Mapother scratched his head. “What happened next?”
“For reasons unknown to us at this time, a warrant for Luc Walker’s arrest was initiated earlier today.”
“God damn FBI,” Mapother cursed. “They couldn’t keep their mouth shut.” It was easy to figure out what had happened. To gain some brownie points, the FBI had publicized the arrest of Luc Walker. Words of his arrest had reached Moscow. Russian officials, not wanting to look soft on crime, had also issued an arrest warrant. Probably not even knowing why they were doing so . . .
“A chase followed and our assets’ vehicle was struck by an incoming SUV,” continued Sanchez.
“Good God.”
“Before they could escape, a police officer approached the vehicle and threatened Mike with his sidearm.”
Mapother pinched the bridge of his nose. Not good.
“Lisa used a Walter P22 to fire five shots at the officer,” Sanchez said, before quickly adding, “He sustained only minor injuries to one of his hands.”
At least they hadn’t killed the officer.
“Where are they now?” Mapother asked.
Sanchez asked an analyst to put up Mike and Lisa’s location on one of the control room’s huge flat screens.
“They stole a moped from one of the witnesses at the scene,” Sanchez said.
“A moped?”
Mapother looked at the two blue dots representing Mike and Lisa. They had put more than three miles between them and the crash site. They were now traveling westbound using small roads.
Sending them to the Kremlin was now out of the question. Could they reach Dr. Galkin, though? Confirming the presence of Dr. Lidiya Votyakov with a high-ranking Russian politician would have been enough to convince him his former informant was telling the truth, and he would have ordered Mike and Lisa to snatch him. But without being absolutely sure he was telling the truth, he could be sending Mike and Lisa into a trap.
“Do you know if their act was caught by CCTV?”
“We’re still at least fifteen minutes from being able to hack into Moscow’s CCTV system. The quality of their system isn’t comparable to what the British have in London. Videos are usually grainy at best,” Sanchez said.
“If they work at all,” Mapother added. “They couldn’t even find CCTV footage of Tadeas Chuchnova’s murder when he was shot four times in one of the most secured locations in Moscow.”
Tadeas Chuchnova, a former deputy prime minister and opposition leader, had been a fierce critic of Russian president Veniamin Simonich. He had been assassinated on a bridge in central Moscow after having dinner with his mistress, a young Ukrainian model.
“There’s good news, though,” Sanchez said. “Just before you walked in we found this.”
Sanchez handed Mapother a piece of paper.
“That’s good news indeed,” Mapother said. “Patch me through to Mike. I’ll give him a new set of instructions.”
CHAPTER 15
Moscow, Russia
Mike Walton parked the borrowed moped in the parking lot of the Vremena Goda shopping center. He’d taken it away from a terrified teenager who had witnessed the entire ordeal with the police officer. His wife had climbed behind him and had held him so tightly that Mike thought she’d cracked one of his ribs. A moped wasn’t his first choice of getaway vehicle but that had seemed less risky than forcing someone out of his car.
“Mike, this is Charles.”
“I’m listening, Charles.”
“We’ve got you at a shopping mall.”
“Lisa and I will make a few purchases,” Mike said. They needed to change clothes, buy some makeup and try to alter their appearances as much as possible.
“Neither of you was injured in the crash?”
“We’re fine, Charles,” Mike replied, but his thoughts were with the driver of the SUV who’d rammed them. “What about the guy who ran his SUV into our car?”
“I can answer this one,” came in the voice of Support Two team leader James Cooper. “He’s dead.”
Mike sighed. Pictures of children growing without their father flashed in his mind. Not now, Mike. Focus.
This wasn’t good. Not only had they shot a cop, they’d killed someone. The mission had turned into a nightmare. Lisa was gesturing him to get moving and he followed her in the direction of the shopping mall.
Mapother continued, “I need you to bring in Dr. Galkin, Mike.”
“Back to New York, you mean?”
“Correct.”
Lisa, who was getting all of this through her own communication system, looked at him and shook her head. “Charles, this is Lisa.” She continued walking toward the mall. “Your brief indicated that Dr. Galkin’s working at the Biopreparat Koltsovo Facility. That’s like three thousand miles away.”
“I know,” Mapother replied. “But we came across some intel that indicates Dr. Galkin’s name is on tonight’s flight from Koltsovo to Sheremetyevo.”
Built for the 1980 Summer Olympics, Sheremetyevo airport was the second largest airport in Russia and located eighteen miles northwest of Moscow.
“Do we know why?” Mike asked.
“I’m afraid we don’t. The only thing we know with some certainty is that his name is on the flight manifest of an Aeroflot flight scheduled to land tonight at Sheremetyevo at a quarter to nine local time.”
Mike looked at his Tag Heuer. It was just passed five o’clock in the afternoon. Lisa shrugged. Why not?
“We’ll need transportation, a new set of IDs and an exfiltration plan.”
“We’ll work with Support Two to provide you with a new set of wheels, but you can forget about getting new identity cards.”
“Luc Walker is now a marked man in Russia, Charles,” Mike said.
“Maybe so,” Mapother replied. “But the real Luc Walker doesn’t look like you and if nobody captured the incident with the cop, you might be okay.”
Might be okay . . . Mike didn’t like this one bit. But what choice did they have?
“What if Dr. Galkin doesn’t want to join us?” Mike asked. This was a real possibility, especially if the Russian doctor asked them how they intended to bring him out of the country. They had yet to come up with a plan. “Do we force him?”
“He’ll go, as long as you tell him his family’s safe.”
“Aren’t they still in Koltsovo?”
“For now,” Mapother replied. “Lisa will need to pick them up.”
........
Lisa wasn’t sure if she’d heard Mapother correctly. “Say again.”
“We need you to pick up Dr. Galkin’s family in Koltsovo.”
Didn’t I mention it was three thousand miles away?
Mapother continued before she had a chance to respond. “There are no indications that you’ve been compromised, Lisa. You came in on a different flight and you didn’t link with Mike until you took possession of Luc Walker’s BMW at the airport.”
She glanced at her husband. He didn’t look pleased. His eyes betrayed his anxiety.
“There must be another way,” Mike said.
“The moment Biopreparat realizes Dr. Galkin’s gone, they’ll go after his family. We might be too late already,” Lisa replied. And if that’s the case, I’ll end up with a bullet in the head or, worse, in a forced labor camp.
“We need Dr. Galkin, Mike, and he won’t go without assurances that his family’s safe,” Mapother insisted. “He might be the only ally we have inside Russia and there’s no time to send another team. Lisa’s our best chance, and you know it.”
“I’ll go,” Lisa said, staring into Mike’s eyes. Was that panic I just saw?
“By the time you reach Koltsovo, we’ll have an exfil plan for you.”
That’s if I reach Koltsovo at all.
CHAPTER 16
The Kre
mlin, Moscow, Russia
The Sheik approached his former lover and the mother of his children. She had changed in the last few years. Her waist had become a little thicker and streaks of gray could be seen within her blond hair. But her kind blue eyes, the ones that had conquered his heart so long ago, hadn’t changed. They were still able to pierce his defenses and, for a brief moment, he wondered if they’d still be together if the CIA hadn’t killed his father by mistake four decades ago.
The slaughter of his family had changed his life. In fact, this tragic event had not only transformed his life, it had altered the lives of thousands. Sometimes he wished he could go back to change his past and better orient his future. But he was a realist and, truth be told, he actually enjoyed being the Sheik. Four months ago, when Charles Mapother’s men had raided his mobile headquarters—an eighty-six-foot Azimut yacht anchored in Spain—and killed his most valuable and trusted man, Omar Al-Nashwan, he had been forced to kill Al-Nashwan’s father, his partner and long-time associate Steve Shamrock. This saddened him, and he placed the blame directly on Mapother’s shoulders. Steve Shamrock had studied with the current American president and had earned his trust. Shamrock, an oil tycoon, had informed him about the creation of a new counterterrorism entity named the International Market Stabilization Institute. His friend had been furious when the president decided he’d be the only one with control over the IMSI, and that he wouldn’t share operational details or the intelligence acquired during missions with the three financiers who’d funded the IMSI in the first place. Nevertheless, Shamrock had shared one important aspect of the IMSI with him: a name. Charles Mapother. And if there was one positive thing to come out of the attack on his mobile headquarters, it was the discovery of another name associated with the IMSI.
Mike Powell.
Mike Powell was the son of Canadian ambassador Ray Powell, the man he had abducted in Algiers more than two years ago. The successful kidnapping of the Canadian ambassador to Algeria gave him instant recognition amongst other terror groups. Within a year, his network became the most feared among the western hemisphere intelligence agencies. No countries were safe, with the exception of Russia. With the death of Steve Shamrock, he had lost access to the majority of his funds. His network had been shaken by the loss of many of his top lieutenants but was still operational.
Mike Powell. The two words Omar Al-Nashwan had said before dying. The ambassador’s son was supposedly killed during a coordinated attack he had orchestrated at the Ottawa international airport and train station. But he had survived, or so it seemed.
As for Mapother, he wasn’t easy prey. The fact that he had to take a step back following the attack on his yacht hadn’t helped either. It had taken longer than expected to find the IMSI director. It had only seemed fair to take Mapother’s life in exchange for Al-Nashwan’s and Shamrock’s deaths. To accomplish this, he’d tasked his older son Zakhar to formulate a plan that wouldn’t implicate him. Zakhar, an accountant who’d been through a terror camp in Sierra Leone, led by a former associate named Major Jackson Taylor, came up with the idea of asking someone with a previous connection with Mapother. He had agreed with his son’s plan and sent him on his way. The Sheik had been under no illusions about the difficulty of the mission. That was why he had asked his younger son Igor to shadow Zahhar’s movements and to report back to him. Everything had worked like a charm, until Igor’s phone call.
“Qasim?” Dr. Votyakov’s voice sliced through his unpleasant thoughts.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Dr. Votyakov replied.
“You don’t look pleased to see me,” he said, taking a step in her direction.
“You’re usually the bearer of bad news, Qasim,” she said. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have some jihadists to brainwash?”
It took all his will not to slap her. How dare she judge him? Damn bitch. She knew him. She knew what he had been through and why he did the things he did.
She must have seen something change in him because she quickly apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that.” She sat down in the armchair facing the Russian president’s desk. “I’ve been under tremendous pressure.”
She had a way of affecting him like nobody else. A single word from her could change his humor in a heartbeat. One minute he wanted to choke her, the next he wanted to embrace her.
Standing behind the mother his children, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “I do have bad news, Lidiya.” He felt her tense. “Zakhar has been killed.”
She jumped to her feet to face him. Her eyes drilled into his. Her upper lip twitched, then she slapped him. Hard. He let her do it again on the other cheek, embracing the burning sensation. If she only knew what I did, she’d kill me. Our first born, a fallen peon on the battlefield of revenge. My revenge.
He grabbed her wrist on her third swing. “Enough. Get a grip.” She slowly shook her head, a single tear gliding from the corner of her eye. He watched as her face crumpled into a mask of sadness and hate. “What did you do?” she hissed.
Her words speared into his soul. Why was he always the one she held responsible for any misfortune? The fact that she was right didn’t subdue his anger.
“Your words hurt me, Lidiya,” he said in the most compassionate voice he could muster. “I had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with this.” He didn’t flinch when her inquisitive, teary eyes gored through his.
“Who then?” she whispered a full minute later. “Who?”
“An American spy named Mike Powell.” Someone whom I thought died months ago.
“Will you kill him for me, Qasim?” she asked, her voice pleading.
“I’ll do better than this, my love.” The Sheik held her tightly against him. “I’ll pierce his eyes, cut off his genitals and feed them to him before cutting his throat.”
“Yes,” she said between sobs. “I’d love that very much.”
CHAPTER 17
Damascus, Syria
Ray Powell was seated in the backseat of Syrian General Fuad Younis’s armored Range Rover. Younis was the commanding officer of the Fifteenth Special Forces Division of the Syrian Army. Four months ago, after Powell had been in the Sheik’s custody for over two years, Younis had liberated him from his captors. Powell still remembered their first conversation that took place in his filthy cell:
“What are you planning to do with me, General?”
“We’re here to send you home, Mr. Ambassador.”
That had been bullshit. He hadn’t been allowed even one phone call. The sad thing was that even if he’d been permitted a quick overseas call, he had no family to contact. One of the Sheik’s men, a sadistic bastard called Omar Al-Nashwan, had told him about the death of his wife and only son. Powell had spat in Al-Nashwan’s face. Al-Nashwan’s response had not only been to savagely beat him. He was also shown numerous newspapers confirming the death of his entire family.
Younis had kept him in isolation. With no access to radio or television, Powell had no idea what was going on in the outside world. The only reason his will to live hadn’t wavered was because he had gained access to intelligence that could dramatically change the face of Washington DC. Just before his capture by the Sheik, he had discovered that Steve Shamrock, a close friend of President Robert Muller, was in fact working with the terrorist mastermind.
At least compared to his time in the Sheik’s custody, where he had lost a finger—cut by Al-Nashwan—and been forced to shit and urinate in his clothes, the Syrian general had fed him properly and Powell had regained some of his strength. This morning, when he opened his eyes after a surprisingly restful sleep, Younis had been standing next to him. In his hands was a fresh change of clothes.
“You’re leaving,” Younis said. “Get dressed, shave and eat.”
“That’s what you told me four months ago.”
“Not my decision, Mr. Ambassador.”
After a breakfast of coffee and toast, Powell was escorted to a three-vehicle convoy. He climbed into the middle vehicle.
“Where are we headed to, General?” Powell asked.
“A Canadian delegation landed a few hours ago. You’re going home.”
Powell did his best to control his excitement. After years of solitude and despair, his brain had a hard time comprehending that the nightmare he’d been living in was finally coming to an end.
As the convoy moved slowly through the Syrian capital, Powell couldn’t help noticing the destruction around him. Damascus had changed drastically since his last visit in the early nineties. Once a beautiful city, Damascus’s five thousand years of history was being destroyed and slowly buried by rubble.
Four years of civil war will do that to any city.
“Sad isn’t it, Mr. Ambassador?” Younis asked from the front passenger seat.
“I remember Damascus as a magnificent city, General,” Powell replied, his eyes glued to the outside. “Picturesque, tree-lined streets, bustling, open-air markets with gourmet rooftop restaurants—”
“Did you know that Damascus is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cites in the world, Ambassador?”
“No, I can’t say I knew that.”
“We’ll live through this. We’ll rebuild. Come back and see for yourself,” Younis said, looking at Powell.
Powell nodded. This city will never be the same. Not in my lifetime anyway.
The convoy came to a halt. A checkpoint. It was the fourth one, and they had traveled less than one mile. No, I don’t think I’ll come back here. Ever.
CHAPTER 18
Damascus, Syria
Zima Bernbaum drank the last of her energy drink. Using her binoculars, she scanned the roofs of the buildings surrounding the square where the exchange was to take place. Looking for threats wasn’t as easy as it would have been in New York City, or Ottawa for that matter. Four years of civil war had changed the face of Damascus. Once a peaceful city, it was now one of the most dangerous places on the planet. Zima recalled a time not so long ago when she had explored Damascus with only a backpack and a few tourist books. The nightlife had been sensational, even better than Paris. Now the city lived in fear of car bombings and to a soundtrack of artillery salvoes. Tourism had died, and the reasons were painfully obvious. During her pre-mission briefing she’d been told that the financial losses since the beginning of the conflict were upward of eighty billion dollars.
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