If Tyler was Lukon, then he had spread rumors of his own impending heist across the Dark Web and used them as false intelligence to manipulate Brennan and the CIA. Talia and Eddie had been unwitting tools, helping him case Avantec security protocols and access their servers. And when the task of stealing the hypersonic designs proved more daunting than he had first thought, he had tricked them into helping him put together the team of elite thieves he needed.
So he could stay on schedule. To blow up Washington, DC.
But Talia was not some random patsy. Tyler had targeted her. He had arranged to work with her out of some sick fascination with her family. Tyler was Lukon. He had assassinated her father.
She stared at the painting again, at the green eyes of the wolf, rimmed with the same gold. Talia’s memories had not been wrong. Tyler had been present at her father’s death. And that was where he’d become fascinated with her. That was how he knew the way she liked her coffee, her favorite soda. How long had he been following her? Fifteen years?
Another scream. Talia chucked her phone at the painting with all her might, ripping a hole through the canvas between the wolf and lamb. She dropped to her knees and cried.
“EDDIE!” TALIA RAN TO THE CENTER of the great room, shouting for the geek. While they had slept, Tyler and the thieves had set off to launch their attack on Gryphon, gaining a head start of several hours. Before leaving for the previous night’s job, Tyler had asked Eddie to arrange a no-questions-asked cargo flight to get the balloon into its launch position beside the Black Sea. A simple phone call could have changed the timing of the flight.
Talia and Eddie had one play if they wanted to stop the heist. The stolen balloon had to launch from the Black Sea, close to Gryphon, but Ivanov could fly the Mark Seven straight to the airship from Milan. She had to bring him into the loop.
“Eddie!” Talia called again, jogging down the steps to the kitchen.
She stopped at the bottom.
Conrad stood at the range top, calmly stirring a pan of plain scrambled eggs. “Your friend is not here. He left with Finn and the others hours ago.”
“He left with them?” Talia advanced toward the island, watching the cook and kicking herself for leaving her Glock in her room. “Or was he dragged away kicking and screaming?”
“Ehh.” Conrad bobbled his head as he lifted the pan from the fire. “I don’t recall any screaming. But our Scottish friend is fairly adept at keeping a man quiet.”
So they had taken Eddie. Tyler still needed his skills. Talia tracked every movement of Conrad’s hands, wary. The carving knife stood within his reach, and she had seen how accurately he could throw it. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Don’t be absurd, my dear. I’m going to feed you.” He slid the eggs onto a plate, added a fork, and set them in front of her.
Talia didn’t move a muscle. “They’re poisoned.”
“Far from it.” Conrad removed his apron and kept talking as if it were any other morning. “You row, correct? Did Adam ever tell you I rowed in school, as well?”
She didn’t answer.
“Wooden shells and waxed runners. Nothing so fast as your team at Georgetown, but we had our victories. We had our losses too.” He hung the apron on a hook and turned to face her, shoving his fingers into the pockets of his slacks and casting a pointed glance at the eggs. “After a hard day on the water, my grandmother would always cook for me, something warm. When your world comes crashing down, a little warmth makes all the difference.”
Who was this guy? A friend? An enemy? Something oddly neutral like their Swiss surroundings? Talia didn’t know how to process his kindness. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Why me, Conrad? I get that Tyler wanted to con the Agency into putting this heist together, but why me? Why, after all this time, after what he did to my father, did he crawl back into my life?”
In answer the cook laid a silver chain across the edge of her plate. Threaded at its end were a cross made of bronze nails and a dog tag that matched the one Talia still wore around her neck.
She stared at them in shock. If Tyler was the chief suspect in her father’s assassination, then the dog tag and cross were the smoking gun. “Those belonged to my father.”
“Adam is sorry, my dear. He is sorry for all of it.”
“Sorry?” She snatched up the chain and shoved the dog tag in his face, with the cross below. “Look at that name. Read it! Nicolai Inger. Tyler killed my father. And he’s sorry? He’s a murderer, Conrad. How does that fit in with his faith?”
“Sin. Forgiveness. Redemption. Your father’s murder did not fit in with our faith. Everything that followed does. We forgive because Christ forgave. Forgiveness belongs to him, Talia. One debt paid for all.”
Talia hung the chain around her neck and tucked the two emblems under her shirt, reuniting them with the dog tag she had carried for fifteen years. “I’m bringing him down. And when I’m done, I’m coming back for you.”
THE TESLA FLEW DOWN THE ROAD south to Milan, weirdly silent despite its speed. Talia had never touched the eggs. Conrad had protested, urging her to eat before she left, but he had done nothing to stop her from taking the car.
She punched on the autopilot and picked up her phone, hands shaking so much she could hardly dial. The line rang once, twice. “Pick up, Pavel.” It went to voice mail. She slapped the wheel. “Dr. Ivanov. This is Natalia. Call me when you get this.”
Talia hung up and dialed again. A man at the Langley switchboard answered, his voice tinny and hollow. “Identify.”
“Inger, Talia. Emergency call. Badge number 29753.”
“Verified. What section?”
“Ops Directorate. Russia Eastern European Division.” Talia closed her eyes and sighed. “Other. Get me Frank Brennan.”
There was a long, static-filled pause on the line. “I’m sorry. Mr. Brennan is out of the country inspecting a station attached to his section.”
“Then forward the call.”
“Unable. He’s currently in transit—a commercial flight from Bucharest to Frankfurt.”
It took several heartbeats for the implications of that first city to sink in. “Repeat that please.”
“Mr. Brennan is on a commercial flight from Bucharest to Frankfurt. We can’t connect to his sat phone because of interference from the aircraft comm systems.”
She didn’t hear most of the last part. Bucharest. Romania. Franklin had told her the Lukon messages were traced to a café in Bran, Romania. And to get her on this assignment, Tyler must have had an inside man. Talia almost didn’t want to ask the next question. “How long was Frank in Romania?”
“Stand by, please.”
Another long pause.
“Several days, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She hung up and let the phone drop into her lap. Her own boss was Tyler’s accomplice. Talia had been right to suspect him way back in her first week. Jordan should have listened.
Chapter
fifty-
eight
LINATE AIRFIELD
MILAN, ITALY
TALIA DROVE straight to the aerospace expo. She had to find Ivanov before his Mark Seven demonstration. Finn had not been wrong about the increased security measures that followed the incident with Sibby. The expo organizers had brought in multiple contractors to cover the gaps.
Paramilitary vehicles with a variety of logos were parked in the grass. Guards walking the fence line eyed the Tesla as Talia drove by. And there were more—lots more—crowded around the queue of impatient guests at the gate, putting purses and briefcases through portable X-ray machines.
Talia winced as she pulled into the lot and saw the guard at the front of the line scanning badges. The expo was a closed event. She had no badge, and Eddie was not there to whip something up. She would have to improvise.
She parked at the back of the lot and waited.
A prime candidate left the gate a few minutes later—high heels, nice and unstable, eyes buried in her phone. Per
fect. Talia left the Tesla and jinked over an aisle, lining up her approach. She hit the woman at half speed and spun her off balance.
“I’m sorry. So sorry.” Talia caught the poor woman’s arm to keep her from falling across the hood of a BMW, and then attempted to help her lift the strap of her purse back up to her shoulder.
“Guarda dove stai andando, tu klutz!” The woman batted Talia’s hand away and stomped off, wobbling a bit on her right heel.
Talia watched her go, then headed for the gate. “I really am sorry . . . Gianna,” she whispered, reading the badge she had stolen before clipping it to her blouse. “But you didn’t have to go all Jersey Shore on me.”
The guy scanning badges didn’t give Talia a second look. And the metal detector failed to sense the Glock tucked into the small of her back with its three remaining ceramic bullets. Three bullets, that was all Talia would get. Three chances to take out her father’s killer.
She left the gate behind and steeled herself for her next obstacle. In all likelihood, one other member of Tyler’s team had been left behind.
Valkyrie.
Talia narrowed her eyes with no small measure of malice as she searched the booths and displays for Ivanov and his fake aide, hoping for the chance to knock the con woman flat on her rear end. But she didn’t see either of them.
The general flow of conference-goers moved toward the big tents between the runways. A crowd was gathering near the one with Avantec’s three-rocket logo. Ivanov’s demonstration. Talia checked the clock on her phone. He wasn’t supposed to speak until the afternoon. Were they starting early?
She quickened her pace, ignoring the gripes and complaints of the guests she bumped and jostled. “Dr. Ivanov! Pavel!”
Again, she didn’t see him.
Several Avantec employees stood on the black platform in front of the tent. Bazin was among them, which meant Ivanov couldn’t be far away. Bazin was locked in a heated discussion with a distressed and sweaty Italian in a pinstripe suit. She took him to be one of the expo’s organizers. The Russian bear growled. The Italian answered with wild gestures, pointing at the tent. Something was wrong.
“Hey! Bazin!”
He didn’t answer. The Italian had his full attention.
The crowd pressed against her more than before, and Talia glanced over her shoulder to see a six-pack of uniformed officers marching through—men on a mission. These were not contract security guards. They were bona fide polizia. She saw her chance.
She pushed back through the mass of people and maneuvered in behind the cops, falling into step. A no-nonsense look and a rapid flash of Gianna-the-Jersey-Shore-Girl’s badge got her past the Avantec men at the platform steps. Once through, she held back a pace and listened.
The lead police officer rattled off something in Italian.
Bazin frowned. “English, please. Unless you speaks Russian.”
Apparently, he didn’t speak either. He rattled off something else, and the sweating suit from the expo translated. “Ispettore Diolo demands to see the body.”
What had Valkyrie done? Talia no longer had the patience to wait on the sidelines. “Bazin!”
Their eyes met, recognition set in, and the Russian’s countenance fell—the face a man makes when he feels a headache coming on. He nodded at two of his men and they closed in, blocking Talia’s view.
“Wait! I have information about what happened to Dr. Ivanov!”
A grumble in Romanian. The two muscly minions stepped aside like two halves of a heavy curtain, and Bazin gave her a flat look. “What information?”
Meanwhile, the Italian police officer kept peppering away at the suit from the expo, becoming more and more agitated. The suit forced himself between Talia and Bazin. “I am sorry, but the ispettore insists on seeing the body.”
“It’s . . . there.” Talia pointed at the tent’s entrance, where two men in thick glasses and jackets marked POLIZIA MORTUARIA had emerged with a gurney, transporting a body bag. They pushed it toward the platform ramp.
Talia did not wait for an invitation. She shoved her way around the suit and Bazin. “Stop. You there. Hang on.”
The men let the gurney roll to a halt and backed up, giving her room. Hesitantly, needing to know but afraid of who she would find, Talia pulled back the zipper and put a hand to her lips, breathing out the name as a whisper. “Val?”
The grifter’s lips were blue beneath a thin layer of artificial color. Talia passed a hand over the open eyelids, and by some measure of grace, they stayed shut.
“Scusi, signora. É necessaria un’autopsia immediata.” The older of the two men, perhaps the local medical examiner, would wait no longer. He zipped up the bag and the two started for the ramp again.
The ispettore walked beside them, shouting, clearly upset they had disturbed his crime scene, but the medical examiner waved him off.
“She came at me with a gun.”
Surprised by a voice she had never expected to hear again, Talia turned to see Pavel Ivanov wearing the metallic-mesh pressure suit he used when flying his experimental aircraft. She wrapped him in a hug. “I thought you were dead. They were talking about a body, and I didn’t see you. I assumed the worst.”
Ivanov pushed her away, looking down at his pressure suit, wet with water and blood. He seemed dazed. “I cannot get the stain out.”
The policemen were still following the body. Bazin was busy arguing with the sweaty suit. For a moment that would not last long, Talia had Ivanov to herself. She pulled him into the tent, into the shadow of the Mark Seven’s composite wing. “What happened? What do you mean, she came at you with a gun?”
“There was so much blood.” His eyes stared right through her. Talia wasn’t sure he even recognized her.
“Pavel. It’s Talia.”
That seemed to do it. His pupils tightened in focus. “Talia?”
“Yes. I’m here. I have urgent information about the threat to you and Avantec, but first tell me what’s going on.”
He nodded. “My aide. I don’t think she really worked for the expo. I was preparing for a dry run of the demonstration in the tent’s back office, when that”—he glanced at the platform, the spot where Talia had stopped the gurney—“woman interrupted me. She drew a gun and demanded I give her the voiceprint code for Gryphon. She told me she was out of time. She . . .” His voice trailed off, eyes drifting.
Talia caught his chin and reeled him back in. “And you gave her the code.”
“No. I refused. She came at me. I made a grab for the gun. It went off.” He looked down at the stain on his suit. “So much blood.”
There were voices on the platform. The ispettore had given up on the medical examiner and returned. He would want to interview Ivanov, and under no circumstances would he let him leave. Talia was out of options.
“Is the Mark Seven fueled and ready?”
Ivanov squinted at her. “What?”
She grabbed his shoulders. “Focus, Pavel. The Mark Seven. Is it fueled up and ready to fly?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good. It’s time for your demonstration.” Talia pinched the metal mesh at his bicep, assessing the elasticity. It could work. “And . . . I’m going to need your spare suit.”
Chapter
fifty-
nine
GROND THE VAN
LOCATION UNKNOWN
EDDIE JERKED AGAINST THE SHACKLES that confined him to GROND’s workstation. Tyler had been a little too honest during the airfield surveillance trip when he had joked about chaining a hacker to the computer.
“Stop, please.” Darcy glanced back from the driver’s seat. “You will only damage your little wrists, yes?”
Why did she have to hurt him like that?
“They’re not ‘little wrists.’” Eddie considered the validity of his argument for a heartbeat, then sighed. “Okay, maybe they are little. And maybe I like Star Wars and fantasy role-playing games, and maybe I have an unhealthy collection of fidget spin
ners, but I’m still a real man. I can do things with digital code your mindless ogre friend Mac never dreamed of.”
“Mac was in Europe’s astronaut program.”
Eddie couldn’t even win on the brains front. He let out a guttural “Aaaaggh!” and thrashed against the shackles.
“Okay. Okay. I do think of you as a real man. I always have. Happy?”
He settled down and dropped his head onto his knuckles. “No.”
The two were alone in the van. Eddie knew this from sound, not sight. He had woken up chained to the workstation and wearing a blindfold, but he could not hear Finn’s obnoxious accent or smell Mac’s sasquatch breathing.
The last thing Eddie remembered was Mac’s ugly face hovering over him in the darkness of his bedroom. He had felt the prick of a needle and heard Tyler’s voice as the blindfold went over his eyes. That traitor had told him to be thankful it wasn’t a bag.
It irked Eddie to realize he was thankful it wasn’t a bag. Bags were stinking, musty breeding grounds for mold and fungus. Gross.
Okay, maybe he wasn’t a real man.
The motion of the psychotic yet undeniably cute Frenchwoman’s driving felt unnatural. Maybe it was an effect of the drugs, and maybe not, but Eddie had vertigo. And the engine noise was all wrong—too loud, too droning. “Are we in a plane, Darcy?”
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The cargo plane. Before Lauterbrunnen, Tyler had asked Eddie to find air transport for GROND and the balloon truck from Milan to the Black Sea. Eddie had put out a request, and a little Albanian outfit with a propeller-driven Antonov AN-70 cargo plane had been happy to oblige. No questions. Cash only.
Eddie’s ears popped. They were descending. Beneath his sneakers, he felt the grind of the gear coming down, followed far too closely by the jarring bump of the landing. Minutes later, light filtered in through the blindfold, and he heard the bang of metal hitting concrete behind them. Darcy backed GROND down a ramp and stopped.
The Gryphon Heist Page 25