Chasing Ivan (15 page)

Jo knew the police had lost interest because they’d been ordered to. But she’d have expected Emily’s father to use his clout to get answers. Perhaps he had things he considered more important on his plate. “Why do you want to know about him?”

“To thank him, of course. I owe him my life.”

Jo was a bit slow on account of the pain medication she’d been taking. But she put it together now. Emily had been speaking in first-person plural.
We
came to ask you …
We
know …
We
were hoping … And her tone. Her lively, joyful tone. “Are the two of you dating?”

Emily reached down and took Doctor Danton’s hand. “The day that necklace punctured my trachea was the luckiest of my life,” she said.

Well, stone the crows
, Jo thought. Given all the time she had to kill while confined to a recovery bed, Jo had spent hours worrying about Emily’s post-traumatic psychological condition. She hadn’t reached out herself for fear of what she’d find, fear that Achilles’ sacrifice would have been wasted saving someone who no longer wanted to live. Still stalling for time to think, she asked, “Does this mean you’re not going back to London anytime soon? The papers report that it’s soon to be an Aspinwall town.”

“Home is where the heart is. Will you tell me about him, please?”

Jo wasn’t sure what to say. She knew Achilles had resigned, but little more. The rumor mill was far less active in The Agency than in almost every other institution, but people were still people, and gossip was a force all its own, as irrepressible as the American people themselves. Some said Achilles refused to work for Director Rider, others that he’d been fired. “So you’re happy?” she asked Emily.

“The happiest I’ve ever been.”

Jo wasn’t sure that would last, but it was clear that Emily meant it. “Well, that’s all the thanks he’d ever want.”

“But who is he? Where is he?”

“I honestly don’t know where he is. As for who, well, he’s the guy who comes calling, when good people like you are in need.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Reader,
 

THANK YOU for reading
Chasing Ivan
. I hope you enjoyed it. If you would be so kind as to take a moment to leave a review on Amazon or elsewhere, I would be very grateful. Reviews and referrals are as vital to an author’s success as a good GPA is to a student’s.

I know this can be a bit of a pain, so if you do write a review, please email me at [email protected] so I can "like" your post and e-mail you a link to some amazing Achilles-style climbing videos as a token of my gratitude.

With best regards,

Please click here to leave a review on Amazon US.

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Links to Tim Tigner’s other thrillers:

The Achilles story continues in 2016 with
 

PUSHING BRILLIANCE

Turn the page for a preview . . .

Prologue

The Kremlin

THE LAST TIME Grigori Barsukov met the most powerful man in the world, they’d been living very different lives, and Vladimir had broken his nose. Although that was thirty years ago, the memory remained fresh, and Grigori’s nose still skewed to the right. Back then they’d both been wearing KGB lieutenant stars. Now they both wore the finest Italian suits, but his old roommate also sported the confidence of one who wielded unrivaled power, and the temper of a man ruthless enough to obtain it.

The world had spun around a different axis when they’d worked together, an east-west axis, running from Moscow to Washington. Now everything revolved around Washington. America was the sole superpower. Grigori could change that. He could lever Russia back into a pole position, but only if his old rival would risk joining him—way out on a limb.

As Grigori’s footfalls fell into cadence with the boots of his escorts, he coughed twice, attempting to relax the lump in his throat. It didn’t work. When the hardwood turned to red carpet, he willed his palms to stop sweating. They didn’t listen. Then the big double doors rose before him and it was too late to do anything but take a deep calming breath, and hope for the best.
 

The presidential guards each took a single step to the side, then opened their doors with crisp efficiency and a click of their heels. Ten meters before him, a gilded double-headed eagle peered down from atop the dark wood paneling, but the lone living occupant of the Kremlin’s inner sanctum did not look up. President Vladimir Korovin was studying photographs. Grigori stopped three steps in as the doors were closed behind him, unsure of the proper next move. He wondered if everyone felt this way the first time.
Should he stand at attention until acknowledged? Take a seat by the wall?
No. Grigori was neither a servant nor a shy boy at a dance. After a pause that he hoped went undetected, he strolled to the nearest window, leaned his left shoulder up against the frame, and looked out at the Moscow River.
 

Thirty seconds ticked by with nothing but the sound of shifting photos behind him.
Was it possible that Korovin still held a grudge?
Desperate to break the ice without looking like a complete fool, he said, “This is much nicer than the view from our academy dorm room.”

Korovin said nothing.

Grigori felt his forehead tickle and pictured large salty drops of sweat poised and ready to roll. As the first broke free, he heard the stack of photos being squared, and then at long last, the familiar voice. It posed a very unfamiliar question: “Ever see a crocodile catch a rabbit?”

Grigori turned to meet the Russian President’s gaze. “What?”

Korovin waved the stack of photos. His eyes were the same cauliflower blue Grigori remembered, but their youthful verve had yielded to something darker. “I recently returned from Venezuela. Nicolas took me crocodile hunting. Of course, we didn’t have all day to spend on sport, so our guides cheated. They put rabbits on the riverbank, on the wide strip of dried mud between the water and the tall grass. Kind of like teeing up golf balls. Spaced them out so the critters couldn’t see each other and gave each its own pile of alfalfa while we watched in silence from an electric boat.” President Korovin gestured as he spoke, enjoying the telling of his tale, but keeping his eyes locked on Grigori throughout.

“Nicolas told me these rabbits were brought in special from the hill country, where they’d survived a thousand generations amidst foxes and coyotes. When you put them on the riverbank, however, they’re completely clueless. It’s not their turf, so they stay where they’re dropped, noses quivering, ears scanning, eating alfalfa and watching the wall of vegetation before them while crocodiles swim up silently from behind.” The president paused, his expression now contemplative.

“The crocodiles were being fooled just like the rabbits, of course. Eyes front, focused on food. Oblivious.” Korovin then shook his head as though bewildered. “Evolution somehow turned a cold-blooded reptile into a warm white furball, but kept both of the creature’s brains the same. Hard to fathom. Anyway, the capture was quite a sight. Thing about a crocodile is, it’s a log one moment and a set of snapping jaws the next, with nothing but a furious blur in between. One second the rabbit is chewing alfalfa, the next second the rabbit
is
alfalfa. Not because it’s too slow or too stupid … but because it’s out of its element.”
 

Grigori felt Korovin’s eyes bore into him as he voiced that last comment. He resisted the urge to swallow, while noting that the president’s face revealed absolutely nothing. “When it comes to eating,” Korovin continued, “crocs are like storybook monsters. They swallow their food whole. Unlike their legless cousins, however, they want it dead first. So once they’ve trapped dinner in their maw, they drag it underwater to drown it. This means the rabbit is usually alive and uninjured in the croc’s mouth for a while, not sure what the hell just happened, but pretty damn certain it’s not good.”

The president leaned back in his chair, placing his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head. He was enjoying this.
 

Grigori felt like the rabbit.
 

“That’s when Nicolas had us shoot the crocs. After they clamped down around the rabbits, but before they dragged ‘em under. That became the goal, to get the rabbit back alive. Gave a new meaning to the phrase ‘catch and release.’
 

“The trick was putting a bullet directly into the croc’s tiny brain, preferably the medulla oblongata, right there where the spine meets the skull. Otherwise the croc would thrash around or go under before you could get off the kill shot, and the rabbit was toast.” Korovin almost smiled at the memory.

“It was good sport and an experience worth replicating. But we don’t have crocodiles anywhere near Moscow, so ever since I’ve been trying to come up with an equally engaging distraction for my honored guests. Any ideas?”

Grigori felt like he’d just been brought in from the hills. The story wasn’t helping the lump in his throat either. He managed to say, “Let me give it some thought.” Then, sensing what his host wanted, Grigori asked, “What happened to the rabbits?”