by Tim Tigner
“Josephine Monfort went off the grid. She flew from Paris to New York and vanished—the day after Rider died.”
Of course she did, Rip thought. Anything else would have constituted a break, and breaks had been scarcer than grass ‘round a hog trough. “You reckon she’s with Achilles?”
“That’s one scenario we’re considering. It fits if Achilles was framed using a drone. Frankly, I find that a stretch. They only worked together for a few hours, and that was years ago.”
“But during those hours, they were chasing Ivan the Ghost, right?”
“Unsuccessfully.”
“What’s the other scenario you’re considering?”
“That Achilles and Ivan have teamed up. Monfort somehow got wind of it and is trying to stop them without sticking her neck out.”
Rip used a forefinger to stop the swinging spheres and motioned for Oscar to take a seat. “You worked with Monfort?”
“Not really. I assigned her to Achilles, but we never met. I know that sounds strange, but it was a crunch. The operation moved unexpectedly from London to Monaco, and she was the only agent immediately available.”
“So you don’t know if she’s worth her weight in walnuts?”
“I know she failed on her first and only CIA op. Along the way, she got herself shot. She’s lucky to be alive.”
“But you never met her?”
“No.”
“You didn’t visit her in the hospital?”
“She was in France. I was in D.C. She resigned shortly after her discharge.”
“By which time Achilles was also out?”
“Correct.”
“So chasing Ivan was his last mission as well?”
Clancy burst into the room before Oscar could answer. “Excuse me, but I thought you’d want to hear this right away. There’s been a killing in Los Gatos. A kidnapping gone awry.”
“Los Gatos is your jurisdiction,” Oscar added, in case Rip didn’t know.
“Somebody famous?” Rip asked.
Clancy nodded. “Gordon Sangster.”
“The virtual reality guy?”
“That’s right.”
“Let me finish up here and I’ll come find you.”
“That’s not it. The urgent part, I mean.” Clancy drew a deep breath. “He was killed with a drone.”
“They shot him with a drone?”
“Not shot. Dropped. A drone picked him up and the kidnapper demanded $20 million in ransom. When his CFO only paid $18 million, everything they had on hand, they dropped him.”
“Wait a minute. How big was the drone?”
“We’re not sure. Nobody saw it.”
That didn’t make any sense to Rip. “Sit down and walk me through it.”
Clancy did—the conference call with Sangster’s CFO, the shortage of funds, the pleas, the transfer, the drop, the body.
“And nobody saw anything?”
“Sangster’s home is up in the hills on a three-acre lot. Isolated and wooded. LGPD is interviewing neighbors as we speak, but so far they’ve got nothing.”
“Any chance the CFO invented the drone story to conceal a theft? Either premeditated or opportunistic?”
“Opportunistic?” Oscar asked.
“The CFO might have seen Sangster fall from a tree and decided on the spot to leverage it into an $18 million payday,” Rip replied.
“That’s the working hypothesis until the coroner confirms cause of death. The lead detective says Sangster wasn’t found beneath a tree. If he was dragged out in the open, or if he had been climbing for that matter, the coroner will find signs.”
Rip looked across the desk at his subordinates. “On the one hand, the drone we saw in the video was much too small to pick up a person. So if Sangster was killed by a drone, it wasn’t the same one. On the other hand, if Rider and Sangster were both killed by drone, they’re the first two ever recorded in the civilian sector. And they’ve taken place within a few days and a few miles of each other. It’s hard to believe that’s a coincidence.”
Both men nodded agreement. They didn’t like coincidences either.
“So the cases are likely related. Rider and Sangster were probably killed by the same perp.”
Clancy said, “Bear in mind that Sangster wasn’t a straightforward assassination, according to the CFO. It was a K&R gone bad.”
“Bad for Sangster. Not so bad for the perp. $18 million.” Rip leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Let’s think about that for a minute. Kidnapping by drone with an immediate ransom demand. Tactically, it’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant fits our Ivan the Ghost hypothesis,” Clancy said. “But it puts our careers in the crapper. Nobody’s ever been able to find Ivan the Ghost.”
“You’re right,” Oscar said.
“It gets worse,” Rip said.
“How could it?” Clancy asked.
Rip lifted three spheres and set the cradle in motion. “Whoever is masterminding this, he just made $18 million for an hour’s work with a drone. No way he’s going to stop with one victim.”
53
Mirror, Mirror
French Riviera
WHEN IS A MIRROR NOT A MIRROR? When it’s a door. Achilles had just confirmed his hypothesis with his own eyes.
Conclusions flowed freely from there. His first order of business was to share one with Jo. He would be spending the night.
Although the mirror had not appeared in his crystal ball while planning the incursion, Achilles had anticipated the overnight potential. In fact, he’d projected it as the second most-likely scenario and as such they had scheduled their visit near the end of the workday. His most-likely scenario had been getting nowhere, due to stonewalling or surveillance he couldn’t circumvent.
He sent the O for overnight text.
Jo would now wrap up her meeting. She’d inform Chantal that her photographer had developed a migraine—not unusual, roll eyes—and had retreated to the car for a nap. Also not unusual. But no worries, he had the perfect photo for the story.
At the front door, if not before, she would say her goodbyes. She’d drive off fast enough to avoid onlooking eyes, leaving the guard booth at the bottom of the hill as the only hurdle.
Good security operations were run with surgical precision. They kept track of how many people went in, so they could match the number against how many came out. The best security systems matched the faces of people exiting to photos of people entering, so they’d know who remained inside. Easier to look for missing people when you had a picture.
To earn two check marks, Jo would stop halfway down the hill as if to talk on the phone. She’d then fold down the back seat and pull a mannequin from the trunk. A mannequin with a thin mustache; round, black, wire-rimmed spectacles; and a black golf cap—worn brim forward and pulled over closed eyes.
While Achilles waited for Jo’s “All clear,” the mirrored wall continued coughing up men. It slid without any noise and did so very quickly. The third time it opened, Achilles caught a glimpse inside. To his surprise, the mirror didn’t conceal a secret laboratory. At least not directly. It opened onto an elevator.
The minute he saw it, Achilles felt foolish for his lack of foresight. Of course the drone laboratory was underground. That offered all kinds of tactical advantages, and Ivan always sought those. Achilles had been thrown by having the entrance to the underground lair on the top floor. Again, knowing Ivan, this was something he should have anticipated.
His phone vibrated. A text from Jo. “Made it out.”
“No issues?”
“My tongue is tired, but I’ll survive. Tell me!!!”
“Found elevator to underground lab. RFID required to open.”
Jo spent a few seconds digesting that one, then typed, “What’s your plan?”
“I’ll sleep on a couch and go down with the first guy who shows up in the morning.”
Achilles did exactly that.
Every corporation that has a
career ladder also has an employee who shows up first. The early bird. The overachiever. It wasn’t so much a rule as a law of the corporate jungle.
Achilles waited for his early bird just inside the adjacent office’s door. Out of sight, but unimpeded. He pounced the instant the mirror started to slide. He pushed the man into the elevator with his left hand, while his right rendered a reeling uppercut blow.
There’s a science to knocking someone out. It’s kind of like playing pool because you’re aiming to initiate a specific sequence of physical reactions, reactions that literally rattle the recipient’s brain. You have to hit him hard enough to send his big ball of gray matter bouncing off two walls. When done with enough speed and force, this causes electrical signals to overlap and overload, shutting the brain down. It does this for its own protection, like a circuit breaker in a lightning storm.
Achilles got his haymaker in before the early bird knew what hit him, but they both ended up splattered with hot coffee. He drank what remained in the cup on the way down. His hadn’t been a particularly restful night.
He pulled the ID card from the pocket of his unconscious victim and read it aloud while they descended. “Mickey Leonov. Sorry about that, Mickey. Nothing personal.”
The best thing about his early-bird approach was that Achilles didn’t have to worry who would be there when the door opened at the bottom. Of course, that was about all he knew.
The unknown he was most interested in was how long he had before the next employee arrived. Since he had no way to know and Mickey couldn’t tell him, Achilles had to assume not much.
Not much turned out to be sufficient.
The elevator door opened and there it was. The big black drone. Clamped in the grasp of a robotic arm that presumably allowed the engineers to position it at any angle.
He dragged Mickey off to a nearby corner and left him sitting there with his back to the wall and the empty coffee cup in his hands. He’d appear to be napping when the next employee came along, if they noticed him at all. The ruse might add time to his getaway clock.
Within two minutes of the knockout punch, Achilles had everything he required. Absolute, 100 percent indisputable confirmation. Silicon Hill was the source of the drones.
He made a quick video of the drone, its control module and the surrounding lab. Then he snapped off a dozen different pictures.
The elevator had not waited while he worked. No doubt it automatically returned to the second floor, thereby minimizing the odds of someone walking into the mirror. He pressed the button—and the elevator came back empty. Had it not, Achilles would have tried slipping aboard after it emptied without attracting attention. Instead, he blocked the elevator door with a three-ring binder and dragged Mickey back aboard. He’d leave him on the floor with his ID in his pocket and his coffee cup in his lap.
Mickey would have no recollection of how he ended up in the elevator. That was the reason for the lightning attack: it afforded the brain no opportunity to make a mental recording. When he awoke, Mickey would be confused and embarrassed. He’d assume his headache was the result of falling and whacking his head. Maybe he’d see a doctor, maybe he’d try to forget it. It didn’t matter either way to Achilles, since he’d be long gone.
While riding back to the second floor, Achilles selected the drone photos on his phone, typed in Jo’s number, and hit SEND.
54
Deflation
San Francisco, California
RIP WAS GLUED to the television monitor when Oscar bounded into his office. The CIA agent started to speak, but stopped when he saw that Rip was already watching the news.
Rip motioned to a seat and turned up the volume on the pretty blonde reporter. “Since the murder of Gordon Sangster, three other CEOs have come forward under the condition of anonymity. All reported that they too were abducted by drones and held for ransom. In their cases, however, each was gently returned to earth after the ransom was paid. Why was Sangster treated differently? Why was—”
“It’s just as you predicted,” Oscar said.
Rip hit the mute. “Lot of good it did us. We’re still way behind the ball.”
“What do we do now?”
Oscar had asked the right question for a change. Rip stood. “Grab your coat. We’re going to Channel 4.” He would have preferred to use Clancy or Reynolds as the second badge, but Oscar would suffice for intimidation purposes. He didn’t have to speak. Just glower. He was good at that.
“I’ll call to confirm that the station manager is there,” Oscar said.
Rip turned to face the CIA guy. “You don’t get out from behind a desk much, do you?”
Oscar reddened. “Pardon me?”
“We never call ahead. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just shock and awe.”
Rip was half tempted to run the two miles to Channel 4’s Front Street office. He’d like to watch Pincus turn even redder. Plus Rip needed the exercise. He hadn’t yet developed a running routine in San Francisco. But it wouldn’t do to arrive flushed and sweaty. That would turn shock and awe into bemused curiosity. So he had Oscar drive.
They rode a few blocks in silence, but as he turned onto Broadway, Oscar asked, “Why would Ivan kill a man who paid $18 million when he let the others live after paying only ten?”
Rip had asked himself the same question. “It’s a message. A lesson.”
“Do as I say, or die. I get that. But the CFO said they couldn’t pay. Not on the spot. Not $20 million. You don’t kick a dog because it can’t sing. There’s no lesson in that. Just cruelty.”
Rip was beginning to think the CIA was better off without Rider, at least if Oscar’s lateral thinking skills were representative of the former Director’s inner circle. “The message wasn’t for Sangster. The message was for his next victims.”
“You think he wants them to know he’s not bluffing?”
“I think he wants them prepared. You can bet that as we speak, every CEO in Silicon Valley is tasking his CFO with arranging an instant line of credit.”
Oscar gave a jaywalker a honk and finger wag before responding. “That’s good for us, right? No more murders, but plenty of opportunities to catch Ivan red-handed.”
“That’s your conclusion?”
Oscar paused again. Once bitten, twice shy. “Yes.”
“Because it’s logical? Straightforward even?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then we can be certain that’s the one thing that won’t happen—if we really are dealing with Ivan the Ghost.”
Oscar closed his eyes and bowed his head. A suitable response, but tactically ill-advised while driving, even at San Francisco city center speeds. He rebounded two chilling seconds later. “So what will happen?”
Inevitable as it was, the question still deflated Rip’s puff. Not what he needed going into a shock and awe performance. “I have no idea.”
55
Divide and Conquer
French Riviera
AFTER LEAVING MICKEY on the elevator and sneaking out of Silicon Hill, Achilles found Jo in the hotel dining room. She was enjoying a croissant and coffee over the morning paper. He signaled the waitress to bring more of the same and joined her.
Jo looked up from the paper, mixed messages on her face.
“What is it?”
“Ivan struck in California.”
“Struck how?”
“With a drone. He’s been ransoming CEOs. Holds them in the air until they pay up, and drops them if his demands aren’t met. The story broke overnight. He killed Gordon Sangster, the virtual reality exercise guy. Ivan demanded more cash than Sangster had in the bank.”
“That doesn’t sound like Ivan. Does it say it’s him?”
“No, no. The police don’t have a clue. But it has to be Ivan. Here, read this.”
Achilles devoured the full front-page story while Jo watched the video of the secret laboratory on his phone. He set down the paper as
his breakfast arrived. “You’re right, it has to be Ivan. But Ivan doesn’t make tactical mistakes, and demanding more than a man can pay appears to be one.”
“What are you saying?”
Achilles ripped into his croissant. “Ivan’s plan must go beyond simple K&R.”
“There’s nothing simple about kidnapping someone with a drone. It’s a brilliant, bulletproof plan. Obvious once you think of it—but only Ivan did.”
“And now we know why he went after you.”
“He needed a guinea pig. I have never felt so small.”
“You’ll be a giant again before this is over.”
Jo raised her coffee. “Here’s hoping. Did you have any trouble getting out this morning?”
“None at all. Silicon Hill’s ground security is movie-theater style. Unidirectional. And the wall, well, you know.”
“They still haven’t made one that can stop you. So what now? Do we call Zonder and have the FBI storm the compound?”
“No. We keep our find quiet.”
“What! With everything that’s going on in California, you’ll be a hero. They’ll have to believe you regarding Rider and the drone.”
“The CIA doesn’t have to believe anything but its own conclusions, and it takes its own sweet time making those. Plus my goal isn’t to become a hero. My goal is to catch Ivan. Once the FBI shows up at Silicon Hill, Ivan vanishes.”
“So we do nothing?”
“We say nothing.”
“But we go to California, to catch Ivan?”
“No, we stay here. For now.”
Jo set her cup down and grabbed Achilles’ hands across the table. “Talk to me, Achilles.”
Her intimate move surprised him, for a second time. He ignored it. It was probably subconscious. “Why did you call Ivan’s drone kidnapping plan bulletproof?”
“Because there’s neither recourse nor wriggle room. Not for the victim, not for law enforcement. Once he’s got his guy in the sky, there’s nothing anyone can do. You can’t delay or fail to pay. You can’t shoot it down or pressure the pilot, not when he’s—” Jo trailed off. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “Ivan could be anywhere.”