Free Chasing Ivan by Tim Tigner

slid over the edge. Hanging with her knees crooked over the middle beam of the guardrail above, she maneuvered to an angle that let her see the table over Kian Aspinwall’s shoulder. Covert surveillance Batman-style had never come to mind while practicing inversions in yoga class, but it likely would hereafter.
    As she redirected the mike, she heard Aspinwall say, “After your introduction, I wasn’t expecting fruit.”  
    “Ah, but when is citrus not fruit?” Michael replied.  
    Jo saw that he’d placed a grapefruit on the table, atop a little trivet that held it steady.  
    Kian’s expression hinted at the perplexed indifference that Jo suspected he was feeling. Perplexed, because this was no doubt the most unusual one-on-one meeting he’d hosted all day. Indifferent, because the thousands of pounds Michael had no doubt contributed to his campaign for the privilege were already in the bank.
    Michael then withdrew a manila envelope from his bag. The thought of blackmail photos crossed Jo’s mind before he slid an unfamiliar object out and it clunked onto the table. It was a loop of wire joined by a metal puck the size of a large coin, but about four times as thick.
    “That’s interesting,” Kian said, his confusion obviously mounting.
    “Isn’t it,” Michael replied. He proceeded to belt the grapefruit with the wire, securing it at the equator by pulling the ends tight. “Now comes the cool part.”

Chapter 16

    “DON’T PLAN TO disembark while Ivan’s still breathing,” I repeated Rider’s words to myself. The man had sounded like a saint during his Senate confirmation hearing, all polite and prim and proper. Politicians were a different species. But I was happy enough with the plan.
    I’d boarded the Anzhelika under the guise of being an advance member of Prince Albert’s security detail. This had resonated with the matched set of Russian thugs at the bottom of the gangplank, as it made me a brother-in-arms of sorts. But that didn’t stop them from confiscating my Glock. Losing my firearm was a setback, but not critical. I could kill Ivan with anything from my thumb to a copy of Vanity Fair, although I’d prefer the speed of something more conventional. Now that I was suitably dressed, I made my way down the hall toward the galley in search of camouflaging props and more conventional weapons.  
    The galley was a veritable beehive. White-hatted chefs were checking and chopping, stirring and arranging, while the arms of assistants flew about their production stations. Chicly attired servers came and went, carting away their culinary masterpieces away on silver platters. The smell of bacon-wrapped scallops made my stomach growl like a belligerent dog, reminding me that I was overdue for dinner.  
    As a waitress passed, a dark-haired beauty whose long legs made the most of her stylish uniform, I asked in Russian, “Where can I get a bottle of Cristal Champagne?”
    She began to answer without breaking her stride, but then caught my eye and paused. “You’re new. But then you wouldn’t be asking the question if you weren’t, I suppose. I’m Tanya.” She gave me a smile so warm I worried it would bake the rare Ahi tuna on her plate. “The wine store is one level down toward the bow, with the other cold storage. Alex will help you.”
    I said, “Thanks,” and grabbed a couple of her hors d’oeuvres with my right hand while my left surreptitiously slipped the long silver corkscrew from her apron.
    She winked and was gone.
    On the way to cold storage I inspected my new weapon. It was a three-for-one deal. The foil knife was small but very sharp. Probably Swiss. Well-tailored for windpipes and carotids. The actual corkscrew swung out of the middle to form a T, protruding between my middle and ring fingers, it would work as a knuckle-duster, debilitating major muscles, and potentially deadly against the throat and through the eyes. Finally, the blunt end would function like a Kubotan stick.