A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3)

by Simon Gervais

  “This drive is loaded with naked pictures of our friend Anja Skov,” Caprini announced. “Every one of them is a Trojan horse.”

  “You caught them all, right?” Mapother asked.

  “Hard to say. These buggers are difficult to find,” Caprini said. “This computer is off the grid, though. It isn’t hooked to our mainframe or the Internet. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll fry it once I’m done.

  “So Anja isn’t who we thought she was,” Mike stated. “Any clues who she’s working for?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Caprini said, “but these programs are backdoor Trojans. It gives the users remote control of the infected computer. It allows them to do anything they wish.”

  “Like what?” Mike asked.

  “Like sending, receiving and deleting files. They also steal your logins and passwords for messaging and banking programs.”

  Caprini’s hands left her keyboard. She swiveled her chair to face Mapother and said, “If I had to guess, I’d say Anja Skov is Danish intelligence.”

  Mapother turned to Mike. “Good thing we didn’t take her out.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “So, Charles,” Lisa said, breaking it, “any way we can link with the Danes and see what they had on Zaid al-Menhali?”

  “Not a good idea, honey,” Mike said. “We caught too much heat in Athens already. I suggest we move on.”

  Mapother seemed to think about it for a moment. “I agree with Mike. Al-Menhali’s dead. The Danes won’t be happy we took him out, especially if they’ve been running an op on him. Better to leave this alone and focus on trying to find out what the hell happened in Canada.”

  “I still can’t believe it.” Mike shook his head. “I can’t even start to imagine what kind of repercussions it will have on the RCMP.”

  “This is a messed-up situation,” Sanchez said. “Even in Delta we never trained for a situation like this. You don’t just expect your colleague to turn on you.”

  “What we need to ask ourselves is where did this attack come from,” Mapother said.

  “Agreed,” Mike said. “I don’t believe for one second that al-Fadhi woke up that morning and said, “I’m gonna kill the PM today.” In my opinion, al-Fadhi had known for a long time he’d be asked to do something dramatic.”

  “So should I start working on Adbullahi’s stuff?” Caprini asked. “That might provide some answers.”

  “Yeah, start digging, Anna,” Mapother said. “I want to know why he left Iran in such in hurry. If more attacks are headed our way, and the Iranians are behind it, the intel Adbullahi wanted to share might help us understand what’s going on.”

  CHAPTER 50

  New York City, New York

  Sergeant Sassani stepped out of the SUV and scanned the crowd that had gathered around One Police Plaza. It was smaller than she had hoped but enough media were in attendance to guarantee a wide audience. Her dad, she knew, was in attendance. It would be the end of the road for him too.

  Leading the way slowly to the podium, with the mayor stopping every few steps to shake hands, anxiety and doubt crept up within her. Again.

  Was she on the right side of this? She had been with the NYPD long enough to know and understand all the good the Americans were capable of. Wasn’t she an American too?

  No.

  Her father had always insisted she was Iranian first. We’re deep into enemy territory, he had told her countless times. She trusted him. Her father had taught her everything. Showed her what American policies did to her family back home.

  But a home I’ve never visited. Never been to.

  She forced herself to think about all the suffering happening at this moment in Iran. All of it at the hands of the United States. There was a lot of good in America, but a lot of hate too. It wasn’t right that politicians hundreds of miles away decided of the fate of the Iranian people. It was time for a change. It was time for Iran to take its rightful place in the Middle East, free from the clutches of the American government.

  I’m a weapon. I’m the tip of the spear. Behind me, thousands will follow. America will crumble.

  They reached the podium and half the crowd cheered the mayor while the other half did its best to bury him by booing louder. The mayor lifted his hands to calm the attendees; he wore a big smile. Somebody threw a plastic cup on the stage. Then another. The smile disappeared. Sassani moved closer to the mayor.

  “Crowd is hostile,” Sassani heard her team leader say via their communication system. “We might have to leave in a hurry. Make sure the motorcade is ready to go.”

  Sassani’s eyes found the camera crew. They were already filming, unwilling to miss a single thing that could go wrong. The agitated crowd excited them.

  Now would be the perfect time. It would be over in seconds.

  Why am I still standing here? Do it, Tracy. Do it!

  The voice in her ear, loud and insistent, brought her back to reality.

  “Sassani? Sassani? What the hell are you doing? We’re moving.”

  Sassani looked to her right. The mayor and his wife had left the stage. They were getting away. The crowd had become too antagonistic. She had to do it now while the cameras were still rolling.

  Move! But she didn’t. Heart pounding in her ears, she was frozen in place, unable to move.

  ........

  What is she doing?

  Razin Sassani watched in horror as his daughter—his own flesh and blood—let the mayor and his wife walk away from the stage. He had spent his life teaching her the true facts about life in America and the ravaging effects of their policies. He thought she understood.

  How could she betray him now? How could she betray herself, her country? Everything she believed in? Didn’t she understand the sacrifices he had made? He had entrusted her with his most precious secrets. If she was unable to complete her mission, what would stop her from exposing what she knew? He couldn’t take that risk.

  What a waste. He wouldn’t let her spit on his name. He was still an Iranian soldier. He would do his duty, even if it broke his heart.

  ........

  Sergeant Sassani caught sight of a tall man elbowing his way toward the podium, his white hair contrasting with his dark skin.

  Father. Her heart skipped a beat. He knows.

  A gun materialized in his hands.

  She hesitated. He didn’t.

  The bullet entered her abdomen, a quarter of an inch below the light body armor she wore under her shirt. The bullet passed through her stomach and left kidney before lodging in the muscles in her back.

  She collapsed on the stage, her body writhing in pain.

  ........

  Razin Sassani knew his daughter wasn’t dead but he didn’t have the luxury of firing at her one more time. A headshot would have been better, but his skills weren’t what they used to be and he couldn’t afford to miss.

  He had to engage the mayor before his protective detail shoved him in the waiting SUV. He jumped on the stage next to his fallen daughter and scanned the crowd for any sign of the mayor.

  There he was.

  He and his wife were sandwiched between three officers who were fighting against the frantic crowd. One of the officers did a back check and locked eyes with Razin.

  Razin’s pistol was already up and he fired eight rounds in quick succession. The officer went down, and so did two bystanders. Razin reassessed and was about to fire again when he was struck in the back.

  He turned to face his attacker. A uniformed cop was yelling something at him. Razin raised his weapon, but not toward the officer. He aimed for his daughter. She couldn’t be allowed to live to tell her story.

  The cop fired again before Razin could pull the trigger. Struck high in the chest, Razin fell to his knees. Blood filled his mouth and he lost his grip on h
is gun. In his mind, he cursed his daughter. The officer’s next round took out the top of his head.

  ........

  Sergeant Sassani still had her earpiece. She heard one of her colleagues yell a warning to the others. Then someone—her father?—fired eight shots. A uniformed officer appeared at the edge of the crowd.

  “Police, drop the gun!” he shouted before he too fired.

  “Drop the gun!” he repeated, and then he fired again. Twice.

  A body dropped next to her with a thud. She used the last of her energy to turn her head. Her father, the man she had loved, the man who had ultimately betrayed her, lay dead next to her.

  CHAPTER 51

  New York City, New York

  Radman Divecha was mesmerized by what he had just witnessed on television. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Just shoot him! Shoot him!

  When Sgt. Sassani collapsed on the stage, Divecha understood that he’d have to get involved. His spirits momentarily lifted when her father jumped next to her and pumped a few rounds toward the retreating mayor, but his mood once again hit rock bottom when the old colonel fell next to his daughter, struck by the bullets of a police officer.

  Divecha screamed in anger. He grabbed the remote control and hurled it toward the flat screen. He missed and the remote hit the urn containing his wife’s remains. Even though his religion forbidden him to cremate his non-Muslim wife, he’d decided to make an exception. She was his first kill after all. Allah would understand. The urn tipped forward and Divecha dashed across the room to stop the inevitable. Going around the coffee table cost him half a second. The urn fell, grazing his hands outstretched in front of him. The urn shattered on impact, sending ashes all over the tiled floor of his living room. Divecha coughed as particles found their way into his lungs.

  Stupid bitch.

  Why couldn’t she kill the mayor?

  He had met Sassani only once and he hadn’t been impressed. She didn’t have the determination the others had. There was something missing. She said all the right things, but, deep down, Divecha had always believed she’d fail. Voicing his concerns had led to absolutely nothing.

  PERIWINKLE’s third phase was a failure because of her. Mayor Church was a bigger, more important mark than his: the governor of the state of New York. Would he have to go to New York City to take care of this mess? He’d know soon enough.

  Divecha climbed the stairs and headed to his bedroom. His walk-in closet was bigger than it needed to be. Dark suits and white shirts claimed the entire space. And the ties. He owned over two hundred of them. His colleagues at the New York State Police Protective Services Unit swore he wore a new one every day. It wasn’t true, but it certainly looked like it. He meticulously rotated through them, making sure never to wear the same one in a six-month span.

  Did he buy all these ties to fill the void left by his wife? Divecha missed her very much, but she had been a bit too curious and he had to do what was necessary. He always did.

  Mission first. His father had taught him well.

  He pushed away a couple of police dress uniforms he had just picked up from the cleaner and grabbed the cordless vacuum he kept next to his polished shoes.

  Back in the living room, he vacuumed his wife’s remains and then emptied the vacuum in the trashcan next to his kitchen sink. He cleaned the vacuum’s dirt canister thoroughly with dishwashing detergent and hot water before drying it with a clean towel.

  He had just replaced the vacuum in the closet when his cellphone vibrated in his jeans pocket.

  He was needed in New York City. There was another mess to clean up.

  CHAPTER 52

  IMSI Headquarters, New York

  News of the One Police Plaza attack reached the IMSI immediately after the first shot was fired. There was always one analyst on duty whose sole responsibility was to monitor the US news channels. When the attack happened, he was watching the mayor’s conference live. He pressed a button on his keyboard and the live feed jumped to the control room’s two main screens.

  Mike, who was at the gym when it happened, stormed to the control room where he found Mapother pacing back and forth behind Anna Caprini.

  “What do we know?” he asked.

  “The mayor has been shot,” Mapother replied.

  “What? When did you hear that?”

  When Mike had left the gym less than two minutes ago, the media were reporting that the mayor and his wife were safe.

  “It just hit the wire,” Lisa said from the opposite desk. “The motorcade is on its way to the Presbyterian Hospital on William Street.”

  The Presbyterian was one of the few hospitals south of Greenwich Village. It was a not-for-profit and they had an emergency room.

  “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, Charles?” Mike asked.

  Mapother shook his head. “I’m not yet ready to go there. Let’s wait a bit longer.”

  Mike didn’t think it was necessary. His gut told him this was a replica of what had happened in Ottawa. Deep cover cells were being activated. General Adbullahi had warned him there were more.

  The Canadian agent that killed the prime minister is one of ours. And there are many more like him.

  “Sir,” Anna Caprini said, “Mike’s right. Look at this.”

  Mike was stunned. On Caprini’s computer screen, the face of the man—albeit a much younger version of him—who had shot at Mayor Church appeared. A name was written under his picture.

  Colonel Razin Sassani. SAVAK.

  “How did you get this information?” Mike asked.

  Mapother looked incredulous too. All eyes were on Caprini.

  “General Adbullahi gave it to us.”

  “You gained access to the drive already?” Mapother asked.

  “It wasn’t even protected,” Caprini said, rolling her chair to the next working station. “I checked it for viruses but it was clean. The intelligence was in plain sight.”

  “What was on it?” Mike asked.

  Mike stepped aside to leave room for Lisa who had walked over to look at the intelligence Caprini had downloaded.

  “What are we looking at?” Mapother inquired.

  “There’s only one file,” Caprini said. “Of course, I’ll keep looking for hidden ones, but this seems to be it. This a Word document on which are pasted the pictures and names of seven SAVAK officers.”

  “The former Iranian intelligence service?” Mike asked. “Wasn’t that abolished in 1979?”

  “Indeed,” Mapother said. “Prime Minister Bakhtiar ordered its dissolution only four years after its creation. Since the CIA helped to establish the organization, we felt compelled to take in high-ranking SAVAK officers when they fled Iran right before Ayatollah Khomeini took control of the country. And I know the Canadians welcomed a few too.”

  “Were these seven officers amongst those we took in?” Mike asked.

  “I’d be surprised if they weren’t.”

  “That’s why the Iranians sent a team to kill Adbullahi,” Lisa said. “They didn’t want us to find out who these guys were.”

  Sanchez barged into the control room and called out to Mapother. “Sir, we have a problem.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Tehran, Iran

  Major General Kharazi was still stunned by his meeting with Ayatollah Bhansali when he sat down behind his desk. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead. He didn’t remember the last time he had received such a long and thorough tongue-lashing. The ayatollah was furious because of the outcome of the Greece debacle and became almost violent when Kharazi told him about the abduction of Meir Yatom—a mission the ayatollah hadn’t personally approved. But what had pushed him over the edge was the fact that New York City’s mayor was still alive.

  Kharazi promised he still had complete control over PERIWINKL
E and that even though Mayor Church survived, the effects were almost the same.

  Almost. The ayatollah made it clear whose head would roll if there was another almost. Kharazi hadn’t volunteered the information that he had activated two more single cells to take care of Church and the traitor Tracy Sassani.

  Maybe I should do like Adbullahi and run, he thought. While I still have the chance.

  One of his phones rang, putting an end to his fantasy.

  “What is it?”

  “This is Colonel Mizraei, sir. Someone accessed one of the documents General Adbullahi downloaded before he left.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Kharazi said, a knot forming in his stomach.

  ........

  Kharazi’s heart rate jumped when Colonel Mizraei told him someone had opened at least one of the pictures associated with PERIWINKLE.

  “They probably have access to all of them,” Mizraei confessed.

  Kharazi pictured himself in front of a firing squad with Ayatollah Bhansali giving the crowd the “thumbs down.” Kharazi forced the image out of his head and concentrated on the task at hand.

  “You will not share this information with anyone else, Colonel. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, sir,” Mizraei replied, shaking his head left to right. “I only answer to you.”

  “How do you know the file was opened?”

  Kharazi was a strategist, not a computer engineer. He didn’t need to know the details, but he wanted to at least understand the basics.

  “The file from which General Adbullahi downloaded the information came from a source code my department created for all Level Ten accounts. That code signifies that at least one word, graphic or image per page contains a hidden malicious steganographic code.”

  “An image within an image?”