by Tim Tigner
“Where in America?” Michael asked.
“You can’t guess?”
Michael probably could. He knew Ivan, and he knew Raven. “Has to have a high concentration of wealth.”
“Of course.”
“But not a big city. Raven needs room to operate. We want people living in houses.”
Ivan said nothing.
“Palm Beach?”
“Palm Beach is flat. Too easy to spot Raven coming and going.”
Of course. All of Florida was flat. Where else? Certain suburbs around New York City might work. Suffolk, Westchester or Fairfield counties. But somehow those didn’t feel right. They weren’t Ivan’s style. So what was? Lightning struck and Michael grabbed it.
“Silicon Valley.”
41
Genetic Dice
Airborne
Moscow, Russia to Nice, France
THEY PAID for Wi-Fi on the flight to France. As usual, it was overpriced and underperforming. Achilles didn’t mind, as long as it kept Jo’s mind moving. He didn’t want her dwelling on the stiletto scene. Bad experiences had a way of digging in and setting up camp if you gave them time to fester.
Fortunately, they appeared to have struck gold at Vertical Vision. The address on the packing slip Jo had uncovered was exciting.
She looked over from her laptop. “Google says it’s a business called Silicon Hill. Have you heard of it?”
“Rings a bell, but not a loud one.”
“You’re going to like this. Their CEO is Vladislav Vazov.”
“Vladislav, not Victor?”
“That’s right.”
“Must be his son. Is there a picture?”
“I’ll find one.”
Jo had no immediate success, but she kept on looking. She spent the entire four-hour flight from Moscow to Nice researching Vlad Vazov and his company. She shared bits and pieces as she uncovered them. She saved a number of links and files. But she presented no pictures of the man himself.
“Silicon Hill was founded three years ago. It’s a privately held corporation.”
“What’s its principal business?”
“It’s classified as a technology incubator. A home for startup technologies.”
“No mention of drones?”
“No mention of anything specific. They’re all in ‘stealth mode.’ In the articles, Vazov positions his company as France’s answer to Silicon Valley. He claims to have attracted some of the world’s best talent. He says they have all the resources of the California counterpart, but with a much better view.”
“Did you find a list of major shareholders?”
“There’s only one. Vazov owns it all.”
“Well, then he must be exaggerating about the quality of his talent. You can’t get the best without stock options.”
“Apparently, that’s where he’s been most inventive. Silicon Hill isn’t just a company—it’s a compound. The engineers and technicians all live within the walls. Vazov equates working for him to life at an all-inclusive resort.”
“Sounds like a page from the Soviet playbook. A technology city.”
“Look at this,” Jo said, pointing to a picture. “I suspect it’s a bit more glamorous than anything the Soviets ever built. Vazov converted the estate of a deceased billionaire. Check out the main building.”
Achilles did. It was an aerial shot staged to show off both the front of the main building and its clifftop view of the beach.
Jo scrolled down to a secondary picture, taken from higher altitude. “Silicon Hill occupies a hundred acres of prime real estate. Four hundred meters of oceanfront stretching a whole kilometer inland.”
“Did you find anything from a major media source? Newsweek or The Wall Street Journal?”
“The primary hits have all been puff pieces in technology journals.”
“Places you can pay to brag,” Achilles said, as much to himself as to Jo.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just starting to work the problem.”
“The problem?”
“Getting in.” Achilles changed the subject, not wanting Jo to dwell on their last incursion. “What does it tell us about Vazov?”
“Not much. He’s 39 and single. One piece noted that he belongs at the top of Europe’s most eligible bachelor list.”
“Any personal details? His nationality?”
“It confirms that his father is a Russian oligarch and his mother’s a Latvian beauty queen, but there’s very little else. As one article put it, Vazov loves to talk about his business, but he clams up when the conversation turns personal. There is a hint, however. The same article that mentions his bachelor status says he and his father are known as Little V and Big V. That might reference more than their ages.”
“But there’s no picture?”
“Surprisingly not. He’s awfully camera shy for a CEO. The only photos I’ve found show him from behind, surveying his empire”
“Not even a group shot or distant photograph?”
Jo shook her head. “No. I suspect that either the woman we saw with Victor isn’t Vlad’s mother, or the genetic dice favored his father, or—” Jo suddenly stopped talking. She grew a faraway look that slowly turned into a smile.
Achilles had no idea what she was thinking, but he was thrilled to see the immersive therapy session working. “What is it?”
“I just got a crazy idea. Maybe it’s the trauma speaking, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I swear I think it fits.”
“Fits what?”
“Our quest.”
Achilles began to worry again. “I don’t follow.”
“I think Little V is Ivan the Ghost.”
42
Identity Crisis
Airborne
Moscow, Russia to Nice, France
ACHILLES HAD SERIOUS DOUBTS that a man as crude and brutish as Victor Vazov could have sired a handsome charmer like Ivan the Ghost, but he bit back the urge to immediately refute Jo. Perhaps her intuition was better than his. In any case, the discussion would be therapeutic.
He glanced around. They were at the back of the plane, with an empty middle seat between them. There was no bathroom line, and the flight attendants were providing white noise from the galley with an animated discussion of Facebook posts. “Tell me your thinking.”
Jo leaned closer. “For starters, at around forty, Vazov’s age fits. His nationality and region of residence are also right.”
She paused for comment, so Achilles gave it to her straight albeit with a sympathetic tone. “You can’t visit a five-star hotel in Europe without running into a rich, forty-something Russian.”
Jo continued, undeterred. “As the son of an oligarch, he’d have the financial resources and criminal connections required to get started in the style favored by Ivan.”
“I refer you to my last point.”
“Having Victor Vazov for a father would also explain Ivan’s brains and missing moral compass.”
Achilles’ worries began to fade. She was thinking clearly, although not necessarily correctly. “It’s a common mold. And speaking of molds, Ivan looks nothing like Vazov. Not his height. Not his build. Not his face.”
“So Little V draws his physical appearance from his mother.”
“Possible, but not probable.”
“If Ivan’s identity fell within probable parameters, he would have been caught years ago.”
Achilles had to give her that. “Agreed. Why don’t you tell me what triggered your conclusion?”
“The drone connection was a biggie. How many rich Russian Europeans have connections to drone manufacturing?”
“I don’t know, but I bet if we look hard enough we’ll find hundreds.”
“Perhaps. But there’s also the secrecy. There are no photos of Little V on the web. I could understand being camera shy if you look like Big V, or if you’re trying to be a ghost, but if your looks come from a Latvian beauty queen, there has to be a compelling reason.”
“Huh. That’s interesting, and it’s good to know Vazov has a blood rival, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“It explains why he doesn’t want people to know what he looks like. And it explains why the Vazov’s are so big on security.”
“But it doesn’t contradict my theory.”
Achilles decided that going along would be wiser than attempting to change Jo’s mind. There was no downside to it—they were following the drones to Vlad Vazov regardless—and perhaps she was right. “So what’s your suggestion?”
“We find him. If he looks like his father, we know he’s not Ivan. If he’s more like his mother, then we’ll move on to stage two.”
“Stage two?”
“We arrange a situation that lets you look him in the eye, listen to his voice, and study his body language. Since you’ve confronted Ivan before, you’ll know if Vazov is The Ghost—regardless of any surgery he may have had.”
Achilles couldn’t fault her logic, even if he questioned her premise. “If Vlad is Ivan, he’ll see through my disguise the moment we’re face to face. We’ll need to orchestrate that encounter to occur away from crowds and bodyguards in a setting that allows me to take immediate action.”
Jo reached over and set her hand on his arm. “Thank you. I’m glad we’ve got a goal. Now, let’s get working on a plan.”
43
The Golden State
Silicon Valley, California
MICHAEL HELD THE BINOCULARS with his left hand while drumming the dashboard with his right. He was nervous. Nervous for himself, and nervous for Ivan.
California was not going as planned.
Ivan’s “friends”—he had yet to identify them—had done a good job selecting targets, even with no knowledge of Raven. They had identified key executives in companies flush with cash, and then had uncovered times in their routines that were “good for a grab.” That was the guidance Ivan had given. It translated to times when the targets were alone in isolated locations. Early morning meditations. Late night love affairs. Walks in the woods or along lonely beaches. Thus far their intel had been spot-on.
But the numbers were insufficient.
California was only yielding $10 million per op, plus they had missed two days due to the relocation from France and another when their target took ill. As a result, they were $90 million behind schedule on Vazov’s repayment plan.
Ivan had hinted at a kicker to come, but so far, Michael hadn’t seen it. He began to worry about his retirement fund. It was an odd sensation, and a first, fretting about Ivan not coming through.
Michael and Ivan were on a hillside above their latest target’s sprawling Los Gatos estate, whereas Boris and Pavel were parked on a fire road deep in the woods. The split was designed to help avoid detection. Normally Michael would be by himself, but Ivan had elected to join him. As to why, Michael wasn’t sure.
Ivan leaned forward and muted the hands-free call to Pavel and Boris. “Would you mind stopping that?”
“What?”
“Your fingers are drumming the dashboard.”
“Sorry.”
“Something bothering you?”
I’ve got a growing list, but this really isn’t the time for it. Michael needed to focus on the job. If they screwed this up, they’d be another day behind. Another $20 million in the hole. He ignored the question.
He wondered if Gordon Sangster would look the same in person as on the cover of Wired magazine, with slightly wild red hair, eyebrows in need of trimming and a perpetual half-smile that marked him as the smartest guy in the room—at least in his own mind.
Their target was set to show any second. He had a daily ritual. The celebrity CEO loved to walk around his hillside garden in the evening. He’d hold a martini glass in one hand and a pair of shears in the other. He’d prune his babies to the sound of Bach and the sight of the setting sun. Michael found it ironic that the prime purveyor of artificial exercise environments relaxed by connecting with Mother Nature.
“Best to get it off your chest,” Ivan pressed.
It’s now or never, Michael realized. Without taking his eyes off the target yard, he said, “The miss with Miller has put us behind, and odds are he won’t be the last target to become sick or have a change of plans. I’m worried about you.”
“You’re worried about me? Why on earth would you do that? Have I ever failed to deliver? Even once in all our years together?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Have I ever come up short? Ceased to amaze? Underperformed?”
With his eyes buried in binoculars, Michael couldn’t see Ivan’s face. He couldn’t tell if the offense was genuine or just Ivan pulling his chain. Perhaps he was testing Michael’s discipline to keep his eyes on target. Undeterred, Michael decided to stick with his program. “We’re nearly a $100 million behind schedule, and further hiccups are bound to happen. I’m sure Vazov is salivating as we speak.”
“You expect hiccups?”
“It’s only going to get harder. One of these times someone will go to the police.”
“You’re right.”
Michael was shocked. Shocked and horrified. He didn’t want to be right. So far, every CEO had kept his abduction secret—exactly as Ivan had predicted. Ivan insisted that the last thing any CEO wanted was talk of his demise, given the resultant blow to his image and hit to his stock price. “I’m right?”
“Soon our little secret won’t be a secret anymore.”
“So what then? How will you pay off Vazov in time?”
“If I tell you now, I’ll ruin the surprise.”
Before Michael could concoct his response, Ivan added, “There he is. Sangster’s in the garden.”
Michael realized he’d been looking without paying attention. He unmuted the call to Pavel and Boris. “We’re a go.”
“We’re a go,” Pavel repeated.
44
Tele-phony
Quantico, Virginia
CALLER ID on Rip’s vibrating phone indicated a CIA number. Probably Pincus with an update. He was comparing the recording of the French woman’s voice to that of Jo Monfort, and he was looking into Vertical Vision. “Zonder here.”
“Rip, it’s Kevin Riddle.”
The Director of the CIA. Calling him directly. And using his first name. Something was up. Probably something his boss wouldn’t like. “How can I help you, Director?”
“I’m looking for the latest news—unfiltered.”
In other words, he wanted to circumvent his FBI counterpart. Brix hadn’t actually berated him for allowing Riddle to receive first word about the drone, but they both knew he’d crossed a line and damaged their relationship. Now Riddle wanted another taste. Rip wasn’t about to make that mistake.
“I know this call is unusual,” Riddle continued. “Perhaps a minor protocol deviation. But I thought it might be mutually beneficial if we opened up a channel of direct communication. This is a joint investigation, and it was my predecessor who died.”
Rip remained silent while his processor whirred. Riddle had used the magic words: mutually beneficial. He was offering to become an ally.
“Surely there’s no harm in your occasionally accepting my calls and giving me latest news directly. So here’s the deal. I’ll never speak of our arrangement. Never hint at it. Never acknowledge it, even if we’re alone together. But I will remember it. I will remember you. And I will be there if you should need me.”
Could anyone fault Rip for assisting the Director of the CIA? It wasn’t l
ike he’d called Riddle. He was simply responding to a direct request from a ranking team member. No, he decided, nobody could fault him—if he called Brix immediately afterwards to report the call.
And there was the rub.
If Rip reported it, he would lose with both directors. If he kept it secret, the arrangement would be win-win for him and Riddle. The proposal felt exactly like that of a beautiful woman asking him to cheat on his wife. And it was coming at a moment when he was worried about divorce.
He decided to stick a toe in the water. See how it felt before plunging in. “Was it Jo Monfort who called me?”
It was Riddle’s turn to remain silent.
Rip waited.
“We believe it was.”
The water felt warm and refreshing. Rip put his other foot in. “Were you able to link Victor Vazov with Director Rider?”
Another substantial pause. “No, we didn’t find any connection. What’s your latest thinking on Vazov?”
The temptress had unbuttoned her blouse. Time for Rip to choose: walk away or unzip. He looked toward heaven and rolled his eyes. Did men ever walk away? “Our analysts remain confident that the assassin employed one of Vazov’s drones in San Francisco.”
“But what about Vazov’s personal involvement?” Riddle pressed.
“After 9/11, we didn’t suspect the airline CEOs. I think the same reasoning applies here.”
“You might have been more suspicious if it had been Aeroflot rather than American and United. Vazov’s drones are relatively obscure, or rather, specialized. The VV1 was an odd choice.”
“I agree. The drone selection does point to Russian involvement. Between that and the call from Monfort, I’m favoring the theory that Rider was killed by Ivan the Ghost.”
Riddle replied with a tinge of excitement in his voice. “I can’t fault your reasoning. Do you think Ivan was working with Achilles, or against him?”