by Tim Tigner
Still watching the oncoming procession, she began to talk with animation, gesticulating left and right out of context. “Did they tell you how I came to S-O-G?”
“No. They didn’t tell me anything. Not even your full name.”
“It’s Josephine, like Napoleon’s love. When I was born I think my parents had plans for me that were far above their station. But they never called me anything but Jo, so that’s who I’ve always been. Anyway, from the time I could walk, if I wasn’t in school I helped out with the family business.”
“Which was?”
“We ran sophisticated confidence scams. Relieved those with too much money of some of their burden. Long story short, a year ago I ended up, quite by accident, with the briefcase and wallet of the US Ambassador to France.”
“You what?”
The gaggle was just a few feet from us now, and Jo spun about and began walking backwards so that she could face me while she talked, all the while continuing with her wild gesticulations. “It was a dangerous situation for me, and an embarrassing situation for His Excellency. You know, if there’s one thing you learn growing up with con artists, it’s how to look at a situation from different angles. I chose to look at that situation as an opportunity to switch professions.” Jo spun back around, colliding as she did so with a younger man near the rear of the prince’s entourage. It was a full-on collision, causing them both to tumble like drunken dancers into the woman he’d been speaking with.
Jo began apologizing immediately and rapidly in French, trying to comfort the victims of her carelessness, while she steadied them like a pair of floor vases she’d caused to totter. She was so clumsy. So stupid. So sorry.
The procession moved on without notice. All eyes still riveted to the prince. All ears straining to hear his witty reflections on this year’s event.
Jo returned to my side and continued walking as though nothing had happened. After a few steps she pressed something into my hand, holding it for a moment for appearances’ sake.
I shifted my grip to check her pulse. Slow and steady.
Using a feigned wipe of my brow to check the contents of my palm, I said, “You may be new to S-O-G, but you’re no stranger to the field.”
Jo had passed me a small stack of business cards. They were embossed with the coat of arms of Monaco and bore the vague but powerful title, Office of His Highness, Prince Albert II of Monaco. No doubt she’d scored the woman’s card for herself. “Very nice. What’s your title?”
“Secretary to His Highness.”
“You reckon these are our tickets to the party?”
“I do reckon.”
We were still a half-kilometer from Anzhelika. The sun was setting and the dock was clearing, but the yachts were coming to life as champagne corks were popped and cigars were lit and deals were inked. “Are you going to finish your story?” I asked Jo.
“Can’t you guess the rest?”
“I doubt my guessing would have the flamboyance of your telling.”
“I found my way into the ambassador’s residence and left the briefcase and wallet under his pillow.”
“With a card, I assume?”
“The alternative would have been rude.”
“What did you write?”
“Please find my curriculum vitae attached. Yours respectfully, Josephine Monfort. Along with my phone number, of course.”
“Of course.”
I held up my hand and began tabulating with my fingers. “Skills, balls, integrity, ingenuity, and cheek. I could see Granger weighing that lineup on par with a chest full of combat ribbons.”
She held up a hand and made the peace sign. “I noticed that you ran out of fingers before you got to respect and lateral thinking. They’re very big on those at Langley.”
“Those go without saying.”
“It was Granger who evaluated me on the ambassador’s recommendation, but he was gone before I completed my training. I liked him. Were the two of you close?”
“He brought me in, trained me, and functioned as my control for four years. He’s a great man and a good friend.”
“You obviously miss him. I only met Oscar briefly. He comes across as more of a politician.”
“Let’s just say he and Granger have different strengths.”
“So what’s your story? Special Forces?”
“No, I was also the oddball of my class.”
“Do tell.”
I didn’t like talking about myself, but the Anzhelika was still a couple of minute’s walk away, and there was nothing like casual conversation to help a couple blend in. Security would be looking for people exuding purpose. Jo seemed to intuit this. “I was a biathlete until a back injury ended my career.”
“By biathlete, you mean shooting and skiing?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you any good?”
“I grew up in Colorado, where both are obsessions. I was obsessed enough to make the Olympic team.”
“No kidding? Wow! How’d you do?”
“I won bronze in Vancouver. But of course I wanted gold. I was totally committed to winning it too, when I hurt my back.”
“That sucks.”
“It happens a lot. I didn’t want to let it make me bitter, so I funneled all my energy into rock climbing, which is another Colorado obsession.”
“The back injury didn’t prevent that?”
“You’d think, but no. Different force vectors.” This was starting to feel more like a first date than an SOG op, and I found myself enjoying it. Apparently eight weeks of working exclusively with Oscar had left a void.
“Well, it seems to have worked. You don’t strike me as bitter.”
“Thanks. Actually, the Olympic disappointment made me reckless. Desperate to prove myself, I went straight for free-soloing, which is where you climb without ropes or equipment. I tackled cliffs like they were battlefields and I was my ancient namesake.
“With that attitude and my Olympic conditioning, I managed to set a couple of speed records. Nothing newsworthy anywhere outside Colorado or climbing circles, but enough to make the local papers. Granger was visiting the Air Force Academy, saw an article and got curious.” I paused, recalling the events.
“He ended up recruiting me. Kinda made me his pet project and brought in some top guns for one-on-one training, since I didn’t have the typical Special Forces background. I was very fortunate.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Five years.”
“I just finished up at The Farm five days ago. I’m barely over the jet lag.”
“Well, you’re doing fantastic so far. Those were great moves, by the way. I was looking for some sleight of hand, but still didn’t see a thing.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
I grabbed Jo’s arm and guided her into a vacant tent.
“What is it?”
“Michael’s coming down the Anzhelika’s gangplank. He’s dressed the same as when he left the Mercedes, but now he’s carrying a large tan leather bag.
“Do you have a cricket?”
“Afraid not.”
“Crap. Time for a tactical pivot. I think you should follow him while I go after Emily.”
“Aren’t you going to need my help searching the ship?”
“That would be nice, but finding Ivan is the mission and two links to him are better than one. We’re operating as though Emily is on the Anzhelika and Ivan is with her, but those are both assumptions. One of us should stick with Michael until the other spots Ivan. And since he saw my face earlier today in London, it can’t be me.”
“Makes sense,” Jo said, her voice a bit hesitant.
“Familiarize yourself with the way he moves. He’s got a distinctive gait. Reminds me of a wrestler walking onto the mat. Recognizing it will make it easier to tail him if he employs counter-surveillance tactics. Under no circumstances are you to engage him, understood? He may appear to be a nice guy, but I know a carnivore when I see one.”
<
br /> “Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I understand.”
“We’ll keep our mikes live, and regroup as soon as one of us has something. Agreed?”
I saw a trace of fear in Jo’s eyes, but she said, “As you wish.”
Chapter 13
Slippery Moves
JO FELT a drop of adrenaline hit her bloodstream as she took up Michael’s tail. She’d followed hundreds of marks through the streets of Paris and Nice while running her scams, but this was different. This time she had a concealed weapon, and no doubt that her mark was lethally armed. A slick tongue and swift feet might prove insufficient if she slipped up and caught his eye.
With Achilles by her side, chasing Ivan the Ghost had felt like another training op, even though it was her first actual mission. Alone now, she understood that this was very different.
Another drop of adrenaline.
Port Hercules twinkled like a Christmas tree, with a hundred superyachts ornamenting the azure waters, all polished for show and festooned with lights. Twilight was a tough time to tail in any circumstances, with the setting sun and dancing shadows playing tricks on the eyes, but the perpetual motion and cascading contrasts of the Monaco Yacht Show magnified those effects exponentially.
As the partygoers came in and the exhibitors went out, rolling cases of equipment and bags of all sizes, Michael’s distant form was bouncing in and out of focus with every other stride.
And then he simply wasn’t there.
“Merde!”
She’d forgotten that Achilles was live in her ear, so when he responded, it was like the voice of God. “What’s wrong?”
“Michael just disappeared.”
“Just this second?”
“Yes.”
“Keep walking as though nothing happened. The difference between tailing someone like Michael and one of your civilian marks is that he has been trained in countermeasures. His use of them doesn’t necessarily mean he’s spotted you. With time, countermeasures become reflexive. But this does indicate that his radar will be finely tuned, so whatever you do, don’t stop and look around as though you’ve lost your puppy.
“How far back were you when it happened?”
“About thirty meters.”
“Good. Keep walking while you search using your peripheral vision. Once you’re about twenty meters past the point he disappeared, stop and pull out your smartphone. Lean against a post or something, someplace that gives you the right perspective. Keep your face pointed down towards your phone, scanning for him only with your eyes. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Keep in mind that he might change his appearance. Everything is game — from his hair and clothes, to his apparent age and stride. If in doubt, check the pants and shoes. They’re usually the last to go. Just remember what they taught you at The Farm and you’ll do fine. You’re clearly a natural.”
“Thank you. Will do.”
“I just talked my way onto the Anzhelika as advance security for the prince, using the card you so brilliantly procured. Now I need to keep a low profile, so talking will be problematic. If you don’t reacquire Michael in the next ten minutes, join me here.”
“Okay.”
“And Jo, remember, whatever you do, don’t engage this guy. He’s too good. It’s not worth it.”
She wasn’t going to let Michael outwit her. No way. Not on her first case. Not with Director Rider personally paying attention.
She’d last seen Michael before the big exhibition tent. Unlike the little ones lining the dock like dominoes, the big air-conditioned tent had many dozens of subdivisions for luxury vendors. To go in after him would be like entering a maze.
She could wait outside, but there were two exits, spaced about sixty meters apart. Surveying both would be difficult, especially given the perspective required to see through disguises. On top of all that, she had to act fast.
She performed a quick 180-degree sweep, searching for a location that would make it possible to view both exits. Someplace that wouldn’t draw attention while her head pivoted back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.
Her eyes zoomed in on the upper decks of the flanking yachts near the middle of the row. Most were blazing with light and buzzing with activity, but Victor’s Secret was relatively dark, and appeared quiet. Perhaps Victor was busy inspecting lingerie in the master’s suite, but given the hour, she was hopeful that he was either dining at one of Monaco’s many Michelin-starred restaurants, or living large at the Casino de Monte-Carlo.
Jo boarded the darkened yacht as if she owned it and looked for an external staircase that would take her to an upper deck without breaking her surveillance line of sight. There wasn’t one.
She decided to climb.
A few basic gymnastics moves was all it would take, given the preponderance of rails. Child’s play for a cat burglar who’d trained as a gymnast. Former cat burglar, she corrected herself.
Two kip casts, paired with neck kip to stand springs, and she was three decks up on post — less than a minute after hanging up with Achilles.
“What are you doing?” The challenge had been issued from the dock. The speaker was a middle-aged passerby holding hands with a teenage wife.
“Shhh,” she said, with a finger to her lips. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The man grimaced as the woman yanked his hand. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
Jo pulled out her monocular and began the back and forth sweep that would not stop until she’d either reacquired her target, or her ten minutes had expired. She used her naked left eye to take in the big picture, and then shifted to the scope on her right whenever somebody deserved a closer look. As she’d been trained, Jo ignored context. It didn’t matter if the man was pushing a wheelchair or part of a crowd, if his build was the right proportion, he got her full scrutiny. Fortunately, with the show now closed, the mobs were gone. And as a bonus, most people exiting the big tent were hauling luggage that slowed their pace.
Jo wondered how Achilles was fairing on the Anzhelika. She enjoyed audacious moves like his. They’d been the hallmark of her previous profession. But she’d always kept to the shadows. Achilles had walked right past the gorillas into the lion’s den. That was bold, and risky. Russian oligarchs weren’t known to be charitable to their enemies.
Despite the odds, she was betting that her first partner would pull it off. There was an air about him, a combination of confidence and charisma that she found inspiring. Maybe that came with being an Olympian. She’d never met one before. In any case, she was determined not to let him down.
A couple of men, both the right age and size, exited the far door together. They turned away from her, heading toward the port’s center so she couldn’t see their faces. One wore navy slacks and a blue sweater. The other wore black pants, and a blue blazer topped with a captain’s hat. The second man also carried a familiar tan bag. Jo thought the captain’s hat would be a perfect decoy. A common technique was to give someone of the same size a distinctive bag of the same variety, then hide his features with a cap and blazer, and send him on his way.
Jo studied him for a few paces, knowing she had a call to make. Picking one person meant abandoning all others. Captain had a gait that struck her as predatory, as if he was planning to pick a fight at the bar. That convinced her he was Michael, ninety percent anyway. Perhaps the wardrobe change wasn’t meant to throw off anyone behind him, but rather someone ahead. He wasn’t headed back to the Anzhelika.
She dropped deck to deck without letting him out of her sight, like a lifeguard dismounting a tower. Then she began to run, rolling her feet to muffle the noise. Jo continued at a jog until there was just thirty meters between them and then dropped her pace. She closed to twenty-five meters and then twenty. This was closer than her handlers at Langley would advise, but she was flexing with the circumstances.
She was armed with a slimline subcompact Glock and a directional microphone. If she
could see it, she could shoot it and listen to its final breath. But not from thirty meters. She was pushing both her pistol marksmanship and her microphone’s capabilities at twenty.
“How’s it going?” Achilles asked.
“I’m on him. He changed into a captain’s hat and blazer. We’re still walking.”
“Interesting. He changed for a purpose, you can be sure of that. Something’s up.”
“I’m on it. What’s going on with you?”
“I happen to be changing as well. I’m down in the crew quarters, putting on a waiter’s uniform.”
“What will you do if someone asks you for something?”
“Do my best to be obsequious.”
“I meant that they’re likely to ask you in Russian.”
“I’m fluent. My mother was from Moscow. Speak of the devil, I gotta go. Be careful.”
As Achilles signed off, Michael turned right and stepped onto a yacht, the Daisy Mae.
Jo pulled out her phone and pretended to type while watching him.
He went up the back staircase to the level above, where a man’s head and shoulders popped into view as he stood to shake Michael’s hand.
She glanced at the time on her screen. Exactly 9:00. Michael had an appointment with someone. She didn’t know who or why, but intuition told her that it was mission critical to find out.
Chapter 14
Interference
“WHO ARE YOU?”
“Agent Achilles, this is Director Rider, looking for a sitrep.”
The two incongruous questions hit me at the same time. The first, spoken in Russian, came from a large man in a waiter’s uniform identical to the one I’d just slipped on. I’d have to answer it first, which meant the head of the CIA was about to become confused while he waited for his situation report. Normally I’d switch my ear mike off to spare us both the confusion, but that movement would look peculiar, and at this moment I needed to appear anything but. “I’m Volodya’s replacement, Vanya. Pleased to meet you.”