A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2)

by Simon Gervais

  Yatom asked one of the employees to explain to Zima what had transpired. A light-skinned black woman in her early twenties, with short black hair, stood up and walked to another computer. “Hey, I’m Chaya,” she said to Zima as she sat down.

  “Zima,” she replied, observing the young lady as she typed her username and password on her keyboard.

  The flat screen came to life and a video of the whole Damascus shootout began to play. Zima clenched her fists as she watched the firefight between the Canadians, the Syrians and an unknown enemy. Oh my God! The Syrian driver was a turncoat. He started the whole thing.

  “How did you get this?” she asked. The computer monitor was now zooming in on her as she tried to speak to the downed soldier.

  “We got this via—” started Chaya.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Yatom cut in. “What matters is that we got it.”

  “Can I get a copy?”

  “You’ll get your copy once we’re done with it, and our technicians can guarantee you won’t be able to identify our source,” Yatom said.

  “Fair enough.” Mapother would love to see this and so would her ex-employer. The folks at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service would pay a lot of money to get their hands on this video.

  “There’s more,” Yatom said. “It has come to our attention that a small Antonov plane carrying former Canadian ambassador Ray Powell took off from the Al-Mazzeh military airport shortly after the shootout.”

  Zima was completely taken aback by this sudden revelation. “You’re sure the ambassador is still alive?”

  “No. We can’t confirm if he’s dead or alive at this moment,” Yatom said. “What we know, though, is that the Antonov made two refueling stops. The first was in Cyprus, and the second in Turkey. From there, they headed to Mykonos, Greece.”

  “Meir,” Zima said, “how certain are you?”

  “If I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Unbelievable. She had to contact Charles Mapother. Now.

  CHAPTER 51

  IMSI headquarters, New York

  In order for Charles Mapother to get what he wanted from Director of National Intelligence Richard Phillips, he had to give him something. And he did. A favor. Still, the DNI wasn’t happy.

  “The deal when we started all of this was for you to take care of your own shit, Charles,” Phillips said.

  “We do, and we often take care of yours too,” Mapother said, not liking the hostility he was getting from the DNI.

  “This administration has granted you unlimited access to our intelligence-gathering apparatus,” Phillips said. “What else do you want? And have no doubt, if this ever gets out, we’re talking impeachment—”

  “You’ve known this all along, Richard,” Mapother said. “Why the cold feet now?”

  “You’re supposed to be able to operate on your own.”

  “How many times did I ask for your help?” Mapother replied.

  DNI Richard Phillips didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was calmer. “What can the United States government do to help?”

  “One of my assets acquired intelligence that you’ll find interesting,” Mapother started.

  “Is that so?”

  Mapother ignored the DNI’s sarcastic tone. “I even think you’ll feel compelled to brief the president the moment you’ve read through it. My office is sending everything to our joint account as we speak.”

  “You have proof that the Russians are working with the Sheik?” The DNI clearly sounded surprised.

  “Nothing you could bring in front of a judge, but more than enough to stop the Russians dead in their tracks for fear of heavy retaliations from the United States and its allies,” Mapother explained.

  “So it’s true then,” Phillips said. “They’re ready to start a war.”

  “I don’t think so, Richard,” Mapother said. “They’re using the Sheik’s network to separate themselves from any pitfalls.”

  “And if their plan fails, they’ll deny any involvement or only admit to some rogue elements within their government,” finished DNI Phillips. “What do you need from me?”

  “My asset left a mess behind him obtaining this information,” Mapother said. “I’ll need a cleaning crew at my brother’s penthouse on Tverskaya Street in Moscow.”

  “Frank knows about this?” the DNI asked.

  “Of course not,” Mapother replied. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Let me know what the president says.”

  Mapother hung up at the same time Jonathan Sanchez barged into his office holding his cell phone up in the air. “It’s Zima. She has intel on Mike’s father’s whereabouts.”

  Mapother wondered where this intel had originated. The Israelis? They weren’t known to share with others. Unless they want something. He placed the phone on his desk and turned on the speaker option so Sanchez could listen in on the conversation.

  “Zima?” he asked.

  “I’m with your friend Meir, Charles,” Zima started. “He says he knows where Ray Powell is.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  A moment later, Meir Yatom was on the other end. “Who would have thought we’d speak again so soon?”

  With the Russian situation not exactly under control, Mapother had no time for small talk so he cut to the chase. “You really know where Ray Powell is?”

  “He’s in Mykonos. And yes, I’m sure.”

  That was terrific news. “What are you planning to do with this?”

  “It depends,” Yatom replied.

  Mapother was losing patience. The Israeli spy might have saved one of his assets but Yatom’s games irritated Mapother no end. “What do you want, Meir?”

  “I’m curious to know why you’re so interested in Ray Powell?”

  There was no chance in hell he’d admit to Yatom that Powell was the father of one of his assets, so he lied. “We’re doing a favor for the Canadians.”

  He knew Yatom didn’t believe him but he hoped the message was clear. He wasn’t going to say why.

  “I see,” Yatom replied. His tone indicated he wasn’t impressed with Mapother’s answer. “Zima will be on the next flight to New York. Goodbye, Charles.”

  The line went dead.

  “He hung up,” Sanchez said.

  Mapother looked at Sanchez. “You’re very good at stating the obvious, Jonathan. Bravo.”

  ........

  “What the hell?” Zima asked. She couldn’t understand why Yatom had just hung up on Mapother. They needed to work together.

  “If your boss doesn’t want to share the reasons why he’s so interested in Powell, I’m done with this case.”

  “But—”

  Yatom raised his hands, signaling her to stop talking. “Don’t lie to me, Zima,” he said. “We’ve been honest to each other so far. Don’t ruin it by feeding me some bullshit about doing this for the Canadians.”

  “I’m a former Canadian Security Intelligence Service officer, Meir,” she said. “Did you know that?”

  The Israeli spy smiled. “Of course. I also know you left the CSIS months ago to work for Mapother. Why?”

  For the second time that day, Zima’s thoughts took her back to Edmonton. She remembered Shane, the fearless Royal Canadian Mounted Police swat member who had jumped on her just before the bomb meant for her exploded. His body had absorbed most of the blast and a piece of metal had ripped through his body armor and embedded itself in his back. Without him, she’d be dead. That’s why she had joined Charles Mapother and the rest of the IMSI. She wanted payback, just as Mike and Lisa did for the loss of their family.

  “Revenge,” she said, her voice only a whisper. “I want revenge for what happened in Edmonton.”

  Yatom
nodded. Zima thought he was about to say something but Chaya called him to her workstation.

  “Sir, the team is in position.”

  “Put it on the screen.”

  A large flat-screen television was turned on and Zima recognized the voice of the soldier who had sat next to her in the helicopter. “Do we have authority to execute, sir?”

  “You have the authority, Ari.” Yatom replied.

  His name’s Ari. The flat screen showed the feed coming from the cam attached to Ari’s helmet. Zima was mesmerized by what she was seeing. Ari kicked open a wooden door and moved inside a house, his weapon swinging left and right as he passed through one room after the other. He knows exactly where he’s going. He isn’t wasting time. How did they get such good intel on Eitan’s whereabouts? Suddenly a shadow appeared in front of him and Ari fired his silenced weapon. The man fell backwards. Ari continued to move forward but stopped short of the door which the man he had just killed had come through. He looked at his two colleagues. One was right behind him while the other had his back turned so he could protect their rear.

  Even though Ari’s weapon had a silencer, Zima was certain the opposition had heard the shot. Not believing for one instant that there was only one hostile inside the house, Zima was sure the three-man Israeli commando team would face fierce resistance. Whoever was inside the room had now had the time to barricade themselves.

  “They’re waiting for them,” Zima said to Yatom. “You have to stop them, Meir, they stand no chance.”

  “One of their team members is inside this room,” Yatom replied, his eyes glued to the flat screen. “Ari will get Eitan out or die trying. That’s how we do things in this unit.”

  Zima couldn’t swallow. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to hide. She didn’t want to see what was going to happen but she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen either.

  A moment later—less than twelve seconds after they’d breached the front door—Ari threw something inside the room. A deafening sound came from the speakers as the stun grenade exploded. Ari entered the room—Zima could swear she had just seen Eitan tied to a chair in the middle of the room—and turned right, firing two shots into the forehead of a man wearing a white robe. His AK-47 clattered on the floor next to him. Sounds of gunfire echoed in the small room where Zima was standing. The hostiles were returning fire. Ari’s helmet cam showed him pivoting left and firing one more round into the torso of a man holding a pair of pliers.

  “Clear,” Ari said.

  “Clear,” replied another operator Zima couldn’t see.

  “Zachary?” Ari asked. Zima sensed tension in the team leader’s voice. She understood why a second later, when the video feed showed one of the Israelis clutching his leg. Ari ordered his colleague to take care of their injured teammate and turned to face Eitan.

  Zima had been right; Eitan was tied to a chair bolted to the floor. She couldn’t tell if he was injured.

  “You have hostiles coming up the alley. They’ll be on you in less than two minutes,” Chaya said. One of her screens showed the live feed of a reconnaissance drone Ari’s team had deployed prior to their assault.

  “Copy that,” Ari replied while he cut Eitan loose. “Can you fight?”

  Zima watched as Eitan stood up and massaged his wrists before picking up an AK-47 from one of the dead hostiles.

  Zima smiled when Eitan inquired about her. “How’s our lady friend?”

  “She’s listening in,” Ari replied.

  Zima’s eyes watered when she saw Eitan wave at her through Ari’s helmet cam.

  “See you soon.”

  “All right, enough of this, Romeo. Help Zack while I cover your ass back to the chopper. Let’s go!”

  For the next ten minutes, Zima was able to appreciate the professionalism of the Israeli team. With the help of Chaya, the assault team was able to leave the house in which Eitan had been held hostage without engaging the dozen enemy combatants approaching their position. Just as they were about to board the helicopter that would bring them home, Zima heard a distant explosion.

  “What was that?” she asked Yatom.

  “A little gift Ari left behind for anyone trying to pursue his team.”

  Ari must have turned off his camera because the feed disappeared from the flat screen on the wall. “I’m glad Eitan’s okay,” Zima said, relieved. She didn’t think her heart could take another blow like the one it got in Edmonton.

  “Are you ready?” Yatom asked, heading toward the door. “One of our drivers will take you to Ben Gurion.”

  Zima took a deep breath. These guys were the real deal. She didn’t care what Mapother would say, even if the price was to lose her position with the IMSI. She owed that much to Mike and Lisa.

  “Ray Powell is the father of someone working for Charles Mapother,” she said.

  Meir Yatom smiled at her. “So he’s family?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Yatom said. “Call back Mapother. I’ll talk with him.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Moscow, Russia

  Sheik Qasim Al-Assad couldn’t remember the last time he’d been put in such position. He felt as though the game of chess he had been playing for the last year was coming to an end. And the fact that there was a chance he wouldn’t be on the winning side disturbed him. Charles Mapother’s organization had blown a major hole in his terror network. The loss of his right-hand man Omar Al-Nashwan had started it all. He was beginning to think that killing his long-time associate—and Omar’s father—Steve Shamrock might not have been his best move. The plan had been to distance himself from any fallout in the United States. He didn’t think whoever was behind the raid on his yacht had the resources to go after the upper echelon of his network. But they had. And they did. Worse, he had barely escaped one of Mapother’s killer teams in Croatia. Was Dr. Lisa Harrison Powell part of that killer team?

  As he walked toward the Russian president’s office, he wondered if Vienamin Simonich would have offered him refuge if he had known the real state of his network. Probably not. But it didn’t matter anymore. He was in and he intended on carrying his revenge all the way to New York. He had a plan he hoped the Russian president would love. Because if he didn’t, the Sheik wasn’t sure he would get out of the Kremlin alive.

  ........

  The Sheik didn’t have to wait long. That was a good sign. Or so he thought. Simonich’s assistant motioned him to enter the presidential office. Standing next to Simonich were two members of his protection detail. That wasn’t good. With the exception of their first gathering, the Russian president had never had security by his side while meeting with him. The Sheik pondered why Simonich felt compelled to have his bodyguards with him. Was it because he feared the Sheik’s reaction to what he was about to say? He’d know soon enough.

  “Please have a seat, Sheik Al-Assad,” Simonich said, pointing to one of the armchairs in front of his desk. “Would you like anything to drink? A peach juice, maybe?”

  Even though he enjoyed a drink once in a while, the Sheik liked to let people believe he was following the Quran. “Thank you, Mr. President,” the Sheik replied. “That would be great.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a drink myself,” Simonich said. Not waiting for the Sheik’s drink to arrive, he poured himself a healthy—or unhealthy, depending on one’s view—measure of vodka. He emptied his glass in three gulps before looking at the Sheik. “You sure you don’t want a taste?”

  The Sheik shook his head. He needed to keep his head clear.

  Vienamin Simonich sneered. “I’ll have one more, then.”

  You can have the whole bottle for all I care. By the time Simonich’s assistant arrived with his peach juice, the Russian president was done with his second drink and was pouring iced water into the same glass. He raised his glass to the Sheik. “To your health, S
heik Al-Assad.”

  “And to yours,” he replied.

  The president grinned. “Mine isn’t in danger.”

  He had expected Simonich to say something like that but he was disappointed nonetheless. The president was having cold feet. He was folding his master plan too early.

  “My friend—” he started but Simonich interrupted him.

  “We’re not friends, Qasim.”

  The Sheik felt his temper rising. Maybe the president was right to have his goons with him, because right now he wanted to tear the Russian’s head apart.

  “I’ve given you great latitude, Qasim,” continued Simonich, “but the whole plan is now falling apart before it even began.”

  “Plans fall apart all the time, Mr. President,” the Sheik said. “We can still succeed.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Simonich replied, rising from behind his desk. He looked at the Sheik with disdain. “I’m not sure you’re the man for the job.”

  The Sheik could see the bodyguards getting edgy. Were they under orders to shoot him the moment the meeting was over? “If you’d only listen to me for a minute, Mr. President,” he said, “I’ll convince you otherwise.”

  “How dare you? How dare you kill someone belonging to me?” roared the Russian president, drumming his chest with his right hand. His face had turned red and the Sheik could see the veins in Simonich’s neck pulsing, ready to burst. So that is what this is all about.

  The Sheik had to admit he had lost it earlier in the control room. He wasn’t in charge anymore. That much was clear. Killing the Russian analyst hadn’t been his brightest idea. “I’ll make amends,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Simonich’s eyes scrutinized him, looking for any signs of deceit. The Sheik made sure there were none. He had no intention of dying in Russia.

  “You’re still committed?” Simonich asked.

  The Sheik nodded, thinking about his son Igor. “Of course,” he said as he reached for his peach juice.