we haven’t since my mother died — but our estrangement is kept quiet for political reasons. His position is not a big deal, other than when it comes to my love life. For years now, most of the men I’ve dated have turned out to be more interested in my father than in me. That got a lot worse a year ago when he declared his candidacy in the London mayoral race.”
Alexandra raised her eyebrows, and then began a delicate nod. “So you began hiding your true identity, and removed any connection to status from your profile. And your modest flat does nothing to break the illusion. I guess I can see the logic in that. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your family name?”
“Aspinwall. I’m Emily Aspinwall.”
Alexandra’s pupil’s flared. “I don’t follow politics, but that’s still a name I recognize. Your father’s leading in the polls.”
Emily nodded.
“That must be exciting. Does the Mayor of London get a jet?”
“I have no idea. If he does, I’ll never see it. But in any case, I’m sure that if you’re the Mayor of London, there are plenty of people willing to lend you theirs.”
“No doubt about that. Eighty percent of the miles on this plane are logged for favors. Gives my boss a hefty sack of IOU’s.”
And now one of them has Andreas’s name on it, Emily thought. “You’re not looking to change employers, are you? Looks to me like you’ve got it pretty good.”
“I do. But I think I’d rather have a British boss.”
“Who’s your boss now?”
“Like me, he’s Russian.”
“Really? You don’t have an accent.”
A mischievous look crossed Alexandra’s face. “I’ve worked hard.”
“We’re not headed for Moscow, are we?”
“Michael didn’t tell you where we’re going?”
“He seems to have a predilection for the mysterious.”
Alexandra seemed to have a penchant for suspense herself. “Stand up and look at yourself in the mirror,” she said.
They walked back to the bathroom where Emily admired the total transformation that Alexandra had wrought. She’d never looked better. Perfect hair, a fashionable dress, a flawless mani-pedi, and an exquisite gold necklace. If only she’d met Alexandra the day of her ten-year high school reunion. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“You made it easy. You’ve got great bone structure. But I must say, I’m pleased with the result. Which is a good thing, because it would be a shame to have you looking anything but your very best … at the Monaco Yacht Show.”
Chapter 8
Follow the Money
I WAS ABOUT to get Oscar back on the line when a crotch-rocket roared in and screeched to a halt. It was a beautiful machine, a black Kawasaki Ninja with neon-green highlights. When the young driver removed her matching helmet and shook out her long brown hair, I saw that she was beautiful too. I could hear Oscar laughing all the way from Virginia.
“Achilles, I presume. I’m Jo Monfort.”
Granger had trained me t
o act and react quickly and fluidly, so when Jo-without-the-e tossed me a helmet, I caught it with a smile.
This was far from the situation I’d been expecting, which involved an SUV loaded with equipment and a driver who could take down a whole bar without removing the cigarette pursed between his lips. At least I could be certain she wasn’t former Foreign Legion. “Pleasure to meet you, Jo. Nice bike.”
“You’ll be glad we have it. Traffic is horrible this time of year, and parking is worse. Much better to tail someone on two wheels than four.”
I was tempted to ask if she was speaking from experience or just textbooks, but simply said, “Good idea.”
Jo wore black leather boots and pants, topped with a gray leather jacket that was more runway than roadway, tilting her overall look toward fashionable. It was a versatile outfit, a good choice. The ash-gray color matched her eyes, which hinted at a fire within. “Thanks.”
She handed me an earpiece. “We’ll be able to talk using these. Hop on. Emily’s plane is on approach.”
I already had an earpiece linking me to Oscar. I considered swapping it with Jo’s, but ended up sticking hers in my left ear instead. I needed to monitor both.
It was starting to get crowded in my head.
I’d ridden plenty of sport bikes over the years, but never on the back. The rear seat rose about four inches above the driver’s, which combined with the seven or so I had on Jo, put my head above hers like a totem pole. My arms were long enough that I could have easily grabbed the handlebars as well, but that would be dangerous. I had to hold on to Jo instead.
Tethering a two hundred twenty pound weight to a hundred and twenty pound post didn’t make a lot of sense. Neither did placing the bike’s center of gravity so far back. The short drive to Jo’s selected observation point was enough to make that obvious. She hit the kickstand and said, “You should sit up front.”
“The physics do appear to favor that arrangement.”
As we switched, Emily’s plane taxied into its disembarkation position near the VIP parking lot.
“I’ve got a monocular in the left pannier if you want it,” Jo said.
“Thanks. What else you got in there?”
“A couple of suppressed Glocks, some flash-bangs, a lock-picking gun, a directional microphone, and a Range-R radar system.”
Range-R radar looks through walls like X-rays through flesh. Very cool. The new unit looked like a heavy-duty smartphone, and was a literal lifesaver in breaching situations — for the good guys. The bad guys, not so much. “They gave you the latest goodies.”
“We do tend to keep up with fashion here, if nothing else. What’s our mission?”
“What did they tell you?”
“Just that we’re following the passengers of a private jet in hopes that they’ll lead us to a high-value target. Also that Director Rider is personally watching this one, so it’s make it or break it for my career.”
Jo was modest and direct. My opinion of her was growing by the minute. “What were you doing before the CIA approached you?”
“Long story. Who’s the target?”
“Ivan the Ghost.”
“Who?”
If Jo didn’t know Ivan, she wasn’t former DGSE or DGSI. In fact, she wasn’t coming from any law enforcement agency in the northern hemisphere. “He’s the guy you go to when you need dirty deeds done discretely, and you’ve got seven figures to pay for it. We think he’s Russian, thus Ivan, but we’re not even sure of that. No one ever sees him coming and he never leaves a trace, thus The Ghost.”
“Until now, I gather.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why the Director is involved.”
“It would be a huge win for him right out of the gate.”
“I understand,” she replied, with an inflection that told me she was familiar with Rider’s political situation. “Why haven’t I heard of Ivan the Ghost before this?”
“He leaves neither trail nor trace that couldn’t be explained away by bad luck and circumstance. With no evidence, only the tabloid presses run stories on him, and those are next to Bigfoot and alien babies.
“The only credible people who know anything about him are the powerful victims he’s embarrassed or the law enforcement officers he’s bested, and they’re not talking to the press, for obvious reasons. Plenty of people in law enforcement believe he’s no more real than the Loch Ness Monster. They think he’s just a convenient excuse, a coverall explanation for the unexplained. And to their point, there is no evidence of his existence that goes beyond the circumstantial.”
“So how did you end up on his tail?”
“Director Rider discovered that one of the two leading candidates in the London mayoral race made a seven-figure payment to an account previously used by The Ghost. We assume it was a contract payment, and that the contract was to discreetly eliminate his chief rival for the office. So we’ve been watching the rival’s pressure points. The girl on the plane is his daughter.”
As I gave Jo more background on Ivan and our mission, the airstair from Emily’s Falcon 5X dropped and Michael descended, followed by a woman in a blue and gold silk dress.
“Is that Emily?” Jo asked.
I used the monocular to be sure. “That’s her. Unfortunately, they swapped out the purse I’d tagged with a cricket. They also gave her a new wardrobe and full makeover at 30,000 feet. Her head must be reeling. A few hours ago she was just expecting dinner.”
“Why would they do all that?”
“If I were to speculate, I’d say that it’s part of The Ghost’s plan to leave no traces. Wherever she’s headed, that’s the look that will fit in.”
As I brought the Ninja’s engine roaring to life, Jo asked a question that convinced me she’d been a good recruit. “How’d the director get a lead on Ivan’s bank account? I’d think The Ghost would change those as often as his socks.”
“I don’t know. That’s been bothering me too. But you’re right about Ivan. He would.”
Chapter 9
Little Tells
EMILY BEGAN TO LAUGH as Michael pulled the Black Mercedes S550 up to the valet stand at the Monaco Yacht Show’s VIP entrance. A flood of nervous tension had spontaneously decided to leave her body without pausing to ask permission.
“Miss?” Michael’s quizzical eyes were focused on the rearview mirror.
Despite her embarrassment, she met his eyes. She liked Michael. “Three hours ago I was standing in The Regent’s Park boating lake, holding onto hope and the remains of my broken phone. Now I’m here.” She gestured with both arms. “It’s almost literally unbelievable. Way too good to be true, as my friend Jen would say, and yet undeniable.”
“I think you’ll find yourself adapting quickly. The good things are like that.”
Emily was sure Michael was right. It was the return to reality that concerned her, but again she promised herself to live for the moment while the moment was hers.
The next couple of minutes filled a mental scrapbook with photos, the new highlights of her lifetime. Her first step from the limo was onto the blue VIP carpet, complete with a gawking crowd wondering if she was famous, or just rich. Then there was the handsome guard in an immaculate white uniform, studying Michael’s proffered credentials before ceremoniously parting the curtain to wonderland. Next came the sparkling chrome bannisters and glistening white bows of the latest crop of superyachts, each attempting to catch an appraising eye and then capture a burning checkbook.
“Is the show open to the public?” she asked Michael, as he led her through the pampered crowd along Port Hercules’ southernmost pier.
“It’s open to anyone willing to plop down a hundred and fifty euros for the privilege. They were expecting over thirty thousand visitors this year, with the economy recovering. I haven’t heard how many actually showed.”
“You talk as though it’s over.”
“The show formally ended at 6:30 this evening. This is the aftershow. With hoi pol
loi out of the way, the real players emerge, and the serious business gets done.”
Emily wondered what qualified as the masses at the Monaco Yacht Show. Was it anyone with less than seven figures in their checking account, or eight?
With dusk approaching, the underwater lights on all of the yachts were illuminating, giving the sea an azure glow that complemented the orange horizon. It was nothing short of magical and a perfect time for pictures.
If only she had her phone.
Glancing behind as she tried to take it all in, Emily saw that the residents on the balconies adorning every square meter of real estate on the streets and cliffs above had the same idea. The privileged onlookers were drinking cocktails and taking selfies while reveling in one of the most spectacular combinations of natural and manmade beauty on Earth.
She read off the names of the superyachts they passed, pleased to make their acquaintance. Thumper, Perseus, 4 You, Flying Dragon — each illuminated like an exclusive club or five-star restaurant. Each representing a special place, a secret world, a life as different from the one she knew as the land was from the sea. While she marveled at the sight of luxury speedboats docked inside the belly garage of the nearest colossus, a thought struck her like a cold splash of ocean spray. How could she possibly fit into Andreas’s world?
Their whirlwind online romance had uncovered the things she thought were important, the little tells that revealed his soul. She knew that Andreas was raised catholic, read poetry when depressed, and became a vegetarian at age fourteen while volunteering at an animal shelter. She knew that he’d studied philosophy at the Sorbonne before earning a graduate degree from the London School of Economics. She knew that he had a niche consulting business that took him all over the world. And she knew that he collected refrigerator magnets wherever he went, although she hadn’t given any thought to the extravagance of the room his refrigerator might be in.
They were only about midway along the Rainier III dock, but Emily realized that there was only one gangplank remaining ahead. The attached yacht looked to be about twice the size of Palace Place.