The whole episode was more than Talia could take. She hiked up her dress and drew her Glock, bracing one foot against the passenger seat for stability. “Stop the boat!”
It was enough distraction to let Tyler scramble over the windscreen. “Belay that,” he said. “Keep going.”
“Why?” Talia asked.
Red and blue lights lit up the canal. A police boat turned the corner behind them.
“Oh. That.”
Talia lowered the gun and Valkyrie pushed the throttle to the max, looking sideways at Tyler. “‘Belay that’? Really?”
“Nautical term. And for the record, you started it with ‘Shove off.’”
A second police boat joined the chase, cutting off the first from an intersecting canal. The cop in the passenger seat shouted through a megaphone. “Fermati! Spegnere il motore!”
Tyler shouted back, gesturing emphatically at Valkyrie. “Mi scuso! Lei è una donna demente!”
“That was uncalled for,” Valkyrie said. “You’re the one who’s demented.”
They crossed a waterway, jumping the wake of a passing boat before plunging through a narrow opening into the next section of canals. Tyler pointed at an upcoming intersection. “Turn right.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know what I’m doing. Turn right.”
“No.”
The intersecting canal came and went as they argued, but another lay ahead. Tyler reached over and cranked the wheel. The boat swung around the corner, and a wall of spray slammed into a passing gondolier, knocking him overboard.
Valkyrie punched him in the arm. “I was heading for open water.”
“Where more cops will be waiting. We have to lose them in the canals.”
A T-intersection came up, and Valkyrie turned the boat hard, backing off the throttle just enough to avoid slamming into the centuries-old bricks. “Fine. But we can’t drive around all night. Where are we supposed to hide?”
Images from earlier in the night rolled through Talia’s memory. She saw the shop on Rio de San Moisè with its stone stairway leading up into an Aladdin’s cave of silk and chiffon. She saw the gas lamps on the canal behind the Piazza San Marco. Before Tyler could answer Valkyrie’s question, Talia pushed out a hand. “Left! Take the next left!”
The other two looked back at her, like parents looking back at a child from the front seat of the station wagon.
Talia stomped a foot. “I’m telling you. I know where to go. Take the next left.”
Rebuilding a map of the canals from memory, Talia talked Valkyrie through the turns. And the grifter took them as fast as she dared. In minutes, their lead had increased so much the cop boats fell out of view. Yet the sound of the motors still buzzed behind them.
“They’re following our wake,” Tyler said. “We need more distance to let it settle.”
“Three more turns.” Talia had seen several boat garages on the canals, and all had been blocked by painted iron gates that dipped down into the water—all except one. Near the piazza was a garage with its gate being refinished. The two halves were leaning against the rail of a nearby walkway. Halfway through the final turn, Talia saw it, a black hole slightly left of a three-way intersection. “There!”
Valkyrie hit the garage at an angle, cranked the wheel, and cut the engine, and the boat spun into a one-eighty, drifting backward into the shadows. The water calmed. The sirens of the two police boats grew loud and then softened again as they sped past. They didn’t even look.
As soon as they were gone, Valkyrie shoved Tyler toward the loading dock. “Get out. I never want to see you again. The museum hadn’t transferred the money yet. You cost me more than a quarter million euros.”
“And I’ll pay it,” Tyler said. He waved off a look from Talia. “Plus a bonus, but only if you help us.”
“You trashed my con so you could blackmail me?” Valkyrie shook her head. “That’s low, Tyler, even for a man of your reputation.”
As the two argued, Talia listened to the sounds from the canals. The police sirens were still distant, but they weren’t getting softer anymore. “Can we do this later? The polizia are coming back.”
Chapter
thirty-
six
PIAZZA SAN MARCO
VENICE, ITALY
THE THREE CLIMBED A LADDER to the piazza. In the better light, Talia could hardly believe Valkyrie, who asked that they call her Val, was the same woman she had met at the gala. The grifter had tossed her Coke-bottle glasses into the water, yanked out the rubber band holding her bun in check, and shed her frumpy dress, revealing slacks and a sleeveless tank top. The mousy academian was gone.
A stop at a tourist trap bought Talia a new look as well—in ill-fitting shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. She also bought a backpack. No way was she leaving that dress behind.
Tyler simply stripped away the jacket, waistcoat, and tie, and stuffed them into a trash bin.
A small troop of polizia were trolling the ferry line, so the three split for boarding. They reconvened at a table on the lower deck, well away from the other passengers.
“So,” Val said, resting her chin on her fingers and looking up at Talia, “tell me how you steered us to that loading dock. Are you some kind of Rainman?”
“Eidetic memory. I built a map in my head. And no, I’m not”—Talia made air quotes—“some kind of Rainman. You can’t use that term anymore. It’s offensive.”
Val shot an Is she serious? glance at Tyler.
He nodded. “A lot of terms are offensive now. Ask any millennial. They’ll make you a list.”
The pretense of civility dropped from Val’s expression. “I suspected the eidetic memory. Thanks for confirming it. I didn’t get the rest until now.” She frowned at Tyler, lowering her voice. “Well done. Not only did you spoil my payday, you also led a CIA officer straight to me. You know the Agency works with Interpol these days.”
“How . . .” Talia looked wide-eyed at Tyler. “How did she figure out I was CIA?”
“I warned you. She reads people. I told you not to speak.” Before Talia could challenge the absurdity of that last bit, Tyler laid his palms on the table in the international sign for Everybody simmer down. “Talia, we were going to tell her about your Agency affiliation anyway. Val, Talia won’t give you up—not if you help us.”
Val gave Talia the evil eye. “Oh good. More blackmail.” After a long look at both of them, she flopped back in her seat. “Fine. I’m in. It’s not like I have a choice.”
BACK AT THE CHATEAU, Val and Conrad became fast friends on the common ground of bashing Tyler.
“Oh, I admit Adam is trying at times,” Conrad told her, leading them all to a table laid out with an assortment of dumplings and sauces. “Did he do that thing in which he leaps into your path like a child shouting ‘Boo!’?”
“Yes!”
“Maddening.”
“I hate to interrupt.” Tyler glanced around the dining room. “But where’s Eddie? I would expect him to be hovering over these dumplings like a vulture.”
Conrad nodded toward the stairs. “He took a tray up to Mission Control, as he calls it. You should go up as well. He has something for you.”
As promised, Eddie had turned the image of Finn proximity flying down the mountainside into a screen saver for the room’s giant display.
“Talk to me.” Tyler added more dumplings to his tray as if adding a coin to a street performer’s hat.
“I have a bead on our next two candidates.” Eddie punched his keyboard, and Finn’s action shot dematerialized, leaving two photos complete with profiles—an attractive young black woman walking across a university campus, and a pro-wrestler-size Scotsman posing in front of a space plane. “Meet our chemist, Darcy Emile,” he said, making the young woman’s profile expand to block out the pilot’s. “A brilliant young woman who wrote a treatise on demolition operations in the vacuum of space during her undergrad years. Since then she has claimed three master’s degr
ees, two doctorates, and my heart.”
Talia squinted at him, a dumpling hovering at her lips. “Wait. What was that last one?”
“What? Hmm?” Eddie feigned confusion. He waved his hands. “Not important. Not important. As the youngest chemistry professor at Paris Polytech, Miss Emile once spent half a lecture arguing that explosions constitute a form of art. The university challenged this assertion in a press release, and Darcy doubled down by blowing up the planetary sciences lab.” A video played. In a shaky nighttime scene, a bio-dome vanished in a pillar of flame. Screams could be heard near the camera. Eddie bobbled his head. “She no longer works there.”
Tyler held up a hand to stop Talia from arguing against bringing a pyromaniac terrorist into the chateau. “Where is she now?”
“Unknown.” Eddie brought up a map of Europe with points marked by animated miniature explosions. “Her most recent jobs were banks, usually with sketchy political connections. No wounded. She’s been dark for six months, but I’ve identified a bitcoin account. Give me some time. I’ll find her.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Val said.
Tyler set his dumplings on the conference table and turned to the screen. “What about our wheelman?”
Darcy’s profile shrank away and the second profile came up. “Macauley Plucket. Formerly a test pilot in the RAF, Mr. Plucket spent two years in the EU space program, including multiple mesospheric excursions in hybrid aircraft. He’s smart for such a big guy, but he has a gambling problem.” A video of fighters in an octagonal ring came up. The larger man smashed a heavy fist into the other’s jaw and dropped him like a rock.
“Betting on fights?” asked Talia.
“Betting on his own fights.” Eddie paused the video. “Just so we’re clear, Mac is the one still standing. Two weeks before his first mission, the European Space Agency gave him the boot for misconduct. Now he makes bank doing odd flying and enforcement jobs.”
Talia had a hard time swallowing her dumplings. They were about to hire and con two criminal sociopaths. When the house of cards fell, one would smash their heads in and the other would blow up the chateau. “And have you located our big Scottish friend?”
“Roussillon,” Eddie said. “He’s working off a debt to a French bookie as part of an intimidation gang. The French call it une escouade brute, a brute squad.” A black-and-white security photo grew to fill most of the screen. Mac and two other beefy men were hovering over a frightened shop owner. The Scotsman was hanging back. “He prefers to fight in the ring, not pick on shopkeeps. Chances are, he’ll bail on the bookie if we cover his debt.”
Tyler studied the face in the black-and-white photo. After a while he nodded. “I don’t like the look of this guy, but we need him.” He thrust his chin at Eddie. “Send the payment tonight. Get him here tomorrow, if you can. The flight is less than an hour. Meanwhile, Talia and I will put Val in play. Her part in this is critical.”
Val raised her eyebrows. “And what part is that, might I ask?”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter
thirty-
seven
MALPENSA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
NORTHWEST OF MILAN, ITALY
TALIA HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN about the European Aerospace Expo—the conference at which Ivanov intended to unveil his Mark Seven and the Gryphon concept. “We’re already lying to a pack of thieves,” she said from the back seat of Tyler’s Model X. An hour before, when they had left the chateau for the drive south, Val had demanded the front passenger seat, citing back issues. Talia did not believe her. “Do we have to lie to Ivanov too? Can’t we bring him in?”
“No. For two reasons.” Tyler pulled to a stop at the periphery of the airport’s unique parking complex—linked circles of pavement with grassy mounds at the centers. The Alps stood in the distance, capped with snow. “First, assuming Ivanov is innocent in all this, he is still unlikely to give us the information we need—access codes and a voiceprint ID for Gryphon. Second, taking Val off the market might have slowed Lukon’s play, but it won’t stop him. He’ll regroup and send someone else after the same information.”
Val climbed out and bent sideways to look in at Talia as the Tesla’s outlandish gull-wing door swung upward. “And I’ll be there to spot that someone else.”
The three walked out of the lot, leaving the Model X to find its own parking spot. Talia caught up to Val. “You’ll be there to keep Ivanov safe as well, right? Lukon’s grifter might be dangerous.”
Val pulled her hair back, tying it with a band. “I’m not going to take a bullet for him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Talia scowled at her.
“What?” She donned a stylish set of glasses and shrugged. “I won’t. Not my job.”
Inside the terminal, Talia and Tyler found a table at its only restaurant, La Mela d’Oro, and watched through partially frosted windows as Valkyrie approached her first mark of the job.
Like Val, the woman wore a skirt suit and glasses with her hair tied back. The mark’s suit was gray, Val’s was a darker charcoal, but otherwise the two looked like members of the same team. Their understated name tags from Milan’s Hotel Excelsior might as well have been matching jerseys.
“She certainly looks the part,” Talia said as Val tapped the woman on the shoulder.
Tyler signaled the waiter for a menu. “She studied up. Always does. The Excelsior always hosts this conference. As part of the deal, they provide an executive assistant to their visiting CEOs—usually a very attractive woman.” He raised his hands in answer to Talia’s disapproving look. “Again, welcome to Italy. Like it or not, that’s the playing field, and we just sent our new ringer in to remove and replace the girl assigned to Ivanov.”
At the rope line on the edge of the customs area, Val and the mark exchanged pleasantries. The woman took on a mildly surprised and somewhat skeptical expression, dug her phone out of her purse, and checked the screen. A few seconds later, not only did she hand her iPad and key fob over to Val, she pulled the grifter into an embrace. The two held each other by the shoulders and jumped up and down together, and then, after a second hug, the girl kissed Val on both cheeks and speed-walked away.
Talia looked to Tyler, widened eyes demanding an explanation.
He obliged. “The assistant, Giovanna Alfonsi, is an aspiring cover girl. Thanks to a photo ad she did for her uncle’s gelato shop and a little prod from Eddie, she has now been discovered by a makeup brand in Hong Kong. Her flight leaves in”—he checked his watch—“Ooh! Twenty minutes.” Tyler watched the girl run across the terminal to the ticket counter. “Val promised to pack up her things and mail them tomorrow.”
Talia shifted her gaze back to the rope line in time to see Val flash her a smile and brandish the girl’s ID badge. With a quick dip of a hand into her purse and a rub of her thumb across the badge, Val covered the assistant’s photo with her own. Then she held the iPad at her waist—with DR. PAVEL IVANOV printed on the screen—as if she had always been the one standing there.
The waiter brought a glass of tea and a plate of bruschetta for Tyler. He turned to Talia, but she waved him away. When he had gone, she stole a couple of bruschetta from Tyler and laid them on a napkin. “You think Ivanov will go for it?”
“God willing,” Tyler said.
The casual nature of his response, spoken while stirring a packet of sweetener into his tea, hit Talia hard. God willing. Did a man like Tyler have the right to say such a thing? Their dance in Venice had left her with a lot of questions. Talia couldn’t hold them in any longer. “What you said at the Gala—about your past.”
She didn’t need to elaborate. Tyler understood. “The Agency recruited me out of Delta. I spent all of ten seconds in Paramilitary Ops before the higher-ups realized I was different. I had a knack for . . .”
“Wet work.” The word felt disgusting on Talia’s lips, like a curse.
Tyler seemed to feel the same. He couldn’t even say it—just nodded. “They wip
ed my past and set me up with a flat near Heathrow and a lump sum of close to a million US to get me started.”
“And then?” Talia asked.
“And then I waited for a contract.” Tyler looked her in the eye. “I’m not a psychopath. I never enjoyed the work. But I was good.” He went back to stirring his tea. The undissolved sweetener swirled up from the bottom in a miniature whirlwind. “I took care of the names the Agency sent me. I accepted their payments. And in between, I built a network of contacts.”
Talia cast a glance toward their new team member. “Like Don Marco.”
“Don Marco came later. That’s a story for another day. But I met Conrad in those days. There were many others, far less close. For them, I did odd jobs—grifting, recovery, demolition—any noise I could find to drown out the names and faces from the CIA dossiers.”
Talia could feel the excuse coming, some life-altering event that justified his past in the twisted logic of a professional killer. She pressed him toward it. “But something changed.”
“My final contract. At least, the last contract I completed. The dossier told me he was a traitor, selling secrets. It blamed him for the death of three Americans operating in Eastern Europe. Normally I would have set it up within days, gotten it over with, and moved on.”
“Except . . .”
“Except I couldn’t see a solid trail of evidence. I followed the target for weeks, at work, with his family. There were suspicious behaviors. Nothing definitive. Eventually my handler demanded action. My job was not to act as jury, nor judge. I was the executioner.” Tyler looked down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for something he expected to see there. “So I got the job done. There were . . . complications. And afterward, I couldn’t let it go.”
Talia heard palpable remorse in his tone, and she knew what he would say next. “The target was innocent.”
“I don’t know who sold out the officers in Eastern Europe, but it wasn’t him. I poured myself into his life, searching for proof at first, later searching for redemption. What I found was a man who loved his country, his family, and above all his God.” Tyler looked at her with soft and sorrowful eyes. “The more I dug into his faith, the more it became mine—a faith founded on forgiveness like none I ever expected to find. Talia, I had killed this man. And by his death, he saved me.”
The Gryphon Heist Page 16