keep a low profile, so talking will be problematic. If you don’t reacquire Michael in the next ten minutes, join me here.”
“Okay.”
“And Jo, remember, whatever you do, don’t engage this guy. He’s too good. It’s not worth it.”
She wasn’t going to let Michael outwit her. No way. Not on her first case. Not with Director Rider personally paying attention.
She’d last seen Michael before the big exhibition tent. Unlike the little ones lining the dock like dominoes, the big air-conditioned tent had many dozens of subdivisions for luxury vendors. To go in after him would be like entering a maze. She could wait outside, but there were two exits, spaced about sixty meters apart. Surveying both would be difficult, especially given the view needed to see through disguises. On top of all that, she had to act fast.
She performed a quick 180-degree sweep, searching for a location that would make it possible to view both exits. Something with enough altitude to give her a full-body perspective. Someplace that wouldn’t draw attention while her head pivoted back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. Her eyes zoomed in on the upper decks of the flanking yachts near the middle of the row. Most were blazing with light and buzzing with activity, but Victor’s Secret was relatively dark, and appeared quiet. Perhaps Victor was busy inspecting lingerie in the master’s suite, but given the hour, she was hopeful that he was either dining at one of Monaco’s many Michelin-starred restaurants, or living large at the Casino de Monte-Carlo.
Jo boarded the darkened yacht as if she owned it and looked for an external staircase that would take her to an upper deck without breaking her surveillance line of sight. There wasn’t one, so she decided to climb. A few basic gymnastics moves was all it would take, given the preponderance of rails. Child’s play for a cat burglar who’d trained as a gymnast. Former cat burglar, she corrected herself.
Two kip casts, paired with neck kip to stand springs, and she was three decks up on post — less than a minute after hanging up with Achilles.
“What are you doing?” The challenge had been issued from the dock. The speaker was a middle-aged passerby holding hands with a teenage wife.
“Shhh,” she said, with a finger to her lips. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The man grimaced as the woman yanked his hand. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
Emily pulled out her monocular and began the back and forth sweep that would not stop until she’d either reacquired her target, or her ten minutes had expired. She used her naked left eye to take in the big picture, and then shifted to the scope on her right whenever somebody deserved a closer look. As she’d been trained, Jo ignored context. It didn’t matter if the man was pushing a wheelchair or part of a crowd, if his build was the right proportion, he got her full scrutiny. Fortunately, with the show now closed, the mobs were gone. And as a bonus, most people exiting the big tent were hauling luggage that slowed their pace.
Jo wondered how Achilles was fairing on the Anzhelika . She enjoyed audacious moves like his. They’d been the hallmark of her previous profession. But she’d always kept to the shadows. Achilles had walked right past the gorillas into the lion’s den. That was bold, and risky. Russian oligarchs weren’t known to be charitable to their enemies.
Despite the odds, she was betting that her first partner would pull it off. There was an air about him, a combination of confidence and charisma that she found inspiring. Maybe that came with being an Olympian. She’d never met one before. In any case, she was determined not to let him down.
A couple of men, both the right age and size, exited the far door together. They turned away from her, heading toward the port’s center so she couldn’t see their faces. One wore navy slacks and a blue sweater. The other wore black pants, and a blue blazer
“Okay.”
“And Jo, remember, whatever you do, don’t engage this guy. He’s too good. It’s not worth it.”
She wasn’t going to let Michael outwit her. No way. Not on her first case. Not with Director Rider personally paying attention.
She’d last seen Michael before the big exhibition tent. Unlike the little ones lining the dock like dominoes, the big air-conditioned tent had many dozens of subdivisions for luxury vendors. To go in after him would be like entering a maze. She could wait outside, but there were two exits, spaced about sixty meters apart. Surveying both would be difficult, especially given the view needed to see through disguises. On top of all that, she had to act fast.
She performed a quick 180-degree sweep, searching for a location that would make it possible to view both exits. Something with enough altitude to give her a full-body perspective. Someplace that wouldn’t draw attention while her head pivoted back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. Her eyes zoomed in on the upper decks of the flanking yachts near the middle of the row. Most were blazing with light and buzzing with activity, but Victor’s Secret was relatively dark, and appeared quiet. Perhaps Victor was busy inspecting lingerie in the master’s suite, but given the hour, she was hopeful that he was either dining at one of Monaco’s many Michelin-starred restaurants, or living large at the Casino de Monte-Carlo.
Jo boarded the darkened yacht as if she owned it and looked for an external staircase that would take her to an upper deck without breaking her surveillance line of sight. There wasn’t one, so she decided to climb. A few basic gymnastics moves was all it would take, given the preponderance of rails. Child’s play for a cat burglar who’d trained as a gymnast. Former cat burglar, she corrected herself.
Two kip casts, paired with neck kip to stand springs, and she was three decks up on post — less than a minute after hanging up with Achilles.
“What are you doing?” The challenge had been issued from the dock. The speaker was a middle-aged passerby holding hands with a teenage wife.
“Shhh,” she said, with a finger to her lips. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The man grimaced as the woman yanked his hand. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
Emily pulled out her monocular and began the back and forth sweep that would not stop until she’d either reacquired her target, or her ten minutes had expired. She used her naked left eye to take in the big picture, and then shifted to the scope on her right whenever somebody deserved a closer look. As she’d been trained, Jo ignored context. It didn’t matter if the man was pushing a wheelchair or part of a crowd, if his build was the right proportion, he got her full scrutiny. Fortunately, with the show now closed, the mobs were gone. And as a bonus, most people exiting the big tent were hauling luggage that slowed their pace.
Jo wondered how Achilles was fairing on the Anzhelika . She enjoyed audacious moves like his. They’d been the hallmark of her previous profession. But she’d always kept to the shadows. Achilles had walked right past the gorillas into the lion’s den. That was bold, and risky. Russian oligarchs weren’t known to be charitable to their enemies.
Despite the odds, she was betting that her first partner would pull it off. There was an air about him, a combination of confidence and charisma that she found inspiring. Maybe that came with being an Olympian. She’d never met one before. In any case, she was determined not to let him down.
A couple of men, both the right age and size, exited the far door together. They turned away from her, heading toward the port’s center so she couldn’t see their faces. One wore navy slacks and a blue sweater. The other wore black pants, and a blue blazer
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