Damn it! It was bad luck two out of the three SAVAK colonels assigned to New York had daughters instead of sons. If he’d been dealing with male agents instead of these worthless bitches, Mayor Church would already be six feet underground and the New York governor would be next.
But no, here I am cleaning up Sassani’s mess.
Flustered, he entered the hospital by the emergency room and headed directly to the information desk. He flipped his wallet open and showed his badge to one of the two receptionists. She gave him a practiced smile and a look that said, I couldn’t care less about your badge.
“What can I do for you?”
“Staff Sergeant Divecha, New York State Police,” he said, replacing his wallet in his back pocket.
“Again, what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Tracy Sassani.”
“So are many others.”
“Can you tell me where she is?”
“No.”
“Why?” Divecha was getting frustrated. “This is official police business.”
“If you’re not with the NYPD or a close family member, I don’t care who you are. You’re not seeing her.”
“Can you at least tell me if she’s all right? I’m a friend, too,” he said, throwing a bit of compassion into the mix.
The receptionist let out a sigh. She hit a few keys on a keyboard and said, “She’s in surgery.”
“She’s still in surgery?” he asked.
Another sigh. “That’s what I just said.”
Sassani had been shot six hours ago. How long did it take to remove a bullet?
“Thanks for all your help,” Divecha said before walking away. He hadn’t yet made ten steps when someone put a hand on his shoulder from behind.
Divecha automatically pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees on his right heel and deflected the wrist by sweeping his right arm from left to write. His knees were bent and his left hand coiled to strike when his would-be assailant backed off, his hands in the air. Divecha saw an NYPD badge attached to his belt. The man was a plainclothes officer. Mid-fifties with a generous waistline.
“Whoa there, partner,” the officer said. “Relax.”
Divecha hadn’t realized he was so on edge. A quick look around him confirmed only a few people had noticed the altercation.
“I’m sorry.”
The officer frowned. “Anyway, I heard you talking to Val here,” the officer said, his eyes toward the receptionist. “She’s just doing her job, you know.”
“Of course.”
“So you want to see Tracy?”
“You know her?”
“We work together. Well, we used to before she joined Church’s protective detail.”
“I wanted to ask her a few questions,” Divecha said. “It can wait. I’m Radman by the way.”
“Daniel,” the officer replied. He was tearing up and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe what might have been a tear.
“You guys were close?”
“I guess you could say that,” Daniel said. “Like father-to-daughter kind of thing. So you knew her too?”
“We met a few times. I’m with the governor’s protective detail, so we crossed paths at special events and such, you know?”
Daniel nodded. “You want a coffee?”
“Sure, lead the way,” Divechia replied, having found his ticket to Sassani.
CHAPTER 63
Presbyterian Hospital, New York City
Seated in the passenger seat of the IMSI’s newest ride—a Volvo XC90—Lisa Walton felt the adrenaline run through her veins. It was a pleasant feeling. One she didn’t experience often enough anymore. Truth was, it was hard to get excited behind a computer screen. She understood Mapother’s decision to keep her out of the field, but it didn’t mean she didn’t long to go back out.
For the first time since the events in Greece and Russia—where she was severely beaten and tortured by Sheik al-Assad—Mapother had agreed to let her out of headquarters to conduct a mission, albeit with a chaperone; her husband, which made the pill a little easier to swallow.
She looked at Mike and placed her hand on his lap. Their eyes met. She smiled.
“How do you feel?” Mike asked as he turned into an underground parking lot two blocks away from the Presbyterian Hospital.
“Happy to be out and about.”
“I told Mapother you were ready for light field work.”
“I’m surprised he granted your request,” Lisa said, scanning for a parking space. “Even if it’s only for light field work.”
“I think the exact words I used were super-light field work,” Mike said, chuckling.
Lisa retracted her hand and punched him in the shoulder. It was fun to be back in the field with her husband. They were a good team. They had gone through so much together.
“Are you up to it?” he asked her.
She didn’t bother to reply. Instead, she asked, “What if she doesn’t want to talk to us?”
“Then we’ll change tactics.”
Sergeant Sassani not wanting to talk to them was indeed a possibility. Charles Mapother had wanted to use his newfound presidential sanction to move in quickly, take Sergeant Sassani into custody and interrogate her at the IMSI’s headquarters. Mike had agreed but Lisa had voiced her objection. She argued that since Sassani had clearly made the choice not to kill Mayor Church in cold blood, there was a chance she’d willingly give them the intelligence they so badly needed. If they moved on her too aggressively, she may revert to being the person her father wanted her to be. Mapother had granted her request but had nevertheless given Mike the authority to do what was necessary to extract everything she knew if Lisa’s gentle approach didn’t bear fruit.
They entered the hospital by the emergency room and went directly to the third floor using the stairs, bypassing two men talking to each other next to the information desk.
“We’re in,” Lisa said into her throat microphone. “Status update on our target?”
“She just got out of surgery. They’re moving her to the recovery room now,” replied Jonathan Sanchez from his desk at the IMSI headquarters. “But it might take a while before she wakes up.”
“Copy that.”
“How long before we can speak with her, Lisa?” Mike asked her.
In another life, before the Sheik stole her children and shattered the nice life she and Mike had built for themselves, Lisa had been a trauma surgeon. If anyone could guess how long it would take Sassani to wake up, she could.
“Depends what they used to keep her down during surgery. I’d say thirty to forty-five minutes,” Lisa said. “Then they’ll give her opioids like morphine or dilaudid. That will keep her drowsy.”
“What do want to do? There’s no point trying to get into the recovery room if she can’t talk.”
“You’re right. There’s nothing for you to do until she wakes up, so why not get a coffee or something? Civilians aren’t allowed in the recovery room.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go check on our patient.”
CHAPTER 64
Presbyterian Hospital, New York City
Lisa had to climb two more stories to reach the locker rooms. Some hospitals—like the one she used to work for in Ottawa—had beautifully appointed locker and shower rooms for their doctors. The Presbyterian Hospital’s weren’t as quaint but Lisa found what she was looking for. After a quick stop at the restroom, she took a minute to look at her reflection while she washed her hands. Her strawberry blond hair was in a ponytail behind her back. The white lab coat she had grabbed from an unlocked locker fit her frame perfectly. For a moment, the sight of the stethoscope around her neck transported her back in time. A time when her life was marvelous, when her only worry was whether her husband would make it in time for dinner or no
t. A time when she tried to save lives, not take them. The last two years had transformed her soul. Gone was her limitless compassion. Gone was her willingness to help others. So much had been taken from her, she had nothing to give back. If it wasn’t for Mapother and Mike, she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to continue. Bleeding to death on that dirty floor in Russia had taught her something; death wasn’t something she feared anymore. With the Sheik rotting somewhere in a black site, her vengeance was complete. Or was it? Mike had found a higher purpose, something to live for, but, deep down, she wasn’t there yet.
The door of the locker room opened, startling Lisa and bringing her back to the present. She turned around to greet the young woman who had just walked in.
About my height, slim build, blond hair and radiant blue eyes. Dressed in a pink summer dress and yellow flat shoes. A young doctor.
“Good morning,” Lisa said, leaning back against the counter. The locker room’s entrance wasn’t large and the space between the door and the row of sinks wasn’t big enough for two people to stand side by side.
“Good morning,” the newcomer said. “I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new here?”
“Just visiting for the week,” Lisa said without missing a beat. “I’m Dr. Lisa Walton.”
“I’m Dr. Christine Simpson.”
Lisa shook hands with Christine. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here. You been here long?” Christine pulled a longer than usual toothbrush from her handbag.
“A couple days.”
“I haven’t seen you before, that’s why I’m asking.” Christine was now carefully applying a generous quantity of toothpaste to her toothbrush. “Where are you from, Lisa?”
“I’m from Canada—”
“I love Canada. I’m told you guys have the best healthcare in the world. And it’s free, isn’t?” she said before she started brushing her teeth with a vigor Lisa had rarely seen.
Lisa didn’t feel like getting into a discussion about the politics of Canadian health care, but it never ceased to amaze her how little the Americans really knew about the publicly funded Canadian health care system. The single-payer system consisted of thirteen provincial and territorial socialized health insurance plans that provided universal health care to all Canadian citizens. It basically worked like the United States’ Medicare, but for everyone. It covered almost everything, with the exceptions of dental care, prescription glasses and prescription drugs, but most people had private insurance to cover these exclusions. In theory, Lisa had to admit it looked great. But practically, it was a nightmare.
“Kind of, but it’s more complicated than that. Anyhow, nice to meet you, and have a wonderful day, Dr. Simpson.” Lisa tried to squeeze between the wall and Christine.
The moment she was behind her, and with a speed and agility that left Lisa momentarily paralyzed, Christine used her hip to shove her against the wall and used her left elbow to strike Lisa behind the head.
........
Lara Firouzgari—AKA Christine Simpson—was pretty sure the woman wasn’t who she said she was. Her eyes had betrayed her inner self. Her smile was genuine, her voice graciously soft, but the deep sadness in her blue eyes was easy to detect by anyone knowing what to look for. By hacking into the hospital’s database, Lara had memorized the names of all the doctors and nurses who were scheduled to work in the recovery room and the two adjacent floors today. It was easy to figure out which lockers she could pry open without fear of getting caught by its owner. There had been no mention of a Dr. Lisa Walton visiting from Canada. It could have been a slipup by the administrator in charge of logging in the doctors’ hours, but Lara didn’t feel like taking the chance. It would be naïve to think they were the only ones after Sassani.
Lara used her hip to pin Walton against the wall and delivered a powerful elbow strike to her head. Walton ducked at the last second and parried with her left arm, confirming Lara’s thought that the good doctor from Canada wasn’t who she said she was. If her elbow strike had landed as intended, it would have knocked Walton out, or at least incapacitated her until she finished her off. But now Lara was at a disadvantage. With Walton behind her and her back exposed, she had to do something or she’d be the one found stuffed in a locker with a broken neck.
........
Lisa’s heart was racing. What had just happened? She punched Simpson in the ribs with her right fist but without much strength. Still flattened against the wall, she didn’t have the room to make it more powerful. She wrapped her right arm against Simpson’s neck, locked it tight with the other one and kicked the back of her knees with her left foot. In a few seconds, it would be all over.
........
Lara’s breath was knocked out of her. She clawed at the skin wrapped around her neck but the pressure only intensified. Her face was contorted in rage. How could she have underestimated her opponent like that? Dizziness enveloped her. There was not enough air coming through to fill her lungs. In a last effort to save herself, and knowing she had only a couple seconds left before passing out, Lara let go of the arm around her neck and grabbed with two hands the toothbrush she was still clutching in her right hand. She twisted it and pulled it apart in the middle. A small knife, about two inches long and half an inch wide and as sharp as a scalpel, was embedded within the lower end of the toothbrush.
She didn’t have much strength left, but, fortunately, stabbing someone’s thigh with a sharp object didn’t require much.
........
Catching a glimpse of the blade in the large mirror above the sinks, Lisa just had time to angle her body away from its trajectory before it sliced through her jeans and embedded itself in the drywall next to her thigh. A gurgle escaped Simpson’s mouth. She was about to suffocate. Lisa tightened her hold. Simpson tried to kick at her but Lisa didn’t let go. As much as she wanted to keep Simpson alive, Simpson’s preemptive attack meant she didn’t share the feeling toward her. Simpson went limp, and Lisa made the decision to hold the choke for another minute. When it was done, Lisa called Mike.
“Join me in the doctors’ locker room. Bring a wheelchair with you,” Lisa said, out of breath.
“What happened?”
“I was attacked by someone claiming to be a doctor.”
“Damn it! We’re not the only ones after Sassani. Stay put. I’m on my way.”
Before replacing the phone in her back pocket, Lisa snapped a few pictures of the dead woman and sent them to Sanchez at the IMSI headquarters.
CHAPTER 65
Presbyterian Hospital, New York City
Sassani. Did someone say Sassani? Radman Divecha searched his surroundings. People sipping coffees and playing with their phones occupied most of the hospital cafeteria’s tables. A man seated two tables away bolted from his chair. He had his phone glued his ear. The man left his coffee behind and headed straight for the exit. Maybe Divecha wouldn’t need to befriend Daniel after all. Divecha was sure this was the man he had heard say Sassani. If this was indeed the case, it was worth pursuing.
“Daniel, would you excuse me for a minute?” Divecha said to the NYPD detective.
“Of course,” Daniel said, without knowing his life had been saved in extremis.
Divecha got up and patted Daniel on the shoulder. “Hang in there, brother. She’ll be fine.”
Daniel grabbed his forearm. “Thanks for the support, Radman. Means a lot.”
Divecha nodded and walked away. He had lost a few precious seconds. Who was the man who had said Sassani? Had he heard correctly? He checked his watch. If Lara Firouzgari had done what was asked of her, Sassani should be dead by now. Or just about to be. Why did he have the feeling she had failed? Outside the cafeteria, Divecha looked right and left. Where had the man gone?
Damn!
Should he go straight to the mayor and have done with it, or listen to his gut and check on Sassani?
There was no point in killing Church if Sassani was still alive.
His eyes caught movement to his right. A man was entering the elevator, pushing an empty wheelchair. Black hair, medium build but fit, a few inches short of six feet. This was the same man who had left the cafeteria in a hurry, but he was now wearing a white lab coat.
Divecha sprinted to the elevator and inserted his arm just as the doors were about to close. The doors opened and the man looked at him. For a millisecond, the man looked perplexed but he recuperated quickly.
“Which floor?”
........
Mike borrowed the wheelchair from the emergency room. A lab coat was neatly folded on its seat. He put it on. It was without a name but it was better than nothing. He rushed back to the elevators and was glad to see one had just arrived. Three nurses dressed in blue scrubs exited the elevator and turned to their left. Mike entered the elevator alone and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
For the love of God, what had Lisa got herself into? It was her first mission since Russia. It was supposed to be a simple interrogation, or abduction if everything else failed. They were in the United States, not a third-world country. It should have been an easy operation. Lisa was a superb operator—even gifted some people said—but attracted more than her fair share of bad luck. What worried Mike more, though, was that they weren’t the only ones after Sassani. And if Sassani was in danger, so was Mayor Church.
The elevator doors were almost shut when someone forced his right arm between them. The doors bumped against it and reopened. A man walked in. He was taller than Mike and at least forty pounds heavier than his one hundred and eighty. A New York State Police badge was clipped to his belt. His eyes were dark and menacing, betraying the fake smile on his lips.
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 16