by Tim Tigner
Michael held up a finger, asking Aspinwall to hold that thought. Then he swapped apps on his phone. Again he propped it up on the table so they both could see the screen. Jo strained to get the right new visual angle, adding a cramping back to her list of discomforts. Just a few seconds more, she repeated for the dozenth time.
While both Kian and Jo watched with rapt attention, Michael tapped the screen and the image of a woman appeared. Jo didn’t recognize the face — she’d never been close enough for that — but she did recognize the dress. It was Emily Aspinwall.
“What is this?” Aspinwall asked, his tone no longer entirely cordial. “Why are you showing me a video of my daughter?”
Jo studied the picture. The first thing that struck her was that the image was being captured by a lapel camera. The centering was off, as was the angle, and the focus was less than perfect. It was just like the footage shot during her undercover training assignments.
The second thing that struck her was the location. Based on the background, she knew where Emily was standing. She needed to let Achilles know, but this wasn’t the time to break away.
“It’s showtime, Ivan,” Michael said.
Aspinwall looked around for the recipient of Michael’s remark, but didn’t see anybody.
Michael redirected his host’s attention to the screen.
A hand had popped up in front of the lapel camera. It was holding a smartphone open to the same red-yellow-green button app they’d just seen demonstrated. The hand held it there for a good ten seconds, then the hand dropped and the cameraman moved. He turned Emily toward the railing so that they were both looking out over the Mediterranean, where dozens of festive yachts lit up the harbor.
Jo could almost hear music crescendo as the hand on the camera moved to Emily’s shoulder like Jaws coming out of the deep. As the fingers clamped around her flesh, the thumb beckoned for attention. It was tapping against the clasp of her necklace — a clasp that was decorated like a moon, but shaped like a puck.
Chapter 18
Revelations
“I HAVE A CONFESSION to make,” Emily said, staring out at the panorama of bobbing yachts and twinkling stars.
“You can tell me anything, except goodbye,” Andreas said, his hand caressing the back of her neck.
She turned to face him. A string of white bow lights reflected in his eyes like a stairway to heaven. “I’ve never been as happy as I am now, at this very moment. I thought men like you existed only in dreams.”
Andreas replied so softly, she had to strain to hear him over the wind and slapping waves. “You bring out the best in me.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose that sounded sappy. I’m not usually like that. It’s just that online, you seemed too good to be true. But I held onto hope, and now I have proof that you’re real.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Yes, of course you do. That’s kind of my point. I was just, well, so ready for tonight to be a disappointment. Back in London, I mean. And then with all of this,” she gestured with both arms. “It’s … people always hide the bad things online. You only hid good things, starting with your handsome face. Usually it’s the ugly guys who post blurry pictures. And your lifestyle. Not even a coded hint. I just didn’t know guys like you really existed. And there I go again.”
Andreas said, “Let’s forget about the past, and stop worrying about the future, and just enjoy the moment.”
She stood quietly, contentedly, studying his face.
It gave her a different kind of surprise.
He’d had work done.
Not Botox or hair transplants, but reconstructive work. It was expertly done, but she knew from a summer internship in her uncle’s office how to spot the scars. And his eyes, they weren’t naturally blue. He was wearing colored lenses. All this was normal for the superyacht crowd, she felt sure, but it struck her as out of character for Andreas. He was like her, more Labrador than poodle. “How do you know our host?”
“Voskerchyan? I do work for him from time to time. Perks like this are part of our retainer arrangement.”
If this is a perk, Emily thought, the base pay must be fantastic. “You never told me exactly what kind of consulting it is you do.”
Fireworks erupted with a boom and a series of smaller pops. The first salvo of the evening. Andreas had told her there would be a display to mark the end of the show. Since the best viewing was aft, he’d invited her to the bow, where they could enjoy some privacy. She appreciated the romantic gesture. She was also pleased when Andreas ignored the display in order to give her an answer.
Speaking loudly to be heard over the booms, oohs, and aahs, he said, “My work doesn’t really fit in a box. I’m trustworthy, and good at solving problems. Men like Voskerchyan need people they can trust, and they tend to have lots of-”
Still looking at the decorative lights reflecting in Andreas’s eyes, Emily saw them cloud over as his words suddenly ground to a halt. His face followed with an almost schizophrenic transformation, shifting from warm honey to iced steel. Her elation turned to that heart-stopping fear one gets when the doctor looks up from the x-ray and says, “Bad news.”
Chapter 19
Leashed
JO FOUND herself completely entranced by the scene unfolding before her eyes. Her screaming calves and groaning shoulders had faded to background noise, so engrossing was the human drama unraveling on the deck below.
A minute earlier, when Michael had closed the app to heighten Kian’s tension, she’d ripped away to alert Achilles of her findings. She had filled him in on Emily and Ivan’s location, along with the devious device The Ghost had surreptitiously strung around her neck.
When she bobbed back down to watch the saga play out, Aspinwall appeared to have no blood going to his face. She appreciated his condition.
A single synaptic connection, a literal flash of understanding, had sent him from the top of the world to the bottom of a boot. He was reeling from the change of altitude. He was lost. The righteous indignation and false bravado that were often the bedrock of a politician’s defenses had no place in discussions involving the safety of their children.
Michael was waiting patiently for Aspinwall to come to the conclusion that he was in checkmate. His only move was the one prescribed. Whatever it might be.
When he finally spoke, Aspinwall’s voice was little more than a whisper. “What do I have to do?”
Michael’s reply was forceful and quick. “Bring me the head of Prince Albert.”
“What!”
Michael held his gaze, unflinching. He let Aspinwall’s imagination run amok with medieval images of swords and sacks and silver platters, dead eyes and distended tongues and bloodied blades. “Just kidding, Kian. All you need to do is go to His Highness’s reception, as planned, and make a simple statement to the press.”
“I don’t have to hurt anybody?”
Michael shook his head.
“And Emily will be okay?”
“If you’re fast enough, she’ll never even know she came within a finger tap of a slow and agonizing death. She’ll never even imagine the feel of steel closing around her throat, or the overwhelming terror that seizes the mind when lungs are powerless to inflate. She’ll finish off her date completely oblivious to the fact that she spent this evening dancing on the brink, and will go home having enjoyed the best day of her life. If you’re fast enough.”
“What do I have to say?”
“Does it matter?”
Aspinwall paused.
“You’re wasting time, Kian.”
“No, it doesn’t matter.”
Michael handed him a slip of paper that Jo couldn’t see. “Read this out loud. For practice.”
Jo watched Aspinwall’s face run a gamut of emotions before she heard the words, “It’s so nice here, I’m dreading going back to London.”
It took her a second to appreciate the brilliance of the simple sentence.
It was a smart bomb.
/> The statement was so plausible, both for its context and its content, that nobody would expect coercion. Who hadn’t made a similar statement while on vacation to someplace as magical as this? But the media would be on Aspinwall’s words like tigers on red meat. Their spin would be relentless. Pundits would come out of the woodwork, disillusioned supporters would be interviewed, outrage would be voiced, all feeding the machine that never slept. Aspinwall hadn’t just implied that the city many considered the finest in the world, the city he was vying to lead, was “not so nice.” He made it clear that he preferred his nation’s historical rival.
It was suicide by Freudian slip.
“Your delivery was a bit flat,” Michael said. “But I’m sure you’ll perk up in front of the cameras, with the prince in the room and the Monaco Yacht Show logo over your shoulder.”
Aspinwall swallowed a frog as he nodded. “What kind of guarantee do I have?”
Michael shook his head in disappointment. “The common sense kind, Kian. We could have kidnapped Emily and dangled her over a kennel of starving dogs. But that’s not our style. We’d only do that if you attempted a retraction.
“Instead, we’ve gone to extravagant lengths to come and go like a bad dream. Tomorrow, there will be no trace of our existence but the footprints on your mind. In time, even you’ll begin to doubt that this was real.”
“When will the necklace come off?”
“The moment you step off the media stage, assuming we approve of your performance, of course. You’ll be able to watch it happen. I’ll open the app back up and hold the phone where you can see it the whole time you’re speaking, lest your political instincts kick in and your feet get cold. If that happens, you’ll be watching Emily’s head come off rather than the necklace.”
Michael stood and headed for the stairs.
Aspinwall followed like a leashed dog.
Chapter 20
Yellow
WHILE A LUMP FORMED in her throat, Emily studied her date’s facial transformation in the colorful cascade of firework light. When Andreas resumed speaking, it wasn’t to her, and his voice had dropped an octave. “You were at Palace Place this morning. I saw you on Michael’s button cam.” As he spoke, Andreas raised his cell phone, but not to his ear. He was holding it up like a police officer’s badge. The phone showed something resembling a traffic light, with buttons of red, yellow, and green.
Emily glanced at the phone, and then at the man Andreas had directed it toward. The waiter had indeed been in her lobby this morning, wearing a gray suit. He’d helped her with the door. Justine’s new boyfriend, she’d assumed.
The back of her neck began to tickle.
She reached for her necklace, afraid that it was slipping off. The pendant wasn’t there. She began to panic but then found it, higher up rather than lower. She’d adjust it later, as soon as this odd twist was resolved, and her fairy tale had resumed. “You were there,” she said, addressing the man. “Who are you? Are you following me?”
He responded to her, but didn’t take his eyes off Andreas. “I work in law enforcement. I’m here to rescue you.” Then his voice took on a commanding tone. “Step away from her, Ivan.”
Emily appraised the man while he spoke. The set of his jaw and the energy radiating from his eyes told her he was deadly serious. His body looked serious too, primed and physically fit. Andreas was in good shape as well, but his fitness struck her as the health club type. More show than go, as Jen liked to say. Plus, Andreas was smaller by about two inches and twenty pounds. “You’re mistaken,” she said, pressing herself against Andreas and wrapping her arm around his waist. “I don’t need rescuing, and his name isn’t Ivan, it’s Andreas. Please leave us alone.”
His expression softened and he shifted his gaze to meet her eye. For a second she thought he was going to say, “My mistake. I’m obviously confused. Please forgive me.” Instead he put ice in her spine. “Everything you know about him is a lie, Emily. He spied on you to learn what you like, and then told you what you wanted to hear. All this is about manipulating your father into dropping out of the race.”
“How do you know that?” Andreas asked.
The question caused Emily to do a double take. It wasn’t a denial or even a challenge. Andreas sounded as if he sincerely wanted to know.
She turned to study him.
Andreas’s eyes were locked on the stranger’s. His expression, in fact his whole face, had morphed. His look was now positively carnivorous. He continued to hold up his cell phone as if it was a mystical amulet with protective powers.
“Does it matter?” the intruder asked.
“At the moment, the only thing that matters is what I can do with this.” Andreas waved his phone. “Do you know? I’m talking about the yellow button in particular.”
“I know,” the intruder said.
Emily had no idea what the yellow button would do, but she was quite certain that she didn’t want to find out. She didn’t understand Andreas’s next words either, but something about the way he said them made her shiver.
“Well then, you’ve got a choice to make.”
He paused, his face brandishing an evil expression she’d never forget. Then he pressed the yellow button.
Chapter 21
Press Conference
JO WAITED for Michael and Kian to disappear down the stairs and then swung down to the deck they’d abandoned. She managed to execute the swing itself as planned, but her cramped legs refused to take her weight when she landed. She ended up dancing with a deck chair that first whacked her funny bone and then bloodied her nose.
Sitting up where she eventually landed, Jo stretched her legs by grabbing her feet and bringing her face to her knees. Then she gave her calves a couple of quick squeezes while wiping her nose on her pants.
Michael and Aspinwall were disappearing down the dock to her right as she used the railing to pull herself to her feet, but her legs were still tingling. Pushing through the pain, she did a few calf raises to get the blood flowing, and then set off barefoot in pursuit.
The dock was busy as a holiday mall once again. The sun had set on Saturday night, which made Monaco the place to be if one owned an impressive yacht and had millions to spend. The female revelers had swapped their shorts and sandals for pumps and gowns, lavish silky creations designed to parade augmented breasts and display ostentatious jewels. As for the men, they seemed to be evenly split, with half taking their fashion advice from the Robb Report, and the rest mimicking James Bond.
Anxious to learn of Achilles’ progress and update him on Michael’s plan, Jo tried to key her ear mike and found that it wasn’t there. Merde! It must have popped out when she fell.
Her stomach seemed to shrink as the ramifications set in. In an instant she’d gone from the comfort of a protective wing, to feeling totally alone. A bird pushed out of the nest and onto the ground.
Jo tried to shake the solitary feeling as she took up Michael’s tail. In her head she knew it was silly. She’d been alone her whole adult life, whereas she’d only known Achilles for a couple of hours. He wasn’t even there anyway, not physically. This didn’t change a thing, she told herself. He had his mission, and now she had hers.
Or did she?
As long as Ivan was still alive, she was going to stick with Michael — whatever it took. But what should she do once Ivan was dead? Director Rider had been crystal clear about his one and only goal: kill Ivan without getting caught. If Achilles hadn’t accomplished that already, he soon would. And Michael would see it happen.
What would she do then?
Achilles had repeatedly warned her not to engage Michael, but could she just let him get away? She’d have to play that by ear. Meanwhile, she was dying to see what would happen on camera.
Michael guided Aspinwall to the Upper Deck Lounge, which sat atop the marina offices. The MYS organizers had the large room arranged like the red carpet at a movie premiere. A cocktail lounge by day, it was now a hub for the press to
interview the yacht manufacturers, billionaire owners, and scores of major and minor celebrities in attendance.
The network stations were packing up after the prince’s concluding remarks, but plenty of local and tabloid reporters had stuck around in hopes of recording gaffs and revelations once the vodka and Cognac started flowing.
Michael appeared to have a particular reporter in mind, as he led Aspinwall straight to a petite blonde on dangerously high heels. She was probably north of forty but would pass for twenty-nine on camera thanks to heavy makeup, a starvation diet, and hair extensions. Jo didn’t recognize the flag on her microphone, but assumed she was British.
Michael showed Aspinwall the script one last time, and then stood back so the candidate could make a solo approach. While Michael’s eyes were locked on his target, Jo sidled up to hers.
Aspinwall turned to face the crowd, with the wall of Monaco Yacht Show logos behind him, and the selected reporter eagerly waiting in front.
Jo had to hand it to him. The man was a master of his own emotions. He was about to commit suicide on camera, but he seemed lively, even enthusiastic. No doubt he was flying on autopilot using the same campaign-trail reflexes that kept him engaging while repeating a stump speech night after night.
Michael stood directly beside the petite reporter. As she tested her mike, he relaunched the app and extended his smartphone toward the honored guest as though he was recording a video, rather than playing one. It was a smooth setup, and one he’d obviously planned. Only Aspinwall could see the display.
With the reverberation of the evening’s first fireworks providing a fitting backdrop, the reporter began recording. “I’m Sandra Sunnyford, here now with Kian Aspinwall, MP from Croydon, and leading candidate in the London mayoral election. Tell us, Mister Aspinwall, did you enjoy the show?”
Chapter 22
Overboard
UNLIKE MOST of my colleagues in the CIA’s Special Operation’s Group, I was not a combat veteran. I’d been climbing cliffs and chasing Olympic gold while they were earning green berets and golden tridents. But just because I wasn’t used to people shooting at me, didn’t mean I hadn’t developed combat reflexes.