“Which floor?” Mike asked.
The man looked at the panel. “Same as yours.”
Mike remembered seeing this man when he had first entered the hospital. He had been standing by the information desk speaking to another individual. And if his memory served him well, hadn’t the man been in the cafeteria sipping coffee with that same person? This was a bad situation, especially now that he had seen the badge clipped to the man’s belt. Mike couldn’t subdue the man simply because he had a fake smile.
“Here to see someone?” Mike said, keeping a hand on the wheelchair and slipping the other behind his back where his Glock 19 was secured.
“Yeah,” the officer replied, turning toward Mike. His suit jacked was open and his hand rested on the butt of his service pistol. “NYPD Sergeant Sassani.”
Mike’s heart jumped. Had he heard Mike say her name? He had definitely slipped up in the cafeteria; Lisa’s distress call had taken him by surprise. If the New York State Police officer had overheard his conversation, there was no point lying.
“Me too. I just got a call. She’s out of surgery. You guys work together?”
“I’m with the governor’s protective detail. We’ve met a couple times.”
Mike allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. With the events of the last few days, from the assassination of the Canadian prime minister to the attempted killing of Mayor Church, it made sense that police officers—particularly those working the protection details—were a bit edgy.
The elevator came to a halt. Mike looked at the display. They were on the second floor. The doors opened and a couple of doctors joined them in the elevator. Mike was glad to see them position themselves between him and the state trooper. The doctors never acknowledged them but kept talking about a patient who’d been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. When the elevator stopped on the third floor, the doctors exited the elevator without giving the two other men a second glance.
Once the doors were closed and nobody else boarded the elevator, the trooper pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees on his right foot and at the same time pulled a knife from its nylon sheath on his duty belt. In a flash, he was on Mike.
CHAPTER 66
IMSI Headquarters, New York
Jonathan Sanchez didn’t lose any time. The moment the pictures Lisa sent him popped up on his screen, he shared them with Anna Caprini who in turned advised Charles Mapother of the developing situation at the Presbyterian Hospital.
In less than a minute, Sanchez had a hit.
“Who is she?” Mapother asked.
“Her name is Lara Firouzgari. She was one of them,” Sanchez told him.
“Her father was one of the colonels?”
This time it was Caprini who replied. “Yes, sir. Colonel Yavar Firouzgari. He was on the list provided by General Adbullahi.”
“What do we know about him?”
“So far, not much, I’m afraid,” Caprini admitted. “We’ve just started to canvass our systems. What we do know came from the intel Adbullahi gave us.”
Sanchez could see Mapother was getting impatient. He gestured Caprini to keep going but her mind was fully occupied by her screen. Caprini had the tendency to withhold information until she had a clear understanding of what was going on. She didn’t do it on purpose; she just wasn’t comfortable sharing incomplete intelligence with her boss. Sanchez had no such problems. Being a former Delta operator, he understood more than most how important every bit of intel really was.
“He entered the United States with the help of the CIA in nineteen seventy-nine, had one daughter and worked in a shoe factory,” he said to Mapother.
“What about his daughter?”
“We know absolutely nothing about her.”
“And yet, she went to the hospital and tried to kill Lisa,” replied Mapother. “Call her back, Jonathan. Let her know who the woman was and tell her I’m sending Support Team One to help her and Mike out.”
“Right away.”
“In the meantime, I’ll make sure the NYPD double-up on Mayor Church’s security.”
CHAPTER 67
Presbyterian Hospital, New York City
Lisa wanted to lock the door of the locker room but realized that Simpson had already done so. She texted Mike to let him know she was still there and that he should contact her prior to entering the locker room.
Her phone chirped twice. It was the IMSI getting back to her.
“Who is she?” she asked.
“Her name is Lara Firouzgari. She’s by all accounts an Iranian agent. Her father was on the list,” Sanchez told her.
“She was after Sassani too,” Lisa said.
“That’s what we think. And if the Iranians are after Sassani, it means—”
“That they’re after the mayor too. Yes, I know, Jonathan.”
There was a pause, and then Jonathan said, “You’re okay there, Lisa?”
“Just send a support team to take care of her. Mike and I will go check on Sassani. I guess a quiet talk with her at the hospital is now out of the question, right?”
“It’s probably best we take her in.”
“If the Iranians were ready to waste an asset on Sassani, she must know something they don’t want us to learn.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe? Am I missing something?”
“Maybe they just want her to keep quiet. If she voluntary failed in what was asked of her—in this case the assassination of Mayor Church—there’s a possibility she’d be willing to go public with what she knows.”
That hadn’t yet crossed Lisa’s mind. Sanchez was right.
Her phone vibrated in her hand, indicating receipt of a text message.
I’m here. Door is locked.
“I’ll call you back. Mike’s here.”
Lisa unlocked the door and opened it.
She gasped.
The man in front of her wasn’t Mike.
CHAPTER 68
Ramallah, Palestine
Less than a year ago, while conducting a rescue mission for Mike’s father in Syria, Zima Bernbaum had lost a finger to a sniper. The pain, intense as it had been, was nothing compare to the agony she was now experiencing. For the last ninety minutes, Eitan and Zima had been trapped in a tiny secret compartment hidden under the back seat of the medical supply van they were using to enter the West Bank. Within ten minutes her legs began to tingle and cramp up. After thirty minutes, she couldn’t feel her legs anymore. After an hour, she wanted to die. The only thing keeping her from screaming was the thought of Meir Yatom. To his credit, Eitan, who was much taller than her, hadn’t complained at all. In fact, he snored straight through the last half hour.
The van belonged to Ungava Bay International Medicine—a genuine international pharmaceutical company headquartered in Canada. UBIM operated schools in impoverished neighborhoods around the world, donated tons of medicine to underprivileged elderlies and children, and, above all, it remained apolitical in all conflicts by never publicly endorsing an organization or a political party. Their reputation allowed them to travel anywhere on the globe without interference from local governments.
The MOSSAD, aware of UBIM’s flawless reputation, had decided a long time ago it needed a stake in the company. Since UBIM was a non-profit organization, the only way it could somewhat control, or at least know, what was really going on within the walls of UBIM’s offices in Tel-Aviv was to have its own people working there. There were now a dozen MOSSAD agents embedded within UBIM in Israel. One of them was Eugene Zaret, a delivery truck driver.
Zaret had been employed by UBIM for five years. In that time, he had safely and successfully infiltrated and exfiltrated over a dozen MOSSAD agents from the West Bank. Zima was told Zaret was the best. If you needed to get in and out of the West Bank unnoticed, Zaret was the guy.
The van slowed down. The brakes squealed, and the van came to a stop before backing up.
“We’re there,” Eitan whispered.
“About time you woke up.”
“What? I didn’t even sleep.”
“Liar.”
A door opened and closed. Someone yelled something in Arabic that Zima couldn’t understand. This was Zaret’s first and final stop today. He had briefed them on how to exit the compartment. It wasn’t a difficult or dangerous process, as long as they didn’t do it while the vehicle was running. There were two levers to pull. One was above Zima’s head and the other next to Eitan’s right hip. Both needed to be pull at the same time or it wouldn’t open
“I need to get out of here,” Zima whispered. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“And you think I can feel mine? Toughen up, buttercup,” Eitan replied. “We can’t exit now.”
“What? Don’t fuck with me, Eitan. I’m not joking. I need to get out of this box.” Zima fought to keep her voice low. Panic was slowly taking over.
“The warehouse we’re in isn’t friendly to MOSSAD agents. If we get out before they close shop, we’re done.”
Shit.
CHAPTER 69
Presbyterian Hospital, New York
Mike shoved the wheelchair toward the trooper. He easily sidestepped it, but it gave Mike the second he needed to assess the situation. The trooper held the knife in a reverse grip with its edge out. That was bad news, especially at close quarters. This trooper was no ordinary cop and he knew how to fight. Mike had no time to grab his gun. This type of reverse grip had many advantages. Since the blade’s cutting edge faced Mike no matter where the trooper’s hand was located, even a punch-like motion was dangerous. Because the trooper held the knife how one would hold an ice pick, he could bring tremendous force to bear on the tip, not only when oriented downward, but also behind or beside him. By using this grip, the trooper gave himself an enhanced defensive position too. The only thing in Mike’s favor was the limited reach of this grip technique. The point and the edge couldn’t be extended like a forward grip.
Not that it’s gonna make a huge difference in this elevator.
The trooper’s knees were slightly bent and so were his elbows. Whatever the outcome, everything would be over in less than five seconds. Knife fights were very fast. In the first half-second of every fight, deceptions were involved to distract you. The chances of getting cut were high, and it was important to seize a window of opportunity. Mike had learned the hard way that, in a knife fight against a skilled opponent, you might have one or perhaps two openings at most. For Mike there was only option, and it wasn’t defense.
He attacked.
........
Divecha was caught off guard. The kill should have been easy, but the man reacted immediately by shoving the wheelchair forward. He then took one step forward and used his right leg to kick Divecha’s left knee. Divecha countered instinctively by trying to slash at the man’s foot. He realized his fatal mistake too late.
........
Mike’s foot missed the knee and hit the trooper three inches lower. The kick hadn’t much force in it but it served his purpose. In a natural attempt to deflect the upcoming blow, the trooper brought his knife down, leaving himself open. The tip pierced Mike’s pants but missed the flesh. Mike threw a powerful right hook that caught the trooper’s unprotected chin and followed immediately with a left uppercut. The trooper arched back, and Mike’s fist missed his mark. He quickly stepped back and ducked as the trooper’s knife sliced from left to right. Mike drove his fist up and hard into the trooper’s kidney. The trooper groaned and tried to bring the knife back from right to left. Mike ducked again and used his knees to power another uppercut. This time, it connected right under the trooper’s chin. The trooper flew backward and into the elevator’s doors. His head hit the doors at a weird angle and his body slipped sideways.
The fight had last less than five seconds.
Mike disarmed the trooper, pocketed the knife and the holstered pistol. He handcuffed him and grabbed him under his armpits. He lifted the trooper and sat him in the wheelchair. Mike removed his lab coat and placed it on the trooper’s torso to hide the fact that he was handcuffed. Two seconds later, the elevator’s doors opened and Mike pushed the wheelchair out.
CHAPTER 70
Presbyterian Hospital
Lisa’s eyes moved from the man in the wheelchair to her husband.
“What happened?” she asked Mike as she moved away from the door to let him and the wheelchair in.
“I have no idea. He’s a New York State trooper; or at least he says he is.”
“You talked to him?”
“We exchanged a few words in the elevator, then he pulled a knife on me.”
“You think they worked as a team?” Lisa showed her husband the body of the woman who had tried to kill her. “Name’s Lara Firouzgari. Another second-generation Iranian agent.”
“Until we know for sure who the trooper is, I don’t know what to think, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were both after Sassani.”
“What do we do with them?”
“Did you call this in?”
“Charles is sending a support team.”
“This guy,” Mike said, tapping the trooper on the shoulder, “might wake up before the support team makes it here.”
Lisa looked at the trooper. His head was tilted to the side. Blood flowed out of his right ear. Lisa checked for a pulse.
“There’s no danger of that happening now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You killed him.”
........
Mike’s knees buckled but he held on to the wheelchair’s handles. Killing the man had never been his intention. Not only did he want to know why a New York State trooper would assault him, he needed to chat with him regarding his connection with Sassani.
“He was alive when I pulled him up from the elevator’s floor,” he said, light-headed.
“How hard did you hit him?”
“Too hard, I guess,” Mike said.
Mike searched the man and located his credentials inside the trooper’s suit jacket. He took a photo with his smartphone and sent it to the IMSI for verification.
“There’s no doubt in my mind he wasn’t a good guy, Mike,” his wife said. “A regular cop would never have attacked you with a knife.”
Lisa had a valid point. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“We need to check on Sassani,” Lisa said. “But first, we need to hide the bodies until the support team shows up.”
Mike looked around. “Why don’t we put them in the handicap stall?” he offered.
Mike pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom and helped Lisa carry the body of the dead woman. He positioned her on the toilet with her back tilted backward. Once he was sure she wouldn’t fall, he locked the door from the inside and crawled out of the stall.
“Time for our chat with Sergeant Sassani.”
He and Lisa were still in the locker room when his phone beeped. It was Charles Mapother calling from the IMSI headquarters. Mike’s heart skipped a couple beats. He took a deep breath before answering. More than anything, he hoped Mapother was going to confirm the trooper wasn’t a real police officer.
“Yes, Charles?”
“I’m sorry to say this, Mike, but the man you killed was indeed a New York State trooper,” Mapother told him. Mike’s chest tightened and he dropped his phone. He fell to his knees, his heart beating much faster than it should have. He was aware of what was happening to him. It wasn’t the first time.
A panic attack. Just like the one that had nearly cost him his life in Russia. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk, and his eyes couldn’t focus. He felt like throwing up, but darkness enveloped him. Mapother’s next words were lost on him.
/> I killed a cop.
He sensed Lisa kneeling next to him, forcing him to sit down with his back resting against the wall. She pressed a cold-water paper towel against his forehead while explaining to Mapother what just happened.
“Mike, Mike,” his wife said, squeezing his shoulder. “Focus, baby, focus. The trooper was an Iranian asset. His father was one of the colonels.”
Somehow the words made it through to Mike. He forced himself to inhale and exhale deeply, just as the doctor told him to do in situations like this. After a few seconds, the fog around his mind started to clear.
“Are we sure?” he finally asked.
“One hundred percent. His name is Radman Divecha. That confirms he and Firouzgari were working together.”
Mike used the countertop to help himself back to his feet. “Sassani must be important if the Iranians sent two assets to take her out,” he said, regaining control over his mental state.
“They’re afraid she’ll talk to us,” Lisa said, handing Mike his phone. “Mapother is sending more people to take care of the bodies. You’re good?”
“Yeah,” Mike replied, reaching into his front pocket. He grabbed a couple of tablets and popped two in his mouth. He washed them down by drinking directly from the tap. He never understood how people were able to swallow tablets without any liquid intake. He splashed water on his face and dried it with paper towel.
“Let’s go.” He led the way out of the locker room. He opened the door for her, but Lisa didn’t move. “What?”
“Wait for me downstairs, Mike, and link with the support team. I’ll get Sassani.”
Mike was about to protest but Lisa’s expression told him it wouldn’t be a good idea.
CHAPTER 71
Presbyterian Hospital, New York
Not for the first time Lisa wondered if it was time for her and Mike to pull the plug after this mission. With the Sheik in prison and the people responsible for the death of Melissa and their unborn child now six feet underground, wasn’t their revenge complete? Being back in the field felt like a breath of fresh air, but how long before she was shot again? How long before Mike’s emotional state brought him to a dark place he’d never get away from. The last years—and Lisa’s near-death experience in Russia had accelerated the process—had chipped away at Mike’s mental health. In Lisa’s professional opinion, Mike’s bi-weekly appointments with Dr. Howe, the IMSI psychologist, and the tablets he kept popping more and more frequently, weren’t enough anymore. She should talk with Charles Mapother and tell him how bad it really was. She doubted Mike was totally honest with Dr. Howe. Of course, he’d say just enough to show he was trying, but Lisa knew her husband. He had a hard time admitting he needed help.
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 17