A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Read online

  The Sheik focused on the face that was slowly appearing on one of the flat screens above the agent’s desk. This isn’t possible. It can’t be. The Sheik started to shake in anger. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Dr. Lisa Harrison Powell. Wife of Mike Powell and daughter-in-law of Canadian ambassador Ray Powell. Didn’t she die at the Ottawa Train Station? The newspapers had covered her death and her husband’s. Unless . . . Didn’t Omar Al-Nashwan mention Mike Powell just before he passed? Charles Mapother, Mike Powell, and now Dr. Lisa Harrison Powell. They were all working together, and the Sheik was now certain they were the ones who had killed his associates in Croatia.

  Then it came to him. He would indeed use Ray Powell. And he would use his daughter-in-law too.

  “Get me my son,” he ordered the female agent.

  “Which one?” she asked.

  How dare she insult him like this? Doesn’t she know? The Sheik lost it as anger took over his mind and body. Every muscle tightened and he felt like a bomb about to explode. All the frustration and setbacks of the last few months erupted. He sprang out of his chair and pounced on the female agent. He ripped off her headset and smashed her head multiple times on her desk. He then swung her around and punched her three times in the teeth with all his might. As he looked at her distorted and bloody face, he felt a huge impulse to bite off her nose. And that was exactly what he did. Movement behind him made him turn around. The other agent had risen from his seat and was watching in horror. The Sheik spat the nose at his feet and yelled at him to sit back down if he didn’t want to be next. The moans of the female agent behind him brought him back to reality. He looked at his hands, then at her. What have I done? And why does it feel so good?

  The taste of blood in his mouth made him feel almighty. He snatched a pencil from the agent’s workstation and stabbed the defenseless woman in the neck. The pencil broke, barely breaking skin. The agent screamed. The Sheik grabbed the wireless keyboard with two hands and smashed it against her head again and again until her whole face was just a bloody mess. He looked at the male agent to gauge his reaction. The man was immobile, and clearly scared about what would happen to him. The Sheik wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve. “Get me my son, would you?”

  CHAPTER 44

  Al-Mazzeh Military Airport, Syria

  Igor Votyakov didn’t hear his phone ringing. The noise of the Antonov An-2’s single engine was so loud that Igor needed to shout at his men to be understood. But, as a precaution, he always set his phone to both vibrate and sound when he wasn’t tactical.

  “Yes,” he yelled into his phone.

  “It’s me,” his father said. Even with the kind of commotion coming from the plane’s engine, Igor had no problem identifying the caller. The rich, deep voice of the Sheik couldn’t be mistaken.

  “We’re about to take off,” he said, climbing into the cabin of the Antonov. At least inside he could hear what his father had to say. The roar of the engine persisted through the lightly insulated cabin but it wasn’t as bad as outside.

  “Any issues?”

  “None since we last talked. Local authorities have actually been very helpful. The Syrian president’s visit to Moscow certainly helped smooth things out,” Igor said. He could feel the plane’s forward momentum as it started to roll on the tarmac. He looked outside and estimated he had about three minutes before they were airborne.

  “I’ll be joining you in Mykonos, Igor,” his father said.

  “Is that wise?”

  “I don’t have much choice, I’m afraid.”

  “What happened?” he asked his father, his eyes settling on Ray Powell. The ambassador’s hands were tied behind his back but it was only a precaution. An hour ago he had been sedated, and chances were he wouldn’t wake up until they were at the Mykonos safe house.

  “Things got a little out of hand here in Moscow. I’ll see you soon,” his dad said before hanging up.

  Igor swore loud enough that his men looked at him. “The Sheik is coming to Mykonos,” he said. “You’ll do whatever he says, unless I tell you otherwise.”

  His men nodded. They would obey him no matter what. He had gained their trust fighting alongside them against the insurgents in the North Caucasus and on a secret, long-range reconnaissance mission in Syria. But why was his father coming to Mykonos? With most of the world’s intelligence agencies looking for him, Igor couldn’t comprehend his father’s reasoning. He never had. There were two people in the world he could call to help him understand, his mother and Veniamin Simonich, the president of the Russian Federation. But he had only one of them on speed dial.

  “Mr. President, this is Igor. Were you aware my father was planning on coming to Mykonos?”

  CHAPTER 45

  Damascus, Syria

  Zima Bernbaum had used almost all the money she had left trying to get back to the Canadian embassy in Beirut. After the second checkpoint, she had very little cash. The bribes needed to pass through were getting more expensive by the hour and Zima had no idea why until one of the militia told her driver the Russians had started bombings their positions.

  Zima was sure he was wrong. They wouldn’t dare. Russia wouldn’t dare bomb anything other than ISIS targets. She knew the Syrian president and his Russian counterpart Veniamin Simonich were close but not that close. If the Russians had really begun a bombing campaign against everyone opposing the Syrian president, Zima guessed that the Syrian conflict was about to enter a new dynamic. She doubted the Central Intelligence Agency would sit idly by while Russian warplanes killed people they had helped train—like the militia she had just given a bribe to.

  With no money left, she wouldn’t be able to get through the next checkpoint, but she offered the driver her last twenty to borrow his cell. She called the unsecured IMSI number, the one regular folks called when they were looking to hire the IMSI to conduct a foreign-market analysis.

  “International Market Stabilization Institute, Karen speaking,”

  “Hello, Karen, my name’s is Shawna Blanchard,” said Zima. Shawna Blanchard was the name all female assets were told to give to whoever answered the phone. In theory, the person at the other end would know who to transfer the call to.

  “Please hold,” Karen said.

  The cab driver turned in his seat and looked at her. “How long? I’ll need more than twenty dollars if you’re calling long distance.”

  Zima heard a few clicks then Anna Caprini came on the line. “We’re secured here. What about you?”

  “I’m calling from a borrowed cell phone inside Syria,” Zima said while gesturing to her driver she wouldn’t be long.

  “Glad to hear your voice. What can we do to help?”

  ........

  Jonathan Sanchez hurried to the bubble where Anna Caprini was on the phone with Zima. His leg was killing him but he’d be damned if he didn’t get there in time to speak with her. The last communication they’d had with her had ended abruptly. Since then, Sanchez had tried to convince himself that Zima was all right, but with every hour without news, and with reports coming in of a shootout where the meet between the Canadian emissaries and the Syrian troops was supposed to take place, he was losing faith.

  Zima was a fantastic woman and he wouldn’t be completely honest if he didn’t admit a certain attraction to her. The last person he had fallen for had died on the Benalmadena raid. There wasn’t a day he didn’t think about Jasmine Carson, but she was gone, and he had to move on. Nevertheless, the painful thought of losing Zima made him shiver with fear. And the worst thing about all this was that she had no idea how he felt about her. You’re acting like a goddamn teenage boy, buddy. You’d better wake up and start thinking like a leader here, or you’ll lose her too.

  Anna Caprini was scribbling notes on a piece of paper.

  “Are we tracking this call?” he mouthed to Caprini.

  She nodded. �
�We know exactly where you are, and I can also confirm what you’ve just said. Russia has indeed started bombing ISIS and non-ISIS positions inside Syria,” Caprini said before adding, “You’re now on speaker phone with me and Jonathan.”

  “We were worried about you,” Sanchez said. “Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks. The last few hours weren’t easy, and there are a lot of things I need to pass on,” Zima said. The line was unexpectedly clear and Sanchez thought Zima’s voice breathed relief.

  “We’ll get you out as soon as we can. Stand by for a minute.” Sanchez was glad they had worked on an exfil plan the moment they had felt things going to shit. He brought up a map of Syria on one of the screens and zoomed in on Zima’s location on another one. “About ten miles north of your position there’s a makeshift helipad.”

  Sanchez’s grasp of Arabic was basic but he knew enough to hear Zima ask for some sort of map from her driver. “What are the coordinates?” she asked seconds later.

  Sanchez gave them to her. “We can have a chopper on location in about four to six hours. Can you hold up until then?”

  “Stand by.”

  ........

  Zima Bernbaum unfolded the map and searched for the coordinates Sanchez had given her. “I don’t see a helipad on the map,” she said.

  “Trust me, it’s there.”

  Zima wished Sanchez could give her more info, but the fact they were communicating via an unsecured line prevented that. “I can make my way there but there are a lot of unknowns right now. I might not be able to go through another checkpoint,” Zima said, studying the map.

  “You’ll find a way. You need to,” Sanchez said. Zima had never heard Sanchez sound so sincere. Did he care for her?

  “What should I expect?” she asked.

  “You’ll know when you see it,” Sanchez said. “Just make sure you have eyes on the location.”

  The cab driver was getting more and more agitated and she hoped it wouldn’t become an issue. “I’ll be there. Four hours.”

  ........

  Sanchez left the bubble and walked as fast as his leg allowed him. He knocked on Mapother’s door and it opened automatically. The IMSI director was on the phone and he signaled Sanchez to take a seat.

  “I understand completely, Richard, but I have a feeling we’ll need to move within the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours,” Mapother said.

  As Mapother continued his conversation with the DNI, Sanchez’s mind wandered to Syria. He pictured Zima stuck in a stinky cab with militia and government troops fighting. He hoped she’d find a way to hunker down until help arrived. Zima was well trained, and she had experienced life on the run before. Her dark skin would help her blend in and her wit would keep her alive. She’ll be fine, Sanchez concluded, but felt a pinch in his heart.

  “You have an update?” Mapother asked, snapping Sanchez out of his reverie.

  “Zima contacted us,” he said. “She’s stuck in Syria.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “She couldn’t talk much, Charles,” Sanchez explained. “She was using an unsecured cell phone but she gave us her coordinates.”

  Mapother opened the laptop on his desk and turned it toward Sanchez. “Show me.”

  Sanchez loaded the same maps he and Anna Caprini had looked at in the bubble. “She’s right here.”

  Mapother studied the map and scrolled through the area using the mouse pad. “Did you activate Operation Sunglasses?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I don’t see any other solution.”

  “Neither do I,” replied Mapother. “She could get out on her own, but it would take much longer. Time we don’t have.”

  Sanchez nodded. He had come to the same conclusion.

  “I’ll make the call,” Mapother said.

  I’m glad you agree, Charles, because I would have made the call even if you’d disagreed.

  CHAPTER 46

  IMSI headquarters, New York

  Charles Mapother dialed the number he’d been given a month ago by Meir Yatom, the head of the Special Operations Division of the Israeli Mossad. He didn’t know who would answer but he had been promised that whoever it was had the power to grant Mapother a wish.

  Six weeks ago, during a follow-up operation Mapother had authorized after their success in Benalmadena, Mike and Lisa had found themselves in Croatia chasing the Sheik’s top lieutenants. During the course of their mission, they had not only blown a gaping hole in the Sheik’s network, but they had also prevented an attack on the Israeli embassy in Zagreb, Croatia. Immensely grateful, Meir Yatom had promised unrestricted assistance if Mapother ever needed it. Mapother had put the info in a file and called it Operation Sunglasses. Never did he expect he’d need the help so soon.

  “I guess this isn’t a courtesy call, Charles?” It was Meir Yatom. He had given Mapother his private number.

  “I’m afraid not. We’re in a bind and I’m calling in the favor.”

  “I already told you. Anything.” Yatom’s voice was raspy and he always sounded as though he was out of breath. Mapother imagined him smoking cigarette after cigarette in a windowless room somewhere on the Mossad campus.

  “I have an asset stuck in Syria. I need to get her out. Time is of the essence.”

  “I see,” Yatom said. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with big the shootout in central Damascus earlier today, would it?”

  Mapother, a veteran of the FBI who had worked freelance for the CIA for many years, never understood how the Mossad always managed to stay connected to pretty much everything going on in every conflict around the planet. “Would that change anything?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Where’s your asset?”

  Mapother gave him the details and had Yatom promise he’d send a helicopter to the location in exactly four hours.

  “Understand this, Charles. My debt is paid. In full,” Yatom said. “This number won’t work anymore. Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Mykonos, Greece

  It was Igor Votyakov’s first time at his father’s house in Mykonos. Perched atop a small hill less than one mile northeast of the Mykonos ferry port, the splendid villa offered its occupants a commanding view of the Aegean Sea. Its floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows provided all the sunlight and security someone stuck inside could hope for. Specifically built for the divorced wife of a Russian oil executive, the Sheik had bought it from her half a decade ago. It was one of his father’s last strongholds. But for how long would it remain so?

  His dad’s adversaries were attacking from all flanks and Igor actually felt sorry for him. Not that he deserves any pity. His father’s quest to avenge his family had consumed his heart and soul. And if this wasn’t enough, it had also transformed a decent man into someone no one could love. Not even his own sons. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? His brother Zakhar had always wanted to please their father. He would have done anything for Qasim’s affection. And he did. And it cost him his life.

  Some said the love between a father and his son was unconditional, but Igor knew better. His father’s unscrupulous behavior had forced him to kill his older brother, and for that Igor would never forgive him. He’d continue to do his father’s bidding as ordered but Russia’s support was coming to an end. The moment his father’s actions weren’t in Russia’s best interests, he would have no hesitation. He would take his father down like the dog he was.

  The flight from Syria hadn’t been the smoothest but it could have been worse. They had stopped in Cyprus to refuel. They had to stop a second time at a minor airfield north of the small Turkish town of Bodrum. The flight from Bodrum to Mykonos lasted just over an hour. Russian officials from the embassy in Athens were waiting for them in three minivans. Igor didn’t know what kind of bullshit they had told the Hellenic police but he suspected a large quantity of money had changed
hands. However the diplomat had obtained the favor, Igor didn’t care. The important thing was that no officials even bothered to look at their passports. By the time they reached the villa, Igor and his men were exhausted. One of the diplomats—by now Igor was pretty sure the man was with the SVR—gave him the address of the small hotel where they stayed and told him that he was only one phone call away in case there was any trouble. Igor didn’t expect any. At least not for now.

  Exhausted or not, his men were pros and none of them would complain until they had taken care of business. What they had to do before anyone even thought about shutting eyes was create an appropriate defensive position. The villa was outfitted with imposing security arrangements that included powerful floodlights and a closed-circuit security system. Igor posted one of his men in the control room where he would have access to all the video footage. He assigned another man to patrol duty as the villa was close to four thousand square feet of interior space and he didn’t want to be caught off guard if somebody was able to sneak in. His two remaining men would get some rest in one of the villa’s four bedrooms. Igor took a few minutes to work on a rotation schedule and used a magnet to attach his orders to the fridge. Next he headed to the control room to check on his man.

  “You’ve got everything you need?”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier replied.

  “Can you show me the room where our guest is staying?”

  The soldier touched a few keys on the touchscreen and Igor was rewarded with a perfect view of the ambassador. “I think I’ll pay him a visit.”

  ........

  Ray Powell had regained consciousness minutes ago. Still, he hadn’t opened his eyes and had forced himself to remain immobile. He found it easier to focus with his eyes closed. The first thing he did was assess his health. Pressure to his wrists and ankles told him they were bound. The softness behind his head and back indicated he was on a mattress, and an expensive one at that. For a while there were no sounds, but a faint odor of coffee told him he wasn’t alone. The fact that somebody might be watching him crossed his mind and he was glad he hadn’t moved. His rationale was that if they didn’t know he was awake, they wouldn’t do anything. He wanted to believe this.