Chasing Ivan (8 page)

And then he simply wasn’t there.
 

“Merde!”

She’d forgotten that Achilles was live in her ear, so when he responded, it was like the voice of God. “What’s wrong?”

“Michael just disappeared.”

“Just this second?”

“Yes.”

“Keep walking as though nothing happened. The difference between tailing someone like Michael and one of your civilian marks is that he has been trained in countermeasures. His use of them doesn’t necessarily mean he’s spotted you. With time, countermeasures become reflexive. But this does indicate that his radar will be finely tuned, so whatever you do, don’t stop and look around as though you’ve lost your puppy. How far back were you when it happened?”

“About thirty meters.”

“Good. Keep walking while you search using your peripheral vision. Once you’re about twenty meters past the point he disappeared, stop and pull out your smartphone. Lean against a post or something, someplace that gives you the right perspective. Keep your face pointed down towards your phone, scanning for him only with your eyes. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Keep in mind that he might change his appearance. Everything is game — from his hair and clothes, to his apparent age and stride. If in doubt, check the pants and shoes. They’re usually the last to go. Just remember what they taught you at The Farm and you’ll do fine. You’re clearly a natural.”

“Thank you. Will do.”

“I just talked my way onto the
Anzhelika
as advance security for the prince, using the card you so brilliantly procured. Now I need to keep a low profile, so talking will be problematic. If you don’t reacquire Michael in the next ten minutes, join me here.”

“Okay.”

“And Jo, remember, whatever you do, don’t engage this guy. He’s too good. It’s not worth it.”

She wasn’t going to let Michael outwit her. No way. Not on her first case. Not with Director Rider personally paying attention.

She’d last seen Michael before the big exhibition tent. Unlike the little ones lining the dock like dominoes, the big air-conditioned tent had many dozens of subdivisions for luxury vendors. To go in after him would be like entering a maze. She could wait outside, but there were two exits, spaced about sixty meters apart. Surveying both would be difficult, especially given the view needed to see through disguises. On top of all that, she had to act fast.
 

She performed a quick 180-degree sweep, searching for a location that would make it possible to view both exits. Something with enough altitude to give her a full-body perspective. Someplace that wouldn’t draw attention while her head pivoted back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. Her eyes zoomed in on the upper decks of the flanking yachts near the middle of the row. Most were blazing with light and buzzing with activity, but
Victor’s Secret
was relatively dark, and appeared quiet. Perhaps Victor was busy inspecting lingerie in the master’s suite, but given the hour, she was hopeful that he was either dining at one of Monaco’s many Michelin-starred restaurants, or living large at the Casino de Monte-Carlo.

Jo boarded the darkened yacht as if she owned it and looked for an external staircase that would take her to an upper deck without breaking her surveillance line of sight. There wasn’t one, so she decided to climb. A few basic gymnastics moves was all it would take, given the preponderance of rails. Child’s play for a cat burglar who’d trained as a gymnast.
Former
cat burglar, she corrected herself.
 

Two kip casts, paired with neck kip to stand springs, and she was three decks up on post — less than a minute after hanging up with Achilles.

“What are you doing?” The challenge had been issued from the dock. The speaker was a middle-aged passerby holding hands with a teenage wife.

“Shhh,” she said, with a finger to her lips. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

The man grimaced as the woman yanked his hand. “Sorry,” he mouthed.

Emily pulled out her monocular and began the back and forth sweep that would not stop until she’d either reacquired her target, or her ten minutes had expired. She used her naked left eye to take in the big picture, and then shifted to the scope on her right whenever somebody deserved a closer look. As she’d been trained, Jo ignored context. It didn’t matter if the man was pushing a wheelchair or part of a crowd, if his build was the right proportion, he got her full scrutiny. Fortunately, with the show now closed, the mobs were gone. And as a bonus, most people exiting the big tent were hauling luggage that slowed their pace.

Jo wondered how Achilles was fairing on the
Anzhelika
. She enjoyed audacious moves like his. They’d been the hallmark of her previous profession. But she’d always kept to the shadows. Achilles had walked right past the gorillas into the lion’s den. That was bold, and risky. Russian oligarchs weren’t known to be charitable to their enemies.

Despite the odds, she was betting that her first partner would pull it off. There was an air about him, a combination of confidence and charisma that she found inspiring. Maybe that came with being an Olympian. She’d never met one before. In any case, she was determined not to let him down.

A couple of men, both the right age and size, exited the far door together. They turned away from her, heading toward the port’s center so she couldn’t see their faces. One wore navy slacks and a blue sweater. The other wore black pants, and a blue blazer topped with a captain’s hat. The second man also carried a familiar tan bag. Jo thought the captain’s hat would be a perfect decoy. A common technique was to give someone of the same size a distinctive bag of the same variety, then hide his features with a cap and blazer, and send him on his way.

Jo studied him for a few paces, knowing she had a call to make. Picking one person meant abandoning all others. Captain had a gait that struck her as predatory, as if he was planning to pick a fight at the bar. That convinced her he was Michael, ninety percent anyway. Perhaps the wardrobe change wasn’t meant to throw off anyone behind him, but rather someone ahead. He wasn’t headed back to the
Anzhelika
.
 

She dropped deck to deck without letting him out of her sight, like a lifeguard dismounting a tower. Then she began to run, rolling her feet to muffle the noise. Jo continued at a jog until there was just thirty meters between them and then dropped her pace. She closed to twenty-five meters and then twenty. This was closer than her handlers at Langley would advise, but she was flexing with the circumstances.
 

She was armed with a slimline subcompact Glock and a directional microphone. If she could see it, she could shoot it and listen to its final breath, but not from thirty meters. She was pushing both her pistol marksmanship and her microphone’s capabilities at twenty.

“How’s it going?” Achilles asked.

“I’m on him. He changed into a captain’s hat and blazer. We’re still walking.”

“Interesting. He changed for a purpose, you can be sure of that. Something’s up.”

“I’m on it. What’s going on with you?”

“I happen to be changing as well. I’m down in the crew quarters, putting on a waiter’s uniform.”

“What will you do if someone asks you for something?”

“Do my best to be obsequious.”

“I meant that they’re likely to ask you in Russian.”

“I’m fluent. My mother was from Moscow. Speak of the devil, I gotta go. Be careful.”

As Achilles signed off, Michael turned right and stepped onto a yacht, the
Daisy Mae
. Jo pulled out her phone and pretended to type while watching him. He went up the back staircase to the level above, where a man’s head and shoulders popped into view as he stood to shake Michael’s hand. She glanced at the time on her screen. Exactly 9:00. Michael had an appointment with someone. She didn’t know who or why, but intuition told her that it was critical to the mission to find out.

Chapter 14

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“Agent Achilles, this is Director Rider, looking for a sitrep.”

The two incongruous questions hit me at the same time. The first, spoken in Russian, came from a large man in a waiter’s uniform identical to the one I’d just slipped on. I’d have to answer it first, which meant the head of the CIA was about to become confused while he waited for his situation report. Normally I’d switch my ear mike off to spare us both the confusion, but that movement would look peculiar, and at this moment I needed to appear anything but. “I’m Volodya’s replacement, Vanya. Pleased to meet you.”

The intruder’s expression changed. “Which Volodya?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Dubnov? Was it Dubnov?”

“I’m not sure. His last name wasn’t mentioned.”

“I hope not, but I wouldn’t put it past Stepashin. He’ll fire anyone for anything. You better hurry up. It’s crazy up there, and Mister Voskerchyan doesn’t like crazy.” His eyes appraised me, head to toe. Seeming to approve, he said, “Take my advice and work to appear calm and deferential at all times, no matter what these spoiled bastards say or do. By the way, I’m Pavel. Gotta run.”

“What the hell is going on?” Director Rider asked in my ear.

Pavel turned and began to exit but then stopped short. Two other guys walked past him into the room. Pavel turned back around. “This is Volodya Dubnov,” he said, pointing to a thick man with wrestler’s ears on his left. “And this is Volodya Mendelson.” He pointed toward his right, to a handsome guy whose height and build were more suited for the NFL than a cruise ship. “Which one are you replacing?”

The gig was up. Pavel’s expression told me he knew he’d been played, and wasn’t happy about it. I was oh for two on finesse today, and the stakes were mounting with each failure. This time I was facing a veritable wall of opposition. At 6’2” and 220 pounds, I’m no powder puff, but these three were close to that on average, accent on the three.

“Mister Voskerchyan doesn’t like thieves or spies,” Pavel continued. “Which one are you?”

Wrestler spoke next, confirming that Pavel’s question was rhetorical. “Last guy we caught provided us with a week’s worth of entertainment before we let the sharks in on the fun. It gets boring down here in the crew quarters, you see. All the good stuff is up top. So thanks for joining us, regardless of your reason.”

“International waters are like outer space,” Handsome added. “Nobody can hear you scream.”

While they were busy working themselves up as men do before combat, I was assessing the situation. The trick was going to be rendering them unconscious without inflicting permanent damage or worse. Although the more they talked, the less I was concerned about the worse. Keep talking, guys. Given the close-quarters combat environment, I pegged Wrestler as the biggest threat and decided to take him out first.
 

“Let’s go talk to Voskerchyan,” I said, raising doubt as I moved toward them and the door.

The uppercut has several advantages, one of which is that it’s delivered through the undefended territory between the arms. Another advantage to uppercuts is that they slip in below the visual field. Recipients often never see them coming. That was exactly what happened to Wrestler. “Nobody gets-” was as far as he got before my palm-heel strike landed. By taking a step first, I was able to put my legs behind it, the blow kicking his chin up and back with great force and velocity of a kicking mule. The move compressed the nerve bundle at the back of his neck, turning off his lights. If there had been onlookers, they’d have said, “He never knew what hit him.”

With the other two just off to my left, I spun around and put my right elbow into Pavel’s solar plexus with enough force to lift him off the ground with a grunt and a whoosh. Solar plexus blows are beautiful because they cause all kinds of stress. The recipient remains conscious, but his system goes into reboot as it reacts to the systemic disruption that just paralyzed his diaphragm and stole all his air.
 

Continuing around with my circular momentum, I attempted to place a crushing yoke strike against Handsome’s larynx. I was fast, but not fast enough, and he snapped his head back in time to dodge the brunt of it. I continued through with my planned combination, planting a powerful left cross on Pavel’s temple and sending him to dreamland with a headache that would reverberate for weeks.
 

Dodging a kick from Handsome, I put myself between him and the door. The expression on his face told me he thought I was going to run for it, but I kicked it closed instead.

As the lock clicked home, the right side of his mouth pulled back in a primordial smile, revealing his canine tooth. Apparently Voskerchyan staffed his yacht with men who could serve a dual purpose. Being the bigger guy, and thinking I was cornered, Handsome launched himself at me as if he was storming the castle gate. His intent seemed to be to crush me where I stood, a bug on the windshield of his brawn.

I shot my left hand forward as though I was going for his eyes. Nothing induces panic faster than an ocular assault. As he tilted and twisted his head, I hit the other panic button. I drove my right fist straight into his balls, fast and true. Momentum carried him into me and flattened me against the door, but he doubled over rather than pushing through. A quick rabbit punch knocked him out.