Chasing Ivan (11 page)

“When will the necklace come off?”

“The moment you step off the media stage, assuming we approve of your performance, of course. You’ll be able to watch it happen. I’ll open the app back up and hold the phone where you can see it the whole time you’re speaking, lest your political instincts kick in and your feet get cold. If that happens, you’ll be watching Emily’s head come off rather than the necklace.”

Michael stood and headed for the stairs.
 

Aspinwall followed like a leashed dog.

Chapter 20

WHILE A LUMP formed in her throat, Emily studied her date’s facial transformation in the colorful cascade of firework light. When Andreas resumed speaking, it wasn’t to her, and his voice had dropped an octave. “You were at Palace Place this morning. I saw you on Michael’s button cam.” As he spoke, Andreas raised his cell phone, but not to his ear. He was holding it up like a police officer’s badge. The phone showed something resembling a traffic light, with buttons of red, yellow, and green.

Emily glanced at the phone, and then at the man Andreas had directed it toward. The waiter had indeed been in her lobby this morning, wearing a gray suit. He’d helped her with the door. Justine’s new boyfriend, she’d assumed.

The back of her neck began to tickle.
 

She reached for her necklace, afraid that it was slipping off. The pendant wasn’t there. She began to panic but then found it, higher up rather than lower. She’d adjust it later, as soon as this odd twist was resolved, and her fairy tale had resumed. “You
were
there,” she said, addressing the man. “Who are you? Are you following me?”

He responded to her, but didn’t take his eyes off Andreas. “I work in law enforcement. I’m here to rescue you.” Then his voice took on a commanding tone. “Step away from her, Ivan.”

Emily appraised the man while he spoke. The set of his jaw and the energy radiating from his eyes told her he was deadly serious. His body looked serious too, primed and physically fit. Andreas was in good shape as well, but his fitness struck her as the health club type.
More show than go
, as Jen liked to say. Plus, Andreas was smaller by about two inches and twenty pounds. “You’re mistaken,” she said, pressing herself against Andreas and wrapping her arm around his waist. “I don’t need rescuing, and his name isn’t Ivan, it’s Andreas. Please leave us alone.”
 

His expression softened and he shifted his gaze to meet her eye. For a second she thought he was going to say, “My mistake. I’m obviously confused. Please forgive me.” Instead he put ice in her spine. “Everything you know about him is a lie, Emily. He spied on you to learn what you like, and then told you what you wanted to hear. All this is about manipulating your father into dropping out of the race.”

“How do you know that?” Andreas asked. The question caused Emily to do a double take. It wasn’t a denial or even a challenge. Andreas sounded as if he sincerely wanted to know. She turned to study him. Andreas’s eyes were locked on the stranger’s. His expression, in fact his whole face, had morphed. His look was now positively carnivorous. He continued to hold up his cell phone as if it was a mystical amulet with protective powers.

“Does it matter?” the intruder asked.

“At the moment, the only thing that matters is what I can do with this?” Andreas waved his phone. “Do you know? I’m talking about the yellow button in particular.”

“I know,” the intruder said.

Emily had no idea what the yellow button would do, but she was quite certain that she didn’t want to find out. She didn’t understand Andreas’s next words either, but something about the way he said them made her shiver.

“Well then, you’ve got a choice to make.”
 

He paused, his face brandishing an evil expression she’d never forget. Then he pressed the yellow button.

Chapter 21

JO WAITED FOR Michael and Kian to disappear down the stairs and then swung down to the deck they’d abandoned. She managed to execute the swing itself as planned, but her cramped legs refused to take her weight when she landed. She ended up dancing with a deck chair that first whacked her funny bone and then bloodied her nose.
 

Sitting up where she eventually landed, Jo stretched her legs by grabbing her feet and bringing her face to her knees. Then she gave her calves a couple of quick squeezes while wiping her nose on her pants. Michael and Aspinwall were disappearing down the dock to her right as she used the railing to pull herself to her feet, but her legs were still tingling. Pushing through the pain, she did a few calf raises to get the blood flowing, and then set off barefoot in pursuit.

The dock was busy as a holiday mall once again. The sun had set on Saturday night, which made Monaco the place to be if one owned an impressive yacht and had millions to spend. The female revelers had swapped their shorts and sandals for pumps and gowns, lavish silky creations designed to parade augmented breasts and display ostentatious jewels. As for the men, they seemed to be evenly split, with half taking their fashion advice from the Robb Report, and the rest mimicking James Bond.

Anxious to learn of Achilles’ progress and update him on Michael’s plan, Jo tried to key her ear mike and found that it wasn’t there.
Merde!
It must have popped out when she fell. Her stomach seemed to shrink as the ramifications set in. In an instant she’d gone from the comfort of a protective wing, to feeling totally alone. A bird pushed out of the nest and onto the ground.
 

Jo tried to shake the solitary feeling as she took up Michael’s tail. In her head she knew it was silly. She’d been alone her whole adult life, whereas she’d only known Achilles for a couple hours. He wasn’t even there anyway, not physically.
This didn’t change a thing
, she told herself. He had his mission, and now she had hers.
 

Or did she?
 

As long as Ivan was still alive, she was going to stick with Michael — whatever it took. But what should she do once Ivan was dead? Director Rider had been crystal clear about his one and only goal: kill Ivan without getting caught. If Achilles hadn’t accomplished that already, he soon would. And Michael would see it happen.

What would she do then?

Achilles had repeatedly warned her not to engage Michael, but could she just let him get away? She’d have to play that by ear. Meanwhile, she was dying to see what would happen on camera.

Michael guided Aspinwall to the Upper Deck Lounge, which sat atop the marina offices. The MYS organizers had the large room arranged like the red carpet at a movie premiere. A cocktail lounge by day, it was now a hub for the press to interview the yacht manufacturers, billionaire owners, and scores of major and minor celebrities in attendance.
 

The network stations were packing up after the prince’s concluding remarks, but plenty of local and tabloid reporters had stuck around in hopes of recording gaffs and revelations once the vodka and Cognac started flowing. Michael appeared to have a particular reporter in mind, as he lead Aspinwall straight to a petite blonde on dangerously high heels. She was probably north of forty but would pass for twenty-nine on camera thanks to heavy makeup, a starvation diet, and hair extensions. Jo didn’t recognize the flag on her microphone, but assumed she was British.
 

Michael showed Aspinwall the script one last time, and then stood back so the candidate could make a solo approach. While Michael’s eyes were locked on his target, Jo sidled up to hers.
 

Aspinwall turned to face the crowd, with the wall of Monaco Yacht Show logos behind him, and the selected reporter eagerly waiting in front. Jo had to hand it to him. The man was a master of his own emotions. He was about to commit suicide on camera, but he seemed lively, even enthusiastic. No doubt he was flying on autopilot using the same campaign-trail reflexes that kept him engaging while repeating a stump speech night after night.

Michael stood directly beside the petite reporter. As she tested her mike, he relaunched the app and extended his smartphone toward the honored guest as though he was recording a video, rather than playing one. It was a smooth setup, and one he’d obviously planned. Only Aspinwall could see the display.

With the reverberation of the evening’s first fireworks providing a fitting backdrop, the reporter began recording. “I’m Sandra Sunnyford, here now with Kian Aspinwall, MP from Croydon, and leading candidate in the London mayoral election. Tell us, Mister Aspinwall, did you enjoy the show?”

Chapter 22

UNLIKE MOST OF my colleagues in the CIA’s Special Operation’s Group, I was not a combat veteran. I’d been climbing cliffs and chasing Olympic gold while they were earning green berets and golden tridents. But just because I wasn’t used to people shooting at me, didn’t mean I hadn’t developed combat reflexes. 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 its mark and put Emily beyond threat, I’d be redirecting my momentum into whipping around. I’d channel it back 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 that I was catching Ivan unaware, 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.