AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yeah,” he said. “I definitely get it.”
Chapter 28
It was early Friday evening, and Jack was inside the operations cabin of an unmarked FBI surveillance van. Two FBI tech agents from the Miami field office were with him. They were parked on a residential street in Miami Beach near Vladimir Kava’s estate on scenic Pine Tree Drive. As the name implied, the street was famous for the towering Australian pine trees that divided northbound from southbound traffic, but perhaps it was better known for the speeding ticket Justin Bieber got for seeing how quickly his red Ferrari could get from zero to a hundred.
“Can you hear us?” the tech agent said into his microphone.
“Roger that,” came the reply.
Listening remotely, via an encrypted digital audio connection, were the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami office and the FBI’s legal attaché from London.
“How is your client going to hold up, Jack?” asked Coffey.
Jack was outfitted with a headset, and her question had come through loud and clear.
“Imani’s a performer,” said Jack. “She has ice water in her veins.”
Jack was slightly overstating things, but the technology had gone a long way to ease Imani’s nerves. Had she been forced to strap a bulky tape recorder to her chest, à la an old episode ofThe Sopranos, and heave her breasts into Kava’s face to make sure the hidden microphone picked up his every word, Imani would have surely said “fuggedaboutit.” A “wire” still had the basic mechanics of old—a transmitter, microphone, and battery pack—but the modern device was small enough to hide in Imani’s undergarments, light enough to attach by Velcro, and sensitive enough to pick up even whispers.
“How far away is SWAT?” asked Jack.
The risk of detection was real whenever an informant wore a wire. Sending in SWAT was a last resort, but the FBI had to prepare for the worst.
“Less than a minute,” said Coffey.
The ASAC spoke up, also remotely. “I won’t hesitate to make that call if Imani is in danger,” he said.
Jack turned his attention to the A/V equipment. The operations cabin was divided into a seating area, which was directly behind the driver’s seat, and the equipment station, which was behind the driver. An image appeared on the center LCD screen.
“I have a visual,” said the tech agent.
Like all the residences on the east side of Pine Tree Drive, the back of the Kava estate faced the Intracoastal Waterway and the bay. The FBI had deployed drones over the waterway to capture real-time video of the estate. Imani had been coached to conduct her pre-concert conversation with Kava outdoors, and it appeared that she had managed to follow instructions. She and Vladimir Kava could be seen together, seated at a patio table near the swimming pool. The guests had yet to arrive for the performance, but the stage was fully set, and a dozen or more workers and servants were on the grounds, making final preparations.
“We have audio,” said the tech agent.
The surveillance team went silent. Jack watched and listened, pleased that Imani had put first things first. She laid out the condition of her performance: Theo’s safety. Kava’s reply was given with a heavy Russian accent.
“You have my word that no one will lay a hand on Mr. Knight.”
If Jack had been grilling Mr. Kava on the witness stand, he would have pressed harder. “That’s all very fine and dandy that no one will lay a hand on him, Mr. Kava. But what about a baseball bat to the side of his head? A dose of Novichok nerve agent in his tequila? A sudden bump from behind that sends him flying off the platform and onto the tracks as a speeding train arrives at the subway station?”
But Imani didn’t follow up. “Thank you, Mr. Kava,” was her only response.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Kava.
A pause followed his question, and Jack could almost feel the FBI’s anticipation. Coffey and her team had prepared her with key questions about the Kava piracy empire, each designed to strengthen the U.S. case for extradition of Sergei Kava.
“Let’s go inside for a minute,” said Kava.
The suggestion seemed to suck the oxygen from the van.
“We’ll no longer have a visual,” said the tech agent. “No cameras inside the house.”
“Audio’s fine,” said Coffey.
Jack watched the LCD monitor, as Kava escorted Imani across the patio and into the lower level of the three-story estate. While other houses dotting the neighborhood had a multistory wall of glass facing the water to exploit the view, Kava’s estate put a premium on privacy. The style was more medieval fortress, with heavy landscaping that screened all doors and windows from outside viewers. The video feed from the FBI drone froze on the last captured image of Imani, just as she and Kava disappeared into the house. The audio feed continued in real time, the voices in Jack’s headphones.
“Love your art,” said Imani.
