Chasing Ivan (14 page)

But the glass didn’t crack.
 

As my heart dropped, my lungs implored me to swim for the surface.
 

Hatred held me in place.
 

I unscrewed the regulator from the top of the tank, streamlining my improvised weapon and giving it a point. Raising it high over my head, I brought it down again and a third time, pounding the valve stem against the same spot on the sphere with the precision and force of an ironworker’s hammer. I was expecting a crack and hoping for an implosion.
 

I got nothing.
 

For all my effort and emotion, I was only burning oxygen, and making noise.

Game over.

The last I saw of Ivan the Ghost, he was sporting a smug smile, and waving goodbye.

Chapter 27

THE OFFICE OF the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is no oval, but it still stole a few pints of my breath. The first three things to catch my eye were an ornate oak desk that looked as weighty as the decisions made behind it, a framed American flag rescued from the ruins of the World Trade Center, and a long lineup of vanity photos with celebrities ranging from LeBron James to Donald Trump. The plush blue carpeting still smelled new, and I was standing on it.

“You let The Ghost escape,” Rider said, his voice tinged with anger and wrought with scorn. “The bloody Russian’s been a thorn in our side for eight years, and when we finally get a lead on him, you literally let him walk. You had him, and you let him go, contravening my direct order.”

I found Director Rider’s contemptuous expression similar to Ivan’s last glance. Even with air in my lungs, however, this experience was worse. In part because he was right, and in part because I couldn’t fight back. Regardless of what I thought of Rider, I respected his position. So I stood there and took it, eyes forward and mouth shut.
 

“You may think you’re on the side of the angels, because you saved a girl, but you’re failing to see the big picture. What you did was weaken a nation, a nation that millions fought to make strong. You not only showed poor judgment, you demonstrated that you can’t be counted on when the going gets tough. When the big decisions are called for you, Agent Achilles, get squeamish. That’s what Granger failed to foresee when he recruited you from a ski club rather than the Special Forces. I require more than skills. I require instincts, and attitude.”

I said nothing.

This seemed to further perturb the director. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I shifted my eyes to Rider’s. He looked exactly like what he was, a seasoned politician comfortably seated behind a big desk. An armchair general pretending to lead from behind. “Sir, what is Agent Monfort’s condition?”

“Agent Josephine Monfort? Yes, there’s another mark on the debit side of your ledger. Were it not for a first-rate emergency medical team, you’d be responsible for adding her star to the lobby wall. As is stands, she’ll make a full recovery. Physically, that is. Losing Ivan isn’t going to help her career. Anything else you’d like to say?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Agent Achilles, having disobeyed a direct order and proven yourself to be of no use to me, and thus to this agency, you’re fired.”

“No, sir.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Something about this case bothered me from the very beginning.”

Rider grabbed a letter-opener off his desk, a miniature broadsword, and began to slice the air with its handle pinched between forefinger and thumb. The sight reminded me of the last thing I’d pinched between those fingers — and a decision I’d never regret. “And what was that?” he asked. “What bothered you?”

“The big picture.” I paused for a second to let my words plant roots in the worry center of his mind. “For eight years, Ivan’s been a ghost. So smooth and secretive that he’s become a living legend. But then suddenly he supposedly made the mistake of using the same bank account twice. I don’t buy it. Too basic and amateur for a man who’s legendary for operating without a trace.”

Rider spread his hands, palms up. “He was due for a mistake. One in eight years isn’t bad. Of course his record makes the fact that you blew it all that much worse.”

I kept my eyes locked on Rider’s. “That doubt nagged at me until I met The Ghost face to face. Then it vanished. The reason there’s not another criminal on the planet like Ivan is that he takes meticulous planning to the extreme. The Ghost has contingencies for his contingencies. He’s the Gary Kasparov of crime, except that he only plays one or two matches a year. The idea that Ivan would make such a basic mistake is as preposterous as Kasparov losing at checkers.”

Rider brought his hands back together with a clap. “And yet that’s how we found him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You conducted the investigation yourself, former-agent Achilles.” Rider’s voice was calm and unwavering, but the corners of his eyes were pulling back a little.

“I conducted the investigation that followed from having the client’s identity, not the investigation that led to it. His identity was provided to me. By you.”

Rider leaned back, shaking his head. “I got it from the financial crimes division.”
 

“And I’m sure you’ve arranged for someone there to back you up on that. Nonetheless, I asked myself how you really might have gotten a lead on The Ghost. That’s where Ivan’s nature entered the mix.
 

“You became Director of the CIA only after two surprising events happened. First, the President’s initial nominee suddenly withdrew his name, citing personal reasons. Then, the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee suddenly became your ardent supporter.”

“That’s the nature of politics. What’s your point?”

“My point is the pattern. That pattern was about to repeat in the London mayoral election — not that anyone would notice. Who would ever think to compare them? Two different continents, two different positions.”

“I’ve run out of patience with you, Achilles. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you hired The Ghost. You hired him to secure your position, and at the same time, you hired him to sway the London mayoral election.”

Rider continued shaking his head. “Why on Earth would I care who wins the London mayoral election?”

“I can’t think of a single reason.”

“Well then …” He began to stand.

“Which is exactly why you picked it. It’s similar enough in scale to the CIA Directorship that The Ghost wouldn’t blink at having them grouped together, but different enough that nobody would ever connect the two.”

Plunking back into his chair, Rider said, “You’re not making sense, Achilles. Why would I hire The Ghost to rig an election I care nothing about?”

It was my turn to enjoy myself, and I was going to savor every second. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? I have two good answers. The first was camouflage. Hire The Ghost to put you into office, and he’ll know it was you, regardless of code names and numbered bank accounts. Hire him for a package deal, however, with two totally unrelated names, and Ivan wouldn’t have a clue as to who had hired him, or why.” I paused to soak up the moment.
 

“As clever as that tactic is, the second reason is my favorite because it was a two-for-one deal.” I paused there, just to see if I could make veins appear on Rider’s temples. It took three seconds. “I spent the past twenty-four hours doing a bit of investigation, while I still had my credentials. I didn’t find any evidence of your looking into Ivan’s banking, but I did find your extensive research on Aspinwall. The London contract wasn’t about influencing British politics. The London contract was about setting Ivan up.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“By killing Ivan shortly after coming to office, you would eliminate the only witness to your crime, and begin your tenure with a dramatic win, a win that would prove your past naysayers wrong and cause your future opponents to think twice. Strategically, it was brilliant. Admirable, even. You outwitted the president, the Senate, and one of the most notorious criminals of our time.”

Rider swapped his mask of indignation for one of pleasant indifference, a core item in the wardrobe of all career politicians. “If that were true, one might say it reflects the kind of operational mind this country needs at the helm of the CIA.”

“One might. But not me.”

“But not you.” Rider chewed on that a moment. “Well, it’s been interesting listening to the imagination of a disgraced and traumatized former agent, but as long as you’re where you are and I’m where I am, this story will never amount to more than that. Unless you have evidence, of course?”

I shook my head and steeled myself for the smug smile to come — the last I ever intended to see. “You’re where you are, and I’m where I am, and traumatized though I might be by the brutality of DC-league politics, I’m not naive enough to think that I could win that fight without a smoking gun. I’m also not corrupt enough to switch over to the dark side. Not yet, anyway.”

“So?”

I left him hanging for a minute. Gave him the experience of operating without air. It was a victory of sorts, albeit transient and minor. “So, I’ve decided to get out while my self-respect is still intact. I’ve decided to resign.”
 

That yanked the mask right off, exposing the complete package. Stretched lips, raised chin, and triumphant eyes.
 

I turned and walked for the door, an old life behind me, a new one ahead. As my hand hit the big brass knob, I spun about again. “Of course, since I figured out that you set Ivan up, you can be certain that he will too. Enjoy the rest of your life, Director.”

Epilogue

“EVEN AFTER my own experience, I still can’t believe Michael shot you,” Emily said. “He was such a gentleman.”

Jo had just exchanged her hospital gown for her civilian clothes and was finally headed for the door when Emily surprised her. She’d walked right into her room, accompanied by a doctor whose lab coat read Lawrence Danton, M.D.
 

Jo had assumed that Emily was back in London, having heard that her physical wounds required little more than bandages and antiseptic. It was her psychological wounds that Jo had assumed would take time mending.
 

In answer to Emily’s question, Jo unfastened the blouse buttons she’d done up just minutes before. Pulling the fabric aside like a wounded Superman, she exposed the center of her chest. Four weeks of top medical care had no doubt facilitated rapid healing, but the scar on her breastbone still appeared plenty angry. Perhaps it always would. “It looks bad, but I was incredibly lucky.”

“You were unbelievably lucky,” Doctor Danton said. “I just read through the notes on your chart.”

Jo had been blessed no less than four times by her count. First, when the bullet expended most of its energy drilling through the Mercedes’ seat. Second, when it hit her bony sternum rather than her soft flesh. Third, when the shock knocked her out so she appeared to be dead. And fourth, by avoiding head strikes and disfigurement when Michael dumped her from his moving car. The scrapes on her back and buttocks were severe enough to require skin grafts and a month-long convalescent stay. But thanks to her leather riding clothes, those were just flesh wounds, as the professional soldiers say.

“Doctor Danton took care of me when they brought me to the emergency room,” Emily said, her voice unexpectedly enthusiastic. Whatever mood-altering medication they’d given her, Jo wanted some. “We came to ask you about the man who saved me. Nobody seems to know who he is or what happened to him.”

“Why are you asking me?” Jo asked, prevaricating. This was slippery territory.

“The police linked our cases through Michael. He brought me to the yacht show and took you away. Since the valet said you had a gun on him at the time, we know you were trying to stop him, just like that man was trying to stop Andreas, or Ivan, or whatever his name is. We know you told the police you don’t know anything, and for some reason they appear to have lost all interest, but we were hoping you’d tell me. Girl to girl. Given that shared scars are a special kind of bond.”