“I’ll wait for you here,” Victor said.
She knocked on the heavy wooden door and waited. A few second later, another plainclothes agent opened the door from the inside and let her in.
“Please have a seat, Dr. Votyakov,” he said, pointing to a red leather sofa positioned against the wall. “The president will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” she replied, sitting down. Facing her, on the opposite wall, hung a portrait of Veniamin Simonich. Even painted he looked powerful. Welcoming green eyes, black hair, tan skin with a smile displaying teeth as white as porcelain gave Simonich the appearance of someone approachable. And maybe he was, but Votyakov didn’t know him enough to say for sure. A former KGB political officer, Simonich had climbed the echelons rapidly and had done so not because of whom he knew, but because of his efficiency. He had no tolerance for incompetents, and anyone even suspected of corruption was sent to prison. He had campaigned as a man of the people and they had rewarded him by electing him to the highest office. Under his presidency, Russia had prospered and had somewhat restored the glory of the former Soviet Union.
But not anymore.
Russia’s economy was now imploding. With oil prices plummeting, the unemployment rate was back to double digits and climbing every month. So far Simonich, with the help of the army and the police forces, had managed to retain control. Nevertheless, Votyakov knew it was only months before riots would erupt across the country. That was why her mission was so important.
The sound of a door opening jolted Votyakov back to reality. She jumped to her feet as Veniamin Simonich approached her.
“Dr. Votyakov, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Simonich said, offering his hand.
“Of course, Mr. President,” she said, shaking it. It’s not as though I could have said no.
“Please follow me.” He led the way into his office. “Close the door behind you and have a seat.”
Votyakov complied.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“No thank you, Mr. President. I’m fine.” Votyakov watched Simonich unbutton his suit jacket and hang it on the back of his chair. He then took a few steps towards the single large window and rolled up his sleeves.
“Four months ago, I gave you a mission,” started Simonich, now working on his left sleeve. “A mission vital to the interests of the Russian Federation.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do you know the current unemployment rate across our country?”
“It’s at thirteen percent, I believe,” Votyakov replied.
“That was three months ago, Doctor. It’s now at fifteen point five percent,” Simonich said solemnly.
Votyakov knew things weren’t going well, but a rise of two and a half percent meant that the situation was even worse than she thought. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. President. This is certainly not your fault.”
Simonich’s head snapped in her direction. “I know that.” His eyes drilled hers. “It’s the Americans and their puppets from Saudi Arabia that are responsible for the situation Russia finds itself in.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Votyakov replied quickly. “I didn’t mean to insinuate . . .”
Simonich interrupted her by raising his hand. “You, Dr. Votyakov, were tasked with providing us an option in case everything else failed.”
Votyakov’s stomach became a knot. Did everything else fail? Already?
Simonich sat down behind his desk and said, “I know you were given six months to do the impossible, but I’m afraid Russia is running out of time, and money.”
Votyakov swallowed hard. Is he about to cut my funding, now that we’re within days of a potential breakthrough?
“Mr. President,” Votyakov said, “I believe that within the next few days I’ll be able to present you with the option you were looking for.”
For a fraction of a second, Votyakov thought she’d seen distress on Simonich’s face. Or was it fear? But it went away immediately. “I see,” he said. “You’re positive you’ve found something we could mass produce?”
Votyakov nodded. “Dr. Galkin and I need to run a few more tests but we’re confident we’ve found it. As for mass producing the Malburg virus thread we’re working on,” Votyakov added, “it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“I see.”
There it is again. His eyes. Sadness. That’s it! Simonich isn’t afraid, he’s sad.
Simonich opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a bottle of Baikal Vodka with two glasses. He unscrewed the cap and filled her glass with more alcohol than she had consumed during the last two months. He poured himself the same quantity.
“To your discovery,” he announced without fanfare.
She touched his glass with hers. “Thank you, sir.”
She took a sip and he did the same. The vodka burned her throat but tasted good. Maybe I should start drinking more often, she thought to herself.
“You do realize what we’ll do with the virus you’ve created, right?” Simonich said, after taking another swallow that drained more than half of his glass.
Of course I know, you idiot! I’m the one who’s been killing off prisoners by injecting them different mixtures of pathogens. Or did you forget about them, Mr. President? Maybe you did. You’re not the one who has to live with the sight of them dying tied to a chair burned into your brain.
But she bit her tongue and said, “Yes, sir, I do.”
“And you don’t mind?” he asked.
“I do my best to serve the Russian Federation, Mr. President. I understand what must be done.” Do you?
Simonich offered to refill her glass but she put her hand over the top. She shook her head. Simonich shrugged and poured himself some more.
“From now on, you’ll be working directly with one of my associates,” Simonich said. “It is best that I remove myself from the equation.”
“I understand completely, Mr. President.”
“Whatever my associate says, you can take it as if it had come directly from me.”
“Of course.”
“Good luck then, Dr. Votyakov.” Simonich rose from his chair.
Votyakov started to rise too but Simonich motioned her to stay seated. “My associate will be here shortly,” he said. With that, he topped up his glass with more vodka and left the room.
She understood why the president was torn. She felt the same way. The thrill of her discovery was clouded by the fact that she knew exactly how it would be used. But she had known from the beginning. Why was she feeling so sad now? Would she be able to sleep at night, knowing that the strain she had created had killed hundreds of thousands of innocent Americans? But they weren’t innocent, were they? The United States had conspired with the Saudis to plunge Russia into a deep recession. One that could very well send her country to its knees for the next decade. No, she’d do what must be done. Russia hadn’t started this war. She wouldn’t stand still while her countrymen starved to death.
The opening of the door behind her brought her mind back to reality. She turned to see who it was. A tall, still-muscular Arabic man she knew to be in his mid sixties stood a few steps behind her. Her heart stopped.
“It’s been too long, my dear Lidiya,” Sheik Qasim Al-Assad said, buttoning his suit jacket. “I’ve missed you.”
CHAPTER 13
Moscow, Russia
Mike Walton glanced at his rearview mirror more from habit than anything else. The traffic was heavy and there was no way he could have detected surveillance. Support Two had informed them a traffic accident involving a school bus was causing this delay. Lisa was seated next to him with an open laptop. An application installed by Support Two allowed them to track Dr. Votyakov. Support Two team leader James Cooper had assured them the device had a range of at least twenty miles, maybe more. That was a necessity. Un
like the Mercedes, the BMW they were driving wasn’t equipped with blue emergency lights to clear the way.
Having Support Two with them was a blessing. They had provided them with Luc Walker’s car, two pistols, with one spare magazine each, and secure communication gear able to keep IMSI headquarters and its assets in the field linked. Support Two had also supplied local currency, the tracking device they had used on Dr. Votyakov’s bodyguard and its accompanying laptop. Mike and Lisa had learned to appreciate having a support team with them. James Cooper, formerly from Support Five—the team based in Europe—had helped Jonathan Sanchez extract Lisa from a difficult position a few months back in Nice after she’d been stabbed by a would-be suicide bomber. IMSI assets like Mike and Lisa were partnered with a support team whenever possible. Each assigned to a specific geographical region, support teams delivered the logistics the assets needed to complete their missions.
“They’ve reached the Kremlin,” Lisa said.
“How far away are we?” Mike asked.
“About four miles.”
“How precise is this application?”
A few keystrokes later, Lisa said, “Enough to determine that the bodyguard entered the Kremlin Grand Palace.”
“Are you getting this, Charles?” Mike asked.
“Charles had to step out, Mike,” Jonathan Sanchez replied from the control room of IMSI headquarters. “But we’re getting the same feed you’re getting from your laptop.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Stand by, Mike,” Sanchez replied.
The IMSI had sent them to Moscow to verify Dr. Galkin’s information that Dr. Votyakov, the director of Biopreparat, was to travel to the Kremlin to meet with a high-ranking politician regarding a potential biological attack on the United States. As far as Mike knew, that was the extent of the information given by Dr. Galkin to the FBI.
“We need you to ascertain that Dr. Votyakov is inside the palace, not just the bodyguard,” Sanchez said a minute later.
“We’ll need to buy tickets to access the Kremlin,” Lisa said.
Mike nodded.
“Traffic’s getting lighter,” he said as they passed a marked police vehicle parked on the shoulder. “We should be able to reach the Kremlin within the next thirty minutes.”
“Mike from Support Two,” heard Mike in his earpiece.
“Go ahead.”
“Someone’s running Luc Walker’s license plate.”
Shit! That wasn’t good. “We just passed a marked cruiser,” Mike explained. “It’s probably a random check.”
Support Two’s reply sent an electrifying shiver down his spine. “It doesn’t matter. A warrant for Luc Walker’s arrest just appeared on our screen.”
Mike’s eyes shot to his rearview mirror. The marked vehicle had activated its emergency lights.
........
Lisa Walton didn’t waste time. As soon as she heard that their car was being investigated, she started typing the code that would automatically erase her laptop’s hard drive.
“I guess going for a tour of the Kremlin is now out of the question,” she said, half joking. “We need to lose him before additional cars are added to the chase.”
“I know,” her husband replied. “Hang on.”
Lisa’s seatbelt tightened again her chest as Mike braked hard and cranked the wheel to the right in order to take the next exit. He accelerated rapidly once the car reached the exit ramp. Lisa looked behind them. The Russian police car cut two lanes of traffic but managed to follow them out of the highway.
Lisa smiled. She couldn’t help it. This was exciting. The adrenaline rush felt good.
Too good.
“We have a better chance of losing them in the city streets than on the highway,” Mike said.
“Support Two, Lisa,” she said over her mic.
“Go ahead.”
“Anything you can do to help?”
“We don’t have enough time to hack the Moscow police system to modify the arrest warrant—”
“That wouldn’t change anything,” Lisa cut in, holding tight as Mike made a hard left followed by another left. She didn’t have time to adjust to the sudden change and banged her head heavily against the window. “They’re already after us. We need another vehicle.”
“We’ll see what we can do, Lisa. Stand by.”
She said to Mike, “Luc Walker speaks Russian fluently. We don’t.”
“I know,” Mike replied. “We can’t get caught.”
“Whatever the cost,” she said before grabbing a Walter P22 from the backpack she kept at her feet.
“What the hell, Lisa?” Mike said.
“Don’t worry, Mike,” Lisa replied, retrieving a Gemtech Outback suppressor from the glove compartment. “I’m not planning on using it on the cops.”
Mike looked confused. “Put it away if you’re not planning on using it. You’ll get us killed.”
“Who said I wasn’t planning on using it? I might need it to scare someone away from his car.” She pulled a loaded magazine of ten rounds from her backpack. She inspected the magazine, making sure the first cartridge was in position, before pushing it up into the handgrip. She racked the action.
“What do you want to do?” Mike asked. Her husband’s voice was calm, in control.
“Drop me at the next corner,” she said. “I’ll get us a new ride.”
Mike looked at her as if she was crazy. “You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah,” she replied.
........
His wife was gutsy. She was also right. Their only option was to ditch Walker’s BMW and escape with another car. It would have been better to steal a car from the long-term parking lot at the airport but that option had come and gone.
The police car was still chasing them with lights and siren.
“I’ll try to lose him, if only for a few seconds,” Mike said. “It will give you time for a clean exit out of the car.”
“Okay.”
“Be careful, baby.”
“You too, Mike.”
She squeezed his leg. “I’m good to go. Whenever you’re ready.”
Mike checked his rearview mirror once again. The police car was only a few cars back and gaining ground. It was only a matter of seconds before other police vehicles joined the chase.
“Support Two from Mike.”
“Go ahead.”
Mike searched for a street sign. “I’m presently somewhere between 3rd Ring Road and Velozavodskaya Street.”
“We see you on our screen,” Support Two replied. “There’s a supermarket a few streets down. Might be in good place to drop off Lisa.”
“Agreed,” Lisa said. “Let’s go.”
With the cruiser right on their tail, Mike wasn’t sure how he was going to pull that one off. It wasn’t easy to lose a police car, especially in a city you didn’t know. The traffic light ahead turned yellow and Mike punched the accelerator. The BMW 550 leaped forward and was three quarters across the street when a small Lada SUV hit it at full speed. The impact spun the BMW and Mike lost control and smashed into a parked vehicle across the street. His airbag deployed and smacked against his head, stunning him.
He looked over at his wife. “You’re okay, Lisa?”
She nodded. “We need to get out of here. Now!”
Before they could extract themselves from the vehicle, a police officer appeared next to Mike’s door. He was holding a pistol, and it was pointed directly at Mike’s head.
........
Lisa scanned her surroundings to make sure there was only one police officer. Once she was certain, she raised her silenced Walter P22 and fired five rounds through the driver’s side window. The first three rounds hit the officer square in the vest while another hit his pistol, before ricocheting aimlessly to his left.
The last round punctured his left hand.
“Go, Mike, go!”
........
Mike saw his wife raise her weapon and knew what she was planning. He pushed himself back against his seat. As soon as she told him to go, he unlocked all the car’s doors and jumped out of the vehicle. He pounced on the officer, who had moved backward a few paces. The officer’s eyes were those of a terrified man, fearing for his life. With his pistol out of reach, he tried to reach for his telescopic baton but Mike was too fast. He kicked the officer on the inside of his right knee. The officer bent forward and received Mike’s right knee on the nose. He collapsed. Mike used the officer’s handcuffs to secure his hands behind his back. He grabbed the police radio and picked up the pistol.
“Let’s go!” his wife told him before sprinting across the road.
Mike took a quick look at the Lada SUV. It was totaled. Its driver was slumped against the steering wheel, his eyes open but lifeless.
CHAPTER 14
IMSI headquarters, New York, NY.
Charles Mapother entered the control room and made a beeline to Jonathan Sanchez.
“Talk to me, Jonathan.”
Mapother couldn’t believe how fast the mission had turned to shit. A simple intelligence-gathering, fact-finding mission was now a total clusterfuck, with two operatives running for their lives.
“We’re still trying to reconstruct exactly what happened, sir,” Sanchez started. “But what we know so far is that the BMW Mike and Lisa were driving was investigated by a police cruiser belonging to the Moscow City Police.”
“Was it a random check or were they actually targeted?” Mapother asked.
“Nothing is pointing toward a targeted investigation,” Sanchez said. “Seems like a routine traffic check.”
A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 6