Chasing Ivan

by Tim Tigner

  There’s something about hanging 200 meters up by the last knuckle on the left index finger that stimulates growth in the quick-response part of the brain. So by the time Ivan had released the yellow button, I had launched into action.

  Before she had gone incommunicado, Jo had briefly described the remote controlled garrote with its slider and three buttons. Armed with that information, I’d formulated my plan of attack the moment Ivan had raised the phone. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.

  Having abandoned the ice bucket and glasses in favor of just carrying the Cristal club, I flung it like a lawn dart straight at Ivan’s head. Given the twenty feet between us, I wasn’t expecting a hit but rather a distraction while I covered the gap. Launching myself at his phone with the force and focus of a guided missile, I was absolutely determined that nothing would stop me until I hit green. No man, no machine, no weapon, no wound.

  My preprogramming didn’t stop with a quick sprint and phone grab. The instant my right arm found the green button and put Emily beyond threat, I’d be redirecting my momentum into whipping around. I’d channel it down my right arm and shoulder, then into my back, where it would be joined by the power my thighs were kicking in. By the time my left elbow transferred all my kinetic energy into Ivan’s head, it would be packing the power of Barry Bond’s bat. I’d smash the side of his skull with such force that his spinal cord would sever and his brain would splatter like a melon catapulted against a castle wall. Four seconds from game on to game over.

  All accompanied by a delightful fireworks display.

  At least that was how I had it choreographed out in my head.

  The Ghost had another plan.

  He surprised me. Not once, or twice, but three times, beginning with the you’ve got a choice to make taunt that initiated my blitzkrieg attack. Then he surprised me a second time by slipping the Cristal attack with a calm dip of his head and tilt of his shoulder. The Ghost was cool under fire, no doubt about that. But the most startling surprise was his game-changing third.

  Ivan had no warning that he’d picked up a tail. As Director Rider had repeatedly reminded me, this was the first time in eight years it had happened. In that context, I’d focused my mental energies on trying to understand the anomaly that led to the exception, rather than the personality that created the rule. I overlooked the implications inherent in dealing with a man who had avoided not just capture, but even detection, for many years.

  I had been so wrapped up in the notion of catching Ivan unaware, that I forgot to account for the fact that regardless of the circumstance or situation, a man like The Ghost would always always always have an escape plan.

  Ivan didn’t have to scheme when I miraculously appeared. He just had to activate the contingency that was already in his head.

  By the time my sprinting feet were halfway to their mark, he’d sent the phone spinning up and off to the left like a clay skeet fired from the bow. And while my processor was busy dealing with that targeting dilemma, Ivan threw another curveball, by vaulting over the rail to the right.

  I didn’t go left or right.

  I made the choice Ivan predicted.

  The woman I’d watched being lured from her home, the woman who had unknowingly placed her life in my hands, was now just seconds from a horrible death in the middle.

  “Forget the girl, go after Ivan!” Director Rider’s voice boomed like an explosion inside my head.

  He must have had me on satellite.

  I ignored him.

  As Emily dropped to her knees, her hands at her neck and her teary eyes wide with panic, I adapted my plan. I didn’t try to reassure her, or coach her, or explain. I just went for her throat.

  My fingers aren’t dainty tools, and my hands aren’t designed to be tender. I’m your guy if you need walnuts cracked, or large jars opened, or a steaming moose extricated from the grill of your car. But I was determined to make do with what the good Lord gave me.

  I attacked the necklace from behind, where the chain fed through the clasp. After digging my index fingers underneath the chain as if they were ice-cream scoops, I placed one on either side of the platinum moon and pinched down hard on the chain with my thumbs. I could feel the ratcheting action working, the precision of a Swiss watch paired with the power of a bell tower clock.

  It didn’t stop.

  “Forget about her, Agent Achilles!” the Director boomed again. “That’s a direct order. Ivan is priority one.”

  I wedged my thumbnails in right where the cable disappeared into the clasp, and then matched the move with my index fingers. While Emily gasped, I squeezed.

  The mechanism faltered, its gears unable to turn.

  I’d halted the progression, but that wasn’t good enough. I could feel Emily falling into unconsciousness, her brain reeling from a lack of blood. I yelled, “Hold on!” to her, to Rider, and to myself.

  Anyone who has ever used a zip-tie knows the power of a ratchet. The little plastic tail feeds easily through the mouth in one direction, but it’s virtually impossible to force the reverse. The physics are so effective that law enforcement often uses zip-ties instead of handcuffs.

  A Special Forces master sergeant named Dix had taught me the secret to defeating them. By delivering an explosive burst of energy — a violent lightning thrust against an immobile object combined with a wrenching hand twist — the ratchet could be overpowered. Of course this tactic also wreaks havoc on the wrists, but for captured undercover operatives a superficial flesh wound was considerably better than the likely alternative. In Emily’s case, however, an explosive burst was not an option. Throats were far more tender, and infinitely less forgiving, than wrists.

  So what was I to do? I had no leverage.

  I had the corkscrew’s foil blade in my pocket, but to reach it I’d have to release the chain. While I worked to get the blade wedged into place, the gears would grind on. Even if I got it under before she died, cutting the chain wasn’t going to be like severing string. While plated in platinum, the core cable was obviously made of high tensile strength steel. My knife might never cut it.

  I did the only thing I could do.

  I went for broke.

  Emily was about to expire in my arms, so we had nothing to lose. “Hold on!” I yelled again, digging my middle fingers in beside my indexes. The additional tension drew blood from Emily’s throat, but it also changed the physics. Instead of pincers pressing a single point of contact, my thumbs were now like pliers braced against two pads. I squeezed them with everything I had, and then I squeezed more. I pictured them digging in, biting down, clamping on. No longer were my fingers instruments of flesh and bone. They were the hardened steel jaws of a metalworker’s vise.

  Then I engaged the hydraulic press.

  My forearms clenched, my biceps bunched, and my shoulders began to pull. Like oxen trying to wrench a stump from the ground, they tensed and tightened and pulled and strained until all at once something popped, and the clasp released.

  Emily was free.

  I lay her down and checked her throat. Blood was streaming where the rays of the golden sun had dug in, but it wasn’t spurting. Her carotids weren’t sliced, but her windpipe was sucking air. I pressed my left thumb over the tiny hole, and slapped her face with the palm of my right hand. “Emily! Emily, wake up! Wake up!”

  Her eyes sprang open and she began to cough, drawing deep ragged breaths, as she reflexively tried to push my hand from her throat.

  “Don’t do that. You’ve got a small puncture in your windpipe. It’s not life-threatening, but you should keep the pressure on.” I guided her right hand into position. “Go straight to a hospital. They’ll fix you right up.”

  “You’ve done all you can for her,” Rider boomed. “Get going after Ivan.”

  This time, I agreed.

  How long had it been? How much of a lead did he have? Was it closer to five seconds or five minutes? It felt like an eternity, and for Emily it nearly had been, but I knew that adre
naline did funny things with time.

  “You’re going to be all right,” I said. Then I followed Ivan over the rail.

  Chapter 23

  Jammed

  BUTTERFLIES BEGAN TO DANCE in Jo’s stomach as Aspinwall’s face lost all composure. It looked as if a mask had been ripped from his face, and it happened right as he was about to speak. He just stood there staring toward Michael’s phone, his face awash in emotion, his gaze transfixed, the camera rolling.

  Sandra, sensing a train wreck, remained silent and kept filming.

  After a few seconds, Michael appeared to understand that this wasn’t just the jitters. He pulled the phone back, glanced at the screen, and froze.

  Jo couldn’t see the screen, but she knew it had to be Achilles. Had he hit Ivan with a hollow-point round? Without sound, Ivan’s head would appear to spontaneously explode. The sight of a talking head suddenly erupting from within, spewing forth blood and bone and gray matter, would give pause to even the most battle-hardened soul. Was her partner pressing the green button at that very moment, and setting Emily free?

  Aspinwall said, “Forgive me, I need a minute.” Then he stepped toward Michael with menace in his eyes.

  Michael turned and ran for the exit.

  Aspinwall followed, as did Sandra, her cameraman, and Jo.

  A second after Michael turned the corner, bells began to ring and lights began to flash. He’d pulled the fire alarm.

  Rounding the corner at Aspinwall’s side, Jo heard the emergency exit door smacking closed a few feet ahead. The lock released as Aspinwall hit the crash-bar a second later, but the door barely moved.

  Michael had blocked it with a wedge.

  The fire alarm, the door jam, Jo recognized both as premeditated moves. Michael had activated a prearranged escape plan.

  As Aspinwall threw himself against the bar a second time, she saw tears streaming down his cheeks, tears she recognized as anguish, not relief.

  For the first time, Jo considered the possibility that something had gone wrong, that Achilles had failed and Emily was dead. Joining Aspinwall in his third attempt at the door, she asked, “Is Emily all right?”

  He turned to look at her while they pressed, shock joining the anguish that ruled his face. “I don’t know. The last time I saw the screen, a man was trying to save her.”

  The doorjamb stuttered and then gave all at once. After bursting through, Jo snatched up the black rubber wedge. She bolted down the stairs after Kian, and much faster than the encumbered cameraman or Sandra with her high heels.

  Kian crashed through the door at the stairwell’s bottom.

  Jo joined in a split second later and recycled the wedge. Aspinwall was having a tough enough time without having his anguish caught on film.

  The dock was filling up fast with people evacuating the building. Had Michael gone left, or right? Jo couldn’t see him. But she knew. When the cameraman began banging on the door behind them, Jo pointed off to her left. “There he is!”

  As Aspinwall ran in the wrong direction, Jo turned right. She felt bad, deceiving a man in his darkest hour of need. But the SOG’s first rule was not to be seen.

  Jo began to run like she’d never run before. Michael had a ten-second head start and a longer stride. She pumped her arms and pummeled her bare feet as she flew past empty exhibition tents and crowded yachts, her head down and her purse trailing. She garnered a few curses and bumped a few elbows but was making good time — until a little girl dropped her doll.

  Jo was midway up the winding concrete stairs to the VIP parking lot when it happened. The girl moved into Jo’s path to retrieve her Barbie. Jo leapt up and over with momentum at her back, clearing the child but landing badly. Jamming her big toe hard enough to break it, she crashed onto the stairs before the surprised girl and her startled mother.

  Chapter 24

  Breathless

  I FELT TERRIBLE leaving Emily in her traumatized condition. But I knew she’d be fine. She was a twenty-second walk from two-dozen spoiled mothers. She’d be on her way to the ER in under a minute. A minute on the other hand, was plenty of time for Ivan to disappear.

  I hadn’t seen where Ivan had landed, but I had seen exactly where he’d jumped, and I had seen precisely how. Mimicking his move from the same position, I vaulted after him.

  Going over the front rail of a yacht, one would normally expect to land in the water. I had no such expectation. When Ivan had jumped, I hadn’t heard a splash.

  Doing exactly as he had done, I let my vaulting arm trace the rail-post as I dropped until I caught the rim of the deck, momentarily arresting my fall. I was well-practiced in this type of move from climbing rocks, but the fact that Ivan shared this skill was a clue I tucked away for future use.

  Normally, arresting a vertical drop with a clamping move would have sent my legs crashing into the climbing surface, like the free end of a pendulum. But my legs met only air and kept on swinging. Expecting this after the lack of auditory feedback, I released the moment that momentum sent my center of gravity past the vertical plane. A split second later, I was standing on the next deck down.

  While I was far from a superyacht aficionado, earlier in the evening I had done my share of gawking. Among the most striking features of these enormous yachts, were the luxury speedboats garaged in their hulls. Those boats, or tenders, as they’re known, are hoisted in and out of the water through large garage doors. It was through one of those openings that I’d just swooped in pursuit of Ivan.

  “We lost you,” Director Rider said. “Agent Achilles, report.”

  “In pursuit. Let me focus.”

  I had expected to find Ivan launching a tender, but neither of the Anzhelika’s two fine crafts were in motion. With the corkscrew readied as my weapon, I ran up the mobile staircase used for boarding and scanned the interior of both boats. Empty! I had lost Ivan.

  I looked around and saw three exits.

  Like game show curtains, I could only choose one.

  I could go aft. I could go up. Or I could go down. My odds of randomly picking the one Ivan had selected were just one in three. Bad enough, but illusory. The real odds were much worse. My odds would halve and halve again with every turn thereafter.

  I paused to think. It wouldn’t do to pick a path. I had to pick a destination.

  I thought back to everything I knew about Ivan, and blended it with everything I knew about the yacht. Ivan the Ghost was a grand master at evasive tactics, and arguably better than anyone else in the world at operations planning. He was meticulous. He was audacious. And he was hell-bent on remaining invisible. How would a man like that plan to escape the Anzhelika if the shit hit the fan?

  The general answer was trademark Ivan. Ghosts vanish. That was a start, but I had to get more specific.

  How would I vanish on a superyacht?

  I supposed I might just hide and hope to emerge in Bermuda. Perhaps in some prepared hideaway, already stocked with food, water, and weapons. But that didn’t feel right. Stowing away was both passive and somehow unoriginal. It wasn’t a personality fit. Ivan wouldn’t risk the possibility of his legend ending with the headline, “Discovered by dogs.”

  Disguise was an option, but also risky. He’d have planned for the worst-case scenario, which had to include the yacht being surrounded and searched by competent pros. Hard men who would look twice and then again, regardless of whether the subject was wearing a ball gown, or surgical scrubs, or a police uniform.

  That was the stumbling block.

  A meticulous planner like Ivan would assume that everyone exiting the Anzhelika would be processed through a tight filter.

  It was also the solution.

  I knew where Ivan had gone.

  I went down.

  There was only one deck lower. The aft end of the bottom deck was occupied by fresh water storage and the engine room. Closer to the bow were the cold storage and wine cellar, where I’d begun the hunt. Descending the stairs I found myself further forward
still. The trapezoidal room wasn’t very deep, and it hummed with an odd gurgling mechanical noise. If my eyes had been closed I’d have been hard-pressed to place the sound, but they weren’t, and the answer was right at my feet.

  The C-Explorer submarine was a big glass sphere centered between the two arms of a C-shaped orange body. Looking like a pea wedged between a fork’s two tines, the sphere was reminiscent of a helicopter cockpit, offering its occupants largely unobstructed views both horizontally and vertically. By the time I leapt down the last six stairs, only the top of the sphere still breached the water’s surface.

  “He’s getting away by submarine,” I yelled for the benefit of the mike.

  If I’d had a gun, I could have shot the sphere, although I suspected most bullets would either pancake harmlessly or ricochet off what was no doubt the equivalent of bulletproof glass. But I didn’t have a gun.

  I scanned the room for weapons, but came up blank. Nothing but basic scuba gear.

  Oscar said, “…ay …ain …les,” which my brain translated to, “Say again, Achilles.”

  “He’s about to launch a submarine off the bow!”

  Oscar’s reply translated to, “Say again. We’re not reading you.”

  “Submarine!” Transmission was even worse than reception. They couldn’t hear me. My signal wasn’t penetrating all that steel. I had no time to fiddle with it. The sub was descending. What could they do anyway? As passionate as Director Rider was about killing The Ghost, he wasn’t about to order a missile strike on Monaco.

  I didn’t have time to assemble the scuba equipment neatly stacked and stored in wall racks, so I checked the oxygen levels on the two used systems abandoned on the floor by pampered guests. The best read only one-third, good for about ten minutes. I grabbed its tank through the wet BCD’s armholes, throwing it up and over and onto my back in the same single fluid motion I’d learned to use with backpacks. Then I slapped the Velcro belt closed, grabbed a mask off the floor, and dove after the escaping sub.