by Tim Tigner
When you watch magicians perform card tricks, half the amazement comes from the apparent ease with which they do it. Cards fly around their fingers, darting in and out, up and down, as if piloted by microprocessors and pulled by strings. For the average person whose exposure is limited to card games at family reunions, the ease with which magicians manipulate those thin sheets of plasticized cardboard is miraculous. Most people couldn’t do it in a thousand years. Except actually they could—if they put in a thousand hours.
The same principle applies to pickpocketing. It’s all about practice, practice, practice. Instead of cards, pickpockets master buttons, snaps, zippers, bags, and of course, pockets. Endless repetition on mannequins rigged with buzzers and bells at first, then practice subjects. As a little girl, Jo had practiced by placing paper into people’s pockets, little fairy fortunes for them to find. The one time a big hairy hand had wrapped around her thin little wrist only to find it grasping a message of good wishes, the man had actually teared up and handed her a few coins. No doubt her practiced expression of innocence had helped.
Although Jo had stopped grifting many years back, she’d kept her fingers nimble. It was a hard-earned talent she was loathe to let go.
As she fell forward that evening in the Skolkovo Hypercube, the mechanics of her moves came naturally as gravity. A cascade of activity designed to distract attention away from the hand that slips and flicks and tugs, freeing the precious piece of plastic into the palm. Then the quick switch inside the secret pocket, while she allowed herself to be helped up.
“So sorry,” she said, eyes flicking up in acknowledgment before darting down in embarrassment. Then the discovery. “There it is!”
She walked past the guard to a seat further down. With her back to him and a chair blocking his view, she bent over. As her derrière undoubtedly drew his eye, Jo slipped the pencil-sized object from her sleeve. A quick flick of the thumb released the catch that bound the spring and presto! the purse appeared in her hand. Well, technically, the clutch. It didn’t have a strap. “Got it,” she said for Achilles’ sake.
Jo rose and twirled and brought the prize up by her shoulder. Flashing a smile, she held it high just long enough to make the material match obvious then dropped it back to her side.
He wore an appropriately puzzled look. She had produced the purse from thin air.
Time to change the subject.
She pointed to the ground behind his right heel. “Is that yours?”
He followed her finger, then stooped to pick up a white card—the replacement she’d planted. “Thank you. I can’t lose that.”
29
Martin
Loire Valley, France
THEY PARKED THE TESLA on a hill overlooking the Loire valley. They landed Raven a half-mile west amidst the grape vines. Their target, Christophe Martin, was due to come cycling their way at any minute as part of his weekly exercise routine.
Michael kept his binoculars trained on the road, but turned his head to look over at Ivan. “Is LeClaire keeping quiet?”
Ivan had been monitoring media outlets and police reports for any mention of their first attack. “Nothing.”
“I must admit, I’m a bit surprised that the threat worked.”
Ivan dropped his binoculars and looked Michael’s way. “Really? After all these years of witnessing how quickly people yield to fear?”
Once CJ was safe on the ground, they’d placed another call to the LeClaire residence, warning Lawrence that they’d be back if the police were ever notified. “How are they going to explain the missing $10 million without a police report?” Michael asked.
“What good is a police report? It doesn’t get their money back and it won’t give them peace of mind. Quite the contrary.”
“What do you mean?”
Ivan smirked. “Our threat aside, imagine the conversation. I’ll help you get started. ‘Officer, I was just kidnapped by a drone.’ ”
Michael played it forward. “A savvy police detective would play the odds and conclude that LeClaire concocted the story to steal the $10 million. Then he’d put LeClaire under investigation.”
“Prolonging his nightmare. Plus there’s our threat.”
“I didn’t game it out far enough ahead,” Michael admitted, kicking himself for allowing fear to override reason. He knew better than to second-guess Ivan’s instincts when it came to anticipating reactions.
“Apparently LeClaire did.”
While Michael reddened, Ivan pointed toward an approaching cyclist and asked, “Is that Martin?”
Michael turned back to his binoculars. “That’s him. And we’re in luck—he’s wearing earbuds. Probably has music playing.”
Christophe Martin was an attorney who had just received a $33 million fee as lead counsel on a mass tort settlement. He was based out of New York, but his wife preferred to live at their Loire Valley vineyard. Christophe joined her for most of the summer and the occasional long weekend. Ivan had bumped him to the top of the list on principle.
“You say the word,” Pavel called from the back.
Michael started counting down. “Ten, nine, eight—”
Raven was exceptionally quiet for a drone of its size. The electric motors merely whispered, the rotor housings baffled their noise, and the propeller blades had been engineered for silent operation. But the hum of air displacement was impossible to avoid. Raven sounded like a swarm of locusts or a thousand flies. It also kicked up rocks and dirt when flying near the ground.
Michael and Ivan both had their binoculars locked on Martin. When the count reached one, a cloud of dust erupted amidst the vines about twenty yards from his position, but he sped by before they brought Raven high enough to be seen. Either he didn’t notice the commotion or he didn’t care.
Pavel began to follow the bicycle from a few feet behind. “He’s clocking in at around 40 km/h. Pretty good for a suit.”
They’d chosen to snatch Martin on his way out, rather than his way home, in part due to the location of the sun. With it blazing before his face, Martin would not be warned by Raven’s shadow. He wouldn’t see or sense it coming. There’d be no last second twist or jerk. One moment he would be cycling along, listening to his iTunes and watching his rpm’s. The next he’d be airborne, fearing for his life. Michael zoomed the binoculars in on Martin’s face and waited for the grab.
30
Vertical Vision
Moscow, Russia
WHILE WAITING in the BMW for Jo to exit the Hypercube, Achilles experienced emotions he usually avoided. Worry and regret. Not for Jo, she was in her element, but for Katya.
Achilles worried how Katya was coping. He had no doubt that she was making good use of her time and was comfortable enough. But nobody liked a state of limbo. She’d been sentenced to solitary confinement without knowing how long she’d be there or what was happening to him.
Achilles regretted coming so close and yet remaining unable to relieve her suffering. But like a parent exposing his baby to an immunization shot, by keeping away he was protecting his fiancée from a potentially fatal infection.
Ivan had begun this by manipulating him and Rider using one new technology, and then killing Rider with another. Who knew what other novelties he had up his sleeve. Perhaps he had somehow marked Achilles on that rooftop, and now knew his every move. That was highly unlikely, but then so was a drone assassination. Achilles simply couldn’t risk contacting Katya until he’d removed Ivan as a threat.
As Achilles pounded the steering wheel, Jo emerged from the Hypercube without an angry guard in hot pursuit. She slid into the BMW and proffered the prized white card.
“You made that look easy,” Achilles said, accepting the gift.
“Once you’ve put in the hours required to develop fast fingers, there’s not much to it beyond basic psychology.”
Achilles was keen to change mental gears, and learning a pro’s insights seemed just the ticket. “Basic psychology?”
“I offer
up a familiar framework and allow my marks to fill in the rest. In this case, I went with damsel-in-distress. With men of a certain age, it trumps dereliction-of-duty every time.”
Achilles was eager to learn more from Jo about her special talent, but ignored it for now. They were exposed, the clock was ticking, and the important work still lay ahead.
Extensive online research and a few confirming phone calls indicated that the only active drone program on Skolkovo’s grounds was housed at Vertical Vision, a startup owned by oil oligarch Victor Vazov.
Achilles drove to the Industrial Technologies section and parked behind a building Vazov leased. The 10,000-square-foot facility housed both Vertical Vision and Blowback Systems, a windmill manufacturer. A windmill manufacturer, Achilles mused. At least one oil oligarch was thinking ahead.
Achilles selected a spot with low lighting and reached around to the back seat where duffel bags held security uniforms. The outfits matched Skolkovo’s right down to the red SECURITY patches, everything but the cute little Sk logo stitched in neon green. Acquiring them had been disturbingly easy. Jo took a printout from an Internet photo into an industrial supply store. She asked the clerk to match it, much the way one would ask a beautician for a celebrity haircut. “Our best seller,” had been the response.
As Achilles put the duffel on her lap, Jo stayed his arm. “Let’s not bother. You were right about Russia. Nobody’s going to believe I’m security, regardless of my attitude and uniform. The chauvinism is neck deep around here.”
Achilles met her eye. “The idea is to avoid standing out while walking around. Nobody gives a second glance to two guards on patrol.”
“But our only walk is going to be between the car and the front door. After that, any encounter will be up close and personal. Better to set the stage for that.”
Achilles recognized a good idea when he heard one. “So our story is that we slipped away from the investor reception to stage our own private party?”
“Yes. Only instead of etchings, you’ll be showing me your drones.”
“How very inventive of me, and obliging of you.”
“Think we can sell it?”
“No problem. You’re looking hot enough to make a good dog break his leash.” True as it was, Achilles regretted the compliment the moment it left his mouth. He had no intention of straying. Hopefully Jo understood that. Not to assume that she’d even be interested.
They put on a bit of a show while walking to Vertical Vision’s door. The enthusiastic alpha dog leading his lass by the hand.
Then the moment of truth arrived.
The white card.
Achilles had bet that security guards carried master keys, not just for a single building, but for the entire complex. Although Skolkovo was inherently sophisticated, and best practice was a zoned defense, Achilles was reasonably confident they had gone with universal master keys. Why? Working with master keys was simple and easy, and in all his years, he’d never lost when betting on lazy.
The lock clicked.
They stepped inside.
People tend to assume that sexy startups have glamorous offices. At least that was Achilles’ impression. It had been his own until he visited a few Silicon Valley darlings and found them to be more like warehouses than palaces. Most of their layouts look the same. Farms of generic, second-hand cubicles crammed into sprawling open spaces. The decor is driven by economics. Prior to a “liquidity event,” a blue-chip buyout or an initial public offering, startups treat cash like the last bottle of water.
Vertical Vision appeared to be no exception.
The lobby was furnished with a couple of chairs, an end table and a trophy case. No waterfall or oil paintings. No marble floor or mahogany desk.
“That’s not good,” Jo said.
“It’s pretty typical.”
“Not the decorum. The drone in the trophy case. It’s the size of a shoebox.”
Vertical Vision made drones for inspecting gas and oil pipelines. Thousands of miles of pipelines. Pipelines running through all kinds of inclement, uninhabited terrain, bringing energy from distant corners to ports and population centers.
Those pipelines needed constant inspection for cracks, leaks and corrosion—not to mention criminal endeavors to siphon off profits. By using drones to do that inspection, pipeline owners got the golden trilogy, the almost mythical combination of better, faster and cheaper.
The drone had looked much larger when pictured online. “Maybe it’s just a model. A miniaturized reproduction of the real VV1.” Achilles stepped closer and pulled up the flashlight on his phone, supplementing the streetlight streaming through the windows.
“The case isn’t locked,” Jo said, swinging the glass panel open.
She extracted the object of their attention with the swift precision of a professional jewel thief and presented Vertical Vision’s flagship product to Achilles. The weight was an immediate giveaway. Batteries were included. But he flipped it over to inspect the underside just in case. “This is no mockup. It’s the real deal. A genuine VV1.”
“It looked so much bigger in the website videos,” Jo said, disappointment dripping from her voice.
Achilles handed her back the drone. “I’m sure that was the intention, given the price.”
“I was thinking Ivan just used a different shell and made a few minor tweaks, you know? As camouflage. But it would take a hundred of these to get me off the ground.”
“At least.”
Jo replaced the drone and closed the glass with a clink. “All that work, and we ended up in the wrong place.”
31
Headset
Saint Tropez, France
MICHAEL WATCHED with unfettered fascination as Pavel initiated the attack. First thing he saw was a dust devil come to life among the vines. Then a black beast rose from the burgeoning cloud, steady and powerful. Pavel took it up to an altitude of forty feet, spent a second orienting, then shot off after the cyclist like a guided missile.
He swooped Raven in from behind, bringing its altitude down to twenty feet while matching Christophe’s speed. From where Michael watched, the scene looked like a cyclist pulling a big black kite on an invisible string. Then the string became visible as Pavel lowered The Claw. “Here we go.”
Pavel accelerated, quickly closing the gap between pedaling man and mechanical bird. When The Claw drew even with the rear wheel, he said, “Initiating capture.” He raised the lance with a button push, then nudged Raven forward and to the left, bringing The Claw up against the cyclist’s side. The instant it made contact, Pavel hit a second button, wrapping The Claw around the man’s waist like a prehensile tail. Before Martin had a clue what was happening, he was airborne—and so was his bike.
“Crap! His shoes are still clipped to the pedals,” Ivan said. “Take him up fast. I don’t want him getting any ideas about using the bike as a weapon. I want him too scared to move.”
“Roger that.”
Raven soared skyward with effortless grace. “Christophe’s at 120 feet, the height of a ten-story building.”
Ivan said, “Lower the headset.”
“Lowering.”
The final tactical hurdle of the kidnap and ransom scheme was figuring out how to communicate with the victim. This hadn’t been an issue with LeClaire since his husband was present. Lawrence hadn’t needed convincing to make the payment. But in more instances than not, the person transferring funds would not have visual contact with the victim.
Three-way calling provided the perfect solution. Even if a wife didn’t care for her husband, she could hardly waffle or question payment with the husband shouting “Pay it!” in her ear.
Unfortunately, with the victim hanging directly below Raven’s rotors it was difficult for him to hear. Boris had struggled to find an eloquent solution, but in the end the best he could do was tie a helicopter headset to a cable.
Michael watched Martin while a winch lowered the tool. He was clinging to The Claw with both hand
s.
“Doesn’t look like we’ll need to try out the new taser on him,” Ivan said through a rueful grin. “Time to get the wife on the phone.”
Ivan had a watcher on Martin’s house. An outside contractor Michael hadn’t met who knew nothing about their operation. Ivan had instructed him to remain out of sight unless she tried to leave, or didn’t answer her phone, at which point he’d intervene. If her power went out or her Internet connection failed, he’d supply a laptop computer. Ivan left nothing to chance.
It didn’t matter which member of Team Raven spoke to her on the phone. Thanks to MiMiC, the speaker would sound like Gerard Legrand, Chief Detective of Centre-Loire Valley. That extra touch was typical Ivan. A meticulous move. If the Martins went to the police and weren’t laughed out of the office at first mention of a drone abduction, they would eventually speak with Chief Detective Legrand. Michael could picture their faces now as they recognized the voice from the phone.
Ivan said, “Remember to sprinkle ‘you see’ into the conversation.” Legrand had a habit of ending his sentences that way.
“Roger that. I’ve got the wife on the phone,” Michael replied.
“The idiot hasn’t put the headset on yet,” Pavel said.
“Why the hell not?” Ivan asked.
“I’m thinking he closed his eyes, so he doesn’t see it,” Pavel said.
“Can you whack him in the head with it?”
“It only has vertical movement,” Boris said. “I’ll add a ball joint before the next mission.”
“I can get his attention,” Pavel said, jiggling the stick.
“She hung up,” Michael said.
Ivan rolled his eyes as the headset clunked Martin in the head.
When Michael saw Martin grab the dangling earphones, he said, “Redialing.”
“Hello.”
“Listen carefully, Mrs. Martin. Your husband will be dead in ten minutes if you don’t do exactly as you’re told.”