Pushing Brilliance

by Tim Tigner

  But he had one more bit of business first.

  Grigori detoured from the direct route to his favorite toy, leading Pyotr right up to the rim in the corner where the south tower and the main building met at a ninety-degree angle. On clear spring days like this, a constant slipstream bellowed up from below, warm wind powered by the sunbaked southwest exposure and channeled by the cornering facades. He’d tried tossing a cigar into the gust once, to see what would happen. It had come right back up and marred his blue suit with gray ash.

  Once Pyotr was beside him at the edge, Grigori pointed to the ground a hundred meters below. “Do you see that?”

  Pyotr had not developed Grigori’s immunity to acrophobia, but given his role he couldn’t show it. Grigori punished him this way, and Pyotr had no choice but to grin and take it. Pyotr was the beast, but Grigori held the whip. “What am I looking for?” Pyotr asked.

  “Not what. Who.”

  “All I see is tulips.”

  “Closer to the building. Right below where you’re standing.”

  Pyotr scooched and leaned. “I see him now. Black suit. Who is he?”

  “Your replacement.”

  Grigori was a hands-on guy who loved the feel of life’s furry edge. That was what had driven him to the KGB all those years ago, and that was what drove him to discipline Pyotr personally today. There was a challenge inherent in Grigori’s selected means, however, which boiled down to basic physics. His security chief had every physical advantage there was, working in his favor. A greater reach, younger reflexes, and a hundred pounds of muscle, to name a few. Grigori balanced the equation by adding electricity to his side. Six million volts of electricity.

  Palming a mini stun gun like a magician would a card, he pointed down with his left hand, and zapped Pyotr’s ass with his right.

  The jolt shot Pyotr’s hips forward as if they were propelled by rubber bands. As the stun gun took his central nervous system offline, Pyotr’s center of gravity swung out over a hundred meters of open space, dooming him before his body had a clue what was happening. Just a tenth of a second from A-Okay to complete-systems-failure. Grigori may as well have put a bullet through his brain for all the chance Pyotr had of recovering — but this approach was much more satisfying.

  Pyotr yelped, then Grigori got a couple of words in before Pyotr began wailing. “As promised.”

  Unlike the cigar, Pyotr wasn’t blown back.

  Grigori looked up before Pyotr touched down. Such a disappointment.

  Back to business.

  Chapter 53

  Full Circle

  THE HELICOPTER PILOT, a chisel-faced veteran of the Afghan war, met Grigori’s eyes with a level gaze as he approached the big black bird. He showed no reaction to Pyotr’s demise.

  Grigori made the lasso sign.

  Erik flicked a switch and the rotors started spinning with effortless grace. The twin Pratt & Whitney turbines, each capable of delivering the power of 630 horses, emitted more of a throaty growl than a thundering whine. Grigori loved the sound. Tremendous raw power. At his command.

  He liked his pilot too. Ten years his senior, Erik was the only employee with whom Grigori felt a natural ease conversing man-to-man. He’d come with the helicopter, but was now Grigori’s chauffeur as well.

  Grigori would have preferred to sit in the front to better take in the memory of this flight, but it wouldn’t do to be seen exiting from the cockpit. So he hopped in back, and donned his headset.

  “We got the go-ahead from the presidential security service,” Erik said by way of greeting, his voice calm and cool like a captain’s should be. It was hard to faze an Afghan vet.

  “Ever flown to the Kremlin before?” Grigori asked.

  “Almost no one has flown to the Kremlin before. They only put the helipad in a few years ago, and it’s typically reserved for the president himself and visiting heads of state. How’d you get the privilege, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Truth was, there were at least a dozen Russian oligarchs who had been granted the perk by a president eager to maintain an iron-clad support base at home. But it was still the hottest ticket in aviation, and Grigori’s pride swelled every time he thought of it. “A few years ago the president asked me a question. A sports question, of sorts. A year ago, I gave him an answer he liked.”

  “Must have been one hell of an answer.”

  “You should have heard the question.”

  As they hit the Moscow river from the south and turned northeast to follow it to the Kremlin, Erik risked a glance at Grigori. “If you were granted the privilege a year ago, why haven’t you used it until today?”

  “I was waiting to make a special delivery. Something worthy of the honor.” He reached up to touch the vials in the left breast pocket of his suit coat. Then, remembering, he removed the mini stun gun from his right side pocket. “I’ll leave your toy in the cup holder. Thanks. It was the perfect tool for the job.”

  ~ ~ ~

  This time Grigori’s throat was relaxed and his palms were dry as the presidential guards escorted him to the big office. This time he knew exactly what to do upon entering. And this time he knew exactly how to answer the question: “What have you brought me, Grigori?”

  As the guards clicked their heels and closed the gilded doors, Grigori walked straight to Vladimir’s chess desk and took a seat. He removed two finger-sized vials from his breast pocket and positioned them upright on the squares reserved for the black king and queen. When the president looked over, he said, “Something for the hunter watching the crocodile watching the rabbit. Kind of completes the circle.”

  “You really did it?”

  “We really did it.”

  “When I saw you fly in, I figured as much. What are they?”

  “The king is a flea. The queen a tick.”

  “Okay to pick them up?”

  “Sure. To you and me they’re as harmless as any other flea or tick.”

  “And to our hunter?”

  “He’ll start having vision issues about a month after he’s bitten. Within three months he’ll be blind.”

  Korovin toppled the king vial and began to roll it back and forth with his index finger, watching the flea tumble while churning the scenario in his mind. “How’s that possible?”

  “The technology is the same that’s used to create custom cancer therapies. Only instead of going after cancer cells, they’re going after retinal cells. They used gene sequencers, mass spectrometers, and micro-array scanners to analyze his DNA and create a molecular profile of his cells, using the hair follicle your office supplied. Then they went to work with genetic databases and synthetic biology software to create a very specific synthetic DNA. They booted that DNA up in host cells, and then transferred those cells into pests indigenous to the Moscow region. The pests, in turn, will transmit the synthetic DNA to our hunter with their bites.”

  Korovin leaned forward, making no attempt to mask his enthusiasm.

  Grigori was loving it.

  “When I get bug bites, my doctor always inspects them. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he loads me up with vitamins and antibiotics.”

  “The bite will look normal, as will his blood work. Even if they prophylactically treat him for everything from plague to Lyme disease it won’t matter. This is a personalized bioweapon, based on his DNA. It’s not anything that’s ever been transmitted by a bug bite or anything else before. It won’t be detected.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. That said, I suggest we go with fleas. They’re much less conspicuous, and quickly forgotten. They don’t latch on and hang out the way ticks do. The docs weren’t sure which host vectors would prove viable, so they tried three species. These two worked.”

  “How do we know they’ll bite him?”

  “It only takes one bite. Given the quantity of fleas that will be in the vial, and the condition they’ll be in, my people tell me it’s a mathematical certainty so long as you remove the cap within a meter
of the target while you’re both stationary. A hunting blind will be perfect.”

  “Will they be able to trace the condition back to the bite?”

  “No. At best, it will be one of many hypotheses. But there won’t be any evidence.”

  Korovin stood and began to pace. “But will it look natural? If they suspect foul play, they’ll look for motive, and we all know where that investigation will start.”

  “Cui bono.”

  “Exactly. We can’t have that.”

  “It doesn’t get any more natural than this.”

  “Be specific.”

  Grigori leaned back in his chair, tilting it up on two legs and then placing his hands behind his head. “My guys looked for a region where his DNA was already weak, something his doctors will likely be aware of. They found the predisposition we’re exploiting, which is one reason we picked blindness rather than, say, cancer or a heart attack. Furthermore, since it’s not an outright assassination, it doesn’t fit the mold. Finally, there’s the timeframe. It’s quick in the big scheme of things, but there will be a full month between the flea bite and the first symptom.”

  Korovin sat back down. “So in summary, it’s natural, untraceable, and inconspicuous?”

  Grigori nodded.

  After a moment of quiet appraisal, the President of Russia said the two magic words. “I’m pleased.”

  Chapter 54

  Bubbles

  THE BORDER CROSSING into Belorussia proved to be a non-event, and the flight from Minsk to DC uneventful. That was good, we were overdue for uneventful. The bad news was the timeline. Not only had the rush forced me to renege on my promise to get Katya a hot bath before the flight, but it also left us precious little time for reconnaissance after. By the time we got to Chris Pine’s part of the city, the anticipated call was just three hours away.

  Pine’s apartment was a few blocks northeast of DuPont Circle on New Hampshire, which coincidentally put it within a stone’s throw of the Belorussian embassy. We managed to find a hotel room directly across the street. A couple of major conventions left little selection when it came to rooms, so I sprang for a two-bedroom suite. That was fine with me — in part because it put us on the top floor with direct line of sight to Pine’s apartment, and in part because I was in the mood to splurge on creature comforts. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, and all that. Going with a suite also enabled me to keep Katya in the same room, but on the other side of a door. Something that was good for both her security and my waning willpower.

  “The bath is perfect,” Katya called out. “Worth the wait.”

  “So I’m forgiven?”

  “Indeed.”

  It felt weird talking to Katya while she was in the tub, which itself was odd, given all that we’d been through. “Do you have your phone in there?”

  “I do.”

  “I need you to make a call to Chris Pine’s office.”

  “Okay. What’s the goal?”

  “We want to find out if he’s in town, and if he is, how late he’ll be in the office. If he’s not in town, we want to find out when he’s going to be back, and the name of his assistant.”

  “Okay. You know I’m the analytical type, right? Creativity isn’t my thing.”

  I heard the Jacuzzi’s jets kick in, so I spoke louder. “Would you like a little coaching?”

  “Please. You can come in. I’ve got bubbles.”

  She’s got bubbles. Great. Nothing sexy about that.

  She did have bubbles. The Jacuzzi jets had blown them up to the rim of the tub. Besides her head, which was now plastered with wet hair, only the tops of her shoulders and her neck were visible. I moved the little vanity stool next to the tub and sat with my back to the wall so that all I saw was the bubbles covering her feet.

  “If Chris answers, say, ‘It’s me. When are you going to be home?’ If he asks you to clarify, use a silly-boy voice and say, ‘It’s Cathy, from across the hall. I’ve got a little something for you.’ If he doesn’t go along, tell him you must have a wrong number.”

  “And if he doesn’t answer?”

  “Ask for his assistant. Get her name — that’s important — and tell her you’re Chris’s sister Cathy, and you want to surprise him with a visit. Say you know he travels a lot, so you wanted to know when you can expect him home.”

  “Wouldn’t this be easier if you pretended to be his brother?”

  “You think I’m being lazy?”

  “I think you have a reason, and I’d like to know it. This spy stuff is new to me — and surprisingly fascinating.”

  Giving in to temptation, I turned to look at her. “People are generally less suspicious of women. Plus, we may be playing the distress card later on. That works best woman to woman.”

  “Distress card?”

  “Don’t muddle your mind with those details yet. Let’s get this right first. Are you ready for the number?”

  “What about my accent?”

  “Good point.” My jet lag was showing. Not a good sign.

  “I could be his ex-girlfriend?”

  “No. That will raise defenses. Can you fake a British accent?”

  A second later, Katya replied with, “I suppose. Why would I want to talk this way, luv?”

  “That’s good. Say you’re his sister and you’ve got a layover on your way back to England. If she says anything that throws you off, complain about your jet lag and ask her to repeat it.” I handed her a dry washcloth to wipe her hands, and then her phone.

  “What’s the number?”

  I gave it to her.

  “It’s ringing.” “Yes, good afternoon. This is Catherine Pine calling for Christopher, please. Yes, Chris Pine. Is his secretary available? Yes, what’s her name, please? Emma. Thank you. Yes, I’ll hold.” Katya looked over at me and smiled. She seemed to be enjoying herself. “Yes, good afternoon, Emma. This is Catherine calling, Christopher’s sister. Yes, that’s what the operator said. Are you expecting him later? Well, I guess not. That’s a shame. I’ve got a layover I wasn’t expecting and thought I’d surprise him. But I’m headed back to London in the morning, so I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  I had a brainstorm and mouthed some words to Katya.

  “Can you hold a second, luv?” Katya hit the mute button. A second later she unmuted. “Where was I? Oh yes. Don’t tell him I called, luv. I’m going to leave a little something in his apartment and I want it to be a surprise. Thank you, you’re a dear.”

  I clapped as Katya hung up. “You’re hired.”

  “He won’t be back until next weekend, ten days from now. He’s in Hong Kong. What was that last bit about?”

  I stood and stretched, my eyes averted. “Just priming the pump. I’m going to go recce Pine’s place. You enjoy your soak.”

  “Recce?”

  “Sorry. Reconnoiter. Conduct reconnaissance. I’m going to check out your brother’s apartment. You be okay for half an hour or so?”

  “Mmm hum.”

  I headed for the door, hoping I wasn’t making the mistake of a lifetime by leaving her alone in the tub.

  Chapter 55

  To The Nines

  IN THE HOTEL LOBBY, I paid eight bucks for a small roll of packing tape. It disappeared into my jacket pocket.

  Chris Pine lived across the street in an Italianate eight-story. Constructed long ago from red brick and limestone, his building boasted bay windows, and looked more inviting than the smaller gray stone residences to its left and right.

  I walked past the canvass-covered portico and through an alley to the back. I’d come for the view, but my nose couldn’t help noticing the battle raging between the dumpster and the laundry room vent. For the moment, the fabric softener was winning.

  I backed up all the way to the neighboring wall and surveyed Pine’s building like I would a boulder I wanted to summit. Technically, I wouldn’t be bouldering but buildering, although my current objective was the same. Route planning.

  The easiest way to the to
p takes the whole ascent into account, not just the first dozen moves. There was no fire escape or drainpipe, but the middle third of the building was bumped out a couple of feet all the way to the top, to accommodate a different floor plan for the inside units, I assumed. The corner this created was a climber’s dream. The ninety-degree angle gave enough opposing resistance to support a wide variety of hand and foot holds, and would speed both ascent and descent dramatically.

  I moved in to inspect the bricks, and once again was delighted. Their height was a standard 76 mm, and the mortar set back a good 5 mm. That made them prime for pinching, as well as the crimping and edging I’d employ with larger masonry. Climbing Pine’s place wouldn’t be quite as quick as Tarasova’s, but the difficulty was only about a 2 on a scale that ran all the way to 16, so I was a happy climber.

  I turned around to check my exposure before heading to the lobby. Not bad. The building behind Pine’s also had smaller, opaque windows on its backsides, primarily for bathrooms and stairwells, I assumed. People were more concerned about privacy than the view when it came to alleys.

  Finished with the back, I headed around front. Pine’s building didn’t have a doorman, but it did have a concierge. This made sense to me. A traveling executive would want someone there to receive dry cleaning and packages and tend to the occasional personal request. This one was tall and lanky, with thinning hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses that made me think of colonial times. “Hi, I’m Adam,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Charles. How may I help you?”

  “A colleague of mine said this was a great building. Do you have any vacancies?”

  “Not at the moment. We typically only see vacancies once or twice a year, and those are usually rented out in advance.”

  “Any coming up?”

  “We’ve got a one bedroom becoming available in June.”

  “Does it have the same view as Chris’s? He’s in 8A.”