by Tim Tigner
Still no action. Not one executive in sight.
Interesting.
Achilles walked to the far end of the lobby, to the glass doors in the glass wall that separated the climate-controlled environment from the spectacular view. He exited onto a travertine terrace and looked around. It was enormous, about 6,000 square feet by his estimation, and furnished to resemble the quintessential five-star French alfresco restaurant, with round-topped tables, wrought iron chairs and colorful umbrellas. No doubt this was where employees enjoyed their meals and Vazov wooed investors. As for Achilles, if he had to pick a place to come and die, this would be it. And die one could. He estimated they were 400 feet above the surf.
He walked to the semicircular stone wall surrounding the perimeter and looked down at the beach far below. Beautiful white sand, a long pier capped by an inviting pergola, and an envy-inducing motor yacht.
Looking at the cliff beneath his feet with climbing in mind, he spotted what looked like an elevator shaft. Of course, down wasn’t his area of interest. Achilles wanted to go up.
Turning back around to study the stone facade, he immediately characterized the climb to the second floor as child’s play. Quite literally, the type of thing that might be attempted by a foolishly naive and naively fearless kid. For Achilles, the trick would be climbing without being seen.
The central second floor balcony was about twenty feet overhead, and empty. Even with camera equipment dangling about his neck, reaching it would only take a climber with his skills about six seconds. He just had to avoid the eyes of everyone inside.
Achilles wandered back toward the building and out of view of anyone inside. He stopped with his back to the stone and planned his next moves, while playing with the lens. If he came face to face with a person or six after vaulting over the railing above, he’d raise the camera to his eye and say, “Much better.” Then he’d snap a few shots and ask the employees if they’d mind posing for a few photos behind their desks or a conference table. “I really want to put our readers into the executive suite at Silicon Hill.” Flattery mixed with misdirection rarely failed.
He went for it.
The stonework felt hot as a pizza oven, but he moved fast enough that it didn’t matter. Swinging onto the balcony, Achilles quickly surmised that it belonged to an office, and that office was mercifully empty. At least of animate objects. Slipping inside, he found it full of information. The room was so grand that it could only belong to the big cheese himself.
Hand-scraped hardwood floors were partly covered with Persian carpets. Soft leather furniture formed various configurations around the edge of the room, while a grand desk stood in the center. It was glass-topped and kidney-shaped, with spindly legs carved from olive wood. More form than function in Achilles’ opinion—but very nice form.
Oddly absent was the matching credenza or anything resembling a vanity wall. He found no diplomas, no trophies, no awards, no display of celebrity photographs. There were no business materials. No business cards, no envelopes, no letterhead, or stack of messages. It contained nothing that revealed a name or displayed a face.
But Achilles knew it belonged to Vazov.
That meant it belonged to Ivan, if Jo was right and they were one and the same.
Achilles knew it from the oil paintings. One big, bright, brash scene hung from each plaster wall. Original LeRoy Neiman’s perhaps, although Achilles wasn’t one to know. But the subject matter was indisputable. The sport of kings. Polo.
49
The Drop
Silicon Valley, California
MICHAEL WAS USED TO IVAN throwing tactical curveballs, but he still couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re going to kill Sangster? After he paid us everything he had?”
“Come again,” Pavel said.
Ivan locked his eyes on Michael’s as he spoke into the phone. “Wait until the timer hits zero, then drop him.”
Pavel didn’t reply immediately. Michael wasn’t certain the pilot would cross the line, but Ivan’s eyes beamed with confidence.
They waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
The team had known all along that killing might be in the cards. Every soldier knows that when he enlists, although not everyone in uniform is capable of murder. For most, it’s back of mind, not front. An abstraction filed away with other potential unpleasantries like auto accidents and cancer.
Ivan had primed them for the possibility from the beginning. Their first assignment had been the assassination of Jo Monfort in Versailles. But that had been different. A targeted hit. A settled score. A non-innocent. Gordon Sangster was no one to them, and he’d just forked over $18 million. True, he was considered to be a tyrannical boss, one known for publicly berating employees who displeased him and for going through secretaries faster than coffee cans. But he was contributing to society. By moving millions of fat asses from couches onto VR exercise machines, he was succeeding where generations of doctors had failed. He didn’t deserve to die.
Pavel’s reply crackled over the phone. “Roger that.”
Michael was about to ask Ivan what killing Sangster would accomplish, but paused to ask himself instead. Ivan was undoubtedly several steps ahead. He thought aloud, with Ivan’s eyes still locked on his. “The police will get involved. Given Sangster’s profile, there will be media coverage. Given the amount of money involved and the extraordinary nature of the kidnapping, it will go viral.”
“Yes, it will. Then what will happen?”
“Law enforcement at all levels will get involved—city, county, state, federal.”
“Because one man died?”
Michael recognized a leading question when he heard it, but it took him a moment to figure out where Ivan was going. “The others will come forward. The other victims. Once the Sangster story hits the news.”
“Why would they speak up now, if they wouldn’t earlier?” Michael could tell that Ivan was just testing him now.
“Now they can do it anonymously through a call to the press. People will believe them, but their stock price won’t be affected.”
Ivan’s eyes flashed approval.
Michael pictured the ramifications. “It will become a media frenzy. The talking heads will start speculating 24/7. The news channels will rush to parade experts. Drone experts. K&R experts. Self-defense experts. National defense experts. Experts on aliens. Religious scholars. Conspiracy buffs. Within a week, there won’t be a person on the planet who isn’t aware of drone abductions.”
“Keep going.”
Michael’s head was reeling. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? It was thinking like this that made Ivan The Ghost. He continued billowing forth his stream of consciousness. “Everyone in Silicon Valley will be watching the sky. Gun sales will skyrocket. CEOs will stay indoors. They’ll begin checking their cash on hand, setting up $20 million lines of credit… So that’s it? You’re using the scare to double our average score?”
“No.”
“It’s awfully risky. Catching people will become much more difficult. And when we do catch them, they’ll— Did you say no?”
“I did.”
“You’re not killing Sangster to up the ransom demands to $20 million?”
“I’m not.”
“Why, then? Why attract so much attention? Why let our targets know we’re coming. Why make the whole world aware?”
“So they’ll be prepared.”
“You want them prepared?”
“I do.”
“For what?”
Ivan smiled. One of those long, thin, distant-stare smiles. “Phase two.”
Before Michael could ask what the hell Ivan had planned for phase two, Pavel broke in over the speaker phone. “We’re down to thirty seconds. Sangster is freaking out.”
“What’s he saying?” Michael asked.
“I can’t hear him. You’ve muted his mic. But I can see him banging the headset and yelling into it. His eyes are locked on the clock, and he looks like he’s abo
ut to stroke out. He might be dead before he hits the ground.”
Ivan unmuted Sangster’s mic.
“…for God’s sake. I swear you’ll have it tomorrow. Just set me down. We’d pay you now if we could. Don’t you see? Be reasonable.” He released The Claw to spread his arms wide, appealing to heaven. “For God’s sake, don’t drop me.”
Pavel began counting down. “Ten, nine, eight …”
Ivan muted Sangster’s mic again. He was a strategist, not a sadist.
“…four, three, two, bomb’s away.”
50
Apparitions
French Riviera
ACHILLES SEARCHED Vazov’s office top to bottom but found nothing of interest. In fact, he found almost nothing at all. Beyond the telltale oil paintings, the most interesting thing he uncovered was dust.
There was too much of it.
It wasn’t that the carpets hadn’t been vacuumed or the hard surfaces wiped. They had. But the combination of stillness and cleanliness left an artificial feeling in the air. The undisturbed feeling that could best be described as prolonged absence.
Achilles got the distinct feeling that people rarely visited this room. The complete absence of wear and tear told him they never had. He crouched and canted his head to study the floorboards from the right angle in the right light. He found no discernible traffic pattern. Conclusion: for all its splendor, Vazov had never inhabited this office.
While Achilles mulled on that little twist, he decided to explore the rest of the second floor. Peeking out into the hallway it seemed not a soul was around. Such a sharp contrast from the bustle below.
He started searching the offices along the south wall, assuming they belonged to Vazov’s lieutenants. While each boasted the same splendid view and fine furnishings, none were nearly as large or grand as the one where he’d started. No oil paintings or Persian rugs. But the interesting difference was that they didn’t feel abandoned. They showed signs of activity. Reading materials—none of it helpful—along with the tiny dents, scratches and smudges that inevitably accompany regular use.
Achilles moved quickly, acutely aware of having limited time. While Jo was slick enough to keep the interview going indefinitely, his absence would start to look suspicious. Chantal might also have another commitment, real or invented, leading to a polite eviction at any second.
He was standing behind one executive’s desk when someone walked past the door. Achilles had left it the way he’d found it, cracked open. He crept silently toward the gap between door and frame and peeked out. The man was walking toward the stairs.
The moment the man descended from view, Achilles stepped into the hallway. He had a puzzle to solve.
The man had come from the end of a hallway Achilles had already cleared. The dogleg corridor from which he’d emerged contained three offices: one facing south, one facing west, and a corner enjoying both views. The inside of the dogleg housed only a bathroom, large and unisex. Although Achilles had searched all three offices, he had ignored the plumbing.
He glanced into all three offices again before turning his attention to the bathroom. The fittings were reminiscent of a five-star spa facility. All polished granite and stone tile. In addition to a urinal and two stalls, it included a shower, complete with its own changing room. Taking a shower explains why someone would be there for the time it took Achilles to search the three other rooms, but the floor wasn’t wet and the wicker hamper was devoid of dirty towels. The air was neither spoiled nor humid.
Mystery unsolved. But time to move on.
Since Jo had not texted him a warning, Achilles decided to press his luck and explore the opposite end of the corridor, the rooms east of Vazov’s office. It would be a bit trickier. To get there, he’d have to cross the top of the stairway, exposing himself to anyone looking up from the lobby.
The way the bathroom door opened, the first thing you saw was the floor-to-ceiling mirror that capped the hall. In it, Achilles spotted yet another person disappearing around the corner. That seemed virtually inexplicable. The office across the hall had been empty when Achilles entered the bathroom.
He crept to the end of the corridor, just to confirm that the man would follow his predecessor down the stairs. Once he did, Achilles backtracked. The dogleg gave access to only two rooms, the bathroom at the left end and the office at the right.
He glanced in the office for a third time. It appeared identical to his earlier visit. Unchanged and undisturbed. No way two men had been hanging out.
Achilles decided to play a hunch.
He returned to the corner office. Stepping behind the door, he placed it in the three-quarters closed position, making it possible to observe the short corridor through the crack without being seen. Then he waited.
He would have loved to text Jo to ask how it was going, but didn’t want to disrupt her discussion. Her mission was to keep things rolling until he signaled that he either had what they’d come for or had reached some other conclusion. That other conclusion came about four minutes later, when a third man suddenly appeared.
51
Plan O
French Riviera
THE CONFERENCE ROOM to which Chantal led Jo was the third of three situated side by side: Coral, Turquoise and Azure. Each had floor-to-ceiling glass walls on all four sides, with opaque film cut into intricate floral patterns providing partial privacy. Each looked out across a blue sea and down on white sand far below. At their centers, hopelessly vying with the view for attention, were exquisite tables carved from solid limestone surrounded by luxurious natural-leather chairs. Smiling faces occupied two of those chairs.
“Allow me to introduce Tanya Stewart and Steve Derr. Tanya is a software engineer from Mountain View, and Steve is an electrical engineer from Sunnyvale.”
After shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, Jo took the two California converts and the PR manager through a list of questions designed to delight and disarm them. She buttered them up by asking about the perks, which were indeed incredible. Free housing was huge for anyone accustomed to paying California rents. The food was fantastic and also included. “It’s like getting a twenty-percent pay raise and thirty percent more quality time, what with not having to shop or cook or commute.” When Jo asked Tanya if she could quote her on that, Steve chipped in with his prepared line. “It’s a little like joining a five-star army, except that nobody’s shooting at you. We work hard then play hard and bond like brothers.”
“Another great quote.” Jo looked up from her list of questions. “Let’s move on to the fruits of your labor. Can you give me any demos? Show me what you’re working on? Put some meat on these bones I’m sketching?”
“That’s one place we can’t go,” Chantal said. “I’m sure you’re used to hearing about stealth-mode back in California. We have to keep everything confidential prior to product launch.”
“Of course. But Silicon Hill has been operating for three years now. Surely you have some products out in the field?”
The Californians looked at each other, while again Chantal chimed in. “We do, of course. But nothing is marketed under our name, so nondisclosure agreements apply.”
“You can’t show me anything?”
“We can give you a tour of the recreational facilities. The housing, the restaurants, the athletic facilities, the beach. When’s the last time you visited a corporate beach?”
Jo considered pressing it, but decided to save the tough reporter act for later. If she needed it. Her primary goal was giving Achilles time to operate. “This will be my first.”
“Well, all right then. Isn’t that the very definition of newsworthy?”
“I suppose it is.”
“And of course, there’s the corporate yacht.” Chantal tossed this out like a forgotten garnish, parsley on a steak au poivre.
“Corporate yacht?”
“A 66-foot Marquis Sport Yacht. The Bright Horizon.” Chantal moved her arms in a flourish as she spoke the name. “Why don�
�t you call Kevin and we’ll head down.”
Jo looked at her feet. “Kevin’s best left alone once he’s in his groove. And I’m afraid I’m not wearing the best shoes for a hike.”
“No hike involved. There’s an elevator at the other end of the lobby. A glass elevator actually, running down the face of the cliff.”
“An elevator to the beach,” Jo said. “I think I’ve got my title.” She wrote the phrase in caps atop her notepad, then pulled a cell phone from her bag. “I’ll text Kevin in case he needs to find me.”
She typed.
He typed right back. A single letter. “O.” As in, Plan O. Obviously he was on to something. He was going to hide out overnight.
52
Laws of Physics
San Francisco, California
RIP KEPT A CLEAN DESK. Not just free from clutter, but devoid of the distracting doodads people tended to place there—the pen and pencil set, the business cards, the family photos. He wasn’t one for family photos, and he used drawers for the rest. Even the phone. His workspace was for two things: doing and thinking.
When he was doing, he pulled out whatever he needed, be it his laptop or the relevant paperwork. When he was thinking, he fiddled with a Newton’s Cradle.
Five steel spheres dangled in the cradle. Spheres number one and five swung in sequence, while remarkably numbers two, three and four remained still. Unmoved but transmitting. Action and distant reaction. Always equivalent. Click click, click click. Rip found it meditative. Relaxing. His job would be much easier if people were so predictable. Their actions rational, proportional and measured. Alas, logic did not rule the jungle.
Rip was factoring Ivan the Ghost into his calculations when he looked up from the cascading spheres to see Oscar in the doorway. The CIA’s liaison wasn’t wearing his usual smug expression. “Yes?”