Chasing Ivan (9 page)

“I repeat. What the hell is going on?” The voice in my ear was still talking. “You’re not in direct contact, are you Achilles?”

Direct contact was a literal description of what I was doing, but Rider didn’t need to know that. “Hold on, sir.”

I got busy stuffing three oversized sailors into three undersized wardrobes. The result wasn’t pretty, but I got all the doors closed and locked with keys from their pockets.
 

Time to deal with Rider, one way or another. I considered switching off the mike now that I was alone, but it was about to get hairy, and I knew I might need support. “Sir, I’m aboard the yacht where we believe Ivan is meeting Emily.”

“What do you mean
you believe
?”

Their syntax was so similar that I wondered if Rider was secretly Oscar’s father. “Emily was brought here, we believe, as part of Ivan’s plan to influence the London mayoral election, but I don’t have visual confirmation. The
Anzhelika
is the size of a football field, so I’ve changed into a crew uniform to facilitate the search. I need to get on that now, sir.”

“You do that. Don’t plan to disembark while Ivan’s still breathing.”

Chapter 15

“I’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING with me, a little show and tell that I guarantee will change your life,” Michael told the mayoral candidate, his tone making it clear that his words should not be construed as hyperbole.

Lounging before a gas-and-glass fire pit at the aft end of the
Daisy Mae’s
big deck, Kian Aspinwall appeared as relaxed as a politician in the midst of a high-profile campaign can be. He wore a pink button-down beneath a blue linen blazer, and boat shoes on bare feet. Keeping his eyes on Michael’s, and flashing a pleasant smile that showed plenty of perfect teeth, he replied, “I’m intrigued.”

So was Jo. She’d crept to a perch that gave her line of sight on the conversing couple from a neighboring yacht. From that vantage point, her directional microphone delivered their words as clearly as if she’d been seated with them. She was reveling in her good luck when Michael lifted his tan leather bag and said, “Let’s move to the table.”
 

Her heart sank, her lips mouthing, “Merde.” That ruined everything. When they moved back toward the main saloon, she’d lose sight and sound. Even worse, there was no location on her yacht that gave a downward angle on that table. To see what was in the bag, she was literally going to have to jump ship — silently, invisibly, and immediately.

Jo jammed her equipment back into her purse. As she slipped off her boots and socks, the internal monologue began.
What are you doing Jo? My job. Don’t think about the risks, just do it.
 

She backed up to the far railing, took a deep breath, and then started sprinting. Five strides to gain speed, then up onto a footstool with her left, then the guardrail with her right, followed by an open-air dive — arms forward, legs up, eyes locked on the guardrail of the
Daisy Mae’s
top deck some ten feet away. If she missed, she’d likely drop three stories to the water. Noise. Injury. Attention. Failure. She let the consequences fly by as fast as the scenery, maintaining her focus on victory. As soon as her fingers touched precious chrome, Jo used core strength and momentum to pike her hips up, flipping her legs over like she’d done a thousand times on the uneven bars. She released her grip on the rail as soon as her ankles broke the vertical plane, and a split second later landed — on her ass rather than her feet. Her pride took a hit, but she was none the worse for wear.
 

After scrambling to her feet, Jo pulled the monocular and directional mike from her bag, and scurried to the far edge. Peering over, she found the corner of the wall separating the saloon from the aft deck. She wriggled under the guardrail on her belly at that spot, and then slid over the edge. Hanging with her knees crooked over the middle beam of the guardrail above, she maneuvered to an angle that let her see the table over Kian Aspinwall’s shoulder. Covert surveillance Batman-style had never come to mind while practicing inversions in yoga class, but it likely would hereafter.

As she redirected the mike, she heard Aspinwall say, “After your introduction, I wasn’t expecting fruit.”
 

“Ah, but when is citrus not fruit?” Michael replied.
 

Jo saw that he’d placed a grapefruit on the table, atop a little trivet that held it steady.
 

Kian’s expression hinted at the perplexed indifference that Jo suspected he was feeling. Perplexed, because this was no doubt the most unusual one-on-one meeting he’d hosted all day. Indifferent, because the thousands of pounds Michael had no doubt contributed to his campaign for the privilege were already in the bank.

Michael then withdrew a manila envelope from his bag. The thought of blackmail photos crossed Jo’s mind before he slid an unfamiliar object out and it clunked onto the table. It was a loop of wire joined by a metal puck the size of a large coin, but about four times as thick.

“That’s interesting,” Kian said, his confusion obviously mounting.

“Isn’t it,” Michael replied. He proceeded to belt the grapefruit with the wire, securing it at the equator by pulling the ends tight. “Now comes the cool part.”

Chapter 16

“DON’T PLAN TO disembark while Ivan’s still breathing,” I repeated Rider’s words to myself. The man had sounded like a saint during his Senate confirmation hearing, all polite and prim and proper. Politicians were a different species. But I was happy enough with the plan.

I’d boarded the
Anzhelika
under the guise of being an advance member of Prince Albert’s security detail. This had resonated with the matched set of Russian thugs at the bottom of the gangplank, as it made me a brother-in-arms of sorts. But that didn’t stop them from confiscating my Glock. Losing my firearm was a setback, but not critical. I could kill Ivan with anything from my thumb to a copy of Vanity Fair, although I’d prefer the speed of something more conventional. Now that I was suitably dressed, I made my way down the hall toward the galley in search of camouflaging props and more conventional weapons.
 

The galley was a veritable beehive. White-hatted chefs were checking and chopping, stirring and arranging, while the arms of assistants flew about their production stations. Chicly attired servers came and went, carting away their culinary masterpieces away on silver platters. The smell of bacon-wrapped scallops made my stomach growl like a belligerent dog, reminding me that I was overdue for dinner.
 

As a waitress passed, a dark-haired beauty whose long legs made the most of her stylish uniform, I asked in Russian, “Where can I get a bottle of Cristal Champagne?”

She began to answer without breaking her stride, but then caught my eye and paused. “You’re new. But then you wouldn’t be asking the question if you weren’t, I suppose. I’m Tanya.” She gave me a smile so warm I worried it would bake the rare Ahi tuna on her plate. “The wine store is one level down toward the bow, with the other cold storage. Alex will help you.”

I said, “Thanks,” and grabbed a couple of her hors d’oeuvres with my right hand while my left surreptitiously slipped the long silver corkscrew from her apron.

She winked and was gone.

On the way to cold storage I inspected my new weapon. It was a three-for-one deal. The foil knife was small but very sharp. Probably Swiss. Well-tailored for windpipes and carotids. The actual corkscrew swung out of the middle to form a T, protruding between my middle and ring fingers, it would work as a knuckle-duster, debilitating major muscles, and potentially deadly against the throat and through the eyes. Finally, the blunt end would function like a Kubotan stick. Lethal on the temples, and good for debilitating blows to bony areas and sensitive fleshy spots. Best of all, in this environment it looked innocuous.

I found cold storage and Alex, as advertised. He was mid-sixties if not older — the oldest guy I’d seen working — and also the most relaxed. I guessed he’d been with Voskerchyan since before the Berlin Wall was toppled. “A bottle of Cristal?” I asked, by way of greeting.

“Semechkin must have arrived,” he said, his voice unexpectedly low. “Coming right up.”

I had no idea who Semechkin was, but when luck smiles you smile back. I accepted the bottle in an iced silver bucket along with two crystal flutes and the obligatory silver platter.

Oscar had sent the
Anzhelika’s
deck plan to my smartphone. As big as the yacht was, I found relatively few places that Ivan and Emily were likely to be. Those included the common areas, the saloons and open decks, and the guest rooms. Since the open areas were crawling with both hostile eyes and thirsty guests, now in desperate need of wait service since they were three waiters short, I decided to try the guest cabins first.

The guest cabins were all on the forward half of the main deck, now two levels above me. According to the deck plan on my cell phone, the only way up was the grand central staircase, which would dump me into the main lobby. This route would expose me to the bulk of the guests in the adjacent saloon, but there was no alternative.
 

As I took the stairs, praying that I wouldn’t be flagged down by an anxious mob like the lone waitress in an overcrowded diner, I wondered how Jo was fairing. Her moves picking the pockets of the prince’s entourage had impressed me, as much for the quick strategic thinking it represented as for her tactical execution. She must have had quite a time at The Farm, using her quick wits to compensate for a lack of prior Special Forces training. I could relate to that. I looked forward to learning more about her story over a beer, once we’d taken Ivan out.

I paused on the grand circular stairway as soon as my head cleared the main deck’s floor and studied the saloon through the open lobby doors. Thick carpet, lavish furnishings, and lots of polished cherry wood met my eyes. All of it coordinated and arranged to meld function with beauty. No doubt the designer had earned both a small fortune and a coveted industry award.
 

Speaking of awards, the guests enjoying Voskerchyan’s hospitality looked like the Academy Award’s red carpet lineup. There were enough jewels on display to pay off Greece’s national debt, and a wide enough range of beauty to supply an entire Miss Universe pageant. I would have enjoyed mingling for an hour or two, just to pick up tips on which islands to buy, and where to acquire the most obedient slaves, but I limited my foray to a quick scan of faces. Alas, they did not include Emily’s.

I completed my ascent when most heads were turned away, and ducked into the hallway that led back to the guest staterooms. Despite the
Anzhelika’s
size, there were only seven. A literal interpretation of living large. They were arranged with three on each side of the hall, and a VIP suite at the end. I’d lifted an electronic key card from each of the three snoozing locker attendants. I didn’t know if they would work on the guest rooms, but guessed that the owner’s suite was the only place that would have crew restrictions.

I’d formulated my plan of attack while Alex was placing the Cristal in the bucket. Noting the shape and recalling the weight of the last bottle I’d hefted, I realized he was handing me a club. It would only be good for a surprise blow or two, but surprise was exactly what I intended. Posing as a daft and misdirected waiter, I’d key into promising rooms until I found Ivan. At that point, there would be a bit of quarrelsome dialogue including
who ordered what
and
now that I’m here
, followed a few days later by a headline titled:
the Champagne went to his head
.
 

I whipped out the Range-R and began walking down the left side of the corridor, pressing it against the wall with my left hand while my right supported the Champagne as cover. The Range-R Xtreme was like a sophisticated stud finder that painted a picture of bodies in a room. Very cool. Of the seven staterooms, only two contained animate objects. The third on the left had a couple I was quite certain were naked, and the VIP suite contained a trio I was equally certain were not. Neither room looked particularly promising, but tactically there was a smart place to start. I wasn’t worried about dying from embarrassment.