A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 22

  “Then you’ll do something to prove it,” Simonich said. The Sheik didn’t like the smile that was creeping onto the president’s lips. “I want you to kill Lidiya Votyakov.”

  The Sheik nearly choked on his juice and coughed violently. Was this man crazy? Lidiya?

  “Are you okay, Qasim?” Simonich asked, pushing a box of tissues in his direction. “Have I said something that offended you? I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”

  The Sheik looked at Simonich. “Why?”

  “It’s either that or my friend Bogdan shoots you right here, right now,” Simonich said. The bodyguard to his left had his pistol pointed at the Sheik’s chest. “Your choice.”

  How could this be happening? A year ago he was one of the most feared men in the world. Truth was, he didn’t have to look too far to find the reason behind his fall from grace. Charles Mapother and Mike Walton, Ray Powell’s son. If he had to kill the mother of his children to have a chance to lay his hands on Ray Powell, he’d do it. Without any hesitation. His heart started to beat faster at the thought of what he’d have Ray Powell undergo before his demise. Using the former ambassador and his daughter-in-law to carry the virus to the United States was a sure bet. He hoped the Russians were able to keep Dr. Powell alive. Using only the ambassador as a pathogen hauler could work too, but for personal reasons he’d love to see Dr. Powell endure the same fate.

  Still, he didn’t want to give in to Simonich’s demand too easily. “Isn’t she useful to your program?”

  “Dr. Votyakov isn’t the only one who contributed to this project,” Simonich said, signaling his bodyguard to put his gun away. “Drs. Votyakov and Galkin took meticulous notes and I’ve received confirmation that we have everything we need to mass produce the virus.”

  “So why are you putting a stop to the project? We should be pushing forward.”

  Simonich waved his finger at him, as if he was reprimanding a child. The Sheik did his best to ignore the insult but wasn’t sure for how long he could restrain himself from jumping over Simonich’s desk to pierce his eyes with one of the pencils.

  “Thanks to you, Qasim, we’ve lost the element of deniability. I can’t guarantee the future of my country if our enemies are aware of our plan to infect their population with a new Marburg virus. They’ll retaliate with their nuclear arsenal and they’ll even have the support of the international community.”

  The Sheik couldn’t fault that reasoning.

  “So you don’t need Lidiya anymore. You want her dead in case the international community decides to look deeper. You’ll be able to tell them you took care of an internal problem. A simple rogue element within the Russian scientific community.”

  “We’re dealing with this situation the same way we’re dealing with the problem regarding our Anti-Doping Agency and the Athletics Federation,” Simonich said, “but in a more permanent manner.”

  The Sheik knew what the president was talking about. It was in every newspaper worldwide. The article outlined endemic doping in Russian athletics, a stunning state cover-up and widespread inaction from the International Association of Athletics Federations. Heads would roll. But not in the same fashion.

  “Give me a chance to make it right,” the Sheik said. “It won’t be spectacular, but I believe I can not only eliminate the people responsible for the debacle we find ourselves in, but I have a shot at killing the president of the United States.”

  Vienamin Simonich’s reaction wasn’t what the Sheik expected. The Russian president threw his glass of water across the room. Bogdan had his gun out again.

  “Are you stupid? Are you really that dumb? Didn’t you listen to anything I’ve just said?” the Russian president spat. Simonich seized the pistol from his bodyguard’s hands and pointed it at the Sheik’s head. The other bodyguard also had his gun out. Simonich walked around his desk and placed the barrel of his pistol against the Sheik’s forehead.

  “I should kill you—” he started, but the Sheik didn’t let him finish. He’d had enough. He was the bully. Not the other way around. He sprang out of the armchair and grabbed the barrel of the pistol with his left hand, while hitting the inside of Simonich’s wrist with his right fist. The effect was immediate. The pistol came loose and the Sheik twisted the barrel counter-clockwise and out of Simonich’s hand. Terror filled the president’s eyes as he realized his mistake. The bodyguard who still had his pistol brought his weapon up, but the Sheik was faster and double-tapped him in the chest. The man crumpled to the floor as the bullets slammed into his bulletproof vest.

  “I shot him in the vest,” hissed the Sheik. Bogdan had moved between him and the president. The Sheik removed the magazine and opened the slide of the pistol before tossing both on the floor. “I mean you no harm, Mr. President.”

  A second later, members of the Presidential Security Detail rushed into the room with their pistols drawn. They started yelling at the Sheik to get on his knees. The Sheik didn’t move. His eyes were locked with Simonich’s, who had pushed Bogdan aside.

  Without breaking eye contact, Simonich ordered his men to leave his office. He asked Bogdan to help his colleague to his feet and to leave him alone with the Sheik. Bogdan protested but was cut short by Simonich.

  Once they were alone, Simonich grabbed the vodka bottle and looked for his glass. It was at the other end of the room, broken in pieces. He smiled at the Sheik and took a long pull from the bottle. He offered it to the Sheik. Why not? A drink was definitely in order. The vodka burned his throat but he forced himself not to grimace. He handed the bottle back to Simonich.

  “What is it that you want to tell me?” he asked, putting the vodka bottle back in his drawer.

  “My son has Ray Powell secured in one of my safe houses.”

  “I know,” Simonich replied. That surprised the Sheik, but only for an instant. He did not doubt his son’s loyalty to him, but it was easy to understand that someone in Igor’s unit might be reporting back directly to the Russian president or one of his close associates.

  “Let me head back to Koltsovo, Mr. President,” the Sheik said. “I’ll take two samples of the new Marburg virus thread and bring them with me to Mykonos.”

  “Why would I allow you to do such a thing?”

  “Didn’t I just prove to you my loyalty, Mr. President?” the Sheik asked. “Here’s what I want to do . . .”

  For the next five minutes, the Sheik laid out his plan to the Russian president. Simonich’s body language changed gradually and the Sheik felt he had regained some sort of control. This assumption was short-lived.

  “Okay, go ahead with your plan, Qasim. You have my blessing,” Simonich said. “But before you go, stop by to say goodbye to Dr. Votyakov, will you?”

  CHAPTER 53

  Ararat Park Hyatt Hotel, Moscow

  Dr. Lidiya Votyakov eased herself into the warm water of the hot tub. She instantly relaxed as the tension drained from her muscles. It had been two long days and she was exhausted. She wondered what had happened to Victor. She hoped he was okay. He had grown on her, even though he didn’t say much.

  For the last several hours, she couldn’t escape the visions of her dead son. Qasim’s promise to kill the people responsible for his death didn’t bring her much comfort. As tears threatened again, she closed her eyes against them. She squeezed tightly, trying to hold them in. She had no time for self-pity. There was much work left to be done. She was scheduled to fly back to Koltsovo in the morning. Two more minutes and she’d go back to her room. President Simonich had kindly booked a suite at one of Moscow’s most expensive and luxurious hotels. The Ararat Park Hyatt was located near the Bolshoi Theatre and the Kremlin, making it a prized place to stay among rich Russians and business travelers. The hotel was home to the Quantum Spa and Health Club, one of the best spas in Moscow.

  Dr. Votyakov opened her eyes and was surprised to see that
her bodyguard was nowhere in sight. Thinking he was probably in the bathroom, she decided to wait for him before exiting the hot tub. Her towel was twenty feet away and she hated being cold.

  She closed her eyes again and forced herself to relax. Everything was going to be fine. She had some of the best scientists working for her, and Qasim would take care of the tactical side of the operation.

  She felt the water move and opened her eyes. Qasim was standing on the first step of the hot tub holding a bottle of bubbly with two glasses, only wearing his bathing suit. She noticed the strength still emanating from him. A tad thicker around the waist, but he was still an attractive man. She had lost touch with him during recent years and wondered if everything they said about him was true. She had known him as an intelligent and charming man. She knew what had pushed him over the edge but it was hard to believe he had killed so many people. He’d always been most kind to her. And right now, she needed someone to help her cope with her reality.

  She caught his eyes on her and she became self-conscious. Not that she wasn’t pretty, but she hadn’t kept in shape as he had. “Are you joining me?” she asked.

  Qasim lowered himself into the water and sat next to her. “Champagne?” he asked.

  She nodded. Maybe a drink or two would help put her mind at ease.

  ........

  The Sheik poured two glasses of Champagne. “To Zakhar,” he said.

  She touched his glass with hers. “To our son.”

  They drank in silence. “Have you seen my bodyguard?” Votyakov asked.

  “I asked him to wait in the car. I told him you were planning to eat in the room tonight,” he said with a smile.

  She looked at him and her eyes sparkled. She still loves me. And I have no idea why.

  “I’m flying back to Koltsovo tomorrow,” she told him.

  “Then we have the night,” he said, his hand caressing the inside of her thigh. To his eyes, she was still beautiful and had kept the brilliant mind that his heart had fallen for so many years ago.

  She moaned when his hand slid under her bathing suit, but she placed her hand on his, stopping him from going further. “Not here, Qasim,” she whispered in his ears, her lips tickling his neck. “Why don’t we go up? I have a suite.”

  Her vulnerability was intoxicating. He breathed in her scent. A tantalizing fusion of subtle, flowery soap and sweat—mixed with cigarettes and alcohol—reminded the Sheik of their first kiss. “There’s nothing I’d like more,” he replied, his tongue licking the back of her ear.

  ........

  Dr. Lidiya Votyakov inserted her keycard inside the lock mechanism. The green light blinked twice and she turned the door handle. She could feel Qasim behind her, his breathing becoming deeper. Her pulse was racing when she entered the foyer of her suite. She slipped the keycard into her bathrobe and continued walking toward the bedroom. She hadn’t had sex for over a year, but she couldn’t allow herself to get sucked into feeling secure and safe with Qasim. He wasn’t that kind of man. Yet, tonight, he was exactly what she needed. Reaching the bedroom, she wondered if she should turn on the lights. Was she comfortable enough with her own body? It had been so long. She knew he wanted her. The bulge in his swimming trunks was proof of that. He had tried to hide it with a towel during their ride in the elevator but she’d seen it. And it turned her on. She undid her bathrobe, letting it fall off her shoulders to the marble floor beneath her.

  ........

  Sheik Qasim Al-Assad couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so at a loss. If he was to trust the newspapers, he had done some pretty horrific things in the past but he felt no remorse. None whatsoever. He had been at war. He still was. And that’s how he should look at the current situation too. Am I getting soft? While they were riding up the elevator, he actually thought about having sex with Lidiya before killing her. And that excited him. He had let her see his erection just to discourage any doubts about his real intentions. But once they had reached her floor, he decided not to disrespect her. He’d kill her quickly.

  He followed Lidiya into her room. When her robe fell, she turned toward him, completely naked. The fact that she hadn’t turned on the lights made it easier for him. He gently placed his left hand behind her neck and pulled her close to him. Their lips touched and he took a second to savor the moment. His right hand shook a little when he plunged the long, slender blade of the stiletto into her heart, piercing it. Her body tensed. She gasped. Then nothing. Her eyes became lifeless and her body went limp.

  The Sheik laid her down on the bed. He turned on the lights and watched his reflection in the mirror. I’m a sociopath. He had just killed the only women he had ever loved, and he’d enjoyed it. The tremor in his hand while he had pushed the stiletto into her heart had come from the excitement of the kill, nothing else.

  He used the room’s phone to call the number Simonich had given him.

  “It’s done. Her room,” he said, before hanging up.

  CHAPTER 54

  Oryol, Russia

  Mike Walton knew he’d have to sleep soon. At least for a few hours. Go-pills were good but only to a certain extent. He had seen a lot of his fellow infantrymen get hurt because they had relied too much on those pills. Problems occurred when the brain told the rest of the body it wasn’t tired when in fact it was.

  It had taken him just under five hours to reach the airport. He located the private aviation terminal quickly and parked the F-Type a few spots away from the main entrance. Traveling via corporate jet had huge advantages. No questions were asked if you didn’t have any luggage and you weren’t being subject to search. Of course, the pilots would need to clear customs before Mike could board the plane but they wouldn’t have brought anything remotely suspicious in any case.

  The door of the small terminal slid open and he walked in. The private aviation terminal looked no different than what Mike was accustomed to. The lounge combined style with practical functionality, making the transition between aircraft and ground transportation much easier than in bigger and busier terminals.

  “Mr. Marquis?” said the blond receptionist stationed behind the solid wood counter that served as her desk.

  “C’est moi,” Mike replied. “On vous a communiqué les informations concernant mon vol?” Born and raised in Canada, he spoke fluent French. Of course, he had a terrible accent but he doubted the pretty Russian in front of him would notice. From the look on her face, she probably didn’t speak a word of French.

  “Um . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Marquis—”

  “No problem, we’ll speak in English, yes?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “Your plane has landed thirty minutes ago.”

  “Perfect,” Mike replied. He couldn’t wait to get out of Russia. They needed to regroup and formulate a plan to find Lisa. They’d need to find a solution soon because if the United States government confronted the Russians with the intelligence he’d gotten from Dr. Galkin and the prisoner he had interrogated in Mapother’s brother’s apartment, there was a good chance the Russian borders would become much harder to cross. “Can I board?”

  “Not yet I’m afraid, Mr. Marquis,” the blonde said, her demeanor indicating she was genuinely sorry for the delay. “The customs officers are searching the aircraft.”

  Damn! He couldn’t catch a break.

  “Something wrong?”

  The receptionist looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “What is it?”

  She looked around, as if she wanted to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I think they’re looking for something very specific.”

  “I’m sure they’re not,” Mike replied, shaking his head vigorously. “There’s probably a tax my pilots weren’t aware of, that’s all.”

  “Of course, that’s what I meant,” the receptionist said.

  “
Can I meet them on the tarmac?” he asked, dropping three twenty-euro bills on the counter.

  The receptionist expertly pocketed the banknotes and smiled at him. “Of course, Mr. Marquis, I’m glad you understand.”

  Mike headed toward the exit leading directly to the tarmac. Just as the receptionist had said, a Federal Customs Service car was parked next to the IMSI’s Gulfstream. There was someone in the backseat of the car. Mike approached the car and couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  William Talbot, one of the two pilots, was in the backseat with his hands behind his back. Why did they handcuff him? Mike tried to open the door but it was locked. And where was Martin St-Onge, the other pilot? The stairs leading to the cabin of the Gulfstream were lowered. He signaled Talbot to sit tight. It didn’t make any sense. Mike couldn’t understand why the pilots hadn’t paid off the customs agents. He knew they kept large amounts of different currencies in a locked safe hidden in the cockpit.

  Mike cautiously climbed the steps. He could hear Martin St-Onge arguing with someone in English. He peeked inside the cabin. Two uniformed Federal Customs Service agents were shouting at the IMSI pilot.

  “What’s going on here?” Mike asked in French, entering the cabin. Martin St-Onge, a former Canadian Royal Air Force pilot spoke fluent French. He looked relieved to see Mike.

  “We have no money left to pay them,” St-Onge replied in the same language. Mike was glad to see he had remained calm, even though his partner had been arrested. “Talbot has been—”

  Mike raised his hand. “I know.”

  “Who are you?” barked one of the officers, his hand moving toward his pistol. Both officers were about six feet tall and looked in good shape. They were probably former members of the Russian military.

  “I’m Vincent Marquis and this gentleman is one my pilots. Why is the other gentleman under arrest?”

  “He isn’t under arrest. For now, he’s only being detained,” the officer replied.