Chasing Ivan by Tim Tigner Page A

of—”
    Still looking at the decorative lights reflecting in Andreas’s eyes, Emily saw them cloud over as his words suddenly ground to a halt. His face followed with an almost schizophrenic transformation, shifting from warm honey to iced steel. Her elation turned to that heart-stopping fear one gets when the doctor looks up from the x-ray and says, “Bad news.”

Chapter 19

    JO FOUND HERSELF completely entranced by the scene unfolding before her eyes. Her screaming calves and groaning shoulders had faded to background noise, so engrossing was the human drama unraveling on the deck below. A minute earlier, when Michael had closed the app to heighten Kian’s tension, she’d ripped away to alert Achilles of her findings. Jo had filled him in on Emily and Ivan’s location, along with the devious device The Ghost had surreptitiously strung around her neck.
    When she bobbed back down to watch the saga play out, Aspinwall appeared to have no blood going to his face. She appreciated his condition. A single synaptic connection, a literal flash of understanding, had sent him from the top of the world to the bottom of a boot, and left him reeling from the change of altitude. He was lost. The righteous indignation and false bravado that were often the bedrock of a politician’s defenses had no place in discussions involving the safety of their children.  
    Michael was waiting patiently for Aspinwall to come to the conclusion that his only move was the one prescribed, whatever it might be. He was in checkmate.
    When he finally spoke, Aspinwall’s voice was little more than a whisper. “What do I have to do?”
    Michael’s reply was forceful and quick. “Bring me the head of Prince Albert.”
    “What!”
    Michael held his gaze, unflinching. He let Aspinwall’s imagination run amok with medieval images of swords and sacks and silver platters, dead eyes and distended tongues and bloodied blades. “Just kidding, Kian. All you need to do is go to His Highness’s reception, as planned, and make a simple statement to the press.”
    “I don’t have to hurt anybody?”
    Michael shook his head.
    “And Emily will be okay?”
    “If you’re fast enough, she’ll never even know she came within a finger tap of a slow and agonizing death. She’ll never even imagine the feel of steel closing around her throat, or the overwhelming terror that seizes the mind when lungs are powerless to inflate. She’ll finish off her date completely oblivious to the fact that she spent this evening dancing on the brink, and will go home having enjoyed the best day of her life. If you’re fast enough.”
    “What do I have to say?”
    “Does it matter?”
    Aspinwall paused.
    “You’re wasting time, Kian.”
    “No, it doesn’t matter.”
    Michael handed him a slip of paper that Jo couldn’t see. “Read this out loud. For practice.”
    Jo watched Aspinwall’s face run a gamut of emotions before she heard the words, “It’s so nice here, I’m dreading going back to London.”
    It took her a second to appreciate the brilliance of the simple sentence. It was a smart bomb. The statement was so plausible, both for its context and its content, that nobody would expect coercion. Who hadn’t made a similar statement while on vacation to someplace as magical as this? But the media would be on Aspinwall’s words like tigers on red meat. Their spin would be relentless. Pundits would come out of the woodwork, disillusioned supporters would be interviewed, outrage would be voiced, all feeding the machine that never slept. Aspinwall hadn’t just implied that the city many considered the finest in the world, the city he was vying to lead, was “not so nice.” He made it clear that he preferred his nation’s historical rival. It was suicide by Freudian slip.
    “Your delivery was a bit flat,” Michael said. “But I’m sure you’ll perk up in front of the cameras, with the prince in the room and the Monaco Yacht Show logo over your