by Tim Tigner
“Agreed,” both Luda and Nazarov answered.
“Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s other business requiring my attention, so I’ll leave you to your good work.”
Out in the hallway Karpov rolled his eyes but then grinned. His system worked brilliantly in times like these. And there were always times like these in an operation as big as his.
The general managers like Nazarov, along with key accountants and engineers, bankers and lawyers, and the local Party leadership, were all discrete members of the Knyaz outer circle. Each knew about one of Karpov’s trees, but none knew their tree was part of a forest. They thought of Karpov’s setup as routine politics, as the I’ve-got-your-back-you’ve-got-mine scenario that worked behind the scenes of every powerful organization the world over. It was camouflaged compartmentalization, grand deception disguised as a common indiscretion, and it worked beautifully.
Back in his jeep, Karpov called Yarik.
“Go ahead,” the giant answered.
“We’ve got a problem at SibOil. LOCo screwed up, and an eager accountant learned of the Knyaz payments. She even did the math and got a sense of the big picture.”
“Stalin solution?” Yarik asked.
“Yes, no person, no problem. But no sport this time around, my friend. We need it to look accidental.”
Chapter 8
PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA
Alex sat stunned in his twin’s kitchen, staring at the notebook, the puzzler, as Frank called it. He was staring, but no longer seeing. It had been sixteen hours since he received the mysterious call: “They’re about to kill your brother.”
He had raced to his brother’s house only to find a smoking gun and a cooling corpse. Between that and the Colombian kidnapping, he had not slept in over forty-eight hours. The adrenaline had worn off, and caffeine no longer moved the needle. Part of his brain was aware that something had happened in the background, but it hadn’t registered yet. He was still digesting the big news. This beautiful Palo Alto home was no longer his brother’s house. It was his dead brother’s house.
Frank was dead, presumably by his own hand, and Alex was now alone in the world.
Bang . . . bang . . . bang. There it was again. This time it registered. Someone was at the front door.
Alex slid the puzzler into a kitchen drawer, ran his hands vigorously through his thick brown hair, and then crossed the living room to the front door.
The peephole revealed a familiar pair of steely eyes. “Jason Stormer.” It was a statement, a question, and the answer to an unpleasant surprise.
“It’s been a while,” Jason replied.
Jason and Alex had gone through Stanford together, and there had always been a chemical friction between them, despite or perhaps because of their many similarities. Jason and Frank, however, had hit it off through college and graduate school. Alex had not seen Jason since graduation, but Frank’s occasional mention of his name still raised Alex’s hackles.
“Yes, it has been a while.” Alex wasn’t sure what to say next. He wasn’t the formal type, but Frank’s not here, he’s dead wasn’t quite right either. He settled for “Come in.”
Alex led Jason back to the kitchen, gestured to the chair across the table from the one he’d spent the night in, and sat.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Jason said. “Your brother was as good a man as any I’ve ever known.”
“How did you hear?” Alex asked, surprised. Had Frank been important enough that his death made the news? He’d been too absorbed in his puzzler analysis to think about turning on the TV.
It was Jason’s turn to look surprised. “I thought you’d have figured that out by now, being a PI and all. Frank and I were supposed to meet here last night, but by the time I arrived from the airport, the ambulance was already loading.”
Alex ignored the jibe. “You were supposed to meet Frank here last night?”
“I flew up special yesterday. At his request,” Jason added.
“Why?”
“He didn’t say, specifically. Just sent me an e-mail requesting an urgent meeting. You know I was consulting for him on the UE-2000, don’t you?”
“He didn’t mention it. But then, we didn’t spend a lot of time on shoptalk.”
Jason gave him a thin smile. “Yes, I suppose years of working for the State Department would condition anyone to keep the work-related chitchat to a minimum.”
Alex wanted to be gracious, let bygones be bygones and all that, but he was grieving, exhausted, and Jason was still a master at getting under his skin. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No. I just found myself drawn here on the way to the airport. Felt I should pay my respects. What happened, Alex?”
“The police say Frank shot himself . . . that his failure at work was too much for him to bear.”
“And I gather by your tone that you have another idea?”
Alex did, in fact. The sleepless night had been a productive one. He thought he knew who killed Frank and why. But he wasn’t inclined to discuss the results of his analysis with Jason. On the other hand, he was pleased to have another source of information at hand. “Do me a favor and forward me that e-mail?”
Jason returned a sideways glance. “The invitation from Frank? I doubt I still have it. I usually delete as I read unless they’re technical. It was a simple ‘I need to see you ASAP. Can you come by the house tomorrow evening?’”
“Was that unusual?”
“Not at all. Frank loved Friday-night brainstorming sessions: a couple guys, an old single malt, some fine cigars . . .”
Alex felt himself starting to tear up as he pictured many a similar session he had shared with Frank. He forced his thoughts back to business. “Tell me about the UE-2000, Jason. What’s it worth?”
“Worth? Billions. Tens of billions. If it works.”
And there it was: three commas’ worth of motive, missed by the Palo Alto police. “What’s so special about this aircraft engine?”
“You two really didn’t talk shop, did you? The UE-2000 uses forty percent less fuel than anything else out there.”
“So it’s a big deal for aviation?”
“It’s expected to revolutionize the industry, Alex.”
“If it works.”
“If it works.”
“What’s the secret?”
Jason hesitated.
“Don’t for a second consider giving me a need-to-know line.”
Jason smiled. “The design takes advantage of the extreme temperature differential between the outside air at high altitude and that inside the engine. It’s analogous to the way a turbocharger gets more thrust by recycling exhaust, although completely different technically. And the efficiency is much greater.
“What do you think happened to your brother?”
“The evidence supporting suicide is considerable. Overwhelming, even. The forensic evidence makes it clear that Frank pulled the trigger himself without duress, and the circumstantial evidence supplies sufficient motive for him to do so. But I know Frank wasn’t a quitter.”
“People change. Stress changes them. Frank had the future of the world riding on his shoulders. When was the last time you saw your brother?”
“Christmas.”
“That was just after he got the big promotion. I bet he was high as a kite then.”
“He was. Thirty-two years old and the envy of the aviation industry. A modern-day da Vinci.”
“Kind of makes you feel small by comparison, doesn’t it? Not that anyone is comparing, of course. But you know, twins and all . . .”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that if you invert the high Frank was feeling at Christmas, then you’ll have some idea of how low he’s been the last six months or so. He was supposed to deliver the engine in July and premier it at
the Paris Air Show. Now it’s November, and the project is in worse shape than when he took over. We don’t even have a projected launch date.”
Alex kept his face neutral. He’d gather information now, and analyze it later. “What is it you do for United Electronics?”
“I’m an operations consultant.” He pulled a business card from his breast pocket. “Have my own company.”
Another similarity, damn it. “You do technical troubleshooting?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Frank brought me on board about three months into his tenure to solve a problem he was having with software. I fixed it in less than twenty-four hours. Then there was a structural integrity issue, followed by a friction issue. It was one thing after another. Kind of like working with Edison on the lightbulb. Typical when technological leaps are involved.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re feeling suicidal, Jason.”
Jason’s face remained serene, but Alex knew he’d gotten to him.
“The difference between my responsibilities and Frank’s was scope. I answered for specific issues. When I solved one, I got my reward, and got my ego charged. Frank answered for everything. His ego was banking on the supercharge he’d get when he eventually released the UE-2000 to production. But until that time, every day was a drain. Perhaps the latest progress report sucked the last of his reserves.”
“That’s exactly what the police said. So, do you expect to continue working for United Electronics?”
Jason shook his head. “The UE-2000 is only one of several projects I’ve got going. I don’t need the work, so I’m not going to subject myself to the constant reminder of a lost friend.
“How about you, Alex? How’s the inaugural year of International Private Investigations treating you?”
“No complaints.”
“How many on your team?”
“Just me.”
“Keep it simple. Good for you. Are you headed back to San Diego soon?”
“I think I’ll stick around a while. Play a little game of cat and mouse.”
Jason drew in his breath as though preparing a witty knock-yourself-out response, but then paused with a contemplative look on his face. After a moment he said, “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if it wasn’t suicide, then the murderer is very clever. And this clever murderer undoubtedly knows who you are.”
“Agreed.”
“You, on the other hand, have no clue as to his identity.”
“So?”
“So, Alex, that makes you the mouse.”
Chapter 9
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Victor used his night-vision goggles to survey the backyard. With the Davis house’s grand old trees, thick grass, and gentle slope, poets might describe it as a good place to be a squirrel. With the house’s fenceless yards, trusting neighbors, and darkened streets, Victor would describe it as the perfect place to be a spy. He returned the goggles to his bag and slipped out of the woods.
He found the patio door unlocked. This was a double bonus as it indicated that the alarm would also be unarmed. It just didn’t get any easier than this. Victor had come equipped to handle locks and alarms, but he was pleased that those skills might not be required. Creative engineering, grand deception, blind extortion, those were his passions in life, and he enjoyed them much more than this risky business.
The sensor in his hand emitted a low, steady hum, indicating that the alarm was indeed inactive. Victor had learned that few Americans bothered to set their alarms at night. It was one more thing that made operating in the “land of the free” so easy. People were so trusting here, at least those from the middle and upper classes. The poor knew better. They were still grounded in global reality. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Dr. Davis, and you are about to feel the teeth.
The Davises had extinguished the last light at their Seattle residence two hours earlier, just after ten. Victor had spent the intervening time studying the house layout, courtesy of the builder’s marketing brochure, and rehearsing various contingency plans in his head. The former activity would enable him to navigate confidently in the dark. This was not crucial—he had identified the girl’s room by the curtains—but he wanted to be thorough and preferred to walk around without the encumbrance of night-vision goggles. The latter activity was just a reflection of his meticulous personality. It only took one mistake . . .
The Davises owned a cocker spaniel named Taffy. They had brought her home for Clara’s third birthday, and the two girls were now growing up together. Taffy was a friendly dog that slept on a bone-shaped pillow in the family room and would eat almost anything. She loved attention and was discouraged from barking. It was amazing what you could learn from kids.
Most mothers probably don’t have the KGB in mind when teaching the don’t-talk-to-strangers rule, but then, in his experience, most kids don’t really learn it anyway. They certainly weren’t the suspicious type in the Davises’ stately neighborhood.
Victor stood beside the patio door with his back to the wall and pumped a syringe full of ketamine hydrochloride into a small beefsteak. Ketamine was primarily a veterinary anesthetic, but he rarely used it on animals. He tossed the steak through the patio door onto the kitchen floor and then slid it closed again.
Tonight’s operation was part of an emergency stopgap measure and included a few new challenges, one of which was figuring out how to attract Taffy quietly if the muffled sound of the kitchen’s sliding door was not enough. Victor was pleased with the creative solution he had devised. He would crack the door again and spray cow’s blood from a perfume atomizer. He wasn’t sure the scent would work as a lure, but he thought it was a cool idea and was looking forward to the experiment. Victor liked to expand his repertoire and refine his technique a bit more with each operation.
Taffy came zipping into the kitchen, ears flapping, a second after Victor closed the door. The steak had been enough; so much for tonight’s experiment. She devoured the meat as though these midnight feedings were standard practice and then looked around for more to drop from the benevolent sky. She caught sight of Victor through the glass and shifted her tail wagging in his direction. Her tail got slower and slower as she begged, like a windup toy running out of juice. Two minutes later she was dreaming of bones. Five minutes after that, Victor completed the first of the night’s surgical procedures. His plan was tracking like a Swiss watch.
With phase one complete, Victor extracted what looked like a large Mont Blanc fountain pen from his hip pack. This was Medusa. Medusa was a derivative of sea-snake venom that would instantly paralyze the average man for twenty to thirty seconds if sprayed on his face. Like the cow’s blood atomizer, Victor did not expect to need the pen, but he wanted to be prepared for the unexpected. Meticulous.
Earlier in the week Victor had tried his father’s latest concoction on himself to ensure that it really worked. He had stood before a mirror and a wall clock with a second hand and sprayed himself in the face. The instant the mist hit his nose he froze in place looking like a G.I. Joe action figure holding a can of mace. It felt like the nightmare in which you can’t move, only it was real and therefore much more terrifying—like living rigor mortis. For his victims, it would be a preview of what was to come.
Victor had used Medusa for the first time the previous evening. Going in he’d been nervous, kind of like a first date but with the knowledge that if things did not go as expected, he would get more than a slap on the face. When the moment of truth came, however, Medusa had not let him down. In fact, she had lifted him up, way up. Medusa had transported him to a wonderland where he was omnipotent and the world was his for the taking. He was craving their next date.
Under Medusa’s spell, Frank Ferris had stood there helplessly, horribly paralyzed while Victor placed the gu
n in his hand, brought it naturally to his temple, and pulled the trigger: fast, fulfilling, and forensically perfect.
Victor instantly began craving his next power rush the way a junkie craves his next hit. Before Frank Ferris, he had never given his power the ultimate exercise. Oh, he had led many victims in a dance around death’s door, but he had never pushed one through from up close and personal before. The old rush, the Peitho rush, was great—having another man, a powerful, arrogant man, whimpering to you for mercy was the cat’s meow—but this new rush, the Medusa rush, was the lion’s roar.
The dog started snoring, bringing Victor back to the moment. It was time to create an agent.
The Davises’ new home, with its quiet floorboards and wall-to-wall carpeting, aided his silent ascent up the stairs and down the hall to Clara’s room. Once outside her door, Victor paused just long enough to douse a handkerchief with chloroform before entering. It would keep her asleep while he injected the ketamine.
Victor slipped into her bedroom and closed the door behind. Clara was about to experience every child’s nightmare, but she would sleep through it. He hoped her parents would remain equally oblivious.
He was struck by how nice Clara’s room was, so warm and cozy and full of knickknacks and toys. Russian children didn’t have rooms like this. Heck, they were lucky to have a room at all. He certainly never had a room of his own. Prissy bitch.
Victor snarled as he laid the chloroform-soaked handkerchief over the six-year-old’s nose and mouth. She did not so much as twitch. While he waited silently in the dark for the anesthetic to take hold, Victor thought about what it would be like to one day find himself at the other end of the Peitho syringe and totally within another man’s power. Then he thought of his father, and realized he already was . . .
Holding a penlight in his teeth, Victor prepared a cocktail of antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, immunosuppressants, and numbing agents, filling a 10cc syringe with the contents of five different vials. Then he injected it into the gluteus maximus of his six-year-old victim. The cocktail would both mitigate Clara’s immune reaction to the implant and chemically camouflage it from her senses.