A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3)

by Simon Gervais

  “It’s hard to know,” Mapother replied. “Yatom told me he had only shared the intel with me but you know as well as I do, Mike, it doesn’t mean he didn’t speak to anyone else.”

  Mike and Zima had dealt with Yatom in the past. He and his team had been key players in Mike’s father and Lisa’s rescue operation. Yatom was a true spymaster and his main mission would always be the protection of the state of Israel. Mike nevertheless believed they could trust Yatom on this matter. Embedding Eitan—one of his best men—with them proved he was willing to play fair with Charles Mapother.

  “What do you want us to do, Charles?” Mike asked.

  “The general is on his way to the King George—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mike said. “The place is crawling with police officers.”

  By now, the police must have realized the shooter had taken his shot from the sixth floor of the Grande Bretagne. And since the five-star King George hotel was right next door to the Grande Bretagne, access to the King George would be limited.

  “He’s too big a target to pass on, Mike,” Mapother said. “You know this. Bringing him in would be a huge deal. Since he became the deputy commander of the Quds Force, I don’t think he’s set foot outside Iran.”

  “There’s no way we can pull that off covertly,” Zima interjected.

  Mike was glad to know he wasn’t the only one not sharing Mapother’s enthusiasm.

  “I don’t think he’ll resist much to be honest,” Mapother said.

  That surprised Mike. A man like General Adbullahi would travel with a security detail. They wouldn’t let their boss out of their sight.

  “You’ll have to explain this one to me,” Mike said.

  “Shortly after his jet took off, two Iranians fighters were scrambled to intercept it. They weren’t quick enough, though, and they had to turn around when General Adbullahi’s plane crossed into Azerbaijan.”

  That could mean only one thing. Someone powerful enough to scramble two jets wanted him dead. And it looked as though they were prepared to kill everyone aboard to do so.

  “I think, and Meir seems to agree, that Adbullahi wants to defect,” Mapother added.

  That would be something.

  “Why on earth would he want to do that?”

  “Who knows what’s going on inside the regime? One thing I need to add, though, is the fact that another jet belonging to Quds Force left Tehran around the time Adbullahi’s jet landed in Athens.”

  “And they’re on their way here too?” Zima asked.

  “That seems to be the case, yes.”

  “Do we know who the passengers are?” Mike asked.

  “For now, we don’t,” Mapother admitted. “But if I had to guess, I’d say they’re Quds Force.”

  “So if he really wants to defect, we’d better get to him before they do,” Mike said.

  “That would indeed be preferable, Mike,” Mapother said. “Unless you want to face off against a bunch of angry Quds Force soldiers.”

  “Rules of engagement?” That was from Zima.

  “You guys do whatever you need to,” Mapother said. “I want to know why he left Iran in such a hurry.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The White House, Washington DC

  United States Secret Service Supervisory Special Agent Yash Najjar’s heart was racing as he rushed into the Oval Office, gun drawn. Two more agents were on his heels and ten more would join them within the next thirty seconds.

  President Muller looked up from the document he was reading. His eyes registered surprise and then became alarmed when he saw Najjar’s gun.

  “What’s going on, Yash?”

  “Forgive us, Mr. President, but you need to follow us.”

  One of the agents threw a bulletproof vest over the president’s shoulders and secured it around his chest. When Najjar exited the Oval Office, with President Muller in tow, a contingent of heavily armed Secret Service agents formed a protective pocket around them.

  White House staffers made way for the advancing men. Those who weren’t fast enough were shoved aside.

  “We’re fifteen seconds out,” Najjar said over the secured communication system.

  “Elevators are green. Ready to receive,” replied one of the two agents posted next to the elevators.

  Najjar and the rest of this team had practiced this kind of evacuation more than a dozen times. But this time, it wasn’t a drill and Najjar’s sweaty forehead was a testament to how he felt about the whole situation. The Canadian prime minister had just been assassinated by one of his bodyguards.

  Was President Muller next? He knew his men were thinking the same thing as they bunched up in the elevator. Was the man standing next to you a traitor? Najjar doubted it. His men were the best of the best. He knew every one of them personally. They were warriors who’d willingly take a bullet for this president. But again, he was sure Prime Minister Ducharme had felt the same way toward his protective detail.

  “We’re going to the PEOC?” Muller asked him.

  “Yessir.”

  The PEOC—Presidential Emergency Operations Center—lay underground beneath the East Wing. It served as a secure communication center and shelter in case of emergencies. President Roosevelt had it built so that it could withstand a nuclear attack on Washington DC.

  “What about my family?”

  “I’ll have an update for you shortly, Mr. President. We have teams with them as we speak.”

  “What happened?”

  “We’re not one hundred percent sure what took place, sir, but we believe Prime Minister Ducharme was assassinated.”

  “My God,” President Muller whispered. “And his wife?”

  “We’re not sure of that either, sir,” Najjar said. That wasn’t a complete lie, but Najjar knew Justine Larivière was with her husband when Ducharme’s bodyguard shot him in cold blood. There was no point letting Muller know this tidbit of information just yet. Najjar doubted Larivière was still alive, and so did his RCMP contact in Ottawa. But what was the point in sharing what was only a suspicion with the president? He’d only get anxious. No, Najjar would wait until Muller’s wife was safe.

  “Let me know the moment we find out, Yash,” Muller insisted, as the group marched out of the elevator and into the PEOC.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And get DNI Phillips down here as soon as possible. We need to figure out who’s behind this.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Across the Aegean Sea

  It had taken Colonel Davari less than one hour to assemble his team. Out of the six Quds Force soldiers he had selected, two of them spoke Greek fluently and had already spent considerable time in-country, and all of them looked Caucasian. Davari was the only exception.

  General Kharazi had insisted on a quick in-and-out, but Davari’s job was to ensure that Adbullahi’s death could be pinned on the Israelis, the Americans or the British. Blaming one of Iran’s enemies for the assassination of a high-ranking member of its military would play perfectly into the ayatollah’s plan. What the exact plan was, Davari didn’t know. And he didn’t care. He was a soldier, not a politician. He only needed to be given an objective. Now that he had it, he would do his absolute best to complete it. And so would his men.

  Davari felt the plane change its trajectory. As if on cue, the pilot said, “We’re twenty minutes out, Colonel. We’re starting our descent.”

  Davari walked to the back of the plane where his men were seated and talking among themselves. Laptops were used to study and memorize the streets of Athens and the layout of the King George Hotel.

  “Upon arrival,” Davari started once he had his men’s attention, “two vans will be waiting for us. The drivers are intelligence officers attached to the embassy. They will provide transportation to the King George and will wait for us until we’ve complet
ed our mission.”

  “What kind of weapons will we have?”

  Davari looked at Captain Khalil Yavari, who had asked the question. His second-in-command for the operation, Yavari was a true warrior who had spent most of his career in special operations. He was dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a blue t-shirt and a pair of gray running shoes.

  “Our men were able to get their hands on C8 carbines and Sig Sauer P226s,” Davari said.

  “SAS weapons of choice, yes?” Yavari said.

  “General Kharazi’s orders are to make it look like a Western nation assassinated Adbullahi. This will help.”

  “Do we know where the general is, Colonel?” asked another of his men.

  “One of his bodyguards has a tracker. The moment we land, we’ll reconfirm his location via his tracker.”

  Davari looked at his watch. “By now, General Adbullahi should be on his way to his hotel. If at all possible, this is where we’ll take him and his entourage out. We leave no survivors.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Athens, Greece

  Mike Walton prayed for the traffic to get lighter. They needed to reach the King George before General Adbullahi and his party. For this mission to have any chance of success, he needed to establish how many foes he and Zima would be up against. His wife Lisa had forwarded him recent pictures of the general to help him identify the Iranian since he and Zima were going to split to cover more ground.

  Mike understood the necessity of returning so close to the crime scene but he hated doing so. The three of them should have been on a plane and on their way to London by now.

  “My cell’s ringing,” Zima said. “Hold the wheel for me.”

  Mike complied as Zima reached inside her pocket for her smartphone. She showed the screen to Mike. It was an unknown caller.

  She put the smartphone on speaker. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” Eitan said. “Can you talk?”

  “Yes!” It was easy to see she was relieved. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine but I had a close call. I’m on foot and in the clear.”

  Mike took a deep breath and realized he had been holding it in anticipation of Eitan’s answer. He took the phone from Zima and asked, “Can you make your way to the Syntagma Square?”

  “Syntagma Square? Why? Aren’t you on your way to the air—”

  “I’ll explain later. Can you make it or not?”

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Call me when you get there. I’ll wait for you at the S2 café.”

  ........

  What the hell went wrong? Why were Mike and Zima heading back to downtown, so close to where he had taken the shot? It made no sense. They should have been at the airport by now.

  And I should have been on my way to the seaport. Things were not going according to plan, but that wasn’t what worried Eitan. He was used to having to improvise on missions. But what about Zima? She could take care of herself, but the alpha male in him wanted her to be out of the danger zone. Out of Greece.

  Zima. He had fallen hard for her. Harder than for anyone he had ever been with before. He had met her in Syria during an operation. She’d been injured, even lost one of her fingers to a sniper. He liked to think he had saved her life, but the truth was that she had opened his eyes on what life had to offer. Eitan had spent his entire adult life fighting the enemies of Israel. Never did he consider doing anything else. He always expected to die a violent death. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Zima had changed his perspective. He could see himself settling down with her somewhere peaceful, far away from the war he’d been waging for the last twenty years.

  Children? Wouldn’t that be nice? The mere thought of being a father used to scare him. Not anymore. Last night, in a moment of passion after he had slipped into Zima’s room, she had held on to him tightly as they came together. She had looked into his eyes, the way only she could, and said, “I love you.”

  Her work with the IMSI was important. He’d have to be blind not to see she enjoyed every minute of it. And so did he. But how long could they cheat death? A driver honked at him as he was about to cross the street. He wasn’t paying enough attention to his surroundings. His head was filled with thoughts that didn’t belong in the field.

  Since he had lost his communication system in the car fire, he had stopped at a small shop to buy three cellphones, with fifteen prepaid minutes for each, and a pack of cigarettes. He might have been overly cautious but he didn’t want to use the same phone twice. He removed the sim card from the phone he had used to call Zima and discarded it in a storm sewer. Prior to the start of the operation, he had studied the layout of the Hotel Grande Bretagne and all the streets within a half-mile radius. The closed-circuit television system in Athens was massive so he had to be careful. Chances were his actions at the crime scene had been recorded. He wouldn’t be shocked if his description had been sent to the police. Since the Athens Olympic Games of 2004, the Greek authorities had relied more and more on their CCTV apparatus. Public areas like parks and transport stations were heavily monitored, and Syntagma Square was no exception. During his research, Eitan had learned that the square had been designed and constructed in the early nineteenth century and had, since its inception, been the epicenter of Greek politics. That held especially true between 2010 and 2012 when the Square was the site of mass protests during the debt crisis. As many as fifty thousand people had occupied Syntagma Square to demonstrate their opposition to the economic policies of the Greek government.

  Eitan entered Syntagma Square by the southwest corner. At this time of day, the square was packed with workers waiting for their commute home, and more than a few onlookers were trying to see what had happened on Vasilissis Sofias. Eitan lit a cigarette and stopped to observe what was going on around him. The emergency lights of numerous police vehicles could be seen on the northwestern tip of the square as they blocked access to Vasilissis Sofias. Uniformed officers were going in and out of the Hotel Grande Bretagne. But so were the tourists. Surely the authorities had found the room from which Mike had taken the shot. Why the police hadn’t closed the hotel, or at least ordered its guests to remain in their rooms, Eitan couldn’t say.

  A teenage girl bumped into him and mumbled something in Greek without taking her eyes off her smartphone. Eitan threw the remainder of his cigarette on the ground and extinguished it with his foot. As he approached the S2 café, it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to sit down inside. The place was filled with students and tourists who were either unaware of what had taken place two blocks away or simply didn’t care. Eitan tried to spot Mike in the crowd but couldn’t. He joined the queue of patrons and waited his turn. Although it smelled as if smoking was allowed inside, a faint odor of baked bread reminded Eitan he hadn’t eaten in a while. The sight of freshly made sandwiches made his stomach growl so he ordered one with his Americano.

  He walked out of the café and saw Mike standing next to the exit with a coffee in hand. He gestured to Eitan to walk with him.

  “Tell me what happened,” Mike asked.

  “I got into a firefight with a few Hellenic police officers at Alpha-Niner,” he replied. “I think it was bad luck. Nothing more.”

  Mike stopped walking. “Please tell me you didn’t kill a cop.”

  “Seriously? I would never do that,” Eitan said, pissed that Mike would even think that was a possibility. “Shit, man, who do you think I am?”

  “Sorry, I had to ask. I need to know what’s going on and if the police will be looking for a cop killer anytime soon.”

  “One of them shot himself in the foot, though,” Eitan said. “Nothing I could do about it.”

  “Damn it! We don’t need any more heat than we’ve already got.”

  “Why aren’t you and Zima gone by now?”

  Mike pointed to a bench that had just been vacat
ed by an elderly couple.

  “Let’s sit down for a minute and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

  ........

  Mike talked while Eitan ate his sandwich and drank his coffee.

  “I can’t believe it,” Eitan said, swallowing the last of his sandwich. “I have to agree with Mapother on this. We can’t miss the opportunity.”

  “We won’t,” Mike answered. “But we need to act fast and we won’t proceed unless I say so. Zima is already inside the lobby of the King George. I want you to stay in the square and keep an eye on the front entrance.”

  Eitan nodded. Mike gave him a new cellphone and a cordless mini-headset. “It’s already programmed into our channel.”

  Eitan put it on.

  “Try reaching Zima,” Mike told him.

  Eitan turned the device on and said, “Zima from Eitan.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, Eitan. You’re five by five.”

  “Copy. And it’s nice to hear yours too,” Eitan replied, genuinely happy.

  Mike touched Eitan’s shoulder to get his attention.

  “Depending how big is his entourage, and if his family is with him or not, I’ll make the call to go in or not.”

  “Got it.”

  “Zima has the keys to the car and will drive us out of here. I’ll take her place in the lobby. Whatever happens, we can only take the general. His family will be left behind.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Athens, Greece

  General Adbullahi ordered his wife and two children to climb into the second SUV with two of his five bodyguards, one of them being Sanjar Behak, General Kharazi’s nephew. Adbullahi wasn’t without his own resources within the Quds Force. It had taken him a little less than three months to figure out whom within his protective detail he could trust and who had pledged their loyalty to another master. Sanjar had never wavered. It was entirely possible he didn’t know his own uncle was using him, but Adbullahi couldn’t take the chance. In fact, he had brought Sanjar on the trip as bait, hoping it would give him a few extra hours to do what he had to.