Chasing Ivan by Tim Tigner Read Free Book Online

thousand bucks for the plans?”
    “They used a pencil.”
    “What’s your point?”
    “Google it. The Monaco Yacht Show is a prestige event, and those run on publicity.”
    Oscar didn’t respond right away, but he came back in under a minute. “The Anzhelika . It measures at 110 meters. When it launched it was the second most expensive yacht in the world.”
    We were back in business. Relief flooded over me until I thought about our next move in context. A Russian oligarch could pack a small army of security guards onto a yacht of the Anzhelika’s size.

Chapter 11

    EMILY’S FEET BARELY touched the gangplank as she boarded. First the limo, then the jet, and now this unbelievable yacht. Her life would never be the same now that she had enjoyed the equivalent of fifteen minutes of fame. And the night was still young.
    The Anzhelika’s main lobby was dominated by a grand circular staircase, running both up and down. A master craftsman had carved dolphins and octopi and schools of tropical fish into the banisters and rails with such precision that she half expected them to swim. Michael passed the sculpture by without a glance, leading her through an open double doorway above which was written main saloon .  
    The decorator had paneled this grand room with cherry wood, and furnished it with armchairs and custom-shaped couches — the piles of pillows, all upholstered from rich Italian brocades the color of cotton, hummus, and gold. Tonight, the owner had filled it with pampered guests, all dressed to the nines and drinking fine wines, while conversing in a panoply of languages. Emily detected English, French, Chinese, Arabic, and Russian. A veritable United Nations, but far more upbeat and harmonious than the typical General Assembly, she suspected.  
    “We’re right on time,” Michael said. “Andreas told me he’d be out on the aft deck. Would you like me to show you, or can you find your way?”
    “I’d appreciate an escort,” Emily said, not entirely sure she’d be able to pick Andreas out of the crowd. She’d only seen his blurry profile picture, and as Jen loved to point out, those tended to be lies of height and weight and follicular status. Given the omission of his economic status, or at least that of his friends, she was prepared for a large pendulum swing — in the less attractive direction. Andreas’s appearance really didn’t matter to her, so long as his age was in the same ballpark, and his sentiments had been genuine. And they had been. Jen had asserted her skeptical manner, and together they’d verified the history of her dialogue with Andreas. That check confirmed it. When it came to likes and dislikes and social opinions, Andreas had led. He’d spoken first. He hadn’t been telling her what he knew she wanted to hear, because he had no information from her to follow.
    Maybe he was like Stephen Hawking or something — brilliant and sensitive but seriously handicapped? Maybe he was a dwarf? Maybe he was pushing eighty?
    She studied the crowd as they crossed the saloon, her eyes naturally gravitating to the other women — to their figures, their jewelry, and their dresses. They were clustered in fours or fives, each homogenous in their composition and choice of beverage. White wine or mixed drinks for the older cliques. Champagne or sparkling water for the younger. All the women were beautiful. Going by faces and figures, there wasn’t a woman over thirty-nine in the room. Judging by necks and hands, about half were north of fifty. Those were the wives, Emily figured. The rest were mid to late twenties, like her. Except not. The girlfriends clearly skipped both lunch and dinner in favor of the gym, and then spent their evenings either strutting elite Italian runways, or working exclusive Paris clubs.
    The men were of two sorts as well. There were the masters of the universe, with their Cognac and cigars, scattered about in groups of two to four, and there were security guards — solo