Since the Russian defense minister had personally called prior to his arrival at the Biopreparat complex, the Sheik had no problems gaining access to two of the five experimental doses of the new Marburg thread his former lover had created. Encased in a special Pelican case, the vials came with all the equipment that would be necessary to achieve what he had in mind.
Behind him Lisa groaned. The plane was still ascending so he kept his seatbelt secured, but he twisted around in his seat to watch the poor woman crawling towards him. She had a huge gash in her forehead, and even from a distance it was easy to see she was hurting. As the plane settled, the Sheik left his seat and picked up the wheelchair. He then asked the two Russian Spetsnazes to lift Dr. Harrison Powell off the floor of the cabin and set her back in the wheelchair. She wasn’t so pretty anymore, was she? Her fall had reopened her wounds. Blood seeped through the bandages on her leg and stomach. She’d need medical attention if she were to survive the flight. He wasn’t done with her. She still had a major role to play.
“Fix her,” he ordered the two army medics before he himself approached the wheelchair. He bent next to her. “You know, Lisa, you could have simply locked the wheels,” he said, pulling on the lock mechanisms located on the frame of each rear wheel. “Just like that.”
CHAPTER 58
Tel Aviv, Israel
Mike Walton joined the pilots in the cockpit the moment the Gulfstream stopped at the gate to which it had been assigned. He congratulated them for the smooth landing.
“I have no idea how long I’ll be here,” Mike said, “but I need you to be on sixty minutes’ notice.”
“No worries,” William Talbot replied, unstrapping himself from his seat. “We’ll refuel and take care of business.”
Mike followed Talbot out of the cockpit and both men walked to the cabin door. Mike unlocked the door and lowered the steps. A black minivan was parked twenty meters from the gate. When its side door slid open, Mike couldn’t believe who came out.
Zima!
The first thing he noticed as she jogged toward him was the white bandage around her right hand.
“So sorry about your hand,” he said, giving her a hug.
“A sniper shot my middle finger off,” she replied, not missing a beat.
What? She must have sensed his dismay because she tapped his shoulder. “I’m good, Mike. Let’s go,” she said, pointing to the minivan. “Meir Yatom—he’s a friend of Mapother—he wants to meet you.”
She started toward the minivan but he called her back. “What about the two Russians?”
She turned to face him. “Yatom’s men will take care of them,” she explained, pointing back to the Gulfstream.
She was right. Yatom’s men had woken up the Russians. They were being escorted down the stairs with opaque bags over their heads. “Let’s go,” his friend said. “We have lots to do.”
Mike climbed into the van and Zima slid the door closed behind her.
“Meir Yatom,” said the man in the front passenger seat, extending his hand.
Mike shook it. “Mike Walton.”
“Now that we’re friends,” Yatom said, “please put these on.”
In his hands were two opaque bags similar to those he had seen the Russians wear. “Is this really necessary?” Mike asked, not liking the idea.
“No at all,” Yatom replied, a grin on his face. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”
Mike smiled, taking a liking to the old Israeli spy.
Next to him, Zima sighed. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“Meir drugged me when he picked me up from the airport earlier today,” she started. “Then, when we drove from wherever we were to here to pick you up, I had to wear one of these bags on my head.”
Mike looked back at Yatom and raised his eyebrows. The Israeli shrugged. “What can I say? I like the drama,” he said, laughing. Then to his driver, “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.”
........
Mike had traveled numerous times to Israel. It was a beautiful country. The first time he had set foot in the Jewish state was with the former Israeli ambassador to Canada. A member of the ambassador’s close protective detail, Mike had spent a lot of time with the diplomat. They had quickly realized they had a lot in common. One thing led to another, and one night the ambassador invited Mike and Lisa to dinner at his private residence in Rockcliffe Park, a beautiful neighborhood in Ottawa. Their wives had hit it off right away, both being emergency physicians. The next summer, and knowing he and Lisa were history buffs, the ambassador had asked them to join him and his wife for a week in Tel Aviv. With both of them overdue for a vacation, they had gladly accepted. The ambassador had been a fantastic tour guide, taking them off the beaten path to see some spectacular sights. Mike’s favorite part had been when the ambassador had given them a private tour of the Knesset, the Israeli parliament located in Jerusalem. They had then dined at the ambassador’s private winery, a lovely twenty-minute drive away.
“You’ve been here before?” Yatom asked.
“Yes,” Mike replied as they drove past another olive grove. “Good memories.”
They spent the rest of the trip in silence, but Mike couldn’t stop thinking about Zima’s hand. What had really happened? He wished she’d been joking but knew it wasn’t the case.
Zima’s voice brought him back to reality. She was shaking his leg. “Time to wake up, Mike.” He opened his eyes. They were in an underground parking garage. “How long was I out for?”
“About thirty minutes,” she replied, sliding the door open. “But don’t feel bad. Meir fell asleep too, and he snores much louder than you.”
........
Mike Walton was quickly introduced to Yatom’s staff. Most of were younger than the personnel at the IMSI headquarters, but Mike had learned a long time ago that didn’t mean they weren’t as good. Their operation room reminded him of the IMSI control room but on a much smaller scale.
“We’ll be joined shortly by the men that will accompany you during the assault,” Yatom said. “They’re the best.”
Mike was dumbfounded. “Did you say ‘assault’?”
“I don’t know how they pulled it off, Mike, but Yatom’s team received intelligence regarding your dad’s whereabouts,” Zima said.
“And it’s good intel,” Yatom continued. “You’ll need to trust me on this.”
They had come close to rescuing his dad twice now, but nobody had been able to pull it off. Mike was hesitant to trust anyone claiming he had intelligence regarding his dad’s location. Probably seeing that Mike was doubtful, Yatom added, “Mapother does.”
Good intel or not, they were here. So why not? He’d never forgive himself if he passed up on a good lead. “Why are you helping us?” Mike asked.
“Israel has very few friends right now,” Yatom said. “Rescuing your dad, a former Canadian ambassador, would go a long way in helping us form a good relationship with the newly elected liberal government in Ottawa.”
Mike couldn’t fault Yatom’s judgement. For the last decade, Israel had had the full support of the Canadian conservative government. The liberals, now forming a majority government, weren’t as friendly toward the Jewish state. Bringing Ray Powell back safe and sound to Canada would bring Israel unconditional support.
“Plus, you guys helped us out in Croatia,” Yatom added. “That counts for something too.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “I’ll buy that. What do you know, and what’s the plan?”
“I’ll tell you what we know,” Yatom said. “As for the plan, it will have to wait until the strike team arrives.”
Mike nodded.
“As you know, your father was to return to Canadian custody in an exchange that was to take place in Damascus.”
“I know that much,” Mike said, accepting a ho
t cup of coffee from one of the analysts. “Zima was there.”
“Yes, she was,” Yatom conceded. “Would you like to see what happened?”
“You were there?” Mike asked.
“Someone was,” Yatom replied. He pressed the play button. Mike watched in horror as the whole botched exchange played out on the flat screen in front of him. When it stopped playing, he said, “Again.”
He watched the tape eighteen times, taking notes and drawing sketches. “Have you identified anyone?” he asked.
“The man Zima’s talking to at the end of the video is Syrian General Fuad Younis, commanding officer of the Fifteenth Special Forces Division of the Syrian Army.”
“He’s the man who rescued my father from the Sheik’s men four months ago,” Mike said.
“Correct, which was confusing for us,” Yatom replied.
“How so?”
“We always thought Younis’s men were providing security for the Sheik’s network in Syria.”
“Maybe there was a falling out between them,” Mike suggested. “The Sheik is known to turn against his allies.”
“Maybe,” Yatom said. “Or the general felt the momentum changing when we started bombing the hell out of ISIS, and he didn’t want to be caught with his pants down supporting the losing side.”
Mike was perplexed. “I thought the Syrian government was fighting ISIS. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense in this part of the world, Mike,” Yatom said. “You should know that by now. Alliances are built and destroyed in a day over here.”
“Still,” Zima interjected, “Younis’s last words were that the Sheik was responsible for the ambush.”
The Sheik. Always the Sheik. It had to end. This man was behind everything bad that had happened to him and his family in the last two and a half years.
“Did he say anything else?” he asked Zima.
“He died before I could get anything else out of him,” Zima said. “But he didn’t lie, Mike. I think he respected your father. Somehow.”
“And how do you know these men, the ones responsible for taking my father, took him to Greece?” This time, his question was directed to Yatom.
“That’s the part where you have to trust me, my friend,” the Israeli replied.
Mike was about to say something when two armed men entered the small operation center. They were dressed in black combat uniforms. Their boots were dirty and so were their faces. The men looked tired.
Zima walked toward the tallest and, to his surprise, she jumped on him. The soldier caught her midair and gave her a hug. She whispered something in his ear. The man laughed and his eyes sparkled.
“Mike, this is Eitan,’ she said, once the man had put her down. “I owe him my life.”
She told him what had happened. Mike thanked the man profusely and shook his hand.
“And this is Ari,” Zima continued, “the team leader.”
“Thank you,” Mike said. “Zima means a lot to me.” Realizing what he had just said might be wrongly interpreted by Eitan, he quickly added, “And she’s my wife’s best friend.”
“How’s Zachary?” Yatom asked.
“He’ll be fine,” replied Ari. “He took one in the thigh. Rafael’s with him.”
“Okay, go get some rest. We’ll reconvene right here to go over the tactical plan in three hours,” Yatom said. Eitan and Ari left the room, but not before Eitan flashed a smile at Zima.
“Do we really have the luxury of waiting three hours?” Mike asked. He had no idea what condition his father was in. But if he was being tortured, three hours could make a huge difference.
“Let me explain something to you, Mike,” Yatom said, taking a sip of his coffee. “What you’re seeing here is, I believe, the Israeli equivalent of what you and Charles Mapother do. So I don’t have access to unlimited personnel. Ari and his team are the best, but they won’t do you or your father any good if they head to Greece tired and hungry. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mike nodded. Good men had been lost due to lack of sleep. If they were going head to head with the Sheik, or at least some members of his organization, they needed to be physically and mentally ready. And if he was honest with himself, he needed the sleep too.
“All right. See you here in three hours,” Mike said.
Yatom seemed please he wouldn’t have to argue with him. “Chaya will show you to your room.”
He followed Chaya out of the operation center. “Aren’t you coming?” he said to Zima as she headed in the opposite direction.
“I need to take care of something,” she said, smiling.
Mike shrugged. He had more important things to do than to worry how she was going to spend the next three hours. Zima was a big girl.
His room had no windows but had a small shower attached to it. On a chair, next to his bed, was a black uniform identical to the one Yatom’s men were wearing.
“There are socks in the drawer,” Chaya said, pointing to a chest at the end of the bed. “And clean underwear.”
Mike thanked her. He spent the next fifteen minutes under a hot shower. The water had never felt so good. He tried to relax but thoughts of his father and Lisa occupied his mind. They had to find Lisa. The thought of losing her forever deprived him of oxygen. He needed her. He’d give or do anything to get her back.
Anything.
CHAPTER 59
Tel Aviv, Israel
Zima ran her finger across Eitan’s muscular chest. He was a god. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such good sex. Never. That’s why you can’t remember, girl. He’s the best you ever had. It all happened so fast. She didn’t think they had exchanged more than a hundred words total between them before jumping all over each other. The memory of his fingers trailing over her breasts sent a small tingle low in her belly. The heat of his body tickled her skin. Her hand drifted lower and she was pleased with what she found.
“Don’t you want to sleep for a few hours?” Eitan said.
“Sleeps overrated, don’t you think?”
He grabbed her by the hips and placed her on top of him. His smoldering blue eyes burning into her own made her gasp as desire flooded her.
His thumbs caressed her cheeks gently then his hands moved down her waist, locking her in place. She found that extremely sexy.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked, looking at the bandage on her right hand.
“When I was tied to that chair, the only thing I could think about was you,” Eithan said, the rasp of his voice enchanting her ears. “And I had known you for only—”
Zima pressed her finger against his lips. “Enough,” she whispered, her lips only an inch from his. “I’ve heard enough.”
“One more thing, though,” Eitan said between two kisses. “I’d prefer if it was you next time, all right?
“Me what?” she asked, out of breath.
“I’d prefer if it was you who’d tie me to a chair.”
Zima smiled. She’d better watch herself, because this man she could fall for.
CHAPTER 60
Tel Aviv, Israel
Mike Walton woke up energized. It was hard to believe all the good a two-hour nap could do to the human body. Of course, he would have much preferred to sleep ten hours but it would have to wait. He dressed in the clothes provided and brushed his teeth with the toiletry kit he had found next to the sink. After looking at this reflection in the mirror, he decided he’d better shave too.
Ten minutes later, freshly shaved and wearing clean clothes, he headed back to the operations center. It was already buzzing with activity. The smell of freshly baked croissants, bagels and bread reached his nose. His eyes swept over the jars of preserves on a table tucked in a corner. The aroma of just-brewed coffee also made its way to him and his stomach gurgled in anticipation. Zima was already there,
bent over a map next to Eitan, Rafael and Ari.
“Slept well?” Yatom asked, handing him a cup of coffee. “Serve yourself if you’re hungry. Briefing starts in five.”
“Thanks,” Mike said, accepting the cup. Five minutes. That didn’t give him much time to eat the number of pastries he was planning to.
........
As Yatom had said, the briefing started five minutes later. Everyone had moved to the next room where someone had set up a projector and a large white screen. A seventy-inch flat-screen television had also been rolled in. Present for the briefing was Yatom’s whole team of analysts and communication specialists. In addition, Ari’s tactical team was there with Zima sandwiched between Eitan and Rafael.
The plan Yatom had concocted was simple but dangerous. Four operators—Mike, Ari, Eitan and Rafael—would be inserted into Mykonos by HALO—High Altitude Low Opening—somewhere on the northeastern tip of the island. From there, they would walk to a specific grid location where Zima would be waiting for them with transportation. Zima, who would arrive by commercial flight a couple of hours earlier, would be in charge of securing the landing zone. She’d be able to communicate with the team up to the point when they jumped. Then, if something happened, it was her job to take care of it. The rules of engagement for the insertion were clear. Under no circumstances were they allowed to engage Greek authorities. If the insertion went well, they would travel to the villa where Ray Powell was kept.
The next thirty minutes were spent analyzing satellite photos of said villa and the blueprints the Israelis had been able to come up with.
“How did you come up with these plans?” asked Mike.
“Our architects did,” Yatom explained. “They looked at the structure, they analyzed it and that’s the best they could do.”
“So these schematics might not be a hundred percent accurate,” Mike said.
A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 24