“Where are you going?”
Seeing Mike, the man panicked and tried to stand up, but his bad legs wouldn’t cooperate. Blood gushed out of his wounds at a faster pace. He placed his back against the wall and dug for something inside his jean’s pocket. A switchblade.
Mike wasn’t impressed but was a bit disappointed with his own performance. In his rush to get out of the Solntsevo District, he hadn’t searched the Russian. He should have known better. That was the first thing you learned as a police officer: you always search a suspect right after his arrest.
“That’s really what you want to do?” he asked the Russian.
Determination had replaced the earlier fear Mike had seen in the man’s eyes. Does he really think he can take me on? Then he understood what was happening and his hand moved to the small of his back. The last thing he wanted was to use his pistol. It wasn’t suppressed, and the sound would bring in a lot of unwanted attention. Still, he had no option as the Russian tried to stab himself in the throat. Mike fired, hitting the man in the bicep. The round went through, missing the bones. The man dropped the knife and swore loudly in Russian. Mike holstered his pistol and picked up the knife. He looked at his watch. Being so close to the Kremlin, if anyone had heard the shot, police would be there in a heartbeat.
“You’re fucked,” the Russian said through his broken teeth.
Mike kicked him in the face, breaking the man’s jaw, and watched the Russian slide off the wall and onto his back. Mike sat on top of the man, using his legs to keep the Russian’s arms pinned down. Mike plunged the knife into the man’s side while placing his free hand on his mouth. Not a fatal wound, but a damned painful one if he was to trust the distorted face the Russian made as the blade cut through his skin. The man tried to bit his hand but Mike removed it in time and buried his thumb deep into the Russian’s left eye as retribution.
“You’re dying,” Mike said. “I win, you lose.”
“Fuck you—”
Mike grabbed the man’s hair and bashed his head twice on the tile floor. “Where’s the Sheik?”
The Russian tried to spit in his face but Mike bitch-slapped him before he could do so. He did it again before repeating his last question. “Where’s the Sheik?”
“Why would I tell you?”
Mike slowly pulled the blade out of the man’s side. The Russian screamed and this time Mike let him. “Where’s the Sheik?” he asked again, twisting the knife.
“The Kremlin,” the Russian said. “He’s inside the Kremlin. He works with Simonich.”
“The Russian president?”
The man nodded. His eyes were rolling back. Mike let go of the knife and slapped the man again. “I want you to say it. Is the Sheik working with Vienamin Simonich?”
“Yes,” the Russian said weakly. “The Sheik is working for Vienamin Simonich.”
“Why?”
The Russian smiled. “You don’t know?”
Mike twisted the knife. The man screamed.
“Why are they working together?”
The man shook his head. “Kill me now. I’ll never tell you.”
It was Mike’s turn to smile. “You’ll die, trust me. There’s no way out for you, I’m afraid. The only question you should ask yourself is how painful you want it to be.”
Mike moved his hand toward the knife and felt the man jerk under him as he anticipated the pain. “Stop, stop,” the Russian pleaded.
“Tell me why the Sheik is working with Simonich,” Mike asked.
“It’s . . . It’s because of the new . . . virus. The Sheik has a plan to bring it to the United States.”
“What kind of virus is it?”
Fear returned to the man’s eyes. He truly didn’t know the answer. “I . . . I . . .”
“I believe you,” Mike said. “When and how is the Sheik supposed to bring the virus to America?”
“I have no idea. The Sheik doesn’t share this kind of information with us.”
Mike inched the knife deeper. The Russian yelled. “How and when,” Mike hissed.
The man started to shake uncontrollably. He was dying. Blood was coming out of his ears now. Mike had probably caused some kind of internal bleeding while bashing the man’s head on the floor. “You’ll . . . never . . . see it coming,” the Russian said as his eyes rolled back for the last time.
Mike wouldn’t get anything else out of the Russian. In one fluid movement, he removed the knife from the man’s side and thrust it hard into his neck, severing the jugular.
He wished he could have videotaped the interview but an audio recording would have to do. The IMSI wanted something they could take to DNI Phillips, not evidence that needed to stand up in court.
“Support Two from Mike.”
“We’re here, Mike,” responded Support Two team leader James Cooper. “We got all of it.”
“Any chatter regarding shots fired at this address?” asked Mike. Support Two was always listening to the police and security agencies’ frequencies.
“Nothing yet. There’s no other apartment on your floor. Maybe you got lucky.”
“What about the camera feeds? I’ve seen at least two in the underground garage and another one in the—”
“We’ve got them all, Mike,” Cooper replied before adding, “While you were busy, Mapother called to let us know where you could find the keys to his brother’s cars.”
........
Mike took a couple of minutes to change from his blood-soaked clothes into some he found in the master bedroom. Mapother’s brother had expensive tastes. Luckily for Mike, Frank Mapother’s Italian shirts were the right size and he picked a white one to go with the black leather jacket. The designer jeans were a bit too large but the Ferragamo belt ensured they wouldn’t go down. The car keys were right where Mapother had said they would be. The Ferrari was too flamboyant so he picked the Jaguar F-Type.
“Still nothing regarding a shootout at this location?” Mike asked Support Two.
“There’s a shootout but it’s at the other end of the city. We’ve also taken care of the video feed.”
“What about the penthouse?” Mike wondered how they’d get the body out. He had also left his old clothes in a garbage bag next to the body.
“We’re not sure about that yet,” James Cooper replied. “We’ll figure it out.”
Mike certainly didn’t want to get Charles Mapother’s brother Frank in trouble but they’d had no choice. He wished they hadn’t had to use his penthouse but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
He unlocked the F-Type and the door handles popped out of the door panel. The inside was just like the cockpit of a fighter jet. The start engine began to flash in a heartbeat-like pulse pattern. Mike pressed the brake pedal while he pushed the start-engine button. The F-Type’s five-hundred-fifty-horsepower V8 roared to life. Mike’s pulse quickened. Holy shit! Maybe the Ferrari would have been subtler after all.
The garage door opened automatically when the F-Type’s front bumper broke the infrared beam. Mike accelerated north on Tverskaya Street and laughed out loud at the crackling sound of the F-Type sport exhaust.
“Mike, Support Two,” came in James Cooper.
“Go ahead for Mike.”
“I’ll patch you through to the director.”
Mike heard a click and then Mapother said, “We’ve just finished listening to your . . . hum . . . conversation with the Sheik’s man.”
“I wish I had more, Charles,” Mike said, “but he didn’t cooperate much.”
“Still, it’s enough for me to take to Phillips.”
“Good,” Mike replied. “What about Lisa? Where is she?”
When Mapother didn’t answer right away, Mike knew something was terribly wrong. Mapother always knew where his assets were.
“Charles,” he said, his heart sinking f
ast. “Is she all right?”
“We lost contact with her earlier today—”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean you lost contact?”
“Calm down, Mike,” Mapother said. “We’ll find her.”
Mike parallel parked the Jaguar on a side street. He didn’t trust himself to drive. Enraged at Mapother, he slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck,” he yelled at no one.
“Something happened in Koltsovo,” Mapother continued. “We don’t know what exactly, but Lisa was injured.”
Mike shook his head, not believing what was happening. Not again. He started hyperventilating and he felt a huge pressure on his chest. Another panic attack was coming and he was powerless to do anything to prevent it. He looked at his hands; they were trembling like never before. He needed some air. His hand was on the door handle when Mapother said, “What’s going on, Mike?”
He couldn’t find the right words. Nothing came out of his mouth. He felt as if his soul was slowly disconnecting from his body. He imagined Lisa tied to a chair with the Sheik pouring gasoline over her naked body. Mike yelled as his mind showed him the Sheik about to drop a match on his wife. He tried to stop it but couldn’t move. His feet were encased in a solid, unbreakable lump of cement. Mike could see in slow motion the match leave the Sheik’s hand and fall on Lisa’s lap. She screamed at the top of her lungs as fire engulfed her body.
It took a moment for Mike to realize it wasn’t really happening and that Mapother was talking to him.
“Talk to us, Mike. We’re here. Just talk to us and let us know what’s going on.”
Mike was drenched with sweat. He took in his surroundings. He was in Moscow. “I’m . . . I’m fine,” he finally said. “I think I had a panic attack.”
He cracked the window open and cold air immediately rushed into the small passenger compartment of the F-Type. He forced himself to take five deep breaths. Feeling better, Mike said, “I’m fine.”
“Okay, Mike. We’ll talk about this later,” Mapother said. Mike could tell he was concerned. Truth was, he was worried too. His panic attacks were getting out of control and were starting to impede his work. “What we need to do now is to bring you back stateside.”
“I’m not leaving without her, Charles,” Mike said. “You’d better understand this.”
He heard Mapother sigh. “We don’t know where she is, Mike.”
“Then find her, for Christ’s sake!”
“Listen to me, Mike,” Mapother said. “This isn’t a suggestion. It’s a goddam order. If you want us to find Lisa, you’d better do as you’re told, because right now I’m wasting time with you instead of focusing on finding your wife.”
Mapother’s words rang true. Plus, his cover as Luc Walker was blown and he was driving a car belonging to the man who owned the penthouse where he had left a dead body. It was only a matter of time before he got caught. “If I do this,” Mike said, “you’ll let me help with Lisa’s search?”
“Yes.”
Mapother wouldn’t lie to his face, but would he on the phone? It didn’t matter; the IMSI director had a point. His being in Russia was a distraction. “What’s the plan?”
“The IMSI’s jet is presently on its way to Kiev where it will refuel. Your job is to get to the Yuzhny Airport,” Mapother said. “It’s about four miles southwest of Oryol. It should take you between four and five hours to get there.”
“Who’s flying?”
“William Talbot and Martin St-Onge.”
Good. Talbot and St-Onge had been of tremendous help not only in saving Lisa’s life in France, but also in Croatia.
“They’ll be in Oryol just long enough to pick up Vincent Marquis, a rich French oil executive.”
Mike didn’t like leaving anyone behind. Especially his wife. But for now, he’d go with Mapother’s plan. If his wife was still alive, the IMSI analysts would find her. And Mike would go get her.
CHAPTER 50
Haifa, Israel
Zima Bernbaum couldn’t help but admire the beautiful sunrise over the city of Haifa. She’d had the chance to visit Israel, the country where she was born, many times over the years. Surprisingly, she’d never set foot in Haifa, the third largest city in Israel. Built on the slopes of Mount Carmel, Haifa was one of the Middle East’s more picturesque cities.
She felt the helicopter veer left and start its descent toward the Haifa naval base. “What now?” she asked the soldier next to her.
“Someone will be waiting for you,” he replied, his eyes still closed.
The helicopter landed without incident and she unclipped her seatbelt. She looked at the soldier who had risked his life for hers and she thanked him one last time. “Here they are,” he said.
Zima turned around and saw two more soldiers dressed identically trotting toward the chopper. “Where are you going?”
“Eitan’s alive. We have a fix on his position. We’re going to get him back,” the soldier said, while the two other soldiers strapped themselves in their seats. Zima was relieved but the sensation only lasted a second. Three more operators were going to risk everything to get one of their own back. She wished the men good luck and the helicopter took off as soon as she had cleared the rotor, its blades kicking up clouds of dust. She watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon. To her right, a black minivan flashed its lights. She walked to the waiting vehicle. The driver’s side window slid down and a man told her to climb in. The interior of the minivan smelled like the inside of a cigar lounge. An odor Zima had always liked, until now. It just didn’t fit with her mood. The driver—sixties, full face, friendly green eyes, brown tie loosened at the neck—extended his hand.
“I’m Meir Yatom,” the man said. “I’m a friend of Charles Mapother.”
Zima shook his hand with her left. “Thank you.”
“I owed Charles a favor. You’re my payment.”
“I see,” Zima replied.
“You were supposed to be driven to Tel Aviv and placed on the next flight to New York, but something came up,” Yatom said.
“I need medical care for my hand,” she said, showing him the dirty dressing covering her right hand.”
“You’ll get it where we’re going. The best.”
“Are you with the Israeli military?” Zima asked.
“You don’t believe that,” Yatom replied. “Do we really need to go through this?”
“I guess we don’t.”
“I believe a relationship shouldn’t start with two friends telling lies to each other,” the Israeli said. “I don’t want to put you in a situation where you’ll have to lie to me, so please do the same for me. Can you do that for me?”
Zima didn’t know how much the Israeli knew about the IMSI. She wasn’t ready to volunteer any information without Mapother’s approval, so it was best to do as Yatom had suggested.
“Of course. I’m sorry,” she said.
“As long as we understand each other.”
“You said that something came up, Mr. Yatom—”
“Please call me Meir,” Yatom replied with a smile. “A beautiful lady like you shouldn’t have to call anyone by their last name. You get a free pass.”
“Does that mean I won’t be flying back to the States, Meir?” she continued.
“In the end, the decision will be yours. Shall we?” Yatom said as he accelerated away from the helipad.
“Does Charles know this?”
“Of course. Water?” Yatom asked, offering her a bottle.
She thanked him and twisted the cap off the bottle before taking a long pull.
........
Zima woke up with a jolt. Yatom was gently squeezing her shoulder. “We’ve arrived,” he said.
She hadn’t realized she was so tired. She had so many questions she wanted to ask. How could she have fallen
asleep? She looked at the empty bottle of water at her feet.
“You drugged me,” she said. “Why?”
“So I wouldn’t have to lie to you, my friend,” Yatom said. “Now come.”
Zima took in her surroundings. They were in an underground parking garage. For how long had she slept? She had no idea if she was still in Haifa or if they had reached Tel Aviv. There weren’t many cars parked yet, and Zima suspected it was still early in the morning. Yatom hadn’t wanted her to see where they were or how they got there. That probably meant that she was either at the Mossad headquarters or a Mossad office somewhere in Israel. But she was definitely in a Mossad compound.
She followed Yatom along a hallway located on the same level as the parking garage. Yatom knocked on the first door to his left. A nurse—or maybe she was a doctor—opened the door.
“Please have a seat, Zima,” she said, inviting her in. “I’ll take care of your hand.”
........
The nurse worked well and fast. During the forty-five minutes she had spent with her, Zima must have thanked her ten times. It was weird to have a hand with only four fingers. It didn’t feel right. But, then again, many soldiers had lost much more and they were now thriving in civilian life. She’d be okay. She was thankful for Yatom’s help. Without him, she would have lost more than a finger.
Yatom picked her up from the infirmary not long after the nurse had applied a new dressing. She thanked the nurse one more time before following Yatom out of the room. They walked along an underground hallway before stopping in front of another door with no marking. Seconds later, the door opened and Yatom signaled Zima to walk in front of him. The room smelled the same as the minivan’s interior. Six people worked in front of terminals and none of them turned to welcome her.
“Do you speak Hebrew?” Yatom asked in his native tongue.
“I do,” Zima replied in the same language. Her parents had taught her from an early age and she’d had the chance to keep it current while working for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.
A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 20