Chasing Ivan (4 page)

I SHOOK MY head as the timbre of the jet’s engines changed, and the Mediterranean Sea came into view on the horizon. “Tell me you got someone, Oscar. We’re running out of time.”

“It’s coming in now,” Oscar said. “Hold on.”

Despite the radical shift our surveillance operation took when it suddenly went international, we’d reestablished our tactical advantage with a bit of subterfuge and a government G150 jet. By working with the control tower to learn Emily’s flight schedule and then delay her departure, I was now following her plane from a hundred miles in front. Even The Ghost would be unlikely to spot me there. People look in their rearview mirrors for tails, not their windshields. But that advantage would evaporate without a skilled and knowledgeable driver on the ground. Getting a local agent to meet me shouldn’t have been a problem, but for some reason it was today. If Oscar didn’t have a name soon, I’d either have to steal a car, or use a taxi to tail the most elusive criminal in modern history through the packed streets of Nice.
 

“Agent Joe Monfort will meet you at the plane.”

“Hallelujah. What’s his background?”

“It doesn’t say anything.”

Was this guy twelve, or did he think I was?
“Don’t bullshit me, Oscar. If it doesn’t say anything, I’m sure you can look him up in the database. Tell me he’s not a rookie. The last time you were vague about a partner, it turned out to be his first day in the field. I’m tailing the globe’s most slippery criminal here. Tell me you’re not sending me a rookie.”

“Half of OPEC is in Monaco for the Yacht Show. It’s probably the single biggest gathering of Islamic billionaires in the world. The only reason you’re getting anybody at all is because Director Rider personally made a call. By the way, he wanted me to remind you how important this operation is.”

Of course he did. I was sure that deep down Oscar was aware of the contradictions coming out of his mouth, but on the surface he was clearly comfortable ignoring them. “Do we know his background? Tell me it’s Special Forces or DGSE or DGSI and not the Foreign Legion.” The CIA’s Special Operations Group typically drafted veterans of other elite forces. The DGSE and DGSI were France’s version of the CIA and FBI, and along with the COS, France’s Special Operations Group, they were our favored recruiting grounds. Unfortunately France’s top people typically preferred to stay domestic. The French Foreign Legion, on the other hand, was essentially a tough band of misfits who tended to be much bigger on brawn than intellect. Good horses, and much easier to recruit, but not the best for the course I was running. I wasn’t sure if that was it, but I could tell Oscar was hiding something.

“You know what I know,” Oscar said. “Regardless of background, I’m sure Joe can drive. What else do you need?”

I didn’t have time to explain field operations to someone daft enough to ask that question. “Nothing.”
 

“Good. Don’t fuck up.”

“How’s the facial recognition coming?” By walking around the lobby of Palace Place while pretending to talk on my cell, I’d gotten decent video of Michael escorting Emily to the limo.

“Nothing yet. I checked with Willis, and he said it’s clear Michael’s had facial surgery, so I’m not holding my breath.” Willis was a plastic surgeon with the Department of Justice. The Witness Protection Program was his main gig, but he also consulted for the CIA.

“Great. How about the plane? Anything on it yet?” Emily’s jet had a VP-C tail number, which I knew to be a Cayman Island registration. Not a good sign as far as transparency was concerned.

“It’s a nested corporate registration, a regular onion. The owner went to great lengths to conceal its identity, which isn’t that uncommon, as you know.”
 

I did know. People who could afford to fly private tended to love their privacy as much as their lawyers loved all the billable hours they got to spend on the obfuscation. “Let me know the minute you’ve got it peeled.”

The descent into Nice Cote D’Azur Airport was spectacular enough to lighten my mood, if only for a minute. Approaching over the red-tiled roofs of the French Riviera’s exquisite mansions toward the Mediterranean’s winking blue waters and sparkling white sands, I found myself enjoying my first lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous moment. Granted, my private jet was owned by the government, and I had been sent to dispatch an enemy of the state, but this was definitely a rosebud-worth-gathering moment, so to speak.

The CIA’s Special Operations Group was the real-life version of the IMF, the fictional organization made famous in the Mission Impossible series. We had access to private jets, and some pretty cool equipment, although it was nowhere near the extravagant assortment Hollywood produced. The aspect that did match the show, however, was the requirement to operate under the radar. I carried no special ID, wore no uniform, and used no equipment uniquely traceable to Uncle Sam. I also couldn’t interact with foreign officials, even law enforcement — or get a better table at Spago.
 

Without the ability to turn to the locals for help, I really did need a competent French partner on the ground. It wasn’t just a question of transportation. One never knew what would come up that might require local influence or expertise. Speaking of things coming at me, it appeared that Joe hadn’t. I was looking at nothing but an empty carpet at the bottom of the G150’s airstair.

Chapter 7

AS HER PRIVATE jet soared over the gleaming waters of the English Channel, Emily found herself eager to learn everything Alexandra knew about her virtual boyfriend. “Do you work full-time for Andreas?”

Alexandra shook her head in a practiced manner that tossed her curls without being overtly flamboyant. “No, I work for an acquaintance of his. The man who owns the plane. He needed Andreas to stay the weekend, and offered this accommodation when Andreas explained his conflicting commitment to you.”

“Sounds like a good acquaintance to have,” Emily said. She was also dying to know where they were headed, but would have felt silly asking at that point, so instead she said, “How long is the flight?”

“About two hours,” Alexandra said. “You can go back and change now. Take a shower if you’d like, but don’t be too long. We’ll need time for your mani-pedi, makeover, and hair.”

Time for a mani-pedi, makeover, and hair.
Of course. She wondered if she should ask someone to pinch her.

Emily had to take a shower if for no other reason than to take one on a plane. A private jet, no less. Heading to meet her new boyfriend somewhere on the continent for a dinner date. Unbelievable. People always said she had pretty eyes, and she worked hard to keep in shape with yoga and jogging, in addition to a diet that held far more no’s than yeses, but she was no model. No Alexandra. Far from it. She’d just found her soul mate, at long last. And he happened to be rich.

After fumbling unsuccessfully with the clasp of her new necklace, she decided to leave it on, unwilling to risk jinxing things. While she lathered up with lilac-scented soap, Emily thought about the salon treatment to come. She silently promised herself that however this day turned out, she wouldn’t get upset. A couple of hours ago she’d been in the pit of despair, standing in her doorway with a broken phone and a wounded heart. Now she was living a life beyond her wildest dream. Even if Andreas turned out to be a fat old cretin who thought of women as objects of amusement, it would still be a day she could revisit — a story she could regale for the rest of her life.
 

That was a lie, of course.
 

If Andreas disappointed her, she’d be curled up in the corner with a case of wine and a tear-soaked blanket until her fortieth birthday. Even Jen would stop calling. Please, God. Please.

“How well do you know Andreas?” she asked, picking up their earlier conversation, as Alexandra worked on her nails.

“We’ve never actually met. We just spoke on the phone.”

“Oh?” Emily said, disappointed.

“He sure seemed smitten with you, though. He was much more interested in the details than most men, particularly the cut of your dress.” Emily looked down. The open front put her new necklace on prominent display, and more importantly, it did right by her cleavage. It wasn’t a bad picture, a golden sun rising from a sea of blue silk between two mountains — well, hills really, or hillocks perhaps. Regardless, in the abstract it resembled one of widow Cooper’s paintings.
 

“It was a first for me,” Alexandra continued, “shopping for clothes for a woman my client had never seen. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you and Andreas become acquainted?”

“We met through an online dating service, a couple of months ago.”

“A couple of months? And you still haven’t met in person?”

“We both had bad prior experiences that made us cautious. But nonetheless, we soon developed an amazing online rapport. I felt as though he was inside my head. At some point I think we both became hesitant to meet because we didn’t want to risk ruining the virtual relationship. So we picked this date a month ago to take the pressure off, agreeing to meet if things were still going well. We didn’t even set the details, just the time and place: my flat at 6:00 tonight.”

“Not a restaurant?”

Emily tried replicating Alexandra’s perky head shake. “We’d both been in situations where a date didn’t show at a restaurant. So we agreed to meet out front of my building instead. If he didn’t show, or I didn’t come downstairs, then at least the other’s embarrassment wouldn’t be public.”

“But still, giving out your address. Wasn’t that risky?”

Emily thought about her secret. Was there any reason to keep it, given what she’d learned today? Quite the opposite, it seemed.
 

Sensing her hesitation, Alexandra kept talking. “I’m going to fix your hair up, if that’s all right. Andreas mentioned that he loved the lines of your neck.”

“I’m in your hands. To answer your question, I wanted Andreas to have my address. I wanted him to know that I live modestly.”

Alexandra cocked her head. “I don’t follow, but maybe that’s because I spend my days helping the wealthy to look positively rich.”

“My father is an influential public figure, a Member of Parliament. We don’t communicate — we haven’t since my mother died — but our estrangement is kept quiet for political reasons. His position is not a big deal, other than when it comes to my love life. For years now, most of the men I’ve dated have turned out to be more interested in my father than in me. That got a lot worse a year ago when he declared his candidacy in the London mayoral race.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows, and then began a delicate nod. “So you began hiding your true identity, and removed any connection to status from your profile. And your modest flat does nothing to break the illusion. I guess I can see the logic in that. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your family name?”

“Aspinwall. I’m Emily Aspinwall.”

Alexandra’s pupil’s flared. “I don’t follow politics, but that’s still a name I recognize. Your father’s leading in the polls.”

Emily nodded.

“That must be exciting. Does the Mayor of London get a jet?”

“I have no idea. If he does, I’ll never see it. But in any case I’m sure that if you’re the Mayor of London, there are plenty of people willing to lend you theirs.”

“No doubt about that. Eighty percent of the miles on this plane are logged for favors. Gives my boss a hefty sack of IOU’s.”

And now one of them has Andreas’s name on it
, Emily thought. “You’re not looking to change employers, are you? Looks to me like you’ve got it pretty good.”

“I do. But I think I’d rather have a British boss.”

“Who’s your boss now?”

“Like me, he’s Russian.”

“Really? You don’t have an accent.”

A mischievous look crossed Alexandra’s face and she said, “I’ve worked hard.”

“We’re not headed for Moscow, are we?”

“Michael didn’t tell you where we’re going?”

“He seems to have a predilection for the mysterious.”

Alexandra seemed to have a penchant for suspense herself. “Stand up and look at yourself in the mirror,” she said.

They walked back to the bathroom where Emily admired the total transformation that Alexandra had wrought. She’d never looked better. Perfect hair, a fashionable dress, a flawless mani-pedi, and an exquisite gold necklace. If only she’d met Alexandra the day of her ten-year high school reunion. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“You made it easy. You’ve got great bone structure. But I must say, I’m pleased with the result. Which is a good thing, because it would be a shame to have you looking anything but your very best … at the Monaco Yacht Show.”

Chapter 8