by Tim Tigner
I took a half step back.
Katya took a half step forward. “I tried looking up a ratio on grieving — some peer-reviewed study that would orient me. It’s been six months since he died, and I knew him for sixteen months. I thought there’d be an algorithm, but I didn’t find anything predictive. And of course I’d been hoping to spend my whole life with him, so that would have confounded the calculation even if I had found one. And now I’m prattling on. Because I’m nervous. Because I know that someday I will be ready to move on, and I’m afraid that you won’t be there when I am.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, and I knew better than to trust my feelings even if I did, given my current circumstances. As for the long-term, my thinking didn’t go beyond the trial that started next Monday. What would be the point?
So I picked her up, cradled her in my arms, and carried her to the bed. I laid her down with my chest pressed to her back and my arm around her. Then I held her hand in mine, and we fell asleep, surprisingly content.
When I awoke I felt as fresh as a sunlit field after a short summer storm. Totally relaxed even without complete release. That was when it hit me, and I literally shook.
“What is it?” Katya asked, her voice soft and innocent, still half-cloaked in slumber’s shroud.
“It’s not going to work.”
Katya rolled over, reacting to the timbre of my voice. “What won’t work?” she asked, alarmed.
“The plan.”
As Katya exhaled in relief, I realized the unfortunate ambiguity of my words.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because I figured out what Grigori is really up to. We need to take him alive.”
Chapter 102
Outmaneuvered
KATYA SAT UP so fast she looked like she’d popped from a toaster. “Why do we have to take Grigori alive? What do you mean, you figured out what he’s really up to? I thought that was pretty clear.”
“Remember our discussion with Casey? We concluded that the Brillyanc conspiracy was more about influence than direct profit. We concluded that the ability to blackmail the vice president was potentially worth trillions.”
“Sure, I remember. Giving Korovin that kind of influence is a scary thought.”
“Right. Except it doesn’t.”
Katya’s face crinkled into a confused expression that was the cutest thing I’d seen in years.
“The vice president doesn’t have that kind of power. Not really. The president is our government’s executive. The vice president decides nothing.”
“So it’s a money thing after all?”
“No. It’s still a power play. We just overlooked one critical move.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know what the vice president’s job is? He only has two constitutionally mandated roles.” I held up two fingers. “He’s a tiebreaker in the Senate. And he takes over — if the president dies.”
I watched Katya’s eyes turn to ping-pong balls as she put it all together. “Grigori intends to assassinate President Silver.”
“Right.”
“So that Daniels will become the president.”
“Right.”
“And since Korovin knows that Daniels secretly used a dangerous, unapproved, mind-altering drug, he can blackmail him.”
“Right.”
“And given Korovin’s expansionist agenda, I’m sure he’ll make good use of it.”
“Exactly.”
“But how could he possibly kill Silver? Assassinating the President of the United States has to be the toughest assignment in the world, even if you’re Korovin.”
“That’s what I need to ask Grigori. That’s why I need to take him alive. And quickly. Silver’s going to Moscow next weekend.”
As Katya sat up, I had a flashback to the morning this all began in a Santa Barbara hotel room. Sophie had been beautiful, but even clothed, Katya was more spectacular. A launch-the-ships and raise-the-drawbridge miracle, with very non-biblical proportions. My train of thought went off the rails, but Katya’s question put it back on. “You think he’ll risk killing Silver in Moscow?”
“No. KGB guys are too crafty for that. But he might tip the first domino.”
“How do you think he’ll do it?”
I shook my head to reboot my thinking. “In a word? Cleverly. Your countrymen are known within intelligence circles for devising innovative and ingenious methods of assassination. They took out one famous defector with a ricin pellet fired from the tip of an umbrella. They killed another by lacing his tea with Polonium-210. They assassinated a head of state by planting a bomb beneath a chair in a sports stadium during its construction, knowing that he’d be sitting there a year later for a national celebration. Who knows what they’ll devise for a man with a briefcase that launches nukes. The only thing we can be sure of is that it will be innovative, and ingenious, and nearly impossible to defend against — unless you know it’s coming.”
“Can’t you modify your plan to kill Grigori? Use a tranquilizer dart or something to capture him instead?”
“Kills and captures are totally different beasts. Shifting from lethal to debilitating force increases the risk tenfold, and that’s just the beginning. Exfiltration becomes exponentially more complicated. I could account for all of that with proper planning, but I’ll have neither the time nor the conditions. I won’t know Grigori’s procedures or habits, and ground zero is a hundred meters up, so I won’t know exactly what I’m dealing with until I get there.
“Then there’s the interrogation. It’s going to be noisy and it’s going to take time. That will be very risky without knowing the security arrangements in advance.”
I’d tied my stomach into knots while pondering this problem. Now I rolled onto my back to loosen up and avoid distraction while I tried to work it.
Katya did the same.
She got there first.
“I’ll enter the auction.”
“What?”
“At Angles on Fire. I can’t guarantee that I’ll get in or he’ll pick me, but maybe we could figure out a way to increase the odds.”
I looked at her with a combination of astonishment, appreciation, and apprehension. I had to wonder where her courage came from.
“I know you’re going to object,” she continued. “You’ll come up with all kinds of reasons why it’s a bad idea. But I want you to do me a favor instead. I want you to pretend that I’m one of your fellow CIA operatives. What would you do then?”
What was it about this woman? How had God packed so much greatness into a single petite package?
Rather than questioning the divine, I did as she asked. I swapped her image for that of Jo Monfort, a French operative I’d worked with. The scenario flowed easily from there.
“You’ll get selected. There’s no doubt about that. There’s a better chance of Grigori dropping dead of a heart attack between now and Saturday then there is of Angels on Fire rejecting you. The same goes for Grigori’s interest at the auction, particularly if you play to him. Speaking as a hot-blooded male member of the human race, I can assure you that’s an iron-clad guarantee. And I’ll be there, helping steer things as a fellow bidder. The big question is what we do once you win — not that I’m agreeing to this approach.”
“Let’s order up breakfast and think about it,” Katya suggested.
“Great idea.” I put a rush on our order and it arrived just as we were ready for it. Pots of strong coffee and herbal tea. A carafe of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. A lobster omelet with brie cheese and a side of fresh fruit for her. Eggs Benedict with a side of oatmeal and a berry plate for me. Plus, a couple of big bottles of water. We’d missed a few meals as of late.
“A medical emergency,” I said, as the plan materialized inside my nourished head. “That’s how we do it. Once you’re alone you stick him with a tranq dart. Then you call me and Max and we’ll show up a few seconds later at the
gate in an ambulance.”
“You sure they’ll let you into the compound? Even in an ambulance?”
“After you call me, you’ll need to find a guard. There will probably be one waiting nearby, ready to take you away once Grigori’s had his fun. Tell him Grigori had a stroke or heart attack. The guard will likely have been at the club as well, which means he’ll have heard your biography. If we present you as a medical student, then you’ll be credible. You can even get specific to add urgency — say he had a heart attack. Those are common enough in older guys during sex. With heart attacks, time is muscle, which gives you an excuse to push the guard faster than he can think.”
“Well alright then,” Katya said. “Sounds to me like we’ve got a plan.”
As much as the idea made me cringe, I had to admit that we did.
PART 4: POLITICS
Chapter 103
Blood on Fire
GRIGORI WASN’T SURE which he enjoyed more, stepping off his helicopter on his way into Angels on Fire, or hopping back on afterwards with the catch of the week. Going in, he got to enjoy the anticipation of wielding unrivaled power. He was Klitschko entering the boxing ring. Bono with a microphone. Tarzan in the jungle. Coming out was also about anticipation, but of a very different kind. That was all about the spoils of war. The pleasures of the flesh. The appreciation of beauty in its ultimate form. He decided that it was the combination that made Saturdays in the Rainbow Room the one appointment on his calendar that was chiseled in stone.
The owner, Leo, proffered a flute of Cristal while escorting him toward his reserved seat just in time for the show. Front and center. When it came to naked women, he wasn’t a back-row guy.
Vondreesen had turned him onto drinking champagne. He preferred vodka, but drank champagne at the club for the effect it had on the women. Since his wasn’t the friendliest countenance around, he used the bubbly to paint himself in a softer light. The pros didn’t care about such subtleties, of course. But there was no sport in bagging a pro. That was why he liked the Rainbow Room. And of course, just winning an auction was no guarantee of ultimate success. The hunt didn’t end when the bill was paid.
At the back of the room, behind a velvet rope buttressed by burly guards, hundreds of horny spectators gawked and cheered. Down in front, a rainbow-shaped stage was surrounded by three rows of wide, red, armless leather chairs, spaced to allow plenty of room for the girls to mingle and maneuver. Thirty-five chairs. Seven girls. A spirited auction guaranteed, given the laws of supply and demand.
“How’s this week’s catch looking?” Grigori asked, accepting his drink and his chair with relish.
“Only five tens this week,” Leo said with a double flash of his brow. “The other two are elevens.”
Leo was a natural born salesman with a hungry wallet and a golden tongue, but Grigori knew the owner wouldn’t BS him. Theirs was a long-term relationship. “Tell me about them.”
“Indigo is a Mariinski ballerina whose career got cut short because her breasts grew too large. Her audition was one of a kind. I’ve never seen so much talent with the veils. And her energy, sheesh. Someone’s up for the ride of his life.”
Grigori wet his dry throat with a sip of Cristal. “And Violet? I know you save the best for last.”
“I’m not sure if Violet is the best. She’s definitely a contender, don’t get me wrong. She’s stunning, to be sure. Top to bottom, from facial symmetry to carnal chemistry, I don’t think I’ve ever seen better. But she’s different. A doctor. I know what my clients like, and I’m not sure she’ll perform when it counts. I left her for last because she’s a bit of a wildcard.”
Grigori raised his glass to that.
The techno music shifted to a sultry rhythm reminiscent of the Strauss original, but more suitable for a modern Arabian night. Leo had a skinny DJ nicknamed Lic, which Grigori understood to be short for licorice stick. Lic was a master of mood whose massive mop of hair was forever swaying to a beat. He watched the auditions with a composer’s eye, and customized mixes of the Dance of the Seven Veils for each performer based on her personality and moves.
The stage began to glow like sunrise. Leo had it backed by one of the massive screens used for the latest electronic billboards, and Lic’s assistant used it to full advantage. Red made her entrance using a catwalk stride with a bit of extra wiggle, starting a chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls that Grigori knew would crescendo until all seven dancers were standing side by side in a rainbow of sexual desire.
Leo had been right, the first five all ranked as tens for someone, judging by the outbursts coming from around the room. Dark-skinned and light, slim and voluptuous, petite and modelesque. Leo had arranged to pick every patron’s pocket.
When Indigo emerged, Grigori found himself on the edge of his seat. She had short, dark hair, coiffed to give her a catlike appearance that matched her moves, moves that Grigori would describe as evocatively animalistic. He made his selection then and there. He wanted a wild ride with that pretty kitty.
Finally, the doctor emerged in violet silk. Grigori inhaled sharply as she strutted his way, all luscious curves and firm jiggles. She was spectacular, but she was also different. Clearly less comfortable on stage than her fellow contenders. Not more awkward, but rather more innocent. Innocence was why these thirty-five men were here, rather than buying lap dances and massages in the club’s other rooms.
The crowd seemed to sense Violet’s disposition, and their moment of appraising silence erupted into an appreciative chorus that drew Grigori in. Perhaps he would have to take two home tonight. Then the good doctor winked at him as she strode past, and his blood caught fire.
Chapter 104
The FOB
MY HEART invaded my throat, as Grigori’s helicopter rose toward the heavy clouds with Katya inside.
“Do you have a helicopter too?” my date cooed.
It wasn’t a crazy question, given what I’d forked over for a single night of companionship. A new record according to Leo, the club owner and auctioneer. “No. When I want to fly, I use my jet.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. That was going to make my next move harder for Indigo to take.
I could see the beach at Cannes reflecting in her eyes as the ballerina digested my news. “I like jets.”
My Mercedes limo pulled to the curb as we exited the club. We climbed into the back, where Indigo proceeded to lay her long, lithe legs across my lap. As I looked up, she placed a blood-red nail against her crimson lower lip.
The driver only took us a few blocks before pulling over behind an ambulance.
I gently laid my date’s legs aside. “You’re beautiful. But I’m going to have to take a rain check on tonight. While you were changing I got an urgent call. A close friend of President Korovin’s had a heart attack. My driver will take you anywhere you want to go — anywhere but back to the club. I have my reputation to consider.”
The image of Cannes faded from her eyes and her plump lower lip began to pout.
“I hope you’ll leave me your number,” I said, trying to avoid a scene.
Indigo pulled a lipstick from her tiny bag and scanned the limo’s interior. “I don’t have any paper.” She gave me a grin that would jumpstart a Jeep, and wrote her number on the ceiling. “Now you can look me up whenever you want.”
Indigo would land herself a jet. It was only a matter of time.
I escaped into the waiting ambulance. “Let’s roll,” I told an anxious Max. “Lights but no sirens.”
He pulled onto the ring road, hitting the gas as the clouds let loose with a heavy spring shower.
Max was doing a lot better than when we’d spoken to him on the phone from Vondreesen’s study. He was symptom free for the moment, and that news was apparently enough to let him revert back to his natural optimism. I admired him for that more than I could say.
“How’d it go?” he asked, his voice apprehensive, but tinged with excitement. We weren’t in his comfo
rt zone, but he appeared to be embracing the moment. A fellow backpacker, as Katya would put it.
“Katya’s in the air, but will be touching down atop the Rocket any minute. Her call could come any time after that. Probably not less than five minutes but you never know, so use the siren if you need it.”
“Any issues at the auction?”
“All the women were gorgeous. Grigori passed on the first five. They went for a low of eighteen hundred up to three and a half grand. But then he bid on the sixth. A buxom ballerina. Cost me ten thousand to win her from him.”
Max whistled.
“Then only Katya was left. Grigori got into a bidding war over her with an Armenian. Neither of them wanted to go home alone. Given their egos, the auction had all kinds of hormones flying around. It threatened to get ugly.”
“What did you do?”
“I covertly spritzed the Armenian with nausea-inducing spray to curb his enthusiasm, but our man still ended up paying twenty for Katya. The Armenian made a point of leaving with a whole harem on his hairy arms.”
Max pulled to the side of the road precisely eighteen minutes after Katya set foot in the helicopter. We’d picked a spot roughly halfway between the presidential hospital on Michurinski Prospect, and the GasEx complex a few kilometers further south.
I had the Valdada scope from my CheyTac sniper rifle out before Max had the ambulance in park. I didn’t expect to be using a long gun on this mission, but I’d come equipped for all kinds of contingencies. Better to have it and not need it, and all that.
“Keep the windshield wipers going,” I said, scanning the dark sky before honing in on Grigori’s rooftop lair. “The helicopter’s there. Rotor’s not turning.”
“Any light coming from the pyramid?”
“Nothing bright enough to register.”
“Is that a good sign?”
Max was subconsciously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, relieving nervous tension. I’d seen similar tells emerge a hundred times at this stage in the mission. The team was fine as long as we were moving, but once we entered wait mode, anxiety kicked in. “It is. She’ll tranq him as soon as they’re alone. Lights off is a step in that direction.”