Chasing Ivan Read Online Free Page A

I’m sure you can look him up in the database. Tell me he’s not a rookie. The last time you were vague about a partner, it turned out to be his first day in the field. I’m tailing the globe’s most slippery criminal here. Tell me you’re not sending me a rookie.”
    “Half of OPEC is in Monaco for the Yacht Show. It’s probably the single biggest gathering of Islamic billionaires in the world. The only reason you’re getting anybody at all is because Director Rider personally made a call. By the way, he wanted me to remind you how important this operation is.”
    Of course he did. I was sure that deep down Oscar was aware of the contradictions coming out of his mouth, but on the surface he was clearly comfortable ignoring them. “Do we know his background? Tell me it’s Special Forces or DGSE or DGSI and not the Foreign Legion.” The CIA’s Special Operations Group typically drafted veterans of other elite forces. The DGSE and DGSI were France’s version of the CIA and FBI, and along with the COS, France’s Special Operations Group, they were our favored recruiting grounds. Unfortunately France’s top people typically preferred to stay domestic. The French Foreign Legion, on the other hand, was essentially a tough band of misfits who tended to be much bigger on brawn than intellect. Good horses, and much easier to recruit, but not the best for the course I was running. I wasn’t sure if that was it, but I could tell Oscar was hiding something.
    “You know what I know,” Oscar said. “Regardless of background, I’m sure Joe can drive. What else do you need?”
    I didn’t have time to explain field operations to someone daft enough to ask that question. “Nothing.”  
    “Good. Don’t fuck up.”
    “How’s the facial recognition coming?” By walking around the lobby of Palace Place while pretending to talk on my cell, I’d gotten decent video of Michael escorting Emily to the limo.
    “Nothing yet. I checked with Willis, and he said it’s clear Michael’s had facial surgery, so I’m not holding my breath.” Willis was a plastic surgeon with the Department of Justice. The Witness Protection Program was his main gig, but he also consulted for the CIA.
    “Great. How about the plane? Anything on it yet?” Emily’s jet had a VP-C tail number, which I knew to be a Cayman Island registration. Not a good sign as far as transparency was concerned.
    “It’s a nested corporate registration, a regular onion. The owner went to great lengths to conceal its identity, which isn’t that uncommon, as you know.”  
    I did know. People who could afford to fly private tended to love their privacy as much as their lawyers loved all the billable hours they got to spend on the obfuscation. “Let me know the minute you’ve got it peeled.”
    The descent into Nice Cote D’Azur Airport was spectacular enough to lighten my mood, if only for a minute. Approaching over the red-tiled roofs of the French Riviera’s exquisite mansions toward the Mediterranean’s winking blue waters and sparkling white sands, I found myself enjoying my first lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous moment. Granted, my private jet was owned by the government, and I had been sent to dispatch an enemy of the state, but this was definitely a rosebud-worth-gathering moment, so to speak.
    The CIA’s Special Operations Group was the real-life version of the IMF, the fictional organization made famous in the Mission Impossible series. We had access to private jets, and some pretty cool equipment, although it was nowhere near the extravagant assortment Hollywood produced. The aspect that did match the show, however, was the requirement to operate under the radar. I carried no special ID, wore no uniform, and used no equipment uniquely traceable to Uncle Sam. I also couldn’t interact with foreign officials, even law enforcement — or get a better table at Spago.  
    Without the ability to turn to the locals for help, I really did need a