Chasing Ivan (12 page)

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 adrenaline did funny things with time.

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

Chapter 23

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 right after Kian, and much faster than the encumbered cameraman or Sandra on 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 it caught on film.
 

They were on the dock, which 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, shouting, “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

I FELT TERRIBLE leaving Emily in her traumatized condition, but 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, but 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. One of the most striking features of these enormous yachts was the fact that they hold luxury speedboats in tender garages. These boats, or tenders, as they’re known, are hoisted in and out of the water on cranes, which operate through large garage doors in the hull. It was through one of these doors 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?