Chasing Ivan (5 page)

I WAS ABOUT to get Oscar back on the line when a crotch-rocket roared in and screeched to a halt. It was a beautiful machine, a black Kawasaki Ninja with neon-green highlights. When the young driver removed her matching helmet and shook out her long brown hair, I saw that she was beautiful too. I could hear Oscar laughing all the way from Virginia. “Achilles, I presume. I’m Jo Monfort.”

Granger had trained me to act and react quickly and fluidly, so when she tossed me a helmet, I caught it with a smile. This was far from the situation I’d been expecting, which involved a SUV loaded with equipment and a driver who could take down a whole bar without removing the cigarette pursed between his lips. At least I could be certain she wasn’t former Foreign Legion. “Pleasure to meet you, Jo. Nice bike.”

“You’ll be glad we have it. Traffic is horrible this time of year, and parking is worse. Much better to tail someone on two wheels than four.”

I was tempted to ask if she was speaking from experience or just textbooks, but simply said, “Good idea.”

Jo wore black leather boots and pants, topped with a gray leather jacket that was more runway that roadway, tilting her overall look toward fashionable. It was a versatile outfit, a good choice, and the coal-gray matched her eyes, which hinted at a fire within. “Thanks.”
 

She handed me an earpiece. “We’ll be able to talk using these. Hop on. Emily’s plane is on approach.”
 

I already had an earpiece linking me to Oscar. I considered swapping it with Jo’s, but ended up sticking hers in my left ear instead. I needed to monitor both. It was starting to get crowded in my head.

I’d ridden plenty of sport bikes over the years, but never on the back. The rear seat rose about four inches above the driver’s, which combined with the seven or so I had on Jo, put my head above hers like a totem pole. My arms were long enough that I could have easily grabbed the handlebars as well, but that wouldn’t work so I had to hold on to Jo instead.
 

Tethering a two hundred twenty pound weight to a hundred and twenty pound post didn’t make a lot of sense. Neither did placing the bike’s center of gravity so far back. The short drive to Jo’s selected observation point in the terminal’s shadow was enough to make that obvious. She hit the kickstand and said, “You should sit up front.”
 

“The physics do appear to favor that arrangement.”

As we switched, Emily’s plane taxied into its disembarkation position near the VIP parking lot. “I’ve got a monocular in the left pannier if you want it,” Jo said.
 

“Thanks. What else you got in there?”

“A couple of suppressed Glocks, some flash-bangs, a lock-picking gun, a directional microphone, and a Range-R radar system.”

Range-R radar looks through walls like X-rays through flesh. Very cool. The new unit looked like a heavy-duty smartphone, and was a literal lifesaver in breaching situations — for the good guys. The bad guys, not so much. “They gave you the latest goodies.”

“We do tend to keep up with fashion here, if nothing else. What’s our mission?”

“What did they tell you?”

“Just that we’re following the passengers of a private jet in hopes that they’ll lead us to a high-value target. Also that Director Rider is personally watching this one, so it’s make it or break it for my career.”
 

Jo was modest and direct. My opinion of her was growing by the minute. “What were you doing before the CIA approached you?”

“Long story. Who’s the target?”

“Ivan the Ghost.”

“Who?”

If Jo didn’t know Ivan, she wasn’t former DGSE or DGSI. In fact, she wasn’t coming from any law enforcement agency in the northern hemisphere. “He’s the guy you go to when you need dirty deeds done discretely, and you’ve got seven figures to pay for it. We think he’s Russian, thus
Ivan
, but we’re not even sure of that. No one ever sees him coming and he never leaves a trace, thus
The Ghost
.”

“Until now, I gather.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why the Director is involved.”

“It would be a huge win for him right out of the gate.”

“I understand,” she replied, with an inflection that told me she was familiar with Rider’s political situation. “Why haven’t I heard of Ivan the Ghost before this?”

“He leaves neither trail nor trace that couldn’t be explained away by bad luck and circumstance. With no evidence, only the tabloid presses run stories on him, and those are next to Bigfoot and alien babies. The only credible people who know anything about him are the powerful victims he’s embarrassed or the law enforcement officers he’s bested, and they’re not talking to the press, for obvious reasons. There are plenty of people in law enforcement who believe he’s no more real than the Loch Ness Monster. They think he’s just a convenient excuse, a coverall explanation for the unexplained. And to their point, there is no evidence of his existence that goes beyond the circumstantial.”

“So how did you end up on his tail?”

“Director Rider discovered that one of the two leading candidates in the London mayoral race made a seven-figure payment to an account previously used by The Ghost. We assume it was a contract payment, and that the contract was to discretely eliminate his chief rival for the office. So we’ve been watching the rival’s pressure points. The girl on the plane is his daughter.”

As I gave Jo more background on Ivan and our mission, the airstair from Emily’s Falcon 5X dropped and Michael descended, followed by a woman in a blue and gold silk dress. “Is that Emily?” Jo asked.

I used the monocular to be sure. “That’s her. Unfortunately, they swapped out the purse I’d tagged with a cricket. They also gave her a new wardrobe and full makeover at 30,000 feet. Her head must be reeling. A few hours ago she was just expecting dinner.”

“Why would they do all that?”

“If I were to speculate, I’d say that it’s part of The Ghost’s plan to leave no traces. Wherever she’s headed, that’s the look that will fit in.”

 
As Jo brought the Ninja’s engine roaring to life, she asked a question that convinced me she’d been a good recruit. “How’d the director get a lead on Ivan’s bank account? I’d think The Ghost would change those as often as his socks.”

“I don’t know. That’s been bothering me too. But you’re right about Ivan. He would.”

Chapter 9

EMILY BEGAN TO laugh as Michael pulled the Black Mercedes S550 up to the valet stand at the Monaco Yacht Show’s VIP entrance. A flood of nervous tension had spontaneously decided to leave her body without pausing to ask permission.

“Miss?” Michael’s quizzical eyes were focused on the rearview mirror.

Despite her embarrassment, she met his eyes. She liked Michael. “Three hours ago I was standing in The Regent’s Park boating lake, holding onto hope and the remains of my broken phone. Now I’m here.” She gestured with both arms. “It’s almost literally unbelievable. Way too good to be true, as my friend Jen would say, and yet undeniable.”

“I think you’ll find yourself adapting quickly. The good things are like that.”

Emily was sure Michael was right. It was the return to reality that concerned her, but again she promised herself to live for the moment while the moment was hers.

The next couple of minutes filled a mental scrapbook with photos that were the new highlights of her lifetime. Her first step from the limo was onto the blue VIP carpet, complete with a gawking crowd wondering if she was famous, or just rich. Then there was the handsome guard in an immaculate white uniform, studying Michael’s proffered credentials before ceremoniously parting the curtain to wonderland. Next came the sparkling chrome bannisters and glistening white bows of the latest crop of superyachts, each attempting to catch an appraising eye and then capture a burning checkbook.

“Is the show open to the public?” she asked Michael, as he led her through the pampered crowd along Port Hercules’ southernmost pier.
 

“It’s open to anyone willing to plop down a hundred and fifty euros for the privilege. They were expecting over thirty thousand visitors this year, with the economy recovering. I haven’t heard how many actually showed.”

“You talk as though it’s over.”

“The show formally ended at six thirty this evening. This is the aftershow. With hoi polloi out of the way, the real players emerge, and the serious business gets done.”

Emily wondered what qualified as
the masses
at the Monaco Yacht Show.
Was it anyone with less than seven figures in their checking account, or eight?
 

With dusk approaching, the underwater lights on all of the yachts were illuminating, giving the sea an azure glow that complemented the orange horizon. It was nothing short of magical and a perfect time for pictures. If only she had her phone. Glancing behind as she tried to take it all in, Emily saw that the residents on the balconies adorning every square meter of real estate on the streets and cliffs above had the same idea. The privileged onlookers were drinking cocktails and taking selfies while reveling in one of the most spectacular combinations of natural and manmade beauty on Earth.
 

She read off the names of the superyachts they passed, pleased to make their acquaintance.
Thumper
,
Perseus
,
4 You
,
Flying Dragon
— each illuminated like an exclusive club or five-star restaurant. Each represented a special place, a secret world, a life as different from the one she knew as the land was from the sea. While she marveled at the sight of luxury speedboats docked inside the belly garage of the nearest colossus, a thought struck her like a cold splash of ocean spray. She wondered how she was supposed to fit into Andreas’s world.

Their whirlwind online romance had uncovered the things she thought were important, the little tells that revealed his soul. She knew that Andreas was raised catholic, read poetry when depressed, and became a vegetarian at age fourteen while volunteering at an animal shelter. She knew that he’d studied philosophy at the Sorbonne before earning a graduate degree from the London School of Economics. She knew that he had a niche consulting business that took him all over the world. And she knew that he collected refrigerator magnets wherever he went, although she hadn’t given any thought to the extravagance of the room his refrigerator might be in.

They were only about midway along the Rainier III dock, but Emily realized that there was only one gangplank remaining ahead. The attached yacht looked to be about twice the size of Palace Place.
 

She stopped dead in her tracks.
 

“You’re kidding?”

Michael halted as well and turned to her with a smile. “At 110 meters, the
Anzhelika
is one of the largest, and of course most expensive in the world.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Over a quarter-billion euros, I believe.”

“Who’s Anzhelika?”

“The owner’s mother.”

Emily wondered if the christening made his mother proud, or ashamed. She didn’t know how many schools or clinics could be operated with a quarter-billion dollar endowment, but her assumption was that it was double digits in most countries, and triple in some. Maybe that was what Andreas was doing here — seeking a donation for a worthy cause.
 

“You okay?” Michael asked.

“Just a bit overwhelmed.”

“I understand. Do you need a minute to collect yourself before meeting Andreas?”

Her emotional overload had led to laughter a few minutes earlier. Now she was afraid that tears would start streaming if she didn’t keep moving. “No, I’m fine.”

Michael put an arm on her shoulder. “Everyone on that yacht does the same things you do, and feels the same things you feel, eighty percent of the time. Keep that perspective in mind while you enjoy this twenty percent situation.”

His words of wisdom struck home. “Thank you. Tell me, how long have you been with Andreas?”

“From the beginning.”

The beginning of what?
she wondered. Michael was only about forty — too young to have been with Andreas since birth. In a servant’s capacity at least. Maybe he was the son of Andreas’s father’s butler, or something like that. Maybe Michael really was Andreas, and this was all an act to give him a peek behind her facades and defenses. She’d know soon enough.

Two large men whose disposition seemed more soldierly than cordial gave Michael a nod and stepped away from the foot of the
Anzhelika’s
gangplank.
Were those sidearms under their pressed white jackets?
   

“After you,” Michael said.

Chapter 10