by Tim Tigner
The bodyguard cut him off. “Just you. She stays here.”
Achilles had faced scores of tough choices over the years, but he couldn’t recall another one this gut wrenching. He couldn’t leave Jo alone with Vazov’s brute. The way she looked in that dress, with her lithe legs, boosted bust and sparkling eyes, no magic was required to read his mind. But Achilles also couldn’t cover the ten feet between them faster than the twitch of a trigger finger. Sure, the brute would hesitate. Even pros would think twice before shooting a beautiful, young, non-threatening woman. But the order had been given. They were going out with the trash and this guy’s orders were to put them in the can. Doubt would only buy half a second.
“Move!”
Achilles moved. Not out of fear, but out of faith. Faith that Jo could take better care of herself than he could.
No sooner had he squirmed back through the hole then something slid across it, blocking any attempt at retreat. A file drawer from the look of it. Not a serious physical barrier, but an audiovisual one that doubled as an early-warning system. It put a lightning attack out of the question.
Achilles spent a few seconds trying to overhear what they were saying, but it was hopeless. The stress testers created too much cover noise. So what next? He couldn’t just wait around. That was contrary to his nature under routine conditions. In this case, the friction from flying neurons would light his hair on fire if he didn’t move.
He looked around the room. The finance department was twice as deep as a normal office, and three offices wide. It was also twice as tall. To separate it from the rest of the bay, the architect had taken the walls all the way up rather than suspending a ceiling. It was more aesthetically appealing, and probably cheaper.
The roof was supported by scaffolding that zigzagged in the standard perfected by big box stores. An elevated highway for anyone who cared to climb, but leading nowhere. The HVAC vents, while sizable and sturdy, weren’t large enough for shoulders like his. He knew that from experience. If the building was burning and he needed to escape, he could rip a vent from its moorings and climb through the gap into the next room. But that avenue wouldn’t help him now. His escape had to go undetected, and the camouflaging sound of the stress testers wasn’t sufficiently loud.
The ceiling was a nonstarter.
He fought the urge to obsess over Jo and forced himself to focus on rescuing her. The clock was ticking. Each minute he failed to act was another she had to suffer.
He walked around collecting weapons, while contemplating his options. A few letter openers, a spherical glass paperweight and a hefty pair of scissors made it into his pockets.
What about a fire? An alarm would initiate a rapid response—followed by two swift shots from a Glock. A call to the police would get the same result. Nobody else could get there in time, not that he could call anyway as a wanted man. He was on his own.
The phone was out. The ceiling was out. The walls were out. That left the door.
Door locks are much more malleable from the inside than the out. Or rather their latches are. While on the outside, the latch is shielded from access and view by the frame, on the inside it’s exposed. It has to be to allow the door to swing.
Latches differ from bolts on two key characteristics. First, they have a cutaway radius. Second, they can be moved even when the door is locked. Without both of those features, the door wouldn’t swing closed on its own. Someone would have to turn the handle. The downside to these convenient features is security. Any motion mimicking the press of a door frame will cause the latch to retract. This is why you can open loose-fitting, low-quality doors—like those on cheap hotel rooms—by sliding a credit card between the latch and frame.
Achilles was on the inside, however, so to take advantage of that engineering loophole, he would have to pull on the latch’s radius, rather than pushing it. He slipped a paperclip from his back pocket, and set to work.
Given the innocuous nature of paperclips, combined with their multiple uses in emergencies, Achilles always tried to keep a few paperclips handy. It was a thing with him. Had been for years. This time, however, the mighty paperclip let him down. The spring on the latch was stronger than the paperclips he could fit in the gap. He would have to use wire. Hopefully, he could yank one from inside some piece of electronic equipment and floss the latch open. Fast.
A scream interrupted his search. An anguished, primordial shout, lasting only a second. Was it masculine? Or was that wishful thinking?
He lunged toward the hole but immediately stopped himself, the front of his mind overriding the lizard brain in back. Don’t play into his hand. He forced himself to maintain tactical discipline and fought the urge to scream Jo’s name.
He readied his weapons and perked his ears. The paperweight held high above his head, the scissors clenched for stabbing. For several long seconds, he heard nothing over that damn robotic whirring. Then the file cabinet slid aside.
His striking arm strained higher.
His stabbing arm pulled further back.
Shadows signaled the moment of truth. Then a bloody hand came into view, holding a Glock.
38
Instant Gratification
Moscow, Russia
IVAN ENDED UP seeking professional assistance to solve the problem of getting paid while the victims were still in the air. He didn’t like involving outside consultants, in part because of security concerns, in part because he liked to figure things out for himself. But after spending a few frustrating days fumbling around the Internet, he decided that banking was too complicated and mission-critical for guesswork.
He used connections to find the best darknet banker in the business, then shelled out a hundred grand to get tutored in the tricks of his trade. They met for the weekend at a mountain retreat on the island of Corsica—home of the French Foreign Legion’s parachute regiment, and source of the banker’s beefy bodyguards.
Speaking through an endless stream of blue cigarette smoke, Markos set him straight. “The banking world isn’t what it was even a few months ago. There’s so much competition for hiding ill-gotten assets that banks are tripping over themselves to attract the illicit trillions circulating around the globe. Long gone are the days when Switzerland was the only game in town. Nowadays, every island state and third world dictatorship is looking to skim a commission off that golden river.”
Ivan was thrilled by the news, but feared his circumstance might be an exception. He wasn’t talking about a low profile op. By the time he rode off into the sunset, his heists would be making the nightly news on a daily basis. “What if the FBI or Interpol get involved?”
Markos scoffed. “Independent bankers are making way too much money to give a damn what Western governments want. Think about it. Even if their commission is only 0.1 percent, they still make $1,000 for every million transferred. That’s $1,000 for a few minutes of work. It adds up fast, and leaves plenty to pay for pricey lawyers and pretty receptionists.”
Made sense to Ivan, but he wasn’t there yet. “I’m not going to be able to wait days or even hours for funds to clear. I need instant transfers that can’t be revoked or traced.”
Markos gave a knowing nod. “Instant used to be a problem, but not anymore. Countless new transfer systems have cropped up—the PayPals of the world. As for irrevocable, that depends on the recipient bank, for which I refer you to my previous point about commissions.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“If a banker is making thousands of dollars a day for moving zeroes around the Internet, and some suit shows up flashing a foreign badge and asking him to bite the hand that feeds him, is the banker going to say Yes, sir or Piss off?”
Ivan pictured the scenario and it made him smile. He wasn’t a big fan of the police. “And untraceable? Can the police get the records?”
“Snowden showed us that the U.S. government doesn’t ask for permission. If they want to trace your transfers, they’ve got the tools and talent to do it. But it takes time. Took them
years to track down the guy behind Silk Road, the online narcotics supplier.”
“So I might be safe in the short term, but eventually they’ll catch up?”
Again Markos scoffed. “Not at all. The question isn’t if they’ll be able to trace your transfers, but what they’ll trace them to. If you use a fake ID or shell corporation to open an account—” He tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air.
Ivan smiled as the smoke vanished.
He had his answers.
He was tempted to hire Markos to arrange and manage the Raven extortions for him. To set up scores of accounts at dozens of banks, so he’d never have to use the same one twice. But since they had met, that was out of the question. There were plenty of talented bankers who had never seen his face. He asked Markos one final question. “Suppose I want the FBI to trace the money?”
39
The Path
Moscow, Russia
ACHILLES FELT HIS HEART LEAP with relief as Jo followed the Glock through the hole. She was bloodied, but didn’t appear to be bleeding. She set the gun down with a clunk and slid it aside. Then she jumped into his arms like a scared child. She hugged him hard as her silent sobs turned to stuttered wails. Forcefully enough to relieve some of his worry.
He wanted to verify that she’d completely extinguished the threat, but kept his impulse in check. Jo needed him to hold her.
A minute was all it took.
Her sobbing stopped and her grip slackened off. Her breathing became regular.
Achilles mirrored her actions.
She shook her head and started to speak, but choked up. “Sorry about that. It—. It was pretty rough there for a minute.”
“The blood, is it all his?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“He didn’t—?”
“No. He never touched me.”
Relief washed over Achilles. Taking life was traumatic, but infinitely better than losing it. “Oh, thank goodness.”
Jo backed up a step to signify that she could stand on her own, making them both acutely aware of the fact that she was naked.
Achilles pulled a black sweater off the back of a nearby chair and handed it to her. “Shall we get out of here?”
“Please.”
Achilles led the way back into the main room. The scene before him told the tale. A trail of clothes led to a body. Dress. Bra. Panties. All spaced a few paces apart. All leading to the source of the bleeding.
The bodyguard’s face and throat looked like they’d suffered small-caliber exit wounds, but Achilles knew a bullet wasn’t the source of the damage. The lethal weapons were lying beside the corpse. Jo had used her shoes, her stiletto heels.
“You conned him. You promised to give him the time of his life if he’d let you go. You told him you’d fly back to France and nobody would ever know. Then you started dancing.”
Jo said nothing.
Achilles understood that she didn’t want to relive the scene, but he sensed that there was more to her silence. “He wouldn’t have let you go. He’d have had the time of his life, and then he’d have shot you in the back of the head.”
Jo said nothing.
“It was him or you, him or us. You didn’t just save your own life, you also saved mine.”
Jo said nothing.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I’d like that.”
He picked up her clothes and handed them over. “Take a minute to wash up in the bathroom.”
“Good idea.”
Once the bathroom door closed behind her, Achilles grabbed the stilettos and ran to the men’s room. He gave them a thorough washing followed by a thorough drying using a combination of paper towels and the electric dryer.
When Jo exited the ladies’ room, she looked up at him and then down at the shoes in his hand. She stared at them with quivering lip, digesting what had happened.
Achilles realized that she was standing at a mental crossroads with a choice to make. Relive the perils of the past, or focus on the promise of the future. Walk toward the dark, or into the light.
It was his turn to say nothing. He could show Jo the road to rapid recovery, but she had to choose to take it.
She made her decision. She reached for the shoes. “Better than barefoot.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Achilles said, and he meant it.
40
Not Enough
French Riviera
MICHAEL HAD SEEN IVAN pull off dozens of incredible capers, but he still hadn’t lost his sense of awe at seeing the master in action. It wasn’t the massive amounts of money Ivan extracted so much as his unconventional methods. Ivan had a way of finding pressure points that didn’t involve physical force. No ball-peen hammers or blow torches for The Ghost. He was graceful. His tactics weren’t just more pleasant to employ, they were also more effective.
Michael was sad that their collaboration would soon be coming to an end.
His oldest and essentially only friend was about to hit the beach with hundreds of millions of dollars in the bank.
They had never specifically discussed what would happen to Michael at that point. It was an awkward topic. While Michael had begun in an authority position as a mentor hired by Ivan’s father, their roles had reversed over time and Michael was now completely dependent on Ivan. For nearly thirty years, Ivan had paid all Michael’s bills without question, and put a fancy roof over his head. He’d given him a gold credit card rather than a paycheck.
Michael had next to nothing in the bank, but he had stock. He was set to receive a two-percent stake in Silicon Hill, once Ivan took ownership. Two percent of a $600 million business. Twelve million. Enough to retire on quite comfortably.
But he wasn’t looking forward to retiring. He would miss the adventure. The thrill of the hunt. The pressure of the heist. The adrenaline rush of outsmarting everyone and walking away with millions. Those were priceless experiences.
And he would miss Ivan.
Michael couldn’t help but worry about his friend. What if something went wrong and Ivan couldn’t pay Vazov back in time? He’d learned to never question Ivan’s plans for the simple reason that only one of their minds worked six moves ahead. But still, he was worried. He didn’t see how they’d be able to pull off enough kidnap and ransoms, K&Rs, to raise $600 million before the deadline.
Since his pension was also on the line, Michael screwed up the courage to ask. He caught Ivan alone in his office and delivered a prepared line. “Not bad, collecting $40 million in three days.”
“I’m pleased.”
“That double dip with Chauveau was a particularly brilliant move.”
“All according to plan.”
“Glad you brought that up. I have a question regarding the plan.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”
“Are you really planning to pay Vazov back? The full $600 million?”
“Every last dollar.”
Michael shrugged. “I always figured you’d play him the way you play everyone else. Press on a pain point and get him to walk away. Especially with the way he treats you.”
Ivan smiled. “I can’t have the Russian mafia after me.”
“It’s not going to be easy, meeting that payment schedule. We’re already $20 million behind.”
Ivan raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He didn’t seem to share Michael’s concern.
“I have a few additional targets lined up, but to pull this off, we have to identify dozens more. Then we have to identify an opportunity to abduct them in a predictable, private setting. These first three have been the low-hanging fruit. Going forward, we’re going to have to climb higher. By the end, we’ll be way out on slim limbs.”
“Your point?”
“We can’t afford a single miss. Not a day. Not a target. Not if we’re going to raise $560 million more before the deadline. And we have to continue bringing in $20 million a
job, with a couple of $30 million days thrown in. That’s one hell of an assumption, even for you. If I may say so.”
“You just did.”
Michael moved his hands to the small of his back and clenched his fists in frustration while keeping his face calm. “You know Vazov wants the company. You know he’ll hop on any opportunity to keep it. If you come up a few million short, he’s not going to say ‘close enough.’ ”
“I’m well aware.”
“How can you possibly be so calm about this? Either I’m missing something, or you are. I know the former is much more likely, but I feel I deserve to know.”
Ivan stood and walked to the window, hiding his face. “I have a confession to make. I’ve gone behind your back.”
Michael felt his stomach drop. “Why would you do that? Have I let you down?”
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
When had Ivan ever worried about distracting him? For twenty years Ivan had treated him like he had Atlas’s shoulders, capable of bearing the weight of the world. “So what have you done?”
“I contracted out a bit of research—to some friends—in America. Had them do some ground work as well.”
“Ground work? America?”
Ivan whirled back around. “We’re moving the operation to the U.S. Raven is being crated and a new Tesla will be waiting when we land. We’re leaving at 2:00 a.m. to take advantage of the night shift at both airports.”
Michael knew what “the night shift” meant. Ivan had explained it years ago prior to another assignment. Jobs at private aviation facilities were very cushy in comparison to those at standard commercial facilities. Everyone fortunate enough to capture a coveted position clamped onto it with both hands and a broad grin.
The broad grin was a requirement. People who pay for private planes often expect to walk around with lips glued to their tanned asses. Some make a sport of sacking the servants who don’t demonstrate due deference. So privileges are extended and eyes averted and gratuities paid. Especially after hours.