Russian Law (Law Series ) (Volume 1)

by Camille Taylor

  He handed Lucas a small leather case, one Lucas had seen many times before, one he had sitting in his bureau at home. He opened it up, his heart sinking when he spotted the badge and identification. The man was in fact Russian and also worked for Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Agency, SVR.

  Shit, Lucas thought. It was really going to hit the fan and rain down on them. The Russian’s were not going to like this one little bit. They didn’t take kindly to their citizens being murdered on foreign soil. He didn’t like to think of the storm going to come down when it’s known the victim also worked for the Russian Government. He wondered if anyone at the Agency knew that the Russian was in the country. Operating on foreign soil was not looked upon lightly especially by the United States. That thought didn’t sit well with Lucas. What the hell was Igor Zimtovich doing in Washington?

  Lucas rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. It was going to be one hell of a long day. Jim was likely to be in a foul mood and Lucas didn’t blame him. US – Russian relations were sketchy at best, he only hoped that they didn’t feel the need to retaliate. The last thing anyone wanted was another war.

  “You better find the Russian’s some answers,” Lucas told the detective.

  The Metro cop shook his head. “No that’s your job Agent. We’re just evidence collection. Everything we find is being sent directly to Langley. SAC Fitzgibbon’s orders. Take it up with him.”

  Lucas swore. “Shit.”

  He ran his fingers through his longish hair. Fucking fantastic he thought. He just loved dealing with the Russkies.

  Chapter 2

  Michael Ducane looked out the window of the Rossiya Airline’s plane as it touched down at Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. The sky was grey and he could practically feel the cold air seep into his bones. The landscape was dotted with white as the snow continued to fall. November wasn’t usually the time of year a tourist planned a visit to Russia. He waited until most of the passengers disembarked before standing and making his way towards immigration.

  Michael was confident he would not be stopped and prepared his face of that of an exhausted tourist. He handed his passport to the stout, dark-haired officer and watched calmly as the man looked down at his photo then back at his face, insuring it was the same man before moving onto the passport, tilting it in the light to view the hologram imbedded, scrutinizing it for any chance of a forgery. Michael didn’t hold his breath and wasn’t at all concerned, the fake was unlikely to be detected since it had cost top dollar and he had used this particular identity previously without any issue.

  His light brown locks were slightly disheveled giving him a ‘just woken up’ look that seemed to soften his features and give him a look of innocence that customs and immigration officers all over seemed to believe. They couldn’t be more wrong. He had become a pro at working the system, being able to read the officers and pick the ones he could easily manipulate or maybe they all were just tired of dealing with cranky travelers and didn’t want to have an irate passenger on their watch so they tended to give him a wide berth. Either way it worked in his favor.

  “How long do you plan to stay?” the immigration officer asked in flawless English, his voice ruff with his Russian accent.

  Michael gave a weary smile. “Two weeks.”

  The officer gave another glance at the passport before stamping it and handing it back to Michael.

  “Enjoy your time in Moscow.”

  Michael flashed an easy smile in response.

  “Thank you, I plan to,” and with that walked off to baggage claim and picked up his small suitcase. It was something he had done many times before. Every airport in the world looked and worked the same whether it was Dulles, Heathrow or Kuwait International. Nothing ever changed and he figured he could navigate the busy airport with his eyes closed.

  He moved confidently through the mob of tired passengers while his mind was on the job at hand. He ran through his to-do list. First and foremost was getting in contact with Alvin Pochenchov, his new benefactor’s choice for providing Michael with the supplies he needed to complete his job. He didn’t like working with third parties he didn’t know but the money was good and he trusted his benefactor – in this matter at least. There wouldn’t be many even in this God forsaken country who had the balls to cross a man high up in Government.

  Michael didn’t care who or what their agendas were. He was purely in it for the fame and fortune not to mention the carnage and excitement that came along with it. He loved the fact that his name was known to many, that he was being actively pursued by many government bodies, American and foreign and had yet to be caught by either. He marveled at their stupidity, after all he was just one man and enjoyed the game of cat and mouse, watching them chase their tails endlessly whilst he moved onto his next target.

  He wasn’t cut out for a nine to five job and certainly not a blue collar one, which was what had been waiting for him straight out of high school. People in his neighborhood didn’t go to college. Didn’t amount to anything and died young and broke. Michael had been determined not to follow in their footsteps.

  His lucrative career had started one day when he was just a snot nosed kid who packed too much gunpowder into a mailbox and watched it get blown to kingdom come. Now, years later he had perfected his cocktail for maximum effect and was the go to man, his clients often outsourcing so they themselves remained clean and off the radar – many for political reasons and feared the blowback or retaliation of such an act.

  Michael wasn’t concerned about taking responsibility, in fact left clues to his identity so that he would be credited with the destruction and devastation. All it did was build his reputation and bring in more contracts every time the media showed one of his works of art, naming him as the perpetrator. There was nothing like free advertising and what was the point of a spectacular explosion if no one was around to witness the beauty of it?

  And his next project was sure going to be the talk of the town and more televised than the Oscars and would be remembered long after he was bone dust in the ground.

  Ducane exited the airport with no more delays and walked straight up to the dark Lincoln with blackened windows and climbed in the back. The car pulled slowly away from the kerb and fell in with the traffic leaving the airport, heading for the heart of Moscow.

  He had business to do.

  Special Agent in Charge James Fitzgibbon could feel the ulcer in his gut burning. He had been on the phone to the Russian Government all morning, trying to mend ties and soothe ruffled feathers, ever the peace maker. This was one fucked up situation and it was only going to get worse. What a way to start the Goddamn morning, he thought. He was supposed to have gone to see his doctor at ten and he knew Maggie, his wife would be pissed when he got home and told her he had had to postpone.

  “This is your life Jim,” he could hear her saying, raring up for a premium nagging session. “That job of yours doesn’t appreciate you. You need to start taking better care of yourself.”

  And she would be right of course, like she always was. Not that he was going to tell her that. He took a deep breath, asked his gut to behave and opened the door to the conference room and almost stepped back when he heard the noise emanating from the room. Jesus, it was almost like a kindergarten class he thought ruefully with all of his men mouthing off to each other, laying bets on the most mundane and stupid things. He shook his head. He was a teacher after all. His job was very similar to that – changing little boys into useful men, making them think for themselves. Which sometimes was a chore in its self.

  The room went silent, giving the man that just walked in, the honor he deserved. He was a legend in the field, they all knew that. They feared and worshipped him, a man they aspired to be, a man they could look up to and a man they could talk to.

  He had been a part of the agency for over twenty years, had been on missions so classified he technically hadn’t been anywhere close to where he had been. Missions that would have sent Maggie to an early grav
e had she known about them. James wasn’t one for being diplomatic. He liked to cut through the bullshit and get right to the point. Although there were times such was needed and he had to work hard at it. It had made getting his position within the agency difficult. But he was good at his job and the boys upstairs knew it, they also knew he had the respect and loyalty of all the top agents.

  Fitzgibbon gave a curt nod in the direction of the ten men sitting at the table that had been placed in the centre of the room, dominating the space. They all looked up at him, eagerly awaiting instructions.

  “I’ve just been on the phone with the head of Russian Intelligence, Director Mishkin,” he barked. “Suffice to say he isn’t pleased with the turn of events. Especially after what I had to tell him.” He clicked a button on a small black remote he found on the table and the large screen on the wall at the back of the room flicked on and an image came into focus. It was of a man with brown hair, taken several years ago.

  “You all know this man,” he said. “Michael Ducane’s work is well known to this agency and is considered a public enemy. His fingerprints were found on the scene and I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

  Several agents nodded. Michael Ducane was a home grown terrorist with a notorious reputation who at last count had been responsible for more than twenty bombings around the globe, resulting in the tens of thousands of victims from right here in America to the United Kingdom and even in the middle east. He had made the FBI and CIA’s most wanted list when he was only in his twenties and they had had a tough time pinning the bombings to him as he never stuck to one particular target. He had gone after cars and buildings alike, political and non-political targets, American and foreign. He a man for hire, a man who could be bought by the highest bidder.

  Fitzgibbon’s gut burned. Not only did one of Russia’s Intelligence agents have to be found murdered in his God-damned country but now Michael Ducane had to be involved. He knew the Russian’s were going to blame him personally for this mess and he didn’t blame them. He would be looking for blood too if it had been his agent.

  He wondered what Ducane planned to do and who had hired him and for what reason. There were too many questions and not enough answers. They were shooting in the dark and he hated not knowing Ducane’s agenda.

  “By now, I’d say Ducane is in Russia. We’re unsure what he might’ve obtained from the Russian but we’re not leaving anything to chance. This man was privy to information that could prove lethal. Gates will be heading there shortly to head up the investigation.”

  Jim looked about at the other nine agents. “The rest of you I want working double time. Reach out to your contacts and let them know any Intel gathered in regards to chatter on this matter is highly appreciated. So let’s do what we do best and find the fucker before lives are taken. Gates a word?”

  Lucas followed James out of the conference room and into his smaller office. It had a nice view of the parking lot. James lowered himself into his chair while Lucas remained standing. This shouldn’t take long, he thought. Just the usual riot act before a mission, he should be on his way back to his house within the hour.

  James sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t stress this enough Gates. This is a delicate matter. A little diplomacy is needed, I don’t want to burn our bridges with Russia understand?”

  Who would? he thought. Russia would be worse in any argument and could hold a grudge longer than any woman he knew. It was also the nation that had stockpiles of nuclear weapons left over from the cold war. The last thing he wanted was a nuke shoved up his ass.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Watch your back,” Fitzgibbon warned, fixing Lucas with a steely eye. “I don’t like the fact that the Russian worked for intelligence, the President will be attending a summit there shortly and I don’t want him to find himself in the middle of World War Three.”

  “Relax Jim, you’ve taught me well,” Lucas said cockily, rocking back on his heels. But both knew he said nothing that wasn’t true and couldn’t be backed up by action. He had been taught well and he knew how to handle himself in any situation he might find himself in.

  James nodded. That was precisely why he had chosen Gates for the mission. That and he could trust Lucas explicitly.

  “Ducane isn’t one for playing well with others,” Lucas stated.

  “Which is probably why the Russian is dead,” Fitzgibbon added. “I bet he had expected to have a more active role in whatever the hell is going on.”

  Lucas grunted. “I just wish we had an idea what we’re looking at. I don’t like going in blind.”

  Fitzgibbon growled. “Well whatever the target, I want you to find Ducane before he can fuck up our relations with Russia. Bring the shit home Luc and don’t forget to play nice. I know you have it in you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lucas said dryly. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll try and be a good boy so long as my balls don’t freeze and drop off okay?”

  Jim rolled his eyes and wondered if it wasn’t too late to get Austin to take Lucas’s place. At least Austin knew when to hold his tongue.

  “Sorry Jim, I’m already on my way,” Lucas told him, correctly reading where James’ thoughts were taking him. “Besides Austin doesn’t know Ducane like I do. I’m practically a walking encyclopedia on the man.”

  “Well now is the perfect time to use that information to catch him.”

  “I’ll either be bringing him home in handcuffs or a body bag but I’ll be bringing him home,” Lucas declared and James knew Gates was telling the truth. The man had never let him down before and Fitzgibbon knew it would be a cold day in hell if he ever did.

  Michael Ducane was coming home – whether he wanted to or not.

  Chapter 3

  Michael Ducane walked across the Marriot’s polished lobby floor, his companion Alvin Pochenchov striding beside him. Ducane couldn’t stand the man, he smelt like fish and his eyes were too close together. Michael made sure he watched himself around him, Alvin was the type to stab you in the back or rat you out for a reduced sentence whichever the case may be. His benefactor must have him by the shorthairs if he was directing Michael to deal with him. Michael didn’t like rats and men who were weak. But he was on a tight schedule and didn’t have the time to be picky. If Pochenchov could get him his shopping list in the time required he could certainly put up with the man for a short period. Besides he had come with a glowing recommendation and was well acquainted with Moscow’s underworld.

  “So you have everything I need?” he asked Pochenchov, eager to get the meeting over and the hell out of Moscow, he didn’t want to risk being seen. By now he was sure the body of the Russian traitor had been discovered and each government would be pulling out all the stops to avoid an international situation.

  Alvin Pochenchov was, according to his benefactor, the best black market weapons dealer for miles which made him a high commodity. The man just gave Michael the creeps, he looked just like any bad Russian you see in the movies complete with a tacky leather jacket and gelled back dark hair.

  Alvin spoke, his Russian accent thick. “Of course.”

  Michael nodded abruptly. “When can you deliver?”

  Alvin watched as a thin woman with large breasts sashayed past and gave her the attention she demanded before turning back to his companion.

  “Whenever you want,” he said, his voice husky as lust coursed through his body.

  The man was a pig. One who couldn’t keep his head in the game. Michael hated men like that. He wasn’t a monk, he could understand Alvin’s weakness but just couldn’t condone it. There was plenty of time for fun later but right now a lot rode on what Pochenchov could deliver and Michael’s life was attached to the fact that he would be able to hold up his end of the bargain. His benefactor was not a man you’d willingly betray.

  “As soon as possible,” he said.

  He was only going to get one chance at his target and if he failed, he doubted t
hat he would go quietly. Michael wanted to spend as much time before the event making sure that he had the measurements right. He was a perfectionist after all.

  Alvin stopped halfway across the lobby. “Very good, I will call you when I’m ready to deliver.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you Alvin.”

  Michael reached out his hand and took Alvin’s sweaty palm in his and pumped it once before releasing, containing the urge to wipe his palm on his pants. Alvin was the type that thought everybody loved him and Ducane wasn’t about to burst that bubble. Let the deluded man think it was a pleasure for him when in reality it was a necessity. After the delivery he would never see the man again.

  “I’m always here if you need anything else, Mike,” Alvin said, propositioning him for future dealings. He never let a possible business venture slip by and Michael Ducane was the type that could be a repeat customer.

  Michael resisted the urge to strike the man down. A bomb under the man’s car would do nicely, he thought. The nerve using such an intimate name, he thought, disgusted. The rage inside him caused the vein in his temple to bulge. He decided to make a hasty getaway. He couldn’t afford the kill the idiot before his shipment was delivered. With renewed interest he continued towards the hotel’s exit, too busy thinking of ways he would dispose of Alvin once he ceased being useful to notice the desk clerk watching him leave the hotel.

  The young clerk typed quickly on the keyboard and immediately SVR’s emblem of a two-headed eagle appeared on the computer screen along with the Agency’s top ten most wanted. The eagle’s claws were grasping at two swords that crossed through a deep blue shield with a five point grey star, the eagle had three crowns above its heads. His eyes widened until the white was all the way around his irises. He blinked and once again focused on the screen before him, Michael Ducane’s photo from a few years ago stood prominently to the right, his name and particulars on the left. A warning flashed at the bottom of the page: Caution, dangerous.