[Kyle Achilles 03.0] Falling Stars

by Tim Tigner

  “The ask is twenty.”

  “We’ll get nothing.”

  “The ask is twenty.”

  Ivan set down his burner cell and collected his thoughts. He heard one additional text from Michael come through, then another, but he didn’t bother glancing at the screen. There was nothing left to say and he had more pressing business.

  His thoughts in order, Ivan picked up the MiMiC phone. He typed Billy’s cell number into the CALL FROM box and selected Billy Burns on the VOICE menu. In the CALL TO box he typed 9-1-1.

  85

  The Show

  Cleveland, Ohio

  KEVIN THOMPSON was not among the top five earners on Cleveland’s basketball team, but he still took home over $10 million a year. In Michael’s book, that was the ideal scenario. You get the pay and the play without the paparazzi problem.

  Michael enjoyed a similar setup of sorts as Ivan the Ghost’s invisible sidekick. Or at least he used to. Although he was still playing the game, Ivan no longer consulted him on strategic planning. Michael had no idea why, and it frustrated him to no end. He was also nervous about his big payout, his championship bonus. In that regard, he was no longer alone.

  “Why on earth did Ivan call 9-1-1 posing as Billy Burns?” Boris asked. “What good does it do us for them to have his last words leading every newscast?”

  “I want to know why he walked away from the toughest $10 million we ever earned.” Pavel added. “It makes no sense. And now, going after celebrities again with all the attention they bring. Why do that when we don’t have to? Seems crazy.”

  They were parked outside a boutique hotel in the old money part of Cleveland, out by the Cleveland Clinic and the Institute of Art, waiting for Thompson to emerge from his latest extramarital rendezvous. He kept a room there for discreet meetings with fans of a certain caliber, and made use of it more nights than not.

  “It makes sense,” Michael said with a ring of certainty. “We just don’t see it. Consider that a good thing. If we can’t see Ivan’s play from our courtside seats, the FBI’s got to be completely clueless up in nosebleed.”

  Boris wasn’t buying it. “Frankly, I’m less concerned about capture than I am about losing my bonus. How far behind are we?”

  By bonus, Boris was referring to the one-percent share of Silicon Hill he’d receive when Ivan bought it back from Vazov. While Michael was contemplating an appropriate answer, the passenger door opened and Ivan slid in. They hadn’t seen him for days, but he still skipped the pleasantries and got straight to business. “What’s our status?”

  “The girl’s been there for nearly an hour. Thompson showed up twenty minutes ago.”

  Ivan turned to Pavel. “Where’s Raven? I didn’t spot it.”

  “There’s a grand old cemetery, just north of here. Thompson’s Maserati is parked in that direction at the edge of the lot, isolated from the danger of undisciplined doors. I can fly Raven to it faster than Thompson can walk.”

  “Good.”

  Ivan turned back to Michael but adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could glimpse the boys in the back seat as well. “I’m sure you have a few questions after Kentucky?”

  Nobody commented, but the absolute stillness told Michael that Ivan had their undivided attention. Michael had to split his own, lending Ivan his ears while keeping his eyes on the hotel exits.

  “Let me begin to answer by throwing a question back at you. What’s the biggest industry in the United States?”

  Boris was first to struggle past the non sequitur and offer a guess. “It’s got to be healthcare, if the nightly news is any indication.”

  “Nope. Healthcare is number two.”

  “Retail trade,” Pavel guessed.

  “That’s number four.”

  “Manufacturing?” Boris asked.

  “Durables are number three. Insurance is number one. Insurance companies bank $1.2 trillion in policy premiums every year. $1,200,000,000,000. That’s thirteen digits of bank. Four commas. A staggering sum.”

  Michael had no idea why Ivan was talking about the American economy, and given that nobody else was reacting aloud, he figured he wasn’t alone. He was about to ask when the hotel’s side door opened and a six-foot-seven shadow emerged. “Thompson’s on the move!”

  The announcement acted like a firing pin pressing Pavel into immediate action. He had his hands maneuvering controls before Michael closed his lips.

  The other three locked their eyes on the celebrity basketball player. He was crossing the parking lot with what Michael considered an appropriate swagger. He had just completed nature’s primary conquest and was walking toward the embodiment of another.

  Raven appeared over his head like a blustery black cloud.

  Thompson glanced back to investigate the atmospheric disturbance, but only halfheartedly. He didn’t break his stride. Reaching the Maserati, he grabbed the driver’s door handle—and nothing happened.

  Like most popular automotive technologies, touch-activated door locks first appeared in luxury vehicles and then spread down the auto industry ecosystem, replacing button-activated systems in all but budget brands. From a user perspective, the touch-based systems are both more fun and more convenient than the button-activated ones. From an engineering perspective, they are essentially identical, save for the initiation mechanism. Both require wireless communication between the key fob and the car’s computer control module. Both operate on the industry assigned frequency of 433 MHz.

  If you want to prevent a key fob from locking or unlocking a door, all you have to do is blast the car’s computer control module with enough noise at 433 MHz to prevent it from hearing the key fob. It is a process known as jamming, and Team Raven was using it to keep Kevin Thompson preoccupied and stationary for a few crucial seconds.

  “Bingo!” Boris said as Pavel picked Thompson from the pavement while he fumbled with the fob. Boris spoke too soon. The basketball player grabbed the door handle and locked it in his iron grip.

  Raven pulled hard enough to flip Thompson upside down, but the player held fast.

  Pavel didn’t hesitate. He shocked Thompson with the stun gun.

  Thompson flinched as if it was the car and not Raven that had bitten him. The instant he released, Raven rocketed skyward.

  Michael immediately initiated the ransom call with Thompson’s agent.

  Ivan said, “The art museum is a mile southeast of here. Pavel, I want you to dangle Thompson over the patio outside the East Wing. It’s the big glass cube they use for special exhibitions.”

  “Roger that.”

  “You’ll find it lit up bright for a fundraiser tonight. We’re going to give the highbrow Cleveland crowd some unscheduled entertainment.”

  86

  New Policy

  Cleveland, Ohio

  WHEN PAVEL JOINED the Voyenno-Vozdushnye Sily, the Russian Air Force, he did so knowing that he was volunteering to become a tool. An instrument of destruction. A weapon wielded by his motherland.

  Except not really.

  It wasn’t Mother Russia that issued orders. That function was fulfilled by a squadron commander, or a group commander, or a wing commander. All flesh and blood mortals. All fallible. All subject to human foibles and fatigues. Everyone has a boss, of course, but only commanders send you into combat. Only commanders get you killed. Pavel had breathed easier after resigning from the military and leaving that vulnerability behind.

  It wasn’t until Kentucky that Pavel realized he was back in a combat role—and subject to a commander’s whims. Prior to Team Raven’s physical confrontation with Billy Burns, the remote nature of drone operations had kept his exposure on par with playing a video game.

  Kentucky was also the first time that Pavel questioned the wisdom of his new commander. Walking away from an eight-figure payday? Killing an admirable, innocent man? Then impersonating their victim on a 9-1-1 call, a call that garnered round-the-clock media play and made them public enemy number one? Pavel didn’t see the s
trategic genius in that. Then again, maybe it took one to know one.

  And today. What was all that talk about the relative rankings of American industry? One had to wonder if the great Ghost was becoming unhinged. Was Ivan going to take them all down in a self-destructive psychosis, like the loony leader of a crazy cult? Or was he crazy like a fox? The foxiest fox in the forest. Pavel was far from certain, but wary … wary he was.

  Now was not the time for timidity, however. Pavel called on the discipline he’d developed during countless hours of intense training to push those thoughts off the side burner and out of his mind. With a long, slow exhale, he returned his full focus to the battle at hand. The victim was airborne. The ransom payment was processing. The media, fans, onlookers and police were swarming the scene like ants and bees. One of Cleveland’s beloved sons was battling mortal danger! The sensation was irresistible.

  “The first $20 million is in,” Michael reported.

  “Family?” Ivan asked. Families were usually fastest because their stakes were the highest.

  “Franchise. The team is riding high on a PR wave and the owners aren’t about to jeopardize that. The family tells me they’re facing technical challenges, but assures me they will work through them pronto. Their word.”

  “Sounds to me like it’s time for act two,” Ivan said.

  Act two? What act two? Pavel wondered. He heard Ivan typing with dramatic flourish and saw that he was interfacing with the Drone Command Module, as he’d done when issuing the OR ELSE warnings back in New Orleans. Given the way the software worked, Pavel wouldn’t see the message any sooner than the rest of the world. He was clueless as to what it would be, but figured it would answer his question about crazy.

  He looked over to see Ivan paused with his right index finger raised over the keyboard. Ivan met his eye and asked, “What do you pay for auto insurance?”

  The pilot didn’t see that question coming, but he had the answer on the tip of his tongue. Pavel had the need for speed, so he drove a Porsche—and the insurance wasn’t cheap. “About a thousand euros a month.”

  “So you’ve got a good policy? High coverage limits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever have a major accident?”

  “No.”

  “Ever expect to?”

  “No.”

  “So why shell out every month?”

  Pavel shrugged. “Because you never know.”

  “So you’re paying for peace of mind.”

  Pavel thought about it. “I guess I am.”

  “So tell me this: if your bank account was flush, if you had more money than you’d ever really need, what would you pay for peace of mind?”

  Again, Pavel thought about his answer. Again, it didn’t take long. “Whatever it took.”

  “Without hesitation?”

  “Sure, so long as I remain rich.”

  Ivan turned toward Boris and then Michael. “You guys feel the same?”

  “Sure,” both said, their tones telegraphing the same trepidation Pavel was feeling.

  “Excellent! Because we’re banking on that being the prevailing reaction.” Ivan punctuated his exclamation by pressing the return button and changing Raven’s display.

  87

  Percentages

  Cleveland, Ohio

  PAVEL SHIFTED HIS FOCUS from Ivan to the section of the Drone Command Module that mirrored Raven’s digital display. It took him a second to decipher the green text crawling across the screen, so unexpected was the content. The drone’s countdown clock hadn’t been replaced with a demand or a warning. The message was simply a web address. “What’s at fallingstars.info?”

  “It’s a simple interface where people can check to see if they’re on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list of our intended victims. Our targets for kidnapping and ransom.”

  “We’re publishing the whole list?” Michael asked with elevated tone.

  “No. Not publishing as such. Nobody can see the list or even learn how long it is. They can only check to see if they’re on it.”

  “Why fallingstars?” Boris asked.

  “Psychology. The name is a double-pronged psychological attack, a subliminal one-two punch. First, it plays to their superstitious natures by reminding them of their fate, their stars.” Ivan paused there, reading Boris’s face. “You don’t seem impressed.”

  “How many rich people are superstitious these days?”

  Ivan smirked. “All of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “To one degree or another. Even you are superstitious, my friend.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  Ivan gave Boris a mischievous look before reaching into the Suburban’s armrest. He pulled out the pencil and sketchpad they used when planning ground operations, and handed them to Boris. Then he pulled a one-dollar bill from his wallet and began speaking slowly. “Write this: I Boris Aleksandrovich Vedernikov … hereby sell … to Ivan Ignatovich Sonin … for the sum of one dollar … my eternal soul.”

  Boris was not a religious man. He was an engineer, a pragmatic atheist, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. Nonetheless, his furiously scratching pencil suddenly stopped moving when Ivan said eternal soul. “Huh… Well I’ll be.”

  Pavel was also impressed. Where did Ivan come up with this stuff? “What’s the second psychological jab in fallingstars?”

  “An ego play. The name implies that only stars get selected—and who doesn’t want to think they’re a star?”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  Boris chimed back in after a quick rebound. “That’s why we grabbed Gordon Sangster and Preston Jenks and Emmy Delaney and Kevin Thompson. Because people will want to group themselves with stars they admire—business stars or movie stars or sports stars.”

  “That and the publicity,” Ivan said.

  “I take it the fallingstars list includes more names than are on our actual hit list?” Michael asked, his mind still stuck on practical matters.

  Ivan turned his direction. “But of course. I included every American whose household investment portfolio exceeds $10 million.”

  “How big’s that list?”

  Ivan cracked a rare, full-faced smile. “625,000 people.”

  “625,000 people,” Michael repeated, speaking slowly while his colleagues whistled.

  “Why give them warning?” Pavel asked.

  “To frighten them, of course.”

  “To what end?”

  Boris leapt in with the answer. “It’s the oldest tactic in the marketing playbook. First you scare them, then you sell them.”

  “Sell them what?” Michael asked.

  “Insurance,” Pavel said, recalling Ivan’s earlier line of questioning. “Ivan’s going to sell them insurance.”

  “What kind of insurance?”

  “K&R of course,” Ivan said with a nod to Pavel.

  “And how is that going to play out?” Michael pressed.

  “We’ll give the world a day or two to work itself into a full-throated frenzy, then we’ll add another page to fallingstars.info. The opportunity to buy an extraordinary insurance policy, one that’s lifetime in length and crystal clear in coverage. For a mere $100,000 we’ll permanently remove a name from our target list.”

  “Will they pay?” Michael asked. “Surely law enforcement will offer reassurances of swift justice, giving people pause.”

  “No doubt they will. We, however, will continue kidnapping people who don’t pay. Furthermore, each day I’ll also have a message delivered to a select person from the same community who did pay, congratulating him on dodging a bullet that otherwise would have been delivered.”

  “Social media will be all over that,” Michael admitted.

  “It gets better,” Ivan continued. “Within an hour of the FBI press conference you’re astutely predicting, I’ll deliver this recording to the New York Times, Fox News and a couple of talk-radio shows—just to keep the big boys hone
st. It’s a phone conversation between the Special Agent In Charge of the investigation and the Director of the FBI, with the latter being played by yours truly.” Ivan swapped screens on his computer, pulled up the recording, and hit play. “Do you have any concrete leads on the perp? Or his whereabouts? Or his next targets?” “No, sir.” “Any reason to believe we’ll catch him if we don’t get a lucky tip?” “No, sir.” “Any hope we can offer the people or the President?” “Not at this time, sir.” Ivan stopped the recording.

  “That will do it,” Michael said. “Although it’s a shame to reveal the existence of MiMiC.”

  “I doubt the FBI will reveal it. They gain nothing by publicly exposing MiMiC, since it’s the authentic comments that are inflammatory. In any case, the revelation costs us nothing at this point. We’re done with it. And if they do disclose it, fears of faked calls will create an atmosphere of complete chaos throughout the law enforcement community. As it is, I have no doubt that the FBI is already second-guessing everything.”

  While Michael’s face regained the relaxed look it had lacked for weeks, Pavel found himself drawn to the math like a dog to a meaty bone. With 625,000 potential payees and a $100,000 premium, Ivan’s insurance scheme would bank $625 million if just one percent of people paid. “What percentage of people do you think will pay?”

  “It’s never been done before,” Ivan said with a shrug unsuitably small for the circumstance. “Frankly, I have no idea.”

  The Suburban went silent.

  Ironically, Pavel found himself experiencing the fear of loss.

  Boris, apparently, was not so stunned. He asked Ivan, “What percentage of people pay for life insurance in the United States?”

  Ivan held up four fingers on his left hand.

  “Four percent?”

  Ivan shook his head and raised his right hand as well, also with four fingers.”